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Kent’s lost count of the number of drinks that have been pressed into his hands over the course of the night. His teammates have been clapping him on the back and yelling words of congratulations that can barely be heard over the music of whatever club they’ve ended up in. It’s hot and loud and there’s a seemingly endless supply of alcohol. This place suits him perfectly.
Except there’s a weird sensation curling in his gut, one that gets worse when he thinks about Mashkov’s face. He’d picked Kent up by the scruff of the neck like he was little more than a misbehaving puppy and that...well, Kent’s not really sure how he feels about that. Clearly he needs to drink more.
Instead he glances down at his phone which, yeah, is slightly less in focus than it had been at the start of the night. It’s clear enough that he can see he doesn’t have any texts, though.
It shouldn’t be a surprise. Their arrangement has never been anything more than casual. What is a surprise is how much it stings. He doesn’t care, or he shouldn’t care. He’s not going to go down this path again. He definitely needs to drink more.
Apparently the hockey gods heard his prayers, because five seconds later Beany staggers over and slings a heavy arm across his shoulder. “Heeeeey, Parse! What’re drinking? Lemme buy you a drink!”
Kent’s about to answer when phone buzzes in his hand.
I’m home
He knows what he should do. What he should do is ignore the text, let Beany buy him the strongest and most expensive drink on the menu, and spend the rest of the night getting shitfaced with his teammates while celebrating their victory over the Falcs.
Never let it be said that Kent Parson ever does what he should.
He rises to his feet and claps Beany on the back. “Some other time, man. Got somewhere I need to be.”
Beany rolls his eyes and pushes Kent away. They’re all used to him doing this by now. Well, the leaving to hook up anyway. He’s pretty sure none of them know who it is he’s hooking up with.
“Go get ‘em, Parse!”
Even above the sound of the music he can hear the jeers and hoots of the guys as he exits the club, and there will no doubt be the inevitable chirps on the plane tomorrow.
Well, fuck it.
***
The cab pulls up outside Mashkov’s house, and if the driver recognises Kent or where they are he doesn’t show it. Once he’s outside Maskov’s front door, Kent finds himself frozen in place. He’s been thinking about things on the drive over, which is something he generally avoids. Maybe the alcohol has done something to his filter. He’s never tried to put a label on whatever this thing with Mashkov is. The sex is great and that’s all that matters. Well, it was all that mattered until tonight.
They’ve always been careful to play up the whole rivalry thing, but tonight had been different. There had been real anger on Mashkov’s face, of that Kent has no doubt. And that had led him to the only logical conclusion: Mashkov has invited him over to end things with him. What Kent can’t understand is why that bothers him so much. This was only ever supposed to be a temporary, casual thing. Just two guys blowing off steam after games. But now it’s going to end, and he hates how much he doesn’t want it to.
They might not be the standard definition of friends, but he knows things about Mashkov (‘is okay to call me Tater, Kent’). Things he reckons not many people know about him. Like how Tater is utterly unbearable first thing in the morning until he’s had at least two cups of ridiculously sweet tea that he sweetens with jam of all things. How Tater bought a pet hedgehog because he was so lonely in his huge house all by himself. How he gets so homesick for Russia and his family that sometimes he can’t even put it into words.
Yeah, somewhere along the way Kent had done what he’d sworn he’d never do again. He’d developed feelings. And now Tater was going to end it, because once again Kent had fucked everything up.
So he stands there, his finger hovering a few inches away from the buzzer. Because if he doesn’t press it, he can still exist in a world where everything is okay between them.
“You going to stand out here all night?”
Of course Kent had been so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn’t even heard Tater open the door. That’s just the sort of night this is shaping out to be. He takes a deep breath and finally forces himself to meet Tater’s eye. Tater looks...well, not exactly mad, but not happy either.
“Come on,” Tater says, gesturing inside. “Is cold out here.”
Honestly, Kent hadn’t even noticed, but that’s probably something to do with the amount that he’s had to drink. He follows Tater inside, although he’s not really sure why. If it’s going to end he wants it to just be over with, without all the pretence of politeness.
“You want drink?” Tater asks once they’re in the living room. “Had lots already, I think, though.”
He grabs two glasses and a bottle of vodka anyway. Maybe he thinks Kent will take the news better if he’s even more wasted than he is now.
“Are you ending things between us?” He hadn’t intended to just blurt it out like that, and the bitterness in his voice makes his stomach churn. How has he let himself get like this?
Tater stares at him, eyes wide, the bottle of vodka still in his hands. Seconds pass, and he’s still staring at Kent, not saying a word. Kent has no idea what’s happening right now. He’s tired, half drunk, and he’s asked what he thought was a perfectly simple question. Tater’s grasp of English might not be the best, but Kent thought he’d been plain enough.
Then, as though Kent hadn’t said a word, Tater resumes pouring their drinks. He hands Kent a generously filled glass and then just stands there, staring at him again.
“You think I make you drive all way across city to tell you I not want to see you again?” Tater finally asks, his voice soft, as though Kent’s some kind of skittish animal that will bolt if he speaks any louder.
“I don’t know,” Kent replies with a shrug. “You tell me.” He knocks back his drink, remembering the first time he’d done that and had been chided for it. (‘Is best Russian vodka. Wasted if you not even taste it.’)
“You think I’m biggest asshole?” Tater asks, drawing Kent out of his thoughts. “Make you come all way here, take you away from team, to tell you I not want you anymore?”
Kent shrugs, maneuvering himself around Tater to pour himself another drink. “You wouldn’t be the first asshole I’ve been involved with.”
He stops when he feels Tater’s hand over his, stilling him before he finishes opening the vodka bottle.
“Jack not an asshole, Kent. I not an asshole either.”
Kent bangs the bottle down on the bar. “Yeah? What did you invite me here for, then? You can’t tell me you weren’t mad at how I played tonight. I saw your face.”
He can still feel Tater’s hand fisting the back of his jersey, lifting him up as though he weighed nothing. If he hadn’t been scared by the look of rage on Tater’s face, he’d have been so fucking turned on by the show of strength.
“Yes, I mad.” Tater says, his voice gentle and so different to how it had been during the game. “I mad we lose, I mad you nearly hurt Snowy. That not mean I hate you.”
Kent opens his mouth, closes it again.
Tater takes the bottle from Kent’s loose fingers and sets it back down. “You want to know why I invite you? I invite you because I know you sitting in bar trying to drown feelings. I know you feel bad about game, but pretend not. And I know I not sleep so good without you.”
“You seem to know a lot,” Kent replies with a wry smile.
“Of course! Am Russian. We smartest.”
Tater closes the small amount of distance between them, cups Kent’s jaw in his hand. “Come. We both tired. We just sleep tonight.”
And that’s a first. Up until now it’s always been just about sex, or maybe Kent had just assumed it was just about the sex. Now, he has no idea. They’re not boyfriends, he knows that much. And they’re not really fuckbuddies either, he doesn’t think.
“You thinking too much,” Tater says as he steers Kent towards the bedroom.
Yeah, that’s something he’s been doing a lot tonight and it needs to stop. So he tries not to think of anything when Tater gently undresses him and guides him under the covers. He tries not to think when Tater curls around him, naked body against naked body. He definitely tries not to think when Tater presses a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, murmurs something fondly in Russian and falls asleep with his arm slung over Kent’s waist.
But there’s one thought that won’t leave him, one that invades his mind while he lies there attempting to sleep. He thinks he’s in love with Alexei Mashkov.
Fuck.