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Kent grimaces, glad that Petey can't see. He holds his phone against his shoulder while he dumps shirts into the washing machine. “I don't know, man. I'm not-”
“Oh come on,” Petey says. Maybe he knows Kent is grimacing after all. “I know you're a city boy, but seriously, it'll do you some good. It's just gonna be a few guys. I'm well-stocked on beer, we can enjoy nature and shit for the weekend.”
Kent doubts his ability to enjoy nature, but he doesn't say anything. Petey is from a small town in Minnesota, grew up camping and hunting and boating. In the off-season, he always retreats to his cabin or goes portaging in the Boundary Waters. Kent sticks with his climate-controlled condo, indoor plumbing, and restaurants within walking distance, thank you very much.
“It'll be good for you,” Petey persists. “Seriously, get your mind off things.” Things being the Aces' recent elimination from the playoffs. And yeah, maybe Petey's got a point. Kent hasn't exactly done much more than sulk, drink, and bitterly watch other teams advance.
He sighs. “Am I gonna have to shit in the woods, Pete?”
“There's an outhouse.” Petey sounds way too happy about that.
Kent rubs a hand over his face. Even as he's agreeing to go, he's wishing he had a better excuse not to.
+
Kent has probably under-packed. He's not sure what the fuck you're supposed to bring on a weekend cabin trip, but he hadn't wanted to be the city slicker asshole that overpacked. Alone with his cat, he might like to think of himself as a diva, but that's not the image he wants to project to his hockey peers.
That didn't stop him from renting a conspicuous sports car once he landed in International Falls. He's trying not to regret that choice as he steers it over gravel roads. Other than road signs, he hasn't seen any evidence of human life in miles. The back window of the car is blurry with kicked-up dust.
He finally spots the turn-off up ahead, presumably the driveway to the cabin. But Jesus, how long can a driveway be? He goes for what feels like a mile before the trees start to thin and he can see a building up ahead. One building becomes two; the cabin and the outhouse. The driveway just kind of ends, with cars parked on the grass to the side of the cabin. They're all SUVs.
He parks, gets his duffel from the back, and heads to the door. Before he has a chance to knock, the door is swinging open.
“Parser, you made it!” Petey grins and slaps Kent's shoulder. Kent raises an eyebrow.
“Did you think I'd get lost?”
“Ya never know with these old roads.” Petey glances over Kent's shoulder at the parked cars. “Of course you'd get a Jag. How'd that handle?”
“Like a dream,” Kent shrugs. He doesn't actually like talking cars, just likes having the flashiest vehicle at the party. It doesn't matter, though, because Petey's ushering him inside. “Just drop your bag anywhere. You can claim your bunk later.”
“Bunk?”
Petey gestures to a corner of the single room. Two bunks are adjacent to each other, each against a wall. “You a top or a bottom, Parser?” He says it with a shit-eating grin. Kent rolls his eyes and shoves him.
“Hey, no checking me in my own cabin!”
“Then cool it with the chirps.”
Kent drops his bag and turns to look around the place. It’s pretty big, but it’s no house. Petey’s furnished it with a lot of antlers, rustic furniture, and plaid. There’s just the main floor and a ladder leading up to a kind of loft, which seems to be a bedroom. Probably where Petey sleeps. The corner opposite the bunk beds is a kitchen area. Kent is relieved to see a fridge, but the stove is an old-fashioned cast iron thing. So there’s electricity, Petey just likes being a fucking hipster Luddite. He doesn’t even have a TV.
Kent’s just wondering how he’s going to survive (because there’s no way there’s wifi out here) when the door clatters open and three men file in, talking loudly. A huge, shaggy dog follows them eagerly. It goes straight over to Petey, thank god (Kent is firmly a cat person and has no idea how to deal with dogs).
“Swear to God, man, it was a fucking bear.”
“No way, dude. We’d be dead if it was.”
“No way! Not unless it was rabid.”
“Bears more scared of you. And you are probably tasting like shit, Willy.”
Kent’s blood runs cold as he turns to see the group. His life is definitely over. He’d recognized that Slavic-accented voice immediately. Alexei Mashkov, who definitely hates him. What the hell is he doing here? With him are two guys from the Aces, Swoops and Willis. They’re chirping good-naturedly as they wipe their shoes and come into the cabin.
Petey laughs. “There actually are bears up here, but they stay away from buildings unless there’s an outdoor trash can. We don’t really have to worry about them.”
Kent isn’t worried about the potential bear. A bear, he can handle. Well, probably not, but it’s not an immediate threat. What the hell had Petey been thinking, inviting the Russian giant of a D-man along?
Mashkov’s eyes fall on Kent, and Kent has to work not to actually shiver. Not that his gaze is malicious or anything. It’s kind of...vaguely interested? Maybe he’s deciding how best to wring Kent’s neck. Okay, that’s maybe overdramatic.
“With Parson, we are all here, yes?” Mashkov asks.
Petey nods. “You know what that means.”
“Beer!” Willy cheers. The other guys follow suit and head for the “kitchen.” Beside the fridge is a cooler, which seems full to bursting with cans and bottles of beer. Kent is more of a mixed drink kind of guy, but he’s been in the hockey world long enough to appreciate a good (read: shitty) beer. The dog, whose name Kent learns is Haley, bounds after them in excitement.
Kent pops a cold one open and leans against the countertop to drink. Thank god Swoops is here; he’s always easy to fall into conversation with. Willy and Mashkov have resumed their argument about bears. Petey joins in.
“So, who invited Mashkov?” Kent asks Swoops under his breath. Swoops gives him a weird look.
“He and Petey are buds. I thought you knew that.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know, I think they spent a bunch of time together when they were drafted? They went up for the draft at the same time.”
“Huh.”
Kent looks across at them. Mashkov is laughing hard, tears leaking out of his soft brown eyes. Kent’s never seen him laugh like that, except maybe during a victory celly. Mashkov looks up, catches him watching. His grin falters a little and he raises an eyebrow. Kent can feel his ears heat up and he looks away quickly. He catches Swoops giving him that weird look again, but chooses to ignore it.
Soon after, Petey asks if anyone is hungry to resounding cheers. So he gets out bratwurst and chips and they head outside to cook the sausages over a fire, because this is camping . Kent does his best to just...work around Mashkov. They don’t exchange words, except for the occasional “pass me a beer.” Kent would like it this way if he wasn’t so damn aware of the hulking defenseman at every moment. Mashkov probably prefers to ignore the little rat who plays dirty, though, so Kent gives him every opportunity to keep doing that.
They eat, drink more beer, and chat until the sun disappears past the trees and the bugs become unbearable.
“How can a place that gets so cold have so many fucking mosquitoes?” Kent grumbles as he slaps another away. Petey laughs until he chokes on his Dorito.
The rest of the evening is spent lounging on the assorted couches and armchairs that make up the living area. Mashkov seems to have really bonded with Petey’s dog, so he sits on the rug with her, rubbing her belly and cooing at her in Russian. It’s fucking adorable, which Kent tries to be bitter about.
Petey stretches after a while and nods towards the lofted area. “Think I’ll turn in. Want to be fresh for hiking tomorrow.” He climbs the wooden ladder up to the loft. There’s a curtain that he pulls shut to allow for a little privacy. The rest of them are not afforded this luxury.
“Old man,” Swoops says. “Going to bed this early.”
Kent shrugs. “I dunno. I’m gonna follow his example. I’m tired from the drive.” He stands up. He feels everyone’s eyes on him, suddenly. He takes a slow step towards the bunks and their gazes are like a physical presence, making his hackles rise. He feels very much like an antelope surrounded by lions. There’s a creak of old furniture and large bodies on a wood floor, and then all Kent can do is brace himself.
They stampede towards the bunks and, by extension, Kent. Willis tackles him with a shout of “Top bunk! I called it when I got here!”
Kent shoves him off. “You neanderthals-”
He’s cut off by an elbow in his side. It seems that Willy is willing to burn any and all bridges to get his chosen bunk bed. Satisfied that Kent is down for the count, he pushes himself up to wrestle Swoops.
Kent almost has a flashback when he feels a big hand on the scruff of his neck. Alexei Mashkov gets a grip on Kent’s shoulder and lifts him to his feet with ease. Kent shrugs him off immediately. Even if he was just helping, it’s too similar a gesture to a rather memorable game between the Falconers and the Aces.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Kent snaps. Why the fuck does Mashkov even care, anyway? “It’s just some roughhousing.”
“We not on ice. Roughhousing should not be too rough.”
Kent glances at him. He seems genuine, but confused by Kent’s reaction. Is this really the same guy that regularly seems ready to throw gloves when his goalie’s threatened?
“I’m fine,” Kent repeats.
He looks over to where Swoops and Willy are rolling around on the floor for dominance. He sighs. He really is too tired for this. He grabs his bag and tosses it on one of the lower bunks. He sits and watches the other three vie for bunk positions. Willy gets the top bunk of the other bed frame and guards his territory, while Swoops makes for the other top bunk. Mashkov, who is taller by a couple of inches and broader, gives him a look that sends a shiver down Kent’s spine. The following wrestling match is short-lived, Mashkov pinning him expertly in seconds. He climbs into the bunk above Kent. Swoops grumbles as he accepts his exile to the other bottom bunk.
“Fucking children, all of you,” Kent says. He digs in his bag for his toothbrush.
“You’re just sore because you’re a bottom.” Willy cackles at his joke. Kent raises a perfectly sculpted brow at him.
“Wow. A+. You must be so proud,” he deadpans.
“I’m clever and you know it.”
They all laugh.
Everyone settles down after that. They change without incident - they’re used to locker rooms, after all. Kent thinks about reading on his phone, but decides that he’d rather just sleep. Someone, he’s not sure who, gets the lights.
Despite his weariness, sleep doesn’t come easily. It never has, especially with other people present. He was always that kid at sleepovers that was awake long after everybody else has drifted off. Nothing’s changed. He lies on the hard, dorm-esque mattress and stares up at the bottom of Mashkov’s. This is stupid. He shouldn’t have come out here. What Petey had said would be a relaxing weekend is just an extra layer on Kent’s stress. He doesn’t want to worry about Mashkov at every second. Doesn’t even know why he’s so worried. They’ve barely spoken this whole time.
Eventually, he nods off. He can’t really manage a good REM cycle, what with Swoops’s snoring, the mattress that is nothing like his own memory foam one, and the chilly air of the unheated cabin. He wakes up some time later. Swoops isn’t snoring quite so loudly, and the whole cabin is filled with the eerie silence that comes with a lack of modern appliances or city noises. Kent’s bladder twinges. Fuck.
Going to the outhouse in the middle of the night seems like the worst idea, but Kent can’t hold it. Too many beers, apparently. He grapples for his phone, somewhere on top of his duffel. He squints in the light, even with the brightness all the way down. 3:23 am. Kent grimaces. He switches on the flashlight and uses it to navigate out of the cabin. He’s at the door before he remembers that shoes are a thing, but oh well. Too late now; he really has to piss.
The world outside is terrifyingly dark, and really fucking cold. All he can see are stars above him, way more than he’s used to seeing, and whatever is in the beam of light from his iPhone. He’s pretty sure his toes are going to be numb by the time he gets back inside. He pads across the grass to the outhouse.
It’s not as terrible as Kent had worried. Petey clearly keeps it clean. Kent just has to figure out how to hold his flashlight while he pisses and also keep an eye out for spiders.
He finishes without incident. It’s on his walk back that he just about has a heart attack. He catches the movement of something big on the periphery of the flashlight beam. He stops breathing and stands, frozen, as he tries to see what it is. A bear? Fuck no, he can’t die like this. There is no fucking way.
A human figure steps into the light. Mashkov blinks and shields his eyes.
“Point somewhere else!” he hisses.
“Fucking hell, Mashkov. I thought you were a moose or some shit. Why the fuck aren’t you using a light?”
“Too bright for me. I’m knowing the way in dark.”
“Yeah, well. It’s creepy. What if you were a serial killer or some shit?” Kent’s too tired and frustrated and cold to be scared of Mashkov just now.
Mashkov grunts, the sound like a growl. “I am not serial killer. Only you seem to think I am bad guy. When you are sneaky one.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Kent pitches his voice down to an angry whisper.
“Dirty plays. Getting rest of Aces to play dirty.”
“I do not-! Listen, not all of us are giants. We have to use actual technique to win. Just because you can Hulk smash your way through-”
Kent startles as Mashkov lurches forward. In that moment, he wishes Mashkov were just a wild animal. That way he wouldn’t have to guess his intentions. But Mashkov sidesteps him and lumbers towards the outhouse.
“I’m have to piss. Not listen to little rat.”
He mutters something in Russian that Kent is certain is very offensive, and disappears into the little wooden shack. Kent makes his escape. He tucks himself back into the lower bunk and tries to stop shaking so much. He closes his eyes, but there’s no hope of falling asleep again right away.
He lies like there for a few minutes before he hears the cabin door squeak open and shut again. Mashkov creeps back to the bunks. He makes a little pained sound, like he’s stubbed his toe on something, and climbs into bed above Kent without a word.
It’s a long time before Kent falls asleep again. He dreams of being chased by bears through a densely wooded ice rink.
+
Kent wakes to something cold and wet nudging his face. He groans and squints open one eye, and the cold wet thing is replaced with a warm wet thing. It’s rough and smells awful. Kent flails as he sits bolt upright. He smacks his head on the underside of the top bunk. There’s a grunt from above. Haley the dog stands in front of Kent, her head tilted to the side and her tongue lolling out.
He’s only the second guy up, after Petey. He pads to the kitchen area to brush his teeth at the sink and get a mug of coffee. It tastes weird, because it’s apparently all well water here. Kent is definitely that asshole who’s very particular about his Starbucks, but he’s not about to complain. Being annoyed or disgusted and saying nothing about it seems to be a theme for this trip.
The rest of the guys get up not long after that. Petey makes waffles in an ancient waffle iron, they fight over the last piece of bacon, and disperse to get dressed. As Kent’s pulling on his (designer) jeans, Petey makes an announcement.
“The weather’s supposed to be really nice today. There’s this trail just down the road, thought you guys might like a hike.”
Kent’s ready to groan with the rest of them, but Swoops grins. “Fuck yeah, man. Fresh air.”
Willis and Mashkov are also clearly enthusiastic about the idea. Kent nods and says “Sure,” so he doesn’t come off as a buzzkill. Whatever. Fresh air and exercise will be good. He’s only done the bare minimum for exercise since the Aces got eliminated from the playoffs. A hike will be no hardship for him. It might actually be fun. He just hopes that Pete has bug spray.
They don’t actually get going for a while, because this is a house full of man-children who cannot wash dishes by hand to save their lives, nor stay on task without getting into a very sudsy wrestling match.
Swoops and Willis go on regular desert hikes, so they’ve come equipped with hiking boots, and they seem to know what to wear for this kind of thing. Mashkov is similarly attired. Kent briefly wonders if it’s because he’s Russian, lives in the North, or if he’s just an outdoor sports kind of guy. And then he forces himself to stop wondering because he does not care about Mashkov or anything he does.
Haley the dog is ecstatic as they all head for the door, geared up for a long hike. Most of them, anyway. Kent’s in jeans which are nice, but not made for anything more strenuous than dancing, his old tennis shoes (which are still pretty pristine since he does most of his exercising indoors), and a t-shirt. Petey stops him before he exits the cabin.
“Layers, dude.”
Kent raises an eyebrow. “What am I, an ogre?”
Petey doesn’t seem to get the joke. “I’m serious. It seems warm when you’re outside for ten minutes, but on a hike this long you’ll get chilly. Especially if it gets overcast.”
Kent rolls his eyes, but he grabs a jacket from his bag. Petey’s still giving him a judgey look, but he lets him outside. They take the can of bug spray in turn and thoroughly coat themselves. Kent knows better than to even make a face at the smell or the oily feeling it leaves on his skin. The mosquitoes last night had been enough to teach him a lesson.
All set, they start down the obscenely long driveway. Kent falls into step beside Swoops and strikes up a conversation. They carefully avoid the topic of playoffs.
They head down the gravel road for maybe a quarter of a mile. Kent would have missed the little sign marking the beginning of the trail if not for Petey pointing it out. Haley bounds ahead of them, clearly familiar with the area. She only just disappears from sight before running back as if to tease the humans for being so slow.
The guys’ chatter quiets as they start on the trail. They’re not silent by any means, but they’re more aware of what’s around them. Petey walks with his head tilted up, watching the sun filter through the leaves above. Mashkov does the same. Not that Kent’s noticed.
Determinedly looking away from Mashkov forces Kent to really look around himself. As he does, he has to admit that the setting is...nice. The woods are free from the sounds of the city, free from human influence. He tunes out of the conversation around him. A bird calls from somewhere up above. Kent looks up just in time to see it take flight. He notices some weird fungus on an old tree. An outcropping of rocks covered in moss. A squirrel chatters angrily at them and scampers up the side of a tree. Without really realizing it, Kent has become lost in the moment. He stumbles over a fallen branch and nearly has a heart attack. They’re at the top of a kind of ridge, still surrounded by trees but a ravine to the left. If they drift too close to the edge of the trail, they’re at risk of slipping down a sharp incline. The scare brings him back to reality.
He’s fallen several paces behind everyone else. Huh. Maybe there is something to this “appreciating nature” lark. He pauses, watching the four other men walk ahead. Swoops and Willy seem to be in a chirp war while Pete and Mashkov are having a more serious conversation. He stiffens when Maskov glances back and makes eye contact with him. Petey notices and looks over too.
“Yo Parser! You getting too tired or what?”
Kent shakes his head and smiles. It’s fake, but convincing enough. Mashkov frowns at him.
“Nah. Just enjoying the quiet before you started shouting.”
Petey laughs. “Yeah, okay. You have fun being emo over there.”
Kent waves him off. As they all start walking again, he notices Mashkov start to hang back. He has a troubled look on his face. Suddenly he stops in his tracks, turns, and stomps the few paces back to stand in front of Kent. It startles Kent into freezing in place.
“Uh. Can I help you?”
They haven’t exchanged a single word since their little spat last night.
“I am thinking we talk.”
“What about.” Kent’s tone is guarded, not really a question. He glances around Mashkov at the other guys, but they’re paying them no attention. Kent gets the sense that they’re purposefully ignoring them.
“You have problem with me.”
“I…” Kent clenches his jaw. “Look, my issues with you can stay on the ice, all right? Off the ice, I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”
Mashkov takes another step towards Kent and okay. He’s too close now, too pissed-off looking. Kent’s on full alert. Is he about to get beaten up?
“That is problem, though! You not leaving it on ice. Avoid me whole time and pick fights.”
“Hey, I”m not the one that-”
Mashkov holds up a hand. “No, I know. Last night I am...You catching me at bad time.”
Kent snorts. “Do you have a good time? I know what kind of player you think I am. You might as well just have out with it. We don’t have to be friends, just as long as you stay out of my way.”
Mashkov shakes his head. Before he can speak again, Kent snaps “Then what the hell do you want from me?”
“Want to enjoy weekend,” Mashkov replies, exasperated. “You making me worry every second that-”
“ I make you worry?!” Kent gives a sharp, cruel laugh. “You’re the one who clearly wants to knock my lights out, man.”
Mashkov stares at him, incredulous. “You really thinking...I am just big scary monster to you, хм?”
“You haven’t exactly done much to make me think anything else.”
Mashkov makes a noise of frustration. “You not letting me! Not even looking at me most times.”
“Why do you care?”
“We talking in circles. I am trying to fix.”
Kent pauses, trying to think of something appropriately biting to respond with. He notices, quite suddenly, that they’re alone. Petey, Willis, and Swoops have left them behind, apparently. In the silence of the moment, Kent can hear distant voices up the trail. Those fuckers. Not that Kent can exactly blame them for wanting to avoid this drama. When his eyes drift back to the man in front of him, he realizes that Mashkov is waiting expectantly.
Kent is done with this conversation.
He storms forward, eyes fixed resolutely ahead, in an attempt to push past Mashkov and rejoin the other guys. Mashkov reaches out, quicker than Kent would have thought possible, and grabs hold of his arm. He starts to say something, probably “Hold on,” but Kent doesn’t wait to find out. He just reacts.
Kent’s not a really small guy, but when you’re in a profession full of athletes often over six foot, you pick up some strategies for dealing with attackers who’re bigger than you. He twists, grabs hold of Maskov’s arm, and uses his weight against him.
Mashkov yelps and has to lean sideways to avoid more pain. Neither of them seem to remember the fact that they’re right next to a ravine. The ground beneath Mashkov shifts. He lets go of Kent to steady himself, but it’s too late. Kent watches his eyes go wide as he tips backwards. Kent, who’s been operating solely on instinct since he tried to get past Mashkov, acts once more without thinking. He takes the long stride to the edge of the ridge and then jumps over. He slides on his ass after Mashkov. It’s when he reaches the bottom that he wonders what the fuck he’s doing.
Mashkov is a crumpled heap; he’s rolled right into a tree. He groans.
“Shit. Shit, man, are you okay?”
Kent stands and assesses his own damage. His jeans are probably stained beyond repair and he has some cuts and bruises but that’s the worst of it.
Mashkov pulls himself to a sitting position, his face screwed up in pain.
“Ankle,” he grunts. He leans back against a tree and pulls up the leg of his jeans. The exposed skin of his leg is red and Kent’s seen enough injuries on the ice to know that Mashkov is not getting off without at least one hell of a bruise. He’s probably not even that lucky. At the angle he hit the tree, it’s likely he’s got a sprain.
“Can you stand?” Kent asks.
Mashkov takes a deep breath before he tries to push himself up. He gets about halfway there before his leg gives out and he sinks back to the ground.
Kent doesn’t like Mashkov. He feels threatened by him and resents the fact that the guy is totally likeable to everybody else. Hating him would be easier if he was at least plain-looking. Still, Kent isn’t totally heartless. He’s not going to just leave him here in pain. So he steps over and offers a hand.
Mashkov looks up at him, expression guarded. He hesitates.
Kent huffs. “I’m not gonna bite. Come on, I just want to get us out of here and catch up to the others.”
Mashkov nods and takes his hand. With Kent’s help, he’s able to get to his feet. He leans heavily on him; apparently he can’t put any weight on his bad ankle. Kent glances up at the hill they just came down. He can’t see any way of getting Mashkov back up there.
“Hey!” he shouts. “Hey, little help here!”
“They out of earshot,” Mashkov says morosely when there’s no answer. Kent sighs. He’s probably right. Their voices don’t seem to travel well through the dense trees.
He nods in the direction of the trail. “Let’s just head that way. They might even head back to find us soon. Make sure...you know. We’re okay.”
Mashkov grunts and nods. They start walking along the bottom of the ravine. It seems to follow the trail, but it’s hard to tell from all the way down here. Kent’s pretty strong, but even so he’s concerned about how heavy Mashkov is. Luckily, the hulking Russian seems determined to walk as much on his own as he can. He stumbles a few times, his leg giving out under him. He accepts Kent’s help a little more after that.
Kent bites back any remarks about the injury. Even if he tries to be comforting, which he sucks at, it’ll just make Mashkov more stressed. He’s probably already half out of his mind worrying about how a busted ankle could affect his status as a star NHL player. He doesn’t complain, though. Kent can see the way he tries to hide his grimaces when too much weight gets put on the bad foot.
After what feels like an hour - but may just have been ten minutes - of progress and painful silence, though, Kent can’t take it any more.
“Go for a hike, they said. It’ll be fun, they said,” he grouses. It gets a snort out of Mashkov.
“You such city boy.”
“Damn right. Why would anyone choose to stay someplace without wifi or indoor plumbing?”
Mashkov shrugs. “Is peaceful. Especially to have no cameras.”
“Yeah, I guess so. But at what cost?”
“Spoiled little rat. Many people live this way, are happy.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m used to a certain lifestyle, all right? Don’t talk like you don’t have an NHL salary.”
“Don’t use much. I have simple needs. Give lots to charity.”
Kent rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay Mr. Philanthropist. It’s not like I’m a Scrooge. I just want a real shower and to be able to look at cat photos whenever I want. Those are simple needs.”
“Cat photos are important.”
They both chuckle. Which is...what? Somewhere between Mashkov hurting his ankle and now, tension has diffused between them. Their bickering isn’t a real fight any more, it’s just chirping. And Kent can feel how careful Mashkov is not to put too much weight on him. If it were anyone else, he’d think this guy was pretty okay.
The spell breaks when Mashkov asks to stop for a rest and they realize how long they’ve been walking. Kent checks his watch while Mashkov leans against a tree.
“Fuck. We haven’t caught up to them by now?”
Mashkov shrugs, but Kent can see the worried line between his eyebrows.
“I’ll try calling,” Kent says.
“Should have done sooner.”
“I didn’t hear you suggest it sooner,” Kent snaps back, hostile precisely because he feels like a moron for not thinking of it. He pulls out his phone and grimaces. No bars. They’re way too far from civilization to have any service. Also, his battery is at 47%. Not dying, but not charged enough for comfort. He turns away from Mashkov and dials Petey’s number. It rings once and then the call drops. He tries again.
“Fuck,” Kent says, four attempts later. He looks back at Mashkov.
“Nothing?”
“No signal. Can you try?”
Mashkov looks down, his cheeks going pink. Kent knows what he’s going to say before he says it.
“I...leaving phone at cabin. I forget it.”
“God fucking dammit!” Kent kicks a tree. It doesn’t make him feel better, just makes his toes hurt. “Shit. What do we do?”
Mashkov shrugs helplessly. He seems to do that a lot.
“You’re no help. You got us into this mess, and you can’t find a way to get us out?”
Kent expects Mashkov to argue back, but he stays silent. Kent lashes out in times of stress, but it seems that’s not the case for his accidental companion.
“All right, you stay put,” Kent says, making up his mind. It’s not like he has much choice, he thinks grimly. “I’m gonna climb up the ravine and find the guys and bring them back.”
Mashkov’s brows are furrowed. “Are you sure is good idea? Splitting up seeming...risky.”
“You got a better plan?”
Mashkov gives him a look like a kicked puppy, which is so not fair. Wanting to hug Mashkov is a really stupid distraction.
“That’s what I thought.”
Without another word, Kent starts to scramble up the incline. He’s aware of Mashkov watching him, but he doesn’t look back. He has to use shrubs and trees as hand-holds, the way up is so steep. His hands feel raw, burned from rough bark and covered in accumulated scrapes.
When he reaches the top, he looks back down, just for a second, just to make sure that Mashkov hasn’t done something stupid like try to follow him. Satisfied, Kent tries his phone again. The battery’s even lower, probably from trying to find a signal. Still, he can’t manage to get a call through. He gives up; he doesn’t want to waste battery in case he really needs it.
Looking around, Kent realizes that he’s not on the trail. The hell?! Didn’t the trail follow the ravine? At some point, the path must have diverged. He tries to think logically. If he follows the ravine back, he should find the trail again. But he’ll be going in the wrong direction if he wants to find the other guys. But if he tries to find them without going back, he’s likely to get completely lost.
He decides to head back to find the trail. By now, there’s a good chance they’ve doubled back anyway. He tries to keep his pace as quick as possible. He doesn’t want to be out here alone any longer than he has to and he doubts Mashkov does either.
He’s not sure how long it is before he realizes that it’s getting dark. The sun shines red through the trees, approaching the horizon. That may have helped if he had any idea which direction the trail or cabin is in. He stops. Checks his phone (still no signal). Chews his lip. He still hasn’t reached the trail, somehow. Maybe he hasn’t been going the right way after all? He still hasn’t seen any sign of the other guys. Does he risk getting stranded in the dark - stranding Mashkov in the dark - to keep looking?
+
When Kent gets to a tree he thinks he recognizes, he slides back down into the ravine. He slips on his way down, but gets nothing worse than a bruised ass. Mashkov, though, is nowhere to be found. Has he wandered off? Or has Kent just misjudged where he left him?
“Tater!” he shouts, because it seems better to use the nickname for some reason. There’s no response. He can’t have gone too far, but maybe Kent’s not gone far enough. He starts walking, keeping an eye out for any human-shaped shadow, still calling out.
He walks for maybe five minutes when he hears “Kent?”
The voice is unmistakeable. He rushes forward.
“Yeah! Yeah, it’s me.”
Through the darkness, Kent can see the slumped figure materialize. He’s still sitting against the same tree.
“You are...alone?”
Kent sighs. He sits down in front of Mashkov. His legs have felt ready to give out for a while now. They’ve been out here for hours.
“Sorry. I couldn’t...it was getting dark. Didn’t want to leave you hanging.”
In the dim light, he can see Tater give a tight smile. “I am glad you come back.”
The only good thing about the darkness is that Kent’s slight blush is invisible.
“So, uh. How’s your ankle?”
Tater grunts. “Will heal. But not good now.”
“Think you can walk at all?”
“Only little bit. And in dark...is not good idea.”
“Okay. Okay, we’ll wait it out. I mean, they’ve got to be out looking for us. And we can’t be that far off the trail. So we just stay put and sooner or later they’ll show up.”
Tater nods solemnly. They’re silent for a few moments. Kent wraps his arms around himself. He’d worked up enough of a sweat earlier that he didn't notice the dropping temperature. Now that he’s still and the sun’s down, he can feel the chill creeping up on him.
A loud rumble breaks the silence. Kent’s not sure if it was his stomach or Tater’s.
“Shit, I could murder a burger right now.”
Tater snorts. “Big steak and baked potato.”
“Everything pizza.”
“Lobster with butter.”
“Grilled cheese.”
“Fried chicken. Mash potato.”
Kent groans. “On second thought, maybe fantasizing about food isn’t helping. What is your deal with potatoes anyway, man?”
“Many ways to make and they go with everything.”
“Fair enough. Is that how you got your nickname? Because you like potatoes a lot?”
“Come from Mashkov. Mash, like mash potato. It is long joke. Not funny to re-tell.”
“Nah, I get it.” Kent shivers. “Hey, uh. How long do you think we’ll be waiting here? How long ‘til they find us?”
Tater’s silent for a long moment. “No way to tell. Could be all night. Hard to be searching in dark.”
Kent wraps his arms more tightly around himself. His whole body is shaking now. Tater doesn’t seem affected, damn him. “So we should, like...prepare for spending the whole night out here.”
“I think that would be best.”
“Okay. Um. We should maybe make a shelter?”
Tater is silent; Kent feels like he’s being judged. He stiffens, gets defensive. “I’ve watched a lot of reality TV, okay? There’s like, Man Vs. Wild and shit like that. You pick up survival tips.”
Kent can see Tater’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh.
“Fuck you, man, I’m gonna keep us alive through the night.”
Tater still has a laugh in his voice when he says “Okay. How we make shelter?”
Kent glances around. It’s dark, but total darkness hasn’t set in yet. They don’t have long, though, before it’s too dark to attempt to build anything.
“We make a lean-to. Like, branches up against a tree and we kind of weave them? And put leaves over it.”
Tater shifts onto his knees. “You get branches. I do weaving thing. Hurry, before total night.”
Kent watches him look around and sees the moment when Tater selects a tree. He crawls over to it, keeping off his injured ankle. He gives Kent a look, which reminds Kent to get to work.
They work as quickly as possible in the scant, fading light. Kent drags large branches to Tater, who props them against the tree. Kent returns with an armful of smaller branches and he and Tater weave them into the larger branches, making a lattice. They don’t talk, just concentrate on their work. Both their stomachs growl and go staunchly ignored. Kent tries to just focus on the task at hand. It’s difficult without conversation, but he doesn’t want to get too wrapped up in his head. Anxiety is a thing and setting off a breakdown when he’s tired and hungry and aching all over from exertion is about the worst case scenario.
“Can’t see for shit,” Tater finally mutters as he struggles to keep leaves piled onto the slope of their lean-to. He’s not wrong. The darkness is really complete now. The shelter is close to being done, but there are finishing touches to put on it, to make sure it’ll last the night. Kent sighs.
“We can use my phone’s flashlight. The battery can go for a little longer.”
He fumbles with it. The screen doesn’t even respond well to his cold fingers. He hadn’t realized until now that they’re numb. When he holds the phone up to position the light for Tater, he can actually see how much he’s shaking. The beam of light wobbles erratically. Tater, at least, doesn’t comment. He finishes up.
“Okay,” he says. “We get inside. Try to stay warm.”
Kent gratefully turns his phone off. He has to get on his knees to get inside the lean-to. Tater’s already inside, all curled in on himself to fit. Kent has to press up against his side in order to get completely inside the shelter. At least he can feel the difference in temperature. A wall made of sticks and leaves isn’t exactly air-tight, but it blocks some of the chilly wind and holds their body heat in.
Kent wraps his arms around himself and tucks his hands into his armpits. He feels Tater turn to look at him, even though neither of them can really see.
“You’re shaking. That bad in cold?”
Of fucking course the Russian who lives in New England is fucking fine in this weather. It’s not Kent’s fault he’s a baby about the cold. He’s lived in Nevada for long enough that his blood is thinner, so sue him. He just hugs himself tighter and doesn’t respond. Tater shifts again.
Kent goes still - or as still as he can while trembling - when the warm weight of Tater’s arm settles over his shoulders.
“You liking survival shows, yes? You should know about using body heat.”
“I...I guess.” Kent knows Tater’s right because yeah, he’s watched his share of Bear Grylls. But he hadn’t even considered this a possibility. Just a few hours ago, they’d hated each other and now they’re supposed to be all cuddled up together. Kent doesn’t even like cuddling. It’s never really happened with any of his sexual partners since Zimms. Kent figures it’s just something about his own prickly personality. Tater, though, is probably a world class cuddler. Sure enough, his arm tightens around Kent.
“Come on. You not warming up if you pulling away.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Kent mutters and allows himself to lean in a little. Tater’s a lot of hard muscle, so he’s not exactly a pillow. But he is warm. Jesus, the guy’s like a human furnace.
“Better.” Tater pauses and then says “What you thinking guys up to?”
Kent shrugs. “Eating dinner? Probably hot dogs and baked beans or something. Toasting marshmallows.”
Tater chuckles. “Your mind on food all the time.”
“Just when I’m hungry.”
“You think they looking for us?”
“Probably. They might have called the police. Maybe they’ve got a search party.”
“Good. Maybe they find us soon.”
“What if they think we’re dead? Like, eaten by a bear?”
“We tougher than that. Not be missing for one night and assuming dead.”
“What if we do die? What if they just find our bodies, like, two weeks from now?”
“You always thinking of worst case like this? We not dying out here. Is not even below freezing.”
“Sure feels like it,” Kent mutters.
“Then get closer. If we dying it is because you too uncomfortable to do what you need to.”
Kent hates not being able to come back with a biting remark, but he knows Tater’s right. He doesn’t say anything, but he also refuses to move closer out of spite. Tater gives a put-upon sigh.
Neither speaks for a long few minutes. In this moment, Kent feels incredibly validated about considering nature boring. There isn't even any bird song to listen to. He closes his eyes. A moment later, Tater nudges him. He opens his eyes and realizes that he’s leaning more fully on Tater; he must have dozed off.
“Sorry, I…”
“Dangerous to be falling asleep. You really can be freezing. Or sleeping through search party.”
Fuck. He’s right again. Kent sits up. “Can we talk?” he asks. “I don’t even care what about. Just...it’s boring as shit out here and I need a distraction.”
“I...talking about food didn’t help.” Tater sounds uncertain.
“So we don’t talk about food. Seriously, just. Tell me what you’re going to do when you get home.”
“Besides eating?” Tater chuckles. “I think I take long, hot shower. No, bath. With bath bomb.”
“You like bath bombs?”
“Of course. Zimmboni get some from friend, he recommend them. Very nice, very relaxing. You not liking them?”
Kent nearly chokes. “Zimmboni” has to mean Jack, and he really doesn’t need to be thinking about Jack Zimmermann using a bath bomb, especially not if his new boyfriend gave it to him (and Kent is like 90% sure about him having a boyfriend). So he thinks instead about Tater, trying to fit his huge self in a small bathtub filled with glitter water.
“Nah, I like them.” Understatement. Kent has a rather large drawer dedicated to Lush products in his bathroom. “I just thought maybe you’d be too macho for them.”
He feels Tater shrug. “I am...how saying...secure in masculinity. Is not a problem to enjoy nice bath. Also help game.”
Kent can’t see, but he can hear Tater’s eyebrows waggling. “Maybe you need bath bombs to score.”
Tater laughs. “And you are scoring so much? Petey telling me about you, never taking girls home. Only flirting in bars but not going further.”
Blood rushes up to Kent’s face. No one’s supposed to know about that tactic. Is he really so obvious?
“Petey doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And I could take them home if I wanted to, is my point. Anyway, why were you talking to Petey about how often I get laid?”
Kent expects Tater to fire back right away, but instead he seems to falter. “I...I am not asking . Is just coming up in conversation.”
“...Right.”
Kent shivers in the midst of the awkward silence that follows. He’s warmer than before, pressed up against Tater’s side, but his fingers and toes are just on the painful edge of numbness. The more he thinks about how cold it is, the more acutely he feels it. To his horror, his teeth start to chatter audibly. Tater huffs.
“Is still too cold. Take jacket off, Kent.”
“What?! How’s that supposed to warm me up?”
“Body heat.”
“You said that before. That’s why we’re all...close.”
“Need to share more. Jacket is blocking...heat transfer? We get warmer together with jackets on top. Trust me, is science.”
“Uh huh, and you’re totally a scientist.”
Tater shoves him gently. For such a big guy, he’s pretty good at knowing his own strength and not pushing too far. It’s something that Kent can appreciate.
“If not for playing hockey, I go to be biologist,” Tater says. He jostles Kent as he leans forward to take his own jacket off. “I am sounding smarter in Russian.”
“I didn’t...that wasn’t a dig at your English, it’s just not the kind of shit you hear from hockey players.”
If Tater’s so certain about the jacket thing, Kent guesses he can give it a try. He squirms until he gets his faux leather jacket off. Instantly, he feels the bite of cold air against his skin as if his shirt isn’t even there.
“Fuck,” he gasps, shivering anew.
He clamps his mouth shut and goes stiff when he feels Tater’s (massive) arm go around him. He can feel his warmth through the layers of fabric between them, much more than he could with their jackets on. He gives up trying to pull away and leans into Tater. The arm tightens around him, draws him in. And okay, this...is basically cuddling. Tater’s fucking generating heat and it makes Kent want to climb into his lap, just about. Fucking hell, where is his mind? He doesn’t get quite that close, just curls up into Tater’s side. Tater takes their jackets and drapes them over the both of them like blankets. Kent can’t help being surprised that it really does work. The combined jackets trap their heat and within minutes Kent’s fingers start to ache as feeling comes back to them. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s a hell of a lot better than freezing.
“Better?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Tater gives a little huff of a laugh. Clearly he can see through Kent’s pride. “So, what you doing? When you getting home?”
“Hm?”
“I am using bath bomb. What will you do?”
“Oh.” Kent doesn’t have to think long. “Feed my cat. I’ve got someone to come over so it’s not like she’ll starve. Not unless I actually freeze to death. But I’m gonna totally spoil her, more than I normally do.”
“You have cat? What she like?” Kent can hear the smile in Tater’s voice.
“She’s a giant ball of fluff and anger and I totally love her.”
“What is name?”
“Kit Purrson.”
Tater laughs. Kent’s only heard him laugh like that around his friends. He can feel Tater’s body shake with it. “After you, I get it. She is your baby?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Kent allows himself a laugh.
“Maybe some time I meet.”
“I...ha. Yeah, maybe.”
Kent tries to think of a situation where he might have Tater over, and then goes too far with the scenario in his head. He instantly tries not to think of any such situation. They lapse into silence again.
“Hey, Tater?” Kent whispers it. He’s not sure why.
“Hmm?”
“I know sleeping is dangerous, but I’m fucking exhausted. I’m sure you are too. I don’t think we can go the whole night without sleeping.”
Tater grunts in agreement.
“Maybe we take it in shifts? Like, one of us stays alert and then wakes the other up when he starts to drift off.”
“Hmm. Yes, good idea. Is just too bad we have no alarm clock.”
“Yeah. So...why don’t I take the first shift? Since I had that nap earlier.”
Tater chuckles. “It was only few seconds. But okay. You wake me when it is your turn.”
Tater drops his head down and draws his knees up. Kent leans against him, silent. He feels each of Tater’s breaths. Feels them lengthen and even out. Which his how he discovers that Alexei Mashkov can apparently fall asleep in seconds in the most uncomfortable of situations. He must do really well on roadies. At least he doesn't snore. Kent sits, huddled and trying to maintain their warmth, nearly overcome with boredom. He’s too tired to really feel anxious, but his brain is still active enough to torment him. He wishes his phone had enough battery to play a game or something. He can’t even talk to Tater, a guy he hated only a few hours ago. A guy he thought hated him.
Which gets his mind wandering to dangerous places. He thinks about how warm Tater is. The firm muscle of his chest under Kent’s cheek. His own hands, curled between them but so close. It would be so easy to reach out and touch. Kent actually shakes his head at that thought. Nothing good can come of it. The movement startles Tater awake.
“Hn? Который сейчас час?”
“Uh...sorry. My turn to sleep.” Kent recovers quickly. Maybe after some rest, his brain will stop torturing him.
“Okay. Get good rest, Kent.”
Kent suddenly doubts his ability to actually fall asleep. His mind and heart are racing. But he closes his eyes and tries to breathe slow and steady. He thinks of the mindfulness techniques his therapist taught him. He’d never gotten very good at them, but they’re worth a try.
He’s jostled by a hand on his shoulder.
“-up. Wake up, little mouse.”
“Five more minutes,” Kent sighs, despite only just realizing that he’d been sleeping.
“No. Now.” Tater’s voice is low and urgent. Is something wrong? Kent shifts to sit up a little more.
“What-”
The hand on his shoulder moves over his mouth, silencing him.
“Shh! Is...there is something here. Animal.”
Oh. Fuck.
Kent nods to let Tater know he gets it and Tater moves his hand.
“What is it?” he asks in the quietest voice he can. Tater doesn’t need to answer. The howl, first one and then a chorus, answers for him. Fuck . Most of them don’t sound very close, but then how can they even tell? Sound works weirdly in the forest and it’s not like Kent’s even heard a wolf - coyote? - howl in the wild before. Maybe Tater has? Unless he’s just relying on stereotypes. They keep very silent and still until they hear another howl. It’s so loud, so close, it makes Kent jump. Tater’s arm, still around his shoulders, squeezes him. It feels protective. Kent digs his fingers into Tater’s shirt. He’s sure his knuckles are bone white.
“Okay. So,” he whispers. “If they-” he swallows hard “-attack, we have to look bigger than them. Make a lot of noise. I think. They'll think we’re too much trouble to eat.”
“...You sure?”
“Hey, I trusted you about the jacket thi-”
He shuts up when a howl echoes through the forest again. As much as he’s willing to scream bloody murder to save himself, he doesn’t exactly want to draw the animals’ attention.
He’s not sure how long they sit there in tense, breathless silence. Kent inches closer with each howl, even as they grow more blessedly distant. After a few long minutes of no howling at all, they both breathe out relieved sighs. Neither is getting back to sleep any time soon.
“I don’t think I’ve been that close to pissing myself since you lifted me with one hand and threatened to beat my ass.” Kent gives a shaky laugh.
“I’m not mean to scare you.”
“Hey, I’m...don’t worry about it.”
Tater ducks his head down, close to Kent’s. “I am sorry. I fight on ice but not if you are not fighting back.”
Kent’s silent for a moment. “...I’m sorry too. For rushing your goalie and just...generally being a dick.” It’s a weird feeling. He’s never apologized like this, except maybe to his mom or sister.
“Is forgiven,” Tater murmurs. It’s bizarre how good it feels to hear. Apparently Kent cares how Tater feels about him now. They’re silent again, but without the fear. They just breathe and lean into each other. Kent feels his eyelids start to droop. His cheek drops to Tater’s chest. He shakes himself. It’s his turn to stay awake.
Fingers brush through his hair. Tater hums. “You sleep. I can watch for while longer.”
“You sure?”
“Am sure.”
Kent yawns. “Thanks T-...Alexei.” He closes his eyes. Breathes. Within minutes, he’s out.
+
Kent wakes up feeling stiff but pleasantly warm. He inhales deeply, smelling earth and sweat. His face is pressed against skin and there are arms around him. It’s been a long time since he woke up with someone this way. He opens his eyes.
Sunlight is streaming through the “walls” of the makeshift shelter. When Kent turns his head, he realizes that his face has been tucked into the crook of Tater’s neck. He’s practically in Tater’s lap. He can’t remember cuddling up like this. They must have done it in their sleep.
He itches to check his watch, to see how long they’ve been out here, but he doesn't want to wake Tater. Except now that he thinks about it, he really should wake him. They should get up, try to get back to the cabin.
Kent pulls away. His body is reluctant to leave the warm embrace, but he really can’t risk Tater waking up like this. Tater’s shown himself to be a pretty good guy, but Kent still doesn't want to make it awkward between them. Tater only frowns in his sleep and shifts as if unconsciously looking for his lost heat source. Kent watches his brows knit. Tater’s eyelashes are long and thick, noticeable against his cheek. Fuck. Kent should not be noticing shit like that.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to shake Tater’s shoulder.
Tater’s up in an instant, his eyes wide and wild. His injured ankle seems to bring him to the present moment. He groans and doubles over, clutching at his leg. Kent winces.
“That bad, huh?”
Tater sighs. “I forget about it. Move badly.” He looks up at Kent. “We sleep through night, huh?”
“Looks like it.”
Kent crawls out from the shelter, taking his jacket with him. He stands up and stretches; just about every inch of him is stiff and sore. He turns to see Tater and offers a hand. Tater hesitates, like he’s surprised by the gesture, but only for a moment. He takes Kent’s hand. Kent isn’t sure if it’s his imagination that Tater holds it for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“What time is it?”
Kent glances at his watch. “About seven. Looks like the sun’s only just come up.”
“How is phone?”
Kent checks. Dead. He stuffs it back in his pocket and lets his grim expression answer for him.
“We should get moving.”
“Yeah. Which way, though?”
Tater’s quiet as he looks around. Finally, he points. “That is where we come from. We try to find trail again. Maybe spot where I can climb up.”
They walk pressed up against each others’ sides, Tater’s arm over Kent’s shoulders. He limps along valiantly. Kent keeps his pace slow and makes sure to steady Tater when he stumbles. It’s not fast, but they make better progress than they did yesterday. They don’t talk, but it’s not awkward. Kent actually really appreciates that he can share a silence with Tater.
They stop a couple of times for breath, but not for long. They’re tired, hungry, and in a lot of pain, but the will to get the hell out of this woods has lit a fire under their asses. They’re taking a break, leaning against a tree, when they hear a bark. Kent tenses up immediately, thinking of the wolves of last night. Tater nudges him, though, a wide smile spreading across his face.
“Haley! Is dog!”
Kent’s eyes widen. He grins back at Tater.
“Hey!” he shouts. His throat is raw and dry but he doesn’t care. “Hey, over here!”
Tater joins in the shouting. He’s got a powerful, booming voice.They scream until they cough, until some human faces appear above them. One is Petey, looking gaunt and worried. Another is a stranger, but she’s wearing the uniform of a park ranger.
“Kent! Alexei!”
“Took you long enough,” Kent gasps.
“Are you hurt?” the ranger asks, already carefully making her way down into the ravine.
“My ankle. Can’t climb up.” Tater lets her take a look when she reaches them. Petey stays above, just repeating “Thank god, oh thank god,” over and over.
The ranger calls for backup on a walkie-talkie. The team must be close by, because it only takes a few minutes before more rangers are sliding into the ravine. They help them up and escort them to the rangers’ Jeeps. Now that Petey’s stopped freaking out, he tries chirping them. Kent and Tater let him, but don’t retaliate. They huddle under the blankets given to them and sit loose-limbed in the back of a Jeep, and then on the ancient couch in the ranger station. It’s decided that neither of them are in bad enough condition to warrant a medical airlift. Kent doesn’t really need any treatment at all, but Tater’s ankle is swollen and dark with bruises. Petey assures them that he can drive Tater to the nearest hospital.
It’s kind of a blur after that. Kent eats something, he’s not sure what. He doesn’t even taste it. He’s never been more happy to drink terrible coffee, because it’s hot and his belly has stopped aching so insistently. He loses track of Tater. When he realizes this, he has a minor freak-out until he remembers that Petey already loaded him up and took him to the hospital. The guys chirp him and fill him in on their side of the past day’s events. I seems they hadn’t even realized they should be out looking until they were a couple of miles away. Petey, Swoops, and Haley had searched until dark. Willy had gone back to the cabin to see if Kent and Tater would turn up there. Once dark set in, they’d contacted the ranger station. Though they’d searched for most of the night, nobody knew where the two missing men had gone off course. It had been an impossible hunt. Kent’s just relieved to know that the guys really had organized a search.
He doesn’t trust himself to drive, so he naps once he gets back to the cabin. When he gets up, he eats and sits quietly with the guys. They rib him gently, but he can see how concerned their gazes are. He makes an effort to lighten up so they don’t worry that he’s too traumatized. He’s just tired, really. Petey eventually returns without Tater.
“It’s not a fracture,” is the first thing he says. “Sprained. Not pretty, but he should be good by pre-season.”
They all breathe a sigh of relief.
“Sooo…” Willis starts. “Is the cabin weekend still on, or do we have to clear out?”
“Well…” Petey frowns.
Kent cuts in before he can say any more. “I don’t really care what you guys do. Go hug a tree or whatever. But uh, no offense...I’m going home. I need a shower, some Bactine, and like twelve straight hours in my huge memory foam bed.”
“Fair enough,” Swoops says.
Petey nods. Willy looks disappointed until they all assure him that they can, in fact, stay for the rest of the weekend, even if Parse leaves.
Kent lingers a little while longer, mainly to let his phone charge. Before he leaves, he makes sure to get Tater’s number from Petey. Just so he can check in on him. See how his ankle is. He hugs the guys and acts cheerful on the way out. He’s just glad that he’s not too tired for that act. The drive is fucking horrible. He’s just so tired, but he wants to be out of the wilderness right fucking now. To make matters worse, he gets a call from the Aces’ manager on his way. He has to assure him that he’s fine, there’s nothing to worry about, Jesus Christ just let me drive…
He ends up on the phone for most of his time at the airport, even doing a phone interview because of course the media’s heard about his and Tater’s “incident.” God, it’s fucking embarrassing. He just says as little as he possibly can. It’s too much to hope that reporters won’t swarm him the minute he touches down in Las Vegas. He dozes on the plane. The seat’s comfortable, but a part of him wishes he had someone to lean against. He blames that feeling on his overtired brain.
+
Kent dreams of large, strong arms encircling him. He feels warm breath puffing gently against his neck. The smell of sweat and nature.
“Alexei.”
His own voice wakes him. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Ridiculous. It’s been months and he’s still having dreams about Tater, about that night in the North woods. Kent hasn’t so much as texted him. He’s checked up, sure. Read every article about the ankle injury Alexei Mashkov sustained while vacationing. He’s fine. His career is going to be fine. He’s been on top form since the season started. So why does kent keep thinking about him?
Kent pulls himself out of bed to go for a run. It’s a game day, so he tries extra hard to stay focused. An impossibility when the Aces are playing the Falconers, but a guy can dream. At least he’s gotten better at this over the years. He’d never have made it through a season playing against Zimms if he hadn’t.
He arrives at the stadium that night all business and cool confidence. Some of the guys are more exuberant and Kent lets them be. He catches Swoops eying him though. He ignores it. They’re here to play hockey and to dominate.
Kent lets the energy of the crowd fill him. This is what it’s all for. To play hard, to make the fans happy, to support his team. Cynicism, though he has it by the bucketload, gets left at the door. He flashes a winning smile at the crowd. Winks at an awestruck kid.
His eyes meet Jack’s as they wait for the puck to drop. He anticipates a rush of emotion that he’ll have to fight, but it doesn’t come. There’s always going to be some hurt when it comes to Jack, but right now he’s just another player to get past. Weird. Kent hadn’t thought he’d moved on that well.
The jolt that Kent had expected to feel looking at Zimms comes later in the game. They’re tied up in the second period, playing hard, when Kent gets checked. It’s not particularly hard, nothing he can’t skate through. He doesn’t even lose possession of the puck until he looks up and sees who it is. Tater. Mashkov , he reminds himself. He can’t be thinking about an enemy on the ice in such fond terms. A shiver runs down his spine as they lock eyes. Mashkov’s expression is unreadable. He’s speeding away to pass the puck off before Kent can react. Kent grits his teeth, narrows his eyes, and pushes off to rejoin play. He can’t believe he was affected enough to let Mashkov just take the puck from him. He’s not going to let it happen again.
It doesn’t, but Kent finds that even looking at Tater’s face is dangerous. It doesn’t make sense. What does he care? They’re here to play hockey, nothing else. Kent thinks he’s going to get a headache from how hard he’s clenching his teeth in order to concentrate.
The Aces win. It’s by a narrow margin, but they made their opponents fight hard. They didn’t even play dirty for it, which means the commentators don’t get to make allusions about “typical Aces hockey.” Everybody’s exhausted but happy in the locker room. Everybody except Kent, who’s just exhausted. He claps his guys on the back, changes, does press. Routine. It doesn’t matter the amount of tension he’s holding in his body.
There are offers to go celebrate, but he waves them off, claiming he’s too tired. Apparently he looks it, because nobody tries any harder to convince him. He lingers behind, so the parking lot is nearly abandoned when he heads out to his car. He stops short when he sees that someone is standing there, clearly waiting for him. It’s dark, so at first Kent can only see that the figure is tall and broad. When he takes a cautious step forward, he finally recognizes him.
“Kent!” Alexei says, stepping into a pool of orangey light. “Sorry to startle. Is only place I can think to find you.”
Kent doesn’t ask how the hell Alexei knew which car is his.
“Uh. Hi, Tater,” he says.
“I am congratulate you on win. You see? You can win without dirty plays.”
“Ha. Yeah, I guess so.”
Tater frowns at him. “I am not still scaring you?”
“What? No, I...I just…” Kent stuffs his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet like a scolded kid. “Not scared. Just...awkward? Didn’t know what to think, you coming out of the shadows like that.”
“Is like bear in the woods.” Tater smirks. “You could ask me how is ankle.”
Kent feels his face heat. “Uh. Yeah. Well, it sure didn’t slow you down tonight.”
“Mm. Is good as new.”
“So...uh, how’ve you been?”
Tater snorts. He gestures around them. “You wanting to catch up in dark parking lot?”
“I...guess not?”
Which is how Kent ends up driving Tater to an all-night diner. It’s a total dive, but their food is acceptably greasy, their coffee is strong, and they don’t give a shit that two NHL players are there at nearly midnight. Kent gets coffee and an egg and cheese sandwich. Tater gets a stack of pancakes with fried eggs and hashbrowns. Apparently he’s got an appetite. Kent watches as he digs in enthusiastically. He wants to be disgusted, but it’s actually kind of adorable.
“How are you, Kent?” Tater asks between bites of potato.
“Uh. You know. The same. All hockey, all the time. Plus my cat.”
Tater grins at him. “Your phone not dead now. You have photo?”
“Uh, yeah. A bunch.” He tugs his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through to the Kit album. He hands it over.
Tater’s only quiet for a moment, and then he starts to coo over the pictures. “Look at face! Is all flat, like she running into walls.”
“Yeah, she does that sometimes. Not like...that’s not why her face is like that, that’s just genetics. But she’s got this neurological issue so she doesn’t balance too well. I gotta keep an eye out sometimes, make sure she doesn’t, like, fall off a counter or whatever. And she gets seizures sometimes.”
He glances up to see Tater looking at him with a fond expression.
“What?” He’d been rambling, he knows. But he can’t keep his mouth shut about Kit.
“You taking very good care of her.”
“Well, yeah, she’s…” he stops short of saying “all that I have” because how fucking sad does that sound? “My family all live pretty far away, so she’s my family here.”
Tater reaches across the table to pass Kent’s phone back. When Kent takes it, Tater grabs his hand. He squeezes it for a moment.
“You are lonely, Kent?” His voice is soft.
Kent feels almost dizzy with how quickly he blushes. He tries to pull his hand away, but Tater’s grip is strong.
“I...what? No, not...not any more than usual…”
“I get lonely too. Is hard, being on road all the time. Far from family. Not having anyone to come home to.”
Kent can pinpoint the second his heart breaks for Alexei Mashkov. He relaxes his hand in Tater’s.
“Hey uh. When you finish your pancakes, do you wanna meet Kit?”
Tater’s face lights up like the fucking sun. Kent questions his own actions a lot, but right now he’s absolutely sure he said the right thing.
“Yes. I would like that very much.”
Kent calls their server over for the check while Tater gulps down the rest of his meal. They leave the diner, Tater bumping shoulders with Kent as they walk. Kent feels like he might burst into flame, but it’s somehow a good feeling. The drive to Kent’s condo is short and quiet. It reminds him of their time lost in the forest, the easy silence that had eventually developed between them. It’s bizarre to think back on that miserable night fondly, but here they are.
He leads the way inside and turns the dimmer lights on low. It casts the apartment in a warm-hued glow, which is a relief from the harsh fluorescents of the diner and the neon from all angles during the drive. Tater looks around and laughs.
“Is cozy. I’m thinking you are more stylish, Kent.”
Kent rolls his eyes and shoves Tater’s shoulder. “I don’t entertain much and I made this place a palace for Kit and me. She doesn’t care if I have expensive furniture, as long as she can still scratch it to hell.”
“I like it. Like I say before, cozy.”
“Now, let’s see where the princess is so you can meet her. Make yourself comfortable.”
Kent leaves Tater behind to go check the bedroom. Kit isn’t a fan of strangers, so the second she detected a non-Kent person in the condo, she likely went and hid. Sure enough, he finds her curled up in the cardboard-box-turned-cat-sanctuary set up in the corner. Coaxing her out takes a bit of doing.
He emerges from the bedroom with Kit squirming in his arms. Tater’s on the couch, looking relaxed as he leans against the pillows. He brightens when he turns to see Kent.
“Kit! She is even more beautiful in person!”
Kent grins because praise to Kit is his weakness. He steps over to the couch and lowers Kit down a couple of feet from Tater.
“Kit, meet Tater.”
Tater offers her a hand to sniff. “Hello, котенок. I’m Alexei.”
Despite his gentle tone and non-threatening gesture, Kit is having none of it. She hisses, swipes at his hand, and takes an awkward leap off of the couch. She’s off like a shot, racing with a lopsided gait to hide somewhere in the kitchen. Kent sighs exasperatedly.
“What happened to your manners, young lady? I raised you better than that.” He gives Tater an apologetic look. “She’s like that with everyone new, so don’t take it personally. She warms up to people over time.”
Tater smirks up at him. It’s totally disarming.
“That meaning I come over all the time?”
“I...uh. Yeah, sure.”
Tater stands up and comes around to the back of the couch. “Only if you wanting that?”
Kent gulps. “I...yeah, Tater. I’d like that.”
“Alexei.” He reaches out and cups Kent’s cheek.
“Huh?” Kent feels like his brain has shut down.
“You should be calling me Alexei. Or Alyosha. Tater is for hockey. First name is for...mmm, closer people.”
Kent stares up at him, heart hammering so hard it’s a wonder he can hear anything over it. They’re standing so close, Alexei’s hand huge and warm against Kent’s skin. His cheeks are tinged pink, just as Kent’s must be.
“Am I? Uh, closer people?”
“I’m hope so.”
He leans in slowly. Kent has plenty of time to refuse this, to step away or say no. He doesn’t do either, but he’s still surprised when Alexei’s lips meet his own.
It’s a good kind of surprise.
Alexei pulls away and gives Kent a searching look.
“Ta-” Kent cuts himself off when he sees Alexei’s expression begin to cloud with disappointment. He steps in closer, chest to chest. “Alexei,” he breathes.
Alexei’s kissing him again before Kent can see whether his expression has changed. He wraps his arms around Alexei’s shoulders and lets the kiss deepen. Kent feels almost dizzy when they part, but Alexei is right there to ground him with steady hands on his waist.
“You, uh.” Kent clears his throat. “When do you have to be out of here?”
“Falconers’ plane is leaving at ten in morning.”
“Do you...wanna stay here tonight? You’ll have to get up pretty early, but…”
Alexei gives him that wide, blinding smile. “I’m like that very much, Kent.”
Kent grins back. He feels light in a way that he hasn’t in ages. Years, maybe.
“Will be nice spending night with you where we are not freezing to death.”
He gives Alexei’s arm a half-hearted smack before kissing him again.
Kent discovers that Alexei is sweet and gentle in both his words and his body. He discovers that he doesn’t need the excuse of freezing in the wilderness to cuddle aggressively. He discovers that waking up to kisses on the back of his neck is one of the nicest things he’s ever experienced with another person.
They’re up early enough to share a pot of coffee before Kent has to drive Alexei back to his hotel. In the safety of the car, they share more kisses and murmured promises to talk soon, to text, to meet up as soon as they can. They’re promises Kent fully intends to keep.
Have you landed yet? he texts later that day after an amount of time zone calculation he absolutely will not admit to.
Yes. I am missing you already. Give Kit kiss from me! ))))
Kent smiles and picks her up. He smooches the top of her head, which she does not appreciate. It’s fine. She’ll warm up to Alexei eventually. Maybe even get to love him.