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Chapter Text

When am I gonna stop being wise beyond my years and just start being wise?

They lay on top of each other on Jack’s bed in his billet family’s house. What started as light chirping devolved into flirting and now making out. Jack is slowly sliding his hand up under Kent’s shirt when his cell phone rings. He wants to ignore it, to continue kissing, but the ringtone is special. Only one person has that. Reluctantly, he rolls off of Kent and reaches blindly for his phone on the nightstand. He takes a few deep breaths before swiping to accept the call. 

“Hello, Jack! I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, of course not, papa,” he lies through his teeth. He’d much rather be exploring Kent than speaking with his father.

“Well, glad to hear it. What have you been up to lately? Practicing hard for the Cup?”

Of course he’s been practicing. Ever since it became apparent to everyone else that they had a shot at winning the Memorial Cup, Jack’s been working twice as hard. He’s been the first one on and last one off the ice each practice. He’s worked with each player on the team to try and smooth out their weaknesses. On off days, he still makes sure to workout and practice his slapshot in the driveway. He’s been working towards the Cup the entire season, and he’s so close to it now that he can’t imagine not winning the entire thing. 

Instead of saying any of that, however, he replies. “Yes, we have.”

“Ah, is Kent with you? It’s always good to have a friend with you while making a run. Your Uncle Mario and I helped hold each other accountable when we made our consecutive Cup runs.”

“Yeah, Kent’s here.”

Kenny sits up on the edge of the bed and calls out, “Hi, Bad Bob!” before leaving the room.

His dad softly laughs into the phone. It grates on Jack’s nerves. “Tell him I say hi too.”

“I will.”

“Anyways, I was calling to check in on you. You’re playing against some very good teams. I would especially watch that one Windsor left winger. He’s very good at threading the needle and scoring in tight places.”

Jack knew exactly who his papa was speaking of. There was already chatter about him being a high rank choice for the draft next year. “Yes, Coach has pointed that out and has us practicing tightening up our defense.”

“Good, good. And are you working on your sprints?”

That throws Jack for a loop. What does his father mean by that? He thinks he’s doing fine. No one has mentioned he is too slow. “What?”

“Your reaction time seems to be just a tad bit slower than usual. I noticed it during your game against Victoriaville, but didn’t want to say anything because everyone has an off day. But I saw it happen again during your game against St. John.”

They played against St. John two weeks ago. Yet his father only mentioned the issue now. Why hadn’t he said something sooner? He needs to get to practice even earlier tomorrow and do some suicides to work on his stops and sprints. He has to be better. What if his lack of speed during a turnover is what leads to the team losing the Cup? He can feel his heart rate picking up as the panic begins to set in. He needs to get off the phone.

“Jack, are you still there?” papa asks, concern lacing his voice.

“Yes, I am,” he grits out. 

“I know it’s the end of the season, but it’s not over yet. Keep working hard, and I’m confident that you’ll win, okay?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Splendid! I have to get going, but I’ll talk to you soon. Keep practicing hard and all of your time and effort will pay off.”

“Yeah.” He ends the call immediately, tossing the phone onto his bed, and tries to take in a deep breath. He can’t. His lungs currently don’t know how to accept oxygen.

Jack rises and goes over to his dresser, grabbing the prescription bottle that sits on top. With trembling hands, he opens the lid and shakes out one blue pill. He tries not to think about how he already took one today as he swallows it dry. This is an emergency, and he’s allowed to take an extra then. Granted, he’s had more ‘emergencies’ lately. And as those rise, the effectiveness of his anxiety meds appear to decrease. Or maybe it’s all in his head.

Jack chuckles darkly at the thought. It comes out half-choked due to his current breathing pattern. Of course it’s all in his head. His anxiety literally lives in his brain. It’s always his head’s fault. 

He lays back down on his bed, curling up on his side as he tries to breathe and get his brain to stop listing every single way he can fuck up his team’s Memorial Cup run. After a few minutes, Kent quietly slips back into the room and crawls into bed. He curls up around Jack, tossing an arm over his shoulder for extra contact. Despite being noticeably shorter than Jack, he makes a great big spoon, and Jack finds his heart finally starts to slow down as he listens to Kent’s calm breaths behind him. 

When am I gonna stop being a pretty young thing to guys?

Jack feels the bass in his very soul, reverberating with each beat of his heart. He doesn’t recognize the song, but follows along to the lyrics, just dancing in the mass of bodies. His self-consciousness left him four shots ago. He is enjoying living in the moment and acting like a normal teenager for once.

For the first time he can remember, he feels completely free.

He tosses his hands up in the air and spins around in a circle, the darkness of the dance floor providing him anonymity he’s not used to receiving. While this party is obviously a celebration of their Cup win, there’s so many hockey players here that it isn’t immediately obvious that he’s a member of the team. He’s done and put in the hard work, scoring the deciding goal, and this is his reward: a drunken celebration and a mind that’s finally, blessedly, quiet.

“Zimms!” a voice calls out. He would ignore it, like he has all night when someone calls out to him, to offer their praise and congratulations, but this is one person he actually wants to talk to.

He spins around again, searching for the voice. He squints through the writhing mass of bodies around him, and finally spots a backwards snapback that he knows is hiding a mess of blond curls. “Kenny!” he yells over the music and awkwardly elbows his way through the throng of people towards his friend. 

“Hey, man! I got you something else to drink,” he says in greeting, shouting to be heard over the music. He shoves a red solo cup filled with something dark and fizzy into Jack’s hands when he finally reaches him. 

He accepts the drink and takes a whiff of it, thinking it’s some pop. Not as good as water for the eventual hangover he’s bound to have tomorrow, but definitely better than the straight alcohol he’s been drinking all night. He goes to take a sip of it, and is surprised at the burn in his throat when he swallows.

Kenny taps his shoulder before cupping his hand over his ear and whisper-yelling to be heard over the music. “It’s a Diet Coke and vodka. With an emphasis on the vodka.”

He pulls away. “Yeah, I can definitely taste it.” Jack takes another sip, and it doesn’t burn as much this time.

“You wanna dance some more, or would you rather go someplace quieter?” Kenny subtly loops a finger through a belt loop on his jeans, and tugs, willing him to move forward. If they really wanted to, they could be all up in each other’s business on the dance floor. Everyone is grinding on each other, and the overall drunkenness had moved from tipsy to wasted at least 30 minutes ago. It wouldn’t be out of place for them to be dancing so close, but… He bites his lip, and Kenny proves that he understands him better than anyone else on or off the ice. He grabs his hand and pulls him through the crowds of people. Jack follows obediently out of the basement and up the stairs, the music going from all-encompassing to manageable. He didn’t realize how stale the air downstairs is until he’s no longer in it. They enter a kitchen; there’s a couple making out in the corner and three girls arguing about something over a bowl of cheese curls. Since they both have drinks, there is no reason to stop and peruse the island that’s completely covered in alcohol bottles. Kenny continues to lead him through the attached eat-in and out the sliding glass door to the backyard.

It isn’t huge, but only a small section has shadows cast from the bonfire. Kenny, still holding his hand, winds them around the edges of the crackling fire and towards a tree along the edge of the property line. Jack is pushed up against said tree, the bark digging into his back. He feels some of his drink slosh out of his cup and onto his hand. He opens his mouth to protest, but it’s covered by Kenny’s lips.

His complaint dies in his throat. The kiss is desperate, but Jack doesn’t mind. He’d been waiting for this moment too. Ever since he scored the winning goal earlier off of Kenny’s patent-pending No-Look Pass. A single touch to get the puck under his control before he slammed it into the hole in the top right corner of the goal. It was beautiful and messy. Kenny was the first to dogpile onto him for the celly, his eyes bright and filled with mirth along with a bit of lust. 

Jack is surprised his friend waited as long as he did to seek him out for this current makeout session. He pulls away to catch his breath, and in the low light of the night he can still make out the emotions flying across his face. 

“I’ve been waiting hours to give you a celebratory kiss,” Kenny says with a fake pout.

“You could’ve grabbed me earlier,” he insists.

He shakes his head. “I had to wait for them to start playing shitty music. The fact that they would play Madonna and Justin over Britney is something I dislike but can tolerate. But I draw the line at the Black Eyed Peas.”

“Is that who sings the song about just dancing your troubles away?”

Kenny leans his head against Jack’s shoulder and lets out a groan. “That’s Lady Gaga!”

He furrows his brow. “The one with the monster hands?”

“Yes! However, no self-respecting person would put “Boom Boom Pow” on their party playlist. That’s when I knew I had to rescue you, because I knew you wouldn’t understand why that song choice is so terrible.”

“So… did you pull me away because I’m uncultured or because you wanted to kiss me senseless?”

“Both,” Kenny simply replies before he starts kissing Jack up his neck and along his jaw. When he reaches his lips, he curls his fingers into Jack’s hair and gently tugs him forward as he deepens the kiss. Jack returns the favor by sliding his hands up the back of Kenny’s shirt and pulling him closer. A small part of him recognizes that he dropped his drink on the ground. That’s okay, he would prefer to continue to explore Kenny’s body. Besides, there's plenty of cheap alcohol still inside the house. They can get a refill after this comes to an end.

Jack doesn’t know how much time has passed since they started kissing again. They do jump apart when a peal of laughter carries over from the fire pit, scared to be caught in such a compromising position. 

“You good, Zimms?” Kenny asks as he pulls down his shirt and takes a step back, glancing around him and the tree towards the group around the fire.

“Yeah,” Jack replies in an equally rough voice. He futility smoothes down his hair, although he knows it won’t do much unless he adds a bit of water to the process. 

Kenny leans in close, a coy smile on his face. “Ready to resume where we left off?”

Suddenly, the realization that they are outside, where anyone could walk in on them and ruin their professional careers before they could even start, hits Jack. “No,” he says with a shake of his head. “It’s late. I should get going.” He turns away from Kenny so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment he knows is splashed across his face.

“C’mon!” Kenny reaches out and grabs his hand. “It’s dark. Nobody saw anything!”

Jack whirls around. “What if they do?” he whispers furiously, his voice as sharp as a razor. “Maybe the NHL wasn’t always your intended career path, but it's always been mine. I refuse to throw away 16 years of hard work to kiss you again. You’re not worth the risk!”

Kenny’s face hardens. “Fuck you, Zimms.” He shoves him into the tree once again. This time he’s trying to make him hurt. “Go find your own ride home,” he spits as he stalks away.

Jack watches from behind the tree as he joins the group at the fire pit without so much as a single backwards glance. He takes in a shaky breath, willing himself to calm down. He doesn’t have his meds on him, thinking that the alcohol would be enough. He made the right decision, he tells himself, pushing Kenny away. The draft, and the rest of their lives, is only a month away. 

Yet a small voice in the back of his mind wishes that he was still kissing Kenny.

When am I gonna stop being great for my age and just start being good?

Jack’s eating a bowl of cereal, leaning against the counter like a heathen, when Kenny finally comes downstairs. He’s still in his pajamas, and his bedhead makes it obvious that he just woke up. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” he greets him in between bites.

“It’s still early,” he insists, his voice rough with sleep.

Jack stares pointedly at the clock on the stove, which reads 9:52. He gestures at it with his spoon. “Are you sure about that?”

“Are you really going to harass me before I’ve had my first cup of coffee?” Kenny whines as he rummages for his preferred creamer in the fridge.

“All I’m saying is that most of the morning is done and over with,” he replies with a shrug, taking another bite of Raisin Bran.

The mug slams onto the counter with perhaps a bit more force than is strictly necessary. “It’s a Saturday, bro. For the first time in months, we have no practice, no game. Instead, we have free time.” He pauses as he takes a sip of his coffee. “I know you’re an early riser and all, but I fully intend on catching up on as much sleep as possible now that we won the Cup.”

Kenny cocks his head to the side and quirks up an eyebrow. “Besides, aren’t you even a bit tired after our activities last night? Because let me tell you, your mouth is amazing. When you did that little–”

“Shh!” Jack exclaims, quickly glancing around to make sure neither of his parents are in earshot. He can feel his face heating up. “Don’t talk about that out here.”

“Isn’t your dad at some meeting this morning? And your mom at yoga?” Kent waits for him to nod before continuing. “And they haven’t returned yet?” Another nod. “That means we have the house to ourselves, unless you think your parents placed hidden cameras inside the house.” 

Jack crinkles his face in disgust.

“Yeah, I thought so.” He claps his hands together before walking over. He begins tracing patterns with his fingers lightly along his shoulder blades, and Jack shudders under his ministrations. “As I was saying, we have the house to ourselves.” Kenny leans in close, his breath tickling the hair over Jack’s ear before he whispers, “I don’t know about you, but I certainly wouldn’t mind another performance of last night.”

Jack feels himself nodding, remembering the ecstasy he felt. How it was over too fast. His mouth opens to chirp him. Something along the lines of not working out on an empty stomach, when the door leading to the mudroom opens in the distance. The moment is lost, Kenny quickly taking a few steps back, probably to casually lean against the counter next to the coffee maker. He doesn’t bother to turn around to check, not wanting to see the lust that he is sure is still mirrored in his own eyes. 

“Hello, boys!” his Maman greets not five seconds later. She places a purple water bottle on the counter and slides her rolled up pink mat off of her back.

“Good morning, Mrs. Zimmermann,” Kenny greets from behind him.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Kent, please, call me Alicia,” she fondly states with a smile.

“Of course, Alicia.”

“Maman, I thought your yoga class went until 10:30?”

“Hello to you too, Jack. You know we have perfectly good chairs on the other side of the island.” She comes around and ruffles his hair as he sheepishly curls in on himself. “But to answer your question, yes, I typically have class right now. Alas, my dear instructor, Pierre, had to cancel last-minute due to an illness.”

“I hope he feels better soon.”

“Yes, so do I.” She pats Jack on the shoulder before moving away. “I see my son is eating breakfast; have you had anything yet, Kent?”

“No, I just woke up a few minutes ago.”

The fridge opens, and Jack watches as his maman rummages through the freezer before she tosses a small bag of mixed berries onto the counter, followed by a frozen banana. “I’m going to make myself a smoothie. I can make one for you too, or you can have some cereal like Jack.”

“That would be great, Alicia. Thank you.” 

He watches her toss another frozen banana onto the counter. “Kent,” she begins as she searches for the almond milk, “can you get the blender down for me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And Jack, do you want anything from the fridge?”

“No, I’m good.” He’s run out of cereal for his spoon to find. He picks his bowl up and drinks the leftover milk. Turning around, he flips the faucet on and rinses his bowl and spoon before placing it in the dishwasher. “I’m going to shower.”

“Okay, see you in a bit.”

When Jack comes back downstairs, hair still wet, Kent is lounging on the sofa. ESPN SportsCenter is muted on the TV; they’re showing a triple play that occurred at a baseball game the evening before. Jack picks up Kent’s legs before sitting down and placing them in his lap. 

“Are you ever going to get dressed today?”

“I just finished breakfast!” Kent protested. “Your mom makes a great smoothie, by the way. You could learn from her.”

“That’s because she doesn’t add protein powder.”

“I’m sure she could teach you to make it more palatable even with protein powder.”

Jack shrugs in response. He doesn’t like smoothies all that much anyways. “What do you want to do today?”

He grins and sits up, removing his legs from Jack’s lap. “I was reading the local paper–”

“Kenny, your French is terrible,” he chirps.

“I’m terrible at speaking French. Luckily for both of us, I can read and comprehend it enough to follow along in the newspaper.” He shakes his head before continuing. “As I was saying, the paper gave a glowing review of a new cafe about 10 minutes from here. I thought we could check it out.”

“What do they serve?”

“Soups, salads, and sandwiches, mostly. The article didn’t say if they have chicken tenders on the menu.”

Jack pretends to mull it over before replying. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Great! There’s one more thing I want to show you.” Keny picks up the newspaper and thumbs through the sections before pulling out one of them. “Look!”

Jack leans over to get a better look. It’s the front page of the Sports section, and the writers are discussing the top prospects going into the NHL Draft. He scans the page, searching for his name. He’s being discussed a lot. But Kenny is also mentioned. He lets out a shaky breath.

Kent puts his hand over his and gives him a brilliant grin. “They say you’re the top prospect, and I should be a 1st round pick too. That we would be a great asset to any team in the league. They talk about all the different ways you can help fill the hole in the Aces’s offense, and what teams need a speedy player like me. This time next month, we’re going to be a part of the NHL!”

Typically, discussion of the draft causes his anxiety to ratchet up to levels previously unheard of. But the way Kenny puts it, they are shoo-ins. His confidence in them is enough to keep the anxiety at bay, at least for now. 

Jack breaks into a smile of his own. “You bet we are.”

When will it stop being cool to be quietly misunderstood?

Jack undoes his tie again . This time one end is way too long. It’s a simple Windsor knot. He’s done it hundreds of times. Yet he’s struggling. He lets out a sigh and repositions the two ends of the tie in front of his chest in the mirror. As he makes the first loop, there’s a knock at the door. He’s the only one in the hotel suite, his parents left a few minutes ago to hold a table for them at some trendy restaurant a block away that doesn’t do reservations. 

He drops the ends of the tie and makes his way over to the door. He pulls it open, and there’s Kenny, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Did’ya miss me, Zimms?” he asks as he saunters in behind him.

“I saw you 30 minutes ago,” he replies with a roll of his eyes. He repositions himself in front of the mirror once more. This time he’ll get it right.

“You can still miss me.”

“Sure, I missed you,” he easily agrees, wrapping the thicker end around the other one. “Shouldn’t you be with your mom and sister?”

“Kelsey insists that her hair can be straighter. She must be immune to the scent of her own fried ends by now.”

He undos the tie once more. Before he can start again, Kent steps up from behind him. “Let me do it,” he insists.

Jack puts his hands down to give him more room to work. He watches his best friend quickly make a Windsor knot, not focusing on the tie at all, but on Kenny instead. The way his eyebrows are slightly furrowed in his concentration. How his hands confidently move from step to step. How his cowlick that he carefully smoothed out with gel is threatening to break free and reappear. All of the little things that make Kent amazing. 

With a final tug, the knot is resting at the base of his throat. 

“There, all done.” Kent pats his chest before giving him a flirtatious smile. “I think I deserve a reward.” 

Jack, practical as always, states, “We really don’t have time for sex.”

“Lucky for you, I also accept kisses.” Kent leans in and Jack follows.

When their lips meet, Kent deepens the kiss almost immediately, hungry for whatever Jack will give him. Jack, meanwhile, cups Kenny’s face. Typically he would run his hands through the blond’s hair, but they are both expected at dinner in a few minutes. With that thought, he breaks away. 

“Was that an acceptable form of payment?” His voice is pitched lower than usual.

Kent grins. “Of course. It always is.”

Jack doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know that his tie is correct. Instead, he’s studying himself to make sure he is presentable for dinner. Other than the flush in his cheeks, which should disappear as his heartbeat decreases, he looks normal. “I even managed to leave your hair alone,” he jokes.

Kent stares at himself in the mirror and touches his cowlick. “I wish that this portion got the memo. It’s always standing at attention, just like another part of my body.”

“Kenny!”

He laughs whole-heartedly. “Zimms, I know. I just want to see how red I can make your cheeks before I have to go.”

He’s suddenly bashful and refuses to make eye contact with Kent. “Thank you again for helping with my tie.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everyone struggles with doing common tasks sometimes.”

“I know how to tie a tie.”

“And I know how to tie my shoes. Except for when I’m drunk. Then I just fall flat on my face.”

“Kenny, when you can’t do shit because you’re drunk, everyone will laugh with you about being wasted. But if I can’t do shit while I’m sober, everyone will be laughing at me and judging me. You have nothing to worry about, because everyone likes you. For me, every single thing I do will be overanalyzed and dissected as if I’m a frog in a biology lab. If they found out my hands shake so bad I can’t tie a tie, they’ll be questioning if I should be allowed to hold a hockey stick, let alone play in the NHL.”

Kent takes a step forward and leans his head against Jack’s shoulder. “But after tomorrow, you won’t have to worry because you will be in the NHL.” 

“The press is out for blood, and you’re not giving them any with your whole calm, cool, and collected attitude. Meanwhile, they are eagerly circling me like vultures, waiting for me to fail.”

“You don’t think the pressure is getting to me?” Kent took a step back. He scoffs, incredulous. 

“Maybe you’ve been too focused on yourself, but the press has had plenty to say about me.”

“It’s different for you!” Jack insists. “You don’t have a legacy to upheld!”

“I don’t know what team I’m going to tomorrow!” he cries, tossing his arms up in frustration and moving away. “Meanwhile all the analysts say you’re the number one pick! The best shit since Crosby. We both know you’re going to the Aces tomorrow! You’ll have a new life in Vegas. As for me, who knows! Maybe all the teams will decide I’m not worth it because I will no longer have the Jack Zimmermann on my line!” He collapses onto the couch.

“Kenny, you’re good, but-–”

“Oh, yes, how could I ever forget that you’re hockey royalty, born with a golden puck in your mouth and all! You only mention it all the fucking time! But going first is much less of an impressive feat when you’ve been given the best of everything from the time you put on your first pair of skates.” Kenny raises his hands in the air and waves them in broad, sharp strokes. “Not like me, some scrappy thing whose mom had to pick up extra shifts to cover new skates and club travel fees. Of course, Jack Zimmermann’s had it worse,” he sarcastically spit.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Afraid Bad Bob won’t love you anymore if you don’t go first?”

Jack sucks in a sharp breath. While rationally he knows it’s false, that his papa just wants him to play in the NHL, there’s a tiny part of his brain that believes that it’s a hundred percent true. And that makes Kent’s snide remark hit a little too close to home. 

Which is why he says the one thing he knows he shouldn’t. Jack can give as good as he gets. He’s hurt and angry. His best friend, who knows him better than anyone else, is well aware of the amount of pressure the pundits place on him. Of the pressure he places on himself. How much he’s struggled with living up to everyone’s unattainable expectations. He wants Kent, so perfect and sure of himself, to feel some of the same emotional pain. “At least I have a dad.”

Kent’s face, which a moment earlier had softened a bit at Jack’s perceived weakness, hardens once more. He stands from the couch, middle fingers proudly raised. “Fuck you too, Zimms. Maybe you won’t go first tomorrow. Let it teach you a little bit of humility.” Without a backwards glance, he storms from the hotel room, slamming the door behind him.

Jack shouldn’t have mentioned Kent’s father. He knew that. But he did it anyway because he has to be strong. He stares at himself in the mirror, loosening the perfectly tied tie and tossing the strip of cloth onto the table. His thoughts are going a mile a minute and he can’t help replay what Kenny said in his mind. What if all of the critics are wrong? What if he doesn’t go first in the draft tomorrow? He would be a failure. Despite all of his hard work, he still couldn’t measure up to papa. He can feel the tightness in his chest and absentmindedly rubs a hand across his sternum while making a beeline for the bathroom. 

He scans the countertop. He could’ve sworn he left it– aha, there’s the orange bottle, half under a washcloth. He opens it with some difficulty, but his own shaking hands give him three small blue pills. It’s two more than the recommended dosage, but he’s found that two barely seem to work now. If he takes three, then it’s guaranteed to quiet his brain for the next little bit. He tosses them back and swallows them dry, as he’s done countless times before. 

Now, it’s a waiting game. 15 minutes for it to kick in, and then he can get dinner with his family. 

Jack tries to drown out the thoughts of not being good enough, but like the tide, they keep crashing into the forefront. What if I don’t even go in the first round. What if I don’t get selected at all? What if leading my team to the Cup wasn’t enough? How can I be better if I’m not even given the chance to prove myself? How can he be anything if he doesn’t have hockey?

That’s not a question he ever wants to have to answer. 

The spiraling continues, and it’s not getting better. His breathing is ragged, echoing off the great acoustics of the bathroom. If it wasn’t for that, he wouldn’t think he was actually getting any air in his lungs. His breaths are so short he feels as if he’s trying to breathe through a straw after doing multiple rounds of suicides at practice. 

He wants to take another pill. The ones he already took are not working. He reopens the pill bottle and shakes out another one. Or maybe it is two. He doesn’t actually brother to count before he throws them back and swallows as he takes in another futile gulp of air. 

A part of him wonders where his phone is. At least then he would know the time. He stumbles out of the bathroom, trying to remember where he put it. Jack does a cursory glance around the room. Not on the couch, not on the table. He doesn’t think he can make it to his bedroom to look. He returns to the bathroom and grabs his prescription off of the counter before slowly sinking to the floor. 

He saw a flash of his face when he grabbed his meds; he’s a mess. Face red, eyes threatening to spill tears at any moment, and looking absolutely terrified. There’s no way he can go out in public. He’ll find his phone once this is all over and he’ll text his parents an apology. For now, he leans against the side of the tub and presses the palms of his hands into his eye sockets.

Tomorrow is supposed to be the best day of his life. Tomorrow is what all the years of practice, blood, sweat, and tears was for. But now that he’s on the precipice of it, suddenly, he doesn’t know if he actually wants it.

No, that’s a lie. It has to be a lie.

How can he possibly prove to everyone that he’s better than his father unless he’s drafted tomorrow? It’s what he’s always wanted. Hockey is the one thing he’s good at. His brain may be completely fucked up, but put him on the ice with a pair of skates and a stick and he’ll get the job done. 

Jack doesn’t know how long he’s been on the bathroom floor, thoughts racing the beat of his heart. He feels completely drained, but his brain won’t stop. He just needs everything to stop. He picks up the bottle again. Maybe he got a bad batch of medication, or the wrong dosage level. Either way, he could be taking sugar pills for how effective they’ve been today. A few more shouldn’t hurt him. 

He struggles with the child safety lid for far too long, his hands not wanting to cooperate with the small sliver of his brain that isn’t consumed by panic. Finally, he pops the lid off; the force causing his pills to dance across the bathroom floor like blue confetti. It’s fine; he’ll pick them up later. He pops the few that land in the lid into his mouth and swallows. 

The exhaustion of the attack is beginning to set in. Jack feels himself slumping over to the side, his vision going sideways as he ends up in the fetal position on the bathroom rug. But the tightness in his chest is starting to lift. Now, he just needs his breathing to return to normal. He’s made it through the worst of it; things can only look up from here. He’ll pick up the pills and then he’ll find his phone and text his parents to cancel meeting them for dinner. After, he’ll curl up in bed and sleep away his weariness, to be ready for tomorrow.

The day his life truly begins.

He lays on the floor, the minutes tick by. Jack’s still struggling to take in any meaningful breaths. Every one is shallow and weak. And he’s so tired; it’s sunk into his bones. Maybe if he closes his eyes for a moment, then everything would be okay when he opens them again. He doesn’t know if he could stand even if he wanted to, but the rug is good enough, shielding him from the cold tile. He shuts his eyes, swimming in black instead of his indistinct reflection on the side of the tub. As he drifts away, he thinks he hears an angel call out his name. He smiles. It sounds like Kenny.

Chapter Text

And when does wide-eyed affection and all good intentions start to not be enough?

Kent blinks and he’s suddenly in front of his mom and Kelsey’s room. He wants comfort. He wants his mom. Yet, he still hesitates before knocking on the door.  He missed dinner. He sent a text, but he feels a need to explain. It’s imperative that he tells his mom something.  

So, he takes a shaky breath and knocks on the door.

He can hear movement inside, the latch sliding free, and there’s Kelsey in a ratty tshirt and athletic shorts. “I thought you were room service,” she jokes before turning away from him. She leaves the door open, an invitation for him to come in.

She says nothing of how he looks which means he either cleaned himself up pretty well or he’s a complete mess. There’s no inbetween. He doesn’t want to know, avoiding the mirror as steps into the room. “Where’s mom?” he asks as his sister collapses into the bed she claimed for herself before sitting up. 

“She’s taking a shower. Can’t you hear it?”

And now that she mentioned it, he can hear the water running on the other side of the wall. “Do you know if she’ll be long?”

Kelsey shrugs, pulling her laptop back onto her lap. “Idk. I’m not the shower police.”

Kent flinches involuntarily, his brain automatically shooting back to the last few hours of his life. His knees feel weak, and he sits down at the edge of her bed. He needs distraction. “What are you doing?”

“Reblogging pictures and gifsets of Gerard Way performing.”

“For your Tumblr?”

“What else am I supposed to do? I can’t understand what’s on TV.”

“Just because we’re in Montreal doesn’t mean every single channel is in French.”

“Yeah, only 90% of them instead. How lucky,” she mutters, face glued to her computer screen.

“In Rimouski, they were all in French. If you want to watch something so bad, I can attempt to translate for you. Or you can watch Global. They usually have US reruns on there. How do you feel about Supernatural?”

“The actor who plays Dean is hot.”

“That's not what I meant.”

Kelsey glances up from her screen. “You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you.”

“Did you know they film the show here, in Canada?” Kent asks for something to say. Anything to continue their conversation.

“God, if you go to the Canucks do you plan on getting a part-time job as a Vancouver studio tour guide?” She affectionately chirps him. “You’re such a dork. If you want to see if there are any Supernatural reruns in English or French, be my guest.” She reaches over to the bedside table and tosses the remote towards him. “Here.” She has a terrible aim and it lands on the floor.

Kent leans over and gropes his fingers along the carpet for the remote. “Still not good at any sportsball, huh.”

“Don’t need to aim when you’re a runner.”

“Well,” he begins, sitting up and waving the remote triumphantly, “you’re also demonstrating why you weren’t placed on the relay team for track this year.”

“You don’t even throw the baton, Kent! You’re supposed to hand it off to your team within a specific 20 meter zone! Besides, I run hurdles. I actively dodge obstacles, not seek them out.”

“Kent, leave your sister alone!” their mom calls out. “I swear, I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes without you two bickering,” she says as she exits the bathroom in a fluffy bathrobe. She doesn’t even glance at them as she makes a beeline for her luggage. 

“What are you looking for?” Kelsey asks as their mom searches through her suitcase.

“My leave-in conditioner.”

His sister winces. “I used the rest of it earlier.”

Their mom sighs, hands stilling from the depths of her luggage. “I wish you would’ve told me. I could’ve stopped at a drug store and picked up more.”

“Sorry! If you want, you can use the volumizing mousse and curl cream I brought.”

“That would be great. Kelsey, where is–” mom cuts off what she is saying, which means… “Oh, Kent,” she slowly exhales his name. Oh yes, mom has noticed how he’s barely holding everything together despite him avoiding her eye.

He feels her wrap him up in a hug, and Kent squeezes his eyes tight to stop himself from crying. “Oh baby,” she whispers into his temple before planting a kiss. “Want to talk here or in your room?”

“But your hair…” he weakly protests, not wanting to take up too much of her time when she’s busy.

“You’re more important.” She hugs him tighter. “Always.” She gives him another kiss on top of his head before breaking away. “Let me change. Give me 10 minutes and I’ll be in your room. You have your key on you, right?”

He mutely nods, knowing the next time he opens his mouth he will completely fall apart.

His mom grabs his hand and squeezes it to reassure him. “Go. I’ll see you in a few.”

Kent methodically rises and exits the room. If he wasn't fighting to hang on to every single emotion swirling underneath the surface, he would’ve said something to Kelsey. As it stands, his hands are shaking as he walks down the hall. When he reaches his own door, he has trouble slipping the keycard into the slot on the door. It takes him a few times for the light to turn green and the lock to click open.

When he steps into the room, he turns on the light and makes a beeline for his suitcase. He struggles to unzip it; a part of him wants to fling it at the wall, as if it would crack open like an egg and spill out its contents. Like all of the blue pills—

No. Don’t think about that.

His luggage is now open, and he doesn’t have to search for long before he’s pulling out a shirt and shorts. Years of playing travel hockey have taught him to travel light and well. To make sure everything has its place in the suitcase, and know exactly where it is supposed to go. He kicks off his shoes and begins removing every item of clothing methodically, leaving them where they fall on the ground. Maybe he can just abandon them here when he checks out in a few days. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s better than his other idea, tossing them into a bonfire. 

Kent stares at the clothes pile, debating, until a knock on his door startles him. Realizing he is practically naked, he throws on the shorts, pulling on the shirt as he walks towards the door. He opens it as he finishes pulling it down, and there is his mom on the other side. She waltzes into his room and plops onto his bed. “Come join me, sweetie,” she says, patting the spot next to her.

He does as she asks without complaint.

Once he’s settled, she turns and asks, “What’s wrong, Kent?”

He opens his mouth to answer, and finds he can’t figure out what to say. I saw my boyfriend OD. I saved my best friend’s life. Zimms might be dying right now. I’m scared for Jack. Jack. Jack. Jack. 

Instead what comes out is a choked, “I’m sorry.”

“About dinner? Don’t you worry. I understand wanting to hang out with Jack. We have time tomorrow, right?”

Kent goes to respond. He opens his mouth. I’m so worried about Jack. I’m afraid he’s going to die. How am I supposed to do this without him? What he says in a very shaky voice is: “I didn’t get dinner with him.” Because I was too busy trying to save his life. 

His mom wraps an arm around him, tugging him up against her. “You didn’t eat dinner tonight? Want me to order you something from room service?” With the arm that’s not wrapped around him, she rummages in the drawer of the bedside table for the menu.

“I’m not really hungry.”

She peppers a few kisses into his hair, like she used to do when she set him off onto the bus in kindergarten. “Nervous about tomorrow?”

Kent nods into her shoulder. “And about what happened tonight,” he murmurs into her collarbone.

“What happened, sweetie?” she whispers, running a loving hand through his hair. She did the same thing when he had a nightmare as a child. He wishes tonight was only a bad dream. “You can tell me; I promise I won’t be mad.”

With that statement, the dam finally breaks. Kent lets out a choked sob, then another. The tears start and they don’t stop. He is falling apart completely on his mother, curled up against her, and she’s rubbing soothing circles on his back. He wonders if Alicia ever did this with Jack, if his best friend ever allowed himself to break in front of his parents as he is now. The thought makes him cry even harder, because what if he’s dead has risen from the depths once again to bob at the forefront of his mind.

“Kent, I need you to breathe for me. Deep breath in.” His mom pauses. “And out. You’re hyperventilating. And another breath in.” He tries to copy her, but his lungs don’t want to expand. God, is this what Zimms feels every time he has an attack? 

“Breath in. You’re doing such a good job. And out.” His mom continues with a litany of encouragement, rubbing circles into his tense shoulders. Eventually, his breathing feels slightly more under his control and he pulls away. His eyes feel almost swollen and tender. There’s snot dripping from his nose and yes, there’s a bunch on his mom’s shirt too.

“Sorry,” he tells her again, voice hitching.

His mom shakes her head, handing him a tissue before gently scolding him. “I will have none of that, Kent Vincent Parson. A little tears and snot is the least of my worries. I’ve dealt with much worse from you.”

He blows his nose to stop himself from saying anything.

“Now, can you tell me what happened tonight?”

Kent can’t bring himself to look at his mom. He fiddles with the tissue in his hands instead. “It’s going to be all over the news tomorrow,” he says in a very small voice, similar to the tone he’d use when he was trying to get out of trouble as a kid. He pauses, waiting to see if his mom will ask for more, but she says nothing, willing to go at his pace.

“I planned on meeting you for dinner, I swear. I just had to swing by Jack’s room to apologize for something I said earlier. He wasn’t answering his phone, but I could hear it ringing. I used my keycard to let myself in, and there he was.” Here, he pauses, taking a deep breath and trying (and failing) to swallow down the rapidly forming lump in his throat.

“Jack was on the bathroom floor, and, and he wasn’t breathing.” He can’t say more; doesn’t want to remember all the horrible things that came next. He collapses into his mom again, and she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. 

“Oh, sweetie,” his mom says, and she’s peppering him with kisses once more.

Kent finds himself sobbing again. He doesn’t know how he still has tears to cry; he feels like he should’ve ran out a long time ago. His mom is murmuring something to him in soft, reassuring tones, but he can’t understand what she’s saying through the mountain of sorrow and terrible what ifs running through his mind.

Eventually, the tears come to an end. Kent feels like he hasn’t hit his crying quota for the night, but his eyes refuse to produce any more tears. He’s probably dehydrated and definitely drained. He pulls away from his mom, and she lets him.

His mom is staring intently at his face, searching for something. She then hesitantly asks, “Is Jack alive?”

Oh, that would explain it. She’s concerned about upsetting him, but Kent believes that tonight has already hit rock bottom.

“The paramedics stabilized him before they took him away.”

His mom nods in response, but thankfully doesn’t ask for any more details. “Here.” She hands him the entire tissue box off of the side table instead of just one.

“Thanks,” he dully replies before blowing his nose.

“Let me get you some water.” His mom rises from the bed. Kent watches as she goes to the mini fridge to get a hotel-supplied $5 water bottle instead of free from the tap in the bathroom sink. She holds out the bottle and trades it for the snot-covered tissues in his hand.

“I can throw out my own Kleenex,” he grumbles while accepting the water.

“Again, I’ve been handling your boogers since forever,” his mom reminds him as she tosses it away. As she heads towards the bathroom to wash her hands, she calls out, “Take a few sips. You’ll feel better.”

Kent does as he’s told. There’s already a dull throbbing taking residence up in his brain, well on its way to becoming a full-blown headache. When his mom returns, she gestures for him to move. “What? I drank the water.” He holds out the bottle for her to see.

“Very good. Now drink some more after you get up.” He rises from the bed and watches as she expertly pulls the blankets back and fluffs up the pillows. His old bedtime routine when he was younger. When she’s done, she waves for him to return. “C’mon, time for bed.”

Kent’s too exhausted to argue with his mom even if he wanted to. He just wants this nightmare day to be over. He sets the water bottle onto the nightstand and slides into bed. His mom pulls the blankets up around him and gives him a kiss on the head. He feels like he's eight again instead of 18. She turns off the light before sliding into bed next to him.

“Mom? What about Kelsey?”

“She understands that you need me right now. If you’re concerned about her being down the hall, she can sleep in the spare bed in here.”

Kent shakes his head. He does not need his little sister to see the aftermath of his breakdown.

“That’s what I thought. Now, come here.” His mom places an arm protectively around him, like she used to do when he would crawl into her bed while sick as a child. He seeks that same comfort in her hold. Whether he is guided by the exhaustion that has sunk deep within him or the calm, even breathing next to him, Kent finds himself falling asleep much faster than he thought possible even an hour before. 

The last thing he remembers is a whispered, “I love you so much,” that fills him with warmth.

When will everyone have every reason to call all my bluffs?

Kent stares down at his hands clasped in his lap, hoping if he squeezes hard enough, they’ll stop shaking. He doesn’t want to be here, where he’s surrounded by hundreds of other people and dozens of cameras. He’s still a nobody in the crowd, yet he can’t help but feel like the spotlight is shining down on him. 

Of course, other than his hands, no one else can tell just how fucked up he currently is. Well, that’s a lie. His mom knows everything; Kelsey knows something. But the ones who decide his entire future have no idea how not okay he currently is. He makes sure to keep his face relaxed and placid for any camera that may land on him. He refuses to think about hockey at all. It’s ironic seeing as he’s currently at the draft, which will determine his life for the foreseeable future. So instead he stares straight ahead, not absorbing a single word of what’s going on around him. If it weren’t for his traitorous fingers, he would run them through his hair to fight off his urge to tear it out in anguish instead. 

He can’t afford to have a complete mental breakdown quite yet.

Finally, the small talk amongst the Aces staff members is over, and the draft will begin for real. Their GM is beaming as he states, “This year is a rebuilding year for the Aces. We hope that our selection will be with us for many years and help propel our team into a new era. We select Kent Parson as our pick.”

There is ringing in Kent’s ears. He rises from his seat and hugs his mom, who bursts into tears. He can feel her shoulders shaking, but none of the congratulations she is probably giving him. He steps away and Kelsey is beaming at him. He moves around his mom and offers her a quick hug before heading down towards the stage.

Someone is clasping their hand on his back. He doesn’t know who. He feels like he should hear the crowd clapping and cheering him on, yet all he knows is a high pitched whine thundering in his head. It reminds him a bit of the moment after he received a concussion in the Q last year. Third period, and they were leading by two. One of the d-men on the other team had anger issues and took it out on Kent, checking him roughly headfirst into the boards. He blacked out for a few seconds after his helmet thumped against the ice, but he was able to pick himself up without assistance. He remembered searching for those light blue eyes, and when he finally found them, he couldn’t hear anything that was pouring out of his teammate’s mouth. He took one look at him, however and Zimms–

Kent stops that train of thought in its tracks. Like a rubber band snapping, sound and motion return all at once. He isn’t meant to think about hockey, and especially not Zimms. Now that the dam is broken, every other thought comes rushing into the forefront of his mind. The loudest and most numerous, of course, are variations of the same idea: Kent Parson isn’t good enough. 

He is halfway towards the stage when he realizes he forgot to take off his suit jacket. An aide materializes out of nowhere ahead of him, and he absentmindedly shrugs it off, placing the navy blazer in her waiting arms. He hopes he is smiling, that no one can tell how close he is to breaking down right then and there. But all he can think about is how this wasn’t meant to be him. Of course, Jack and him discussed going first and second in the draft. But they both knew that Kent was the second choice. He isn’t supposed to be number one. He isn’t supposed to go to the Aces, to play in Sin City with its unforgiving heat. He’s not meant to be the shiny new star for a team still in its infancy, hungry to prove themselves worthy. Kent is a fraud, a pauper in the prince’s clothing. Lighter hair, smaller build, and meant to play on the wing. He was never meant to be number one, the center of attention. All of this is meant to be for Zimms, not him.

He climbs the stairs and subtly wipes a tear from his eyes. He knows every camera picked it up, but it’s better than letting it slip down his cheek. Kent is sure that his minor show of emotion will be heavily analyzed over the next few days, but he can’t find it in himself to care all that much. He takes his spot on center stage, shaking each person’s hand in turn before accepting the jersey. As he slips the black and white material over his head, he can feel the stitching spelling out his name on the back. When it comes to rest on his shoulders, he can’t help but wonder if before today, it said ZIMMERMANN instead.

And when are all my excuses of learning my lessons gonna start to feel sad?

It’s the day after the draft. Kent should be elated. He went number one. He’s going to be the face of an expansion team. He’s gotten everything he could’ve ever imagined. 

He feels like shit.

Wrapped in a blanket, he picks listlessly at the bacon his mom ordered for him via room service. He would rather be curled up in bed. Preferably with Zimms.

God, he just wants to see him. 

The thought doesn’t bring him to tears like it did yesterday. Instead, his breath hitches, and he breathes through it. 

He needs to observe with his own two eyes that Zimms is alive. 

Kent knows he can’t. He reached out to Bob and Alicia yesterday, after the news reports stated that Jack was in serious condition, to see if he could see him. They politely refused, saying that it would ruin his night, as if the draft wasn’t already tainted. 

Zimms is his best friend. He has to know that he will be alright, and he is running out of time. This time tomorrow, Kent will be on a flight to Las Vegas, finalizing all the paperwork involved with signing for an NHL team. If he is to see Jack, it would have to be today.

A knock at the door startles him out of his rumination. He places the bit of bacon he hadn’t pulverised onto his plate and wipes the grease off on his pajama bottoms before answering the door. Kelsey, in yet another My Chemical Romance tee and freshly straightened hair, is on the other side. 

“Wanna go to the art museum with mom and me?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“No, not really.”

“Well, too bad. Mom says she expects you to be fully dressed and ready to go when she knocks on the door in 10 minutes.”

Kent would much rather wallow in bed all day or pluck out one of his eyes before doing some touristy shit and dealing with the hordes. He lets out a fake cough. “It looks like I’m coming down with something. You two can go on without me.”

“Kent, mom really misses you. We’ve hardly seen you in person this year. Please, will you do this for her?” Kalsey stares at him and clasps her hands together. When did she get so good at making puppy dog eyes?

He lets out a long sigh. “Fine. I’ll be ready.” He closes the door and leans his head against it, trying to mentally prepare himself for going outside today. After spending a few minutes trying to not think about things, he walks back over to his suitcase and puts on the first things he finds. 

Looking at himself in the mirror, Kent doesn’t really care that his shirt and shorts don’t exactly go together. They both clash with the dark circles under his eyes. Yesterday, his mom insisted on using some concealer under his eyes to hide some of his weariness from the cameras. Only now, they stand out much more prominently than before. Turning away from his reflection, he grabs his wallet off the dresser and his phone from its charger on the bedside table. 

Kent clicks the power button, and the screen lights up. An envelope appears; there are multiple text messages from his mom. That explains why Kelsey was knocking on his door a few minutes ago. But none from either Bob or Alicia. 

He shakes his head, clicking the screen off and sliding his phone into his pocket. He goes back to the table to clean up his remnants of breakfast the best he can. No reason to make more work for housekeeping. 

Kent is placing the lid back over the plate when there’s a knock at his door. He throws on a pair of sneakers, hopping on one foot and then the other to get them on instead of actually tying them before opening the door. 

“Ready to go on an adventure?” his mom asks as she hugs him. 

“Do we have to?” Kent replies as he closes the hotel room door behind him and follows his mom down the hall. 

“Yes, I promised your sister we would do something fun before we drive back home.”

“Where is Kelsey?”

“Waiting for us by the elevators.”

“And what does Kelsey want to do?”

“Go to the art museum.”

“She literally complained to me two days ago that everything was in French and she wants to go to a museum?”  

“An art museum, sweetie. It transcends language. Besides, Canada is bilingual. I’m sure they have everything listed in English.”

Kent didn’t feel like agreeing with his mom, although he knew she was right. While Quebec was a francophone land, and fiercely protective of its status as such, Montreal was where English had the most visibility. McGill, one of the top universities in the nation, was based here and they taught in English.

As they approach the elevators, he calls out to his sister. “So, I heard we’re doing something nerdy today.”

Kelsey rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, utterly unimpressed with him. “The art museum isn’t nerdy. It’s a historical analysis and a look into past cultures.”

“I feel like you just want to show off what you learned in your AP Art History course,” Kent grumbles as he presses the down button for the elevator. 

“And so what if I do? I know I passed!”

“I wish you were that confident with your English AP exam,” their mom said with a sigh. 

“It’s difficult to write a five paragraph essay in 30 minutes!” Kelsey declares as the elevator doors open. They step inside and she presses the button for the lobby while still ranting. “No matter how much practice we had, I could never score higher than a 6 in our peer reviews!”

“And that’s… bad?” Kent can’t help but question.

“Yes! They grade the essays on a nine point scale, and a 6 is equivalent to a 3 on the exam. That’s still passing, but it’s like barely. And my essays are firmly in the 4-6 point range.”

“But the essays aren’t the entire exam.”

Kelsey groans. “I know! But I’m also apparently terrible at reading comprehension under pressure.”

“How’d you get into the AP class then?”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “My guidance counselor said I was too smart for the regular English class. I guess she was wrong.”

“Kelsey,” their mother broke in, “don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty smart. That type of test just wasn’t made for your strengths.” The elevator doors opened and they all stepped out into the lobby. “Now, we’re going to have a nice day out at the museum.” She pulled out a small map from her purse. “I’ve marked on here what subway we have to take. Which one of you wants to be our navigator?”

Neither Kent or Kelsey volunteered. 

“Come on! You both used to fight over this role when you were younger!”

“We’re no longer kids, mom,” Kent gently tells her. 

“Well, you’ll always be my kids. And since you spoke up first, you get to tell us where to go!” His mom hands him the map and makes her way towards the entrance. Kelsey speed walks to catch up while Kent reluctantly follows. 

Four hours later, and Kent doesn’t want to admit that his mom might be right. Sure, he still wishes that he was laying in his hotel bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. But being around others and staring at paintings he doesn’t understand have put him in a much better mood than he was before his sister knocked on his door. 

He’s staring at some painting that’s both abstract and made up of shapes. Kelsey could probably tell him all about without having to read the informational placard found to its right. Kent thinks it may be a person’s face, but it’s hard to tell due to all the dark shading. Whatever it’s supposed to be, it looks a bit grotesque. 

He’s still trying to figure out what the subject matter is when his mom slips up beside him. “Kent, I have a surprise for you.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve finally got the puppy I wanted when I was six. That’s pretty mean, especially since I’m moving halfway across the country.”

“At least we’ll be in the same country. No more international calling fees,” his mom says with a teasing smile. “That’s not the surprise.” 

She reaches out and grabs Kent’s hands, preemptively providing him comfort. “I spoke with Alicia today. She agreed to let you see Jack since you’re his best friend.”

“Really? I can see and talk to him?” Kent asks, not caring that he’s interrupting. He’ll finally see with his own two eyes that Zimms is alive and well. He can tell him about Vegas, and how he promises to still stay in touch. 

“—but it has to be in the next hour. According to the metro map, it’ll take about 35 minutes to get to the hospital from here. Do you want to go?”

Kent can’t believe his mom is asking if he wants to visit his best friend and love in the hospital. Of course the answer is yes. “Yes. Let’s go. Where’s Kelsey?” He scans the gallery for his sister. 

“Over there.” His mom points towards the entrance of the exhibit and they walk over. 

“How did you manage to convince Bob and Alicia to let me see him?” Kent asks in a near-whisper, hoping that no one overhears. 

His mom gives a little half shrug. “I spoke to her, mother to mother. And I offered her support.” Her response was obviously intentionally vague, but Kent didn’t push her to add any more.

They pick up Kelsey, and her and their mom chatter about all of the art they saw today as they exit. Kent remains quiet, suddenly nervous about seeing Jack for the first time since it happened. He follows blindly as their mom leads them back towards the metro station, swiping his day pass when prompted. He’s a duckling stepping onto the train as they head back towards their hotel. He doesn’t know which hospital Zimms is at, but of course it would be near the hotel.

It’s only when they are outside of the hospital that he speaks up again. “Where is he?” he asks as his mom hands Kelsey some money for the coffee shop across the street. 

She smiles as she watches his sister cross the street. She loops an arm around his shoulder and turns them so they face the entrance. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

They step inside and Kent extracts himself from his mom. They walk side by side through the lobby and past the first bank of elevators. They go through a maze of hallways, but his mom appears to know exactly where they need to go, turning at various signs. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it feels much longer before they stop in front of another set of elevators. His mom presses the up arrow, and 15 seconds later, they are stepping into the elevator. She selects the sixth floor as the doors close.

When they open, it’s to a waiting area with blue carpet and a reception desk. His mom goes right up to it and says, “Hello, we’re here to see Jack ZImmermann.”

“What are your names?”

“I’m Ramona Parson, and this is Kent Parson, my son.”

The receptionist types something into her computer before nodding. “I can take you to see him now.”

Kent turns towards the door, but his mom’s hand in his own stops him. “What?”

“Do you want me to come with you? I can stay out here if you want.”

“You don’t mind?”

She shakes her head. “Whatever will be easiest for you.” 

A part of Kent wants her there, only for moral support. Even if that means he’s childish and selfish. But he also knows he won’t be completely honest with Zimms if she’s in there with him. “You can stay here or outside the room, I guess.”

“Okay.”

They both follow the receptionist through a door that unlocks with her keypad. Were they on a locked ward because of Zimms mental state or to better protect his privacy. Suddenly, Kent wonders if this was a good idea. It’s too late though, as they are already being herded down the hall with identical doors. They stop halfway down outside room 607. The receptionist knocks on the closed door and waits.

Alicia opens the door. “Oh, Kent, thank you!” she proclaims, wrapping him up in a hug. He freezes for a moment before returning the gesture. That is not the response he was expecting. “You saved Jack’s life!” When she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes, which she quickly wipes away.

“And congratulations on being drafted. You’ll be a great asset for the Aces.” She looks beyond Kent at his mom, who’s standing behind him. “You must be incredibly proud.”

“Of course I am.”

“Can I go in and speak to Jack now?” Kent asks. He hopes he doesn’t sound as impatient as he feels.

Alicia’s face falls just a little bit. “I’m sorry, he just fell asleep. The whole ov- ordeal really took a lot out of him. You’re welcome to sit and talk quietly to him if you’d like.”

There goes most of his plan. Still, he nods. Seeing and holding Zimm’s hand is better than not seeing him at all. “Yes, please.”

“You can go on in. I’ll stay out here and catch up with Romona.”

Kent slips into the room, half expecting to see Bob, but it’s empty except for himself and Jack. The overhead lights are off since Jack’s asleep, but enough afternoon light comes in through the window, showcasing downtown Montreal. It’s a private room, and bigger than Kent’s hotel room. He cautiously steps towards the bed, almost afraid of making a sound and waking Jack up. He gets next to the bed and sits gently into the plush armchair. There’s a blanket on the back that smells like Alicia’s perfume, so he assumes that she was keeping vigil before he showed up. 

He studies Jack, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s mesmerizing, seeing as the last time he saw him, Kent thought Zimms would never experience breathing again. Examining his face showcases hints of the overdose two days ago. His skin has a white pallor to it, as if his blood is still trying to figure out how to reach his entire body again. And the dark circles under his eyes are even worse than before. He looked worse for wear, but at least he was alive. 

That’s what really mattered.

Kent had a whole list of things he wanted to say to Zimms, but all of it went out the window once he sat down. Instead, he stares at his love, drinking in the sight of him alive and no longer on Death’s door. A part of him wants to reach out and grab onto his hand, cradle it gently in his own, and place a kiss on it so he knows he was there. But that might wake him up, and Jack obviously needs his rest.

Then again, the next thing Kent does also has a real possibility of waking Jack up. He bursts into tears, and quickly places his hand over his mouth to stop his sobs from coming out. Because all of Kent’s efforts worked! The proof is right in front of him. Jack Zimmermann lives against all odds. He wishes he could wrap him up in a hug and hold him and listen to his beating heart, a mirror image of how they usually laid; Jack’s head resting on his chest.

Only when he is sure his crying is no longer loud enough to wake Jack does Kent remove his hand from his face. The tears are still coming down, but at least he has it under control. He wipes his hands on his shorts, not caring if he has snot all over them, and tentatively places a hand over Jack’s.

“You know, I thought you were dead.”

He lets the silence hang between them, the truth stretched out between them.

“I was right. You weren’t breathing.”

No response. Not a twitch from Jack’s sleeping form. 

“Please, god, never scare me like that again. I-I love you so much. I don’t think I can go through that again.”

Kent stops talking. If he says anything more, he’ll be a sobbing mess once again. That’s the exact opposite of what Jack needs right now. So they sit, one blissfully asleep, the other all too aware, until Alicia returns and tells him it’s time to go.

Looking back, it didn’t feel like a goodbye.

Will I spend all the rest of my years wishing I could go back?

Vegas sucks. 

The city is too hot for anyone to properly function in the day. The goal appears to be moving from one air conditioned space to another as quickly as possible. Kent doesn’t care that it’s a ‘dry heat;’ the 110 degree days are still the highest temperature he’s ever experienced before. Of course, things cool off to a ‘more reasonable’ 80 degrees at night.  

Whenever he’s outside, it’s like he can feel the moisture being sucked out from his skin and taken away by the cruel desert wind. It’s hot, it’s dry, and the only real grass he’s seen was when the taxi drove him past a golf course. He expected to miss snow and ice. He didn’t think he would miss seeing green grass everywhere. 

Kent stares out over the Vegas skyline from his hotel room window. The sun is beginning to set, and the lights of the city of sin will soon be out in full force. His day was long. He had a meeting with his agent, followed by various coaching staff, administrators, and even one of the owners. He’d been on the team for less than a week, and everyone already wants a piece of his time or image. 

Well, everyone except for the players. 

Most of them are away due to Canada Day and the July 4th coming up in a few days. As such, he’s met none of his new teammates. He’s only heard from one of them. Aaron Dill, his captain, sent him a congratulatory welcome text after the draft. It’s been crickets since then, but Kent doesn’t blame them. For all he knows, they were expecting to have Jack Zimmermann on their line, not him. (And he does know. According to all the sport blogs he shouldn’t be reading, Zimms was the Aces top pick. Now they are stuck with Kent, their consolation prize).

Kent tries not to let it get to him, but it’s times like these– sitting on his hotel bed in a city he hates– that he feels particularly alone. At least if Zimms was out of the hospital, they could be texting or calling each other right now, comparing notes and swapping stories. But he’s utterly alone.

Of course, he could call his mom, but he doesn’t want to worry her. He spent years only speaking to his family once a week; this is nothing. Besides, he’ll be seeing her and Kelsey again in only a few days for his birthday. Better for him to focus his energy somewhere else, like if he missed any warning signs.

Kent thought that the 34 days between winning the Memorial Cup and the Draft were perfect. Obviously, that illusion completely shattered in the wake of Zimm’s overdose the day before the draft. He tried to pick out any memories where things felt off between them, to try and figure out what the tipping point was to everything going wrong.

There was, of course, the way Zimm’s anxiety grew worse the closer they got to the Draft. Kent had dismissed how Jack took an extra pill most days, assuming that his medication had changed. Besides, it wasn’t as bad as it had been during the leadup to the Cup, so Kent assumed everything was fine. That was his mistake, and he definitely wouldn’t be making it again. 

He did the best he could. He has to keep reminding himself that.

Suddenly, thinking over any and all mistakes seems particularly exhausting. He doesn’t want to think about the bad times for fear that it will trigger more nightmares tonight. Last night was bad enough, waking up to a pounding heart, sweat soaked sheets, and the belief that Zimms was actually dead.

Kent reaches over and turns off the lamp on the side table. It may be early, but it’s been a long day. Hopefully, if he goes to bed early enough, maybe he can get a good night’s rest. He pulls up all his favorite memories of Jack and him from the past month. If he only thinks about the positives, hopefully it will counteract all the death he keeps seeing. After all, playing driveway hockey and kissing in bed and visiting the newest cafe and cannonballing into a pool are much better things to dream about than cold tile, blue pills, and a boyfriend who won’t breathe again.

Chapter Text

I'll blow out the candles, happy birthday to me

“I could’ve picked you up,” his mom greets him as he enters the kitchen, moving quickly so the screen door doesn’t slap at his heels. 

“It’s fine.” Kent shrugs, feeling his backpack shift across his shoulders. “The ride from the airport wasn’t that bad. Besides, I couldn’t possibly pull you away from the barbecue prep.” And with a nameless taxi driver, he was able to ignore how weird it feels to be arriving alone.

She sets down the piping bag and turns towards him, holding her arms out wide. “I made you your favorite.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Kent insists, letting her hug him tighter than usual and peeking over her shoulder to look at his cake. White frosting with black and red accents to match his new team. It’s the same design she’s done for him since he turned eight, although this year she’s also piping some Aces symbols on top for a little extra flair. “It looks perfect!”

“Of course I had to make you a Funfetti cake! It’s only your birthday once a year.” She cups the back of his head and pulls him closer so she could give him a peck on the cheek. She then whispers conspiratorially, “I even added extra sprinkles to make it even more special.”

Kent lets out a light chuckle and breaks out of the hug. “You shouldn’t have.”

“If you don’t want the extra sprinkles, we’ll just say they are for me instead,” comes a light monotone from the kitchen doorway. There is his sister, leaning casually against the door. He knows he saw both of them a week ago, but it feels much longer than that. 

“Kelsey, I don’t think anyone would believe you,” he says, gesturing towards her all-black ensemble and dramatic eye makeup. “I’m sure the Hot Topic at the mall is hiring.”

“I like wearing black. Hot pink is still my favorite color!” she insists with a scowl. 

Kent walks over and gives her a hug too. “Does that mean I’ll still be blinded if I walk into your room?”

“It’s not that pink,” she indignantly squawks, trying to escape the noogie he’s giving her.

He sets her free and steps away as she flattens down her hair, for once left natural instead of flat ironed to death. “I was seeing that color in my dreams for a week after I helped paint your walls. I’m pretty sure it’s burned into the back of my retinas,” he gently chirps. 

“Heaven forbid I have a fun color instead of something boring like your blue walls.”

“Blue is supposed to be soothing.”

Kelsey shrugs. “What it does is make you an old man.”

“I suppose we should be grateful that you didn’t paint your room black.”

She gives him a sly little grin. “Well, actually…” she begins.

“It’s one wall,” their mom interjects, pointing her piping bag at Kelsey, “and it’s with chalkboard paint so she can draw to her heart’s content.”

“That sounds pretty cool! Do you mind showing me?”

Kelsey shrugs and rolls her eyes. “This is your house too, you know!”

Kent believes that statement is inherently false. Like a shirt that shrunk in the wash, he’s outgrown this house long before he left it at 16. He’s spent much of the past few years of his life living out of the country. And now, he is busy trying to relocate his life once again, a few more thousand miles away. 

He is taken out of his thoughts by his sister poking him on his arm. “Earth to Kent. Come check out my erasable wall. I’ll even let you practice your autograph for all your adoring fans.” She doesn’t give him a choice in the matter, dragging him through the living room and towards her room. 

“You’re one of them, right?” he asks with a cheeky grin as they climb up the stairs. 

“Actually, I think I like St. Martin from the Falconers more. Sorry.”

“And here I was going to offer you a brand new Parson jersey. It’s mostly black, so it matches your entire look.” He waves his hand to emphasize her current outfit.

Kelsey spins around and practically squeals her excitement. “You already have a jersey? That’s so cool!”

He does not, in fact, have a jersey, save the ceremonial one from the draft a few short days ago. He doesn’t want to ever wear it again. Despite being an Ace, it still feels wrong. Probably because he knows in every other universe, they were never meant to be his team. 

As Kent walks past his own childhood bedroom, he slides off his backpack and places it just inside the door, refusing to take stock of anything in there at the time. It’s a time capsule for a future that will never exist. 

Ahead of him, his sister flings open the door to her own room. “What do you think?” she asks as she waves her arm with a flourish. 

The interior isn’t as viscously pink as he remembered, but that could be due to the amount of My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, and Paramore posters covering the walls. Or the aforementioned black chalkboard along the opposite wall. 

The chalkboard wall is dominated by an octopus to the left of the window. It stretches from floor to ceiling, each of its limbs a different color and pattern. Only three are complete so far, and even from where he hovers in the doorway, he can tell they are intricate. Along the baseboards, he can make out some flowers and other plants. And above her desk is a list of things to do, mostly summer assignments, along with a portrait that looks remarkably like Sneakers, their childhood cat.

Kent steps fully into the room and meanders towards the octopus. It is even more stunning up close, and he studies a tentacle that is somehow both a kaleidoscope of colors and an ombré at the same time. “Are you planning on going to art school for college?” he asks over his shoulder.

Kelsey plops down at the foot of her bed. With a shake of her head, she says, “No. I still want to be a software engineer. This is just a hobby for me.”

“It’s a hobby you’re very good at. I turned my hobby into a career; maybe you can do the same.” 

“I’m not like you and hockey, Kent. I can’t be focused on my art 100% of the time, or I would grow to hate and resent making it. Besides, I like coding well enough. It’s a digital puzzle of sorts. And I can be creative with it too.” She leans over and grabs her laptop off of her desk. “Want to see my new Tumblr theme? I coded it myself!”

“Is the main color also highlighter pink?” he jokes.

Kelsey rolls her eyes. “No, it’s even better: shimmering hot pink glitter.”

“I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with,” he replies, sitting down next to her on the bed.

They spend the next 15 minutes discussing the intricacies of the coding for Kelsey’s Tumblr. By the end, Kent thinks he at least understands what HTML is and how to properly format a blog post. The key word being understands ; he knows he would fuck it up if he were asked to demonstrate it himself. When they have exhausted all of his sister’s coding knowledge, she takes the laptop back. “There is something else I wanted to show you,” she shyly mentions as she searches for something on the computer.

“Are you going to share your deepest, darkest secret with me?” Kent teases before he begins ticking off a list with his fingers. “I already know that you have two different side-blogs: one dedicated to Gerard Way and the other to David Tennent as the Doctor.” He lets out a dramatic gasp. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a third niche blog!”

“First of all, that blog is dedicated to all things My Chemical Romance, not just Gerard. Second, you’ve seen how cool he is! The Doctor and Donna are the best duo. Third, I do have another niche blog. I think you’ll like it. I made it just for you.”

“Is it Britney themed?” Kent asks, trying to lean over to see what his sister’s doing, but she tilts her laptop’s screen away from him. 

“Why would I run a Britney Spears fan blog? That’s more up your alley.”

“Because she’s one of the greatest entertainers of our lifetime! I don’t care what the critics say. Circus is a great album.”

Kelsey hums with indifference, trying to placate him. “It’s not dedicated to her, but I think you’ll like it all the same.” She hands the laptop over to Kent, who stares in shock for a moment. 

It’s the background that catches his eyes first; the same shade of burgundy as the accent color on his new uniform. And in the background are a bunch of slowly rotating ace of spades and hockey sticks. Only after he thoroughly studies the background does he turn his focus towards the only post on the blog. It’s a gifset from the previous week. Of his name being called first in the draft. 

“There’s already a fan blog for me?” Kent asks, a bit bewildered.

“No, you doofus! Well, yeah, there’s plenty of fan blogs. But this one is special, because I made it for you. I plan on putting all your goals, wins, and other important milestones on here that way you know you always have a fan. If you have a rough day, you know you can go on here and see why you’re so amazing. Happy Birthday, Kent!”

Kent lunges towards his sister and throws his arms around her, burying his face in her curls. “Hey,” she squawks, “watch out for the laptop.” She grabs it before it can topple onto the rug and sets it behind her on the bed before returning the hug. “I know things have been rough for you for a bit, especially with your friend.” He tenses at the reference to Zimms, and Kelsey rushes to reassure him. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, even if you live halfway across the country from me now. And with the blog, you’ll always have something positive.”

Kent pulls away from her and wipes a tear from his cheek. “Thank you, Kelsey. I guess I’ll have to get a Tumblr now.”

His sister enthusiastically nods at him, reaching behind them to pick up her laptop. “You’ll love it! You can find posts about anything! And I can keep you all up to date about Gerard Way and David Tennent news!”

“Maybe I’ll make a dedicated blog to Britney Spears instead.”

Kelsey’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “What do you want your username to be?”

“You want to make a blog now?”

“No time like the present!”

Except, there are other things that must be done, as evidenced by their mom hollering from downstairs. “Kent, can you please start the grill? And Kelsey, I need your help with the pasta salad!”

“Yes, Mom!” They shout together.

“Race you downstairs!” Kent exclaims, jumping up from the bed and running out of his sister’s room.

“No fair!” she shouts behind him, but is laughing all the same. 

Later on, after making a mountain of hot dogs and hamburgers; after small talk with his proud aunts and uncles, smile a little too tight while they gush about him going #1 in the NHL draft; after his cousins stop hero worshiping him and instead bring up all of his less fine moments, including the dreaded Kool-Aid incident of ‘02; after the sun finally starts to set. That’s when he finds himself thinking about everything .

It is tradition for Kent to blow out his birthday candles in the twilight of the night, that way everyone can enjoy their slice of cake while watching the fireworks. When he was younger, he thought the bright lights and thunderous booms were in celebration of him. He didn’t understand that his birthday fell on a national holiday, not the other way around. He tries to remember his youngest birthdays as his family sings around him. It’s easier for him to smile through the fuzzy memories than the crystal clear ones from the year before. When the singing is over, he blows out the candles, wishing for the same thing he’s been praying for since the fucking bathroom the night before the draft. Zimms. And then his mom is right there, cutting slices and serving them. He accepts the first one, grabbing a fork before wandering away towards the oak tree, needing some space.

His sister obviously missed the memo. Kelsey makes a beeline towards him as soon as she picks up her own piece of cake. “I took some pictures for you,” she says before he can tell her to go away.

“That’s great. You know how to text me.”

“With your phone.” She holds out the device. “I noticed you didn’t have it with you earlier.”

“Yeah, it was pretty dead after my flight.”

Kelsey purses her lips. “Yet it miraculously charged itself while sitting in your backpack.”

“Small miracles.” He pockets the phone without bothering to even turn on the screen. 

“You don’t have any messages.” 

Kent knows that was a real possibility. He hasn’t heard anything important from Jack or his parents since the first, when they told him Zimms would be released from the hospital soon. The last message he received from any of them was from Alicia thanking him for the Canada Day well-wishes. He half-expects her to return the favor today, seeing as she is American. Yet the Zimmermanns have been uncharacteristically silent. He gives Kelsey a small, tight smile. “Thanks for bringing me my phone.”

“No problem.” 

He expects her to turn back towards the fray of their extended family, yet she hesitates. “Can I help you?”

“You shouldn’t spend your birthday alone.”

“I’m not. I have all of you here.” He waves his fork towards the deck, where cake and ice cream is being served and glow sticks are rationed out to his younger cousins. When he redirects his attention back towards his sister, her expression has shifted from concern to pity, which makes both anger and heartache flare in his chest. “I’m fine, Kelsey!” he insists, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I want to have some time for self reflection and all that bullshit since I guess I’m a mature and responsible adult now that I have a job.” He takes a deep breath and in a softer tone says, “I’m too old for you to be hanging out with me. Go enjoy your youth with Addie and gush over your love of My Chemical Romance.”

“You’ve been an adult for a year, but I’d hardly consider you responsible,” she responds with a roll of her eyes. She’s already turning away, heading back towards her favorite cousin and the rest of the family. 

Good for Kent, as he can’t hide the hurt of Kelsey’s parting words. He knows she meant it as a joke; she can’t possibly know how his own irresponsible actions last week directly correlates to the position he finds himself in now. He knew better, yet he still left that hotel room. He doesn’t like to think about how different things could’ve been if he balked up the nerve to apologize only five minutes later. His brain doesn’t give him the choice, forcing him to play his part at night. Kent in his best suit; red rimmed eyes unable to meet anyone else’s; an open casket decades earlier than anyone ever expected. The indisputable fact that he killed Jack. 

Kent sets his plate of cake down on the grass next to him and hugs his knees to his chest, trying to desperately swallow down the sobs that threaten to rise up his throat. Now is not the time for a fucking mental breakdown. He’s barely handling the aftermath of Jack’s and can’t possibly deal with his own. 

He hears a faint whistle, then a boom. Bright red light filters through the oak tree’s canopy. His younger cousins let out shrieks of delight at the show beginning. Kent supposes if he wants to get a better view, he should move away from the trunk of the tree. But a part of him is rooted here as gold dances across the sky. This is where he watched the fireworks last year, laying shoulder to shoulder with Jack, excited about what their final year in the Q would hold for them. Their futures were so bright, glittering like the performance in the sky. Now all that remains is the smoke that hangs in the air after the show, slow to disperse. 

Three more booms. Green, white, blue. It feels like a pounding on his own chest, begging for him to open up. Kent finally gives in, curling onto himself and releasing the sobs he’s been holding in all day. Mourning what should have been.

What a difference a year makes.

Got your whole life ahead of you, you're only 19

Jack fidgets with the zipper of his hoodie, staring intently as it slowly moves up and down its track. He doesn’t know why he agreed to this. That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s regretting it right now, when all he has wanted to do for the last month was exactly this. 

He hears the tell-tale jangle of maman’s favorite bracelet from down the hall and drops the zipper, awkwardly clasping his hands together instead. As if he could still hide his anxiety from anyone close to him. He knew that wasn’t allowed. 

“Oh, Jack!” she calls out to him as soon as she sees him. 

He stands up automatically to give her a hug. “Hello, maman,” he whispers into her hair. He takes in a deep breath to both calm his nerves and to seek comfort in the same lightly floral perfume she’s been wearing since he was a kid. 

“It’s so good to see you again!” she tells him as she pulls away. 

Jack resists the urge to roll his eyes. They’d seen each other three days ago at his mandatory family therapy session. “Where is papa?” he asks instead.

Maman runs a soothing hand down his arm. “He’s in the car. He didn’t want to upset you.”

He tugs out of his mother’s reach. “Why should I even bother going if he doesn’t want to see me?” 

“Jack, of course he wants to see you! He knows that he messed up. We both do!” she rushes to reassure him. “But he’s trying. He wouldn’t miss today for the world. He loves you so much, but he knows things are… delicate right now and doesn’t want to accidentally make it worse.” Maman loops her arm through his. “Come along and celebrate with us. I’m sure you’re excited to leave for a few hours.”

As much as Jack has not hated– but rather strongly disliked– what he’s been doing the past month, even he can admit that being forced to talk about difficult topics has made things better overall. He’s finally learning better coping mechanisms and how to work through his panic attacks instead of taking a pill to help it all go away. And he was looking forward to spending a few hours away from the facility, ready for the familiarity of home. At least until his weekly family therapy session a few days ago. 

Jack had opened up a bit about the pressures he felt about the draft and not living up to everyone’s expectations. How part of his anxiety stemmed from the need to not only be as good as his father, but even better. His father, instead of reassuring him, put his foot in his mouth before going on a long-winded statement about how nobody’s perfect. The session abruptly ended when he spiraled into another panic attack. Which reminds him.

“Eh, sorry for freaking out on you during therapy,” he says, awkwardly running his hand through his hair.

Maman pulls him into another hug. “Oh, honey, there is no reason for you to apologize for your panic attack. I’m sorry for not noticing how anxious the conversation was making you until it was too late. And your father has an apology for you too once we get into the car.” She pats him on the shoulder before pulling away, readjusting her purse strap. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, maman.” Jack dutifully follows her towards the entrance lobby, which he hasn’t seen since they checked him in a month ago. An inoffensive beige area that to the untrained eye looks straight out of a high-end spa, not rich people rehab. Although that might be the point. Pretend that you’re entering some fancy retreat where you’ll feel well-rested and rejuvenated, instead of grueling self-reflection and copious amounts of therapy in a variety of forms. 

Once outside, Jack stops on the sidewalk, taking in his first taste of freedom. For some reason, it feels heavy, and not only because it’s an afternoon in August. He’s been outside since entering the facility, mapping out the small collection of footpaths that crisscross along the back of the property. This isn’t a locked mental ward, after all. However, due to how the rehab center is laid out, there is no way for any member of the public to see him on his daily strolls. Here, in the parking lot, is a public area. Anyone driving in can see him, and take a photo, and send it to any number of news and gossip sites. 

Jack takes in a sharp breath, and maman is there, linking their arms together. “Come along, dear. Your dad is parked right over there.” She points towards the left side of the parking lot, and sure enough, there is the black Range Rover. 

They make their way towards it in silence. When they reach the car, Jack moves away from his mother, opening up the back door and climbing in.

Papa turns around from the driver’s seat to greet him as he’s buckling himself in. “Jack, it’s so good to see you! I hope you’re ready to celebrate!” 

“It’s not anything… big, right?” The last thing he wants is to see any more of his family or friends. 

Maman’s smile is quick to reassure him. “Of course not! Just the three of us at home for the afternoon. The only surprise is what flavor your cake is.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to go through the trouble.”

“Jack, it’s your birthday. Of course–” she pauses here to take a deep breath. “Of course we’re going to celebrate.” She pats his leg before turning back around.

Papa throws the car into gear and pulls slowly out of the parking lot. Jack feels bad about upsetting maman. Today is supposed to be a joyous occasion, and he’s already ruined it. He’s already fucked it up, just like the last celebration. To distract himself, he stares out the window at the Quebec countryside and practices his breathing. He can’t have an attack now, or else they’ll send him straight back to the center. He'll never be able to leave until his program is up. 

The 90 minute car ride passes in strained silence. His parents don’t even bother doing their well-tested arguments over the music selection like they usually do. Instead, maman slips one of her favorite 80s pop CDs into the player and turns the music down low. Papa doesn’t even let out a resigned sigh at the music choice. But maman also doesn’t sing along like she usually does. 

When they finally get past the gate and pull up in front of his childhood home, Jack is eager to escape the car. While returning home brings with it a new combination of emotions, it’s better than the strained awkwardness he just endured. As he steps out of the vehicle, he studies the house to see if it looked different at all since the last time he saw it. It was still the same light bluish grey with stone accents that he grew up with.

This time, it is papa who leads him. He tosses an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. “Jack, I want to apologize for what I said during therapy last week. I need you to know that I will love you no matter what, okay? You don’t need to be in the NHL for me. Hell, you don’t even need to play hockey again and I’ll support you every step of the way. I'm so proud of what you’ve accomplished so far, and you’re much stronger than I ever was at your age, okay?”

Jack nods and refuses to meet his father’s eyes. “Okay. Thank you for saying that.” Even if you’re lying to me.

“Your mother hasn’t changed anything yet, although she’s did get some tile samples to redo the kitchen backsplash,” Papa tells him as he guides them through the front door.

“What color does she want?”

“Something lighter, I guess,” he replies with a shrug. “She claims it would brighten up the room. All I know is that every color she’s shown me so far looks like the same shade of tan. I can’t tell her that though, or else she’ll get mad.”

Papa changes the subject as they enter the kitchen. “Alicia, dear, what are you doing?”

Maman already has a saucepan on the stove and a sheet pan on the counter. She’s currently digging through the freezer for something. She grins, clutching a red bag and closing the freezer before responding. “I’m making homemade poutine for Jack’s birthday. I know it’s his favorite.”

“But what about the sandwiches?” 

“We can still have them!” she insists as she pours the bag of fries onto the sheet. “Poutine is a better side than chips anyways.” She looks up from rearranging the fries to look at Jack. “I went to that cafe that you and Kent discovered earlier in the year and got sandwiches for lunch. If you don’t want that, there’s still some chicken tenders in the freezer that I can cook up for you.”

Jack swallows down the lump in his throat. Maman is trying so hard to act like this is a completely normal birthday by offering up some of his favorite foods. Chicken tenders, while also being a good source of protein, also reminds him of better times. He’s been eating them a lot lately to try and forget he is in rehab. 

“What kind of sandwich did you get me?” he asks. As long as it wasn’t roast beef, he’ll eat it.

“A turkey club,” maman replies as she moves the sheet pan next to the oven. “Do you want to help me make the gravy?” It is a simple, easy task of dumping the packet and some water into the saucepan and making sure it doesn't boil over. 

It’s been Jack’s job since he was a kid. He gives her his first genuine smile of the day. “Of course.” 

But I fear that they already got all the best parts of me

He’s running out of time. They ate lunch, sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and had him open a few presents. And now, it is time for Jack to head back to the facility. There was one thing he wanted to do first. “Can I grab a few things from my room?” he asks his parents as they clean up the remnants of chocolate cake. He hasn’t been in it since before the draft, going directly from the hospital to the rehab center.

Both of them freeze. Maman recovers first, continuing to put the dirty plates in the dishwasher. She doesn’t say anything though, letting papa take the lead.

“It might look a little different.”

“Did you decide to remodel it?”

“No, nothing like that. We did have to go through your things to make sure there wasn’t anything else.”

“It was only the pills, I swear!” Jack feels the anger rising up. How dare they go through his things. Being treated like he was at rehab, always being checked over. Although another part of him knows that’s exactly why they went through everything. He’s a recovering drug addict, and addicts lie.

“I– We know, sweetie,” maman pacates him, her face wearing the same heartbroken expression he last saw when he woke up in the hospital a little over a month ago. 

“We were following your doctor’s advice,” papa continues. “We didn’t find anything else and we tried to put everything back where we found it. We wanted you to know before you headed up.”

Jack nods in understanding. “Okay. Thanks.” He turns away from them and makes his way up the stairs to his room.

He pauses outside the door and takes a deep breath before stepping inside. It looks the same as it did the last time he was here. Light grey walls, red plaid bedspread, his books in small stacks on top of his dresser, all of his hockey awards displayed above his desk. If his parents didn’t say anything, he would have no idea they even went through all of his things. After his cursory glance, he goes over to his dresser in search of a specific hoodie. 

It’s only when he opens the correct drawer that he comes to the realization that his parents must have dumped everything and then put things back. Instead of hoodies, he’s met with tshirts. The top one is from Rimouski, and so are the two under them. He goes into the next stack, and it’s for some charity thing he did, also hockey related. Before a month ago, his life completely revolved around the sport. Now, he doesn’t know if he could ever go back. 

He slams the drawer closed while also sending that thought to the back of his mind. He opens up the next drawer, and it’s workout gear. Moving on to the one below that, he finally finds the hoodies. This used to be his pajama drawer. He searches through them, looking for one in particular. Finally, towards the bottom, he finds it. He pulls out a grey hoodie, well-worn and soft from many washes over the years. The words and decal on the front have long since faded, but Jack still remembers exactly what it looks like. It was originally papa’s, but maman would wear it every single time she was watching him play from home. Even after papa retired, she would wear it when he was gone as a comfort of sorts. And when Jack left home to play hockey, it went with him. The sweatshirt helped him battle homesickness before, and it would help him again.

He rises and refolds the hoodie, placing it at the foot of his bed before moving towards the bedside table. He sits down on the bed and pulls open the top drawer. The book he was reading is no longer on the top. Instead, a small stack of notes sit innocently. 

Jack stares at them, not daring to pick even one up. He already knows what each one says, having memorized them. It was dumb for him to keep even one of them, but he liked the tangible proof that Kenny liked him. 

His parents haven’t said anything to him, but they have to know. He’s thankful that they didn’t bring it up to him.

Suddenly, all Jack can see is how much Kent took over this room. Kent, digging through his shirts so he can see how many matching ones they have. Kent, studying what he called ‘the Zimms Hockey Hall of Fame’ above his desk. Kent, laughing gleefully on the floor as he plays a Draw Four card while shouting “Uno!” at the top of his lungs. Kent, standing in front of the mirror, trying to get a snapback on without any of his curls popping through. Kent, falling into bed next to him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as they fall asleep.

It’s too much. Jack turns over and curls into himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will himself to stop crying. Instead, it makes the tears come even quicker. So much of this room wasn’t his. It hasn’t been for a long time. It’s only now that he’s gone that Jack realizes how this room was Kent’s too.

More than anything, a part of him wishes that Kenny was on the other side of the bed, placing a soft hand on his shoulder in comfort. But he can’t want that. Jack hasn’t seen him since Before, and that ended in an argument. He hasn’t spoken to him either; hasn’t even tried to reach out to him. Kent’s better without him, and is probably living his best life in Vegas now. It’s best to leave him alone.

That thought makes him sob harder. Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel the pit of jealousy that usually arises when he thinks of Kent living out his dream. Instead, he just misses his best friend.

Jack doesn’t know how long he’s been crying when he hears the soft footfalls of someone walking across the carpet. A hand comes down on his shoulder and gently rubs it. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know this has been a hard day, but we have to head back now.”

He looks over to see his maman standing above him. She’s wearing a watery smile.

“We’re going to miss you too,” she tells him.

He shakes his head. “It’s… it’s not that.” He sits up and stares pointedly at the open drawer.

“Oh, Jack!” Maman leans down and gives him a strong squeeze. “Your father and I will love you no matter what. I promise you that.”

“So you don’t care that…” he can’t make himself say I like boys aloud. 

“No, we don’t. I can grab your father and he will tell you himself if you’d like.”

Jack shook his head. Having this conversation with his mom was already enough for today. 

“Okay. Just know that the offer still stands. Was there anything else you wanted to say about Kent?”

“Ah, no, not really.”

“We do have to get going. Papa is putting your birthday gifts in the car. Is there anything else you wanted to take with you?”

“Yeah, there is.” Jack reaches into the drawer and pulls out the book underneath the notes. He holds it up for maman to see. “Just this and the hoodie over there.” He points at the end of his bed before standing up. 

Maman immediately wraps him up in another hug. “I promise you, it’ll get better with time.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say, so he just hugs her back. Eventually, he asks, “Do you think you can renovate my room while I’m away?”

“Of course!” maman replies with a grin. “You tell me what color you want and I’ll get started right away.”

Another thing pops into his head, but he hesitates before asking. “And… can you do one more thing for me?”

“Anything… within reason.”

And I'm sorry that I couldn't always be your teenage dream

Kent paces between the bed and the windows, going over what he wants to say in his head. Outside the sun is setting, bathing the desert sky in hot pink and orange. Everything is distinctly warm and sun-kissed in a way he’s never experienced before in New York or Canada. The bright lights of the Strip complement the glow of the sunset. He’s not used to it yet, but he’s sure even this will feel old in a couple of months. 

He currently lives with Jeff “Swoops” Troy, who’s a veteran of the team. Although “veteran” is a loose term. He joined the Aces the first year they were draft eligible, or three years ago. But he’s 23 and seems chill enough. And the room that’s now his is larger than any one he’s had before. Coupled with the view and the attached bathroom, Kent really can’t complain. 

He’s grateful that Swoops has left him to his own devices this evening, telling him that he had to fend for himself for dinner that night as he was going out on a date. He did want to have some sort of privacy when making this phone call, and he didn’t know the neighborhood well enough yet to not find himself lost in the dark. 

The orangeness of everything intensifies as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. It’s nearing nine now, which means the day is nearly over on the east coast. Kent’s running out of time, although that’s something he should be used to by now. Everything comes to an end eventually. He’s held off on making this call long enough, but he should have enough time to go over what he wants to say one last time before the sun disappears for the day. 

He knows his call will go straight to voicemail. That’s what happened the last few times he’s called. He’s prepared what he wants to say, going over it so he doesn’t come off as stiff and rehearsed when he’s told to leave a message. 

Kent takes in a deep breath before going over his message a final time. “Hi Zimms, it’s Kent. I wanted to call and wish you a happy birthday. I hope you enjoyed some cake and ice cream, and that whatever you wished for came true. I also wanted you to know that I’m here for you, whenever you want to talk. So… yeah. Happy Birthday. Bye.” He yearned to end the call with an “I love you,” but knew that might scare Jack away. His friend may be getting in touch with his feelings, but Kent doubted they extended that far.

The inky darkness of the impending night steeps across the sky. The sun is almost completely beneath the horizon. His time has run out. It is time to call. Suddenly nervous, Kent wipes his palms on his shorts, followed by his phone for good measure. He sits down on the edge of his bed, his thumb hovering over one recent phone call in particular. He just needs to click on it. The worst that will happen is he’s sent straight to voicemail, which he already knows how to deal with. 

Time is running out. It would be even more shitty to leave a voicemail on the day after his birthday.

Without thinking about it, his thumb hits the previous call to Zimms, and Kent brings the phone up to his ear. He waits for the line to ring once, for a woman’s voice to say, “The number you have reached is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”

Except, it never comes. Halfway through the first ring, a three tone beep plays. “We’re sorry, but the number you have reached is no longer in service.”

At first, Kent doesn’t comprehend. He hangs up before manually checking out Zimms’s contact information. The number is the same one that he memorised almost three years ago. But maybe there’s some weird glitch that’s making the number be misdialed. He decides to dial it from memory instead, checking after each number to make sure he inputted it correctly. Only after he triple-checked the entire number does he call it again. He holds his breath, hoping for a ring and then the voicemail message.

Instead, he’s met with the same three tone warning and being told that Zimms’s number is no longer in service. Kent numbly ends the phone call before tossing his phone across his bed. Burying his face in his hands, he lets out a cry of anguish. He understands why Zimms isn’t talking to him right now; he’s in rehab and needs to work on himself. But Kent is his best friend. Doesn’t he deserve some kind of warning now that he has no way of directly contacting Jack? 

The next thing he wants to do is call Bob or Alicia. To ask them why Jack’s phone is disconnected. He crawls across his bed, searching for his abandoned phone amongst the sheets. Once he has it in his hands again, however, he hesitates over Alicia’s contact info. What if they all got new numbers? What if this is their way of washing their hands of him? Of saying that they do in fact blame him for Jack’s overdose, despite telling him the exact opposite earlier. 

Kent tosses the phone to the side again, not willing to risk finding out all the Zimmermanns hate him today. He stands up and makes his way towards the kitchen, specifically the liquor cabinet. While Swoops never explicitly stated that he could drink in the apartment, he also doesn’t keep his booze under lock and key. He checks every bottle, seeing how much alcohol is in each. The most promising candidates end up on the counter. His goal tonight is to get drunk as fast as he can, so he can forget.

A few minutes later, he’s carrying a bottle of vodka, a can of Coke, and a glass to mix it in. Once he’s back in his room, he sets everything on his nightstand and works on making a cocktail. It’s mostly vodka; the soda is there only to cut the tiniest bit of burn. Kent swallows it anyway. The more he drinks, the faster he can forget.

Although, maybe trying to get drunk was a mistake. It doesn’t feel freeing like it usually does. Kent doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he’s no longer sober. The only clock in his room is his phone, and he doesn’t care to find that right now. But he does know that he can’t stop crying over Zimms. 

He’s sitting against the side of the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, when Swoops bursts through his door. 

“Parse? What the fuck, dude?” he snarls as he marches over.

That makes Kent cry even harder. “I-I can’t c-call ‘im,” he blubbers into his chest.

“What happened?” Swoops forces his chin up so he can look at him. “More importantly, did you take anything?” There’s a slightly frantic tone to his voice. Kent last heard it when he called Alicia in the aftermath. 

“I-I don’t wanna ‘member,” he tells his teammate instead, trying to push him away. “Let me wallow in peace.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Swoops insists in a deceptively soft and delicate voice. “Now, have you had anything other than alcohol?”

Kent shakes his head. “Nope. Only VodkaCoke,” he slurs.

“Well, I’m going to cut you off. I think you’ve had enough for tonight.”

“No! I ‘till ‘ave some.”

“I don’t think you can even stand up right now.”

Kent immediately tries to prove Swoops wrong. He gets on his hands and knees perfectly fine. It’s getting vertical that he has some trouble with. Whenever he tries to remove both hands from the ground, he’s suddenly unable to keep his balance. Eventually, Swoops takes pity on him and helps him up. Kent leans heavily on his teammate while he tries to move the comforter away from where he wants Kent to lay. He backs Kent up until the back of his legs hit the side of the bed, and then pushes down on his shoulders until he sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Stay right there,” Swoops tells him before picking up the mostly empty vodka bottle, Coke can, and half-drunk glass.

He follows the instructions, although he’s still crying. He’s wiping his snot-filled nose on his arm when Swoops returns with a glass full of water. He doesn’t comment on his childish behavior. “Here,” he says as he hands the glass to him. “Drink up. It’ll help fight the awful hangover you’re bound to have tomorrow.”

Kent takes careful sips of the water, concentrating on not spilling any on himself and holding the glass. Swoop watches him silently until about half of it is gone. “Care to tell me what brought this on? I can’t have you getting drunk whenever you’re upset.”

“It’s Zimms birthday today. Jack. And his… his phone. No longer works.” Kent’s voice hitches. He stopped crying while Swoops was getting him water, but the tears threaten to fall again.

“I’m sorry,” Swoops tells him, sounding genuine.

“It’s not your fault.” He tries to wave a dismissive hand, forgetting about the water, and Swoops grabs it from him before it can sloosh all over himself.

His teammate sighs. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” he gently tells him. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” He grabs a pillow and fluffs it a bit before guiding Kent to lay down on his side. He then places the comforter over him. 

“Goodnight, Kent.” 

Kent’s eyes are closed, but he listens as Swoops pads across his room. It’s only when he turns off the light that he calls out to him. “Jeff?” he asks, suddenly feeling like a little kid, afraid of the monsters under the bed. 

“Yes, Kent?”

“Can you stay with me ‘til I fall asleep?”

There is no answer. Kent thinks he’s left him, and doesn’t want to open his eyes to confirm that he’s alone again. That would only make him cry again. But then he hears feet on the tile and there’s a jostling movement on the other side of the bed as Swoops sits next to him. 

“Thanks,” he whispers into the night.

It takes so long for Swoops to respond that a part of him thinks he’s dreaming when he finally hears, “It will all be alright.”