Chapter Text
At 30, Nic Sarantos thinks he has life nailed down pretty well. He’s been happily employed at a Las Vegas hospital since graduation, first in the NICU for a few years, and then, in the pediatric cancer wing. Some days, he needs to chug an extra cup of coffee in the morning, fighting back a grimace when a kid on track to remission backslides—it isn’t always easy. But it keeps money in his bank account and food on his table, and if he can insert an IV without making a kid wince, if he can make even one of the more cynical teenagers laugh at a bad joke of his, well, it’s all worthwhile.
If summer in Vegas had to be summarized, it would be, well, hot. Hot, and dry. Nic’s indoors for a good chunk of the day, and yet his Mediterranean skin still manages to freckle and tan under the desert sun. The A/C in the hospital is always cranking at full blast, which is a relief to staff and the majority of the patients. But then there are the kids on chemo, who are doubly freezing as a result, and hospital blankets have never been known for being all too thick.
That’s where charity comes in. Specifically, the charity of the Las Vegas Aces, and their captain, Kent Parson, who has been visiting the hospital ever since he was a rookie. Parson visits at least twice a year in person, laden with boxes of hoodies and hats. The kids are especially fond of the kind with the red and black puffballs on top, popular enough that Nic nearly expects black to replace green when the holiday season rolls around.
But that’s not all Parson does, or so he’s heard. There are charity golf tournaments hosted to raise funds in the hospital’s name. There are auctions of autographed sticks, jerseys, packages of season tickets. Nic’s not much of a hockey guy, but he’s heard the Aces’ captain referred to as ‘Parse’ before.
As far as he’s concerned, something referencing Parson’s philanthropic habit might make a more suitable nickname.
Parse visits regularly, enough to have memorized to the names of the kids who have been in the ward for longer than a year, though Nic can’t say the hockey player has ever recognized him by name. Which is to be expected—he’s there for the kids, after all, and the most Nic gets is a handshake and a thank you, if anything. As someone who doesn’t follow hockey all that much, he’s fine with that.
Parson is animated around the kids, a little on the shorter side for a professional athlete, but with a shock of blond hair, Nic can’t deny that he’s easy on the eyes. His shifts are much more relaxed when Parson visits, so he might as well find a reason to enjoy them, even if it’s a little shallow.
This summer, Parse is back at the hospital as usual. He’s bought a couple teammates with him, along with the Stanley Cup—the second time Parse has won it, but his first time as captain. 2018 has proven to be full of victories for him, starting with Olympic silver as a member of Team USA. But, contrary to the clickbait articles Nic sees on Facebook, Parse seems as down to earth as ever, letting his teammates jostle him around and make jokes, even with the white ‘C’ on the front of his jersey.
He’s managed to fit himself into one of the fluorescent yellow plastic chairs in the kids’ play area, sitting with some of them as they color in pages of scenes from the newest Disney release. His teammates are sprawled out on the floor in front of the PS4 and the big screen TV in the center of the room, playing MarioKart with the kids. Nic leans against the doorway, supervising with his coworker, squat, blond, Sharon, who, despite being sweet, has gotten a little more cynical each year further away from 50.
“I just don’t see the point of visits like these,” She starts with a small scoff, “I mean, sure, it lifts the kids’ spirits for a day or two, but then it’s back to normal again. And normal isn’t exactly fun for them around here.”
Nic raises his eyebrows, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. The videogame crowd is a little rowdy, and definitely loud, so he isn’t quite sure if it’s a coincidence or not when Parse tosses a glance in their direction.
“You’re not wrong,” He responds carefully, giving her a skeptical look, “But hey, as much as we try to be friendly with the kids, that doesn’t exactly soften the blow of what our jobs requires of us. Having someone else around, who’s nice to you—and won’t stick an IV in you, or cart you off to chemo when you’re already feeling crappy—is probably a nice change of pace.”
“Well—they could always donate a little more constructively, if you know what I mean. It just looks like they’re looking for publicity otherwise.”
“Yeah,” Nic snorts, “Like a hockey team that just won the Stanley Cup is hurting for attention. I mean, if I were them, I wouldn’t even want to do something like this—you saw the photographers that were swarming when they first got here.” Nic’s eyes slide over to Parse, whose shoulders are rigid, red crayon in hand no longer moving on the coloring page.
“If it’s really eating at you that much, Karen, I heard that their captain wrote the check to remodel the playroom last year, PS4 and all,” He tells her, tossing a nod in Parse’s direction, “And sure, that might be pennies compared to his salary, but it’s not like we’d be hurting if we did the same thing, y’know?”
Karen’s cheeks color and she opens her mouth to respond, but the sudden beeping of the pager at her waist interrupts her, and she huffs out a breath, turning on her heel. Nic sighs, shaking his head, and he heads over to the table, squatting across from Parson.
“Hey, Abby,” He smiles at the seven-year-old girl, a paisley bandana covering her short hair, “You still have physical therapy today, so I’ll walk you down in ten minutes, okay?”
“But I don’t wanna go today! We have guests!”
“That’s true,” Nic admits, “But they just started playing Mario Kart, and they haven’t even touched Brawl yet. If Frankie manages to get a tournament set up, they’ll probably be here for another hour, at least.” Abby wrinkles her nose as she thinks for a moment, then resigns herself to her PT fate, albeit with a characteristic pout. Out of the corner of his eye, Nic watches Parse crack a grin at his comment.
“Hey man,” Nic lifts his head, meeting the blue-grey of Parse’s eyes, “Thanks for that.” There’s still about two feet of plastic table between them, but there are faint freckles dotting Parse’s nose, his teeth glinting white as he smiles. Nic chuckles quietly, drawing his fingers through the tight dark curls of his hair, his ponytail fluffing out at the ends.
“It’s no problem—you seem like a pretty decent guy.”
Parse raises an eyebrow, “Seem like?”
“I mean. I guess it depends on which rumors are true.”
“Trust me, you were right talking to that other nurse earlier,” Parse laughs, “These things are logistical nightmares. But,” He cranes his neck, peeking at the crowd in front of the TV, and his shoulders slope with a content sigh, “It’s definitely worth it, at the end of the day.”
***
Nic loves kids—if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have pursued the job he’s held for close to a decade. Of course, after working twelve-hour shifts three days in a row, he likes to have a break. His Thursdays are reserved for sleeping in and doing his laundry, if he’s feeling up to it, with minimal social interaction. And he does his best to insure that his schedule remains the same.
His sister asking him to watch his nephew when she heads out of town to be her best friend’s maid of honor, however, is a bit of a different situation. But Nic puts family first, and he’d never say no to her, especially not to Tyler, his favorite—and only—nephew. He’s a good kid, and even though he doesn’t play the sport, he’s practically the reason why Nic has managed to absorb any knowledge about hockey in the first place—the kid memorizes statistics like his life depends on it.
Christmas came a few months too late to allow for Aces’ season tickets as a present, but a Golden Retriever puppy from the local shelter was quick to remedy that disappointment. Ty has his hands full with an ever-growing dog, and Nic finds himself carting the family to Petco on the weekend to hunt down kibble, a bigger dog bed, and if obedience lessons have been paying off, maybe even a new toy.
So far, Lily has been behaving well, trotting along happily at the end of her leash while Tyler gives her praise. He, too, has been behaving well for a kid on the cusp of eleven years old, though Nic hopes that’s not just his bias as the boy skids to a stop at the end of an aisle, quickly jogging to catch up as Nic steers past, turning down the next one.
“Whoa, did you see that guy, Uncle Nic? I think that's Kent Parson!”
Nic raises an eyebrow—he had mentioned that Parse had stopped by the hospital a week or so ago, coincidentally, on the one weekend his schedule required him to work. It didn’t seem like enough information to make Tyler too jealous, but the kid sometimes had an active imagination.
“Really?” He ventures, curious, “You think so?”
“Yeah, it's gotta be!” Ty exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his Nike-clad feet, “He's wearing the hat and everything!”
The aisles in Petco tend to be fairly stout, so Nic, at six-foot-two, rises up on tiptoe and catches a glimpse of, sure enough, a blond guy wearing a backwards Aces cap the next aisle over. He raises his eyebrows, impressed.
“Okay,” He starts, getting back to his feet, “So, maybe it is Kent Parson. That doesn’t mean you get to ask him for a picture or anything though—he probably doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“Aw, c’mon! It’s not like I’m gonna see him again,” Tyler frowns, “What’s Mom gonna say if it ends up being him and you don’t let me say hi?”
Nic blinks, the cart rolling to a stop as his brain stalls. “Oh. Um. Well—”
“Honestly,” starts a voice at the end of the aisle, pulling up just enough so that their carts don’t crash into each other, “If all he wants is a picture, it’s not too much of a problem.”
Nic looks up, and sure enough, Kent Parson is staring back at him. His eyes widen, and Tyler gasps audibly.
“Sure, if you say so,” He recovers a second later, immediately groping for the phone in his pocket. Tyler steps forward in awe, Lily’s body shaking with the full happy force of a wagging puppy tail and the prospect of meeting someone new, and Parson reflexively jerks his cart back an inch, smile strained.
“Sorry,” Parse laughs, “More of a cat person.”
“That’s, uh, fine,” Nic agrees, suddenly lacking in words, “Tyler! What’s Mom going to say when she finds out you’re letting Lily be rude to strangers?”
“Ahh, sorry!” Tyler reels the dog back in apologetically. He passes the leash to Nic, though his eyes are trained on Parson, as if he might bolt the second he looks away.
“Is it okay to take a picture with you, Mister Parson?” Nic exhales a laugh in response to Tyler’s effort at formality, and Parson makes a face, appearing similarly amused.
“With manners like that, it’d be rude for me to say no, huh?” He stoops down to Tyler’s height, camera-ready smile already gracing his feature. But a crease forms in Nic’s brow as he struggles to keep the phone steady, dog leash slipping down to the crook of his elbow.
“If it’s okay with you, I could always take a selfie with him? Make sure there’s less camera shake?”
“Thanks,” Nic smiles with relief at Parson’s offer, and eagerly hands the phone over, “That’s really kind of you.”
“It’s no problem,” Parse tells him through a smile, leaning down close to Tyler again. Tyler grins wide into the front-facing camera, showing off a gap in his smile as the shutter clicks off one, two times.
“Oh man, that’s a hockey player smile if I’ve ever seen one,” Parse laughs, opening his mouth to show Tyler his own missing tooth in back, “We almost match. Do you play?”
“Nah, I just lost it,” Tyler beams, “I’m not too good at skating, and Mom said hockey’s too dangerous, so I play baseball instead.”
“Not a bad choice. Bet it’s pretty brutal playing in the summer here, huh?”
“It gets pretty hot! Last year, our catcher almost fainted during a game!”
“No way! Well, I still hope you practice hard,” Parse tells him with a smile as he stands up, “And you better remember to stay hydrated.”
“Okay!” The boy nods vigorously, committing the creed to memory, and Parson hands the phone back to Nic. Tyler takes Lily’s leash back, still staring at Parson as if he’s having a religious experience, but Lily sees a dog at the end of the aisle, and she leaps in the other direction, pulling the boy with her. Nic apologizes frantically towards the woman and her Labrador, but Tyler manages to pull Lily back, and his shoulders slope with relief.
“Thanks for that,” He tells Parson, grinning as he flips through the picture gallery, “He’s gonna have an impressive story to tell when fifth grade starts up at the end of August.”
“Glad I could be of assistance,” Parse adjusts his hat, “Your kid’s pretty cute.”
“Oh, he’s not my kid,” Nic scratches at his neck, “Just my nephew. His parents are out of town for the weekend, so I’m just making sure he stays out of trouble. Trying, at the very least.”
“Ah. Gotcha. I thought you looked a little young—that makes more sense.” Kent trails off for a second, squinting at Nic a little curiously, and then he brightens, pounding his fist into his palm with sudden realization.
“You’re the nurse from the other week! With the Captain America scrubs! I knew you looked familiar!” Nic blinks, though he still laughs, taken aback.
“You got me there—didn’t think you’d notice, to be honest.”
“You did me a solid for my reputation last time,” Parson tells him with a wave of his hand, “Happy to return the favor, even if it wasn’t on purpose.”
“Hey, it was no problem. I better go find my nephew and his dog before they get into any trouble, though,” Nic gives him a thank-you nod, wheeling his cart around, “Maybe we’ll run into each other some other time?”
“Who knows,” He hears Parse laugh, “Anything can happen.”
***
The Nevadan climate rarely lends itself to outdoor sports with kindness, but with a Nigerian mother and a Greek father, Nic was bound to have soccer in his life at one point or another. He played both as a kid and a teenager, even making his high school’s varsity team his senior year. But his height and a protein-heavy diet always made him feel a little too bulky for the sport, so he wasn’t too heartbroken when he found out that his college only had a social club.
As an adult, he’s more than happy to be able to watch the game, especially when the World Cup rolls around. With two major allegiances, he keeps himself entertained pretty easily, and it’s even better when his teams aren’t matched up against each other early on.
Nigeria is playing Mexico tonight, earning him the ire of the friends he goes barhopping with, but he’s confident it’s going to be a close match. They pre-gamed a little harder than they should have, so when they enter the bar, styled after an English pub, Nic seeks to slip away from them, in case they get into any trouble. As he makes a beeline for the bar, his Nigerian jersey gets him a few comments in Spanish that he’s able to shrug off, thanks to his inability to understand them.
Something familiar catches his eye, then, and he can’t help laughing as he sees, incredibly, Kent Parson himself nursing a pint at the end of the bar. He’s wearing a white hat this time, with the brim pulled over his eyes, but Nic is positive it’s him. And before he can stop himself, he’s on his way towards him.
“Well, I can’t say I expected to find you here.”
Nic remembers, a few seconds later than he would have liked, that most professional athletes don’t like to be bothered in public—maybe Maya’s Jell-O shots weren’t as weak as she claimed them to be. He watches as Parson steels himself with a low laugh, taking a swallow of his beer before turning to face him. There’s a snarky comment on his lips, but the blink of recognition comes quicker this time, and he grins, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Holy shit,” He laughs, twisting his hat around so the brim is in back, “I guess you were right.”
“Hey, I was only joking—I’m just as surprised as you are,” Nic grins similarly, gesturing at the empty stool next to Parson, “Anyone sitting here?”
“Could be you,” Parse offers, “If you’re willing to share your name with me.”
“Nic Sarantos. Satisfied?”
“Almost,” Parse raises a skeptical eyebrow as he looks over his jersey, “Shouldn’t you be rooting for Mexico?”
“My full name is Nicolai,” Nic sits down, waving the bartender over to order a beer, “Mom’s Nigerian, last name’s Greek.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
“You’re not the first one to make that assumption though, so don’t sweat it. I am curious how the hell a hockey player ended up becoming a soccer fan,” Nic teases, “Mexico seems like an awful bandwagon-y kind of team, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s a long story,” Kent laughs, lifting his glass towards a rather pale, burly group of men across the pub, “The Finns and the Russians on my team, especially the rookies, are really into soccer for some reason. And they don’t even follow their home teams!” He rolls his eyes, “Something about Finland and Russia already being the best at hockey.”
“It doesn’t sound like you believe them.”
“Well, they’re good, but Canada might still have them beat,” Kent pauses, then inclines his head toward the row of flatscreen TVs at the top of the bar, watching as Mexico’s goalie makes a narrow save, “Looks like I’m distracting you from your game.”
“You’re a worthwhile distraction,” is the response that tumbles out, punctuated with a laugh, because Nic knows he hasn’t that much alcohol—his words are clear, free from a drunken slur. But Kent simply flashes his teeth, raising his pint in response.
***
Nic’s previous interactions with Kent Parson have lead him to believe than Parson is not at all like the playboy he’s often made out to be. He’s got a watch on his wrist that looks like it costs close to a million dollars, and after Nic gives him an overview of Nigeria’s squad, he sure celebrates their goals with gusto, but other than that, he’s still a pretty quiet guy. Kent buys him another beer when he finishes his first, and then another when he finishes his second, sitting with his chin in his palm as an increasingly inebriated Nic rambles on about soccer. But Nic has more of a chance to look at Parse up close, the cut of his jaw, his slightly crooked nose, and he starts to wish that he should have let Tyler talk to him more about the Aces, because their captain really is handsome.
“Hey, Kent,” He ventures, swirling his near-empty pint, “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay,” Kent smiles, “Just as a warning though, my favorite questions are ones where Google doesn’t know the answer.”
“I didn’t say I was going to ask something about you,” Nic laughs—okay, maybe he could be a little cocky, “But, I mean, I hope Google doesn’t know your phone number.”
“Oh,” Kent laughs, “I hope so, too.”
“Figured I might as well ask,” Nic explains, winking and pointing a finger gun at him, “Let sober me get embarrassed about it later.”
“Wouldn’t you be less embarrassed if I said no? Like, I know I’ve run into you a weird amount of times now, but Vegas is kinda huge, so…”
“Oh, shit. I guess you’re right.”
“Well,” Kent sighs, “I haven’t flirted with anyone in ages, so I’ll give you props.” He holds out his hand, and Nic blinks, staring at it with a blank face.
Kent stifles a burp, “Your phone?”
“Oh. Right,” Nic pulls out his phone and deposits it into Kent’s hand, trying not to stare too much as he types his number in. He reaches for it when Kent finishes, but Kent holds the device to his chest, out of reach.
“Wait a sec. Promise me you’re not some weird stalker first?”
“Uh,” Nic’s brow wrinkles as he searches for an alibi, though he can’t stop himself from grinning, “You’ve already met the most rabid hockey fan I know, and he doesn’t even have a phone? I’m not even sure what position you play?”
“…Fuck, I’ll bite,” Kent smiles, handing his phone back over, and Nic’s eyes fall to the familiar area code, the cryptic ‘KP’ as a contact name, “Let’s hope my sober ass won’t have any regrets tomorrow morning, either.” There’s a crash and some shouting across the room, and Nic doesn’t know any Russian, but the words he’s hearing sure as hell sound Slavic—that much is certain.
“It seems like my Russian friends have had their fill,” Kent tells Nic, making a face while standing up, as if he might need more alcohol himself before dealing with his friends. He sets an impressive tip down for the bartender, then flashes Nic a smile. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
“Sure,” Nic manages with a nod, parts enthusiastic and dumbstruck, “Will do.”
“Good,” Kent claps a hand on his shoulder as he walks by, “We’ll have to get dinner sometime soon.”
***
Their first date is not dinner, but in fact, lunch. They sit together outside on a shaded patio off the Strip, sunlight peeking through a well-tended wall of ivy that climbs up and over the open roof above them. Kent’s aviators are pushed back into his finely coiffed hair, though a few strands still are trying to fight their way free, and the black sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows as he looks over the menu. Nic’s eyebrows shoot up when he sees items like caviar, foie gras, and rack of lamb, though Kent tells him he’s got the bill covered.
In all fairness, the menu doesn’t even list prices, so Nic will try his best not to worry about the cost.
“So,” Kent begins over a glass of pinot noir, “I know this is just the first date, and I don’t want to intimidate you, but I want to talk about PDA and things like that, just so you know what you might be getting into. Sound fair?”
Nic nods, “Of course. I’m guessing PDA is pretty much a no-go, huh?”
“More or less. I’m not out, but homophobia is pretty much expected when it comes to the level of professional sports, and hockey is probably the worst. This isn’t L.A. of course, and it’s the offseason, so I don’t have many cameras on me, if any. I can probably grab a meal with you without raising too many eyebrows. But holding hands, kissing, anything like that—it has to be done in private.”
“Gotcha. That’s fair.”
“It’s not like I want to be closeted,” Kent continues, “There’s no arguing against the fact that the NHL needs an openly gay athlete—for the fans, for present and future players—but I know that if that first player ends up being me, it’s going to be a big deal. Not everyone will react positively, and it’ll be a PR storm. I need to come out when I feel like I can weather that storm, and if I do it when I’m with someone, I need to be confident that my partner and I will be able to weather it together, too.”
“Sorry,” He says after a small pause, “I know it’s heavy, but it’s just something that I find myself needing to be upfront about.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Nic tells him, brow wrinkling, “I get it. Not exactly the magnitude, because. Wow. But I’m not out to my coworkers. I’m not out to my family—it gets stressful, even for an average guy like me. I can see where you’re coming from.”
“I appreciate it,” Kent sighs, rubbing at his forehead, “It’s probably pretty intense, for someone who isn’t familiar with the inner workings of the NHL.”
“I don’t think I’ll waste my time worrying about it—I’d rather focus on getting to know you. And if you decide to come out,” Nic gives him a small smile, “We’ll take that one step at a time.”
The corners of Kent’s eyes crinkle with an exhale of a laugh, “Sure,” He grins, “I can adopt that attitude.”
***
Nic sometimes worries that he talks too much, but when it comes to someone like Kent, he just can’t help it. He has so many questions—about hockey, how he started, what he does in the offseason—it’s uncharted territory for him. But Kent is happy to answer his questions, and he asks Nic about hospital work in turn. They joke that all they talk about is work, but with Nic’s hectic schedule, and the upcoming hockey season for Kent, it can be hard to find room for hobbies.
Staying active is a requirement of Kent’s career, though Nic keeps up with cardio and lifting on his days off, if only to keep the more sedentary parts of his day from getting to him. They bond over jogging especially, exchanging sweaty selfies as they finish up their respective runs, and at the beginning of September, two month after their first date, they drive out east, spending a weekend at the Grand Canyon together. It’s sweaty and hot and Nic’s legs ache for days after he comes back home, but he can’t say it wasn’t romantic.
He refuses to let Kent be the lone initiator of dates, though, so two weeks later, he shows up on his doorstep in a pink button-down and khakis, bouquet of roses in hand. Kent answers the door in sweats and a faded Reebok t-shirt, staring wide-eyed at Nic before giving him a quizzical look.
“Shit—were we supposed to go out tonight?”
“No,” Nic laughs, smoothing his hair, “You gave me your address last week, so I just wanted to stop by and surprise you—I hope that’s okay.”
“Now’s fine,” Kent recovers as he accepts the bouquet, giving him a grin, “Don’t just stand there, man—come in!”
Nic’s first impression of Kent’s home is composed mostly of high ceilings as he’s invited inside, suited to the winding driveway outside that makes his SUV look miniscule in comparison. He follows Kent into the kitchen, standing back as he sets the bouquet on the island.
“If now’s a bad time, I can always—”
“No, you’re good,” Kent tells him, brow furrowing as he looks through his cabinets, “I swore someone gave me a vase as a housewarming gift years ago, now where in the hell did it…?” Nic folds his arms, a smile fighting its way to his lips as he watches Kent scramble around.
“If you can’t find a vase, I’m sure you have a trophy lying around that’ll make a fine substitute.”
“Hah,” Kent laughs dryly, “Very funny.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something. And when you do, we can order some takeout, maybe watch a movie on demand. Hell,” Nic grins, “I’ll even let you keep your sweatpants on.”
“Considering you’re in my house, I sure hope you do,” Kent grins back, “That sounds great, Nic. Please stay.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
***
The flowers are rehomed in a set of decorative pints found in the back of Kent’s kitchen cabinets, making for scattered splashes of color around the house. Nic finds himself leaning over a selection of Chinese menus atop the kitchen counter, orders a few entrées, then departs to the living room, where he last left Kent reclining on the couch. He makes it there in one piece, but there’s a valiant effort made by the white cat that twines between his ankles, causing him to stumble.
“Oh, hello,” Nic laughs, dropping down to pet the cat, who’s nuzzling his shin, “I’ve seen your face on Snapchat before.”
“Kit, we talked about this!” Kent tsks under his breath and gets up, scooping his cat up from the floor.
“Sorry,” Kit meows as Kent kisses her forehead, “She forgets her manners sometimes.”
“That’s forgivable,” Nic smiles and scratches under her chin, earning a happy purr in response, “You’ve had her for how long?”
“I got her from a shelter when I moved out here for my first training camp, so…close to nine years now?” Kent coos at his cat as she sprawls out in his arms, “You get something good for dinner?”
“Crab rangoon, Szechwan pork, fried rice, some egg rolls…” Kent nods his approval, and Nic gives him a grin.
“I’ll head out and pick it up when it’s ready—but first, how about a house tour?”
***
Kent insists that his home is modest compared to what some of his teammates own, but that doesn’t mean it’s without its perks. He’s got a bar in the basement, a pool table, foosball, and something akin to a trophy room with numerous pucks, sticks, and team pictures inside. The kitchen, dining, and living rooms are all impressive, as is the entertainment system that the latter boasts, replete with a mounted 72-inch TV, PS4, and surround sound. He admits the Lamborghini in his garage doesn’t get as much drive time as he’d like, but that’s more due to him worrying over scratches, not a lack of free time—the Mercedes has, however, a lot more miles on it.
They head out and pick up dinner, and as they eat together out on Kent’s patio, Nic’s gaze can’t help but be drawn to the in-ground pool, lights illuminating the water against the gradually darkening sky.
“I don’t mind being surprised, but if you had told me you were coming, you could’ve brought your trunks.”
“I nearly wish I did,” Nic laughs, helping himself to a second portion of rice, “It looks so nice.”
“It is a pretty nice night—want to borrow a pair of mine?”
“Sure,” Nic takes a drink of beer, “Does that mean you’ll be joining me?”
“No, I’m just going to sit here and ogle you,” Kent’s words drip with sarcasm as he rolls his eyes, “Though you do keep pretty fit.”
“It’s my shifts—I’m so busy sometimes that I only have time to get a protein shake in for lunch.”
“For someone who works in the medical profession, don’t you think that’s a little ironic?”
“Yeah, though I’m not the one who’s playing a dangerous sport, now am I?”
“Oh, but Nicky,” Kent grins, “That’s the best part.”
***
The pair of trunks that Kent lends him hugs his waist a little tighter than he’d prefer, but the water is refreshing, and the discomfort is easily ignored. Kent still sports a six-pack after eating dinner, to Nic’s mixed feelings of envy and admiration, and when the moon starts to shine a little brighter, they sit together in the hot tub, nursing their beers.
It starts slowly at first, Nic drawing his toes up a scar on Kent’s calf that took him out of play one season some years back, Kent watching him, the corner of his lip twitching up into a smirk. He closes the gap, looping his arms around Nic’s neck, while broad hands settle at his waist. Kisses are newer for them—touch had hovered at handshakes and hugs, a brief squeeze of the other’s shoulder—until they pulled off the road twenty miles from the Nevada border two weeks back, stopping to admire the stars. The water is warm, and so are Kent’s lips, fire bubbling up in his kisses as he grows more confident in them.
“Tell me something, Nic,” He begins, his knee slipping between Nic’s thighs, a hand sliding down from his neck to stroke at his chest hair, “Do you think I’m hot?”
“Um, yes?” Nic laughs, “It’d be hard not to.”
Kent nods along with his words, “That’s fair. But, do me a favor, and maybe try not to?”
Nic raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, curious, “Explain?”
“Well, it’s not like I think I’m ugly. And I think a lot of guys, like you, are good-looking, too. But I’ve never met anyone who has been so mind-blowingly attractive that I’ve wanted to strip and fuck them on the spot.”
“And that’s probably normal for a lot of people,” Kent continues, “But that’s not all of it. It’s like, I’ll see a guy, and I’ll be like, ‘damn, I wish I had lats like that,’ or ‘fuck, his eyes are really pretty,’ but that still never turns me on, even if I’m trying to date that person. So you calling me hot, or sexy, or whatever, when I never really think about other people like that, kinda feels weird, y’know?”
“I can respect that,” Nic pecks a kiss at the corner of his mouth, “Would it be okay if I called you handsome?”
“Handsome, good-looking—both of those work,” Kent smiles, “And while we’re on the topic, I just want you to know that you’re pretty damn handsome, too, in case you weren’t aware.”
“Kent…” Nic laughs, running a hand through his hair, “Thank you. Just let me know if I do something that you’re not comfortable with, okay?”
“Of course. You better do the same if I ever make you feel uncomfortable, too.”
Nic nods, “Now that I think about it, I think I have a psych friend who talked about that kind of thing—asexual, or something like that?”
“No shit?” Kent raises his eyebrows, “Didn’t realize it had a name.”