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They’re coming off a 4-2 win in Nashville when Kent gets the text.
Some of the guys went out to celebrate, but country’s never been Kent’s thing and he’s tired from three games on the road. Plus, Swoops had to stay in and call his girlfriend and without Swoops, Kent always ends up being the one corralling drunk teammates. Sometimes he thinks it’s pathetic that he's already gotten to the point in his life that he’s the corraler and not the drunk teammate.
Mostly, he’s just glad to not have to deal with the hangovers.
He’s collapsed on his bed, idly looking through the room service menu and wishing he could order chicken nuggets without his nutritionist murdering him in cold blood, when his phone beeps.
He flips it open and stares down at the text. It’s from his kid brother.
Noah: good game! that last goal was sick
Kent blinks at his phone. Maybe getting a text from Noah shouldn’t be that surprising, but it is. Texting isn’t their thing – not that they really have a thing. In fact, the last time they texted was when Noah sent him a picture of a grumpy cat with a party hat on Kent’s birthday and Kent replied, thanks!
Because he has not a shred of originality, Kent sends back thanks! again.
Kent frowns down at the text, feeling slightly guilty about how small it looks. He types out a quick,
what’s up?
There’s a pause and the dots appear that indicate Noah’s writing. It’s a minute before he responds.
not much
How’s Mom and Jeff? Kent asks, wondering if he can substitute this interaction for his every other week call with his mom and stepdad.
good. mom’s on a new diet though. no more chips or ice cream!! :’(
Their mom is always on a new diet despite never needing it.
Dude, you realize I can’t eat that shit during the season either right?
After he’s sent it, a pang of remorse runs through Kent for the swear word. He knows objectively Noah’s twelve and has probably said much worse, but there’s surprisingly still some residual big brother instinct in him.
:’(
Noah follows up with,
that’s why I’ll never be a pro
Kent chuckles. Noah’s a nerd through and through. He likes doing shit like the science fair and playing Terraria with his dweeby friends. He’s just good enough at basketball to make the team, but not good enough to make it off the bench.
that’s the only reason??
shut up
Kent sends an image of a Himalayan cat sticking out its tongue. It’s one of about fifty cat gifs he has saved to his phone to randomly spam Swoops with. Noah sends back a laughing emoji and when he doesn't send anything else, Kent flips off his phone.
There. That's his family contact for the day. Now he can tell Swoops what a big family man he is.
Kent knows it's pathetic. He knows he should be a better big brother.
The thing is, Kent loves Noah. He still remembers being ten years old in a hospital room, grubby hands cradling all 7 pounds, 2 ounces of his baby brother. Kent’s forgotten how to do algebra and fuck if he knows who the twenty-seventh president was, but he sometimes still catches himself humming four-year-old Noah’s favorite song, Puff the Magic Dragon. Noah used to make Kent play Dragons, climbing on his back and ordering Kent to roar. They’d go around the house like that until their mom told them to stop being so ridiculous.
That’s it, though. As much as he loves Noah, he doesn’t know him. Not the almost thirteen-year-old boy he is now at least. He left when Noah was five and just about to start kindergarten. In the years since, Kent’s spent precious little time back in the small, blue siding house his mom and stepdad refuse to sell even when Kent offers to buy them one with more than one bathroom.
He knows Noah in bits and pieces, two weeks here, a month there. His brother is a stepwise function, jumping from a gap-toothed third grader to a sweaty middle schooler with nothing in-between. It’s not how Kent wanted things to be, but it’s how they worked out. Watching Noah grow up is one of the ever expanding list of things he sacrificed at the altar of professional hockey.
Kent's phone beeps. It’s Noah again.
can we facetime sometime?
Kent checks the message is actually from Noah and not from his billet mom. He hasn’t FaceTimed Noah in years. The most talking they do is when their mom hands the phone off to Noah during their calls.
Nonetheless Kent types back, sure, kid.
He considers his schedule for a second.
saturday? when I get home from this roadie?
Noah’s response comes quickly.
ya sure
thanks kent
Kent hesitates. Noah shouldn’t have to thank him for being willing to talk.
anytime
“Secret lover you’re texting, Parse?” Swoops asks, sweeping in through the doorway. He must have been outside because his hair is damp with rain, his T-shirt pasted to his chest.
“Multiple,” Kent confirms. “How’s the missus?”
Swoops groans and flops down on the bed beside Kent.
“Pissed.”
Kent flips over to give his best friend a long look.
“What’d you do now, dude?”
“Nothing,” Swoops says grumpily, burying his face in a pillow.
“Yeah, right.”
Swoops and Jenna have a notoriously bad relationship, even compared to the other Ace’s relationships. At any given time, one or both parties are mad. There's at least three separate bets on when they're going to break up, who’s going to end things, and whether either will cheat. Because Kent’s not a complete dick, he has with great difficulty refrained from betting in any of them.
“Literally nothing! I forgot our quarter year anniversary. Who even knows when their fucking quarter year anniversary is?”
“Jenna,” Kent supplies unhelpfully.
“Fuck you,” Swoops says without any real malice. He grabs the room service menu Kent discarded.
“Fuck this. We should totally order chicken nuggets.”
Kent doesn’t point out that this is a violation of their nutrition plan because very few things sound better than deep-fried chicken drenched in ketchup right now.
The flight back to Vegas is rocky.
Kent spends most of it in and out of sleep, waking up whenever they hit the worst of the turbulence. He knows the shaking and sputtering of the plane should scare him, but it never does. There are worse ways to go down than in a plane crash.
Friday night they play Anaheim at home. They win by the skin of their teeth, tied 2-2 until the last minute of the third. Foultzy scores with twenty-three seconds left, a slapshot to the top left that’s no beauty, but gets it done.
Swoops ends up camped out on Kent’s couch that night because he and Jenna are still fighting over the quarter year anniversary debacle.
“I don't know why you don’t furnish this place,” Swoops complains as Kent grabs him a blanket from the closet. “You have three guest rooms with zero beds.”
“Maybe because I don’t want guests,” Kent says, kicking Swoops with a socked foot.
“You love me,” Swoops protests.
“Somebody has to,” Kent replies, setting the blanket down on the couch.
“Jenna will come around.”
Kent eyes his friend doubtfully.
“Definitely,” he agrees unconvincingly.
Swoops leaves early the next morning, planning to stop and get Jenna’s favorite donuts before returning to the apartment they share. He assures Kent she’ll definitely be over the whole anniversary thing. Hope springs eternal, Kent supposes. He’s definitely not one to talk. He’s the poster boy for holding a torch for lost causes.
Noah texts Kent at 7 AM Vegas time, do you still have time to talk today?
yep!
A few hours later, Noah’s small and grainy on Kent’s iPad. He’s sitting in the room that used to be Kent’s, then they shared, and now is only Noah’s. The wall behind Noah is covered with the Periodic Table of Elements that replaced a poster of Bad Bob that Kent tore apart two days after he went first in the draft and three days before he shipped out to Vegas.
“Hey, kid,” Kent says, studying his brother.
Noah grins and pushes dark bangs out of his eyes. In the four months since Kent’s seen him, his hair’s grown shaggy. They don't look much alike. They both take after their fathers. Noah has Jeff’s dark hair, height, and high cheekbones. The only feature they do share is their mother's eyes.
“Hey, old man.”
Kent shoots his brother what he hopes is a biting glare. “Noah, I’m twenty-two.”
“That’s old,” Noah says petulantly.
“Twenty-two is objectively young.”
Noah laughs. “Sure, whatever lets you sleep at night.”
Kent’s about to protest the unfairness of being called old when he notices something. “You got braces!”
“Yeah,” Noah grumbles, shutting his mouth so Kent can’t see them anymore.
They talk for a few minutes. Noah asks about the Ace’s playoff chances (answer: not good) and Kent asks about what Noah’s been up to in school. Noah chatters for a good ten minutes about his science fair project which involves using Fourier transforms to create sinusoidal waves that model music. Kent nods along, understanding nothing and wondering how he can share half of his DNA with Noah and yet be a hundred times dumber.
Finally, Noah slows to a stop, eyes no longer meeting Kent’s. He stares down at his hands on the desk.
“Kid?” Kent asks. “You okay?”
When Noah looks up, his eyes are wide. “How do you tell if someone likes you?”
Kent wasn't sure what he expected to come out of Noah’s mouth, but it definitely wasn't that. “Do you like someone?”
Noah shrugs. Even through the grainy video feed, Kent can tell he’s blushing. Slowly, he nods.
“Is little Noah finally growing up?” Kent asks, laughing.
“Shut up,” Noah snaps, burying his red face in his hands. “I hate you.”
“Sorry, sorry. I'll be serious,” Kent says. “So who is she?”
“I'm not telling you!” Noah says, sounding aghast. “You wouldn't know anyway.”
“I could go through your yearbook.”
“Not from Vegas,” Noah points out. “Besides, they probably don't even like me back.”
“Don't say that. Just tell her your brother is an NHL star. She’ll definitely go out with you then.”
Noah glares at him. “Everybody knows who you are. The school has a framed picture of you as soon as you walk in.”
Kent bursts out laughing.
“Seriously?”
Noah nods regretfully.
That’s fucking hilarious. Kent was the opposite of a model student. His grades, while not horrible, were nothing to write home about. He got more detentions than he can count and twice was suspended for fighting.
“I’m not you, though,” Noah points out, drawing Kent to the present. “I’m me.”
Noah stares glumly down at the desk.
“Don’t say that. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”
Noah looks back up, eyes a little too hopeful. “You think?”
This kid. This fucking kid. Sometimes Kent can’t believe how unbelievably young he is. Was Kent ever this young?
“Definitely. You just have to approach this right,” Kent assures Noah.
“How do I do that?” Noah asks, looking disgustingly hopeful.
Kent wonders where Noah got the impression he actually knows anything about romance. He’s never brought anyone home to meet his parents. His dates to the Ace’s banquets never last more than a few weeks. There’s most definitely a reason for all that, but most of the time it’s easier not to examine it.
“Do you know what she likes?” Kent asks.
Noah shrugs. His nose twitches.
“I guess? None of it's romantic, though.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Kent says, thinking about how he gave Jack a book on the major battles of the First World War for his birthday. Whatever Noah’s crush likes, it has to be more romantic than trench warfare and gas attacks.
“Pokémon,” Noah says. “Violin. Also tectonic plates.”
Leave it to Noah to find a fellow nerd.
“Okay, that works. Listen, find something for you two to do together that relates to that stuff. Go observe a titanic plate.”
“Tectonic,” Noah sounds exasperated. “You can’t see one, Kent.”
“Whatever,” Kent says. “Just be nice, Noah. Don't force anything. Go slow.”
Which is exactly the opposite of what Kent did as a teenager, but whatever.
Noah stares blankly at Kent as if he’s suddenly started speaking French.
Kent adds for good measure, “I know mom says she wants grandchildren, but she doesn’t mean now.”
“Gross,” Noah says, horrified. He looks like he wants to jump under his desk and never come out again.
There’s a part of Kent that really likes embarrassing his little brother.
“Did Jeff talk to you about —“
“Oh my God,” Noah practically shouts. “I’m ending this conversation right now.”
“I want an update,” Kent manages to get in before the FaceTime call abruptly ends.
Kent stares at the blank screen for a minute after Noah disappears. He pulls out his phone and navigates to Noah’s contact.
love you kid
Sighing, Kent tosses his phone on the table and collapses on the couch. His kid brother has a crush. God, Kent feels old. Isn’t Noah supposed to still think girls have cooties and shit?
Apparently not.
A couple of hours later, Kent’s watching mindless TV and definitely not thinking about how fucking pathetic his life as a multi-million dollar professional athlete is when the knock comes.
There’s only one person who the security guard lets up without buzzing Kent first.
Kent begrudgingly opens the door and steps aside to let Swoops in. Swoops’ hair is pasted to his head with sweat and he’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt from training camp two years ago. Kent’s pretty sure the dark circles under his eyes weren’t there this morning.
“I thought you guys would be having amazing, epic post-fight sex right now,” Kent says.
Swoops gives him the finger, the beelines for the couch, flopping down with all the grace of a 200 pound hockey player, which is to say none.
“Why do you have this shit on?” Swoops asks, reaching for the clicker to change the channel.
“Dude, I’m watching that,” Kent protests half-heartedly.
“Not anymore,” Swoops says.
Swoops flips through the channels until he finds a channel playing the 1994 World Series. Since Swoops is occupying the entirety of his couch, Kent sits down on the floor back against the sofa.
“Just because Jenna kicked you out of the apartment you pay for doesn’t mean you can monopolize my TV and put on fucking baseball.”
“Dude, you can’t talk. I put up with your miserable ass our first year.”
“I wasn’t that miserable,” Kent protests, even as scenes pass by.
Swoops eyes him doubtfully. “I was there. Don’t gaslight me.”
“Somebody’s been watching daytime television.”
Swoops only response in giving Kent the finger.
Kent’s stepdad picks him up at the airport in his Ford 150 that’s seen better days. Like the house, Kent offered to buy a new car for parents. Like the house, they refused.
Jeff’s a big man, tall and burly. He played linebacker years ago for one season at a D3 college in Indiana before he took one too many hits and decided enough was enough. He ended up taking over his dad’s plumbing business and that’s where he’s been ever since.
Kent’s not sure what his mom sees in Jeff whose main hobbies are church, hunting, and going to plumbing conventions, but he does know that Jeff’s never raised a hand against them. He never made Kent feel like he didn’t belong in their blended family, never complained about driving Kent to games or practices. He was the one who helped Kent with that shelf he had to build for woodshop in eighth grade and he taught Kent to drive in his pickup.
Jeff grabs Kent’s duffel from him and slings it over his shoulder. He claps Kent on the back. “Flight okay?”
“Yeah,” Kent says dully.
“Next year will be better,” Jeff says reassuringly.
Kent grunts. Losing the wildcard seat they were gunning for is still a fresh wound. Seeing the first round games going on is like a knife twisting in his abdomen.
At home, Kent’s mom wraps him in a hug like she didn’t just see him last month when he flew her out for a game.
“Pot roast,” his mom says, grinning. “Your favorite.”
“Thanks mom.”
Kent doesn’t say that sushi has surpassed pot roast now. It’s not like his mom could make that anyway.
“Noah just won an award at school for his science project,” Kent’s mom says as she pours them water for dinner that night.
Kent mouths nerd to Noah behind her back and he sticks out his tongue.
“It was on earthquakes. Simulating plate tectonics. He and Aaron built a whole model.”
Kent straightens and smirks, remembering the conversation he had with Noah a month back. “Who’s Erin?”
“Nobody,” Noah says, shrugging. “Just a friend.”
“He’s a nice boy,” their mom says. “You guys have orchestra together, right?”
Kent does a doubletake. He, boy, Aaron not Erin.
The thing is, Kent might be wrong. Noah probably has lots of nerdy little friends who like things like violin and earthquakes. Hell, Kent’s been out of middle school for ten years. Maybe those are all the rage in the seventh grade.
Except Noah’s across the table pointedly refusing to meet Kent’s eyes. He’s furiously stuffing green beans into his mouth even though Kent knows for a fact they’re his least favorite vegetable except for asparagus.
“Noah?” their mom repeats. “Didn't you meet in orchestra?”
Noah stuffs the last of his canned green beans into his mouth and downs the rest of his water. “Yeah, Mom. May I be excused?”
“Don’t you want to stay and talk with your brother?” Jeff asks.
Noah looks at the space above Kent for a second, then looks back down at his empty plate.
“I have a lot of homework,” he says. “Mrs. Smith assigned us two worksheets.”
Before anyone can stop him, Noah jumps up and deposits his plate in the sink and hurries upstairs.
Kent’s mom sighs and shakes her head at the seat Noah just vacated.
“I’m sorry, Kent. You know how boys are at that age.”
“Noah really looks up to you,” Jeff chimes in, helping himself to thirds on the mashed potatoes. “Probably just had a rough day at school.”
“Yeah,” Kent echoes dully, his mind still replaying the exchange with Noah.
By the time Kent goes upstairs to Noah’s room, the lights are all off. Noah’s taken the top bunk even though Kent knows he usually sleeps on the bottom one.
“Noah,” Kent whispers, but there’s no response so he rummages in his backpack for the toothbrush he knows he brought. He’ll have to talk to Noah in the morning.
Twenty minutes later, Kent’s bitterly checking the playoff scores when he hears a buzz from the bed above him. Noah’s phone. There’s a pause and then the bed creaks and shifts above him – Noah reaching for the phone.
Kent stares up at the slats of the top bunk. Years ago, when they lived here together, he used to sleep on the top bunk. Back then, their mom had been too worried Noah was going to roll off the bed to let him sleep up there. Noah used to plead and plead to switch but she always refused.
Kent wonders when Noah started being allowed to sleep on the top bunk. Even more, he wonders when Noah stopped wanting to sleep on the top bunk. He feels a dull ache that he missed both transitions. Maybe when you stop choosing the top bunk is when you finally grow up.
Right now, Kent wishes more than anything that he could go back to a time before the Aces, before the NHL, before the Q. Before he ever met Jack fucking Zimmerman. He wants to be that fourteen year old boy, blissfully ignorant and dreaming of greatness. He wants Noah to be that kid who loved dragons and dinosaurs and didn’t know what it meant to be different.
But there’s no going back. You can only move forward.
“Noah?” Kent asks quietly.
The bed above him shifts slightly, but Noah doesn’t say anything.
“Kid, you up?” Kent says again, a little louder this time.
There's a small hum from above him.
Kent sighs and rolls onto his side. He stripped to his boxers and a T-shirt before getting into bed, but he still feels too hot. He sticks a foot out from under the covers to get some air.
“Noah, I think we should talk,” Kent says.
“I don’t want to,” Noah says, more firmly than he ever sounds. “Just forget it.”
“No,” Kent says. “I fucked up, okay?”
Noah doesn’t say anything, but Kent listens to his soft breathing.
“I shouldn’t have assumed it was a girl. It’s…” Kent feels like he swallowed a whole jar of peanut butter and it’s now lodged in his throat, blocking the words. “It’s totally fine if you like guys.”
There’s a pause and Noah shifts above him.
“It’s weird,” Noah says finally.
His voice is thick, as if it’s hard to get the words out. Kent wonders if he’s crying.
Fuck, Kent feels like crying.
“It’s not weird,” Kent says. “It’s not, Noah.”
Kent spent years telling himself that it was weird. He spent years watching straight porn and staring at boobs and wishing his dick would so much as twitch. He pretended like the thing with Zimms was just a fluke and took out bottle blondes in low-cut tops. At some point, it became an exercise in futility. In how many times he could do the same fucking thing over and over again and expect to feel differently before he went certifiably insane.
Kent doesn’t want that for Noah.
“You don’t get it,” Noah protests.
He sounds younger than his thirteen years, like that little boy who pressed his grubby five-year-old face into Kent’s T-shirt at the county airport all those years ago. Please don’t go, he whispered. Kent left anyway.
“I do,” Kent says, not even realizing he was going to say it until the words are already out.
Noah doesn’t move or say anything. Kent’s heart pounds in his chest and he’s sure they can both hear it, blotting out everything else.
He could step back now when there’s still plausible deniability, but he doesn’t want to. Not now. Not with Noah.
“Do you remember Jack Zimmerman?” Kent asks into the dark.
“Your friend from the Q? The one who...” Noah trails off but he doesn’t need to finish.
“I loved him,” Kent says and then in case there was any doubt he adds: “I was in love with him, Noah.”
It’s the first time Kent’s said it. He never said it to Jack, not when it mattered. He never said it afterwards, not when he spent that whole first year in the NHL feeling like someone had scraped out all of his insides with a rusty blade. He never said it when he punched the Shark’s goalie Jake Mason in the locker room at the All Star Game for calling Jack a speed freak.
Noah sucks in a breath. “You–you’re…”
He stops and Kent appreciates the way his brother doesn’t put words in his mouth.
“I’m gay, Noah,” Kent says.
It’s just a statement. For all the angst it’s caused him over the years, it seems so simple. And maybe it will be for Noah who doesn’t have the hopes of the entire league resting on his slim shoulders.
“I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t tell you,” Kent says. “I’m sorry. I should have been there for you. I should’ve been a better brother.”
The top bunk shakes and the ladder rattles and then Noah is standing in front of Kent in his plaid pajama pants and MathCounts T-shirt.
“You’re not a bad brother,” he says and suddenly he’s hugging Kent, all knees and elbows but also softness. Kent pulls him in like when he came back that first summer after Rimouski, like Noah’s forty pounds soaking wet.
“Did he love you too?” Noah asks later just when Kent thinks he’s finally fallen asleep.
“I don’t know,” Kent says and for the first time it doesn’t hurt so much to admit.
Maybe for Jack he was just a fuck, just blowing off steam between games. Maybe they were just best friends with benefits. Maybe Jack loved him in the only way he could, broken and lost and too much all at once. Right now though, listening to his kid brother’s breaths even out, it doesn’t matter.
Kent wakes up antsy, filled with pent up energy the way he always is early in the off-season before his body acclimates to the break and decides to go for a jog.
He runs until sweat creeps down his back and pastes his T-shirt to him. When he stops and actually looks around, he realizes he’s in front of the old high school that he went to for ninth grade before he was drafted into the Q. It’s closed up for the summer, the board in front of it wishing students a safe break.
After his first year in the Q, that summer Kent turned sixteen, he spent so much fucking time calling Jack at the 7-11 payphone. It was obsolete even then, and certainly Paleozoic now. He didn't have a cell phone then and refused to use his home phone. Talking to Jack was electrifying in a way that terrified him. It was hair-raising, like a puck whooshing by your skin and just grazing the nerve endings.
Kent’s not sure what posses him to use the payphone to dial Swoops.
“Who’s this?” Swoops asks, yawning.
Belatedly, Kent realizes that it’s three hours earlier in Vegas.
“It’s me.”
“Fuck, Parson. You’re ruining my beauty sleep. It’s not even six.”
“Why’d you even pick up?”
“Hoped you were Jenna.”
From his tone, Kent knows they haven’t made up.
“You deserve someone better,” Kent says into the phone without meaning to. The words are too real and they settle heavy in the thousands of miles between them.
“You do too, man,” Swoops says. “You deserve someone real. Not just one of those girls you bring to the start of the season banquet.”
Kent watches a man lug a thing of ice out of the gas station. “Hey, they’re not –”
“There's a lot of people in Vegas,” Swoops interrupts Kent’s half-hearted protest. “One of them will be willing to put up with your ugly mug.”
“I thought you could barely put up with my whiny ass?” Kent points out dryly.
“Somehow I make do, Parson,” Swoop says. “Some other guy will too.”
For a second, Kent doesn’t breathe. He feels like a tectonic plate has shifted underneath him and now he’s standing at the edge of a deep, jagged cliff.
On some level, he always suspected that Swoops knew, though not because of anything he ever said or did. In fact, it was what he didn’t do that made Kent wonder. Swoops never asked him about why he never picked up or seemed interested in finding a steady girlfriend. While Swoops talked about his own relationship, he rarely brought up girls in the abstract or tried to initiate conversations about them with Kent. Sure, it could have been that Swoops was exceptionally respectful and considerate, but Kent found that doubtful.
“How long?”
“I guessed your rookie year,” Swoops says. “You were pretty messed up.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
“You never said anything,” Kent points out.
The line rustles and Kent knows Swoops must be shrugging. “I didn’t think you wanted me too.”
“You’re right,” Kent says because he might have spontaneously combusted if Swoops had brought it up then.
“Look, man, I don’t care. Or, I do care, you know what I mean. I just, like, want you to be happy,” Swoops says, stumbling over his words a bit.
Kent thinks about Noah’s laugh, the way his mom filled the fridge with the food he liked as a teenager, watching stupid reality TV with Swoops. For once, Zimm’s seems far away like someone from another life.
“I am,” he says.