Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the first time in his life, Adam Birkholtz was nervous. Legitimately, honest to God, might puke nervous. He hadn’t been this nervous for his first competitive hockey game in Juniors. He hadn't been this nervous on his first day at Samwell. He hadn’t even been this nervous during all of those intense meetings and negotiations. But now, sitting in his rental car, his hockey bag in the back seat, he thought he may actually be sick.

Day one of his NHL career with the Las Vegas Aces would begin the minute he stepped out of his car. If he could actually make himself get out. God, he was going to be sick. For the millionth time in the past twenty minutes, Holster wished that Ransom was with him just to take the edge off with some ridiculous joking. But Ransom was in med school now. He was going to save the world, one kid at a time. Holster’s mom offered to come with him. And his sisters. Thankfully, his dad stepped in and derailed that before it could lead to what Holster imagined would quite possibly be the worst first day in the history of first days. Plus, the chirps. Oh, God, the chirps. He could only imagine how rough it’d be if he showed up with his mom.

Signing with the Aces had been more difficult than Holster had anticipated. Not logistically and legally speaking. No. The contract itself was a breeze. It was a different kind of hard. An emotional kind of hard. Ransom was at Columbia. Shitty was at Harvard. Lardo was in Boston working for an art gallery. Bitty and the others were still at Samwell. Everyone he loved was on the opposite end of the country. Yeah, his parents would fly out at the drop of a hat if he needed them. And sure, Chowder promised to visit when he came home to San Francisco for the holidays. Ransom promised to get tickets to every game that Holster would play against the Rangers, Islanders, Devils, or Sabres. But with med school, Holster knew that’d be asking too much. They’d agreed that the Rangers or Islanders would be good enough since Rans wouldn’t have to go too far for those and it wouldn’t mess up his schedule that much. Shitty and Lardo promised to be at every game against the Bruins. Bitty already had his temporary address for cheat day pies with the promise of at least two pies a month, with more on the table if Holster needed it.

But he was legitimately nervous. And it didn’t help his nerves to know that everyone was so excited for him and expected great things out of him. Even Jack. Yeah. No pressure.

When he’d signed for the Aces, Holster had had a weird day. Half of him had been ridiculously fucking excited to play with KENT PARSON. But a small part of him had hesitated. Holster knew there was a weird history with Jack and his new captain. He’d never learned the whole story. Never wanted to. It was Jack’s business and Holster was more than willing to let the guy have his secrets. But still, after three years playing with Jack, part of Holster had felt like a traitor when he’d signed with the Aces. Kent was his captain now but it still felt a little like betrayal sometimes. Stressed about being a terrible fucking person and friend, Holster had gone to Providence to talk with his old captain. Jack was still as quiet and intense as ever (maybe even more so if that was possible after his ridiculously amazing first season in the NHL *cough cough 79 points*), but he assured the d-man that playing on the same team with Jack’s old teammate and sort of rival wasn’t a betrayal at all. Holster had tried to argue, but Jack put him at ease.

“This is pro hockey, Holster. Teams have to navigate fan expectations and cap space and all that. Players are bought and sold and traded away. You make a home where you are. You make a family out of the team you’re on. Very few players ever retire with the first team they signed with. Those days are gone. So it’s not a betrayal. You can’t always pick to stay or go. Sometimes the cards are stacked against you, eh? So you just have to play well for your team at that moment. The Aces are lucky to have you. And who knows? Maybe we’ll end up on the same team together again one day,” Jack finished with his slight smile that Holster remembered well. It was his captain smile. His “I’m proud of you guys” smile. The team was always ridiculously pleased with themselves if they could get that smile. After that chat, Holster had felt better about the whole thing.

Until he’d pulled into the parking lot that morning, his A/C blasting because even at 8 am it was already 80 degrees in Vegas which was going to take a lot of getting used to. God, it was just so hot. And it was doing nothing to help his nausea.

He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He could do this. He was a fucking NHL player now. “Get it together, Adam,” he chided himself. “You can do this.”

With one last deep breath and a few muttered “Shitty-isms”, Holster climbed out of the small rental car and made his way into the rink where he would meet some of his new teammates. He wasn’t sure who’d actually be around. It was likely that most of the guys were still off enjoying the offseason.

Holster’s first thought upon entering the massive arena was “Holy shit, they must pay a fortune to keep this place this cool all the time.” His second was, “Oh my God. That’s Kent Parson. Right there. Kent Parson. He’s right there and he’s my captain and oh my God this is the greatest day of my life! Everything is awesome!”

“Adam, good to see you.” The GM, Greg Parker, appeared, followed by the coach, Thomas Dalton, a former NHL superstar himself, and Kent, who Holster was surprised to see. Offseason and all. He figured the captain would be somewhere exotic, enjoying his time off. But here he was, hand outstretched. Adam probably shook it a bit too enthusiastically, but Kent didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, Kent smiled. “Good to see you again, Holster.”

HE REMEMBERS ME! “Yeah, you too, Kent,” Holster smiled, somehow managing to keep his cool even though he was prepared to collapse into fanboy squeals.

“You’ve met?” the other two men seemed shocked.

Kent nodded. “He played at Samwell. We met once when I went to visit an old friend.”

The GM and coach shared a strange sort of knowing look with each other before they both smiled at Holster again. They made small talk and met the other rookie, a left wing who’d played at the University of North Dakota named Ryan Sutter. The other guy was about the same height as Kent. Maybe an inch or two taller. But nowhere near Holster’s 6’4’’. And he looked as nervous as Holster felt.

Kent stayed close as they introduced the two to a few of the present team currently working out in the gym. It took all of thirty seconds before the guys declared that Holster would remain Holster. The goalie, Ducky (a Chowder sized Canadian whose real name was Benjamin Duke), insisted they try harder to find a nickname.

“Guys. He’s one of us now. He’s needs an Aces nickname. He can’t keep his college nickname!”

To Holster’s surprise, it was Kent who shook his head. “Nah, Ducky. Holster is as good, if not better, than what we’d come up with. Think about it. Birkholtz? What the hell do you do with that name?”

“Holtzy?” offered one of the other guys, currently on an elliptical trainer.

“Terrible. Holster it is!” came another accented voice, in the middle of a set of leg presses.

The other rookie had it a bit harder. As he and Holster went about their day, various teammates would pop in with new nicknames.

“Sut?” Aleksander Vanichek (lovingly referred to as Checkmate) a lanky Russian right wing, suggested while the rookies were taking pictures.

One of the alternate captains and a Canadian veteran, Brent Matthews (Matty to the guys), scoffed. He stayed close, always there with a bit of advice. “Sut? No. That’s worse than Holtzy.”

“Sooter?” Terrance Marks, an American d-man, offered.

“Jesus, Marko, are you even trying?” Matthews mocked.

The team was determined, but by the time Ryan had left, he was still nameless.

By the end of the day, Holster was mentally kicking himself for being so nervous to begin with. It had gone pretty much perfectly. Kent was fucking hilarious and the few guys he’d met were open and welcoming. And he was also secretly glad they hadn’t given him a new nickname. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but Ransom but he’d been worried about that. He liked being Holster. So he was glad that was going to stay with him at least.

So yeah, overall, it had been fun. And it had gone smoothly. In fact, he’d already found two that he thought he’d probably work pretty well with. The first, the other alternate captain, was a serious looking guy who barely cracked a smile all day named Chuckles (his real name was Charlie Martin), who reminded Holster of Dex with his hard man mentality and intensity. The other, Bondy, was the one he could see pairing with the most. Jason Bondurant was a lot like Ransom on the ice according to the coaches (and all of the tape and highlights that Holster had studied religiously before he'd decided to sign). Bondy was really fluid and fast, both physically and tactically. Holster figured they’d work well together.

Kent, to a greater extent than Matty, had been nearby throughout the entire day in case his rookies needed anything. He’d been willing to answer any questions Ryan had. Poor dude was a bit like Tango in that aspect. Something that made Holster a bit homesick. But as he’d watched Kent navigate the questions, while still checking on Holster occasionally, all of Holster’s fears had vanished completely. And now he was just massively fucking excited to be playing with Kent Parson and the Las Vegas Aces.

Holster was among the last to leave that night. He’d drawn the short straw, which was actually him just getting his ass kicked at Rock Paper Scissors by Ryan (the dude had total Chowder eyes off the ice. All gentle and excited and happy. Holster couldn’t read him at all during the contest) so he had to stay behind for an interview for the Aces Youtube channel. It was the kind of interview where he answered various questions about what he was most excited about, what he was looking forward to. Just the typical generic sort of questions that all athletes were asked. He got a few interesting ones from fans at the end like favorite ice cream flavor, favorite movie, celebrity that Holster would most like to meet.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Vegas. Seriously?” he grumbled, his mood deflating a bit as he walked out into the night air. It was dark and still 85 degrees. What the hell was this place?

He heard a slight snort behind him and he turned, prepared to apologize to some poor worker or executive that had the misfortune of hearing him curse his new home.

“Sorry,” he started and then felt a wave of embarrassment when he came face to face with Kent Parson. Well, sort of. Kent was a lot shorter than Holster. So it was more face to neck.

Kent smirked. “Don’t apologize. I know the feeling. My first year here, I called my mom and complained every single day in December about how it was stupid that I had to run my A/C in the middle of fucking winter.”

Holster laughed. “Yeah. I’m used to the East Coast winters. So that’s definitely gonna be weird.”

“It is. But then you get the perk of watching everyone else freezing their balls off in snow storms while you lay out by the pool. So, that helps,” Kent joked as they walked. His new captain asked him how he was. How his day had gone. Holster told him he was still a bit nervous about playing but that he was really liking the team and he was excited to get on the ice as an actual NHL player.

“It’ll be weird to be in a different number,” Holster admitted. His number 4 was already taken by one of the Swedish forwards. So, he’d gone with the number 11. Ransom had actually cried when Holster had called to tell him. Shitty thought it was beautiful. He’d said as much in the group text. Well, his actual words were "THAT'S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FUCKING THING I'VE EVER HEARD, YOU MAJESTIC GIANT!"

“You didn’t want 11?” Kent’s eyes sharpened a bit, and there was a bit of a tension in his tone like he was upset that Holster had a number he didn’t want. But his face was still relaxed. It was kind of a weird juxtaposition, Holster thought.

“Well, I wore number 4 all the way up through college, but 11 was a good trade. It’s my best friend’s number. I paired with him at Samwell.”

Kent’s eyes relaxed and his trademark smirk was back. “Ransom. Dude from Toronto. Always complained that no one thought he was Canadian.”

Holy shit. How did he remember that? “Uh, yeah,” Holster managed to stumble out, still shocked that Kent Parson, Kent “Stanley Cup winning captain” Parson, remembered the mundane details of that one time he’d met Ransom at a Kegster.

Holster was suddenly very aware that they were all alone in the parking lot. There were a few scattered cars here and there, but none of them looked like player’s cars. Except a candy apple red Ferrari that was clearly Kent’s.

“Do you always stay this late?” Holster asked.

Kent shrugged as he clicked the keys in his hand. His car beeped and the lights flashed. “Usually. First to arrive, last to leave. It’s in my contract,” he said, joking, but there was a bit of truth to his statement.

Holster understood that. That’s how he and Rans had been. Jack had been that way too. Though, it was probably a shit ton more stressful for Parson. Being the captain of a college team and the captain of an NHL team were probably two entirely different monsters. “Are you going to drinks with the guys?” Some of the Aces were taking the two new rookies out. Ducky and Checkmate had invited both men, insisting it was all part of the bonding experience. Holster couldn’t fault that. He had some pretty fond memories of kegsters after all. He assumed Kent, as captain, would be there to keep them all in line.

Kent’s smile suddenly seemed a bit forced though as he, to Holster’s surprise, shook his head. “No. Not tonight. I have boring captain-y things to do. Tape isn’t going to watch itself.” It was his attempt at a joke but it fell kind of flat given his expression.

For a moment, Holster considered asking him why he wouldn’t come out with the rest of the guys. That was a pretty unusual response from someone portrayed in the media as a partier. But besides that, Kent’s shoulder had tensed at the mention of it. It was clear that Holster had hit a nerve. So he didn’t push. He’d sat through enough of Shitty’s conversations to know that pushing would be massively uncool.

Holster wasn’t as unobservant as everyone assumed, especially to emotional changes. It was a skill he developed with Ransom and perfected with the rest of his teammates. His best friend was a coral reef. He was fragile and so Holster had gotten really good at noticing small cues. It was a blessing and a curse. The curse being that when he’d realized he was crazy about Ransom, he couldn’t stop noticing all the stupid cute things that Justin Oluransi said and did on a daily basis. And Holster had learned to respond with each of his teammates in vastly different ways based on what they needed or wanted emotionally. So that was why now, standing here observing Kent Parson (who by the way was stupid gorgeous to the point of unfairness, really) Holster noticed a few subtle changes. Sad changes. And yeah, sure, Holster had only really known the guy for like ten hours, but, again, he was observant. That’s what he did. He noticed emotional shifts. Like how Kent’s eyes dimmed ever so slightly when Holster mentioned drinks. It was obvious that Kent was well liked by his teammates. Holster had realized that within the first ten minutes. There was mutual respect and a lot of love between Kent and the other players.

So Kent wasn’t avoiding drinks because he didn’t feel welcome. He was avoiding it for some other reason. A reason that made his eyes dim, his lips tighten ever so slightly, and his fist tighten around his keys.

Holster held his eyes for a second and made the decision without an ounce of hesitation. Kent Parson needed a friend. And if Adam Birkholtz was good at anything, it was friendship. He was fucking awesome at friendship.

“Hey. Wanna get breakfast tomorrow? I haven’t been here long enough to really explore beyond my neighborhood and a couple trips to Target. You probably know all the best places to eat since you’ve lived here for a while. So what do you say? My treat as long as it’s good and not on the Strip.” Holster wanted the authentic Vegas experience while he was here. Not the tourist-y one.

Kent blinked and stared at his new d-man for a solid thirty seconds. Holster panicked a bit, thinking he was going to refuse. But Kent nodded finally and cleared his throat, sounding a bit surprised. “Sure. Breakfast. Text me your address and I’ll, uh, I’ll pick you up at 7.”

“Cool,” Holster said as he flashed a smile that was both relieved and excited. Kent looked genuinely pleased by Holster’s invitation and reaction. His eyes lit up again and his mouth wasn’t so tight.

“Oh my God. Tell me that isn’t your car, Birkholtz?” Kent said suddenly as Holster moved to open the door to his little blue Mini Cooper. “How the hell do you fit?”

Holster shrugged. “It’s actually roomier than it looks.” He liked his little rental. He’d named it Dotty.

Kent’s smile got brighter before he burst out laughing. Holster tried to look annoyed but the sound of Kent’s deep, vibrant laugh made it hard. “Don’t let the other guys see you in that, man. You’ll never hear the end of it. See you tomorrow, Holster.”

Holster smiled. “Yeah. You too, Parse.”

By the time Holster arrived at the small apartment he’d leased temporarily while he searched for a permanent place, he almost considered calling it a night and skipping drinks with the guys. But he knew he needed to get to know his teammates and it was a gesture of goodwill so he’d go and hang out and have a good time.

As he showered and changed and headed out, he couldn’t stop the excitement that was growing in his chest over the thought of having breakfast with Kent in the morning. Maybe the Aces would be better than he first expected.

Chapter Text

Kent Parson sat in his car, brow furrowed slightly, watching as Adam put his tiny blue Mini into gear and drove out of the lot. He blinked. He blinked again. It took him seven minutes of blinking before he finally started his car and headed home. Except, he missed the first turn to his house. And then the second.

When he finally pulled into his driveway thirty-five minutes (twenty-five minutes more than his usual ten minute drive home) later, he was annoyed and more than a little confused.

Had Adam Birkholtz really asked him to breakfast? Why? What was he trying to prove?

Kent’s house was dark and quiet as he entered and kicked off his shoes by the door. He didn’t turn any lights on as he shuffled towards his kitchen where Kit Purrson greeted him with a purr as she weaved her body between his feet, nuzzling against his legs, leaving hair on his dark jeans. He smiled down at her, his mood immediately improved.

“Hey, gorgeous. Hungry?”

She sat, eyed him with those all-seeing tawny eyes, and waited as Kent fetched her food and served it to her in her personalized food bowl. His teammates loved to chirp him about how pampered Kit was, but honestly, Kent didn’t really have anyone else to spoil. Sure, he sent money to his mom and took care of her. His sister too. But unlike a lot of the guys, he didn’t have a significant other or kids to spoil. So he lavished his attentions on Kit because she was his “fur baby” and dammit, he could do what he wanted. And if that included buying his cat a gold and diamond food bowl, then he was going to do it.

Kit finished her dinner, gave him an obligatory meow, and then sauntered off to some quiet corner in his massive house, leaving Kent standing in the kitchen.

Alone.

Christ. He needed to knock off this cycle of self-pity he’d fallen into lately. He was starting to annoy himself. With a sigh and a mental shake, he opened his fridge to grab his own dinner.

To most everyone’s surprise when they found out, Kent was actually pretty damn good in a kitchen. Well, to a point. He couldn’t bake to save his damn life. He could cook well, and he did sometimes, but cookies? Cake? Pie? Oh, hell no. He was terrible. He even ruined box mixes. He’d tried to make a batch of cupcakes once when he’d been babysitting Matty’s daughters for the day. They’d exploded. He still had no fucking clue how he’d managed that.

But Kent was also tired and busy most of the time. So instead of actually cooking, he usually ordered from a meal delivery service that catered to his special diet and schedule. Tonight’s meal was grilled chicken and sautéed vegetables or something along those lines.

His mind wasn’t really on food. Well, not dinner food at least.

Seriously. What the hell did Birkholtz want to have breakfast with him for? It was really bothering Kent that he couldn’t figure this out. He ate, not really focusing on the food he was shoveling into his mouth, which was a shame. This service was pretty good.

Maybe he was just being nice? Yeah. Probably just an empty invite. Kent got those a lot. People wanting to hang out or go out or whatever but never following through. He knew Birkholtz. . . no, Holster, he reminded himself, had his number. He’d given it to both rookies with the “if you need anything, call me” speech he gave every new teammate. So it wouldn’t surprise him at all if he got a text within the next hour or so, cancelling those breakfast plans. Even if the thought made Kent’s chest tighten with disappointment. Yeah, he told himself. That’s what was going to happen because that’s what always does.

With a sigh, he cleaned up dinner before heading to his sprawling bathroom where he took a long shower, letting the hot water ease some of the strain in his very tired shoulder muscles. His Bluetooth shower speakers played a mix of 90’s boy bands and early 00’s pop from his phone while he relaxed into the steam. He had a lot of Britney Spears. He’d fight anyone who said anything bad about his girl.

When he got out of the shower, his phone buzzed on the counter with unread messages. He ignored them for the time being, choosing instead to pull on some loose shorts and head back to the kitchen for his water bottle so he could get cozy and watch some tape for a couple of hours. The Aces prospect camp (which both rookies were going to participate in so they could further prove their mettle to the franchise) wasn't for another few weeks, but Dalton wanted both Holster and Sutter (already signed and sealed) early to start building a dynamic with the team. Kent had seen Holster play. He may or may not have watched the tape that Dalton had given him a few (okay, five) times. His tape was fucking phenomenal. It was no wonder the Aces wanted him. However, he hadn’t really studied up on Sutter or any of the other prospects, draft picks, and trades. So he’d planned to watch some of that tonight. Get a feel for the new guys so he was prepped for if and when they all hit the ice together.

He didn’t check the messages until he was settled in his big squishy couch he’d bought on a furniture shopping trip with Ducky (“I’m not letting you buy this fucking monstrosity of a couch, Parse.” “Look, Ducky. It has recliners. AND IT’S COZY.” “It’s literally the ugliest couch I have ever seen. Bright fucking orange? Really?”) in the room he’d converted into a home theatre.

The first message was from Matty.

BM: Sutter is a lightweight. But Holster can hold his liquor. This is impressive.

Kent smiled and sent a quick message back.

KP: Just make sure those two get home ok.

BM: Come on. Have a little faith in the old man, will ya?

Kent didn’t really need to worry. Matty was always good to take care of the boys when they were out. He didn’t really drink too much besides a few glasses of wine at home with his wife on the rare occasion. He argued that after 30, his body just couldn’t bounce back from hangovers as well as it used to. Now 34, Matty was pretty sure a tequila hangover would kill him. At least that’s what he told everyone.

The other two texts were from a number Kent didn’t have in his phone. The first text was a random address. Followed swiftly by a second to clarify.

???: This is Holster btw. Adam Birkholtz. The man. The myth. The LEGEND.

Kent burst out laughing as he read the text and saved the number in his contacts. It had been sent about ten minutes ago, about five minutes after Matty’s text. So Holster was truly and deeply on his way to being shitfaced if Kent remembered the routine correctly. Kent was impressed that he could still spell and use punctuation.

But more than that. . . Holster hadn’t cancelled. He’d sent his address like Kent had requested. He hadn’t cancelled.

Kit jumped onto Kent’s lap, startling him as he stared intently at his phone. He absently stroked Kit’s fur as he studied the text.

Did Holster actually want to spend time with him outside of the team? Really?

Kit began to purr happily and Kent slowly smiled as he thought about it. Honestly, he’d thought Holster would be distant and weird. He’d been dreading this day for weeks, ever since he’d learned that the Aces had signed the 6’4’’ NCAA defensive standout. Kent’s mind had immediately gone into overdrive with all of the possible implications of having Holster on the roster. And he’d freaked the fuck out.

Holster had played with Jack for years. . . So, how much did he know? Would he tell everyone else?

Kent had legit lost sleep over it. He never thought he’d think this, but he’d been glad that they’d already crashed out of the playoffs when he’d found out Holster had signed because he didn’t need fucking up the team’s chances for the Cup because of a distraction on his shoulders at that moment too.

Waking up this morning (oh who was he kidding, he hadn’t actually fucking slept more than an hour or two) Kent had steeled himself for the worst. For everything to come crashing down around him. Until he’d gotten to the rink and realized everything he’d been worried about was probably a bit premature. Because Holster had been. . . well, amazing. He had looked at Kent with a little bit of awe in his eyes but there was absolutely no judgement. In fact, the more Kent had talked to him or listened to him as he talked to the other guys, he’d come to the realization that Holster probably didn’t know anything. Jack must have never said a word. Kent silently thanked his former best friend/boyfriend/lover/teammate for that. And Holster? Holster was like a damn golden retriever. He was eager to please, eager to play, eager to get out there and begin the chase for the Cup. But he was also hilarious, more than a little sarcastic, and wicked smart. His comebacks throughout the day had been gold. Solid fucking gold. Everyone had laughed their asses off. Hell, he’d even made Chuckles smile. NO ONE made Chuckles smile. Especially not a rookie on his first day.

So maybe Kent had been wrong. Maybe Holster was genuinely interested in hanging out with his captain. Maybe it was a bit of hero worship. Maybe it was a legit desire of friendship. Kent couldn’t be sure which though so he figured he’d humor the guy this time. Besides, it wasn’t like Holster was hard on the eyes. Kent thought he could probably handle spending a little extra time with the man who looked like a damn Abercrombie model. It’s not like that’d be a real hardship.

Kent shifted awkwardly as the tape he was supposed to be watching played on unnoticed in the background.

Maybe he’d take him to Vicki’s for breakfast. Most of the team had gone to Vicki’s with him at one point or another. But none of them came on a semi-regular basis. So they wouldn’t run in to anyone. Especially not at 7 am. And Kent was partial to Vicki’s. More than partial. It was his favorite place in the city aside from the rink.

It was the first restaurant that Kent had found on his own at 18 as a newly signed and utterly fucking terrified rookie. He’d stumbled in one afternoon, totally lost, totally frustrated, totally alone. Vicki must have seen something on his face that day. Probably panic, definitely fear. Maybe even a little sadness. He was 18, his best friend had overdosed and wasn’t speaking to him, and all of his plans to play the sport he loved alongside the person he loved had all disappeared in a matter of minutes. So yeah, he was desperate for something to keep his head above water at that point.

And then Vicki appeared, all feisty charm and gentle affection. She quickly became a massive support system for Kent off the ice. She was always willing to listen to Kent moan and bitch. She was always willing to sit quietly and just keep him company when he needed someone. She was a damn saint. He still remembered the first time he’d brought Matty to Vicki’s. Matty had walked right up to the star struck woman and introduced himself. Kent swore he saw her fan herself after.

Kent remembered joking with her when she’d asked the older Canadian if it was hard to be a pro hockey player. Kent cut in before Matty could answer. “Yeah. It’s a real burden being surrounded by absolutely fucking gorgeous men like Matty all day.” He’d winked to drive his joke home. Matty had rolled his eyes, not surprised or really bothered by Kent’s snarky response. Kent had just flashed that million dollar smirk of his.

But Matty had surprised Kent when he grabbed the bill and then had handed Vicki a napkin with his number scrawled across.

“Call me anytime you think this little puke might be in need of a friend. Or if you need backup.”

Kent had almost cried, barely managing not to blubber in front of the man who pretty quickly became like an older brother after that.

After that meeting, Vicki and Matty had formed a sort of quiet friendship built entirely on supporting Kent. He credited them for getting him through his first year. Especially Matty. Kent credited Vicki, and loved her deeply, for keeping him afloat in the beginning, but it was Brent Matthews that had taught Kent how to swim.

Matty dealt with a lot those first few years. It was Matty who’d been there to keep him from falling apart after Kent had gone to see Jack for the first time in years. Kent had envisioned some sort of triumphant return to the old days. He hadn’t expected to have his heart ripped out (again) and stepped on (again). It was Matty who’d sat up with him in his hotel room while he cried for hours that night. The older man never said a word after. He didn’t mention anything that Kent had told him through the sobs. Never discussed Kent’s revelation that he was gay and that Jack Zimmermann had broken his damn heart. Instead, he’d quietly reorganized room assignments so that he could be there when Kent needed him.

When Kent had gotten the C, he actually hadn’t believed it. He’d thought it was a joke at first.

“Seriously? What?” He’d stared at the C right there on his number 90 in shock. He’d been proud of himself later for actually managing words at that point.

Dalton had assured the boy (because Kent at 20 still felt like a fucking child) he’d be fine. “I have complete faith in you, Parse. Have some faith in yourself, will you?”

“Funny, Dalt, but I voted for Matty. You know, the dude who should actually be captain?”

Dalton had laughed. “Well, you should tell that to the men who voted for you.”

Kent and Dalton spent the next two hours arguing after that. Kent was sure it had been a mistake and that Matty should have the C. Dalton had finally gotten fed up and straight up kicked Kent out of his office.

Even now, years later, Kent still thought Matty deserved to be the captain. He was stronger. He was more patient. He was the better man. It didn’t make any sense to give Kent this responsibility when there were men better suited. He’d said as much to Matty after the meeting that day.

“This is fucking absurd, Matty. Who wants to follow me?”

Turns out, everyone actually. Every player (except him because he’d voted for Matty) had voted for him. It was a bit of a shock to Kent’s system. He knew the guys liked him. But he hadn’t realized that the players also respected the hell out of him.

With that C on his chest, Kent had calmed down. He’d moved into a more serious and supportive role. It wasn’t just about what he did on the ice. It was about what they did. Matty had smirked once when Kent had mentioned that. Like it was his idea or some shit to make Kent the captain. Looking back, Kent couldn’t help but feel like maybe it had been Matty’s plan all along. He was always looking out for Kent. He probably knew the captaincy would ground Kent in a way nothing else would.

Damn wonderful bastard.

Kent’s phone buzzed again.

BM: Holy shit. Holster is legit. And we’ve got a nickname for the other rook. Rhino. Don’t ask. You won’t be happy.

“Dammit,” Kent swore as he read the message. Rhino? He could only guess that it likely had something to do with damaging something. His fears were confirmed with the next text.

BM: Don’t worry. I’m making Checkmate and Ducky pay for it since this is their dumbass idea.

Kent shook his head and rolled his eyes. Maybe he should have gone to keep those fools in line. With a resigned sigh, Kent clicked off the tape he hadn’t actually watched a second of. He was getting nothing done tonight so he decided bed was his best option. Plus, he hadn’t slept well the night before. An early night was warranted.

As he climbed into his king size four poster bed (“It makes me feel fucking fancy, Ducky! Shut up!” “It’s ridiculous, dude. Are you the fucking monarch of a European nation during the Renaissance?” “I might be! I’m getting this bed!”), his phone buzzed again on the nightstand.

AB: brkf s gn b OSOS god

Kent couldn’t help but laugh as he decoded the drunk speak from Holster. Breakfast is going to be so good. At least that’s what Kent assumed the rookie meant. Unless Holster worshiped a breakfast god that Kent didn’t know about.

But with that one text, Kent’s fears about Holster’s motives were quieted for the night. People didn’t usually drunk text people that they didn’t like. In fact, Kent was actually excited for breakfast now. Excited for the possibilities. And for the first time since signing the defenseman, Kent was able to sleep well.

Chapter Text

Holster’s phone went off at 6:30 and he almost cried. Dear God, he was dying. He’d tried to be a semi-responsible adult last night. He was an NHL player now, after all. But he and the other rookie, now fondly named Rhino after an incident involving three separate and likely furious waiters and just way too much tequila, had been challenged by two of the veterans to a drinking contest.

Yep. God. This was how it ended. Right here. All those years of kegsters had not prepared him for this.

Brent Matthews had handed Holster a shot the minute he’d sat down at the bar with the other guys. “Welcome to the team,” he’d winked.

It was all a bit blurry after that. He was pretty sure it was hazing or initiation or team bonding. Something along those lines. But, God, he hurt. Worse than Hazeapalooza as a freshman and that was fucking saying something. He was about to roll over and get a few more hours of sleep before his workout when he sat straight up and then swore when his head nearly exploded.

Kent. He was getting breakfast with Kent.

Adam managed to drag himself into the shower with a few choice swears, groaning. This was definitely how he died. He almost puked in the shower. He definitely cried a little. Luckily, Kent was running late according to the text Holster got as he, quite literally, crawled out of the bathroom. After the not so difficult decision to forgo his contacts (he wasn’t even sure how he managed to take his contacts out the night before in his drunken state. He was just glad he hadn’t poked out an eye) instead, sticking with the much easier option of glasses, Holster brushed his teeth and then nearly puked again when he bent to tie his shoes. But he made it. And when Kent pulled up, Holster looked almost human.

Almost but not quite.

“Jesus, Holster. You look like shit,” Kent eyed him. There was a glimpse of something in his face and tone that Holster couldn’t quite identify. Mainly because he was still too hungover to truly function. His brain was not firing on all cylinders.

“I feel like shit,” Holster admitted, his voice a bit scratchy and raw. “Please tell me this place we are going has good coffee. I need good coffee.”

Kent smirked. “It has good coffee. Food’s pretty good too.”

Holster just groaned his assent as he slid into Kent’s car.

“You know, we could do this another day,” the captain said. “You really do look like someone scraped you off the sidewalk of the Strip.”

Holster settled further down into the seat and tried to shield his eyes against the stupid morning sun. “No, no. I need coffee. And you’re already here.”

Kent laughed but he agreed. So he put the car in gear and navigated his way through the Vegas streets. “Must have been a fun night. Don’t tell me. Ducky and Checkmate challenged you and Sutter to a drinking contest.”

Holster nodded and then grimaced, regretting the motion immediately. “They drink like they don’t fucking want to live. Especially Checkmate. How can one man drink so much?” The left wing was definitely enforcing stereotypes about Russians and drinking with how much alcohol he had consumed the night before. Honestly, Aleksander Vanichek could probably drink a batch of Shitty’s tub juice and still be fully functional. It was stupid.

Kent chuckled and his eyes sparkled a bit with mischief. “Yeah. I should have warned you. Ducky and Checkmate always challenge the rookies. And don’t tell them I told you this, but they cheat. The waiters at the bar they took you to know to only bring them water or apple juice. So while you were throwing back shots of tequila and vodka, those two bastards weren’t actually drinking at all.”

“What?” Holster exhaled in annoyance. “That explains so much. Because seriously, I’m pretty sure Ducky should have legit died. He is not a big man.”

Kent turned the car onto a small side street and then pulled into a small parking lot beside a quiet little diner. “Do you need help or you good?” the other man chirped, watching as Holster struggled to get out of the car. Kent had climbed out with ease, like a damn cat, all fluid motion and shit.

Jesus. Was there anything this guy wasn’t good at?

“I know you’re my captain, but I would kindly invite you to shut it, sir. I can handle it,” Holster grumbled.

Kent just smirked as he led Holster into the quaint diner. It had that old school feel with the small red and white stripped leather booths and a long counter with matching stools. The floor was that awesome black and white checkered pattern, though the black was faded and the white had yellowed a bit over the years. It looked well taken care of but well used. A few booths had patches and Holster immediately relaxed. A part of him, the part that only knew about Kent from tabloids and interview excerpts, had wondered if Kent would take him somewhere that was more upscale. This was much better. Holster smiled a bit. This was pretty much perfect. There were only two other patrons at the moment and neither even turned to look at the two men who’d entered.

“Well, who is this gorgeous fellow with you, Kenny?” a grey haired woman about as tall as Bitty asked as she came around the counter.

Kent smiled and Holster realized that all of those smiles and such that Kent flashed at everyone were amazingly disingenuous. Because this smile that he was giving this woman was bright, open, and beautiful. There was an honesty in the lines of his face that spoke to happiness. Even his eyes were brighter than Holster had ever seen.

“Vicki, this is Adam Birkholtz. Our new defenseman. Holster? This is Vicki Sanders. She owns the place.”

Holster offered his hand and a light greeting. Vicki gave him the once over. “Lord, honey. You look like Kenny dragged you in out of the gutter. Sit. I’ll bring you some coffee.”

Holster could have kissed the woman. He didn’t even mind her comment about how terrible he looked. At this point, he really didn’t care. Coffee was promised. That was all that mattered right now.

“You know, I didn’t realize you wore glasses,” Kent said quietly as they sat in the booth at the very back, next to the emergency exit.

Holster thought back to the one time they’d met before he’d joined the Aces. Yeah. He’d been rocking contacts that night. A decision he’d regretted the following morning when they’d been fused to his very hungover eyeballs. “Yep. I wear contacts on the ice for obvious reasons. But this morning it just wasn’t worth it. So glasses it is. Until the rink at least.”

Kent studied him for a moment. His eyes softened and his lips quirked up a little. “They look good on you.”

Holster smiled. “Thanks. Rans always said they made me look distinguished. I just thought they were nice because I could see.”

Kent smiled a bit, but his mouth seemed to tighten ever so slightly. Holster almost asked him if something was wrong but at that moment, Vicki appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee and Holster’s mind was distracted. His eyes fluttered and closed as he took a sip. “You are a goddess,” he moaned.

Vicki laughed. “Oh, Kenny. I like this one. Bring him by again.”

Kent quietly assured Vicki that he would.

“So, honey. Where are you from?” the older woman asked as she slid in next to Kent. Holster noticed that Kent didn’t seem the least bit bothered by this. In fact, he looped his arm around the woman and leaned back, completely at ease.

“I’m from Buffalo, New York, originally. But I lived in Iowa for a little bit and Massachusetts for college. Samwell,” he explained. The best school on the fucking planet. Not like those assholes at Yale and Harvard. . . sorry, Shitty.

Vicki’s eyes flickered briefly to Kent before she smiled. “New York, huh? Just like Kenny. And Samwell is a good school from what I hear,” her eyes again went to Kent. “This Vegas heat must be killing you though.”

Holster nodded, agreeing that it very much was.

“Frank’s making you the special,” she bumped Kent’s shoulder a bit with her own. “One for you too, honey,” she winked at Holster. “A man your size needs a good breakfast.”

“Uh, thanks Vicki, but I’m not feeling great. Had a long night.” The understatement of the fucking century.

Vicki turned and glared at Kent. “Are those two hooligans still tricking rookies into a drinking contest?”

Kent snorted and nodded. He had the decency to look sheepish. “They are.”

Vicki shook her head. “Idiots. Well, honey,” she turned back to Holster. “This is a sure fire hangover cure. Plenty of fat and grease to soak up all that alcohol that’s probably still sloshing around in there.” With one last fond smile for Kent, she disappeared into the back.

Kent was quiet, clearly waiting for Holster to initiate. It was a kindness, even if Kent didn’t mean it that way. Holster just wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle chatty right now.

Instead, Holster nursed his blessed, blessed coffee for a few minutes, letting the fog and pain in his head clear up a little more before he spoke again. “You know, I’m not going to lie, Kent. This place doesn’t seem to fit you.”

His captain leaned back, one perfect blond eyebrow cocked. “Why’s that?” He didn’t seem angry but there was a certain defensiveness in his tone.

“Well, you’re Kent Parson. NHL superstar, hockey’s biggest celebrity. I mean, shit, dude. You’ve been in the ESPN Body Issue twice. And the cover of the regular ESPN magazine four times. Hell, you’ve even been on the cover of TIME, which is just some fancy fucking shit, bro. You’ve never come across as the type to enjoy hole in the wall greasy spoons, even if the coffee is the fucking best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Sorry, Annie’s.

Kent frowned a bit at Holster’s assessment. “What are you getting at, Birkholtz?”

Holster shrugged and backtracked, sensing he wasn’t getting his point across. “Just that you’re actually more normal than I realized. Well, minus the bright red Ferrari and the fucking diamond Rolex on your wrist.”

Kent eyed him for a second before his frown disappeared. He rolled his eyes. “I’m definitely more normal than you realize. Definitely not the partier that everyone assumes. Not anymore. I spend a shit ton of time at home actually, hanging out with my cat, watching tape or Netflix.”

“You have a cat?”

Kent nodded.

Holster mulled over this information a bit. It wasn’t that surprising actually. Holster himself wanted a pet. But he was waiting to settle in a bit first. Then he’d worry about a pet. Maybe a big fluffy dog. He’d always wanted a dog.

The two settled into easy conversation then. They talked about hockey, of course. But they also talked about a variety of other topics. Like TV. Holster was always down to talk about TV. He perked right the hell up when he learned that Kent loved TV too. Kent’s favorite show at the moment? Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Same as Holster.

“I don’t trust people who don’t like that show,” Holster admitted. “What kind of twisted mind can’t find joy in the absolute perfection that is that cast?”

“Agreed. Best show on TV right now. It’s the only one I watch religiously. Matty keeps insisting I try Game of Thrones though. He kept trying to get me to watch it with him and Ducky on road games during the Playoffs this year. He really wants to talk to me about whether or not I think Dany would make a good ruler. Whatever the hell that means? I may break down and watch that one of these days so I’m not totally lost during those conversations,” said Kent.

Suddenly excited, Holster straightened and started gesturing with his hands as he spoke, even as his head protested. “Oh, that’s got to be remedied right now. You are missing a masterpiece of a show. Except season 5. Don’t get me started on that fucking garbage. Bro. You’re going to love Dany. Blonde, kicks a lot of ass. Has dragons. Yeah, she’s your girl. Okay. Yep. This is totally happening. We’re going to sit down and marathon the shit out of it.”

Kent laughed. “Even garbage season 5?” he chirped slightly, smirking a bit at Holster’s clear excitement concerning this topic.

Holster nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, yes. Even season 5. God, that season was just pure shit. But at least you’ll probably be more enthused than Jack was when I forced him to watch it. I thought his history loving ass would love that show. He did not.”

At the mention of Jack, Kent tensed and his eyes dulled. His hand tightened around his mug, knuckles going white. “I’m sure he didn’t. He isn’t a big fan of anything besides hockey,” Kent said, still smiling slightly. But there was a twinge of sorrow in his tone.

Holster wished he knew what had happened between his former and current captain. Jack always bristled at the mention of Kent. But Kent looked almost despondent. Holster stuck out his lips a bit. It wasn’t his place. He knew that. He’d never pushed Jack. So he wasn’t going to push Kent. He did however need to improve Kent’s mood though. Especially since he was the one responsible for ruining it.

“Tell you what. Game of Thrones marathon, starting tomorrow. Me. You. Five-ish seasons. They’re in the middle of a fucking masterpiece of a sixth season right now. Gotta get you caught up. But, maybe no tequila this time because God, I’m in so much pain still and I can feel my heartbeat in my face,” he finished with a moan as his head throbbed painfully, reminding him of his stupidity and the fact that he needed to calm the fuck down right now.

Kent chuckled a bit as Holster laid his head on the table. Vicki arrived with breakfast then and the pair ate in silence. Holster ate some of it, face still on the table, by shoveling it over the edge of the plate into his mouth. He ate this way for a while, until his head had toned it down from screaming pain to a dull ache.

He was even more in love with the wonderful diner owner by the end. Vicki had checked on him often, bringing more coffee, water, even Advil, without question. Kent had been modest though. The food wasn’t just good. The food was amazing. Holster made a mental note to bring Bitty here when he came out for a visit.

“Do you really want to watch Game of Thrones with me?” Kent asked as he was finishing his breakfast, interrupting Holster as he made mental plans to bring every person he’d ever met to this restaurant and make them try this breakfast.

Holster had a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Do you not want to?” he asked, suddenly hesitant about being so insistent earlier. He was still trying to figure Kent out. Maybe he’d overstepped with Kent in his enthusiasm about his favorite shows.

Kent blinked and studied him. “Why?”

“Why?” Holster repeated. Damn. He had overstepped. He’d come on too strong. Holster was just excited to meet someone who was as excited about the same TV shows as he was. He should have reined it in a bit more.

“Why do you want to spend time with me?” Kent asked in a unnaturally soft voice. He eyed Holster with confusion and wariness.

Oh. Oh, shit. Did Kent not. . . Kent Parson had the same look on his face that Holster had seen on many a teammate’s face. It was fear. Of what? Holster wasn’t sure. But the fear was written all over Kent’s beautiful fucking face. Oh, man. Yeah. This needed remedied. Holster just held Kent’s gaze. “Because you’re cool, bro. I think it’d be fun. We don’t have to though.”

“No, I mean,” Kent stumbled, “Yeah. Let’s watch Game of Thrones. I just,” he fumbled again and then sighed and didn’t say anymore.

Holster just smiled. “Cool. Hey, Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad to be on your team, bro.”

Kent’s smile was instantaneous and almost blinding. “Glad to have you, Birkholtz. Now what do you say we get to the rink for a little preseason workout fun. We can stop by your place and grab your gear.”

Holster moaned a bit and offered a prayer. “Gods of Hockey, take pity on me today.” Hungover workouts and practices were not his favorite.

Kent laughed again as they walked out to the car. “Yeah, you might need to be a bit worried. The guys like to mess with the rookies after the drinking competition. Ducky is definitely going to see if he can make you puke. Don’t worry. I’ll keep a bucket nearby.” He winked. The damn beautiful bastard actually winked.

Holster opened his mouth to chirp his captain back, but he whimpered instead. The Advil was taking its sweet ass time. However, the sound of Kent’s unrestrained laughter at his pathetic state lifted him slightly, showing that Kent’s mood had improved. He definitely liked Kent Parson. He just needed to avoid talk of Jack from now on.

“Sure you can handle this today?” Kent chirped as he drove, but there was a gentleness in his voice that made Holster realize that Kent was genuinely worried about him. He really was a good captain. Which was something that Holster already knew from the articles and reports and shit but seeing it in person made him feel a little more special. This captain cared about him. This Stanley Cup winning champion had his back.

Holster winked a bit as he reassured Kent. “If I can survive practice after an evening consuming Shitty’s tub juice, then I can handle a workout this morning.” It was true. Nothing had sucked as much as that particular practice his freshman year at Samwell had.

Kent eyed him as he slipped on what were probably thousand dollar sunglasses. “Tub juice? What the hell is that?”

Holster leaned back and closed his eyes against the painful sun now taunting him at an unavoidable angle through the windshield. “Oh, my dear captain. Let me weave you the magical tale of Shitty Knight and his mythical tub juice and how one fateful evening, the entire fucking Samwell Men’s Hockey team tried to steal the house of the dreaded LAX bros. And I mean, the house. Not the furniture. Not their stuff. Nope. The actual fucking house.”

Kent’s laugh echoed in the sleek car and Holster beamed, eyes still closed, as he began his tale.

Chapter Text

Ducky’s workout playlist was going to drive Kent to homicide. And he was pretty sure that no one would ever blame him for murdering the goalie on the grounds of his shitty music. In fact, some of the guys might thank him, if they weren’t already plotting murder themselves.

The song currently echoing through the gym? That’s The Way I Like It by KC and the Sunshine Band.

Kent didn’t really need to be at the gym suffering through Ducky’s day in charge of the music. Today was one of his rest days. But he liked to keep an eye on the boys, make sure they were all on track. So he’d settled for an easy workout. A nice easy jog, maybe some light weights, some time on the elliptical at a rather leisurely pace. Nothing too intense.

But most of the other guys had much more strenuous workouts planned. Holster was one. He argued that he needed to be in NHL shape, not NCAA shape, so he came to the gym nearly every day and went hard. And Kent meant hard. He’d never seen a rookie workout like Holster. He left every workout session, dripping sweat, his shirt soaked through. Even his rest days weren’t actually that full of rest. And he did it all while smiling.

The guys constantly chirped him about it. But Kent saw some of the jealousy from the older players like Matty.

Matty hadn’t really taken advantage of the offseason yet. He couldn’t. His twins had still been in kindergarten when the team had crashed out of the playoffs at the end of April so he couldn’t just yank them out of school and go to Disneyland (which totally wasn’t Kent’s idea. . .). He and his family were going on a two week vacation up to Vancouver to visit family in Canada after the 4th of July though. Matty didn’t usually take a lot of time off normally anyways. He told Kent it was because at his age, he had to work twice as hard as the other guys to stay in game ready shape. As much as Kent hated to admit it, it was true. Matty definitely had to work harder than most of the younger guys.

“Parse, I thought today was your rest day?” Bondy asked as he stepped onto the treadmill beside Kent.

Kent shrugged as he jogged. “Someone’s gotta be here to make sure you idiots are ice ready for preseason in September.”

His statement was met by a chorus of boos and several shouts of “screw you, Parse”. Bondy rolled his eyes as he began a run at a much faster pace than Kent’s leisurely jog.

Bondy hadn’t had a vacation yet either. Well, not a true vacation. His girlfriend, Cara, was getting her PhD in. . . something intense. Biophysics? Astrophysics? Something to do with physics. Kent just couldn’t remember exactly what physics it was. He just knew it was fucking ridiculously out of his league. But since she was busy with research and shit, the pair had stayed in Vegas. The word Bondy used was “staycation”. The team was still giving him shit for that.

The next song on Ducky’s playlist began and Kent swore and glared at the goalie. “What the fuck is this, Ducky? Do you hate us?”

Ducky smirked at him from across the room. “I know you secretly love this.”

“No one loves the Bee Gees, dude,” Marko snapped as he huffed and puffed on an elliptical. “Even the fucking Bee Gees hate the Bee Gees.”

Ducky feigned insult but his smile grew before he burst out laughing. “It’s my day, gentlemen. Deal with it.”

Kent made a noise of disgust. Holster was on the weights nearby, laughing at the banter and Ducky’s proclamation that he “knew” music because he could sort of (and Kent used that in the loosest possible terms) play guitar.

“You guys are just mad because none of you can play the guitar!”

Matty threw a sweaty towel at the goalie.

“I can play the piano,” Holster mentioned, smirking.

Every face in the gym snapped in his direction. Including Kent’s. What?

Marko held up a hand. “Wait. But like, are you like Ducky with his guitar? Are you the annoying ass dude playing like Chopsticks over and over? Or like, are you actually good at it?” he asked. The team, and Kent, all eyed Holster, waiting for clarification.

“Fifty bucks says he can’t play for shit,” Matty leaned over and nudged Chuckles who was eyeing Holster.

“Yeah, I’ll take that bet,” Chuckles shrugged, with a slight smirk.

Holster just looked around at everyone and grinned. "Not to be that asshole, but I’m really good. You know that thing called perfect pitch?” Several players nodded. “I have that."

Chuckles didn’t even crack a smile as he turned to Matty. “Pay up, Matty boy.”

“Dammit. You’re good at music too? Jesus Christ, Holster. You’re making the rest of us look bad,” Matty complained.

“Can you sing?” wondered Rhino.

Holster threw a superior sort of look at his fellow rookie. “Fuck yeah.”

Kent just blinked, trying to stay focused on his run. Part of his brain was already concocting a plan on how he could convince Holster to play (and possibly sing because, um, hell yeah, with that deep voice, he was probably fucking amazing) for him. He really, really wanted to see these skills at work.

“If ever we do karaoke night again,” Ducky shouted from his corner, “I call Holster for my team.”

That elicited a fair few complaints from the others.

“You guys are just jealous because you know it’d be impossible to beat us. We’d be too good,” the goalie mocked.

Holster cocked an eyebrow. “I hate to say this Ducky, but I’ve heard you sing,” he said, his meaning clear. “You’re always hella fucking sharp, dude. Like, it’s actually painful.”

There was a beat of silence before everyone burst out laughing. Kent winked at Holster and the other man beamed. Ducky eyed Holster with a bit of affection even as he pretended outrage. He’d taken a liking to the rookie. The room settled back into a rhythm until the next song started.

The next song was ABBA. Fernando.

“Okay. Even I hate you a little now,” Checkmate snapped.

Chuckles looked like he was praying to some deity for patience. Which he probably was. Kent couldn’t fucking blame him. Ducky’s shitty workout mix was driving him to contemplate violence.

And apparently he wasn’t the only one.

“Captain?” Bondy’s voice was breathless as he ran. “Permission to kill Ducky and replace the music with my own.”

Everyone eyed Kent as he stared right at Ducky. “Fucking granted.”

The room erupted into cheers and laughter as Bondy hopped off his treadmill and made a show of approaching Ducky and putting him in a headlock. Holster snorted and Kent’s head snapped around at the sound. Holster looked embarrassed but he was laughing too hard now.

Unfortunately for everyone in the gym, Ducky’s music was not replaced. It was his turn after all. And Kent was a fair man. Even if it made his ears wish for sweet, sweet death. It was why Ducky was one of the few who wasn’t allowed to be in charge of the music on a regular basis. Kent would have had a mutiny on his hands if he allowed that. Ducky got bi-monthly privileges.

Kent chuckled. Checkmate was now shouting at Ducky about horrendous American music (“They’re actually Swedish!” “I don’t give any fucks, Ducky!”) and Ducky was snapping back about how Russia wished it had music as good as this (“You’re just jealous that there aren’t any famous Russian musicians in history.” “Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, that one band from like 2002.” “Goddammit, Holster! Stay out of this.”). Ducky and Checkmate were smiling and laughing as they argued, like they always did. But even though they were arguing, they weren’t distracted. They were both still laser focused on their workout.

Kent wasn’t surprised at all that Ducky and Checkmate were back already. They’d both discussed long vacations involving beaches and little umbrella drinks (Ducky’s vacation of choice) and fishing and beer with the buddies (Checkmate's favorite offseason activity). But the minute they’d found out the date when the new rookies would arrive, they’d both cut their trips short. Getting rookies shitfaced drunk was a five year tradition that they were not about to break. The rest of the team was filling in slowly. Kent expected the rest of the guys back by the second week in July. For now though, they had about half the regular team. Including their new faces.

“Oh my God, Ducky. Is this Olivia Newton-John?!” Matty asked through a grimace that had Kent narrowing his eyes a bit in concern. That is until a familiar chorus caught his attention and he shook his head in disgust. It was in fact, Olivia Newton-John. Let’s Get Physical.

Kent was laughing at Ducky’s off key karaoke, being loudly sung at Holster while the other man was fighting hard not to grimace and give Ducky the satisfaction, when he heard it. The offhand comment came from a recently acquired forward, traded for a few draft picks. Kent’s blood ran cold and then boiled hot.

The effect the homophobic slur had on the room was nearly instantaneous as Kent slammed a hand down on the power button and stepped off his machine. He grabbed his teammate by the collar and dragged him out of the room amidst shouting and swearing from the other guys. Once he and the other player, a six foot something center they all called Petey, were far enough away from the gym, and in a quiet, private area, Kent turned and railed into him.

“Don’t you ever fucking say that again,” he roared, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Petey looked shocked at Kent’s outburst.

“That kind of shit is unacceptable here. Do you fucking understand me?”

Petey’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “It was just a joke, Parse,” he tried to argue.

Kent saw red. “This isn’t a fucking joke!” he practically screamed, his voice echoing a bit in the hallway.

The other man took a step back away from his captain’s anger.

“This is your first and only warning. Homophobia, racism, bigotry of any kind isn’t welcome here. That’s not what this team is. We are a team dedicated to fucking equality and fucking fair treatment. And we are a diverse team. I bet you didn’t fucking know that some of those teammates in there have friends and family members who are fucking LGBTQ.”

Petey paled at Kent’s revelation.

“And for fuck’s sake. Do you think every single fucking person you’ve played with is straight? That there aren’t gay players in this league?” Kent took several deep breaths to calm himself before he made a massive mistake and outed himself to this teammate. “That’s pretty fucking egocentric. Next time you feel like being an asshole, do us all a favor and just leave. Because this team,” he pointed back towards the gym, “these guys, this family, supports everyone,” he snapped, emphasizing the last word with an almost violent bite.

There was a long beat of silence before Kent spoke next. “Understand?”

The forward looked embarrassed and ashamed which Kent took as a small victory. “Yeah. I understand,” he mumbled.

Kent took a deep breath and his voice was quieter but there was still an edge of anger. “Listen, kid.” His teammate wasn’t that much younger than he was, but at that moment, the taller forward looked so much smaller. “I don’t know what kind of shit was tossed around in your previous locker room, but here, we don’t do that. We have family and friends who identify with that community. That’s their community.”

My community.

“I’m really sorry, Parse,” Petey muttered. “I didn’t realize it was a big deal. We said that kind of stuff all the time when I played for–“

“Well, you’re here now. And the Aces don’t say shit like that. So,” Kent glared at him one last time for good measure, “don’t say shit like that. I think you need to have a private session of sensitivity training. And there sure as fuck better not be a next time. We clear?”

Petey nodded solemnly.

“Good. Now get your ass back in there, apologize, and then finish your workout. I figure it’s only fair to punish you with more of Ducky’s shitty 70’s pop,” Kent joked but his face was still hard and tight to convey his anger.

The forward’s lips twitched slightly but he didn’t speak, instead shuffling ahead of the captain back to the gym.

The room was quiet as the two men entered. The team was clearly pissed. The tension was palpable. Ducky and Matty were radiating anger. Chuckles looked downright dangerous as he glared. Checkmate’s face was blank but his jaw was tight. Rhino and Marko’s expressions were different levels of disgust. Holster though. . . Holster looked, well, disappointed. There wasn’t any anger in his face, just a sort of resigned sadness.

Petey stepped forward. “I wanted to apologize for my comment, guys. It was out of line and I’m sorry.”

“I want to remind everyone that this team supports all sexualities and sexual identities,” Kent said, his voice firm and authoritative. “We don’t stand for any homophobic or racist comments, got it? Anyone who spews that kind of hatred here will face serious punishment.”

The present players all softly agreed. When Kent looked over at Holster again, the sadness had vanished. But his smile wasn’t as bright as it usually was. It was softer. And there was a glint in his blue eyes that looked almost proud.

Matty strode right up to Petey and clapped a hand on his back. “No more bullshit, eh?”

Petey nodded. “No more. Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ducky smiled and then his smile turned decidedly sinister as he hit play and the team groaned as another Bee Gees song blared through the speakers.

Marko groaned. “Dude. Couldn’t you at least be obsessed with the music from the 70’s that is actually good? What is this shit?”

“Don’t mock my music, Marko! These are the best songs of a generation!”

“I’m pretty sure Queen would kick your ass if they heard that,” Holster chimed in. “Like, Freddie Mercury would fucking descend from rock god heaven to straight up throat punch you for saying the Bee Gees are better.”

Matty roared with laughter. “Holster with the harsh truth. I’m on his side, Ducky. I’m sorry. This is shit.”

“You guys just don’t appreciate good music,” grumbled Ducky.

It took a few minutes, but the mood gradually improved, returning to normal. Soon, the chirps and light hearted banter echoed through the gym again and everyone seemed at ease. Petey was mostly quiet now, still feeling the sting of Kent’s verbal beatdown. But it really didn’t take long before the rest of the guys were as obnoxious as usual though.

Not Kent. Kent was still a bit angry and frustrated. He cut his workout short so he could slip out and inform the coach that Petey needed a one on one session with the sensitivity trainer. Then he sought out the fitness coach and insisted the man needed to keep an eye on Matty. That grimace worried Kent. Matty had issues with his wrist last season. The team didn’t need those issues to get worse.

As he wandered towards the locker room to change, Kent’s mood still hadn’t improved. He couldn’t admit it to anyone but Matty, but he was hurt. He was upset that one of his teammates had said something like that. Just when he thought things were getting better, shit like this had to happen to remind him not to get too comfortable or optimistic. There was still a long fucking way to go.

Kent was so wrapped up in his melancholy thoughts that he didn’t even hear Holster calling him until the bigger man was right next to him, walking beside him to the locker room. He was dripping sweat per usual.

“Got any sweet plans tonight, captain?” he asked as they both entered the locker room and began to strip off their gear.

Kent shrugged and shook his head. Honestly, he wasn’t feeling too great anymore. Tonight was probably going to be a “sit on the couch with Kit and fuck everyone else” kind of night.

Holster was called away before he could say what he looked about to say. But he told Kent to wait. So wait Kent did, stewing a bit more. His mood was downright thunderous by the time Holster reappeared.

But when Holster returned, he beamed down at his captain, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his shirt off, and hanging off his shoulder, looking every bit the relaxed, laid back guy he was. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the grumpiness radiating off his captain. He stretched to grab something from the top of his stall and Kent had to make a conscious effort to not stare at the d-man’s spectacular abs.

They were mostly alone for the moment. The only other person was Chuckles, who was on the phone, not really paying attention to anyone else. “You alright?” Holster’s gaze softened as he sat beside Kent, nudging Kent’s thigh with his own.

Holster’s care struck him like a hit to the chest. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Just tired. It’s not always fun to be the captain, you know?”

Adam nodded solemnly. “Yeah. I’m sorry you had to deal with that. But I’m really glad you did.”

For a moment, Kent wondered what he meant by that. Then he remembered Samwell. Holster had told him that he’d played with openly gay teammates there, including a fast as hell forward named Bitty who also baked magical pies and two d-men, Dex and Nursey, who were too damn blind and hardheaded to realize they were already half in love with each other and had been within a week of first meeting each other. Holster’d also told him tales of a guy named Shitty (which even by hockey nickname standards seemed a bit harsh) who often lectured the team on “heteronormative bullshit” and “fucking toxic attitudes towards fucking gender and sexuality”. But most of all, he’d played with Jack there and Jack sure as shit wouldn’t have been lenient on homophobia. Kent smiled, a genuine smile. Not the smiles he’d been forcing on his face for the past hour for everyone else.

Holster would be a solid ally on this team with that kind of background. The thought cheered Kent immensely. “Thanks, Holster.”

“Anytime,” he said as he bumped Kent with his shoulder. “Anytime.” Holster pulled on a new shirt then (unfortunately for Kent) as some of the other guys entered. “Hey, wanna watch Game of Thrones tonight? We can finish season one.”

Kent didn’t even have to think about it. Game of Thrones with Holster sounded like a much better plan than stewing and wallowing. Kent couldn’t quite explain how the other man managed it, but being with Holster was like an instant mood boost. He could make Kent laugh when he didn’t want to and smile when he was angry, just like he’d done now. And he wasn’t even trying. He was just being himself. It was probably selfish of Kent to use Holster to improve his mood like this but since Holster had sought him out, not the other way around, Kent didn’t feel too guilty.

The rest of the room erupted as Kent agreed to watch an episode with Holster. He laughed, listening as his teammates turned rabid in their defenses over who the best character was.

Chapter Text

“No. Oh no. Why is he. . . Holster? Is shit going to go down? What the hell? NO! NO! DON’T KILL HIM! FUCK!” Kent screamed at the TV screen in his house as Holster sat beside him, Kit curled into his side, purring happily. Holster smiled slightly at Kent’s reaction. He had the same reaction the first time he’d watched this scene.

Kent spun on him with a glare and then returned to the carnage on screen with wide, angry eyes. His mouth open slightly as he watched one of his favorite characters die. The screen went black with the end of the episode and Kent sat open mouthed in shock and anger for a few seconds before he exhaled with a few more explicatives.

“I hate you,” he said as he slumped back into the couch with a pout. His eyes were glistening and he sniffled a little.

“Bro. Are you crying?” Holster asked. He wasn’t too shocked. He’d legit laid on the floor and wept after this scene the first time he’d seen it. Ransom had rubbed his back in bro solidarity.

Kent threw a pillow at him and took a deep breath. “Just. . . fuck you, dude. Why did you make me watch this show? It hurts so much.”

Kit, as if sensing Kent needed more affection, uncurled herself from Holster’s side and padded over to her master. She hopped up and curled up right behind Kent’s head on the edge of the couch and purred as he reached back to absently stroke her fur.

Holster smiled a bit. “I’m sorry. If it helps, I laid on the floor for twenty minutes in just utter fucking heartbreak after I saw it for the first time. Do you want a hug?”

Kent looked at him then back at the screen which was waiting for them to start the next episode. Then back at Holster. “Maybe.”

Holster slid over and looped one of his large arms behind Kent and pulled him into a sort of awkward but still functional side cuddle on the couch. Kent sniffled a little more. “I still kind of hate you.”

“I know,” Adam chuckled a bit. “I did warn you though. I told you that everyone you love dies. This show is ruthless.”

“It really fucking is. Shit,” Kent exhaled.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Holster let Kent react and recover from the horrible scene. He had to shift a little to get into a more comfortable position but Holster had to admit that he very much liked the way his captain fit against his side. His shorter, smaller frame was able to slide right into the crook of Holster’s arm with ease. He liked it. More than he knew he should.

Adam was pleased with how quickly they’d become friends and established a routine. They had breakfast (taking turns driving and paying) at Vicki’s every day. Holster always got coffee, wheat toast, and fruit. Kent always got scrambled eggs, a small bowl of oatmeal with a pinch of cinnamon, and milk. After breakfast, they’d head to the practice rink for some ice time or to the gym for some off ice training. They spent every day together in some capacity or another.

Plus, Kent had become a bit of a guiding presence. He was really good about helping Holster navigate the aspects of life as a pro athlete that he was still struggling to get used to. Like public appearances. Especially public appearances. One particular moment from a few days ago sprang to mind.

“Holster. You have to get off the floor.”

Holster shook his head, face planted firmly in the carpet of Kent’s theatre room. “Nope. I’m just gonna stay here with the ugly ass couch.”

Kent nudged Holster with his bare foot. “Hey. Don’t talk shit about my awesome couch.”

“Kent. Just accept the ugliness of the couch. And the artwork,” he rolled his head to the side slightly so he wasn’t muffled by the carpet anymore. “Did you buy it from a fucking hotel? I’m calling Lardo, bro. You need better artwork and Lardo is the fucking best. Her art is fucking gorgeous.”

Kent sighed and Holster was pretty sure he rolled his eyes. “It’s not hotel art, it’s, you know what? We don’t have time for this argument. Come on, Holster. We have to go do things with people.”

“But I hate people,” Holster grumbled into the carpet. “They’re the worst.”

Kent laughed and poked him again with his foot. “I know. But we have to do this.”

Holster made a noise and then rolled over and sat up. “I did an appearance yesterday at the store. And a dude in a Yale shirt walked right up to me and fucking high-fived me. I felt so dirty,” he shuddered at the memory. “There isn’t enough hand sanitizer and fucking bleach in the world that can erase that shame, Parse,” he finished somewhat desperately.

Kent patted his shoulder in comfort. “I’m sorry. Fuck the Ivy League.” He didn’t manage to hide his smirk entirely. “And if it helps, I’ll take all the Yale bros today.”

That was good enough for the d-man. Plus, he was actually required at this appearance so as much as he complained and dug in his heels, he knew he had to go. Holster sighed and pushed himself up off the floor. “You’re a true bro, bro.”

Kent just laughed as he walked out. “We’re listening to Britney on the way since you made us late.”

Holster halfheartedly groaned, smiling a little. “Oh, come on! It’s my turn! Let me have some T-Swift this time.”

“My car, my music.”

That was Kent, Holster had learned. The media made him look like such a cocky bastard with a complete disregard for the feelings of his teammates and people around him. And sure, Kent could be cocky as hell, but he’d fucking earned that right with how fucking good he was. Then there was the fact that Kent had perfected that “fuck you” smirk. It all painted a picture of a total asshole. And that just wasn’t Kent Parson. Kent Parson was actually all support and protectiveness. He would always help a teammate when they needed it. He was just always super low key about it. Kent was also a pretty laid back captain. His fierceness was pretty dormant. Unless someone did or said something stupid.

Like when Petey had made that fucking snide offhand comment during a team workout. Holster had felt the homophobic slur like a punch to the gut. He’d known what he was getting into. Shit. He’d played NCAA Men’s Hockey. He’d heard worse on the ice from opponents when refs weren’t nearby. But his Samwell team had always been such a safe zone. It rattled him to think that his NHL team wouldn’t be so accepting.

Holster was about to excuse himself (he needed fresh air and a quiet place to be upset with this development) when the room exploded. The rest of the team turned on Petey immediately. Ducky had shouted “Shut the fuck up, asshole!” from across the room. Matty’s face had turned downright murderous. Checkmate swore in Russian. Even Chuckles had snapped, snarling, “What the fuck did you just say?” as he glared.

But Kent. Kent was a surprise. The captain had nearly broken his treadmill when he slammed a hand down and turned the speed down and yanked the key out to stop the machine. He’d gripped the forward by his collar and dragged the man out of the gym, pushing the younger player down the hallway. They’d disappeared for several minutes.

“Captain’s ripping him a new asshole right now. Parse does not stand for that shit. Well, none of us do truthfully,” Marko explained. “Especially Ducky and Matty because they have relatives in that community. Ducky’s little brother and Matty’s older sister are gay.”

Holster looked at the tense alternate captain who was trying, despite his own anger, to get everyone back on task while Chuckles and Checkmate talked down the seething goalie and his heart had skipped a beat. He’d heard from Jack, and seen in the media, how supportive the Falconers were towards the LGBTQ community. And now he was seeing first hand that the Aces were just as supportive.

When the two men returned, the forward apologized and Kent, his face hard and cold, reminded the team that any homophobic or racist comments made by an Aces player would be dealt with. Angry Kent hadn’t been something Holster had seen yet. He’d seen annoyed Kent and frustrated Kent, but not downright pissed off and ready to beat the shit out of someone Kent. The way his eyes had sparkled with rage, his face flushed with indignation and fury as he warned the team, had made Holster a bit uncomfortable as he’d stepped back and went back to his weights. Well, more than a bit, if Holster was being honest.

It wasn’t Kent’s warning to the team that made Holster uncomfortable. He wasn’t about to be a dick on or off the ice. Lord knew that even if he was, the entire Samwell Men’s Hockey team (especially Shitty, Bitty, and Ransom) would descend upon him like a pack of pissed off wolves to tear him apart. Bitty was especially terrifying when he was angry. He was five foot six inches of pure Southern fury when he wanted to be and that shit was scary. And Holster knew for a fact that Shitty had a PowerPoint about the dangers of toxic masculinity within sports and its effect on culture as a whole. He’d sat through it before. Twice.

No, Holster was uncomfortable for an entirely inappropriate reason. Holster was ridiculously and deeply attracted to his captain.

Kent Parson was an attractive man. Everyone knew that. Even Bitty who wasn’t a real fan of the guy would admit (somewhat begrudgingly) that Kent Parson was “objectively” hot. But right then, Kent’s eyes (which often changed color and in his anger were the color of a stormy sea) blazing as he made sure his team knew that hate wasn’t welcome in their family, Holster felt a tug in his chest and a flutter in his gut. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. Not since Ransom had told him at the first kegster they threw as captains that he loved Holster. But only as his best friend and nothing more.

Later when Holster had suggested they get together and watch Game of Thrones that night after practice, it was for purely selfish reasons. Holster had been attracted to Kent since the beginning. He wasn’t fucking blind. He’d settled on friendship because that seemed like something that Kent needed. But now, he wanted to really, really, get to know his captain. He wanted to get closer to this beautiful, dynamic, complicated mess of a man with stunning eyes and just ridiculous fucking abs.

He knew Kent was likely straight. So Holster was totally aware that he was really just digging himself another fucking hole. But Kent needed him. And the more Holster thought about it, Holster needed Kent. He needed a stable friend on the team. A support system. He knew that Kent would be that person for him.

So, Holster had sat next to his captain and invited him to watch the show. They needed to finish season one anyways. Kent was clearly still tense and frustrated but he agreed without any hesitation. Holster was so happy that he had almost pulled his captain into a hug right there in the locker room.

And with that, Game of Thrones Friday’s were born. It immediately became part of their schedule together. Up till that point, they’d just watched whenever they both had time. But after that practice, they made it a Friday thing. Like it was a reward for getting through the week.

It was a perfect arrangement for Holster because he got to see Kent all the time and not just in the capacity of the team. They had breakfast every day, practiced every day, and twice a week they also hit up Target together, and then every Friday, they watched Game of Thrones. They usually did one episode each time. Sometimes two, maybe three, if Kent was impatient. Tonight, they’d watched two.

Kent stood. The sudden absence of his body against Holster made the larger man wish he could pull Kent back and hold him there for a little longer.

Stop it. He had to scold himself for the thought.

Kent switched the episodes so they were on the season finale.

“Three episodes? You sure, bro? It’s kind of late,” Holster asked.

It was only nine. But they were pros in preseason training. Even in college, Holster had kept a pretty tight schedule. Not Jack Zimmermann tight, but still pretty strict. Everyone assumed the hockey bros were partying every night and throwing kegsters all the time. But they’d gotten to the Frozen Four for a reason. Sure, they could party with the best of them. But they could also keep a pretty damn tight ship. Holster liked to be in bed by 10 pm even when he didn’t have to be up early. His body was just trained that way.

Kent settled into his seat beside Holster, still close, but no longer touching. “You got me into this hell, Holster. So, shut it and watch the damn show,” he snapped but there wasn’t any real anger behind it. “But I swear to God, Birkholtz, if they kill Arya, we are going to find these writers and punch them square in the throat.”

Holster laughed. “Deal.”

Kent settled in and they started another episode and Holster made himself more comfortable on the ugly ass couch. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep. But at one point during the episode, his eyes had drifted shut. The next thing he knew, he felt soft fingers run through his hair, waking him up. The episode was over and Kent was smiling down at him. In his sleep, Holster had ended up almost koala cuddling Kent. His captain looked unbothered, if not a little amused. And Holster liked how it felt. He liked it so fucking much.

“That episode was pretty legit. Not sure how you could sleep through it,” Kent chirped.

Holster yawned. “It’s past my bedtime, bro. I’m Cinderella at the ball. Time to turn back into a pumpkin.”

Kent snorted. “Then you’re a pumpkin and not actually Cinderella. Because she stays Cinderella. She doesn’t turn into a pumpkin.”

“Whatever. Semantics. Shut up,” he yawned again.

Kent shifted slightly, reminding Holster that Kent was effectively smashed into the cushions by Holster’s much larger frame. He released him and sat up, apologizing. “Sorry for squashing you.”

“Eh, it happens. And at least you smell good. Checkmate always tries to cuddle me on the bus during away games. And he smells like feet,” Kent joked.

Holster laughed and stood, stretching.

Kent shifted in his seat but didn’t stand. “Hey, want to start the next season tomorrow?”

They usually only watched on Fridays. But against his better judgement, Holster was already wicked attached to this guy. Kent wasn’t anything like Holster expected.

He was better.

He was funny, he was interesting. He wasn’t the bad boy, the playboy, the party boy. He was actually the opposite. He was a night owl, but he was still pretty chipper in the morning. He hated shopping by himself, whether it was for groceries or clothes or furniture. He loved going to the library for a new book (Holster had chirped him endlessly when he'd discovered Kent fucking loved YA Paranormal fiction) every other week because he read every night before bed for twenty or thirty minutes to relax. He was smart (though he believed he wasn’t). He loved to spend his weekends at home with his grumpy ass cat (that much to Kent’s chagrin, had taken an immediate liking to Holster). He was intense. But he was kind. And he was fiercely loyal. He would drop the gloves for any guy on his team, without an ounce of hesitation.

And Holster. . . well, Holster definitely had a lot of affection for Kent Parson.

“Yeah. I’m down. What time?”

Kent looked extremely pleased as they made plans to meet up tomorrow night and watch more which made Holster smile. When Holster left a few minutes later, he was still smiling, happy and excited. Until he got to his car and the realization of what he was feeling hit him hard.

“Oh, fuck.”

Holster panicked and pulled out his phone. He didn’t care that it was past one a.m. on the East Coast and Ransom might be sleeping. He needed his best friend’s advice.

AB: Big problem, bro. Big. Fucking. Problem.

JO: Did Fox cancel Brooklyn Nine Nine?

AB: You shut your beautiful mouth! They’ll never cancel that masterpiece!

AB: No. It’s an actual problem. A big one.

AB: Kent Parson.

JO: ????

AB: I may or may not be attracted to him.

AB: And when I say may. . . I mean I totally fucking am.

AB: He’s fucking amazing and gorgeous.

AB: Shit.

JO: Oh. Damn. He’s your captain, bro.

AB: I know. He’s off limits. So what the fuck am I supposed to do here?

JO: Is he straight?

AB: I don’t know. I can’t ask that. This is the NHL. You don’t talk about that shit. Which is total bullshit. BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT RIGHT NOW!

AB: He’s not homophobic. He shut Petey down pretty fucking fast the other day.

AB: I don’t know what to do. I’m having a lot of pants feelings. But also, soft as fuck feelings? Help me! This is so bad. What do I do now? :(

JO: No fucking clue.

AB: Not super helpful, bro.

JO: Sorry, bro. You home? Wanna skype and talk about it?

AB: I’m on my way. I’ll call when I get home.

JO: :)

Holster tossed his phone onto the passenger seat before he flumped forward and banged his head on the steering wheel with another exhaled, “Fuck.”

The last time he’d felt these sorts of feelings, he’d fallen in love with his best friend. And it had taken Holster a long time to get over that pain and rejection. Yet here he was, sitting alone in Dotty 2.0 (his brand new Mini he’d bought after returning his rental), his head on the steering wheel, cursing himself for being so fucking stupid again. He’d gone and started to fall in love with another straight guy.

There wasn’t any way this would end well.

Chapter Text

“Oh, hell yeah. Put that in the cart. We’re definitely getting that.” Kent nodded as Holster returned. He’d made a wild squeaking noise and dashed off before Kent could say anything. He’d just now returned, proudly displaying his discovery.

Holster’s grin was wild and excited as he hoisted a massive stuffed bear into the cart. “You are so much more fun to shop with than the guys. Bitty and Lardo wouldn’t let me and Ransom get this last year even though we were the captains,” Holster said, pouting slightly.

Kent snorted, imagining the visual of someone scolding Holster like a small child as he carried a ginormous teddy bear in the aisles of the massive store.

Kent hadn’t even had to tell Holster why he was going to Costco when he invited him. He actually hadn’t gotten that far in the conversation. He’d called, asked if Holster wanted to come to Costco to get some stuff, got an enthusiastic “Fuck yes, I do. I’ll pick you up. My car holds more” from the other man before Holster had disconnected. Twenty minutes later, Holster pulled up and they headed to the warehouse store.

Kent was getting stuff for his annual birthday/Fourth of July BBQ. He had a list.

Holster definitely did not. He was like a fucking kid at a candy store. Every aisle had something else he “had to have”. So far Holster had a rainbow assortment of pens, four stemless wine glasses (“Just buy regular wine glasses, Holster. These are stupid as fuck.” “They are not. They’re practical! I can use them for other shit besides wine.” “You can use wine glasses for other shit besides wine.” “Shut up with your logic! I like them.”), five packs of socks, three 24 packs of Gatorade, one giant tin of Gatorade powder, three Disney Pixar movies on Blu-ray (“Have you seen Up in hi-def color?” “Nope.” “Well that’s about to be fucking remedied, captain. Ooo! Finding Nemo. BRAVE!!!!”), two packages of gummy vitamins, and a giant stuffed bear. It was hilarious and adorable.

Kent was loving every fucking second.

“Okay, I actually have a list, Holster. We do have to get those things too,” he said with a chuckle as Holster reappeared with four bottles of ketchup.

“Okay, sounds good, bro. Let’s do this thing. But also, look!” He held up the bottles with pride. “I won’t fucking need ketchup for years!”

Kent couldn’t keep a straight face if he tried. “How old are you? We’re almost the same age, right? I didn’t make that up?”

Holster grinned. “You love it.”

God help him, he really did.

But Kent couldn’t think about that now. He had a task besides enjoying Holster’s bright company. “Okay. Back on topic, dude. We need a shit ton of stuff. Chicken breasts, regular hamburger patties, veggie burger patties, hot dogs, Portobello mushrooms, buns, produce, condiments—”

“Got the ketchup,” Holster interrupted. He gestured between the two of them. “Great minds. It’s like I knew we needed a fuck ton of ketchup.”

Kent snorted. “But what about you? You won’t have ketchup in bulk,” he chirped, making it sound like it was some great tragedy in the making.

“I will find a way,” Holster heaved a great dramatic sigh, “to go on.”

Both men stood silent for a moment before they burst into laughter. Kent could see the looks they were attracting. Someone would recognize them soon if they didn’t behave.

“Okay. Divide and conquer or together?” Kent asked once they’d stopped laughing.

“Together,” Holster said without hesitation and a bright smile. He glanced around, checking that they were alone. “Also, the woman handing out samples of orange chicken in the frozen food aisle may or may not hate me because I keep grabbing pieces.”

Kent pushed the cart forward with a smirk. “Do you need me to protect you from the sample woman?”

Holster shuffled alongside Kent. “Maybe.”

Kent snorted.

“She’s mean, bro! She glares at me every time I go near the table. And she totally chicken blocked me. She moved the tray away when I went in for a bite,” Holster complained with a pout.

Kent burst out laughing, unable to stop himself. He had to grip the cart for stability. It shouldn’t have been so funny. He knew he shouldn’t be laughing so hard. But he couldn’t help it. The look of utter dejection on Holster’s handsome, sunny face, coupled with the fact that this giant of a man was afraid of the woman handing out chicken samples so he needed Kent for support, was just too much.

Holster just blinked and adjusted his glasses as he waited for Kent to stop laughing. He was wearing what Kent called his “Clark Kent” glasses which made him look just fucking delicious. Which, Kent knew, was not a thought that he should be having about his teammate. But it was happening more and more, the more the men spent time together. Kent had quickly noticed how gorgeous Holster was when they’d met that first day. He wasn’t blind, even if he wasn’t Kent’s usual type. Kent’s type was more. . . well, he was kind of ashamed to admit it, but Jack. Tall, dark hair, serious face, but beautiful as fuck. Holster only hit two of the four usual requirements. Tall and beautiful. But Kent was starting to see the appeal of blondes. Hell, he was one. He knew it was a popular choice. And he was beginning to rethink his stance on serious. He was finding that he was a fan of playful humor and openness. There was a sort of warmth to Holster that was almost addicting.

Kent wiped his eyes once he’d finally stopped laughing. “Oh, Christ, Holster. My abs hurt now.”

One of Holster’s pale eyebrows rose. “You’re slacking, captain. Getting soft in your age.”

Kent feigned insult and tapped his abs through his t-shirt. “I can grate cheese on these beauties. I think you’re the one who’s soft. I’ve got the NHL body. What have you got?” he taunted and waggled his eyebrows.

A body made to be worshipped by the mere mortals who were blessed to bear fucking witness to it. That’s the body Holster had. Kent couldn’t help the thought that crept in. And it was only going to get more ridiculous. Holster was by no means a slouch. He’d come into workouts and practices with muscle tone that even some NHL players would kill for. Matty’s eye had legit twitched the first time Holster had peeled off his shirt after a workout. And that was just from his college workouts and a not so strict diet. With NHL workouts and a nutrition plan (“This isn’t food, Parse. This is what food eats!” “Welcome to the pros, Holster.” “I’m not fucking eating kale! You can’t make me.”), Holster was going to be a god among men.

It was too bad he was straight. Kent knew the rule. Straight until proven otherwise. And otherwise just hadn’t happened with Holster. Sure, he had an oddly close relationship with his former linemate Ransom. And he could appreciate attractive men with the best of them. He and Ducky had almost come to blows over who the hottest dude in Game of Thrones was (“It’s Jon! Kit is so hot, Ducky. What’s wrong with you?” “Are you forgetting the literal prince charming that is Jaime Lannister?” “HE FUCKS HIS SISTER! He’s automatically disqualified!”). But he was always flirtatious with women. The women in the front office fucking loved him. Three of them (according to Marko) already had a bet going of who they thought Holster would end up dating. The front runner was one of the women in charge of the “Aces Off The Ice” YouTube videos. Apparently, Holster and said social media director interacted a lot and it was “fucking adorable” (again, according to Marko).

“Well, what I have,” Holster smiled as he spoke, interrupting Kent’s thoughts as they wandered through towards the grocery section, “is about five inches and forty pounds on you, sir.”

Kent smirked. “Yet you still need me to protect you from the sample lady. That doesn’t make any sense, dude.”

“Shut up. She’s mean,” Holster grumbled a bit, looking a bit embarrassed.

When Kent and Holster walked past said sample woman, the woman’s face twisted with annoyance and anger and she shot daggers at Holster as she moved the tray out of reach. Kent nearly wet himself laughing. He actually had to pause in the next aisle, still in clear view of the woman, because he couldn’t breathe through his raucous laughter.

Holster moved to hide behind the stuffed bear in his shame. Well, as well as a damn giant his size could.

“Kent? Kent Parson?” a soft, probing voice interrupted Kent’s laughter.

He wiped his eyes a bit, still smiling as he turned, prepared to face a fan probably seeking a picture or autograph. Instead, he found himself face to face with someone familiar. His stomach dropped a bit when Holster appeared at his side. He hadn’t told his new friend about this particular part of his life.

“Becca. Good to see you,” Kent smiled at the older woman holding the hand of her daughter who was eyeing the bear with open envy. “Oh, this is Adam Birkholtz. He’s a new Ace.”

Holster shook Becca’s hand and Becca blinked at the sheer overwhelming size of the d-man.

“You’re very big,” Becca’s daughter looked up at Holster in awe. Holster knelt so he could better meet the girl’s eyes. He still towered over her in this position but not so much.

“And you’re very small. Hi. I’m Adam.” The big man offered a big hand.

Becca’s daughter immediately slipped her tiny hand in Holster’s and shook it. “I’m Emily. And I’m five. I like your teddy bear.”

Holster smiled and stood to hoist the giant stuffed animal out of the cart. “Thanks. We haven’t named it yet. What do you think? Kent wanted to name it Bob. But I think that’s a terrible name for a stuffed bear.”

“Sasha,” Emily proclaimed.

“That is an excellent name,” Holster assented.

“Do you like cartoons?” Emily asked, not afraid of Holster in the slightest.

“I do,” Holster crouched back down. “Have you seen Finding Nemo?”

“Dory’s my favorite,” the little girl pronounced.

Holster winked at Kent before he and Emily became engrossed in their conversation of animated movies.

Kent swore he felt his heart stutter before he turned to Becca. “How’s Anna?”

Becca’s smile was soft but tired and drawn. “She’s fighting. She’s so tough. Her next round starts on Monday. Emily and I are just getting some of her favorite snacks. The doctors are optimistic that she’ll beat this. I just hate seeing her in so much pain, you know?” Her voice was little more than a whisper as she watched Holster and her other daughter argue about the best Disney characters.

“I’ll stop by this week. Thursday?”

Becca smiled. “She’d love that. And you may need to bring Adam. I think Em is in love already.”

Kent watched the little girl as she preened for Holster a bit before turning to her mother and whispering, none too quietly, “Mommy. I think he’s a real prince. Like from Disneyland.”

The group laughed. Holster beamed. “I’m actually a hockey player. I play with Kent.”

Emily frowned and looked a bit disappointed. “Okay,” she said with all the dejection her five year old body contained before suddenly smiling bright again. “Does that mean you’ll come play with me and Anna too?”

“What?” Holster turned to the two adults.

“Mr. Parson always plays with me and Anna. We play Candyland sometimes. I win a lot,” she puffed out her chest a little as she explained.

Kent could see the confusion in the other man’s blue eyes. Kent was fighting his embarrassment that he’d been found out. No one, not even Matty, knew about Anna.

“Mommy, can Mr. Adam come with Mr. Parson next time?” The five year old spun on Holster. “Will you come and play Candyland too?”

Becca stepped in then. “Mr. Birkholtz is probably very busy.”

Holster straightened, looked a panicking Kent in the eye, and then smiled that blinding beautiful smile, all white teeth and joy, before shrugging. “I’ll check my schedule but I’d love to come play Candyland too.” He hoisted the bear up and turned to Becca. “You know, the more I think about this, the more I realize, I just don’t have room for this. Do your girls have room for a giant stuffed bear named Sasha perhaps?”

Emily squeaked and rushed to hug the giant plush. Becca looked shocked but a little touched. “You know, I think they do.”

Holster turned back to Kent. “I’ll meet you back here in a few. I’ll just go pay for this giant ass-stronimcally huge bear,” he finished, barely catching himself on the mild swear in front of the five year old.

Emily was jumping up and down.

“You don’t have to,” Becca protested weakly.

“Is that all you have?” Holster moved to deposit the bear in her cart.

There were a few packages of snacks and a single case of juice. Kent knew how expensive the medical costs were. Becca never told him outright but it was a clearly a struggle. Kent slipped in every so often and took care of a procedure under the guise of “insurance” and they never knew. But he couldn’t cover all of the bills without possible fallout from the proud family.

Becca shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Holster returned her shrug. “Yeah, but see, I’m a hockey player. A big one, unlike tiny over there,” he gestured to Kent, “and those are just not enough snacks to feed me during a round of Candyland. We definitely need more. Right, Kenny?”

Kenny.

Oh, God.

His heart stopped. Or maybe it didn’t. Kent wasn’t sure. He felt suddenly dizzy and overwhelmed.

That was not a nickname he’d ever expected to hear from Holster. Adam usually called him Parse or captain, or just plain Kent. Not Kenny. Never Kenny.

Oh, God. He was so fucking screwed.

“Uh, yeah. Definitely need more snacks,” he managed, even managing a smirk.

Holster cocked an eyebrow for a moment, obviously noticing that Kent wasn’t totally paying attention. But thank whatever fucking deities ruled this Universe, Holster didn’t press. Instead, he turned to Becca and Emily and said, “Awesome. Let’s get some more snacks and such. My treat. I’ll be back, captain. Don’t buy anything awesome without me.”

And then he and the other two were gone, leaving Kent alone in the middle of a Costco aisle to deal with all of his emotions. His heart was racing as he moved off to the side so he wasn’t in the way.

Watching Adam “I hate people” Birkholtz talk to Emily had stirred something deep in Kent’s chest. Something he thought he’d buried after that last disaster of a fucking conversation with Jack. This was not good. Kent could see himself falling for this man. And that scared the living shit out of him.

Kent was pretty much a zombie as he grabbed the rest of the things they needed for the BBQ. His mind was so preoccupied and chaotic, he walked into two displays and nearly ran over a kid who ran in front of him. But even then, all he could think about was Adam Birkholtz’s bright blue eyes as he’d smiled at a little girl who thought he was a prince.

Fuck.

Kent’s mind wandered as he moved through the aisles, settling on a memory from a few nights ago. Holster hadn’t managed to stay awake for more than five minutes into the season finale they were watching. One minute, Kent was focused on the show and then the next, Holster had wrapped his arms around Kent and curled into his side. Holster was big and heavy and Kent almost woke him right then because of that. But he’d been so warm, his breath soft through Kent’s shirt onto his chest. . .

Plus, the fact that Holster trusted him enough to not only fall asleep with him, but hold him too? It was. . . unexpected.

So were the feelings he felt. As Holster snuffled in his sleep, Kent couldn’t help himself. He reached out and ran his hand through Holster’s soft blonde hair. Holster had sighed in his sleep at the touch and snuggled deeper into Kent’s embrace and Kent knew it should feel awkward and uncomfortable.

It didn’t.

It felt good. It felt right. It felt safe.

Holster woke up the second time Kent ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t been freaked out by Kent’s rather forward and probably inappropriate behavior. Instead, he’d smiled sleepily, made a lame Cinderella joke, then apologized for snuggling with his captain.

After Holster left, Kent had sat, head in hands, taking deep breaths to focus. He didn’t sleep well that night.

He couldn’t want this. Holster was his best friend.

Shit. When had that happened?

The realization made Kent trip over his own feet a bit. A few people eyed him, but he managed to stay upright thanks to the cart.

Holster was his best friend?

After a month?

But that didn’t make sense. These weren’t feelings he’d ever had with a best. . . friend. . . except. . .

Well, fuck.

When Kent finally made it back to the spot he promised to meet his teammate and best friend, Holster was already there with another stuffed bear and a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I really want one.”

Kent managed to chuckle despite the rollercoaster of emotions he’d been experiencing for the past twenty minutes. Goddammit, stop being so wonderful. “That was really sweet. What you did for Becca and Emily, I mean.”

“Medical bills are expensive.” So he’d figured it out. Or asked Becca. “The least I can do is buy them some groceries.”

“Groceries? I thought you were just getting snacks,” Kent questioned. His chest was tight again. No. Stop. You can’t fall in love with another teammate! Didn’t you learn your lesson yet, you dumbass!

Holster shrugged and loaded the bear into the cart. “It wasn’t a big deal. I made sure Becca knew it was because we just eat so much. Played it way off, you know?”

“She’s not stupid, Holster. She knows why you did it,” he argued.

Again, Holster shrugged. “Too late. So. Anna? I didn’t ask Becca. I thought keeping Emily focused on how I resemble a Disney prince was probably preferable.”

Kent swallowed. This goddamn beautiful giant. “She’s nine. She has an aggressive form of leukemia. I met her last year during one of those promotional visits to her hospital that we do as a team. First thing she said to me? “You need to work on your stick handling, Parson. You’re getting stripped of the puck too much in the offensive zones.” Eight years old and she was calling me out on my shit. And I,” he hesitated as he remembered. “I fell in love with that kid. So I try and go once a week if at all possible. It’s like Emily said. We talk hockey, play Candyland. She and Anna kicked my ass at Yahtzee last time.”

Holster looked at him, those clear blue eyes were wide and soft as Holster smiled and tossed an arm around Kent. “I’m totally crashing that party next time if that’s okay.”

Kent nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

“And you do need to work on getting stripped of the puck in the offensive zone. Fucking Swoops got it off you yesterday. And he’s been on vacation for two months. Absolute travesty,” he winked and chirped before pushing Kent off the cart with a hip check so he could push it himself.

Kent didn’t explain that he’d been distracted by how cute Holster had looked, his helmet pushed back, as he leaned against the boards and talked seriously with Bondy. Instead, he just rolled his eyes and pushed back, not really budging the bigger man. Holster’s laugh was loud, like pretty much everything else about him. It was just another thing Kent loved.

“Oh my God! Tiny oranges! I love tiny oranges! They make me feel like a giant,” Holster exclaimed as he tore off towards the display of oranges.

“You are a giant,” Kent called after him, laughing.

Oh yeah. Kent didn’t have a prayer.

Chapter Text

Holster stared at the mess in front of him with narrowed eyes. He glanced at the picture in the text Bitty sent. Then back at the mess.

The blob on the counter was definitely not how pie was supposed to look. The edges were uneven, half of it had sunk while the other half had boiled over, and the top was completely burnt. Holster had no idea how he’d managed to fail so spectacularly.

He took a quick picture and sent it off. He didn’t have to wait long before his phone buzzed with the reply.

EB: Good Lord, Holster. What did you do to that pie?

AB: I followed your directions exactly! I don’t know why it didn’t work. :(

EB: Oh, you sweet summer child. Ok. Tell you what. I just made a fantastic pie that I think will work perfectly for this “project”. It’s on its way.

AB: Bless you, sir. Give Jack’s ass a squeeze for me!

EB: ;)

Holster leaned back with a smile and then grimace when he caught sight of the pie again. After all the work he put into it, he felt bad throwing it away, so instead, he covered it with tinfoil and stuffed it in the fridge. He knew he shouldn’t have attempted this alone. Bitty was the culinary master, not him. He wasn’t the worst by any means. But his expertise was limited to Betty Crocker box mixes which Bitty had vehemently assured him were not acceptable for birthdays.

So, that’s why he stood in the kitchen of his small apartment attempting a pie, three days before Kent’s birthday on the 4th of July. God bless that tiny Georgian though. If Holster knew him at all, the pie was already being packed in a tight, cool container that would find its way to Vegas before the party.

Holster looked at the mess he’d made and sighed as he set to work, cleaning it all up. He laughed a bit to himself as he recalled how he’d gotten to this point. Calling Bitty earlier that day for an apple pie recipe had, admittedly, been kind of embarrassing.

“Why Mr. Adam Birkholtz, I thought you forgotten about us in your new found fame,” Bitty answered on the third ring. Holster had gone pretty silent on the group text recently thanks to his new schedule.

“Hey, Bitty. Nah. I could never forget you guys. It’s just been kind of crazy, you know?”

He could almost hear Bitty nodding. “I totally understand, Holster. I was thinking you needed some pie now that you’re settled. What’cha y’all thinking?” His southern drawl was a bit of a comfort as it struck Holster just how much he missed his friends.

“Um,” Holster hesitated. “I was actually wondering if you had an easy apple pie recipe I could. . . maybe. . . make.”

There was pause before Bitty’s musical laugh echoed over the line. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Of course I have an easy recipe. Any particular reason?”

It struck Holster at that moment that he shouldn’t have called Bitty. Bitty didn’t really like Kent. But Holster didn’t completely trust internet recipes. At least Bitty’s stuff was well researched and tested. Ransom would have been so proud to hear Holster validate his request so scientifically.

“I wanted to make one of the guys a pie for his birthday and he mentioned once that he likes apple pie with vanilla ice cream.”

There was a slight pause. “You’re making a teammate a pie?” Bitty sounded skeptical.

“Yeah. I mean, you do it all the time for us and it always made me feel special and shit,” he mumbled. It was clear that Bitty could see right through his ruse. Especially based on his super flimsy response.

“Oh, Holster,” he sighed and there was a bit of Bitty’s “I hope you know what you’re doing” judgement in the sound. “Of course I’d be glad to send you a recipe. But you have to send me a picture of the final product.”

Holster agreed and that was that. He hadn’t had to reveal his secret (and what some of the guys would consider shameful) crush on his captain. Not that the guys disliked Kent. It was only shameful for two reasons. One, Kent was straight, and that clearly hadn’t been working out so well for Holster. And two, he was a teammate, and especially, the captain.

Now, Holster was new to the life of a professional athlete but even he knew that dating a teammate wasn’t always the best idea. Hell, even Hall and Murray had discouraged it a little. Dating teammates often led to immense drama on and off the ice. One bad breakup could cause a legit rift in the team.

As captains, Ransom and Holster had kept an eye on Dex and Nursey for that very reason. It was clear that the two idiots were head over heels in love with each other. But neither of them were really ready for that relationship. Dex needed to learn to control his temper better off the ice. He could be the nicest guy in the world, but he was too easily pushed to anger. And Nursey really needed to learn how to voice his feelings. For a poet, he was really fucking bad at that.

Holster gave it another six months before they figured out their feelings. They were made for each other. Even if those two idiots didn’t realize it yet. However, the rest of the team had come to that realization after only a few months of their constant bickering. Chowder had been subtly trying to get them together for years, to no avail.

But the fact remained. Dating teammates was dangerous. There was an order, a way to do things. And a breakup could rock the entire balance of a locker room, causing complete mayhem and misery.

Still, Holster couldn’t help it. He was with Kent every single day. And he was well and truly gone now. He’d learned that Kent was terrified of spiders when he’d practically climbed Holster like a tree to escape a small spider once. And he’d learned that Kent, with his first ever NHL paycheck, had bought a fucking high heel shoe chair for his closet. Kent thought it was fun and quirky. The captain used it to put on his shoes in the morning. Holster had cried with laughter when he’d seen the zebra printed monstrosity.

Holster was so gone.

Which was why he was making Kent a pie for his birthday on July 4th because Kent mentioned once in passing that he loved a good piece of apple pie with ice cream.

And why Holster was desperately pleading with Bitty for help so that the pie would be good enough.

He knew it was a bad idea to fall for a straight guy. God knew he hated himself for making that mistake again. But Kent was just something else. The way his lips quirked into a smirk whenever he scored a goal in practice. The way he’d wink at Holster during interviews. The easy jokes and shoulder nudges during locker room chats. The deep conversations over breakfast. The existential discussions during Game of Thrones. Holster hadn’t stood a chance.

He thanked Bitty profusely again for the help, promising to send pictures from the BBQ of everyone enjoying the pie.

Bitty’s pie (or pies because of course Bitty sent more than expected) arrived just in time, showing up the morning of the BBQ.

That night, Holster packed his horrible attempt in a bag and then placed Bitty’s glorious creations on top. He figured Kent would probably get a kick out of his attempt to bake a pie.

Kent threw a BBQ at his place every year. He didn’t frame it like a birthday party, instead focusing on the holiday. But everyone brought presents anyways. At least, that’s what Matty had told him. Kent never opened them publicly. And he always rolled his eyes, but it was still his birthday even if he wasn’t advertising. Usually they made him go to a big ass party later at some club on the strip. But on his actual birthday, Kent insisted on hosting the guys and their families.

Holster’s gift wasn’t all that impressive. Well, the part he had. Part of it would be late. Lardo had apologized for the delay. The part that Holster did have though was just something small. It wasn’t even something new. But he hoped Kent would like it. At least, he thought the Kent he’d been spending every day with would.

“Holster! My man, my buddy, my giant,” Bondy wrapped an arm around Holster’s shoulder as he arrived. Bondy’s girlfriend, Cara, a physics PhD student at UNLV, rolled her eyes. Bondy was clearly a little tipsy.

“Hey, bro,” Holster smiled.

“Sorry, Adam,” Cara said as she tried to peel Bondy off of Holster. But his new partner in crime on the d-line was like an octopus and he was not letting go.

Bondy looked down at the bag in Holster’s hand and saw the boxes of Bitty’s pies and his eyes lit up. “Dude. Is this the pie? The pie of the gods from the little Georgian dude?”

Teammates from all around heard Bondy’s excited shout and were snaking their way over. Holster saw Kent off to the side with Matty and Dalton, deep in conversation. He looked stressed and kind of frustrated.

“Yo! It’s the pies! The magic pies!”

“The magic pies? DUDE! Finally!”

“Yeah, Holster. You’ve been fucking, apologies to the ears of the small children nearby, weaving these delicious tales for weeks, man.”

“Oh sweet baby Jesus. Is that a bourbon peach pie?”

“Where is this dude and can I marry him slash make him my personal chef?”

The guys grabbed the four (Holster was already thinking about how he could repay Bitty for this) pies out of the bag, leaving the terrible one under Kent’s gift. Kent, hearing the commotion, slowly made his way towards the circle of massive hockey pros now fighting over who got a piece of which pie.

“The apple is for the captain, bros,” Holster shouted. “But the other three are fair game.”

There were a fair amount of groans and swears as the apple pie was pushed aside with a great deal of hesitance.

Kent’s eyes fairly sparkled as his face lightened. “You remembered that I like apple pie?” he asked, beaming.

“Well, yeah. I don’t mess around when it comes to pie. Bitty’d have my head,” he joked. “Happy birthday, Parse, you old man.”

Kent laughed and pulled Holster into an all too brief side hug. “Thanks, man. Come on. Have some food. And I should hide this,” he snatched the pie off the table. “They’re a bunch of fucking hyenas with sugar.”

Holster understood. The nutritionist had given Holster a very stern, two hour lecture on his terrible college eating habits. Kent had laughed his ass off when Holster had told him about it later.

The BBQ was super relaxed. The players mingled, kids ran amok through Kent’s backyard. The Samwell group text was calm too. Just the occasional response or chirp or photo.

Until Holster took a few pictures of the Aces eating Bitty’s pie, their faces screwed up in distinctly sexual looking reactions. The group chat had nearly imploded with that.

JO: OMG! IS THAT BENJAMIN DUKE’S SEX FACE????????

SK: THE FUCK? BITTY! You sent Holster pie but not me?? Betrayal!

EB: He asked!

SK: BETRAYAL!

LD: ha ha ha ha ha! Nice.

LD: Calm down, Shits! Bitty sent me a pie. I’ll share.

SK: Ok cool. Wait. YOU SENT LARDO A PIE?????

EB: SHE ASKED!

JO: Bros. Can we forget the pies for a minute and focus on the SEX FACES OF NHL PLAYERS?

CC: Cool!

WP: I don’t want to imagine the sex faces of NHL stars, Ransom.

DN: Chill, Dex.

WP: I SWEAR TO GOD, NURSEY.

DN: . . . Chill.

LD: Bros! Ransom is right. We are getting distracted. Holster has gifted us the greatest gift on this, the birthday of our proud country.

LD: Shut up, Rans. I know you’re Canadian.

LD: Let us focus on the beauty of these men and their sex faces.

SK: HEAR HEAR!

JZ: Those aren’t that good. I should send you the faces Snowy makes when the trainer rubs out his thighs.

JO: WHAT???

SK: JACK LAURENT ZIMMERMANN! YOU STUNNING BLUE EYED GOD! DON’T TOY WITH MY HEART!

LD: What the hell? You’re holding out on us, Zimmermann? And I thought we were friends.

WP: You guys are ridiculous.

SK: Blasphemy, my dear little Poindexter.

EB: ANYHOW. I’m glad they enjoyed the pie, Holster.

EB: And Snowy doesn’t have the best sex face. Tater does.

Holster snorted a bit before he put away his phone. Kent rejoined him with a piece of his birthday pie. Holster’s phone was still buzzing like crazy in his pocket.

“Need to answer that?” Kent raised an eyebrow.

Holster shook his head. “Nah. Just the guys arguing about sex faces,” he explained.

Kent just blinked and then shook his head. “You know? I’m just not gonna ask.”

“I’ll explain later.”

Kent cut into his pie and took a bite and the noise out of his mouth had Holster shifting in his seat. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is stupid good. What the hell?” he said before he took two more bites, eliciting two more groans. “Jesus, Holster. Now I know why the team nutritionist was so mad at you. Where have you been hiding this pie?”

“Massachusetts by way of Georgia,” he chuckled a bit uncomfortably. Kent looked to be in sheer ecstasy. His eyes had rolled back into his head as he took another bite. He kept licking his lips to catch the wayward crumbs and filling. If Holster didn’t know any better, he’d have thought his captain was doing this on purpose. But he knew the powers of Bitty’s pies. It was unintentional.

Kent glared at Holster when he finished his slice. “I’m going to need that whole pie.” Kent got up, went over to the table, cut himself another big piece then disappeared inside with the rest, probably hiding it in the fridge. When he returned, he set to work on his next piece, complete with further moans of enjoyment.

The rest of the team was winding down as the sky darkened. All around the yard the guys were spread out. Kent’s house was in a good location to watch the fireworks without the huge crowds.

Finally, the sky lit up as the first firework exploded, showering down in red and gold sparkles. Holster looked around. Ducky was curled up with his wife. Matty’s twin daughters were watching with wide, dark eyes. Checkmate was clapping happily with each soft bang along with his son. Kent and Holster were the only ones still on the deck. Everyone else was on the grass. Rhino and Marko were snuggled up together, sharing what appeared to be the last piece of the bourbon peach pie.

“I got you something,” Holster said quietly during a pause in the bangs and cheers from the kids.

Kent rolled his eyes. “Bro. What? What was this pie then?”

Holster flushed. “Well, I tried to make it myself at first,” he admitted, pulling the horrible fail pie out to show Kent.

The other man beamed and rocked forward to grab it, laughing. “Oh my God, Holster. What is this?”

“An epic failure. It’s why you have good pie. I showed it to Bitty and he took pity on my fucking awful baking skills.”

Kent’s smile was bright and soft. His eyes were happy. “You went to so much effort. Thank you.”

Holster held up his hand. “Oh, I’m not done. Though the pie is probably better than the actual gift,” he said, suddenly nervous as he handed the small wrapped parcel to Kent. “Oh, and there is another part but it’s going to be late so this is all you get right now. So. . .uh. . .sorry about that.” Oh God, what if he hates it, Holster suddenly thought. I should have just bought him something for Kit.

With deft hands, Kent opened the paper without really damaging it at all. His fingers brushed the soft fabric and Holster thought he heard a small gasp.

“Is this?” Kent asked softly, but still loud enough for Holster to hear over the surrounding noise.

“You’re pretty obvious. You always try and steal it anyways. I figured you should probably just have it.”

Kent held up Holster’s favorite well-worn Samwell Men’s Hockey shirt. It was plain grey t-shirt with maroon lettering. It was kind of faded, kind of worn around the neck. But it was so damn comfortable and soft as hell. Kent had been openly eyeing it for weeks. Ever since he’d accidentally put it on and felt how soft it was. He’d tried to steal it out of Holster’s bag twice even though Holster was a bit larger than him and the shirt did not fit that well.

Kent just stared at the shirt and then cleared his throat. Holster couldn’t really see his eyes since he was looking away at an angle. The bright fireworks offered only a brief illumination of Kent’s face which looked tight and tense. Before Holster could apologize for such a cheap and lame gift, Kent pulled him into a hug. A real hug. It was tight and Kent held on for a lot longer than he ever had before, only releasing Holster after another firework boomed and everyone made oohing and ahhing noises from below them.

After that, Kent disappeared without a word. He stood up, still gripping the shirt, and made his way around the yard, talking to teammates and staff, thanking them for coming. He didn’t come back.

Adam stayed and helped clean up after the fireworks were done. He felt sort of obligated. He didn’t have a kid or spouse that he needed to get home so he thought it was only fair that he help. But even then, he didn’t see much of Kent. And he tried. He took his time, he was practically fucking loitering. Still, nothing.

Finally, he couldn’t stall any longer. When Marko and Rhino offered to walk with him out to his car after they were all done cleaning, Holster faked a smile and agreed because he had to.

He couldn’t say, “No. I need to talk to Kent one more time about what the hell that lingering hug meant.”

Instead, he nodded, grabbed his bag, and shouted “Happy birthday, captain!” with the other two at Kent who was talking to Dalton on the back porch. Kent looked up and smiled and waved without making eye contact with Holster at all.

By the time he got home, Holster was totally dejected. Had he miscalculated so much? Was Kent mad at him? What the hell was that hug then? As he got ready for bed, Holster read the group text, cheered only slightly as he fell asleep, thinking about Kent and the unreadable look in his eyes when he’d held Holster tight.

Chapter Text

Kent was in Hell.

Pure.

Fucking.

Hell.

It was happening all over again. But this time was SO MUCH worse.

After everyone had left his birthday/4th of July BBQ, he crawled into bed with Holster's gift, still wearing his ridiculous flag tank top, and just stared at his ceiling, lost in his thoughts.

Lost in the memory of how good Adam felt. How solid he was. How warm. How he was fucking everything Kent wanted but couldn’t have.

Again.

Goddammit.

Adam Birkholtz was like a damn ray of sunshine. Just seeing him could improve Kent’s mood instantly. And he never let Kent wallow. It was like he knew exactly how to cheer Kent when he needed it most. That was something Kent had always hoped to find. Sometimes he got a bit too self-loathing, but Holster was always there to keep Kent from falling into that.

Like the Friday he’d asked Kent to watch the rest of season one of Game of Thrones with him. Kent almost killed his new forward for those bullshit remarks. And his sour mood had leaked into the rest of his workout. But then, there was Adam. Sweet, cheerful, built like a damn Greek god, Adam. He’d just leaned over and asked in that deep, comforting, loud voice of his, “Hey, wanna watch Game of Thrones tonight?”

Matty, of course, had to butt in. The asshole. He’d been trying to get Kent to watch since season one. “Captain’s finally watching Game of Thrones? Goddamn. I’ve been trying to get him into this show for five years, Holster. It’s gotta be because you’re a rookie. He’s trying to be nice. Parse. Best character, hands down, is Daenerys Targaryen.”

The room had laughed and Holster had shrugged good-naturedly and responded with, “Or maybe I’m just more persuasive. And Matty, I’m sorry but you are painfully wrong. It’s Arya fucking Stark.”

Persuasive. That didn’t even begin to cover it. Kent had known that very first day at breakfast when Holster had been hungover as hell and looked like he’d crawled out of a gutter that there was just something about this giant d-man that appealed to him.

Maybe it was the way the team had instantly connected with him. It took all of four minutes for the guys to start inviting Holster to do anything and everything with them. Hell, Ducky was even using Adam as a financial advisor.

“Hey, Holster. Did you get your financial planner all sorted?” Matty asked one day after a hard workout.

Holster shrugged and shook his head. “Nah, bro. I got my degree in economics. I’m totally good to do it myself.”

Half the guys had just stared, clearly impressed. Matty nodded his approval. “Well, that works then. Just don’t be dumb, alright?”

“I promise. But seriously, Matty. I’ve got this.”

Matty’d patted the bigger man on the back as he’d left.

“So you know how to like diversify and invest and shit?” Ducky asked with narrowed eyes.

Holster nodded. “I do.”

Ducky exhaled a big breath. “I am so firing Doug. That dude is a total asshat. Holster, you’re hired.”

Kent laughed at the look on Holster’s face. It was a mixture of shock and confusion.

“Whoa, Ducky. Calm it down, man. I’m doing my own shit. I’m not qualified to do your finances.”

But Ducky remained unconvinced. “I don’t give a shit. I hate my financial planner. I’m not kidding. He’s a total asshat and I pay him way too much. I’m calling my wife. You’re coming over for dinner and we’re gonna go over shit.” Ducky stood and grabbed his phone.

“Don’t fire Doug! I’ll just give you some extra tips!” Holster called after the goalie. He shook his head when he heard Ducky exclaim happily that he was firing Doug the Asshat.

Holster’s exclamation brought several more players to his side, requesting his help. Before Kent could say anything, half the team was crowded around Holster’s stall talking about investments and portfolios.

Adam finally agreed to help the entire present team at an impromptu team dinner that night (“At my house because I’m totally hiring him. I’ll fire Doug when I get home.” “For the last time! Don’t fucking fire your financial planner, Ducky!”).

It took a while but eventually the guys cleared out, leaving Kent alone with his best friend. “You know, Holster. You don’t really need to freelance as a financial planner too. You do have a pretty legit career already.”

Holster’d just smiled that gorgeous, bright smile and shrugged. “It’s what you do for family.”

Family.

He’d called Ducky and the rest of those idiots family after only two weeks.

After just two weeks, he was totally invested in his teammates and their success.

If Kent was being honest with himself, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be, then this was probably the moment he slipped over the edge towards a certain four letter word that he’d been afraid of for years.

And Kent couldn’t forget everything else that Holster did. Daily breakfast, bi-weekly Target trips, weekly Game of Thrones nights. All of those on top of the time spent on the ice or at the gym and the fact that when Holster was at his back, Kent played so much better, made Kent. . . nervous.

More than nervous, actually. He was fucking terrified.

That’s how Kent found himself talking to the head coach, Thomas Dalton, and Matty earlier that night, before Holster had arrived at the BBQ. And how he’d found himself sinking farther into this Hell, even before he’d held onto Adam Birkholtz like a man drowning.

“You look tense, Kent,” Dalton commented as the trio watched Ducky playing tag with Matty’s kids.

Kent shrugged. “You know me, coach. I’m never tense.”

Matty laughed so hard he was almost crying. “Nice try, Captain. You work harder than anyone here. And we all know it. I’m amazed you actually find time to sleep.”

Kent didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t know what he’d say anyways.

Dalton glanced at a still chuckling Matty before he spoke. “You and Holster seem pretty tight. I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d be a good fit. He’s not nearly as serious as you.”

Kent almost argued that he wasn’t that serious, but again, Dalton wasn’t the coach for nothing. “And don’t give me that shit about you being all laid back and fancy free, Kent. I know that’s an act. You’re as goddamn serious as the rest of us. More so. It’s what makes you a good captain. You keep your head on straight and you keep the boys in line. Still, sometimes, you’re too damn tense. But Holster has been good for you. He’s opened you up on the ice even. You’re moving better when he’s behind you. I’m glad.”

“He’s a good player,” Kent answered lamely.

Matty cocked an eyebrow. “Good player? Is that all? Nothing more?”

Of course Matty had noticed. Kent exhaled and closed his eyes.

Dalton didn’t sound all that surprised when he spoke. “Ah. I see. You know I can’t truly support that as your coach, Kent. Not between teammates. The risk is too damn high.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kent grumbled.

The trio fell silent for a few moments before Dalton put a hand on his shoulder. “But as your friend, as the man who has watched you go from reckless rookie to talented leader, and totally off the coach record, I say, talk to him. If you’re on the same page, and if he’s interested, go for it. You deserve as much happiness as anyone else, Kent.”

Without another word, Dalton slapped him hard on the back once, and strolled off.

“I just want to see you happy, little brother,” Matty smiled but Kent could see the hesitation in his eyes. “Just. . . be careful, yeah?”

A shout of “magic pies!” from the deck had both men turning. Matty and Kent laughed at the sight of nine pro hockey players practically salivating at the sight of pie boxes. Kent headed to the deck and Matty wandered over to Dalton and the two men were soon deep in conversation, this time without Kent. Though Kent suspected it was probably about him.

Matty and Dalton were two of the three people within the Aces franchise who knew that Kent was gay. Greg, the GM, was the third.

None of his other teammates knew, though he knew that most of them would be supportive. But Kent wasn’t ready to tell them all. He wasn’t ready for that notoriety. He just wanted to be Kent Parson, one of the best players in the NHL, Stanley Cup champion, captain. And he knew if it got out that he was gay, that would replace all of his accolades. It wouldn’t matter so much that he was a champion. His sexuality would become the focus. And anyone attached to him would face a lot of heat as well.

So what did that mean for him and Holster?

As Kent spent the night hanging out with what was arguably his best friend now, he couldn’t help but think about how this rookie didn’t deserve that kind of attention. For all Kent knew, Holster was straight. And Holster probably thought the same thing of Kent. He never gave any indication of knowing about Kent and Jack, something that Kent was grateful to Jack about. Not that he should have been worried. Jack was a very private guy. He wouldn’t have run his mouth about Kent.

So Kent decided he’d just keep it platonic. Keep it friendly. Holster was a good guy. And when, (not if, but when) Kent came out, he didn’t want anything to fuck with Holster’s image. He was a goddamn golden retriever after all.

And then the bastard had gone and been perfect. He’d tried to bake Kent a pie. Then the little blonde that had replaced Kent (Kent wasn’t so stupid as to miss the way that Jack had been leaning into the smaller man, the way he’d been talking with the other man, all animation and passion, at the party Kent had crashed) had sent, at Holster’s insistence, what was possibly the best food he’d ever put in his mouth.

Kent hadn’t connected the dots right away that the fast as hell forward named Bitty was the same blonde he’d seen with Jack at the party. Though it did make sense if Kent really thought about it.

But that wasn’t the point right now, he reminded himself.

The point was that Holster was pretty much fucking perfect. And it had hit him hard when he’d opened his gift. He’d almost forgotten to breathe when his hands had brushed the soft cotton of Holster’s Samwell shirt. That damn comfortable shirt. Kent had been trying to steal it for weeks. Ever since he’d accidentally grabbed it and slipped it on to the laughs of the team. It was clearly too big. But it was warm and soft and oh God, did it smell fucking magnificent. Just like Holster. Kent had tried to steal it several times to no avail and then, Holster had to go and be absolutely wonderful and give it to him. It still smelled like him. A deep earthy soap smell that was both arousing and comforting. Kent almost cried.

He was falling hard and fast for Adam Birkholtz and the d-man wasn’t helping. Kent felt bad for ignoring him after that. But he was panicking. His heart was racing, his hands shook slightly. He wanted to believe that Holster was interested, that he wanted Kent in the same way that Kent wanted him. But Kent couldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t damage his reputation. He couldn’t hurt another person the way he’d hurt Jack. Not Holster. Not this gentle, gorgeous man who offered nothing but friendship and kindness.

Kent rolled over, burying his face into his pillow with a curse. Kit made a noise, complaining about Kent’s sudden movement that had dislodged her from her position at his feet. For the first time in years, Kent wanted to cry. He wanted to cry because he was stuck in Hell again. He was falling for a man he couldn’t have. A man who treated Kent like he was actually worth more than just his hockey stats. It was so goddamn cruel and unfair that this was happening all over again.

Kent pulled Holster’s shirt close and closed his eyes. And for the first time in years, alone in his bed, and keenly aware of the empty expanse that could fit a Holster sized person, he curled up and cried until he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

When Holster’s doorbell rang a couple weeks after Kent’s birthday, Adam frowned in momentary confusion before swearing. He’d forgotten about this.

The Fed Ex guy smiled as Holster thanked him, signed for the package, and then hoisted the huge piece of art sent by Lardo for Kent into his small apartment.

It didn’t really fit anywhere, so he settled for laying it on his kitchen table.

He tore open the packaging on the painting, simply titled Like Home. The stark white and blue design was breathtaking. The ridges of the oil paint crested and fell in subtle patterns. Goddamn, Lardo was amazing. It was perfection.

Holster smiled and grabbed his phone to tell her just that.

AB: This is a fucking masterpiece!

LD: :) Like you had a doubt. ;)

AB: Absofuckinglutely no doubt.

AB: It sucks that I have no room for it right now.

LD: ??

LD: Thought you were giving this to Kent “Dreamboat” Parson. . .

LD: What did you do?

AB: Nothing!

AB: . . . I don’t know.

LD: -_-

AB: I think I overstepped.

LD: Like with what happened with Ransom?

LD: Better or worse?

AB: Worse.

LD: Oh. Shit.

Yeah. Shit.

LD: I’m sorry, bro.

AB: Any advice, oh wise manager?

LD: Yeah. Call Ransom. And then fucking talk to Parse.

LD: Shits and I send our love, you big idiot. <3

LD: Shitty insisted on the heart.

AB: Thanks. Love you guys too. :)

Holster flopped onto the too small couch and sighed.

Lardo had a point. If there was one person who would be willing to listen to Holster whine and offer advice right now, it was Justin Oluransi, the beautiful Canadian coral reef. Especially since Holster had told Ransom absolutely everything pertaining to Kent, and Holster’s subsequent budding feels.

Holster grabbed his computer and set it up on the table so he could slump over on the couch and still see Rans’s face.

Ransom answered the skype call after only a few rings.

“Bro!! I have missed your fucking face!” Holster exclaimed when Ransom beamed, all bright eyes and white teeth.

“We skyped two days ago,” Ransom laughed, but it was obvious that he was glad to see Holster too.

“Yeah, but I went cold turkey, bro. I went from seeing your beautiful face in person every single day to “whenever the fuck we can manage it” skype calls. It’s cruel.”

“It really fucking is. I’m still not used to waking up and not hearing you singing fucking Taylor Swift in the bathroom while you shower,” Ransom agreed.

“While you harmonize while shaving? Bro. I fucking miss you.”

Adam had lived in Vegas for two months and he still missed his best friend more than anyone else. He didn’t even talk to his mom as much as he talked to Ransom. The only person he talked to more was Kent.

Which reminded Holster why he’d called in the first place. His face must have showed his thoughts because Ransom sighed. “You didn’t skype to talk about me,” he said. “Hold on. Let me get comfortable and we can sort out this shit with Kent together.”

Jesus, if Holster didn’t love that Canadian genius.

A half an hour later however, Holster was ready to just give up on everything.

“Let’s go over this again,” Ransom’s voice soothed Holster as he laid face first down on his little couch, his feet and most of his lower legs dangling over the edge.

“Mmkay,” Holster mumbled, muffled by the cushions.

It’d been two weeks since Kent’s BBQ. And in those two weeks, Kent had been. . . well, kind of weird. He was a strange mix of overly enthusiastic while being uncharacteristically distant. Holster and Kent still went to breakfast every morning. They still watched Game of Thrones. They still went to Target together. But there was a distinct change that Holster had picked up on. Like the fact that Kent had stopped with the physical contact. It wasn’t like they were always touching or anything, just a shoulder nudge here, or a pat on the back there. But not anymore. Kent wouldn’t even give Holster a fucking fist bump unless they were on the ice with gloves on.

And cellies? Fuck no. Kent had actually ducked out of Holster’s hug during a practice cellie and fallen flat on his ass when he’d tripped himself up on his stick. Chuckles, who never fucking laughed at anything, had nearly fallen over himself in his laughter.

Holster had to admit it had looked pretty funny. Kent Parson, NHL superstar, tripped up on his own stick.

But since he’d done it while avoiding a hug from Holster? Well, the bigger man hadn’t laughed as hard as the rest of the guys.

Kent was still mostly Kent. There was just a subtle shift that had Holster worried. He blamed his stupid present. It was way too personal. He knew he should have gone with a cat toy or some shit. But no, he had to get all boyfriend-y and give Kent his favorite fucking shirt.

That had to be it? Right?

That’s why he’d called Ransom. Not only was Justin Oluransi the only person who knew every detail of Holster’s relationship with Kent which meant that he didn’t need to ask questions to fill in any gaps, he’d always been good at figuring out what Holster needed.

And right now, that was apparently an Excel spreadsheet of Kent and Holster’s relationship, designed to help Holster see everything in a much more organized way.

Ransom was currently listing all the details that Holster had given him back at him.

“It was the shirt, wasn’t it?” Holster turned his head to face the screen.

Ransom’s handsome face was serious as he scrutinized the numbers. “Well, based on this information, you should be fine. Your patterns haven’t changed. Except he won’t touch you.”

“Jesus, Rans. Step away from the Excel sheet for a second and let’s just look at this like a fucking human.”

“Don’t fucking talk shit about Excel, bro. Or did you forget who helped you pick the Aces?” Ransom reminded him with a cocked eyebrow.

Holster mumbled his apology into the cushion as he heard the sound of Ransom typing.

His best friend sighed. “Bro. This could be for the best. You know it’s a bad fucking plan crushing on your captain. Look at how stressed out Bitty got.”

Holster leaned up to glare at Ransom. “Yeah. And now, he’s totally tapping the finest Canadian export since maple syrup.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry. You know I love you. But Jack’s ass deserves its own religion,” he sighed, flumping back onto the couch.

Ransom chuckled. “Fair. But Bits and Jack started doing the horizontal tango after they weren’t on a team together.”

“Only because Jack is dense as shit,” Holster argued. He sat up. “And we aren’t discussing Jack and Bitty right now! We’re trying to figure out if I fucked up the best relationship I’ve got out here by being too boyfriend-y!”

Ransom held up his hands. “Sorry. Back on topic, bro. Honestly? Yeah. It was the shirt. Does he wear it?”

Holster nodded. Kent did wear the shirt. A lot. “But never in the locker room. Only at home.” And only when I’m the only one around.

“Well, that’s good at least?” his best friend offered.

“Dude, he tried to steal it out of my bag after a workout. Of course he’s gonna wear the fucking thing. It’s cozy as fuck. Like a shirt made out of the clouds spun by the holiest of cherubim from fucking heaven,” argued Holster. But he only wore it at home when it was just them. None of the other guys even knew Kent had it. . .

Ransom studied Holster’s face for a moment. He made a “hmm” noise and rubbed his rubbed his jaw. “So you think he’s ashamed of it? Like, he doesn’t want anyone to see him wearing it?”

Holster rubbed his face. Hard. “I don’t know. Maybe? It was a real boyfriend-y gift, bro. And he’s straight. He probably doesn’t want the guys to see it and chirp him for it. Plus, it doesn’t actually fit him that well. He’s kind of small.”

His best friend burst out laughing. “Small? He’s the fucking captain of an NHL franchise. Like, how can a dude who averages more than 17 minutes of ice time a game be small?”

Holster gestured to himself.

“You’re just abnormal, bro. By the way, are you getting bigger?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve gained about five pounds so far. I'll probably add another fifteen or twenty before the end of the regular season.”

Ransom blinked and then blew out a breath. “Shit. I legit can’t wait to see that in person. Shitty is totally gonna want to get all up on you.”

“I’m prepared,” Holster said and then ruffled his hair in frustration. “Dammit. We’re getting distracted again. So what’s the deal, Rans? You gotta help me out with this.”

Ransom’s face was immediately serious. “There’s just one thing about this I’m super worried about, bro. This is your career now. I don’t want you fucking this up because of a crush.”

Holster took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s not a crush, Rans,” he said, his voice unnaturally quiet.

The other man exhaled at the implication of Holster’s words and tone. It was silent for a long time.

Ransom’s eyes were soft and full of pity when he spoke again. “Shit, bro. He’s your captain.”

“I fucking know that, Rans. I know that I’m doing the same fucking stupid thing that I did with you. And maybe I’m just desperate because I’m out here in this fucking city by myself and I wanted the same kind of home here that I had with you guys at Samwell. Or maybe I’m just a fucking moron who shouldn’t have best friends because I keep falling in love with them and getting my stupid heart broken. But I can’t fucking help it, Justin. I can’t. He’s amazing. He takes time out of his week every fucking week to visit a little girl with cancer. He texts his mom every day and calls her every fucking Sunday so he can listen to her tell him all about her week. And he calls before every game so she can tell him good luck. Every. Game. His favorite color is blue because when he was a kid, he had a blue stuffed hippopotamus named Popo. He’s funny, he’s smart, he’s gorgeous, and I’m totally fucked because I want to be with him so badly and I can’t.”

“Bro,” Ransom said softly and Holster lifted his head to meet his best friend’s soft brown eyes.

Holster ruffled his hair again. God, he was so frustrated.

The silence between the two grew longer until Ransom exhaled. “I think you need to follow your big weird heart.”

Holster cocked an eyebrow and met his best friend’s eyes. “What?”

“Follow your big fucking weird heart, Adam Birkholtz.” Ransom smiled. “Listen, bro. When we did the excel sheet to pick your team, the Aces were fucking top.”

“I remember,” Holster mumbled. They’d done a Jack style Excel party for Holster too. Bitty’d made a lot of pie. Chowder had really, really pushed for San Jose.

“And one of the biggest things you wanted besides ice time was a team with a strong core. The Aces have a ridiculously strong core. That’s why you picked them. You could have picked San Jose or Chicago or any of the others for more money. But you went with what you wanted. And that was Vegas, where you're super happy. Well. . . mostly."

“What are you getting at, Rans?” Holster asked.

Ransom looked a bit smug. “When in your life has that goddamn gentle heart of yours ever led you astray?”

Holster snorted. “Seriously? I’m pretty sure it’s led me astray a few fucking times, Rans. You, being the obvious answer.”

His best friend rolled his eyes. “Okay. One time. Shut up. Let me give you advice, dammit. Now, I’m telling you to follow your goddamn heart. Because the Adam Birkholtz I know loves harder than anyone I have ever fucking met. And if even half of what you say about Kent Parson is true, he needs someone like you.”

“I can’t follow my heart because Kent’s fucking straight.”

“Be his friend then.” Ransom said without a second of hesitation. “You said he needed that, right? So do that. You said yourself that you want to be around him and with him even if you have to settle for friendship.”

Fuck.

“Rans. I’ve done that before. And it fucking hurts,” Holster sighed.

His best friend shrugged. “Well, you can’t exactly avoid him. And you’re too good a bro to just bail on a friend who so clearly needs you.”

“So, essentially, suffer. . .” Of course. Because why wouldn’t that be how this fucking went? Christ. One day, ONE DAY, Adam Birkholtz would figure out this relationship shit.

Ransom just shrugged again, frowning as he eyed Holster with a touch of pity. “Yeah.”

“Jesus, Rans. That’s shit advice.”

“You said the reason you asked him to breakfast was because you thought he needed a friend.” Justin leaned back and crossed his arms and tilted his head. “So, just keep being that friend. It’s clearly benefiting you both. Plus, you got over me, didn’t you? You’ll get over him.”

Holster nodded slowly. He had. It had hurt like hell and it had taken a good long while to get over his best friend. But he had eventually been able to look at Ransom and not feel like he was getting kicked in the chest.

But. . . “What if I don’t want to get over him?” Holster asked quietly.

There was a long pause before Ransom exhaled. “Well fuck, bro. If that’s the case, then I think you and I need to get shitfaced drunk and watch Golden Girls.”

Holster hung his head a bit before he sat straight up and nodded. The nutritionist would kill him. He was supposed to moderate his alcohol intake in the offseason, not get plastered. But screw it. He needed this. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. Let’s do that. I’ll regret it tomorrow but I think I need that shit right now.”

Both men grabbed something to drink. All Holster had was a six pack of beers, so that was going to have to do for now. Plus, he had to admit, he was avoiding the harder stuff. The memory of his hangover after that night out with the others would keep him clear of tequila for a while.

As Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy got up to shenanigans while Sophia offered her million dollar chirps, Holster drowned his sorrows. Following his heart wasn’t fucking possible despite Ransom’s insistence. But could Holster really sit back and be Kent’s friend now that he knew how he felt about the man? He had done it with Ransom. He’d survived and so had their friendship. But it had hurt. So fucking bad.

So he had three options. The first? Pine hopelessly for someone he couldn’t have and slowly slip into madness. The second? Avoid Kent completely and be miserable forever without his best friend. The third? Shove those feelings down into a deep dark hole and be a good friend.

Well, truthfully, all three options sounded like complete shit but Holster knew he had to choose one. And he knew which it had to be.

He downed his first bottle of beer before the first episode of Golden Girls was even halfway over. He could see and hear Ransom giggling on the screen of his laptop.

Holster sighed and popped the cap off another beer.

It looked like it would be burying feelings in favor of friendship for Adam Birkholtz.

Again.

Fucking awesome.

Chapter Text

Kent’s resolve to keep his relationship with Holster as “friend” as possible was put to the test every day for the next several months. Kent pulled back physically which helped. But every time Holster smiled or laughed or said something hilarious, Kent’s willpower always took a hit.

Thank God for the end of the offseason. The fast approaching start of the season helped a lot. Kent could focus on what the team needed to be ready for the coming season and could usually opt out of any extra Holster outings by begging off to watch tape. Kent’s theatre room played hockey highlights almost non-stop now. They still had Game of Thrones Fridays but usually only one episode before Kent went right back to work.

Holster joined him pretty often but not all the time. When he’d come over, he’d usually bring food (with plenty to share) from the meal service Kent had turned him on to, and then sit mostly silent (which Kent appreciated), only making occasional comments on his own form. Holster never pushed for more and Kent kept his distance. They were still friends. The laughter, the fun, it was all still there. But with the little bit of distance Kent had put between them, he was able to build a bit of a wall to protect his stupid heart. A stupid heart that was still desperately begging for Holster. It was working though. The friendship was strong and Kent had to congratulate himself for such a great idea. Because it was a brilliant plan and it was absolutely working. Until the first game of the season.

“Ready for the game, baby bear?” his mom asked as he dressed to head to the arena. “You’ve got the black socks? The grey shorts?”

Kent chuckled as he changed out of his favorite shirt, the one he’d gotten from Adam, to pull on his white dress shirt. “Don’t worry, mom. I’ve got it all. You know me. I’m religious with my gear.”

He could almost hear his mom roll her eyes. “That’s an NHL development. You were the most unorganized child. I swear I’m still finding socks in this house from you.”

Kent laughed outright then. His mom always made him laugh. “I did lose a lot of socks.”

“You think?” his mom mocked lightly. “There was a reason I carried four extra pairs at games, baby bear. You were single-handedly trying to free the entire world’s population of house elves.”

“Just doing what I can to help,” he said, his phone held to his ear with his shoulder as he searched for his left shoe.

He and his mom chatted a little about the game. Did Kent feel good about the season? How were the boys? Was Marko’s shoulder healed up? What about Matty’s wrist?

“You haven’t mentioned Adam in a while. I hope everything is alright,” she said.

Kent slumped onto his high heel chair and rubbed his face.

“What’s going on, baby bear? You were so happy these past few months. I thought you two were getting along. You haven’t really had a friend like that in a while.”

Not since Jack. The words went unsaid but they still hung heavy in the air.

“I thought you were friends.”

Kent sighed. “He’s straight.”

There was a beat of silence before he heard a sigh that mirrored his exactly as she understood what he was telling her. Kent could always count on his mom to understand. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Kent huffed. He kicked his bag a little in frustration. “I mean. The other day he and Swoops were doing one of those Aces Off The Ice videos for YouTube. The director kept flirting with him and he was all over her. God, mom. I was so pissed. The whole time I kept thinking, “Stop fucking touching him! He’s mine.” But he’s not. And every time he smiled at the woman, I wanted to cry. I just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.”

“Does he know?”

“That I’m gay? No. He played with Zimms in college but Jack kept that secret pretty locked up apparently. Guess I should be grateful for that,” he scoffed a bit.

His mother took a deep breath. “Maybe you should tell him. Talk to him. Clear the air. If what half of what I’ve read about Samwell is true, that boy is going to be your biggest ally on the ice, honey. Well, one of the biggest. Brent will always have your back. But Benjamin and Charlie will be utterly supportive too. Most of those boys will be. You know that.”

Kent rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just not fair, mom. I haven’t felt this way since. . . well, you know. And he’s stupid and gorgeous and wonderful. And I hate that he’s only been here for like five months and I already need him so much. Like, if I don’t see him during the day, my whole day just falls to shit because I just miss him so fucking much. God, mom. I’m a mess.”

His mother laughed a little, but there was an edge of sadness to the sound. “Oh, baby bear. You’re in love.”

“I was in love with Jack once. Look how that turned out.”

“No,” she sighed. “No, honey. You wanted to love Jack. You wanted him to be everything he wasn’t. You two were young and stupid and confused about the difference between love and lust. You may have loved Jack in your own way at one point. But not like how you love Adam. Just take a minute to think about it.”

Kent didn’t respond, instead thinking about what his mom was saying. With Jack it had always been about instant gratification. What felt good in the moment. They’d been driven by the highs of success. It was intensity and sex, pure and simple. But with Holster, Kent could spend hours talking about everything, not just hockey. They could talk about TV and books and music. Holster was the only person who knew that he was afraid of spiders. But that was more accident and the fact that he’d climbed Holster like a giant blonde tree when he’d seen a spider on his kitchen floor. Holster was also the only person who knew that Kent Parson really, really wanted kids. He’d let it slip one night while they were kicked back, watching Parks and Recreation. (“I thought you said you didn’t really like kids, Parse.” “I only say that because you can’t be a single dude in this world and be super fucking baby hungry. People think that’s weird.” “Fucking toxic notions of masculinity. How many do you want?” “Three or four. I think that’s a good amount, yeah?” “Totally.”)

But that wasn’t all. Holster knew that Kent was allergic to flowers (well, pollen to be precise) which is why he never had live flowers in his house. He knew that Kent missed snow with an almost visceral ache. And Holster knew that Kent quietly paid for Anna’s medical bills when he could.

Holster wasn’t the only one who knew odd details though.

Kent knew that Holster was terrified of the dark. That he could sing any (and Kent meant any) Beyoncé, Sia, or Taylor Swift song on command. That he fucking loved coloring books, like, to an obsessive degree (“Holster. You have six unfinished coloring books at home. You don’t need another one.” “LET ME LIVE MY LIFE!”). Kent also knew that with his signing bonus, Holster had set up college funds for each of his three little sisters.

With Jack it had been mostly physical. But with Holster, it was quiet nights watching random TV shows or tape. It was inappropriate laughter in the library at the hilarious front covers of romance novels. It was support and affection with nothing asked but everything given. Without any hesitation.

“Shit. I love him,” Kent said in a small voice.

“There you go,” his mother said quietly, though he could hear the smile now. “I think you need to talk to him. Tell him the truth.”

Kent closed his eyes and moaned. “Doesn’t matter, mom. He’s straight. Because I always fall for the person who I can’t fucking have.”

“I love you, baby bear,” she reassured him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person. But you know I’ll be loud enough to make the neighbors consider calling the cops.”

The shift of the conversation was a relief to Kent. His mother was a goddamn saint. He laughed a bit, not doubting the truth of her statement at all. It’d happened before actually. “Just go tell Mrs. Forster that it’s our home and season opener so she knows why you’re shouting about “fucking bullshit hits”. And don’t worry, mom. I’ll score you a goal.”

His mother gasped dramatically. “Kent Parson. You know I don’t use such language.” There was a beat of silence before she laughed. “As for scoring me a goal? You fucking better. I want at least one point out of you tonight or you aren’t allowed home for Christmas.”

Kent snorted and then rolled his eyes. “Deal.”

Kent’s mom told him one last time that she loved him before they hung up. For the next ten minutes, Kent sat on his shoe chair, and just held his face in his hands, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to relax. He needed to get back in the right headspace. He couldn’t think about how much he wanted Adam Birkholtz as more than just a teammate and friend. Not now. Right now, he needed to be a good captain and lead his team in their home and season opener.

The arena was crackling with excitement when Kent and the others arrived. As the game drew nearer, Kent sat in his tight undershirt and shorts, rolling his neck and chirping teammates every so often, trying to keep the mood in the locker room high. The rest of the guys were going through their own various pregame rituals.

Ducky was doing his pre-game pep talk to himself. “You aren’t gonna let them score. Not today. Remember, loose. Fast. Like a ninja. No one is getting past you tonight, Duke. NO ONE.”

Chuckles was silent as usual, his eyes closed, one earbud in. He was listening to Johnny Cash. It was always Johnny Cash.

Checkmate, Rhino, Bondy, and a few others were playing soccer in the hall. Matty and Marko were in with the trainer.

Holster was in the seat next to Kent’s, eyes focused as he taped his stick. Kent didn’t notice how his bare biceps flexed as he worked. He definitely didn’t notice how the muscles on his shoulders rippled with each movement. As the boys filled in, and the room got louder, Holster did too. He nudged Kent, their first real contact in weeks.

“Let’s get to work,” he winked.

And that was it. The team got dressed, they skated through warm ups, Kent gave a brief inspirational speech to start off the season (“Let’s go get the fucking Cup, boys! It starts today!”), and soon it was game time. Holster and Bondy were starting. They’d quickly proved to be the best pairing in the preseason. Kent couldn’t deny how happy it made him that Adam was behind him when the puck dropped.

They were ready and they were all excited.

By the end of the second period, however, Kent’s excitement had vanished. It was tied 0-0, and it had been a goddamn nightmare. The Aces were still in the game mainly thanks to Ducky and some miraculous saves. But they needed to score. He needed to score. As the whistle went to start the third period, Holster caught Kent’s eye and nodded. It was like he’d heard Kent’s frustrations for himself. He had to be getting tired too. He was on pace for almost 28 minutes of ice time in his first pro game. But there he was, still focused (even more so as the clock ticked down) on laying pucks right into Kent’s tape anytime they were on the ice together.

With just under five minutes left, one of Holster’s passes found an unmarked Kent, and Kent found the top shelf. Suddenly, the whole arena changed from frustrated to ecstatic. He even let himself enjoy Holster’s bear hug tackle celebration. He just felt relieved. Just a few minutes more and they’d start the season with a win.

So, really, Kent should have suspected something would happen. He should have known that the Universe was going to be an asshole and ruin it.

Kent had been in the NHL long enough to know that injuries happened. And usually pretty randomly. It was all part of the job. It still didn’t prepare him for the gut wrenching panic he felt when in the last two minutes, he watched as Holster dropped to the ice, blood dripping through his gloves. It was like the world slowed to a crawl.

Bondy was immediately at Holster’s side, helping the bigger man up. Pete, the trainer, was on the ice quickly with a towel which he held to Holster’s face as they moved off the ice to the locker room. The crowd was booing the opposing player as he skated to the penalty box for his double minor. High sticking. The slow motion replay on the giant screens showed Holster taking the stick right across his face. The blood splattered instantly as the stick connected with Adam’s nose and mouth.

Kent didn’t realize he hadn’t been paying attention until Chuckles nudged him and shouted, “Parse! You’re up!” He cocked an eyebrow as the captain shook his head slightly and skated forward to the faceoff. The blood was already cleaned off the ice. He tried to stay focused on the game but his mind kept replaying the visual of Holster on his knees, blood dripping onto the ice.

Kent managed to finish the game well enough. When final buzzer sounded, he did a quick obligatory clap for the fans, stood at the bench and gave each exiting player a fist bump and encouragement like he always did, then tore off towards the training room as soon as the last player slipped past him towards the locker room.

He hesitated for a moment, mentally preparing himself for the worst as he pushed open the door.

. . .It definitely wasn’t the worst.

Holster was sitting there on the table, still in full gear, laughing at something Pete had said. Kent’s heart nearly stopped with joy for the sight.

“Heya, captain,” he beamed when Kent entered and then winced and then swore. “Fuck. Ow. Okay. Minimal face movement. Got it.”

“You look like hell, Holster,” Kent managed to joke, though only God knew how. And it wasn’t entirely true. Despite the blood and bruising and bandages, Holster was still gorgeous.

Holster managed a sort of half smile grimace-y expression to avoid aggravating the decent sized gash on his upper lip currently held together by flimsy butterfly sutures until Pete could stitch it closed. “First game in the NHL and I got my first scar. And a broken nose. Two for one deal.”

“First point too. Don’t forget that sweet assist,” Kent said, his heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm.

“What’s that rule?” Holster asked with a wince as Pete wiped blood off his face with deft and gentle fingers. Kent was really fucking glad he’d missed the part where Pete had realigned the broken nose. “First goal buys the team dinner?”

Kent rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Of course you’d remember that rule. Anything for free food, right?”

“Damn straight,” he winked rather awkwardly.

Kent managed to smile the entire time, until he slipped out of the room when Pete started to stitch up Holster’s lip. But as soon as he was alone, the smile vanished. He slumped against the wall and took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. God, he’d been so panicked that Holster was really hurt. A broken nose and stitches were nothing to scoff at by any means, but it could have been so much worse.

Oh, God. So. Much. Worse.

Feeling decidedly less stable and a bit shaky, Kent made his way to the locker room where he was immediately tackled by the guys. A half-naked chant of “Free food! Free food!” began and Kent managed to laugh and smirk like usual before agreeing that he’d treat the team to dinner the following night.

“Not pizza, you cheap fucker! Some place classy!” Marko shouted.

“What’s wrong with pizza? I love pizza,” argued Checkmate.

The team all shouted suggestions and Kent slowly pulled off his gear, barely paying attention.

Matty put a hand on his shoulder at one point, and that was when Kent realized that most of the guys had already undressed and hit the showers. Kent was still in his pads.

“He’s alright, brother,” Matty said as he squeezed his shoulder gently. He always dressed quickly so he could get home to his family faster. “See you tomorrow for dinner. Italian. That’s what the boys decided.”

“Thanks, Matty.”

Kent finished undressing and showered, before dressing slowly.

Holster didn’t come back into the locker room until most of the guys were gone. Kent remained because there was no way in hell he was leaving until he saw Holster again. A couple other guys were finishing showers or getting dressed when a now bruised and tired looking Holster slumped into the seat beside Kent and started pulling off gear.

Kent watched the larger man strip off his jersey and pads with greater care than usual to avoid catching his nose or new stitches.

“Hey. Cheer up,” he heard Holster say at one point. “We won, bro.”

Kent didn’t realize he’d been glaring at the bloody stain on the front of Holster’s jersey as it laid on the pile of jerseys in the middle of the locker room.

“Sorry. It was just kind of a rough one.”

Holster’s phone buzzed. It had been buzzing constantly for the past thirty minutes. Holster picked it up and tossed it to Kent as he finished stripping off his gear. “Do me a favor, Parse? I’m gonna go shower quick. Check and see if any of those messages are from my mom. If there are any from her, text her back and tell her I’m fine.”

Kent blinked, surprised. “You’re okay with me going through your phone. Seriously?”

Holster shrugged, his blue eyes were pale and tired, but he still managed to sound cheerful. “It’s not a big deal. I just need to rinse the blood off and I’m sure my mom is in panic mode. My passcode is 1190.”

1190? Kent blinked. Their jersey numbers?

The phone buzzed again before Kent could really think about those implications.

JO: Dude! If you don’t fucking text me in the next two minutes, I’m flying out to Vegas. Seriously. ARE YOU FUCKING OKAY?????

MB: Adam Birkholtz. You call your mother right now.

SK: I want pictures of your face for posterity, bruh! The world should remember the time Adam Holster Birkholtz took a stick to the face after providing the game winning assist. Legendary start to the career, bro!

EB: I’m sending you a pie. No arguments.

JO: THAT’S IT! I’M BOOKING A FLIGHT! MED SCHOOL CAN FUCKING WAIT!

MB: You’re really starting to worry me, Adam.

Kent unlocked the phone and immediately texted Adam’s mom, saved in the phone as Momma Birkholtz.

AB: This is Kent. Adam’s captain. He’s fine. He’s in the shower. He needed to clean up a little. But he’s good.

MB: Thank you, Kent. Have my son call me ASAP, please. And excellent goal tonight. Well done!

That made Kent smile. The phone buzzed a few more times while it was in his hand which made Kent curious. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help but look at the other texts. There was a group chat, full of Holster’s Samwell friends. Kent knew about those chats. They could get intense from what Adam had told him. Clearly, he hadn’t been exaggerating. The group text had a shit ton of chatter. And Justin was freaking out. Kent smiled a bit. Justin Oluransi. Holster’s best friend in college. He took pity on Justin and sent him a similar message.

AB: Hey, Justin. This is Kent Parson. Adam’s good. He’s in the showers cleaning up.

JO: OMG! OMG! Hi. Holy shit, I’m talking to Kent fucking Parson.

JO: Thanks, bro. He looked pretty rough on the replay.

AB: Yeah. He’s got a broken nose and stitches on his upper lip.

JO: Damn. Thanks for telling me, man. Seriously. Tell Holster he’s a dick for making everyone worry like that.

AB: Will do.

Holster reappeared a few minutes later. His face was already black and blue. But he still smiled. Or tried to smile without stretching his lips too much. Kent relayed the message from Justin and Holster laughed.

“Yeah, I figured Rans would be freaking out. Thanks for doing that.”

Kent waited and walked with Holster to his car, where he pulled Holster up short, remembering something he wanted to ask.

“Hey, your passcode. 1190?”

Holster shrugged. “Yeah?”

“Our jerseys?” Kent pressed.

“Oh, yeah. I changed it a few weeks ago. You’re my best friend. I use my number and the number of my best friend. It used to be 1104. Ransom agreed I needed to change it.”

Kent swallowed. Best friend. Kent had long thought of Holster as his best friend but he hadn’t really figured that he was Holster’s. His throat felt tight and he swallowed again. “Um, thanks, man,” his voice cracked a little.

But Holster didn’t seem to notice as he smiled the soft, barely there smile. He was already used to the stitches apparently. “Breakfast at Vicki’s, same time?”

Kent shook his head. “Nah. Day off tomorrow. Sleep in, Holster. We’ll have lunch instead.”

“Sounds good, captain. Good game, sir.” He clasped Kent’s hand for a moment and then pulled back. The brief touch sent warmth all the way through Kent, reminding him why he avoiding touching Holster for so long.

Kent’s phone buzzed when he got home. It was a snapchat from Holster of him singing “Black and Blue” by Sia, dramatically revealing his bruised face.

Kent couldn’t help but laugh loudly as he replayed the snap again. Even after the stress of the day, Holster knew exactly how to make him laugh.

Goddamn, he loved that man so much.

Chapter Text

AB: You got a few minutes to talk?

JZ: Yeah.

“Holster,” Jack answered on the second ring. “How are you?”

Holster kicked up his feet as he relaxed on the couch in his tiny apartment. He’d been looking for a bigger place so he could get a dog. But it was so damn hard with his schedule. He needed to just hire a realtor and be done with it because right now, his feet were almost touching the opposite wall. It was an excessively tiny living room.

“So, I’m just gonna jump right into this awkward ass conversation. What the hell happened between you and Kent, bro?”

There was a moment of silence and Holster heard a few muttered words and then, “You know Shitty would kill you for asking, right?”

Holster sighed. He knew. Oh, he knew very well. “Yeah. I know. It’s just. . . well. . . Kent’s gotten kind of weird this week in anticipation for our game. Like the other day when I went to our usual diner for breakfast, Kent stood me up. He never misses breakfast. He didn’t even text or call to say he wasn’t coming. He just didn’t come. Vicki said that playing you really fucks with his head because of your history. But the way she said it made me kind of. . . nervous. Like, what the fuck kind of history do you have that can mess with Kent like this?” Holster leaned his head back. “Sorry for the info dump, dude. I’m just confused and kinda stressed.”

“First. Vicki?” Jack asked.

“Oh. She owns this kick ass diner. Dude. When you come here, bring Bitty. He’ll fucking love this place. Vicki is the best.”

“Good to know. Back to you. I think you really should just ask Kent, Holster.”

Holster groaned. “Bro. Don’t do me like this. Please? Anything? Give me any reason why Kent is a fucking mess this week.”

Jack sighed and there was a moment of silence. For a few seconds, Holster thought Jack was going to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.

But he didn’t. Jack sighed again and his voice was tired and kind of embarrassed when he spoke next. “Listen, Holster. Kent and I were. . . together once. But we were bad for each other. We were both too focused on what we wanted and how to get it that we sort of used each other in a bad way. It was toxic and painful. We’ve both kind of come to terms with it and each other. Not in a lot of words. But I think it still bothers him how it all went down.”

HOLY SHIT. THE FAN FICTION WAS RIGHT! Holster managed not to say anything even though he was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT with this news. Instead, he waited, sensing that Jack wasn’t finished. “That kind of toxic relationship at such a young age is kind of hard to shake, you know? It’s hard to move on from that. I’m lucky. I have Bitty now. I have someone who makes me better and loves me unconditionally, issues and flaws and all. Kent hasn’t got that, from what I understand, even though he deserves it as much I do. Maybe even more. But he was young when he got drafted and he had to grow up and mature without that same amazing support I got from everyone at Samwell. He didn’t get to learn how to be himself outside of hockey.”

“So what you’re saying is that I should just back off and leave him alone,” Holster said, amazed a little that he could even find the words given how his mind was a jumble of chaos right now. Again, Jack didn’t answer right away, giving Holster time to think about his suggested idea. Yeah, Holster didn’t like that plan. But he’d do it if it was what Kent needed.

“What I’m saying is that Kenny is. . . well, he’s not the Kent Parson everyone sees. He’s got a lot of weight that he carries pretty heavily on his shoulders because he won’t ask for help even when he needs it because he’s drowning. You probably noticed this. Kenny always had a bit of a self-loathing streak. He’s cocky because he hates himself and when you’re cocky, people don’t question your self-esteem much. All that confidence is a lie. It’s how he’s always been. And before you ask me how I know this, let me remind you how many years he and I were together in the Q.”

“Jesus,” Holster exhaled as Jack finished.

He’d known there was a relationship of sorts between his former captain and current captain. But Holster hadn’t realized it was that kind of relationship. He took a deep breath and just let what Jack said sink in.

So Kent wasn’t straight. And he wasn’t as put together as everyone thought. Holster had seen a bit of the second thing over the past few months. He’d seen glimpses of the self-loathing. It usually came in some banal, flippant comment which he’d smile off to hide the fact that he actually meant every word. Like, “Why would you want to hang out with me tonight? Go have fun with people who are cooler than me” or “Don’t ask me. I’m a dumbass. I suck at shit.” He put himself down a lot. Holster often called him out, but sometimes they’d slip through anyways.

There were a few moments of jumbled noises and then Bitty’s voice came over the line. “Holster, I’m gonna ask you a question. You don’t have to answer but I think you need to think about this. Are you in love with Kent Parson?”

Holster hesitated. He knew Jack was still listening. He could hear the faint echo that signaled speakerphone. “Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Bitty responded, his voice warm and soothing.

“Yeah. I am.”

Bitty exhaled and chuckled. “Oh Lord, you don’t like to make it easy for yourself, do you?”

Holster smiled at that. “No, I don’t. Where's the fun in that?”

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Holster. Don’t let him push you out. He’ll try. I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Jack admitted awkwardly. “And he may get mean. He can be kind of. . . um. . . harsh when it comes to protecting himself. Again, probably my fault for that. Like I said, we didn’t do real good things for each other. It’s why Bitty is so good for me,” he finished.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Bitty cooed.

Holster rolled his eyes. “Back on topic, please?” he groaned. “I am currently in hell here people. Help me out!”

“What did Rans say?” Bitty asked. “I assume that you’ve discussed all this with Ransom.”

“You assume correctly, Mr. Bittle.” Holster flumped over onto his couch, face first. “He said to follow my big weird heart,” he mumbled into the couch cushions.

Jack and Bitty both laughed and Bitty sighed, “Oh my heavens, that boy.”

“Well, Holster. I think I agree with him and what is clearly something that Shitty probably said once. Follow your big weird heart. If you think you can handle the drama that will come with dating a teammate, then you should try. Plus, Kent needs you,” Jack said, his voice soft and sure. “He needs his Bitty.”

“Good Lord, honey. You’re making me blush here,” Bitty laughed and Holster heard a noise that sounded like a slap on bare skin.

“Please, God, tell me you’re wearing clothes right now,” Holster said. The sudden burst of laughter confirmed his fear. “Ugh. Couples.”

“Hey,” Bitty scolded jokingly. “You’re gonna be one of us soon.”

Secretly pleased with Bitty’s assessment, Holster made a gagging noise before he chuckled. “Thanks, guys.”

“Anytime, Holster,” Jack said. “See you in a few days.”

Holster hung up and just laid there, his mind and heart racing as he went over everything he’d just heard again.

Kent wasn’t straight.

Well, that was a definite fucking plus. Here, Holster thought he’d had another Ransom situation. Instead, he had a chance. He actually had a chance.

Jack warned him that Kent could get mean and could get distant. He’d already tried the distant shit and Holster had done just fine. But Holster wasn’t worried about that anyways. Not really. He wasn’t even worried about Kent being mean. He could totally handle it because he was in love with this beautiful, wonderful man. There was no way he would be dissuaded that easily.

Nope.

For the first time in weeks, Holster felt good about his personal life. It was going to be hard as fuck given what Jack had told him about Kent. But Kent deserved to be loved and Holster was definitely willing to do it even if it meant he’d have to fight to make Kent believe he was worth all of the effort.

When it came to Kent, Holster was definitely up for the challenge.

A challenge which didn’t come right away. . .

Kent was pretty much back to normal as they flew to Providence for the game.

At first, Holster hadn’t known what to do. He’d almost asked Matty if this was a calm before the storm situation because Kent was downright cheerful. He even asked Holster to tell him all about his friends, when Holster mentioned in passing on the flight that his old teammates would be in the stands.

But instead of asking Matty, Holster had just gone along with it, hoping Kent was truly back to normal, as he told his captain all about his Samwell family that was coming to watch. He explained that the team had agreed to go halfsies to avoid showing clear favoritism for either of their former captains.

“So Shitty, Chowder, Dex, and Tango are gonna cheer for Jack. Ransom, Lardo, Nursey, and Whiskey are gonna cheer for me. Bitty’s obviously cheering for Jack but he told me he’s going to wear an Aces shirt underneath his Zimmermann jersey. Since Whiskey and Tango never played with Jack, Tango volunteered to be on Team Jack to keep it even,” Holster explained.

Kent blinked a few times, his gorgeous eyes green in the light, as he processed this. “Okay. Dex and Nursey are the two who haven’t figured out they're hard for each other, yeah?”

“Right.”

“And Shitty is the one with the PowerPoints and nudity.”

Holster laughed to hear Shitty described so succinctly. “Yep.”

“Which leaves the Sharks super fan, Chowder.”

Holster nodded.

“Tango, the smaller version of Rhino, the question machine.”

Another nod.

“Whiskey, who spends way too much time with the LAX bros. Fuck the LAX team.”

Holster beamed at that extra detail.

“And Lardo. The amazing artist slash greatest manager of all time.”

"Right."

Kent frowned, like he’d forgotten something before making an adorable “oh” face. “And Ransom! The illustrious and magnificent Justin Oluransi, the future doctor who will save the world.”

Holster clapped and several sleeping guys gave him the side eye glare. He ignored them. “Shit, Parse. That was amazing. The guys are gonna love you.”

Kent shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, I don’t know if I should meet them, Holster. You know Jack and I aren’t exactly on the friendliest terms.”

Which Holster knew. Guilt suddenly knotted in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to Jack first. Maybe Jack had been right. . .

“But, if you really want me to meet them, okay. I’ll do it. Just . . . don’t leave me alone?”

Holster’s smile was so big it made Kent laugh. “Let me tell the guys!”

The group chat exploded when Holster texted them to stay after the final buzzer.

AB: Don’t leave after. I’ll take everyone to dinner after you guys meet Kent.

CC: Swawesome!

LD: Think he remembers me from when I smashed him in flip cup?

DN: Chill, Chowder. We’ve already met him, remember?

WP: Shut the fuck up, Nurse.

DN: Chill, bro.

WP: I swear to God.

JO: Bro!!!! Bring him to dinner!!!!

LD: I kind of want to challenge him to flip cup again.

SK: KICK HIS GLORIOUS ASS, LARDS!

When they’d landed, Holster saw that Ransom had texted him outside of the group chat. Holster could tell his best friend was excited as he talked about wanting to scope out the man that Holster, in Ransom’s exact words, was “thirsting hardcore for.”

The game between the Falconers and Aces the next night wasn’t nearly as feisty as Holster expected. Jack and Kent even communicated briefly after the final whistle. Holster was a bit disappointed not to get the win, but it wasn’t too hard to be happy for Jack and his hat trick. And Holster did finish with a two point game, so he couldn’t complain too much.

“I’m kind of nervous now. This is high pressure,” Kent joked a bit as he and Holster made their way out to meet the rest of the guys. He ran his hand through his still wet blonde hair for the umpteenth time. It was a nervous habit of Kent’s.

Holster reached out to calm the movement with a light touch. Kent’s hand stilled as he realized what he was doing and he quickly dropped it to his side. “You’ve already kind of met most of them,” he argued.

“Well, yeah. But I don’t remember them that well. Except Lardo. She kicked my ass at flip cup. Like, she was weirdly good at that game,” Kent remembered.

Holster laughed. “Tell her that and she’ll love you forever.”

Kent nodded quickly, obviously taking the suggestion seriously.

As soon as they came around the corner and into view, a wild shriek pierced the air as Ransom catapulted into Holster’s arms. “Bro! You were amazing! And seeing you in my number? Bro. I got emotional.”

“He really did,” Bitty smiled fondly.

“YOU BEAUTEOUS FUCKING MAN!” Shitty appeared from Holster’s left and embraced him. “You were fucking spectacular! Oh, your hands. YOUR HANDS ARE SO DIRTY! Holy God, Holster. ARE YOU BIGGER?" Shitty's hands ran up and down Holster's arms and chest. "You’re magnificent!” Holster laughed as Shitty gripped him around the waist again with a sigh.

The rest of the team piled on Holster, congratulating him and complimenting him. When Holster was finally able to extract himself from Shitty, he moved to stand beside Kent so he could introduce him to everyone. Not that he needed it. He was Kent Fucking Parson after all.

As Holster turned to Kent, he noticed that Kent’s smile was a little more forced than usual.

“Hey, guys. This is Kent Parson.”

Bitty walked right up to the other man and offered his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you officially.”

Kent blinked and then shook it. But Holster noticed a faint look of confusion in his eyes momentarily. Kent knew who Bitty was. They’d had this conversation. Shit. Kent had figured out that Bitty and Jack were a thing before everyone else. All based on the way Jack had leaned into Bitty at the epiKegster he'd crashed. Holster looked back on that conversation now and realized he was kind of an idiot for listening to Kent’s story and not immediately figuring out that Jack and Kent had something akin to a relationship once.

Chowder could barely sputter out words. Kent laughed and shook his hand anyways, turning on the charm. He told the goalie that if he ever wanted to, Kent would get him tickets for an Aces Sharks game because those always got intense. Maybe Chowder would enjoy that? Chowder nearly fainted.

Holster could tell it brought Lardo great joy when Kent said, “Oh yeah. I remember you. You kicked my ass at flip cup. My teammates gave me shit for that for weeks. They watched that video on YouTube on repeat.” She’d beamed and then smirked, trying to remain cool.

Ransom shook Kent’s hand and thanked him for the “he’s not actually dead” text after Holster’s first game. The two chatted a bit and Holster watched as they interacted. He’d been in love with Justin for so long. But now as he stood by, watching Ransom and Kent talk about the upcoming game against Toronto, Holster realized that he still loved Ransom, but those feelings had changed into a platonic affection. His eyes were now drawn to Kent. He couldn’t stop staring at him. He loved him in a way that he hadn’t loved Ransom. And what made it even better what the possibility that Kent could maybe one day love him back.

The team was crazy excited to see Holster though. More than he expected. They kept pulling him into conversation and he loved it. He’d missed all of these guys so much. Even Whiskey and Tango, who hadn’t been around all that long before Holster had graduated.

When Jack appeared, the commotion reached a new level. Holster clapped him on the back. “Was a hat trick strictly necessary?”

Jack smiled and shrugged. “Sorry?”

Holster rolled his eyes. “We’ll get you back when you come to Vegas,” he promised.

“Well, if you play like you did tonight, I’ll be the one congratulating you on a hat trick,” Jack said.

Holster beamed. Even though they’d lost, Holster had in fact had a spectacular game. Three blocked shots. Two points. One goal. He was glad Jack thought he was any good though. It made him happy to know his former captain was impressed. He was doing something right if Jack Zimmermann offered praise.

Jack and Kent inclined their heads towards each other politely. “Kent.”

“Jack.”

And that was it. The group didn’t notice the small exchange but Holster and Bitty definitely did. Holster winked and Bitty looked pleased. Jack even smiled and laced his arm around Bitty’s shoulders. Kent didn’t look bothered at all, smiling slightly as well.

“So, bro. Dinner? You promised,” Ransom cut through Holster’s thoughts. He laced his arm around Holster’s shoulder.

Lardo wrapped an arm around his middle and leaned into him, her head resting against his chest as she gripped his waist and snuggled close. “I forgot how damn cuddly you are, Holster,” she said with a grin. “I miss that.”

Kent’s face inexplicably tightened suddenly. Holster wasn’t sure but he thought he saw pain in Kent’s eyes before he blinked and his face was blank and slightly pale.

“Yeah. Alright. Dinner. You guys decide and I’ll get my stuff,” he grinned and pulled away as the group argued about where they should eat. “You coming?” he asked Kent, still smiling.

Kent shook his head as he looked away from Holster. “Nah, man. I should get back to the hotel and sleep. You have fun with your family.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun. Ransom has been dying to talk to you,” Holster pushed a little. He wasn’t averse to begging.

But Kent was firm. He smiled as he met Holster’s eyes again, but it was one of those fake smiles that he gave the press or people who annoyed him. Adam had never been on the receiving end though. “No, really. I’m good. I’m pretty tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kent slipped away before Holster could say anything.

Bitty eyed Holster, the question obvious in his eyes. Holster frowned and shrugged, trying to play it off even though he was very bothered by Kent’s sudden dismissal.

But what bothered him most though, was the smile. That fake smile. Kent was always real with him. His eyes. They’d been so hollow.

“Everything alright?” Bitty asked quietly.

Holster looked down the hallway Kent had disappeared. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly to the smaller man, feeling suddenly nervous. Kent wasn’t like this with him. He wasn’t so. . . false. He’d been kind of distant lately but this was a whole new level he hadn’t expected from his best friend.

Jack’s words came back to haunt him. “Don’t let him push you out.”

Was that what Kent was doing? And why? What had happened? He’d been fine yesterday. He’d been fine this morning, this afternoon, all through the game. What had happened just now to change that? Was it Holster’s fault? Holster frowned and felt his stomach drop in sheer panic as he thought about it more. What had he done?

Bitty put a hand on his arm as Holster continued to stare down the hall after Kent before muttering quietly again, “I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

Kent sat in Dalton’s office, still sweaty, still slightly out of breath, his face in his hands as he waited. Dalton had practically dragged the captain away from the ice and pushed him into his office where Kent now waited for the hammer blow. He’d been a complete asshole the past two weeks. He knew that was why he was here. That and the fact that he’d ripped Matty apart in front of the team for a bad pass during a drill.

The door opened behind him and Dalton tossed him a bottle of water before he slumped behind his desk. He leaned back, arms crossed, and eyed Kent, waiting as Kent drank half the water in one go. His face was stern and hard, but his eyes held no judgement.

“What the hell is going on with you, Kent?” Dalton asked, his voice calm and soft, but clearly worried.

Kent capped the bottle and rubbed his face again. “Nothing. I’m just off. I’ll apologize to Matty and the guys tomorrow.”

“They’re as worried as I am, Parson. You’re a fucking mess out there. We got our asses handed to us by Toronto. Fucking Toronto. LA was embarrassing, we barely scraped by against Colorado, and we should have lost to Dallas. It was a damn miracle we didn’t. The guys need their captain to be a leader on the ice, not a liability and right now, you’re a massive liability. So. I’m going to ask you again. What the hell is going on with you?” his coach asked, his voice harder now.

Kent sighed and let his head fall into his hands. “I messed up. But I’ll get it together.”

Dalton exhaled and stood, moving to sit beside Kent. He didn’t touch his captain, instead offering only proximity support. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re actively avoiding Birkholtz, would it?”

Kent’s silence must have told the coach everything he needed to know.

“I told you to tread lightly there, Parse. I didn’t want a messy breakup to fuck with team dynamics and that’s exactly what it’s done. Although, I have to say that Birkholtz is taking it better. At least he’s still dependable on the ice right now.”

“We didn’t break up,” Kent muttered into his hands. “We weren’t even ever together.”

Dalton made a humming noise, indicating his confusion.

“I messed up, alright? I fucked it up. I fell in love with the guy and he’s fucking straight. It was stupid and I hate myself but it’s done. I’ll get over it,” Kent snapped and then sighed. “I’ll get over it.”

Dalton leaned back against the wall. “Jesus, Kent. If this is you getting over it then I’m not sure it’s working. What do you need from me?”

Kent looked over and smiled slightly as he jokingly said, “Trade Holster so I don’t have to see his face every single day?”

“Done,” Dalton said without hesitation, his face and tone completely serious.

Kent sat straight up. “What?”

Kent’s coach just shrugged. “If trading Birkholtz is what we are going to have to do to get your ass back to normal, then we’ll do it. No offense to the big guy, but you’re the captain, the face of this franchise. You’re far more valuable and important. So, we’ll trade him. He’s good and his stock is still pretty high. I know Calgary and Washington were really interested. A couple Original Six teams had their eyes on him too. I’ll talk to Greg. We’ll get this started.”

Kent blinked. “No, don’t. I mean, I wasn’t. That’s not fair to Holster, Dalt. He’s worked his ass off for this team. It’s not fair to trade him because I can’t get over a little crush.”

Dalton eyed him and then returned to sit behind his desk. He picked up his phone and dialed. The coach had a hurried conversation with the GM, Greg Parker, and then returned to Kent. “You’re a fucking mess on the ice, Kent. This can’t continue. I’m scratching you against Pittsburgh. And if you haven’t sorted your shit out by that point, I’ll scratch you for Chicago too, though it will pain me to do so. Go get your head right. We’ll sort this out.”

And with that, Kent was dismissed, feeling worse than when he’d gone in. In his entire career he’d never been a healthy scratch.

Fuck, he was a mess.

And he felt a wave of guilt wash over him, settling in the pit of his stomach like a rock. He really hadn’t meant it when he’d said he’d wanted them to trade Holster. But he had to be honest. If Holster left, that would solve a lot of his problems. Seeing him every single day was killing him. And it didn’t help that Holster kept trying to talk to him. He kept trying to figure out why Kent had suddenly gone radio silent. He’d even tried to apologize for what happened in Providence, even though he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong.

That was the worst part. Holster thought he’d done something wrong and Kent was too much of a coward to tell him the truth. He couldn’t tell him that Holster hadn’t done a damn thing wrong and it was all Kent’s stupid fault for falling in love with him because one, Kent wasn’t out to the team and now was not the time to do that, and two, Kent hated himself for being so fucking stupid.

Kent hurried to the locker room, changed quickly, and then slipped out before any of the guys caught him. He took a quick shower at home and then collapsed onto the couch next to Kit.

“At least I’ll always have you,” Kent said to the cat who gave him a look of complete disinterest as he stroked her fur.

Next, he texted Matty. He needed to apologize.

KP: Sorry about earlier, dude. I was out of line.

Matty responded within minutes, meaning he and the others were done with their workout.

BM: Already forgotten, captain. You need to talk?

KP: Nope. Just pissed about losing to Toronto and LA. ;)

BM: Bullshit. You’ve been a fucking delight since Providence. Try again.

KP: Don’t worry about it. I’m working on it.

BM: Coach just said you’re on break for a few days. A healthy scratch against Pittsburgh? Fuck, Parse. Now I’m really worried. What’s going on?

KP: Nothing.

KP: Tell Checkmate he’s not allowed to get into a fight this time.

The last four times they’d played Pittsburgh, Checkmate had fought someone. It was becoming a ridiculous pattern.

BM: Will do, fearless leader. And you know you can talk to me about anything right? Get some rest.

Kent tossed his phone aside, ignoring the next few buzzes that were sure to be Holster.

For the next three days, Kent stayed home. He slept in. He went on leisurely runs in the evening. He watched TV and tried to get back into the right headspace.

He tweeted a little and texted a few guys after the win (without him as he was forced to watch from the Press Box) against Pittsburgh. He mainly talked to Matty and Chuckles since they were the alternate captains. Chuckles didn’t ask any real questions but it was clear that even he was worried. And he was usually practically silent when it came to personal matters.

Still, he couldn’t get his mind off Holster. Holster, the perfect bastard who still sent him texts with stupid funny pictures or snaps of him and the team being weird.

On day three, Kent gave up and in his desperation, called the one person he never thought he’d turn to for advice. He scrolled through his phone and found the new contact, provided by Holster (“One day I’ll apologize for all the shit I pulled.” “Well, here’s his number if you ever need it. And hey, I’ll be there if you need me.”) months ago.

“Kent?”

“Hey, Jack. Uh. You got a minute?”

There was a pause and the sound of a door closing. “Yeah. Sure.” He then went silent and waited for Kent to get on with it.

Same old Jack. Still awkward and bad at small talk.

“I may have fucked up again, Jack.”

“Oh?”

Kent sighed. No judgement from his former boyfriend/lover/teammate/whatever. It was impressive. “You won’t tell anyone this, right?”

He could practically feel the annoyance when Jack spoke. “No. I will not.”

“Not even your boyfriend.”

“Not even my boyfriend,” Jack promised, his tone flat.

Good. Okay. Jack was good for his word. “I asked them to trade Holster.”

Jack inhaled. “What? Why?”

“He’s fucking with my head. Like you did. I’m a fucking mess, Jack. This is like the draft all over again but this time, I can’t play because I see him and it hurts and I can’t do it,” Kent’s voice cracked on the last word and he had to pause and clear his throat before he spoke again, his voice softer and small. “I know you saw that Toronto game.”

“I did,” was all the other man said. But the inflection was obvious. Even Jack had thought it was painful.

“I can’t do this anymore. Why do I always fall for the ones I can’t have?” Kent’s voice caught again but this time he didn’t pause. He just let the tears fall.

Great job, Kent. You call Jack and end up fucking sobbing. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t hang up on you.

Jack was silent for a few moments and then he sighed again. It sounded sad. “I’m sorry about cutting you out after my overdose, Kenny. I just. . . It was just too hard to see you doing so well when the bottom had fallen out of my world like that. And I shouldn’t have shut you out without explaining what was going on. I’m sorry.”

Kent sniffled a bit, surprised. This was not what he’d been expecting. But maybe it was long overdue. “I’m sorry that I never realized how much you were struggling. And for that shit I said at Samwell. That, uh, that was way out of line. I’m sorry I never really paid attention to what you needed. I’m glad you got, uh, the little blonde guy. Bitty, right?”

Jack laughed. “Yeah. Eric Bittle.”

“Yeah, well, I’m happy for you guys.” It wasn’t a lie, Kent realized. For years, he’d resented that Jack could be happy without him. But now? Now he was glad that Jack had someone he loved.

“Listen, Kenny. I think you need to talk to Holster. Having him traded is a bit of an overreaction. You need to work this out. You deserve as much happiness as I have with Bits.”

Ugh. Pet name. Kent rolled his eyes but he smiled a bit.

“I’m not good at talking about my feelings, Jack,” Kent argued.

“What are we doing right now?” came the soft and chuckled reply.

Kent paused. Well, this was new. “I guess I grew up at one point. Huh? How the fuck did that happen?”

He heard the smile in Jack’s voice when he replied. “I’m still not so sure it did.”

“I’m wounded,” Kent gasped, and then laughed a bit because he could practically feel Jack’s eye roll through the connection.

It was quiet for a bit between the two men. But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t awkward.

“Hey Jack?” Kent finally said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Kenny. Bits says he wants to send you a pie or some cookies because he thinks our conversation looked too intense.”

Kent laughed long and loud. Yeah. Jack had a good one. “Cool. I guess I’ll text you my address. Tell him I want that damn orgasmic apple pie that he made for my birthday. Two would also be acceptable.”

He heard Jack relay the message and he smiled when he heard “Good Lord. You’re in season, Kent Parson. You cannot have two pies!” shouted back at him in a loud, Southern voice.

“Thanks again, Jack,” he repeated.

Kent could hear Jack laughing at something his Southern beau was saying. “Have a good night, Kenny.”

Kent hung up and took a deep breath, feeling better about everything. He’d never expected to have such an adult conversation with Jack. Although, he should have figured he would. Jack was practically an old man anyways.

Talk to Holster.

Jack’s advice made sense because it was pretty much the only thing that Kent needed to do. But it was also the one thing he didn’t want to do. He sighed and leaned back into the couch in his living room, emotionally drained.

So, of course, the doorbell picked that exact moment to ring.

With a grumble, Kent pushed himself off the couch and yanked open the front door without even looking and came face to face, well really face to neck, with Holster. A tense jawed, tight lipped, heavily breathing Holster.

“Got a minute, captain?” Holster practically spit the words out.

Kent’s surprise made him slow to react as Holster just glared at him with fire in his blue eyes. He was wearing his "Clark Kent" glasses again which did nothing to help Kent’s train of thought.

“Uh, yeah. What’s up?” Kent finally stuttered out as he stepped aside.

Holster stepped into Kent’s house. His anger was imposing and Kent was not a small man, but Holster seemed to loom large.

“Wanna tell me why the fuck I got called into the GM’s office today to be told I was being traded to Chicago?”

Kent’s eyes went wide. “They actually. . . oh my God.”

“What the fuck, Kent?” Holster snapped, his blue eyes a mix of rage and pain. “What the fuck did I do to make you so desperate to get rid of me? I haven’t even been with the Aces a full fucking season and you’re already trying to push me out of here.”

Kent didn’t know what to say. Which was fine apparently because Holster, it seemed, had a lot to say.

“What did I do?” he repeated. “What made you hate me so fucking much that you won’t speak to me, you won’t even look me in the eye, and you want me gone so much, you requested a fucking trade IN NOVEMBER?”

Kent took a breath. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.

Holster’s eyes narrowed. “Really? Because these are not the actions of the man I thought was my best fucking friend. If you wanted me gone so badly, you could have fucking told me. But instead I had to find out you want me gone as I’m told that I’m being traded to Chicago.”

“I didn’t think they’d actually trade you,” Kent yelled back, suddenly angry.

Holster looked at him in complete disbelief. “You didn’t think they’d trade me? Then why the fuck would you tell them to trade me? Oh yeah. Dalton told me. He fucking told me that this was all BY YOUR REQUEST!”

What the hell? Dalton shouldn’t have done that!

Kent looked the other man in the eye and he had to take a breath. Oh. The look of utter betrayal in Holster’s eyes broke his heart.

Holster took several breaths, clearly trying to calm down. He closed his eyes before he spoke again. “Just, just tell me the truth, Kenny. Please,” he said, his voice tired and defeated now. “Tell me what I did to make you do this to me.”

Kent rubbed his hands over his face. “I. . . I can’t.”

Holster looked like he’d been slapped as he took a step back, moisture glistening in his usually smiling blue eyes. “Okay. Fine.” His voice was so soft and quiet and hurt as he continued. “You know, Kent, I was ready to fight for you. I was. I knew I had to. I wanted to be your friend because I like you. I wanted to spend time with you because I fucking like you. I watched shows with you, I hung out with you, I fucking tried to bake you a pie because I like you,” his voice rose a bit and he choked out a harsh laugh as he wiped his eyes before the tears could spill over. “No, scratch that. I fucking love you. And I was ready to do anything to show you that because when you love someone, you fight for them. But I guess I made a mistake. I thought,” he scoffed, his blue eyes shining, “well, fuck what I thought. Because if you can just push me out like this, I guess I was wrong.” He ran his hands through his hair and over his face. His shoulders slumped as the fight seemingly left him. He took several deep, shaky breaths.

Kent couldn’t breathe. He physically could not breathe. “Wait. What?”

“I love you, you asshole,” Holster exhaled, as he met Kent’s eyes, his own, tired.

Wait. WHAT? That didn’t make sense. None of this made sense! “But you’re. . . you’re straight. You’re. . . you don’t. . . what?” Kent sputtered.

Holster cocked an eyebrow, his face confused. “Who the fuck told you I was straight? Why would you think that? Jesus Christ, Kent. I cuddled with you on your couch on multiple occasions. I baked you a pie. I gave you my favorite shirt. I spent every free moment I had with you. Hell. I said I would lick chocolate syrup off of Henry Cavill’s abs when we watched Immortals that one time!”

Kent was having a very hard time processing this. “Wait. That doesn’t. . . it could. . . other guys. . . But. . . but what about Jennifer? And Lardo?” He was grasping now. His brain was in overdrive.

“Jennifer? The woman who does the Aces Off The Ice stuff? We have literally only had four conversations. And one of them was, “Hey. Where’s the bathroom?” And Lardo? Fuck no. Not even once. She’s like soulmates with my friend, Shitty. You know, the one with the mustache who likes to be nude? They live together in Boston.”

Kent just blinked and sat down, his mouth opened and then closed and then opened again. But he didn’t make any noise.

Holster was eyeing him with complete confusion now, his anger mostly forgotten.

“You’re gay?” Kent finally asked, his voice small and timid.

Holster shook his head and his lips quirked into a slight smile. “Nah. Bisexual.”

WHAT? “You’re bisexual. And you love me?” Kent was struggling to process this.

Holster moved until he was in front of the other man and then he knelt. With gentle hands, Holster gripped the sides of Kent’s face so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. His eyes had an edge of frustration in their softness. “Yes. And yes. And I’m mad as fuck at you right now for this trade bullshit. But even in Chicago I’m going to keep loving you. Because you are wonderful and kind and funny and gorgeous and you are my best friend. These past few weeks have been complete shit because I couldn’t talk to you and I couldn’t be with you and you wouldn’t even look at me. And the only reason I could even play was because I kept telling myself that I couldn’t let you down on the ice.”

Kent felt tears again. It was the second time he’d cried that day but this time, this time it was for a much better reason.

“I’m not gonna let you push me out. Well, except to Chicago apparently,” Holster huffed a little. “Maybe that’s for the best though. Playing together and dating would probably be kind of hard. But I’m all in, Kenny. I’m all in. I can’t fucking imagine not having you in my life. So don’t make me do that. I want to be with you, Kent Parson, because you are worth every damn headache.”

Kent just stared at Holster for a solid minute, his heart fluttering. “Who told you I was gay?” he asked suddenly and then mentally cringed. Really? He pours out his heart and that’s what you say?

Holster, however, wasn’t offended. He chuckled. “Jack may or may not have given me the idea when I called for advice on what to do to make you feel better before we played them.”

Kent laughed a little, his chest feeling so much less tight. “I called Jack for advice too. Tonight. We had a good talk.”

Holster’s eyes narrowed slightly, worried. “Are you okay? I know you’ve been dreading that talk.”

God. He really was wonderful. How on earth had Kent almost fucked this up?

“I’m good. I’m great now,” he smiled at Holster and placed a soft hand on Holster’s cheek.

Holster put his hand over Kent’s and leaned into his palm a bit. “Yeah?” he smirked.

“Oh, and I love you too,” Kent leaned down and kissed Holster lightly. It was a chaste kiss, soft and affirming. But still, Kent felt like he was floating.

Holster’s entire body relaxed and Kent laughed as he heaved an over-exaggerated sigh of relief. “Good. Because I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere. Well, again, except fucking Chicago. Thanks for that.”

Kent just leaned into Holster for another kiss. Kent’s hands held on for dear life. Holster’s large hands moved to Kent’s lower back and neck, pulling him in tight to deepen the kiss. They were decidedly less put together when they broke apart. Holster’s hair was all mussed up from Kent’s hands. His glasses were crooked. Kent was so in love with this man that he could barely stand it.

“Hand me my phone,” Kent gestured to the black device just out of his reach. Holster grabbed it and tossed it over with a questioning look. “I think I need to call Dalton. I don’t think I’m gonna be okay with you in Chicago. Way too far.”

Holster chuckled but the happiness in his eyes was bright and clear. “Yeah. At least trade me to somewhere closer like LA or Arizona or something,” he chirped.

Kent rolled his eyes as he dialed his coach. Holster nuzzled closer.

“Kent. What’s going on?” Dalton asked.

Kent smacked Holster lightly on the shoulder as he kissed up the side of Kent’s jaw, distracting him. “You can’t trade Holster to Chicago, Dalt. You have to cancel that trade.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” the coach hesitated.

Holster was now kissing and nibbling on Kent’s collarbone, making it really hard for him to focus. “You said so yourself. He opens me up on the ice.” Holster snickered at the inadvertent sexual innuendo and Kent shushed him. “He’s too good to trade.”

There was a moment of silence before Dalton laughed. “Sorted it out then, have you?”

In the background, Kent heard Matty shout, “Fucking finally! Told you it would work!”

“What?” Kent questioned. His mind was still too overwhelmed by everything he’d heard and learned in the past two hours to understand what Matty meant.

“There wasn’t a trade to Chicago, Kent. Matty and I, against Greg’s constant objections, decided that we needed to give you two a little push. Holster’s not going anywhere. There’s no way are we trading the best rookie in the league right now. I’m glad you two have apparently figured things out.” Dalton chuckled. “Not exactly the most professional behavior for a coach, I know. But it worked, didn’t it?”

Kent was too happy with Holster’s lips on his neck to be mad right now. “Fuck you guys. That was mean. But yeah,” he admitted. “It worked.”

“See you tomorrow, captain,” Matty said over speakerphone, his voice bright with his obvious smile.

Dalton exhaled, sounding extremely pleased with himself. “Goodnight, Kent.”

Kent hung up and Holster laughed. “Did Dalton just trick us?”

“He did.” Kent shook his head. God, he loved this team.

Kent shifted so he could kiss Holster deeper. Was this really happening? Kent couldn’t believe it. Adam Birkholtz was here, kissing him, touching him. Loving him. He’d wanted this for so long and now he had it. He didn’t want this moment to end. But of course, his brain had other ideas and one of Kent’s biggest fears reared its ugly head and he had to pull back.

“You’re not going to get sick of me, are you?” Kent suddenly asked. “I mean, we are going to see each other all the time. That’s hard on relationships, I hear.” Christ, Kent. If that doesn’t scare him away. . . Get your shit together and just enjoy this! Stop overthinking!

Holster leaned back for a second and studied Kent’s face before he smirked and returned to kissing his way down Kent’s jaw and neck. “Well, the positive is now we know if you get sick of me, you can just send me off with the snap of your fingers.”

Kent tried to complain but Holster’s mouth on a sensitive spot just below his ear along his jaw felt too good.

“But to answer your question? No. I’m not going to get sick of you. Besides, that’s what vacations are for. I’ll just take a trip to visit Ransom in New York or something every so often so we can have some space.”

Kent murmured his agreement and Holster smiled that beautiful smile of his as he pushed Kent down onto the couch underneath him.

Hours later, as they were sprawled out in Kent’s bed (Kent definitely thought he could get used to Holster carrying him to bed without breaking a kiss), Kent snuggled into Holster’s chest with a contented sigh.

“I love you.”

He loved the feeling of Holster’s chest as it moved up and down in a smooth, calming motion with each breath. Holster's heartbeat, strong and sure, against Kent’s cheek.

“I love you too.”

“Good. Because I think you should move in,” Kent said.

Holster tensed and for a moment, Kent was afraid he was going to say no. Until his boyfriend, God he loved the sound of that, laughed and made his head bounce a little. “Move in? That seems pretty damn quick.”

Kent shrugged and kissed Holster’s chest. “You said you needed a bigger place. And I have more than enough room. Plus, I’m already a fan of this setup. I always thought my bed would be better with someone else in it with me. And we don’t necessarily have to see each other because I mean, we’ll see each other all the time so we can totally take breaks and the house is big enough that it’ll be easy to avoid each other if we’re stressed or whatever, or if you need time away from me or something. . .”

Shut up, shut up, shut up! Just stop talking!

“I mean. It's up to you. Obviously. But it’s just easier to move in here with me and Kit probably since you won't have to hire anyone to find you a place this way. And I love you and want to wake up with you.”

Oh God. If Kent could have crawled into a hole and died right then, he would have done so.

There was a moment of silence before Kent felt Holster shift and then kiss his hair. “If that's the case, then yes. I’ll move in.”

Kent leaned up onto his elbow and stared down at the beautiful man in his bed that was all his. “Wait. Really?”

Just four hours ago, Kent was thinking he’d ruined everything and had lost his best friend. He must have done something right for the Universe to reward him like this.

“Really,” Holster kissed him long and well. “On one condition.”

“Name it. Anything. Whatever you want,” Kent rushed out, eagerly.

Holster smiled a bit mischievously. “You have to get rid of that stupid shoe chair.”

Kent snorted and grabbed a pillow, smacking Holster lightly in mock anger. Holster’s laughter was loud and bright. And Kent really couldn’t imagine how life could get any better than it was at that moment.

Chapter Text

30 Years Later. . .

Adam heard the front door slam as he stirred the sauce for dinner and smiled.

“I’m home!” came the cheerful, female voice.

“In the kitchen,” Holster shouted back. He heard his daughter well before he saw her. She took after Holster in that aspect (well, all the girls did truthfully). He wasn’t known for his soft tread. Before he could chirp her for being so loud, Holster had an armful of person. His oldest daughter threw her arms around him and squeezed. He sputtered and laughed as he got a face full of thick black hair.

“Hi, daddy,” Anna Parson-Birkholtz said as Holster kissed her hair.

Their oldest daughter was tall, almost as tall as Kent (but not as tall as her younger sister), with dark brown eyes and warm, amber colored skin, and soft, gentle features. Anna was the most reserved of his three girls, much more introverted than the other two. She'd always been quiet with a real tender heart. But she’d come out of her shell a bit since heading to college which Holster and Kent were extremely grateful for. They'd been so worried that she wouldn't really enjoy being so far from home, but she was making more friends and doing so well. Anna would be 20 soon and she was studying Molecular and Cellular Biology at Harvard (Holster’d had a real hard time with that decision). Adam thought that her decision had endeared her to Shitty even more, though Shitty wouldn’t openly admit it. She was also on the women’s hockey team (which had made both Shitty and Ransom cry. Ransom had also cried when she declared her major) and apparently, she had just started dating a new boy. Kent and Holster had been trying to get details out of her for weeks but she wouldn’t budge.

A door slammed upstairs and the sound of thundering feet down the stairs made Holster laugh. “Guess your sisters know you’re home.”

Anna just beamed, her smile bright and beautiful. Holster had missed her. He pulled her into another brief hug.

Holster and Kent had adopted each of the girls, starting with Anna, several years after they’d married. Anna had been the first addition. They went through an intense screening process before they were picked. They were lucky enough to be able to experience the last trimester of the pregnancy with Anna’s biological mother. And both men had been invited into the delivery room. Kent had passed out during the birth. Holster still chirped him for that.

But the other two had been a little older when they’d adopted them. Elizabeth had been three. Gemma had been five. And he couldn’t forget their fourth and fifth children. The Australian Shephard mix they’d adopted from the local shelter six years ago, Pepper, was barking excitedly and hopping around, angling for affection from his beloved Anna. The black and white Siberian cat they’d rescued from a local shelter as well, aptly named Princess Fluffkins (thank you, Lizzie), was unenthused and stuck her tail up as she sauntered away.

Elizabeth Parson-Birkholtz skidded around the corner first and threw herself at her older sister. At 17, Lizzie was giving Holster and Kent all kinds of problems with her attitude. Especially since she’d now grown taller than Kent, much to his annoyance (thank God, she was still shorter than Holster by three inches or it would have been utter chaos in the Parson-Birkholtz household). She was a feisty one. She was also an honor student and the captain of her high school swim team and volleyball team. Lizzie was fierce and talented. And so strong. Holster still remembered the three heart surgeries she’d endured as a child that allowed her to get to this point. Now, as a junior, almost senior, she already had a few scouts from Samwell eyeing her for the women’s volleyball program. When Farmer had heard, she’d called Lizzie and talked to her for hours, giving her advice on what she needed to do to get even better. Lizzie had bragged to her friends for weeks about how an Olympic gold medalist had given her advice. Of all of the girls, she looked most like she was an actual biological child. With her platinum blonde hair, bright hazel eyes, sharp cheekbones, and translucent ivory skin, (not to mention the fact that she was 6'1'') she could have easily passed for Holster’s biological daughter.

Gemma Parson-Birkholtz appeared last and hurried to join the group hug. Fifteen-year-old Gemma idolized Anna even if she wasn’t quite as coordinated athletically as her oldest sister. Holster knew it was hard on his youngest to be in a family full of athletes and not be any good at anything remotely sport related (not to mention be the shortest of the three girls too). She’d been their miracle girl. Kent and Holster hadn’t expected the agency to choose them even though they’d absolutely fallen in love with her when they'd first met. Gemma didn’t have any particular difficulties, except she wouldn’t speak, and the agency was worried that Kent and Holster’s hockey lifestyles would make it too hard for her to improve. It had taken a lot of work and tears (mostly from Holster, he couldn’t lie), but they were able to bring Gemma home before her fifth birthday. Two months later, she said her first words. Now as a teenager, she was a happy and sunny kid, with dark, curly brown hair, thoughtful brown eyes, and bronze colored skin, positively covered in freckles. Dex and Nursey had declared their favorite many years earlier when they’d first met. According to Nursey, she had the best of both of them with freckles like Dex and beautiful brown skin like Nursey. They still fawned over their favorite niece a bit whenever the Parson-Birkholtz’s would visit the Poindexter’s. And what Gemma lacked in athletic ability, she more than made up for with immense musical talent. She’d always been drawn to watching Holster as he played the piano, often crawling into his lap to watch his fingers as he moved them deftly across the keys.

Once the girls had finished saying hello, they all three sat at the bar in the kitchen, waiting for Holster to finish making dinner. Summer break had just begun for Anna, but Gemma and Elizabeth still had a few weeks of school left. However, it didn’t stop the three girls from planning all sorts of outlandish adventures for the summer.

“We’re going to Montreal in July, right, daddy?” Elizabeth asked. “To visit the Zimmermanns?”

Anna choked on her water a bit and Holster gave her a look as he answered his middle daughter. “Yep. Jack and Bitty invited us to come stay for a few weeks.”

Jack and Eric Zimmermann now lived in Montreal since Jack had retired there. After Kent and Holster retired, Kent with the Aces and Holster with the Sharks (a trade had happened eventually and had made their marriage a tad more difficult at times), the two had moved to Buffalo, New York, to be closer to both of their families. And because Kent had missed the snow and “real” autumns. Kent still did a lot of work with the Aces and was often in Vegas for different events. And Holster often did work for the Sharks since he’d spent a good chunk of his later career there. But at the moment, he mostly played the part of stay at home dad. He and Kent did switch off a great deal. They definitely shared the load.

“Can we go to California this year and see uncle Chowder?” Gemma asked.

Chowder and Farmer moved to California after they’d both retired from professional sports. Farmer was the head coach of the women’s team at Stanford now. Chowder was an analyst for the Sharks and he and Holster often did charity functions together.

“You only want to go see uncle Chowder because you think Joe is hot,” Elizabeth teased. Gemma looked down and mumbled a weak defense. Elizabeth looked triumphant.

“Don’t tease your sister, Lizzie,” Holster lightly scolded. “Besides. We all know the real reason you enjoy visiting uncle Ransom. It’s not for his sparkling company. I think I remember a certain conversation about James and his “just stupid, pretty eyes.”

Anna snorted and Gemma giggled. Elizabeth glared and blushed, but there was no real anger in her eyes. “God, daddy. You’re embarrassing. Shut up.”

Holster grinned as he stirred the sauce for the Alfredo. He loved embarrassing his girls. He wore that mantle like a badge of honor.

The sound of the front door slamming had everyone smiling even brighter, especially Anna as they all heard Kent’s voice shout, “I recognize that car. Does that mean my little girl is home?” Kent was grinning as he came around the corner into the kitchen. Anna threw herself into Kent’s arms as soon as he appeared. Pepper, again, tried to make his presence known by barking and crowding the two adults.

“Hi, dad. I missed you,” she said.

“You know you only live six-ish hours away, Anna,” Kent scolded lightly as he bent to pet the dog so desperate for attention. “Calm down, buddy. I didn’t forget you.” Pepper’s tongue lulled out of his mouth as Kent scratched his ears.

Holster held up the spoon he was using to stir the sauce. “Like she has time to make that trip. She’s busy. Leave her alone. Plus, why would she want to spend time with us when she has,” Holster paused for dramatic effect, “a boyfriend,” he finished and waggled his eyebrows.

Anna blushed and ducked her head.

“I bet she’s lying, daddy. She won’t tell me anything,” Elizabeth huffed, somewhat slighted by her sister’s lack of communication.

Gemma laughed. “Like she’d tell you anything. You suck so hard at keeping secrets. You told dad about his birthday present last year two hours after we bought it.”

Elizabeth made a face. “Shut up. He asked!”

“He did not! He wondered why we didn’t have any scotch tape!”

Anna watched her two younger sisters argue, her eyes soft and fond.

Kent walked over to Holster and kissed him lightly, resting his hands on Holster’s chest. “Hey, gorgeous. How was your day?” he asked.

The girls all made various noises of disgust at their parent’s display of affection. Kent smiled and kissed Holster a little deeper, even going so far as to grab a handful of his ass.

“Dad,” Anna rolled her eyes.

“Ah, gross, dad,” Elizabeth moaned. “We don’t need to see that.”

“Blargh,” Gemma agreed.

“Hey,” Kent swung on them. “You should be happy your parents love each other enough to grope each other in the kitchen after 30 years.”

“Still gross, dad. Still gross,” Elizabeth said without hesitation as she shook her head in disdain.

Holster laughed and turned the conversation to dinner. He gave orders for Gemma to set the table while Anna helped him finish dinner and Elizabeth helped Kent bring in the groceries.

“Um, daddy,” Anna said as she was stirring the noodles to make sure none had gotten stuck to the bottom of the pot.

Holster turned to face her. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m dating Rob,” she said in a small, nervous voice.

Holster nearly dropped the pan he was holding. “Rob Zimmermann? That Rob?”

She nodded, looking extremely uncomfortable and afraid. “Is that okay?”

Holster just started to laugh. “Oh, sweetheart. Of course it is. Why would you be afraid to tell us that?”

She fidgeted a little and didn’t look her father in the eyes. “Well, you know, because Rob’s papa and dad had a thing once and I didn’t know if would be weird that we were together.”

Holster grabbed his daughter into a tight side hug. “It’s not weird at all. In fact, I think your dad will be ecstatic. But tell me this one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you two being safe?”

Anna’s face turned bright red. “Oh my God, daddy. Yes. We are. You know uncle Shitty would kill me if I’d ignored all of those presentations and lectures on consent and safe sex.”

If only Anna knew how many of those same lectures he’d sat through himself. “Good. I’ll be sure to tell him the next time I see him that his presentations are working.”

“Will he and aunt Larissa be at the Zimmermann’s you think?” Anna asked, still looking embarrassed. Anna was the only one allowed to call Lardo by her given name and only because Anna had always felt weird about calling her Lardo when she’d gotten older (and significantly taller than the older woman).

“I assume so. You know your uncle Shitty. He wouldn’t miss out on a chance to spend time with Jack. Why?”

His daughter looked away, her tell for when she was hiding something. “Um. Nothing.”

Holster blinked and flipped off the burner to the sauce. “Uh huh. Sure. What’s going on? You said you were being safe with Rob, so I’m assuming it’s not. . . well,” Holster gestured to his stomach.

“No! Daddy, come on. I’m not stupid. I’m very good about that,” she rushed. “I’m not pregnant.”

That was a relief. Not that he really worried about that. His girls were sensible and yeah, accidents happened, but they were prepared and could handle themselves. Kent and Holster had had that talk with them and Lardo had even come over to help the girls with any questions their two loving fathers couldn’t quite answer.

“It’s just, I want to be able to talk to her about how I feel about girls,” Anna explained, fidgeting a little and not looking her father in the eye. “And how I still sort of like them too even though I’m with Rob.”

Ah. Holster knew this. Anna had come out to him and Kent when she’d gone off to college. But this was the first time she’d brought it up in years and Holster never pushed her about it. “You know you can talk to me.”

“Sure, daddy. Talk to the man who has been married to another man for 23 years about girls,” her voice dripped with sarcasm. There was a scream from the living room and giggles. He could hear Kent shouting about betrayal and family dishonor.

“Did you know I’m bisexual?” Holster said. His daughter blinked in surprise. “It’s true. I dated a lot of girls in college. And a lot of guys. Your dad was just. . . it.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really. You’re allowed to be in love with Rob and still find women attractive, sweetheart. I still appreciate beautiful women and I’ve been with your dad for 30 years. Now. I have a very important question for you, Anna Banana.”

She rolled her eyes at her old, rather unoriginal nickname.

“How’d you meet?”

Anna shot him a look. “Daddy. I’ve known Rob since we were kids. It’s not like I didn’t know who he was.”

“I know that. I’m just curious about how you two managed to meet up and start dating. You’re at different universities.”

“Um, well, some of the girls wanted to go to one of his games because they’re really into some of the guys on the Samwell team because they’re so much hotter than the guys on our men’s team. So Becks and Dizzy decided we should go to a few games. They made these ridiculous signs, like, “Forwards do it better” and “I’ll be your partner for some solid D” and whatever,” she explained, looking away a bit in embarrassment as Holster laughed. He remembered some pretty hilarious signs from his time on the ice. “After one of the games, I went with Ash so she could talk to one of the guys on the team that she’d been hanging out with and um, well, um, Rob sort of hit me in the face with a door.”

Holster blinked and then burst out laughing. Anna couldn’t help but laugh too. “Oh, man. Just as smooth as Jack.”

“He felt really bad about giving me a bloody nose even though it’s not like he knew I was standing right there. He took me to get coffee at that place you always talk about and um, that’s it. He’s so great, daddy," she said, her face suddenly dreamy and wistful. "I mean, the whole distance thing sucks. But he’s sweet and funny and always respectful.”

Oh, she has it bad. Holster leaned over and kissed her hair again with a soft, paternal smile. He was so glad she was so happy. “Well, he better be if he’s going to deserve someone as amazing as you, Anna Banana. Just remember to do and be what makes you happy, alright. I love you.”

Anna beamed as she hugged him tight again, holding on to him for a long hug. “I love you too. You’re the best, daddy.”

“Hey. I take offense to that,” Kent spoke from the doorway, his eyes soft as he watched the scene.

Anna moved over and hugged him again too. “Sorry, dad. You’re the best too.”

“Good. And don’t you forget it. Now,” he turned back to his husband. “Dinner? The girls are starving and I’ve been assured by Lizzie that if she doesn’t eat soon she’s just going to die,” he finished with a dramatic flourish.

Holster laughed. “Grab the food. It’s all ready.”

Dinner was a noisy affair. It was hard to get them all together at the table like this nowadays. Holster or Kent tried to make sure that one of them was there to eat with Anna, Elizabeth, or Gemma if they’d missed dinner for practice or rehearsal or whatever. But they still tried to eat together at least three times a week if they could. Without Anna, it hadn’t gotten that much quieter. Her two sister’s always argued and joked more than she did anyways. Still, Holster was so glad to have his oldest back for the summer.

Later, after dinner and after the girls had all retired to their own rooms, Holster and Kent sat curled on their couch, watching some new terrible show on TV with the cat snuggled up to Kent and the dog happily curled up at Holster’s feet. They could hear Anna in her room talking animatedly to someone.

“It’s Rob,” Holster explained when Kent eyed the door with a questioning gaze.

Kent turned to his husband in surprise. “Rob Zimmermann? Jack and Eric’s son?”

Holster nodded. Honestly, he was pleased. Rob Zimmermann was a well behaved, polite, kind kid. He’d been raised in all the ways of Southern hospitality and had that stereotypical Canadian niceness as well. And he was gorgeous. Jack and Eric had two biological sons (via egg donor and surrogate) and two adopted sons. Rob was the oldest and biologically Jack’s. And boy, did that boy inherit his dad’s good genes. Tall, dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and oh, those cheek bones. He was a heart breaker, or would be if he wasn’t so damn polite and genuine.

“I mean, if it had to be anyone, at least it’s a Zimmermann.”

Kent agreed. “Seriously. He will definitely be good to our girl. Jack and Eric raised a good one.”

“To be fair, all of their boys are. Richard, Trevor, and Alex are all good boys. I wouldn’t be against any of the girls finding their way to a Zimmermann,” Holster admitted.

Kent kissed his neck. “I’m not against any of our friend’s kids. You know Matty’s girls are sweet.”

“That’s very true. How is Olivia doing, by the way?”

“Kicking so much ass. And Matty’s ridiculously proud, of course. She’s hiring a new head coach. She called while I was the store and wanted my opinion.”

Olivia Matthews, Matty’s oldest daughter, had recently become the GM of the Las Vegas Aces.

Holster smiled into Kent’s hair. “I always liked Livy. She was a good kid.”

“Well,” Kent said, “she’s gonna be a great GM. The team already loves her. Too bad she’s too old for our girls. Although, Ducky’s youngest is starting at Samwell in August.”

“Brianna Duke is old enough for college? God, we’re old,” Holster groaned.

Kent laughed. “We are. But I’m okay with that.”

Holster knew he was mostly grey now, his hair thinning a bit. His body was much softer than it had been as a hockey player but there was still a faint shadow of his former life. He had more lines across his forehead, deep lines around his eyes. Kent had aged as gracefully as one would expect a man as beautiful as him to. His hair was peppered with grey as well, but still thick. His sharp features hadn’t dulled. In fact, he looked just as handsome and gorgeous to Holster as the day they’d met, if not just a bit more mature with deep smile lines etched into his face. He was still lean. He insisted they keep up a small exercise routine. In general, both men had aged well.

Holster brought up another topic as they sat quietly. “Gemma wants to visit Chowder and Farmer in California. And I think Lizzie wants to visit Rans. We can visit the Poindexter’s too when we visit Justin. And we can go visit Rhino and Marko and their kids too since they live near Chowder now. What do you think? You up for some road trips?”

Holster was glad a good portion of his friends were right next to each other geographically. New York City, to be exact.

Ransom, March, and James lived in New York where Rans was a pediatric oncologist.

Dex and Nursey also lived in New York with their brood of six since Dex had played so long with the Islanders and now worked with a few of their affiliated foundations. Nursey was a renowned poet and Children’s author.

And Shitty and Lardo lived in New York too, where Shitty worked for the UN as a Human Rights Lawyer and Lardo owned the most popular art gallery in Manhattan. The picture she’d painted for Kent to remind him of home and snow now hung above their bed. It was one of Kent’s favorite possessions.

Kent sighed. “You mean, Gemma wants to see Joe and Lizzie wants to visit James, right?” Holster nodded and Kent sighed again, heavier. “I suppose I can’t lock them in the house and tell them they’re never allowed to date, can I?”

“No,” Holster laughed. “That ship has sailed with Anna and there is no way you’re getting it back to port, love.”

Kent mumbled but there was a small smile on his lips. From somewhere above them, they heard Elizabeth shouting at Gemma to stop stealing her good hair ties. Gemma shouted back and told Elizabeth to stop leaving them in the bathroom then and if she didn’t want Gemma stealing her hair ties, she shouldn’t be stealing Gemma’s favorite pair of purple polka dotted funky knee socks and stretching them out with her “abnormally huge feet and massive calves”.

Holster rolled his eyes. This was their favorite argument. And Holster knew for a fact that Elizabeth had Gemma’s socks in her workout bag at the moment. She loved those socks. But she loved antagonizing her sister more.

Kent sighed. “Our daughters, ladies and gentlemen.” Kent knew Elizabeth had Gemma’s socks too. He’d scolded her lightly for it this morning when she’d grabbed them off Gemma’s pile of laundry in the laundry room. The two already had a deal to go to the store this weekend and get Elizabeth several new pairs of similar funky socks so that she would stop stealing her sister’s pair. Holster was actually surprised they still fit Gemma at all given how often Elizabeth stole them. Gemma wasn’t wrong. Elizabeth had muscular calves and size 12 feet. She probably was stretching the socks out.

With a slight chuckle, Holster leaned down and kissed Kent, long and deep.

“What was that for?” his husband of 23 years asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“That was for agreeing to go to breakfast with me and leading me to all of this,” Holster smiled as he gestured to the house. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Kent smiled too and simply snuggled closer. “Me either. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“DAD! Tell Lizzie to turn off her stupid music so I can practice!” Gemma shouted.

“I don’t want to listen to you practicing!” Elizabeth snapped back. “I’m allowed to listen to music in my own room!”

“Except you’re in the bathroom right now, moron! AND IT’S ECHOING! DADDY! I need to practice!”

Holster and Kent both laughed, but Kent slowly uncurled himself from Holster’s embrace and made his way upstairs to mediate between the two. Holster smiled when a few minutes later, he heard the telltale sounds of Gemma practicing her cello and that godawful music that Elizabeth liked, drifting down through the vents in a strange symphony.

Kent returned and, once again, snuggled into his side and they continued watching their show. Holster just sat, listening to all of the sounds playing throughout the house, and the feeling of the love of his life curled against his chest. He looked around and just basked in the life he absolutely loved and he couldn’t help but smile and kiss his gorgeous husband again. And to think, Adam Birkholtz had once been so nervous to meet Kent Parson that he’d almost puked.