Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The problem with being in love with your best friend is that he’s your everything. You’re totally consumed by him- your hopes, ambitions, dreams- they’re all tied up in him.

So when you lose him, you lose everything.

Kent goes first in the draft. He shakes hands with people he doesn’t know and has no wish to and thinks about how it was supposed to be him.

Jack goes to rehab. He avoids everyone’s eyes and doesn’t speak up in group and thinks about how glad he is it isn’t him.

Kent gets better. At hockey. He becomes the face of the Aces right out of the draft, and backs it up by being the highest goal scorer on the team. As a rookie, he gets billeted with an older guy on the team who doesn’t seem to care what he does, so he does things he knows aren’t good for him. He stays out so late he has to drag himself out of bed in the mornings. He drinks too much. He parties. He’s a rookie, getting his first taste of fame. No one worries about him.

Jack gets worse. His mental health plummets and he has panic attacks so frequently he feels like every one is going to be his last. He can’t lose hockey. Hockey is his everything, right up there next to- nothing. Not anymore. He can’t lose hockey. He can’t lose hockey.

_/ \_

Jack keeps up with his workouts. They don’t have a gym in the rehab facility, so he does bodyweight exercises and runs in place because he’s not allowed outside yet. His parents visit as often as they’re allowed and Jack sits, stoic and sullen and so angry at them. No matter how much he explains that he didn’t do it on purpose, that he was doing what he was supposed to, which was to take his medication when he was anxious, but they won’t let him leave.

He calls it “rehab” instead of “the psych ward” because yes, maybe he was guilty of abusing his medication. But he didn’t try to kill himself.

Jack keeps his head down and pointedly doesn’t make friends. The nurses worry about him. The doctors worry about him. His parents worry about him.

He misses-

No he doesn’t. Kenny’s probably worrying about him too.

_/ \_

Kent worries about Jack. He buries it with alcohol and girls and partying and, in one regretful instance, cocaine. He looks in the mirror the next day after tossing and turning all night and tells himself, never again. The comedown isn’t worth it.

He does try Xanax, though, just to try and feel closer to Jack. It doesn’t work.

He makes friends. Sort of. Not friends like Jack was.

Everything comes back to Jack.

But Swoops is the good sort, who doesn’t ask too many questions about the Q and lets Kent sit in silence when he needs to. Scraps is older, and takes Kent under his wing, inviting him places that aren’t parties or clubs, making him feel normal.

Well, new normal. Kent doesn’t think he’ll ever get his old normal back.

_/ \_

When Jack finally gets out, he’s on new meds that are less likely to almost kill him if he does overdose.

He feels better.

Mostly.

The other part of the time, he’s thinking about Kent, thinking about how he got everything he wanted. How he got the life Jack was supposed to have.

But “supposed to” never got anybody anywhere, so Jack tries not to dwell on it.

He feels better. He does.

_/ \_

They move Kent to playing center. He’s been scoring more than the centers, even on left wing. The reason he was so good as a winger was because Jack was his center, but he doesn’t have that kind of chemistry with the other centers on the Aces.

No one can replace Jack. There’s no more Zimmermann-Parson no-look one-timers.

More than anything, it gives him an excuse to practice more. He spends hours at the practice rink, shooting pucks at the net and stick handling.

There’s nothing he can do about his age or his experience, so he just trains as much as possible, roping teammates in whenever possible, practicing his faceoffs, but most of all, working on his deception.

At 5’10, he’s not as big as most of the other guys on the ice, so he works to get faster, sneaking the puck away from the other team, dragging it close to his skates, then letting it fly at the goalie.

He doesn’t play like Jack. No one plays like Jack, and playing Jack’s position makes him miss him even more.

_/ \_

When Jack’s new therapist tells him he’s allowed back on the ice, he’s nearly light-headed with relief. He’s missed hockey. Even if he doesn’t have anyone to play with anymore.

He’s just missed the ice.

He’s stayed away from even watching hockey, a fact his parents are sure to have picked up on, because he just doesn’t want those reminders of everything he’s lost. Of Kent.

Even if things were different, even if Jack had been in the draft, they would have played on different teams regardless. So it’s really no different.

_/ \_

Sometimes, Kent wonders if Jack got what he wanted. Wonders if he really meant to kill himself. Wonders if all he wanted was for it all to stop.

Well, it all did stop. Except Kent. Kent kept revolving around Jack until there was nothing left to revolve around and he was just spinning around nothing, making himself dizzy.

_/ \_

The first time Jack gets back on the ice, he feels better than he has in a long time. He soars across the smooth surface and busts it up with his power stops. He practices his turns and his crossovers and is happy to note he’s not as bad as he expected, being away for so long. He’s sloppy, but he can get back into shape.

He starts off coaching Mini Mites- they call them the Baby Bulldogs- and quickly loses patience. Hockey is something he takes seriously, but these kids are here to have fun. He tries to coach them gently through drills, but a lot of the time they just knock each other over like bowling pins and giggle about it. He tries not to bark instructions like a drill sergeant, but he can tell a lot of the kids are scared of him. He’s been scary before, but five year olds have never shrank away at his touch. He asks to be moved.

He begins coaching Peewee and Bantam hockey. It’s a little more his speed. Thankfully, the kids don’t know who he is, and if their parents do, they don’t say anything. These kids take hockey seriously. They don’t eat, sleep, and breathe hockey, not yet, but Jack can tell that some of them will.

There’s this one kid Franky, that Jack takes under his wing. He’s fat and pimply and reminds Jack painfully of himself at the same age. He’s good, but not great. Jack can make him great.

_/ \_

Kent doesn’t win the Cup his rookie year. It’s fine, everyone says, the team’s still rebuilding. We make it farther than last year. But Kent takes their loss as a personal affront. What would Zimms do? becomes his personal mantra. Jack would push himself harder. Jack would practice more. Jack wouldn’t waste time on silly things like friends and teammates.

It ends when Swoops and Scraps find him yelling at himself over a broken stick in their practice rink. They drag him out to lunch and tell him it’s not healthy to isolate himself like that.

Kent argues back until he’s blue in the face, but they keep shutting him down. They don’t understand. He’s not a rookie anymore. He needs to prove himself.

Swoops and Scraps look at each other for a long time, having a conversation with their eyes.

“Look,” Swoops says finally. “We think you should talk to someone. The Aces have a psychologist on staff, and he’s pretty good. I talked to him when I first came up to the team, about feeling like I didn’t belong and stuff like that. I think it would be good for you.”

“You think I need a shrink?” Kent spits out, pushing himself away from the table. The place they’re in is practically deserted, but he still brings his voice down. “What the fuck?”

“You obviously have some problems you need to work through, Parse,” Swoops says. “We left it alone because it seemed like you didn’t want to talk about it, but it’s been a year. Your best friend nearly died, then, and I don’t know exactly what happened, but it seems like he cut you off after that. That’s some fucked up shit right there, Parse, and you obviously won’t talk to us about it, and it doesn’t seem like you’re coping very well, so you should talk to somebody.”

Kent chews on his lip, thinking. Jack obviously had a shrink or something at some point, someone had to give him the meds. So, by that logic, if he’s doing what Jack did, then-

“Fine.”

_/ \_

Jack practices with Franky whenever he’s available. Jack has nothing to do except coach hockey, so he books them ice time whenever Franky says he’s free. Jack pushes him until he’s dripping sweat and begging for a break, the same way his father pushed him. Nothing magical happens. Franky doesn’t start shedding pounds and his skin doesn’t start clearing up. There’s no perfect transformation. But he does improve.

He’s a winger, not a center, but Jack’s played both. He has trouble with aggression, despite his size, and is afraid of checking people. Jack digs out his pads and his helmet and tells Franky to give him his worst. Jack barely moves.

“C’mon kid, you can do better than that,” he says, trying to fuel him up. It’s hard to be fast when you’re big, Jack knows, so Franky has to be aggressive.

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Franky says.

Jack laughs. “If you hurt me, I will give you five dollars. This is the reason we wear pads, kid.”

They try again. It’s better, but- “You can’t be gentle with them, kid. Think about it. You won’t be able to slow down on the ice to check them more politely. Hockey’s a fast-paced game, you’ve got to check fast, and that means checking hard.”

Franky shuffles his feet. “Okay,” he says, and they try again.

At the end of practice, Jack is proud of the progress Franky’s made, and tells him so.

Franky turns red with a mumbled “Thanks.”

“You’ve just got to get out of your head, kid. Your size is an asset, not a handicap. You have to use it to your best advantage.”

They run drills day after day, and Jack will take him out to lunch or dinner and they’ll talk more hockey. Franky’s a Habs fan, but he doesn’t know of Jack’s dad since he retired before he ever got into hockey.

The Bulldogs only play once or twice a week, but with assistant coaching both the Peewee and Bantam teams, Jack has his hands full with practices. Through it all, he never takes time off from working with Franky.

Then one day, a girl stops by the edge of the rink. “Hey Tommy!” She calls, waving at Franky.

“Tommy?” Jack asks.

Franky turns bright red and mumbles, “Ignore her.” He waves back shyly.

“No, I just,” Jack starts, then stops. “I thought your name was Franky?”

Franky gives him a look. “It’s a hockey nickname?”

Jack says, “Oh.”

Franky continues, “Don’t you have to look at the roster? Who did you think Thomas Franklin was?”

Jack is aware that Franky is giving him some attitude, but he feels so awful that he lets it go. He lets Franky skate over to the boards to talk to the girl, and feels a pit in his stomach. How could he not even know Franky’s name? He should look at the roster, but he mostly leaves all the technical stuff to the other coach, a parent of one of the kids on the team.

He realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t think they’ve ever talked about anything but hockey. He doesn’t know what classes Franky’s taking in school, how many siblings he has, anything.

Maybe he is a hockey robot. Input food and sleep, and he’ll go on forever about nothing but stick handling and checking.

Is he really that bad?

Has he really been so focused on getting hockey back, in any form, that he forgot that the people that play it are real?

Was he so focused on living vicariously through Franky that he never stopped to consider if that was what Franky actually wanted?

He goes home that night and talks to his father about it.

“Papa, I forgot that he was a person. Who does that?”

His father hums and Jack feels ready to tear his hair out. “Tell me what you mean by that,” his father says.

Jack is caught off-guard by the question. They’ve never had this type of relationship. The most his father will ask of him is to identify what he did wrong and then tell him how to fix it. “Euh,” Jack starts, still reeling from the therapy-speak coming from his father. “What?”

“You say you forgot he was a person. In what way? What does that mean to you?”

Jack blinks. “Well- I guess I started seeing him as a- a stand in for myself. I wanted to get better at hockey, so he must want that too. Stuff like that.”

“I see,” he says, steepling his fingers. “Why do you think you did that?”

“I don’t know!” Jack exclaims, nearly shouting. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have done it!”

“Jack,” his father says calmly, “You are not a bad person for this. You clearly feel remorse, and wish you’d done things differently.”

“But if I did it to Franky-” Jack’s voice breaks, and he’s embarrassed to find that he’s stressed near to the point of tears. “If I did it to him, who knows how many other people I did it to?”

“So it’s not just about Franky?”

“No, it’s about-” Kenny, he thinks.

“Yes?”

“Other people,” Jack responds lamely. “What if-” I forced Kent into the A? What if he didn’t love hockey the way I did and I forced him to practice more than he needed to? What if I manipulated our relationship just to play better hockey? What if what if what if what if what if-

“Jack,” his father says, interrupting his thought spiral. “I can tell you’re getting anxious. Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“No,” Jack says petulantly.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.” With that, he gets up and leaves.

Jack sits and stews miserably in his own thoughts for a while, before resolving to apologize to Franky.

While he can’t go back into the past, he can fix the present.

_/ \_

Kent sees the team psychologist, a large man called Terry who clearly works out under his cardigans and button-ups.

“So, Kent, what brings you in to see me today?” He asks, an innocuous enough question, but Kent instantly hates it. He wishes Terry could just see into his brain and tell him how to fix whatever Swoops thinks is wrong.

Then again, there are definitely some things he’s not willing to share, so maybe it’s well enough that Terry isn’t a mind reader.

“Swoops thinks I’m coping badly,” Kent says bluntly.

“I see. Swoops is your teammate, Jeff Troy, I presume?” Terry says. He doesn’t have a pen or a notepad to scribble information down on, so he just looks at Kent until he responds,

“Yep.”

“And what is it that he believes you’re coping badly with?”

“Take a wild fucking stab at it, doc,” Kent says.

Terry sighs and looks at him over his glasses. “Kent, I can’t help you if you don’t want help. I won’t make guesses or speculate about your life, but you need to tell me what’s going on if you want me to know.”

Kent looks away. They sit in silence for several moments before Kent says, “My best friend nearly died.”

“I can certainly see how that would be difficult to cope with,” Terry says. “How long ago was this?”

“Over a year now.”

“I see.”

“He- Jack- he overdosed on his anxiety medication. I found him on the floor. He wasn’t supposed to drink too much on his meds, but he did, and I guess he got anxious because it looked like he’d taken more than he was supposed to.”

Kent stops and takes a breath before continuing. “It wasn’t like the movies, the pills scattered across the floor and everything. I wasn’t- I didn’t, like, keep track of his pills or anything, but I was like, vaguely aware of how much he had. And seeing the bottle empty-”

Kent cuts himself off. He feels like he’s said too much already, even though it’s not like Terry’s going to judge him. “Anyway, I called 911. I wouldn’t have known- it looked like he was just sleeping- except the bottle was in his hand. And when I tried to wake him, he acted super drunk, like slurring his words and shit. I figured, better safe than sorry. I couldn’t keep him awake.”

“That sounds like it was hard to go through, Kent,” Terry says.

Kent just looks at his hands. His eyes are hot, tears threatening to spill over. “That wasn’t even the worst part.”

It’s silent for a moment, then Terry asks, “What was the worst part?”

Kent blinks and a tear traces its way down his cheek. “The worst part was how he didn’t even die, and that was still the last time I saw him.”

_/ \_

As much as he wants to, Jack doesn’t cancel the next practice with Franky. He can’t avoid the things that make him anxious. He talks to his therapist and comes up with a strategy that works.

To his surprise, Franky’s the one who brings it up first. He looks at his feet and mumbles, “I’m sorry for my attitude last practice, Coach Z.”

“No!” Jack says, too loudly, unsure of what else to say. “I mean- you don’t need to be sorry. I’m the one who needs to be sorry.”

Franky looks up at him, confused. “Really?” He asks, eyes wide.

Jack looks around the rink at the figure skaters occupying the other half of the ice. “Let’s sit down for this conversation,” he says, and leads them to the bench.

Once seated, Jack takes his helmet off and sighs. “Listen, kid. I’m not that much older than you, and I don’t know as much as you think I do. I know hockey, but that’s about the only thing I know. I’m not great at interpersonal skills, or relating to people, or being a coach-”

“What’s interpersonal skills?” Franky asks, interrupting his speech.

“Euh? It’s like- talking to people.”

“So you’re not good at talking to people and that’s why you didn’t know my name?”

Jack shakes his head. It’s honestly going better than he expected. “No, it’s just- I focus too much on myself, sometimes, and I forget that other people have different priorities than I do.”

“Oh.” Franky nods, “Like how you forget I have school because you want me to practice all the time.”

Not quite, but- “Sure,” Jack says. “But what I wanted to apologize for was not asking you what you wanted to do. Sure, I’m your coach, but you play hockey for fun. And I forgot that. I was so focused on your improvement that I forgot to ask if you wanted to improve.”

“I do!” Franky says earnestly.

“But do you want to be training five times a week, outside of regular practice?”

“Well,” Franky wrinkles his nose, “My mom says-”

“What do you want, Franky?”

“Not really. I mean, like, three times a week would be good, but right now, hockey’s taking up a lot of my time.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “Let’s switch to three times a week.” There’s a pause, and then Jack says, “And I wanted to say I’m sorry for not knowing your first name. I let Coach P handle a lot of the technical stuff like rosters, but I should be more attentive to that too.”

“It’s okay,” Franky says, then, “You know, a lot of kids are jealous that I get to spend so much time with you. The other kids really like you. You’re a good coach, you know that?”

Jack didn’t know that. “Thank you for saying that, Franky.”

“No problem, Coach Z. Now let’s play check tag!”

Franky zooms across the ice and Jack watches, his heart full and light. He didn’t get to say everything he wanted to say, but Franky didn’t need to hear about how he was pushed into hockey from a young age and didn’t get to find it fun, and how he was projecting that onto him. He needed to apologize, and he did that.

Jack steps onto the ice, and has fun.

_/ \_

Here’s the thing: Kent hasn’t called Jack since it happened. He called Alicia and Bob so much at first they had to tell him to stop. He never called Jack. At first, because he knew he couldn’t answer (hospital, rehab), then because he knew he wouldn’t.

But now it’s been a year since he’s heard Jack’s voice.

He wonders if Jack watches Aces games. He wonders if Jack watches him play and thinks ’that should have been me’.

He wonders if Jack thinks of him at all.

He’s been wanting to call Jack for a while, and brought it up to Terry. He thought for sure that Terry would shut it down immediately, telling him it would be bad for his mental health, so he had no qualms bringing it up.

But instead, Terry takes a moment and says that it might be good for him to get some closure. Even if the closure is knowing that Jack isn’t going to pick up. Even if the closure is knowing he’ll never talk to Jack again.

So he stews in that for a while, wondering if he could handle it if Jack says he never wants to see him again. Wondering if Jack even has the same number.

Wondering what he’ll do if Jack actually picks up.

_/ \_

Jack answers the phone the way his father drilled into him. “Hello, this is Jack Zimmermann.”

He’s expecting a telemarketer, or a wrong number, but-

“Zimms?”

There’s only one person who calls him that.

Thrown off, Jack says, “Kenny?”

Kent responds, “Yeah,” and then they fall silent, listening to each other’s breathing.

It’s not that Jack hasn’t thought about Kent. Because he has. A lot. But he’d put all of those feelings into a box, labeled it NHL dreams and put it into the attic of his mind. He’s at a different stage of his life now. One that doesn’t involve Kent. And that would have killed him, once upon a time but hey, he almost died anyway.

“Anyway-” Kent says at the same time Jack says, “So, why-”

They each chuckle awkwardly, then it falls silent again. Jack doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to talk to anyone besides middle schoolers anymore. He kind of wants to hang up the phone and never talk to Kent again, but kind of wants to book a flight to Las Vegas and make Kent his everything again.

“I didn’t think you’d actually pick up,” Kent says, breaking the silence.

“How come?” Jack asks.

“How come?” Kent repeats. “Are you kidding me? I find you, this close from death,” Jack can picture Kent with his thumb and his forefinger pinched close together, “and then you disappear off the face of the earth and tell your parents to block my calls. Gee, I wonder why I thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

I didn’t know it was you, Jack thinks, but instead says, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Kent practically snarls, and Jack can see the anger written across his face in his mind. “Sorry doesn’t fucking cover it, Zimmermann.”

Jack doesn’t say anything to that, just listens to Kent breathe in that way he does when he’s angry and thinks, I used to love you.

“I have to go,” Jack says, even though he doesn’t.

“Wait!” Kent says, desperation bleeding over the static of the phone line.

“What, Parse?” Jack bites out.

They listen to each other breathe for a moment until Kent says, “I miss you.”

Jack hangs up the phone.

Chapter Text

When the phone goes silent and Kent can no longer hear Jack’s ragged breathing on the other end, he sinks to the floor and cries.

It’s not that he though the phone call would go particularly well, but-

That was a disaster.

He was a disaster.

He was too angry, too desperate. He’d convinced himself he could be aloof, but faced with Jack again he’d slipped right back into old habits.

They’d fought a lot, back then. But back then, Jack would fight back, both of them hotheaded and desperate to prove themselves to the world.

And now Jack seemed entirely detached from it all. Kent can’t help but wonder if it it’s the work of new meds. But then again, he’d blame everything on something else if he could, convinced that it’s not really Jack who doesn’t want to talk to him.

Why did he even pick up? He probably didn’t know it was Kent, he reasons, his introduction too stiff to be expecting someone he knew.

Tears no longer slipping out of his eyes, Kent picks himself up off the ground and goes to find a box of tissues or a towel or an old t-shirt to dry his face off with. He gets out two ice cubes from his freezer and rubs them over his eyes to try and reduce the puffiness, because he's vain like that. Then, he calls Swoops.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, man, are you busy?” Kent asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Nah, just about to make dinner, what’s up?”

“I just-” Kent’s voice breaks and he can feel his throat getting thick again. “Can you come over? I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Yeah, man, for sure, is everything okay?” Swoops asks, concerned, and Kent doesn’t know what to say.

“Um- no?” Kent says, then laughs wetly. “I just called him. He hung up on me. I mean, we talked- well, I yelled at him, and then I told him I missed him, and then he hung up on me. So- yeah.”

“Kent. Who did you call?” Swoops asks softly, like he already knows the answer.

“Jack. Zimmermann,” Kent says. “Fuck, I can’t believe I did that. Fuck, I’m so stupid.”

“Kent, just- stop. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? I’ll be there in 15. I’m gonna hang up now, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Bye,” Kent says, then stares at the screen of his phone as Swoops hangs up.

He goes and lays on the couch, tears running down the side of his face and pooling in his ears, which is disgusting, but Kent can’t bring himself to care. It’s over. It’s really over. No more Jack and Kent. No more Zimms and Parse. No more Zimmermann-Parson no-look one-timers. Not that he really thought Jack would come and play for the Aces, but still.

When the doorbell rings, Kent wipes at his face with his hand. He’s given up on trying to hide the fact he’s been crying.

“Hey, man,” Swoops says, standing on his front stoop, holding a six-pack “I brought beer.”

Kent waves him in without a word, and leads them to the living room, steering Swoops away from the wet spot where his tears soaked into the couch. He puts on basketball, which Swoops loves and Kent is ambivalent towards, on low volume.

“We were together in the Q,” Kent says.

“Okay,” Swoops says. “Together like-?”

“We were fucking,” Kent says bluntly. “And there were feelings. At least on my side. I thought there were on his but- I don’t know anymore.”

“That’s- I’m sorry, man.”

“And then he overdosed and cut me off completely and now we’re here.” Kent leans back into the couch crease, wishing he could burrow into it and never come out again. “Oh, and I found him. After he overdosed. So that sucked. I had to call 911.”

Swoops blows a stream of air out of his mouth. “Shit, dude, that’s a lot.”

“Yeah, well.” Kent stands up and gestures toward the six-pack. “Beer?”

Swoops follows him to the kitchen where Kent finds a bottle opener and opens beers for the two of them, sticking the rest in the fridge. They clink their bottles together and take long, slow, sips, neither of them knowing what to say. Swoops’ fingers twitch against the neck of the bottle and he keeps opening his mouth like he’s going to say something, then decides better of it.

They go back into the living room and Kent reaches for the remote to turn the volume up, but Swoops stops him.

“Parse,” he says, “It seems like calling Zimmermann really fucked you up. I mean, do you want to talk about it? Maybe we’re not close like that, and I know we pushed you into the whole therapy thing, but- I’m here. If you need to talk.”

Kent nearly bursts into to tears again. He’s been walking that tightrope since the phone call, but he’s determined not to cry for a third time. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it. I just- I don’t know what to say. I called him, I yelled at him, he hung up on me. Totally justified, by the way, I was being a dick. I don’t know what else there is to it.”

“Why’d you call him?” Swoops asks.

“I brought it up to Terry, how I’d been wanting to call him, and I thought it wasn’t healthy, but he said that it could be a form of closure. So I did it. But I just got so angry and he was so passive- it was never going to go well.” Kent sighs. “I really fucked it up.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Swoops says. “That’s just your version of it. And I know you’re always biased against yourself.”

“Am I?” Kent asks, setting his beer down and leaning back against the couch. “Because it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like everything is my fault.”

“What?” Swoops sits up. “Dude, you saved your friend’s life. If he wants to repay you by cutting you off, that’s his prerogative. But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault. You did a good thing in a shitty situation, and if anyone’s a dick here it’s Zimmermann for not wanting you in the life that you made sure he got to have.”

That almost breaks Kent. In the year plus it’s been since it happened, no one has ever told him it’s a good thing he did. The Zimmermanns were thankful, of course, but never explicitly told him that he did the right thing. So hearing it from Swoops-

“Thanks, man. That means a lot to hear.”

“Of course.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, watching the TV. Kent reaches for the remote again, and this time, Swoops doesn’t stop him.

_/ \_

Jack stares at the phone in his hand for too long. He doesn’t know what came over him, why he didn’t hang up immediately. It surprised him, hearing Kent’s voice, like a shock to the system, and opened up those boxes that Jack had tucked away so neatly.

Jack missed him too.

He wanders downstairs into the living room, phone clutched too tightly in his hand. His parents are sitting on the couch, watching something on TV, but they pause it when they hear Jack come in.

“Jack, mon fils!” His father says. “We were just watching a baseball documentary, you’re welcome to join us.

Jack shakes his head. “No thank you,” he says, then, “Euh. Kenny called.”

That gets his parents attention.

“Kent… Parson?” His mother asks.

“Ouais,” Jack says, then barrels on forward with, “He said you guys blocked his calls.”

His parents exchange a glance. “You have to understand, honey,” his mother starts, “that it was a difficult time for all of us, Kent included. And we- he kept-” She turns to his father.

His father picks it up. “What your mother is trying to say is that Kent was asking a lot of us, asking for things we weren’t able to give. We made the choice, for our own well-being, to stop answering his calls. Was it the perfect thing to do? Probably not. But the situation was hard.”

Jack stands stock still, mind reeling. Kent’s relationship with his own parents was rocky at best. “So you guys just cut him off. Like I did.”

His mother sighs and beckons him to her. He steps forward automatically, feeling like a robot. She takes his hands in hers. “If we could do it again we would have figured out a better way. I promise.”

Jack pulls away, sits down on the couch, and puts his head in his hands. “This is all my fault,” he says.

“Oh, honey,” his mother says, and makes to put her arms around him before he ducks out of the way. He doesn’t deserve comfort right now.

“Jack,” says his father says, and reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. Jack jerks away violently.

“Don’t,” Jack practically sobs, curling up into a ball on the cushions. “I ruined everything for him.”

“I take it this conversation with Kent didn’t go very well,” Jack’s father says.

Jack shakes his head against the couch, feeling more like a child than he has in years.

Maybe not everything- after all, Jack dropping out of the draft ensured Kent went first and signed with the Aces, propelling him into fame and fortune. But everything important. He lost his best friend and his pseudo-parents in one fell swoop, and it was all due to Jack.

He can’t believe he just dismissed hockey as unimportant. But he knows, in a heartbeat, Kent would choose Jack over hockey.

Maybe that’s what really did them in, in the end.

Jack drags himself upright to slouch back into the couch cushions, tucking his knees against his chest. “He called me. I didn’t recognize the number, but I picked up. He didn’t think I would.” He takes a breath. “Then he yelled at me. I deserved it, though.”

“Oh, honey,” his mother says, looking like she wants to reach out, but stopping herself.

“I did,” Jack insists, voice cracking, burying his face in his knees. Tears begin to leak out of his eyes, wet and hot, and he can’t remember the last time he really cried.

His parents look at him with concern, but he waves off their attempts to comfort him. He’s thankful they’re quiet tears, not the full body sobs that wrack him during panic attacks. He stands up and escapes quickly back to his room, holding his phone delicately, pretending he’s not wishing for another call.

_/ \_

They play the Habs and Kent tries not to think about Jack.

Someone nudges him during the first period and points at the Jumbotron. Kent looks up, right at Bob Zimmermann’s face. He freezes, a million thoughts running through his head. He doesn’t relax until the camera pans away.

Just Bob Zimmermann. It’s not like he thought Jack would be at a pro hockey game, especially one Kent was playing in, but he didn’t think that Bob would be here either. Why the fuck is he here?

He plays worse than usual, but still manages to put up a point- an assist in the second period. The Aces barely eke out a win in regulation, and Kent is exhausted by the time the game is over.

In the locker room, Swoops sticks closer to him than usual. He can tell some of the younger guys are dying to ask him about Bad Bob, but a combination of Swoops playing guard dog and his own shitty attitude means that none of them do.

He doesn’t get pulled to do media, thank god, just packs up quietly and efficiently. He’s just exiting the locker room when he hears his name.

“Kent.”

He turns, and there he is, Bad Bob Zimmermann in all of his Stanley Cup winning glory.

Kent doesn’t know what to say. “Mr. Zimmermann,” he settles on.

Bob laughs. “Oh, come on now, none of that. I’ve always been Bob to you,” he says, and it’s true. The first time they’d met, Kent starstruck and Bob kind, Kent stuttering out Mr. Zimmermann and Bob laughing and telling Kent to call him Bob.

It hurts, and Kent feels all of sixteen again.

Bob pushes himself off the wall he’d been leaning against and says, “Are you up for dinner after that game?”

“Am I-” Kent starts, before he realizes what Bob had said. “With you?”

“With who else, kiddo?” Bob says easily, like they hadn’t disappeared on him for almost two years.

But Kent’s a masochist, so, “Yeah, alright,” he says, and starts walking towards the exit, Bob falling in step beside him.

They don’t talk much on the way to the restaurant. Kent’s not stupid enough to think that Jack will be joining them, but he wonders if Alicia will be there. He realizes how much he’s missed them- not just Jack, but Bob and Alicia as well. For three years, Bob was the closest thing he had to a father, and then he up and left him for his real son. Kent still doesn’t know how he feels about that. He should be angry, or at least pissed off but he just feels empty. Like it was a foregone conclusion.

It’s just them at the restaurant, and as soon as they sit down, Bob looks serious. “Kent,” he says over folded hands. “I have some apologizing to do.”

Kent is taken aback. “Okay?” He says cautiously.

“We shouldn’t have cut you off. We should have been there for you. I should have been there to help you through your first year in the NHL. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s fine,” Kent says. “It’s fine,” he repeats, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He never thought that he’d get to talk to Bob Zimmermann again, let alone get an apology from him.

Bob shakes his head at him. “It’s not fine. Quitting when things get hard- that’s not what parenting is about.”

Kent almost laughs at him. You guys made it very clear you were not my parents, he wants to say, but doesn’t Bob is making an effort. He should make an effort back. “You guys had bigger things to worry about,” he says instead.

“Still,” Bob says.

“Okay, well, I accept your apology,” Kent says, feeling like a little kid. “We can talk about something else now.”

Bob seems simultaneously amused and relieved at that. The conversation moves to hockey, and eventually, to Jack.

“So, uh, how is he?” Kent asks, feeling awkward and probably sounding it too.

“He’s better,” Bob says, sipping his wine. “He’s coaching some kids teams, did you know that?”

Kent shakes his head. He doesn’t know anything about Jack Zimmermann anymore.

Bob nods. “Peewee and bantam. It’s a lot, doing both, but he doesn’t have much else going on right now. He’s actually thinking about college.”

That shocks him. Jack? In college? College was never part of their plans- they were both too good to worry about having development time in the NCAA. “Really?”

Bob chuckles. “Really. Alicia’s pushing for Samwell, of course, but I think it would be a good fit for him. Not too big, but still a great hockey program. And we think he’d enjoy the academics too. He was always a good student.”

“Huh,” Kent says. Then, because he’s been wondering since he saw Bob on the Jumbotron- “Does Jack know you’re here?”

Bob looks at him with brown eyes instead of blue and Kent can’t help but catalog all the differences between him and Jack. Eyes. Cheekbones. The set of their mouths.

“Kent,” Bob says, jerking him out of his thoughts. “Jack is the one who suggested I come tonight.”

Kent’s mouth drops open, just the tiniest bit. “Oh,” he says, gripping the bottom of his chair just to do something with his hands.

He’d really expected Bob to be doing this behind Jack’s back— though how that would be possible Kent didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed that Jack knew about it. Or angry— that he knew and he didn’t come himself.

“He’s not sure he’s ready to re-establish contact with you,” Bob says, and Kent lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“That’s okay,” Kent says, twisting his hands in his lap. “I wasn't very nice when we spoke on the phone.”

“But,” Bob starts before Kent can start to spiral, “He’s open to reconnecting in the future.”

“Yeah?” Kent asks, heart pounding.

“Now I’m not promising anything,” Bob says, holding his hands up, placating. “And I don’t mean to overstep, but you two clearly miss each other. And Jack feels so guilty about the way things ended…”

He trails off, looking at Kent intently like he expected him to say something. Like he was supposed to say, “No, no, he shouldn’t feel guilty, it’s all fine!” But the truth was it wasn’t all fine. The truth was that Kent was still hurting.

“Probably a good idea to have some space for a while,” Kent says instead.

Bob looks at him for a moment longer, then nods. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands together, “Anything you like on the desert menu? I won’t tell if you won’t.”

_/ \_

Jack is thinking about college. But probably not as long or as hard as his mother would like him to. The thought just kind of rolls around in the back of his mind, something to grasp onto when he’s bored, but not any more serious than that.

If he did go to college, Samwell would be the obvious choice. He’s a legacy, they have DI hockey, its a small school. He hasn’t even looked at other schools— he’s barely looked at Samwell besides the pamphlets his mother had surreptitiously laid on his bed and the occasional scroll through the website.

What would he even major in? Not math— that was always Kent’s thing, and he’d never been particularly drawn towards STEM anyway. Maybe something in the Humanities.

He makes up his mind in mid-November, hoping it’s not too late. His mother is ecstatic. He fills out the Common App, spewing out some bullshit about how he hopes he’ll find himself at Samwell.

What he really wants is to play hockey again.

Coaching is great, but Jack is a player. He’s missed the rush of playing with people who can actually keep up with him.

He writes his personal essay about hockey, of course. But he doesn’t write it about his love for the sport, because every athlete will do that. Not that Jack won’t stick out anyway, as a double gap year student with no letters of recommendation, with a name like a sore thumb to anyone familiar with hockey.

His essay is about Franky. College counselors will eat that shit up, he knows, a story of action and redemption, all revolving around a kid.

His parents offer to get him a college coach, nearly insist upon it, but Jack resists. If he can’t do this by himself, then it’s not worth doing.

Jack knows he’s a good writer, because people would tell him in high school. But this essay- it’s hard. No matter how he wants to convince himself that he’s just trying to manipulate the audience, the truth is that he’s pouring out all his flaws on the page and expecting people to believe he’s changed.

He writes and rewrites and shuts down and stares at his computer screen until he finally has something he’s proud of. He prints it out and hands it to his parents.

When they’re finished reading, his father just looks at him, his sad eyes a mirror of Jack’s own. Then he smiles.

“Oh, honey,” his mother says.

“It’s good?” Jack asks.

“It’s great!” his father booms, sweeping him up into a hug that Jack stiffly tolerates.

“I’ll go— euh— submit it now,” Jack says when his father releases him, escaping back upstairs to avoid any other conversation.

When he gets upstairs, though, he doesn’t copy and paste the essay into the box. Instead, he downloads the document and attaches it to a new email message. Types in a familiar email address.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: College Essay

Hey Kenny,

I know it’s been a while since we talked. I don’t really know what to say. I wrote this essay for college applications and I thought you might like to read it.

Jack

CollegeEssay.pdf

He debates for a while on whether or not to add anything else. Typing and deleting, he finally resolves to just leave it as it is.

Pressing send, he immediately closes out of the window. He doesn’t know why he sent it. It’s not like Kent will ignore it, but maybe that’s what Jack wants. To just send it off into the void.

Leaving his phone on his desk, he climbs into bed and pulls the covers all the way over his head.

_/ \_

Kent gets the notification on his way to the arena, and it’s in the back of his mind all throughout the game. The Aces lose, but Kent puts up two points despite his distraction. He avoids checking his phone in the locker room and all through the drive home, wondering all the while what the fuck reason Jack had for sending him his college essay.

Back at his house, Kent finally opens the email on his laptop. It’s a short message, telling Kent basically nothing. Jack thought Kent might want to read his college essay? What the fuck? Why would Kent want another reminder of the things that were keeping Jack away from him?

But then he opens the attachment and— oh. It’s not just any old college essay, listing all the achievements in someones life. It’s a window into Jack’s brain, something Kent had never had before.

He talks about this boy he was coaching interwoven with tales of his own upbringing by his father.

It ends with a simple message: I always wanted to be just like my father. It wasn’t until I’d turned into him that I realized what that meant for others.

Jack’s relationship with his father had much improved by the time Kent met Bob. But Kent knows it was hard, growing up with a father like Bob Zimmermann. Bob had pushed Jack to be the best, unaware that Jack was already pushing himself to his limits.

Fuck.

He rereads the essay. It’s not very long, but it hits all the same.

Kent picks up his phone. Thinks about calling, then remembers that Montreal is 3 hours ahead of Las Vegas and Jack is probably asleep.

He settles on texting.

Kent: hey

Kent: i read your essay.

Kent: it’s really good. have you submitted it yet

There’s no response, but Kent wasn’t expecting one, not at this hour. It’s late, and Kent should probably get in bed himself.

He reads the essay a third time.

There’s a part in it about wondering if, when he was captain, he ever pushed people too hard in ways they didn’t need. Kent thinks it might be about him. Jack always pushed the rest of the team but it was always Kent he wanted to work extra with, Kent he chose to go over plays with, Kent he picked to watch tape with.

When he wakes up the next day, there’s a message waiting for him.

Jack: Thanks. I haven’t submitted it yet. I wanted you to read it first. I don’t know why

Kent types and deletes and types and deletes before finally settling on:

Kent: well you should submit it

Then,

Kent: you never pushed me too hard btw

Kent: i liked it. i liked being around you. i liked working with you

And before he can worry about being too vulnerable, he sends:

Kent: but i would have done anything to spend more time with you. you know that

He sprawls out on his bed, phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling. A few moments go by and his phone buzzes.

Jack: I know. That’s what worries me

Chapter Text

Jack submits his application, with the essay. He kind of regrets letting his father see it, letting his father see all the feelings Jack has about him being his father, but he’d seemed to be fine with it, so.

What Jack doesn’t regret is letting Kent see it. He feels he almost owes it to him, Kent was always so open with his feelings, and Jack had never realized it until after. It was one of the things they fought most about, Jack hiding things. He would hide his panic attacks, but he could never hide his bad moods afterward, and Jack in a bad mood always put Kent in a bad mood, but Jack would never tell Kent about his bad moods, or try to work them out or anything, so they were stuck in this endless cycle being shitty to each other.

He kind of wants to call Kent and explain… well, everything. Why he cut him off, why he hung up, why he sent his father to talk to him instead of showing up himself, why he sent his college essay to him. But he kind of feels like talking to Kent would be a bad idea, and besides, he just made a grand gesture with the email and the essay. If Kent wants to call, he’ll call.

Kent: wtf does that mean

Kent: jack you didn’t manipulate me into doing hockey shit. i wasn’t like franky dude i literally play hockey for a living. i knew what i was signing up for going into the q

Jack sighs. This is not really a conversation he wants to have over text, but—

Jack: I’m not saying you were like Franky. I’m saying that we had an unhealthy relationship, regardless.

Kent: wtf????

Jack can’t quite articulate what he wants to say. Basically just that Jack took advantage of the fact that Kent was willing to follow him around. And that was a shitty thing to do. And he wants to apologize for it, but can’t figure out a way to word it without essentially calling Kent a pathetic little puppy dog sitting at Jack’s feet.

Jack: I was a bad friend.

And you were a bad friend right back for enabling me, Jack thinks, but doesn’t say it. Kent always pushed back in public, in front of their teammates, called him out on his shitty behavior. But in private, he would just take it. Kent, of course, focuses on the wrong thing.

Kent: friend, huh

Kent: is that what they’re calling it these days

Jack flushes, but it diffuses some of the tension building up inside of him.

Jack: Shut up

Kent: make me ;)

God, if Kent were here right now… but he’s not. He’s on the opposite side of the continent. And also Jack is sort of mad at him for not taking this conversation very seriously. But really, if Kent were here, he’d smirk at Jack and the tension would melt away and…

No. This is exactly what Jack’s talking about.

Jack: Take this seriously, please.

Kent: fine. you were a bad friend sometimes. but i was a bad friend too

Kent: i thought that was just our thing, yk? we were shitty to each other, so what? we kept it real

Kent: except for how you were always lying about your anxiety and that pissed me off

Kent: i could have helped you!! but you just hid everything

Kent: whatever

Jack lets out a breath of relief.

Jack: My therapist said it was my coping strategy. Not a very good one, but.

Kent: yeah well my therapist said it would be a good idea to call you.

So they’re doing this, huh.

Jack: I’m sorry I hung up on you. That was shitty of me. I just… didn’t feel ready yet.

Kent: do you feel ready now?

_/ \_

Kent presses accept almost before he realizes that Jack is calling him. For a moment he’s silent, just staring at the screen, watching the numbers tick up on the call log.

00:00

00:01

00:02

“Euh, Kenny?” Jack says.

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent responds, hoping his voice isn’t shaking. “Um. Thanks for telling your dad to come to my game. That was nice of you.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Jack sounds surprised. “It was the least I could do. I didn’t— I didn’t know they cut you off too. That was— I should have realized. You didn’t deserve that. Not that you deserved me cutting you off either but…”

“I get it,” Kent says, even though he kind of doesn’t. “So, college, huh?”

“I want to play again. It’s my best shot.”

Everything’s about hockey with Jack. But it’s true. “So, um. What does your therapist think about that?”

Jack laughs on the other end. “Jeez, Kenny, diving straight in with the hard-hitters, huh?”

Kent flushes. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. She thinks it’s a good step. I can’t just coach kids forever.” There’s a pause. “I mean, I could, but…”

“But you want to play,” Kent infers.

Jack sighs. “Yeah. I want to play. And Maman thinks it would be good for me to have some kind of degree to fall back on, just in case.”

“Well, if you’re anything like your dad—” Kent starts, then stops. Jack just wrote a whole essay on being like his father. He coughs. “Anyway.”

“I never said sorry, did I?” Jack says abruptly, tone flat. “For cutting you off. I needed to do it, it was important for my recovery, but I should have been better about it.”

Kent remembers something Terry said about shoulds, but can’t find the exact phrasing. “Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve, it’s in the past now. All we can focus on now is the future.”

Jack is silent at that. “But don’t you think we should learn from our mistakes?” He says finally.

Kent ponders this. “I think… I think you spend too much time trying to learn from your mistakes,” he says. “There’s only so much tape you can watch, only so many drills you can run, you know?”

“Eventually you have to play the game,” Jack finishes.

“Yeah.”

“And…” Jack starts, “Would you… want to play the game with me again?”

This metaphor is kind of getting away from Kent. Is he literally asking if Kent wants to play hockey with him again? If so, the answer is definitely yes, but logistically kind of a nightmare. Is he asking if Kent wants to be friends again? Is he asking if Kent wants to be more? “What do you mean?” He asks.

“I think I’ve been so afraid of making the same mistakes that I haven’t let myself do anything. With you, I mean. I mean, not do anything, but like, talking to you. Is difficult. Câlice,” he curses, “this is hard.”

“It’s okay,” Kent says softly. “I think I get it.”

“Yeah?” Jack whispers. They’re both putting a lot on the line here, by reconnecting. They could hurt each other. Again.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “But it can’t be like before.”

Jack sighs. “No,” he agrees. “It can’t.”

“You were my everything,” Kent admits, and he hears Jack suck in a surprised breath on the other end. “Jack. I was in love with you.”

Kent can imagine the unasked question, but doesn’t presume to answer it.

“Kenny…” Jack starts.

“I know.” Jack doesn’t say it back. Jack never said it back. “That’s why it has to be different, this time. We can be friends.” Without all the rest of it.

“Friends,” Jack echoes.

What do friends talk about? Kent grasps desperately for something— “So, college?”

“Euh, yeah.” Jack doesn’t offer anything more.

“What’ll you study?”

There’s a rustle of fabric on the other end that Kent thinks is Jack shrugging, before he realizes that Kent can’t see him and says, “I don’t know yet.”

Jesus Christ, give me something, Kent thinks. “Maybe something like social studies?” He suggests. “You always liked those classes.”

Jack hums noncommittally. “Maybe,” he says, and Kent resists the urge to groan, but thankfully he continues, “Do you think they’ll let me skip the language requirement or will I have to take like, Spanish or something?”

Kent snorts. “What, you wouldn’t take the easy route and go for French?”

“Yeah, like any French teacher would take me seriously,” Jack says. “I could get through a written exam, no problem, but as soon as the teacher heard me speak it’d be over.”

“I like your accent,” Kent says, and realizes too late that it came out sickly sweet, like maple syrup.

“Kenny…” Jack warns, and Kent groans.

“I know. I heard it too. I’m just— I’m trying.” He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before letting it out in a thick stream of air. “I know it can’t be like it was before. But I miss you.” He hates how pathetic he sounds on that last sentence, but he can’t help it.

Jack doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t hang up, either.

“Jack?” Kent asks, when the silence finally gets to him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Jack sighs. “I know, Kenny. I just— think you see this version of me that I’m not. That I can’t be. And it’s so hard to compete with that that sometimes I don’t want to try at all.”

Kent sits with that. Has he put Jack on a pedestal? He didn’t think so, but he didn’t think that Jack would ever try to kill himself either. But it’s true, now that he thinks about it, that he saw Jack as someone to look up to. He was always more disciplined than everyone else, more reserved, more focused. Kent realizes now that that was probably the anxiety.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, like a windup toy with only one catchphrase. “I’m not— I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t,” Jack says and Kent can imagine him tapping his fingers against his thigh. “That’s the problem. When your natural state is thinking I’m the best and my natural state is thinking I’m the worst— well, you see how they clash.”

Kent didn’t expect Jack to be this honest. He continues, “I’m working on a more neutral self-image, y’know, more realistic. But—” he cuts himself off here with a shaky breath, “You have to be more realistic too. About me. I feel like you saw my overdose as just a blip in the radar, but that was more me than I’d been in a long time.”

“Jesus, Zimms.” Kent doesn’t know what to say. That was more me than I’d been in a long time. So, what, their entire friendship was a sham? He knows that’s not what Jack is getting at, but it hurts all the same. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“I can if it’s true.”

Kent doesn’t respond to that, determined to make Jack stew in discomfort the same way he’d made Kent.

But Jack just sighs and says, “Kenny. It’s my life.”

If they were having this conversation in person, and Kent was feeling particularly like a petulant child, he would cross his arms and frown and turn away from Jack. But he can’t, so he takes a deep breath and tries to sort through his emotions. “You— you—” he starts, then gives up, frustrated.

Jack waits patiently on the other end while Kent flounders, looking for some way to articulate his thoughts. He doesn’t think of the overdose as a blip, he thinks of it constantly, he hates it, because that’s the thing that took Jack away from him. But Jack is talking about the overdose like it’s a part of him, which, now that Kent thinks about it, makes sense. It’s terrible, and Kent hates it, but it makes sense. “Ugh,” he laments. “You’ve done more work in therapy than I have.”

Jack laughs, which Kent is delighted by. “I fought it for a while,” he admits, “I was just so angry. But some things just can’t help rubbing off.”

“Indoctrinated by psychiatrists, huh Zimms?” Kent jokes.

Jack chuckles softly, fondly, the kind of laugh Kent remembers from late nights in hotel rooms together, sharing a bed. And Kent is abruptly reminded of the fact that he is a fool in love with someone who might love him back but would never say it, and that’s almost worse than never being loved at all.

This is the point, where, if Kent were a stronger man, he would say something like, I was wrong, this is too soon, I can’t be normal about you yet. But he’s weak, and wants any part of Jack that he can get, no matter how much it hurts. So he just sits there, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, feeling whiplashed from the sudden change.

And he can’t handle it anymore. “Listen,” Kent says, throat thick in that way it gets when he’s about to cry, “I have to go. But— call me whenever, yeah?”

“Yeah, for sure, Kenny.” If Jack is confused at Kent’s switch up in behavior, Kent can’t tell. “I’ll text you.”

“Bye, Jack,” Kent whispers into the phone.

“Bye, Kenny.”

And even though he asked for it, it still hurts when Jack hangs up on him.

_/ \_

There’s a girl, who keeps popping up at home games, and Jack can’t tell if she’s just really into youth hockey or if she’s flirting with him. Her name’s Kate, and her little brother is on Jack’s Bantam team.

Here’s the thing, though: Jack’s never really had to flirt before. He’d hooked up with girls at parties, but that was when he was drunk and high off winning and benzos. And he was high half the time with Kent, as well, and besides, Kent did enough flirting for the both of them.

While Kate seems cool, she doesn’t really seem like she’d be down with the eyebrow raise and head jerk that always seemed to work back then.

So the next time Kate comes up to him after a game to ask about some hockey term or another, Jack says, “We could always discuss it, y’know, over coffee?”

And by the way Kate’s mouth splits open in a wide grin, Jack knows it’s the right decision.

Kate’s a student at the local CEGEP, and wants to go to university after she gets her diploma. They talk about college, and what they want to study. Kate confesses that she had no interest in hockey before her brother started playing, but now wants to understand it to get closer to him. Jack is more than happy to help.

They’re not dating, not really— neither of them are looking for anything serious, so it’s more of a friends with benefits situation than anything else. But Kate’s parents are thrilled that she’s dating— and a boy, at that, and Jack’s parents are thrilled that he has a friend, so it’s really a win for everyone.

“We were so worried,” Jack’s mother tells him, clutching him close, the third time he says he’s hanging out with Kate. “You were so sullen, and so isolated, and you didn’t have anything but coaching, and we’re just so glad you’re getting out more, honey.”

Jack just lets himself be hugged, patting her on the back when she squeezes him for the final time before he slips away. He tells Kate about it, and she sighs and tells him her mother did almost the same thing, except thanking her for not being a lesbian.

“And it’s not like I haven’t had boyfriends,” she says, talking with her hands as much as her mouth. “But I’ve just also had— friends,” she puts an emphasis on the word, “who were girls. Close friends.”

And Jack doesn’t have to tell her, it’s not like she would ever know if he kept this from her, but he says anyway, “I’ve had,” he pauses delicately, to put the same amount of emphasis on the word, “friends, too.”

Kate turns to him, slowly. “Friends who were boys?”

Jack nods, and they just look at each other for a moment, before Kate reaches out and laces their fingers together, smiling softly at him. “I’m glad you understand,” she says.

He tells Kent about her, how great she is, how understanding, and doesn’t realize until too late that when Kent asks about her, he’s not being nice, he’s comparing himself to her.

But Jack doesn’t have the energy to try and explain how different they are— the types of people they are and the types of relationships they’re in. Being with Kate is a sunny spring day: nice, quiet, still, whereas being with Kent was a winter storm: intense and all-consuming. Nothing could ever be like Kent, and Jack’s not sure ever wants that again.

So he just lets Kent think what he wants about it.

“I told Kate about us,” Jack says the next time they call.

There’s a muffled crash that sounds like Kent’s thrown something at a wall.

“And?” Kent’s tone is bitter and snarky.

“She was great— really supportive. She actually—” Kent huffs, cutting him off.

“So great that you feel you can tell other people’s secrets to, huh? Why don’t you just tell everyone that Kent Parson’s a big ol’ homo, not just your little girlfriend?”

“Crisse, Kent, I didn’t tell her who it was—”

“Yeah, like anyone with half a braincell wouldn’t know who you were talking about—”

“—and she doesn’t follow hockey anyway—”

“—like it’s not hard to google you and find me—”

“—and she’s not my girlfriend, anyway,” Jack finishes with a wince. Not really the way he wanted this conversation to go.

“Well, if she’s not your girlfriend” Kent starts, sarcasm dripping off his words. “Sorry if ‘best friend you also fuck’ hits a little close to home for me.”

“Jesus Christ, Kent, not everything’s about you!” Jack is standing now, pacing his room like a caged tiger. “It’s my life too and I get to share things about it with people I trust! Sorry if you can’t say the same!”

It’s a low blow. And Jack even knows it’s not true, knows about Swoops and Scraps and some of the other guys on the team as well.

Kent’s voice is low and cold when he says, “Fuck you, Jack.”

And this time, it’s Kent who hangs up.

Chapter Text

In the end, it’s Jack who reaches out first. Kent’s kind of proud of himself for how long he lasted, every day a struggle not to pick up the phone and call him.

Jack: Help me decide?

It’s a picture of all of his college acceptances. UMich, Brown, BU. Samwell. The first thing Kent notices is that they’re all in the midwest or northeast. Which is fine, it’s not like Vegas has any poppin’ hockey schools, but still.

He kind of wants to be bitchy, say something like, your girlfriend couldn’t help you? But then he remembers how good it was, those couple of months where they were in contact again, and forces it down.

Kent: jeez, zimms. making me feel like a dummy over here

That’s good. Lean into humor.

Jack: Not all of us meathead athletes make it in the NHL. Some of us have to work for a living.

You would have made it in the NHL, Kent wants to say, but he holds himself back. Light conversation. Easy and breezy.

Kent: haha

Kent: i thought samwell was your top?

Jack: My parents made me apply a bunch of different places, just in case. But now… I don’t know. There’s more than just hockey to consider.

Kent: brown was a safety school for you?!?!?

Jack: Ha. Not really.

Kent desperately wants to ask if they can call, but he reminds himself he’s playing it cool.

Kent: what else are you considering?

Jack’s response takes a while to come through.

Jack: I don’t know. There’s so much. Location, culture, academics. Like, Michigan is the best for hockey, but it’s farther away. BU is close, but it’s right in a city. Brown has the best history program, but it’s an Ivy.

Kent: and what about samwell

Jack: That’s the problem. Great academics, great hockey, great location. It seems to good to be true. And the coaches have already said they can guarantee me more ice time than the other schools.

It was just like Jack to be nervous about a good thing.

Kent: sounds like samwell is your guy

Jack: But how do I know for sure? What if I fuck it up?

Well, that was the nice thing about the draft, at least. No decisions. Someone tells you where you’re going and you go there.

Kent: listen, man, i don’t know shit about this stuff.

Kent: but it sounds like you’re leaning towards samwell

Kent: if you hate it? transfer. doesn’t seem like you’ll hate it tho

Jack: Okay. I still have to do some thinking but thank you.

Kent: no prob

And that’s the end of that. Several days later Jack sends a picture of himself crouched next to a yard sign that says Samwell Bound! Kent sends back nice!. Jack doesn’t respond.

The Aces make the playoffs. Bad Bob doesn’t come, busy doing commentary for the Habs.

Kent tries not to feel lonely.

He doesn’t have any friends in Vegas besides the team, and he’s terrified of his teammates, terrified that he’ll let them down.

He was supposed to be the Ace’s savior. He hasn’t done much saving so far.

Jack starts texting him after games, stuff like, Nice shot in the middle of the third and Tough loss. You’ll get ‘em next time.

Kent doesn’t respond to any of them. But Jack doesn’t stop texting, and Kent looks at every one.

Swoops and Scraps show up to his house one day, with beer and tacos, no doubt having noticed that Kent’s in one of his moods.

Once he’s let them in, he flops right back down on the couch, wallowing in his self-loathing.

“Aw, poor Parser,” says Scraps, sitting down next to him. “Feeling sorry for yourself again?”

“Shut up,” Kent protests against the couch, but his mood is lifted just by their presence.

“Up, Kenneth.” Swoops nudges him with a foot. “Can’t eat tacos laying down.”

“Not my name,” Kent says under his breath, but obeys.

Swoops doles out the tacos and beer, and puts on some sports game Kent couldn’t give two shits about.

Finishing his first taco, he says, “Jack’s been texting me.”

“Oh, shit,” Scraps says softly, muffled by the beer bottle in front of his mouth.

He’d told them both about how he’d hung up on Jack and waited, desperately, for him to reach out again, cried on Swoops’ shoulder, gotten snot on Scraps’ shirt. He’d sobbed about how Jack was allowed to move on, but Kent was stuck, forever hopelessly pining after his teenage love affair.

“That is so not healthy,” Swoops says, turning his whole body to face Kent, ignoring the game.

“I haven’t responded!” Kent defends himself. “Well, not after the first time.”

“Oh, yeah, like that’s better.” Swoops rolls his eyes. “You deserve better than being constantly strung along by Zimmermann.”

“He’s not stringing me along—”

“He kind of totally is, dude,” Scraps cuts in. “Even if he doesn’t mean to, even if he just means it platonically, he’s being kind of a douche.”

Kent sighs. He’ll never be able to explain Jack Zimmermann to them. Explain how even at his best, the most Jack is really capable of is stringing him along. That that’s the most Kent really deserves. Jack could do that to him forever and Kent would thank him for the honor.

“I mean, you basically told him you were still in love with him and he didn’t even acknowledge it, like, man, you’ve gotta see how that’s fucked.” Swoops ignoring the game just means he’s turned his attention entirely elsewhere, and right now, that’s Kent’s turbulent relationship with one Jack Zimmermann.

Kent shrugs, face turning red. He hadn’t really mean to tell them that part of it.

Swoops softens. “Listen, man, you really have to figure out what you’re willing to accept from him.”

It’s a shitty piece of advice. Kent knows what he’s willing to accept from Jack, and the answer is anything he wants to give.

_/ \_

It’s not like Jack doesn’t know he’s been shitty to Kent. It’s something his therapist let him realize on his own, which he kind of hates.

He’d gone to Kate about it, and she’d let him talk himself through it while stroking his hair. It was her idea to show, not tell, that he’d changed, or at least was trying to.

Their friends-with-benefits thing had gone well for a while, until Kate had sat him down and told him, point blank, that he was still in love with Kent.

That was the word she used.Still.

It had been an explosive argument, Jack telling her it was just guy stuff, she wouldn’t understand, and Kate standing her ground.

“You think I don’t know who your close friend was?” She’d asked him, and he’d gone cold. “You think I couldn’t connect the dots between him and your best friend Kent, who you talked to nearly every day, whose games are always on the television, who you always want to talk about?”

He’d begged her not to tell, not to go to the media, this could ruin his career, this was what Kent was afraid of.

“Crisse, Jack, do you really think that low of me?” She’d said, but Jack hadn’t relaxed. “I don’t care who he is, I care that you’re obviously still in love with him!”

And that had set it all off again.

But they were friends again, and even if Jack had grudgingly admitted that he might have been a little bit in love with Kent Parson back in Juniors, that didn’t mean he was in love with him now.

He still wanted him back, of course. Just— as a friend.

The Aces lose to the Canucks in the third round of the playoffs. Jack doesn’t know what to say. He’s been keeping a steady stream of text messages after every game, but this feels bigger than that.

Jack calls.
And for the first time, Kent doesn’t pick up.

He panics when Kent’s voicemail starts, pressing “end call” as soon as his shaking fingers can get to the button.

He’d known Kent didn’t want to talk to him, by the wall of blue messages on his phone with no responses. But it hurts, knowing it.

What was he even going to say? Sorry you lost? As if Kent hadn’t heard that all night.

He’s not hyperventilating, but his heart is racing and his hands are shaking and his vision is blurred and oh god all those feelings combined are stressing him out even worse and his breath is coming quicker and he’s so stupid for thinking Kent would pick up, for thinking Kent would still want him.

Jack sinks to the floor and rocks back and forth, arms wrapped around his knees. He tries for some breathing exercises— in-2-3-4 hold-2-3-4 out-2-3-4, but he can’t focus on them, can’t focus on anything except what an idiot he is.

Breath coming in great gasping sobs, Jack sits up against his bed, wondering whether he should wake his parents. His mother had gone to bed hours ago, but his father had stayed up to watch the final game of the Western Conference final with him. He’d retired less than half an hour ago, he could still be awake— no. Jack doesn’t want to bother them with his silly, stupid panic attacks. He’s old enough to handle them on his own, too old to be having them, even, he’s not a baby throwing a tantrum.

But that all just makes his breathing come faster— he’s such a child why is he even panicking over a phone call? He’s too old for this, just like he’s too old for college, he’s just some washed-up loser who doesn’t have a handle on his own emotions.

He holds his breath until he feels blue in the face, then greedily sucks in air to repeat the process. He’s back to rocking back and forth, knocking his head against the post of his bed every time he rocks backward, and it feels good, it grounds him. He clenches his hands into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

Tears pool at the collar of his shirt. He hasn’t wiped his face since it started. He finally feels calm enough to lean over and press his face into the comforter of his bed. His breath is still coming in choked off little gasps, but more like hiccuping sobs now rather than hyperventilation.

Jack climbs into bed and draws the covers up tight around him, curled into a ball on his side. His breath evens out and eventually, he falls asleep.

The next day, he tells Kate about it. She just listens, doesn’t offer advice, doesn’t tell him what he should have done, but she does say something that gives him pause.

“Y’know, it’s kind of unhealthy how much you depend on him.”

And Jack kind of wants to protest, but he just looks at her, and she continues, “I know, I know, you’re not in love, whatever. But clearly he matters to you a lot, his opinion of you matters to you a lot, or you wouldn’t be having panic attacks where you imagine him thinking terrible things about you. But you keep doing shitty things to him, and you have got to man up and realize that if you want to have any kind of reasonable relationship with him, you have to stop acting like he’s dispensable.”

“I don’t think he’s dispensable,” Jack says, frowning. But as he says it, he realizes that he has kind of been treating Kent that way. Always expecting him to pick up, to text back. Letting Kent pour out his feelings to him without telling him how much Jack valued him.

“Well, then do something about it!” Kate exclaims.

_/ \_

Kent’s not sure he’ll ever hear anything from Jack again after he ignored his call. But he couldn’t bear to talk to him, knowing he’d wasted his chance.

A message comes, though, a few days later.

Jack Hey. I know I’ve been kind of shitty. I’m working on that, and I’m sorry. I just wanted to say that you’re welcome at our house any time.

Kent has plans to train in California this summer, but surely he could take a week or two off to visit the Zimmermanns.

Wait, what? No, he’s mad at Jack. He’s not responding to his texts. He’s not going to live at his house.

He’s had more extended conversations with Scraps and Swoops (but mostly Swoops) about Jack. They both agree that Kent is way too lenient with Jack, which Kent knows, but ugh, it’s annoying to have other people say it.

But is the solution to over-leniency no contact?

He should talk to Terry about this.

If Terry is surprised to see Kent for the first time in several months, he doesn’t show it. He just says, “Ah, Kent, welcome in,” and sits down across from the couch.

Kent starts at the beginning, way back in the Q, because he’d never actually sat down and told Terry the whole story, with all the parts like Jack and Kent hooking up and Kent slowly falling in love with him. And how he still might possibly be in love with him now.

“Okay,” Terry says when he’s finally finished. “How do you feel, having told me all that?”

Kent shrugs. “I’ve told Swoops most of it, and Scraps knows some as well. And I know their opinions on it. They think that Jack doesn’t deserve as many chances as I’ve given him. And I know that I’m too forgiving when it comes to him. But I just—” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “I miss him,” he whispers pathetically.

Terry nods understandingly, every bit the therapist. “I’m not here to tell you what to do. But I think that if you truly want a relationship with him— any kind of relationship at all, you need to start valuing yourself more. It seems to me that you’re used to this type of behavior from Jack, used to believing that he doesn’t care for you in the same way you care for him. And that doesn’t seem very healthy to me.”

Swallowing uncomfortably, Kent says, “I don’t know how to be in the in-between with him. I mean, we’re both all-or-nothing people and I don’t— I don’t—” He cuts himself off with a pained breath.

“Have you ever tried setting boundaries? Telling him, if we’re going to be friends, this can’t happen, you can’t act this way?”

Unbidden, a laugh bubbles out of Kent. “If anyone should be setting boundaries, it’s him. I’m the one who makes things weird, who makes things uncomfortable. My feelings get in the way of everything. Jack’s the one who’s normal about all of this.”

“Well,” Terry says, pushing up his glasses, “It seems to me that he wants you back as well. The texting, the call— he’s making an effort. And I don’t think it would be a bad thing to take him up on his offer to spend some time with him. It’s clearly something you want— but you can start small. Thank him for his texts during the playoffs.”

So Kent does.

Kent: i’m still working out my schedule for the summer, but thanks for the offer

That’s chill, right? Totally laid-back and cool.

Kent: and thanks for the texts during the playoffs. sorry i didn’t respond to them

Jack gets back to him almost immediately.

Jack: No worries. Hockey robot mode, eh?

Kent: something like that

He’s expecting it to end there, for their conversation to fade off into nothingness, and he’s okay with that. Baby steps. But for the first time ever in his texting career, Jack Zimmermann makes an effort.

Jack: So what are your summer plans?

Here’s the thing: Kent doesn’t really have any summer plans, besides the vague idea of fucking off to Cali to ostensibly train but also take pictures of himself in clubs to maintain his “party boy” persona. And while he could totally do that in Vegas, California is where a lot of other guys train and Kent’s kind of hoping to make some friends.

Kent: headed out to cali, actually. training

He doesn’t expand upon it, and foolishly hopes Jack hasn’t retained his interest in Kent’s training schedule. Of course, he has.

Jack: Oh nice. Do you have a trainer yet? It’s short notice, but my dad could probably recommend some people.

No, Kent does not have a trainer. Yes, it would be nice to have Bad Bob’s recommendation. No, Kent doesn’t want to admit to Jack that he left it to the last minute. But, ugh, he really does need a trainer.

Kent: that would be great, actually

Jack: For sure. I’ll let him know and he’ll send some names your way.

Jack: What are you up to these days?

Great, another question. Kent has a love/hate relationship with this new Jack, who actively engages him in conversation with topics Kent’s done his best to avoid.

Kent: moping, mostly

Kent: locker clean out was a few days ago

Kent: idk

Jack: That’s too bad. If you ever want to watch a game together, that might be nice.

Jack: We’d be rooting for opposite teams, of course.

The Aces got beaten out by the Canucks, so Kent won’t be rooting for them. But the Bruins are the Habs’ rivals, and Jack’s a near lifelong Habs fan. Still—

Kent: yeah, that might be nice

_/ \_

Jack realizes, now that he and Kent are back on speaking terms, if not calling-every-other-day terms, how much he misses talking to him every day, about the minutia of their lives. But Kent probably needs time, and Jack wants to respect that.

It’s difficult, though. He tries to limit himself to reaching out twice per week, but sometimes he breaks his own rule when he sees a particularly significant trade rumor or a kid does something funny at hockey camp.

Halfway through July, a text comes through.

Kent: what are you doing for your birthday

Kent’s birthday had came and went earlier that month, with a birthday text and an hour-long call. Jack had thought about getting him something but ultimately decided not to, not knowing what to get him or how to send it.

But Kent asking about Jack’s birthday— well, Jack hopes he’s not reading too much into it when he responds:

Jack: Going up to the lake house. You’re invited, if you want.

There’s no response for a long time, long enough that Jack puts his phone down and tries not to think about it for a while. When he returns, there’s two messages waiting.

Kent: maybe i do want

Kent: who else will be there

Who else will be there? Who does he think Jack is, some sort of party boy?

Jack: Just me and my parents.

Then, trying to be funny:

Jack: Hope that’s enough to tempt you

Kent: it is lol

Kent: send me the dates when you have them, i’ll make room in my schedule

Jack’s heart beats a little faster. First time seeing Kent in over two years.

Jack: August 3-10. We’re driving up on my birthday and celebrating the day after. Maman has a work thing she can’t get out of.

Jack: You should fly in on the 2nd or 3rd to Montréal so you don’t have to figure out a way up there by yourself.

He knows he’s being kind of overbearing, but he wants to work it all out now so Kent doesn’t have a reason to back out later.

Kent: i can rent a car. old enough to now

Since it’s not really appropriate to say I want to spend as much time as I possibly can with you, Jack settles on:

Jack: It’s no trouble.

Kent: well, if you insist

Kent: thanks

Kent: i’ll work out flight details soon

Jack: Don’t leave it all to the last minute, eh Kenny?

Kent: even if i do, i’ll find a way out there

Kent: have a little faith in me, eh zimms?

Well, if that doesn’t just melt Jack’s heart.

He spends the next few weeks feeling like he does nothing but sit around waiting for Kent to come.

He flies in on the evening of the 2nd, and bitches endlessly about the fact that he had to make a transfer instead of taking a direct flight. Jack picks him up from the airport, shifting nervously in the driver’s seat.

When he sees Kent, he exits the car and helps him put his bags in the trunk. Kent greets him with a hand clasp and a bro hug that Jack can’t make heads or tails of.

“Hey, man,” Kent says, once they’re in the car, voice low in a way that Jack has come to associate with bro-ishness.

“Are you… deepening your voice?” Jack asks, bewildered.

Kent reddens and presses his lips together. “I knew you’d fuckin’ notice, damnit.”

“Why?”

“Just something I was trying out. Makes guys take me more seriously.”

Jack puts the car in drive and carefully maneuvers out of the pickup lines. “Why aren’t people taking you seriously?”

Kent turns to him, exasperated. “I— I don’t even know how to explain this to you. You never had to deal with this shit.”

“Kenny,” Jack says softly. “What shit?”

“People make assumptions, you know? When they find out I like Britney and home reno shows and wearing mesh shirts out to the club.” He sighs. “And I just— I get sick of the chirping, sometimes. So in LA I wanted to like, reinvent myself. It was stupid.”

Jack doesn’t know who Britney is, but, “Hey, no,” he says, aiming for comforting but feeling like he’s falling flat.

“And I couldn’t even go to the Britney show I wanted to because I was so concerned with what some douchebag pro athletes were thinking of me. And they still made jokes at me.” Kent throws his hands up. “So what was even the point?”

Not knowing what to say, Jack just reaches out and pats Kent on the shoulder. Kent flinches away from it.

“Is it really that obvious?” He asks in a small voice. “That I’m… y’know?”

“That you’re…?” Jack thinks he’s picking up what Kent’s throwing down, but he wants to be sure.

“That I’m gay, Jack.”

Jack is taken aback— he hadn’t really expected Kent to be that blunt about it. “Are you?” He asks carefully.

“Yes. No. Maybe? I don’t know,” Kent says, confusing Jack even further. “Girls are— they’re nice but— I don’t know, maybe they’re not for me.”

This is a tough conversation to be having in a moving vehicle, where Jack can’t look over and observe Kent’s facial expressions and body language— anything to tell him how he’s feeling besides the tone of his voice.

What is he supposed to say to that? “That’s okay, Kenny.”

“Fucking—” Kent slams his fist against the roof of the car. “I know it’s okay, it’s twenty fucking eleven of course gay people are okay but it’s not fucking fun. It’s mostly stopped in the locker room, I’ve got the A now and the guys mostly respect me. They still chirp me for shit but at least they’re not calling me a fag. But on the ice it’s still fair game, guys see I’m small, hear rumors about me— rumors about you, even, and they gun for me because I’m an easy target. So no, maybe it’s not okay. Maybe I wish I was fucking normal.”

Jack hasn’t seen very many Aces games, but he watched the playoffs, saw how guys would go after Kent. He’d thought it was just because he was their best player. “I didn’t know that was why they were going after you. I’m sorry. That sucks.”

Kent leans back in his seat, relaxing. “Yeah. It does suck,” he grumbles, then changes the topic. “Anyway, happy birthday! 21, you’re legal in the US tomorrow!”

“Haha, yeah, I guess.”

The rest of the car ride passes in a much easier mood. Jack’s parents greet Kent warmly, like they always have, like no time has passed. He doesn’t try to use the bro voice on them, thankfully. Jack’s father would have chirped him endlessly about it.

They have dinner together and it’s nice, easy. Conversation flows naturally. Jack feels at home in a way he hasn’t since the overdose.

The biggest change is that Kent doesn’t sneak into Jack’s room after his parents go to bed. Jack doesn’t realize he’s waiting for it until he feels that pit in his stomach when he doesn’t come. It’s stupid, really, why would he? They’re not— whatever they were— anymore. They’re friends. Friends don’t sneak into each other’s rooms at night just to fall asleep next to each other.

Unable to sleep, Jack goes down to the kitchen for a glass of water. He turns on the light and—

“Jesus Christ, Zimms, you scared me.”

Kent is already there, with his own glass of water.

“Scared by a little light, Kenny?” Jack teases as he opens a cupboard.

“Shut up, you know I wasn’t expecting it.” Kent rolls his glass between his hands on the counter. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Jack fills his glass at the sink before he responds. “It’s weird, having you here again. Every time you were here before…”

“We were fucking,” Kent says bluntly.

Jack blushes, hot and red, but says, “Yeah.” He leans over the kitchen island, opposite to where Kent is standing. “I kept expecting you to…” He trails off again.

Kent huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I was halfway to your room before I realized that that probably wouldn’t be a great idea. Came down here instead.”

Kent is more forthright than Jack remembers, or maybe it’s just the lateness of the hour.

Draining the rest of his glass in a single gulp, Kent says, “Well, I’m off to bed. Night, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Kenny,” Jack replies absently, still stuck on the image of Kent’s throat as he swallowed.

He watches as Kent disappears up the stairs and thinks, I am so fucked.