#cliffs edge

Kent sits on his bed with the book in his hands. Rough creases run through the spine where it has been cracked several times. Its cover corners are dog-eared. He checks the copyright page and finds out it’s barely five years old. Funny, it looks like it’s been through at least a decade.

Alexei had never come back to the hotel to claim it. Kent wonders why he didn’t take it with him in the first place. Did he forget? Or had he been planning on coming back? Kent thinks back to their time together in Providence—and shit, it was only two days ago—and wonders how the hell everything went so wrong so fast. It had certainly felt fast, from his end. Despite Alexei’s reluctance in Bittle’s, he had come with Kent to meet the Aces. He’d allowed himself to be coaxed into hanging out with Kent. He’d followed along to the museum, to the pub, to Waterfire. The whole day had been good, until suddenly it wasn’t.

It had been just like Kent’s dates, where Alexei had been affectionate and warm until abruptly shutting him out. On the night of the reunion, he’d blown Kent but turned down the offer of reciprocation. In New York, he’d hung out with Kent and had sex with him, but then turned down tickets for a game. And then he’d shown up in Providence, spent the whole day with Kent, even opened up a little about the pain that Kent had always known was twisted up inside him…and then slammed a car door shut in Kent’s face and cut all ties.

You wake up every day, do something special. You not understand, how hard it is. How hard, be so close, but have nothing.

Kent sets the book aside and puts his face in his hands.

What’s the next step here? He knows what it should be: letting this go. Alexei said his goodbyes. He left Kent with no contact information and a clear statement of “we can’t be friends.” Kent gave Alexei his card, but for all he knows it was left in the trash in Providence. Everything supposedly ended right there, in that empty parking lot outside Alexei’s motel door.

So why can’t he let this go?

Unfortunately, he can’t sit there pondering for very long. He has to show up for optional skate even if they decide not to clear him for ice time. Fuck, he hopes they clear him. Skating clears his head, and God does he need that right now.

Half an hour later, he says goodbye to his cat and goes to the rink.

Most of the guys look a little jetlagged and disgruntled to be there. But nearly everyone hits the ice, the exception being a few guys who’ve had aches or pains the last couple of days and need to rest up before the regular season hits. Kent accepts a no-contact jersey without protest, thankful that they’re at least letting him skate. And, if he’s honest, he’d rather not accidentally bust his stitches open and spend today in the hospital, as well.

As for the couple of guys who are sitting out under doctor’s orders, he stops to chat with them a bit. There’s no such thing as too much positive reinforcement when it comes to making sure his teammates take breaks when they need it. Nobody likes to sit back and feel like dead weight while the rest of the team takes care of things, even if they know it’s for their own good as well as the good of the team. There’s very little mercy in hockey, both on the ice and off it. Pushing too hard can have devastating consequences. Better to take a day’s rest than to be laid up for several games with an injury that could have been prevented.

Pavlo is one of those people sitting out this practice. He was only in the Dallas game for three minutes, but during that time he took a fall that ended with the team physician rotating his left ankle and frowning.

“Chin up, kid,” Kent says as he laces up his skates. “Better a day on the bench than missing your first regular game.”

There’s a long pause while Pavlo works through the sentence in his head, and then he nods. “Yes.”

“No matter what, you have to take care of yourself,” Kent adds. “Got that?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“Sitting out for a little bit doesn’t mean you failed the team. It doesn’t mean you’re useless. It means you’re taking care of yourself.”

Pavlo gives him a weird look, like he’s confused as to why Kent is still talking about this. “I know.”

Kent pats him on the back. “Good. Good. Just want to make sure you know.” He finishes lacing up his skates and stands. “You’ll be back on the ice before you know it.”

Pavlo’s smile is indulgent. “Okay, captain.”

Kent smiles back, grabs his stick, and joins the rest of his team.

Practice is good. The guys are tired but motivated. Each passing minute brings them a little bit closer to Monday, to their first game against Anaheim. Everyone knows the importance of bulking themselves up as much as they possibly can. They push themselves through warmups, through suicides, through passing drills. They make shots and the goalies block them. They split into teams and play three-on-three, then with a full six-on-six.

Everyone is red-faced and panting when they finish. Kent shares a few head pats and back slaps with his teammates, joining in the communal murmurings of “good practice” and “nice passes today.” Compliments and encouragement after a hard day’s work keep them going, especially when they all know that these past weeks were just the start. Once regular season starts, they’ll hit the ground running every day for eight months straight.

In the locker room, there’s an informal team meeting with the coaches and PR while everyone is pulling off pads and skates. It’s mostly a pep talk. Everyone knows that with the Stanley win the previous season, expectations are high. Moreover, other teams will view them as the number one threat to beat out of the playoffs this year. The Aces head coach, Bobby, encourages pacing.

When it’s Kent’s turn to speak, he echoes that, and adds, “I also want to make sure we focus on our health this year. I’m including myself in that. I had a couple unhealthy scratches last season that I could have avoided if I’d taken more time to rest, and I’m sure I’m not alone. If something hurts, don’t keep quiet. Tell somebody. If I find out someone is trying to play through an injury or some shit, I’m gonna ban you from Bittle’s breakfast for the whole season. I’m serious,” he says when there are soft gasps and a few cries of outrage. “I’ve got Bittle’s on speed dial, don’t test me.”

“We don’t eat trash breakfast in Providence,” Pavlo whispers, sounding horrified. Good, Kent thinks. The kid understands.

Then, the inevitable addressing of the elephant in the room: Dallas.

Kent stands back while Martin takes center stage.

“We always knew this could happen,” he says. The room is dead silent. “When Kent went public in May, there was backlash. Most of it was just online. We knew we’d have to deal with that, which is why we prepped everyone for it. I want to reiterate that everything I said back then is just as true now, if not more so. A lot of people will have calmed down in the last few months, but as I think we’ve all seen, plenty of them won’t. And those people will have been stewing in that discontent. We’ve seen an incredible outpouring of support from our fans and from the NHL. We’re going to make sure that remains the case and that we take every possible opportunity to emphasize it. But I want us to be ready, too, for the unfortunate fact that some people are going to be angry about Kent’s continued presence on the team.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Swoops says, and his words are echoed by several others around the room.

“That’s fine in here,” Martin agrees. “But out there, we have to be better than all that. What happened on Friday…” He glances at Kent, and at the stitches marching up Kent’s temple. “What happened on Friday is definitely beyond what we anticipated. Which means it’s more important than ever that we present a united front. As bad as it might get out there, we have to be better. If you hear a fan say something vulgar, ignore it. Or, if you must say something,” he adds, sighing with a kind of experienced resignation that makes Kent grin. “If you absolutely must respond, make sure it’s not anything we have to suspend you for.”

A strained laugh goes through the room. Kent has several of his guys in mind who would absolutely throw caution to the wind and pick a fight with a fan or a reporter if he was mad enough. Kent is going to have to get Swoops alone for a beer sometime and let him air out his grievances so they don’t explode one day in public.

…He should probably invite Finch and Sunny along, too. Hell, he should throw a party for the whole team and let them rant about their frustrations until they’ve burned the worst of it out.

Kent comes out of his head to find that Martin is wrapping up.

“…if you have any additional concerns. Thank you for sticking together through this.”

After that, there are a few parting words from PR. With regular season starting, so too will there be an increase in press demands and behind-the-scenes taping of their daily lives. Nobody is thrilled, but it’s part of the media machine that keeps fans engaged and thereby pays their salaries. Everyone in the room, even the rookies, understands that this is how pro hockey works.

At the end of the meeting, the guys either hit the showers or the gym, or head home. Kent doesn’t change out of his base layers before climbing on an exercise bike and peddling hard. He feels wound up. There’s a restless tingle under his skin, compounding the heaviness that still lives in his chest cavity. It’s starting to spark ridiculous thoughts, what-ifs and should-haves, mad hypotheticals that feel right but are probably just the desperate musings of a man still reeling from the unexpected loss of a friend and then having a beer bottle thrown at his skull.

He bikes until his legs ache, then hits the showers and starts changing to go home.

A player who can’t keep feet under him on the ice can defend no one, Alexei had said. He is useless.

“You’re not useless,” Kent mutters out loud.

“Talking to your socks, Parse?” Rose calls from two seats down.

Kent holds up a jock strap he’d been in the process of cramming into his duffel.

“I guess even underwear needs a pep talk sometimes,” Rose says sagely.

“Especially underwear that spends so much time around my sweaty balls.”

Rose grimaces. “Well, that was a disgusting mental image. Thank you for that.”

“Aw, Rose, you imagine my sweaty balls?”

“You made me imagine your sweaty balls. I didn’t want to. And now you’ve made me have to say ‘your sweaty balls,’ and I didn’t want to do that, either.”

Kent tugs the jock strap back out of his bag and tries to shove it in Rose’s face. “Bet you wanna smell ‘em even less.”

“Che schifo!” Rose ducks away and gets to his feet, grabbing his bag as he goes. “I can’t believe you’re older than me.”

Kent is laughing too hard to respond.

“Get home safe, Parson.”

“See you, Rose.”

Rose leaves. Kent stuffs his (admittedly smelly) jockstrap into his bag and looks around the room. He takes a deep breath through his nose, smelling sweat and feet and ten different kinds of manly deodorant, mixed with fruity Gatorade and the mildest hint of cleaning bleach from the last time the surfaces were sanitized. It’s a very unique kind of disgusting.

Sounds like heaven.

On a whim, he gets up and goes back out to the rink, leaving all his gear behind. The arena is by no means empty. When Kent steps out onto the ice in his shoes, he’s not the only one there. The Zamboni has yet to come through but the ice crew is already at work, sweeping up shavings and filling in cracks.

“Forget something?” someone calls.

“Nah, just taking a walk.”

“Okay.”

The difference between an empty arena and one packed to the brim with excited fans isn’t just night and day; it’s like comparing the heart of a forest to Times Square at New Years. With no one in the stands, it’s easy to hear how far the sounds echo. During practice that day, skates had scraped against ice and pucks cracked into goal pipe, while voices called to each other through the open air. On a game day, it’s nearly impossible to hear anything through the constant, simmering roar of the crowd. Both experiences are unique and hold a special place in Kent’s heart. He loves a full arena for its intensity, while he relishes a quiet one for the space it gives him to breathe.

Right now, though, it’s a little different. Walking on the ice in his sneakers is weird.  He feels clunky without his skates to make him glide.

A player who can’t keep feet under him on the ice can defend no one. He is useless.

This is all I get, you understand?

I don’t do anything special.

“I think you’re special,” Kent says out loud, and is furious with himself for not saying it to Alexei’s face. And he’s a little furious with Alexei, too, for saying shit like that about himself and barking at Kent for trying to disagree. Just because Alexei feels like that’s the truth doesn’t mean he can expect Kent to act like it is.

He wonders when was the last time Alexei put on a pair of skates and felt the ice beneath them. Probably years.

Kent digs through his pockets until he finds his phone.

Jack, thank goodness, answers on the third ring. “Hello? Kent?”

“Hey. Sorry to call. I, um.” He glances around the rink. “I need to... I have a question. Kind of a personal one. But it’s important.”

“…Okay.”

Kent’s heart is beating so hard. There’s so much about this fledgling friendship that he could fuck up by asking this. They’ve never broached this topic. “What got you back on the ice? After the overdose?”

Jack’s silence is painfully loud. Kent waits, holding his breath.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Jack says quietly. “I was angry and miserable for a long time. I hated anything that reminded me of how I’d failed everyone.”

“You didn’t fail anyone.”

Jack’s voice is still quiet, still reserved, but warmer after Kent’s interjection. “I know that now. But it felt like it, you know? For a while, I thought I’d never want to play hockey again.”

“Yeah.”

“But I couldn’t stay away. And one day in winter, I just… You know that pond behind my parents’ house? I grabbed my skates and went out back, got on the ice. I skated around for hours. And it didn’t fix everything, I was still in rehab, but it made me realize that I could never give up hockey, because I love it. I love being on the ice. I love it more than I hate all the shit that comes with it, sometimes. Life is complicated, but hockey is simple.”

“I get that.”

“I know you do.”

Kent swallows. “I’m really glad you’re my friend again, Jack.”

He hates that Jack doesn’t reply immediately, that he still hesitates at the use of ‘friend,’ but Kent will admit that it’s fair. And Jack does eventually say, “Me, too.”

Far across the rink, Kent hears the familiar rumble of a Zamboni engine. Time to get off ice. He starts walking towards the exit, giving a nod and a wave to the ice crew as he goes. “Thanks, Zimms. Sorry to bother you with this.”

“It’s okay. Can I...uh, can I ask what it’s about? Is everything okay?”

“Will you be mad if I tell you that it’s private and I probably shouldn’t say anything?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Okay. Well… did Eric tell you about Alexei?”

Jack’s moment of silence is damning. “I think he mentioned him.”

“Liar, I know you two gossip like rookies.” He’s off the ice, now, heading back through the tunnel and into the dressing room, now deserted. “Can I swear you to the highest level of secrecy in the history of mankind?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“Look up ‘Alexei Mashkov NHL knee injury.’”

Jack goes quiet.

“I gotta go, Zimms,” Kent says into the silence, and most definitely does not go to the wall and bang his head on it several times the way he really wants to. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Sure. Bye, Kent.”

They hang up. Kent stares at his phone for a minute, fingers clenched around the casing.

He has a really, really, really reckless idea.

He dials the escort agency before he can think better of it.

****

Kent’s phone wakes him. He fumbles for it and checks the screen: unknown number. It would be all the excuse he needed to mute the call and go back to sleep, if he hadn’t called Alexei’s agency just five hours ago. He knows who it is.

He braces himself. “H’lo?”

Alexei’s voice cracks through the connection, brittle and angry. “Kent. What. The. Hell?”

Here we go. “Alexei?”

“Agency just tell me I get twenty-five thousand dollar job from you. Why?” The words shiver with barely contained fury.

Kent stalls. He asks about the time, complains that he’s tired, but Alexei isn’t having it.

“Kent. Fucking tell me why.”

And that’s…that’s not anger. That’s hurt. When Kent made the call, he’d been certain of his brilliance, proud of his own courage. He’d wanted more for Alexei and he hadn’t let fear stop him. But hindsight, again, is twenty-twenty, and it’s plain from Alexei’s voice that this is the last thing he wants. Kent had thought he was being brave, but maybe he’d just been selfish.

Kent sighs. Maybe he’s just an idiot. “If you don’t want the job, don’t take it.”

“Is not about take it or not take it. I’m ask you why. Why, after Providence? Why are you do this to me?”

“I’m not doing anything to you,” Kent groans, even though that doesn’t feel true. He rubs his face with one hand. “Although this did feel smarter five hours ago…”

“Is stupid decision for you to make while drunk,” Alexei snaps. “You make us both regret this.”

“Drunk—?” Kent chuckles dryly and gingerly touches the stitches on his forehead and temple. They still throb in time with his pulse, which is a very unsettling sensation. “Dude, I might have been a little muddled, but if I mixed alcohol with the meds, my doctor would kill me.”

“Meds?” Alexei repeats. “What meds?”

“Basic painkillers, for the stitches and the headache.”

Alexei is slow to respond. “…Stitches and headache? This happen in Dallas?”

Oh. Oh, shit. Alexei has no idea. Kent’s first question is how, how could Alexei possibly not know about the incident in Dallas, it was all over the NHL news feeds—but then he realizes. Alexei didn’t watch the game in Dallas. And if he didn’t watch the game in Dallas, it’s possible he hasn’t checked any NHL-related feeds since Providence.

“Guess you’ve been busy,” Kent manages finally.

“Are you okay?”

Alexei sounds worried. It shouldn’t make Kent feel warm to hear him say that. So he replies with all the assurance that he can. Alexei asks for details, and Kent gives them while still downplaying the severity. If there’s no concussion and he hasn’t been scratched from the lineup, he doesn’t consider it something worth bothering other people about.

He does like it, though, when Alexei growls, “Man should pay for hurt you.”

“It’s just some stitches. If I’m careful, it won’t even scar.”

“Man should pay for hurt you. Are police come to Monday game? Make sure nobody throw something else?”

Kent groans and falls back against his pillow. He doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to think about it, and gives a dismissive reply to that effect. Alexei won’t let it go, though; he sounds annoyed that Kent is trying to brush this off.

“Yeah, well,” Kent huffs, “you didn’t call me to argue about my self-preservation instincts, did you? To be honest, this is more conversation than I expected for you.”

It’s evident that Alexei doesn’t like the barb. “Don’t turn this back on me. I tell you in Providence I can’t be your friend. So you are thinking, what, you hire me instead? Try prove me wrong, you okay with my job?”

Heat floods Kent’s body as he jumps to defend himself. “That’s not—” But it is true, a little, and the shame is like a big gulp of burning whiskey in his stomach. As much as he wants to help Alexei, to prove to both of them that Alexei is worth more than what he has resigned himself to, it’s not all that Kent wants. A sad, weak part of him wants—fuck, he wants Alexei’s arms around him again. He wants kisses and “solnyshko” and that feeling of purpose he had when Alexei let him support his weight after his bad knee gave out.

He knows he wants things he can’t have, impossible things. He wants things that weren’t real or weren’t meant the way he wanted them to be. He wants a reality that Alexei created for the sake of the reunion, and a friendship that Alexei definitively turned down. He knows he can’t have it and he accepts it.

But he doesn’t want Alexei to accept that he’s worthless. “Does it hurt less, to stay away from hockey?”

Alexei’s silence is an answer in itself.

“Because I think it would kill me,” Kent continues, and swallows down the burst of anxious nerves. He’s twisting a rusty knife in Alexei’s gut and he knows it. He’s never been good at being good for people, but he’s always known how to spot vulnerabilities. “Whenever I pull a muscle or bash a joint, whenever somebody knocks me down and it hurts to get up, not to mention that time I got a concussion so bad I was out for a month… every time something like that happens, I think, ‘God, what if this is it?’ and it scares the shit out of me. I don’t know what I’d do outside hockey, Alexei. I’ve got no fucking idea. This is who I am. This is all I am. I don’t know what I’d do if I was ever carried off the ice and could never go back.”

Alexei audibly swallows.

Kent is on a roll, now, so he keeps going. He’s got nothing to lose. “I get why you stay away. But I think it’s killing you. I think it hurts to come back, to be near the ice, to—to be around me. But I think it’s killing you to stay away, and I can’t just drop that. I’m sorry. I know you told me to fuck off, I heard that loud and clear, but I can’t—You’re not useless. You deserve better than this. You deserve to give yourself better than this. And I just need you to know that.”

The other end of the phone is dead quiet; there’s not even the sound of breathing. Kent checks his phone screen and sees the call is still going, so at least Alexei didn’t hang up. “Are you still there? Please tell me if you’re still there,” Kent says. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make it worse, I just—I needed you to know that. I get that this was a shit way to get you to call, I’m sorry. Please say something already, because to be completely honest with you I’m nervous about this whole conversation and if you don’t stop me right now I’m gonna just keep fucking talking—”

“I’m back,” Alexei interrupts. “Sorry, I’m put phone down.”

“…Please tell me you heard what I said and I don’t have to repeat myself. It’s not gonna sound as good the second time around.”

“I heard. You really make twenty-five thousand dollar booking just so I’m call you and you can say that?”

Kent fumbles, tries to explain himself. Alexei doesn’t sound completely steady, his voice deep and soft. When Alexei says, “You are not easy man to ignore,” the bottom drops out of Kent’s stomach. That’s the one thing about himself, that he knows tends to drive people away.

“Sorry. I know I can be a little much.”

“Is who you are,” Alexei replies. “You are you.”

“I can’t tell if that is a compliment or a critique.”

“For you, is maybe both.”

Kent has never been so glad to hear a chirp. “Ouch. No wonder you got along with my team.”

“They are good men.”

“They really fucking are. You, uh…you’d probably see them again, if you came to Vegas.”

Alexei hesitates. “You really want me come see you? For three days?”

Kent wants absolutely nothing else on Earth. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

Alexei is quiet again for a long time. Kent can hear him breathing, though, and pacing around his apartment, so at least it’s a thoughtful silence, not an avoidant one. Kent’s heart is beating double time but he keeps mouth shut, so afraid of derailing Alexei’s train of thought and accidentally saying something that’ll convince him not to come.

“No sex,” is how Alexei breaks his silence. “If I come to Vegas. No sex, no kissing. Nothing physical.”

Cold turkey. That’s how it needs to be. “Absolutely. Totally agreed.”

Next, they haggle over Alexei’s hours and going rate. Kent wishes Alexei had just taken the money. He could have done a couple semesters at college with twenty-five grand, and Kent wants so badly for Alexei to take an opportunity like this and just seize it. But he has to respect what Alexei wants.

Alexei also, apparently, wants to make a point about this being his choice and not Kent bribing him with wads of cash. Which, fine. Kent can concede that point, even though hearing Alexei talk about this like it’s something he wants makes that weak part of Kent grow louder and more insistent.

Kent offers to pay for airfare, and then to get tickets for the Aces’ games. Alexei agrees to both.

When Alexei tells him to call the agency, Kent knows they’re nearing the end of the conversation. He asks to save Alexei’s number in his phone and pumps his fist when Alexei says, “Yes.”

“Thanks. Guess I’ll go call the agency, then.”

“Yes, okay.”

That was the signal to hang up, but he can’t. He’d thought Providence was the end of them. It feels too good to have this connection back, even just over the phone. It feels good to hear Alexei’s voice, to hear him breathing.

“Kent, what?”

Please don’t change your mind. Please don’t leave me standing at Arrivals tomorrow, waiting for you, only to go home alone.

“Nothing. Night, ‘Lexi.”

“Goodnight, Kent.” Alexei hangs up.

Kent stares at his phone. At the end of his bed, Kit blinks her glowing eyes in the faint light coming through his bedroom window.

He dials the agency’s number again before he can lose his nerve.

****

It’s seven in the morning, Alexei Mashkov is coming to Vegas this afternoon, and Kent has never cleaned his apartment so fast in his life.

His place is not a pigsty. He keeps it… okay, he keeps it clean-ish, at least as clean as a jet setting NHL superstar can, since he’s never home unless it’s offseason or bye week. He keeps it as clean as is necessary to not be embarrassed over his own squalor, and also to ensure that it’s a healthy space for Kit.

But Alexei is coming to Vegas and Kent suddenly cares a great deal about the weird stains in his shower and his laundry all over the place. He vacuums up cat hair like his life depends on it. The guest room is made up and has been made up since Kent last had a visitor (which was… Christ, so long ago) but he tears the sheets off the bed and puts on a fresh set, anyway.

Alexei is coming to Vegas and somehow, by some miracle, Kent convinced him to.

He almost doesn’t believe it’s real.

At eight-thirty, he rushes to the rink. Two hours of practice helps him get his head back on straight. They’ve got a game on tomorrow against Anaheim, the first of the season, and everyone is a little more amped up than usual. Shots are harder, focus is sharper, everyone skates faster and longer. They all seem to be in their own heads a little. They all know that it’s down to the wire, that the next time they face off against an opponent on the ice, all their mistakes will count. Starting tomorrow, everything ceases to be hypothetical and existing in some far-off future. Tomorrow, regular season starts, the first in a very, very long journey for what they hope will be their second Stanley in two years.

Kent knows it’s unlikely, but Christ Almighty, he wants it so damn bad this year.

After practice, nobody suggests going out for food or drinks. They all want to get home and settle in after being away. Guys with girlfriends and wives and kids want to immerse themselves in their home lives, save up as much inner peace as they can before hockey rips them away again. Professional sports is like living in a blender set to pulse, with long bouts of intense movement in between unsatisfying moments of quiet. Even if they’re not always active, the hockey machine is always on, always pulling them along.

Kent thinks he has it a little easier by not leaving people behind each year. His mom and few extended relatives see him during the major holidays and any games he has nearby or in town. Kit misses him, and Kent is overjoyed to see her when he returns, but he knows it’s not the same as having a significant other. Kit doesn’t cheer for him from the box or come to family skate.

Kent hustles out of the arena as fast as he can without drawing attention. He probably already has it, though, because he’s driving the sports car today, not the modest compact. Swoops had looked like he knew something was up when Kent parked this morning. Questions had not been forthcoming, though, thank god, because Kent is running enough circles in his own head.

Like an idiot, he stops by a coffee shop on the way to the airport and chugs a whole large iced latte before even making it to the short-term parking lot. It makes him jittery. The day’s heat doesn’t help. Vegas has already cooled down from its punishing summer heat, but it’s not cold by a long shot. Kent can feel a river of sweat down his back as he walks across the parking lot and into the terminal.

Alexei’s flight arrives on time. Kent waits at the central exit, where he’d texted Alexei to meet him at. Just the fact that he was able to do that had been a reminder that he has Alexei’s phone number now, and Alexei has his. Shit just keeps getting too real too fast.

Two months ago, Kent was nervously getting ready for his high school reunion and fretting over meeting the escort he’d hired. Now he’s paying to have Alexei flown to Vegas for three days so he can try working through a decade’s worth of emotional baggage.

Passengers from Alexei’s flight start pouring out of the gate. Kent sees Alexei, but it seems that Kent’s make-shift disguise is doing its job; Alexei’s gaze slides right over him like water. Kent enjoys the anonymity for a minute and drinks in the sight of Alexei, impossibly tall and fucking gorgeous as always. The weariness of cross-country travel is evident in his body and eyes. Kent yearns to fling himself into Alexei’s arms anyway, to be held tightly against Alexei’s chest and tuck his head under Alexei’s chin. On the ice, Alexei’s size would make him a powerful and destructive force, but all Kent sees is someone big enough to keep him steady and safe.

It makes his heart twist to think about that, so he yells the rudest Russian he knows to get Alexei’s attention.

They manage to make it out to Kent’s car and out of the parking lot without talking about anything of consequence. But Kent, caffeinated idiot that he is, brings up Providence. It goes about like he should have expected.

“Christ, isn’t this awkward,” he says, trying to laugh it off.

Alexei’s body language turns defensive, his words tight. “Is not me who call agency. Is not me who set this up.”

“Look, if you don’t want to be here, just tell me. I’ll turn right around, drive back to the airport.”

But Alexei, still turned towards the window and watching the landscape instead of Kent, shakes his head. “No. No, it’s…” There’s a long pause. “I’m nervous.”

Kent never expected such an admission of vulnerability. “Why?”

The response is slow. “Providence is first time I’m go to ice rink in ten years.”

Fuck. Kent really has no clue what he’s playing with, here. He’d known that hockey was a source of pain for Alexei, and that the bad knee was a touchy subject, but since Alexei still keeps up with hockey, Kent had always figured he went to games sometimes. Once or twice a year, maybe. But never? In ten years, never? “Holy shit.”

Alexei hums.

Kent should let it go. Still, he can’t help asking, “What was it like? Going back?”

Alexei’s answer is whisper-soft, and about what Kent expects: “It’s hurt.”

It’s another thirty minutes to Kent’s apartment. Neither of them has anything to say for the entire duration. Conversation is also stilted on their way out of the parking garage and into the building. Kit’s appearance at the front door is a relief; it gives Kent an excuse to shift his focus elsewhere. There’s no point feeling stupid for talking to his cat in front of Alexei. Anyone who says they don’t baby-talk their pet is a goddamn liar, so really, Alexei should expect this of him.

While Kent refills Kit’s water dish, Alexei puts his suitcase down and wanders into Kent’s living room. It’s big and bright and no longer the total disaster it was this morning. Kent still can’t help watching Alexei take everything in.

Alexei stops in front of the hockey memorabilia. Kent wants to kick himself, because what kind of asshole parades his career success out in front of a guy who lost all chance of it at nineteen? He tries to nervously run his hand through his hair and is met with the baseball cap. He tugs the thing off and leaves it on the kitchen counter, coming into the living room to join Alexei. When Alexei snorts in something, clearly amused, Kent frowns in confusion.

“What—oh, yeah.” The First Broken Tooth puck. “Sunny got that for me as a joke.”

“Good joke,” Alexei says, and looks over at Kent as he asks, “Which tooth?”

Kent answers, even points to the tooth, but from the way Alexei’s gaze has gone hard and quietly horrified, Kent knows he’s looking at the stitches. Kent can feel them, angry lines of pulsing itchiness marching up the sides of his face. Alexei shifts subtly, almost lifting a hand to touch them, concern making him impulsive.

It’s okay, Kent wants to say. He knows how Alexei’s hands feel on his skin and he wants that warm comfort on his face, touching the painful spots with gentle worry. But Alexei stops himself and drops the hand. Kent doesn’t let the disappointment show.

“They look worse than they feel,” Kent says. He smiles and tries to sound confident. “They don’t even hurt anymore, just itch.”

“Is very close to your eye.”

Half an inch lower and he could have had his vision damaged or lost the eye. Kent shivers at that thought every time he looks in a mirror. “Yeah. But it missed.”

“I’m glad.”

Hearing that makes him feel warm. “Me, too.” Kent clears his throat. “You hungry? I’m starved. I came straight from the rink to the airport, only had a protein bar on the way.”

Alexei agrees, so they part ways. Kent finds himself taking a moment in the kitchen to breathe deeply and quiet his heart. And even once he gets himself moving and goes about preparing the ingredients for homemade pizza, he can’t stop thinking, Alexei is here. It’s like a scratch in a record that his mind keeps catching on: Alexei is here. Alexei is here.

Alexei is here, in Vegas, in Kent’s own apartment, and more on-edge than Kent has ever seen him. He seems wary, expecting a deep cut at any moment. Kent thinks about the awards and pucks on his shelf, the Aces duvet in the guest room, his own wardrobe full of Aces merch and game-day clothes, and curses himself for being a selfish idiot. Of course Alexei is uncomfortable. Kent has dragged him into the epicenter of everything he wants and can no longer have, at least not the way he’d always dreamed.

Kent stops kneading the dough and stares emptily at his hands. Just because Alexei came doesn’t mean it’s what he needs. Just because he said it was his own choice doesn’t mean Kent didn’t half push him into it.

Alexei is here, in Vegas, in Kent’s own apartment, but it doesn’t feel like he thought it would.

Kent manages to get the dough half-cooked and the ingredients laid out. Alexei emerges from the guest room and helps himself to a pizza, although he’s surprisingly careful about what he adds and how much. He has to keep that trim figure somehow. Kent, on the other hand, ends up with a pizza that’s more toppings than dough. His crust is still kinda soggy even after it’s been in the oven. He eats it anyway, plopped down on the sofa next to Alexei watching a baking competition about cupcakes.

And that’s nice. Kent can feel Alexei relaxing the longer they sit. There’s polite space between them but it doesn’t feel like a chasm that’s being forcibly wedged between them. It feels like a night with Swoops or Sunny. It’s good. As they finish eating, finish the show, and then mutually head back into the kitchen to clean up, Kent starts to feel like his earlier thoughts were overblown. Alexei is hurting, but he’s not weak or fragile. He made a point of telling Kent that he was accepting the job of his own free will, because he wanted to, and Kent believes that.

Near the end of cleaning the kitchen, Kent’s phone buzzes with a text.

karaoke and bbq, u in? sunny, finch, maybe dez, pavlo, some other guys coming too.

“It’s Swoops. He says some of the guys are going out for karaoke and then dinner. You wanna go?”

Alexei rinses the towel off in the sink and hangs it up to dry. “You don’t think teammates ask why I’m come with you?”

Absolutely they will, but not to Alexei’s face. Swoops will blow up Kent’s phone all night. “Yeah, but I think they’ll save it for practice tomorrow, when they can get me alone. It’ll be fine.”

“Is team dinner, yes? Maybe is not right, you invite me.”

“It’s not just the team. I think there are some other people coming,” he invents, although he’s not totally talking out his ass. “Finch always brings his girlfriend, they’re basically attached at the hip. Plus, this barbecue place where they’re going? Thirty-five bucks for all-you-can-eat. Sunny goes through the whole platter menu, it’s great.” Kent’s earliest memory of Sunny is watching him polish off an entire cow’s worth of meat and being caught between awestruck admiration and a vague sense of terror. He wonders what Pavlo’s reaction will be, and immediately decides he has to get a video.

Alexei shakes his head. “No, is okay. You go. Is your team.”

“Really?” Kent makes a face. “You just got here. I’d feel bad leaving you alone.” It occurs to him that Alexei might be tired from the flight, and from pushing himself so far out of his comfort zone. A loud night out with the guys is probably the last thing Alexei wants. “I really don’t mind telling Swoops ‘no,’” Kent says. “I see him and the rest of these guys every day.”

Alexei’s reply is flat. “Kent. Just go.”

Kent feels a little twist in his chest. “You’re sure.”

Alexei nods.

The little twist grows tighter. “Look,” Kent hedges, looking elsewhere. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m awful at helping people work through their shit. I’m the guy who calls other people for advice, not the guy who gives it. But… in my honest opinion, I think you’ve got a bad habit of avoiding stuff you don’t want to deal with.” His heart is pounding. He knows he’s poking at something Alexei would rather avoid.

Alexei’s expression hints at brewing anger. “You come up with diagnosis all by yourself? You expert on my life, now?”

The sarcasm smarts. “After the number of times you’ve brushed me off or shut me out, yeah, I think I’ve got some insight.” He makes himself look back, and tries to soften his voice into a tone that’s less accusing and combative. “But I can’t read your mind. I can’t guess what you’re thinking or feeling, you have to talk to me.”

“I don’t have to do shit,” Alexei snaps, and Kent snaps, too.

“This is my fucking apartment! I invited you!”

“You hire me. You pay me.”

“You accepted!” Kent’s so tired of having that thrown in his face. “What happened to all that ‘it’s my choice’ bullshit you fed me over the phone? What are you—” He sucks in an angry breath and draws his arms tighter together. “What are you even doing here if you’re just gonna hide? What am I even doing here if you’re just gonna get rid of me the first chance you get?”

Alexei turns away. “I am try. Is difficult.”

“Well it’s no picnic on this end, either.” Maybe it’s petty, but Kent lets some of the hurt he feels seep into his voice.

Alexei doesn’t reply.

Fuck it, Kent thinks. “You know what, you’re right. I’m just gonna go.” He retrieves an extra key and hands it to Alexei. “Here’s the spare. Call me if there’s an emergency, and don’t feed my cat anything that isn’t labeled for her.”

“Have fun.”

Fuck you. “Yeah, sure. Enjoy your alone time.” Kent grabs his baseball cap and a jacket and leaves without a look back. It’s too short a trip down the elevator and into his car, so he spends a moment behind the wheel taking deep breaths to calm down. He’s so mad, just unbelievably furious. What the fuck was he thinking, dragging Alexei to Vegas to confront something he was clearly fine with avoiding for ten goddamn years?

He hates himself for having made that call to the agency, and he hates Alexei for saying yes. He hates them both for being so stubborn. But he hates himself just a little bit more, for succumbing to hubris and thinking he knew what was best for either of them. For thinking that this time, with this hockey player, he could actually make a difference.

They were better off on opposite sides of the country.