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Kent doesn’t think he’s ever recovered entirely from Jack. He’s kissed plenty of boys and girls before Jack, of course, and done other things. But after the draft, he just…unconsciously stopped. He tells himself that it’s because he’s been so busy with practice and work (winning Stanleys don’t come without a price), but he hasn’t been with anyone else since Jack. He goes plays hockey, goes home, feeds his cat, and goes to sleep. Each day is the same, and each day is dull, and each day blends into the next. The magazines make him out as charismatic, as fearless and arrogant. They say he goes home with a girl on each arm and has a string of broken hearts trailing behind him like medallions. But magazines lie, and the only broken heart Kent’s ever trailed behind him is his own, and his bed smells not of strangers’ perfumes overlapping with one another but of himself and himself only for a very, very long time.
Kent shows up to practice on time, flashes a cocky smile, and plays dirty on the ice, and that’s all anyone needs to know to ensure his well-being. They don’t know that he likes to take his coffee with milk and sugar, or that he loves it when Kit deems him comfortable enough to sprawl on. They don’t know that he’s stopped drinking himself to a stupor whenever he does go out, which is not often anymore. They don’t know that he goes to his therapist on Fridays, or that on some Sundays he gets so tired and sad he can barely peel himself off his pillow for his morning run. Or that he daydreams, sometimes, of impossible, clichéd movie situations, of meeting someone at the supermarket, as they both reach for the cereal on the top rack, or perhaps bumping into someone in line for coffee. The tabloids would eat all of this up, if they knew even an inkling of this, but Kent’s always had a sickening fondness for keeping more secrets than he can bear.
The craziest thing is that he does bump into someone in the line for coffee, one Sunday morning when he actually manages to pull his scattered remains together to go to Starbucks, as he backs up after paying for his drink. The someone turns out to be none other than Alexei Mashkov, visiting for a friend’s birthday in Vegas and looking just as startled to see Kent as Kent is to see him. But Mashkov is surprisingly kind, calls him a little rat again in jest for checking him off the ice, and teases Kent, saying that he’s come back to avenge Snowy, whoever the hell that is, Kent thinks.
“Goalie,” explains Mashkov. “But you lucky today, Parson. Sunday for coffee and rest. Avenge another day.”
Kent’s sure he retorts just as snappily, because he remembers that Mashkov throws his head back and laughs, in this delighted, wonderful way that shouldn’t be as charming as Kent finds it to be. They call a truce and exchange Twitter and Instagram accounts before numbers, because of course Mashkov is just as much into social media as Kent is. Kent doesn’t think he falls in love over coffee on a Sunday, but he does fall into something, and the ache in his chest is reduced just a tiny amount.
They don’t message each other all the time. Kent tags Mashkov occasionally if he sees something funny, like a cat “playing” the guitar or sometimes memes that fans make of Mashkov where they Photoshop his face onto potatoes of various shapes and sizes. Mashkov sends him eyeless smileys and texts him “Good Night, Kenny! )))” if they text too late into the night and one of them has to sleep early because of a roadie. It takes another three weeks until Kent’s sending him play-by-play stories of his coffee run mishaps, where he spills an entire grande soy caramel latte down his shirt, or that one time when Jeff trips himself and eats shit on the ice over a puck and Kent laughs himself to tears with the rookies. And with each text back, each appreciative “haha! Silly” or a similar anecdote back, Kent finds himself thinking of how much he’s missed this, the warm feeling of talking with someone who could be The Someone. He doesn’t know if Mashkov feels the same towards guys, much less towards Kent, but being in the limbo of not knowing lets Kent imagine so many possibilities of what could’ve, should’ve, would’ve been, if Kent had maybe moved a little closer that one Sunday to Mashkov, or if he’d angled his head and laughed a bit more at the jokes Mashkov told.
[To Kent
From Alexei; 10:12 PM]
We play you again in December.
No more illegal goals, ok? or I pick u up again and carry u out of ice for real
Kent huffs a chuckle to himself, and gathers his blankets around him. He’s always marveling at how something so small and insignificant as a text can make his heart soar like this again.
[To Alexei
From Kent; 10:14 PM]
no guarantees. And it’s not illegal, refs say it counts, okay
jw what do I get in return
[To Kent
From Alexei; 10:15 PM]
surprise! But first u promise))))) please
do as Christmas present to me
[To Alexei
From Kent; 10:16 PM]
better be a good surprise
you don’t even celebrate xmas do u
[To Kent
From Alexei; 10:20 PM]
!!!!!! Best surprise!!!!
Good night, Kent))
It’s December now, and Kent is trying to position his camera in a way that shows how the sunlight streaming through the windows gives Kit a tiny cat halo. He’s planning on sending a couple to Mashkov, because the guy loves Kit an incredible, inexplicable amount, which is saying a lot because Kit insisted on scratching Mashkov at least twice the one time he met her before letting herself be picked up. He’s about to upload one on Twitter and tag Mashkov when he gets a text notification.
[To Kent
From Alexei; 11:32 AM]
Kenny! Ask for advice? Have time??
He can’t a smile from forming, and he feels like he’s in grade school again.
[To Alexei
From Kent; 11:33 AM]
whats up
[To Kent
From Alexei; 11:36 AM]
want buy Christmas gift for someone important. Very special. Suggest?
[To Alexei
From Kent; 11:37 AM]
lol for your girl or something?
Kent expects something akin to a “haha, no! I dating hockey, much easier” back, because their banters have always come down to silly, nonsensical things like that before veering back to chirps, but the next message from Mashkov stops his heart.
[To Kent
From Alexei; 11:40 AM]
Kind of
Want to ask to date with gift. But give what??
Internet no help
(((
It’s about then that Kent comes to a halting, terrible realization that he’s been wallowing in his delusions for too long. He’s hurled his heart out so far and he’s watched it miss completely, rolling on the pavement like a rotten fruit, and he hasn’t even recognized what he’s done until this very moment. The old ache returns tenfold, and Kent knows it’s nobody’s fault but his own.
He types back with numb fingers.
[To Alexei
From Kent; 11:55 AM]
idk. Never really done stuff like that before
[To Kent
From Alexei; 12:01 PM]
it’s okay I keep looking
Kent sets his phone down, closes his eyes, and decides to skip his morning jog. He always thinks that after so many years of being alone, he’d have forgotten how to be lonely. This turns out to never have been the case at all, but Kent’s never been good at loving the right people anyways.
He stops replying to Mashkov so frequently, and his responses are terse. He stops telling stories and turns off text notifications. He knows it makes him look like the asshole, that he’s being dramatic by gradually cutting Mashkov out of his life like Jack had done to him, but he kind of understands now. It hurts talking to Mashkov, and it hurts to think about him. He has to protect himself somehow, and if he thinks he can soothe the wound over his heart like this, at least temporarily, then God, he’s willing to try. He moves mechanically on the ice, and he scores for his team and gives the crowd that overconfident sneer they love to hate. Some of them shout names at him, but it doesn’t matter because Kent knows that inside he’s still hollow, and the jeers the audience screams at him bounces inside him like echoes.
Jeff notices, because Jeff notices everything. He’s the kind of guy that’ll probably drop everything and lay next to Kent on a bed on a Bad Sunday with no questions asked, Kent thinks. He doesn’t tell Jeff that he has Bad Sundays at all, because he can’t ask that of Jeff. Not for such a miniscule, half-formed daydream that Kent had brought on himself. He can’t think of a less pathetic way to tell his teammate that he’s gone out like a fool and broken his own heart again over a crush that never was. Even he knows he’s overreacting, and yet…
“We’ll wipe the floor with them, yeah?” he says to Kent and nudges him on the arm, in a last ditch effort to cheer Kent up. “You can do another dogpile on their goalie, and if Mashkov tries anything again I’ll beat him up for you.”
Kent shrugs noncommittally, and they go out on the ice. He doesn’t slide into Snowy’s space, he doesn’t pick a fight, he doesn’t look at Jack, and he doesn’t look at Mashkov, who he knows is trying to catch his eye the entire game. The Aces win, 3-2, but Kent just wants to go home and sleep and sleep and sleep. Sleep through every Bad Sunday, and not wake up until he stops feeling so empty.
Mashkov catches him on his way out of the locker room, and Kent sort of knew he would. It’s the first time in a long while they’ve seen each other face to face. Maybe he was hoping for it, a little, even. But now, looking at Mashkov’s hangdog expression, Kent just remembers how stupid he’s been.
“No illegal goals,” is all Mashkov says, in lieu of a greeting.
Kent blinks. “I promised you,” he says, like it’s the logical thing, and the admittance comes out easier than expected. Has it always been that easy with Mashkov? He doesn’t know.
“Not really,” Mashkov says. “Kent, you are—are mad? At me?”
“Oh,” Kent says, paling. “Oh, God, no, no, I’m not.”
“No message from you,” Mashkov says, still sounding hurt. Kent wants to kiss the frown off his face, but he stomps that feeling down fast. “Text you every day, and I wait. For you.”
“Alexei,” he starts, trying to hold his voice steady. “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I miss you,” Mashkov says, and Kent sees his eyes widen as he reaches out, wiping Kent’s tears away and cupping his face with one familiar hand. Kent thinks he may have dreamed about this, on a mediocre Sunday with Kit lounging on his foot as he tags Mashkov in a tweet. “Kent—Kenny—you—don’t cry. Please—”
Kent lets himself be gathered in those stupid long arms, lets himself rest his own head in the crook of Mashkov’s neck as he tries to control his sniffles. He used to think nothing can hurt more than Jack’s rejection, and that as a grown-ass man in his late twenties he should be over elementary shit like this, but in truth he realizes that he’s never grown up that much at all.
Mashkov is saying, “Please, Kent, what is wrong? Please tell me—please, I want help you, it’s okay—” as he holds Kent close to him, and all Kent can just think about is how solid and warm Mashkov is, and how he’s not being pushed away.
He doesn’t know how long they stand here. It couldn’t have been more than a minute. Mashkov’s not even speaking English at this point; he’s muttering lowly in Russian, crooning words that Kent can’t understand but holds him together nonetheless like strings stitching together his ripped edges.
“I’ll let you go after this,” Kent babbles. He can’t imagine how uncomfortable Mashkov must be feeling right now. “Fuck, I swear, I’ll let you go—”
Mashkov leans in then, brushing back Kent’s cowlick and kissing his forehead. Kent’s voice stutters to a stunned stop as he feels the flutter of more kisses against his temple, then his cheek, then on the corner of his mouth, and he thinks he’s hallucinating again until Mashkov’s voice, smaller than he’s ever heard, says, “Kent, this is—can I—this okay?”
Kent slinks his arm up wordlessly, wrapping around Mashkov’s neck to pull him down towards himself. He feels Mashkov’s leg stepping in between his own as he’s dipped backwards. And, oh, he’s thought about this, so, so many times, but it’s never as good as the real thing. Mashkov’s hand is on the small of his back, holding his shaky, anxious heart steady as he kisses Kent breathless.
Mashkov pulls back, finally, and breathlessly says, “I’m not get gift, not know what to get.”
“For—for your girlfriend?”
Kent’s face must’ve fallen, but something like realization lights up in Mashkov’s face.
“No, Kent, I don’t having girlfriend. Did you—oh. Oh.”
Kent also comes to the same conclusion, because he feels his own face redden in embarrassment. “I thought—”
“I just having you,” Mashkov says firmly, his arms still wrapped tightly around Kent’s waist. “Or. Had you? Maybe too late. Because I’m not brave. Not brave enough, to try. So I ask you about gift, try to be funny. But just confuse you and almost lose you.” Kent can’t help it then; he leans in and noses against Mashkov’s cheek, letting his lashes flutter against the man’s face. “But then I thinking, ‘Alexei, when is next chance again?’ So I come.”
“Alexei—”
“Can I take you on date, Kent?” Mashkov says, his grin earnest and shy, as if Kent may yet again reject him, as if Kent is the unattainable one.
“Is this the surprise?” Kent asks.
Mashkov freezes, then laughs that laugh Kent loves so much.
“Can be,” he responds, and kisses Kent again. “Whatever you want.”
“Okay,” Kent murmurs onto Mashkov’s lips. “Yes.”
(Jeff walks in on them eventually, and Kent only even registers Jeff’s appearance when hears Jeff go, “Mashkov, what the fuck are you still doing here, don’t think I won’t fuck you up off the—wait, what the—Parser—oh God, oh, I’m sorry, I’ll go, sorry for interrupting—”)
Kent wakes up on a Sunday, in a worn, oversized Falconer’s T-shirt, and turns to Mashkov, tangled in his blankets in just his pajama bottoms. Kent’s Bad Sundays still stick around occasionally, but so does Mashkov, and they make it work.
“Good morning,” he says, and he finds that he means it.
“Yes, very good,” Mashkov says, as he gathers Kent into his arms. “Go back to sleep.”
Kent does.