#kpbb

Parson was sitting in front of his stall wearing a robe -- provided by ESPN, from the look of it -- blowing on a cup of coffee while a stylist fussed with his blond hair. He glanced up at Jack, eyes a light, icy blue. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” said Jack, pausing in the doorway. “I’m Jack. I’ll be doing your shoot today.”

“Yeah,” Parson said. “Jack Zimmermann, right?” Pursing his lips, he blew on his cup again before grinning. “I’m Kent. I’ll be freezing my ass off.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth quirked into a little smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I think you will.” Looking around the locker room, he frowned for a second.

Locker rooms were such an integral part of a team. Jack knew from Kent’s interviews that he put a lot of emphasis on teamwork, that the team as a whole was an important part of how he saw the game. His gaze ran across the names above the stalls.

They should do at least a few shots there. Glancing behind Kent, Jack took stock of the locker space. “Let’s do some in here,” he said.

Kent shrugged. “You’re the boss.” It only took the stylist another two minutes to perfect his look while Jack positioned his lights where he wanted them, and then Kent shed the robe, handing it carefully to the shoot assistant to his left.

And he was -- Kent was really pretty, Jack realized, beyond just hockey muscle and blond hair. He gave Jack the same confident smile that he’d used on dozens of magazine covers. They went for several shots of him from the side, resting his elbows on his knees, bending over a bit. The Stanley Cup tattoo on his ribcage, inky black script, stood out against his pale skin.

Finding good shots of him was easy, as long as Kent cooperated. He had a habit of shrinking just a little every time Jack looked at him. If the shots were candid, they were perfect. A bit of hair fell in his face and Jack caught him tucking it back, smiling just a little, small lines appearing around his eyes.

But if he knew Jack was looking? Disaster. The same pose wasn’t the same at all. There was a weird tension to him, evident in the lines of his arms and shoulders.

Honestly, Jack had expected a level of comfort with public nudity that Kent was not actually displaying. Frowning, Jack lowered his camera after a few minutes. “Everything okay?”

Shifting on the bench, Kent rubbed the back of his neck for a minute before answering. “I’m, like --” He laughed, nose wrinkling, and Jack took a quick shot without thinking. The light was perfect. He had freckles across his nose. “I don’t know. It’s weirder than originally anticipated. Sorry, man. I’m not usually, like, so weird to take pictures of. I mean, I’ve done this before.” A faint blush bloomed on his cheeks, and Jack took another picture. Kent was pretty like that, shy and pink. “Well, not this, but, like. Photoshoots.”

“Sure,” Jack said. Apparently, Kent rambled when nervous. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine.”

Kent made a noncommittal noise, rubbing one hand along the back of his neck and into his hair, ruining the stylist’s hard work.

Okay, so, Jack needed to get him to relax. “Um,” he said, “watched anything good on TV lately?”

Kent glanced at the camera, frowning a little. “Uh -- I just binged The Crown,” he said.

“Oh, about the Queen of England, right?” Jack snapped another picture. “Let’s go ahead and just -- lace up some skates, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Kent. He bent over to grab a skate, tugging it on quickly. “Okay. And yeah, about the queen.” Moving carefully, he propped his foot up on the bench and pulled the laces. “You know she was, like, a truck driver in the Army or something in World War Two? Crazy, huh?”

“She was a mechanic as well,” said Jack. When Kent looked up at him, surprise evident on his face, Jack smiled a little. “She was in the Women’s Auxiliary Territorial Service.”

Kent’s smile spread a little wider. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Jack motioned for Kent to do the other skate. “Some of those women crewed anti-aircraft guns and spotlights, did you know that? It was the women’s branch of the Army.”

“Go on, then,” Kent said, “tell me something else.”

“Turn to the left,” Jack said, “and I will.”

*

They did the next set of photos in the showers, no skates, and when the assistant handed Kent a large rubber duck, he burst into laughter. “For real?”

“For real,” Jack said, and he wanted that bright smile to stay on Kent’s face.

Holding it between his legs, Kent laughed again. “I’m so getting made fun of for this,” he said. “Big time. Huge.” He squeaked the duck.

“It is huge,” Jack said, and Kent’s face twisted as he tried, for a moment, not to laugh and then doubled over, giggling.

After several shots in the showers, Jack decided he wanted to move out to the ice for the rest of the shoot. After he accepted a towel from an assistant, Kent went back to the locker room to put his skates back on -- and let the stylist fix his hair again. Jack left them to their work, heading out to direct his lighting assistant and pick a spot for the backdrop they planned to use. He wanted more action, maybe a bit more with hockey equipment…

The sound of skates hitting the ice broke Jack’s train of thought.

“So,” said Kent, stopping next to Jack in his gloves and a towel, carrying a stick.

“Mmm?” Jack fiddled with his camera lens for a moment.

“Why’d you quit?”

Jack looked up at him.

“Hockey,” Kent added. “Why’d you quit?”

Ah. Kent had recognized him, then. Jack should’ve known he would -- it was obvious, he looked just like his father, and he’d been doing sports photography for a while. It wasn’t a secret or anything, it was just, well, people had sort of gotten used to him, so he didn’t get questions like he did when he first started. “I needed to be myself,” he said, eventually, because he didn’t know what else to say. It was hard to explain, even years after the fact, that he’d wanted to be his own person, that the pressure of being Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son was too much for him. He hadn’t wanted to be the next anything.

Kent nodded, face thoughtful.

“Why’d you come out?” Jack asked. Personal question for personal question seemed fair.

Kent glanced up at him, tilted his head, and his eyes looked green instead of blue. Jack pressed the shutter.

“I needed to be myself,” Kent said. The corner of his mouth curved in a smile, and something warm bloomed in Jack’s chest. They stayed like that for a moment, standing close together, their breath freezing in the air.

Looking back out at the ice, Kent cleared his throat. “D’you still play?” he asked. “Ever?”

“I coach a kids’ team,” Jack said, and he snapped a picture at the exact moment Kent’s face lit up with a genuine smile.

“Aw, cute,” said Kent. “They better than me?”

“They do have an excellent coach,” said Jack. He lowered the camera. “Okay, so let’s go ahead and do several passes skating -- I’ll get what I can with the movement, it’ll be easier than posing.”

“All right, all right.” Kent shivered a little. “So, just. Skate around. Got any tips for me, then?”

“You should work on your backhand,” Jack said, narrowing his eyes as he leaned just to the left to frame the shot. “Release a little faster.”

“Oh, right, okay,” said Kent. “Make for a prettier shot or something?”

“Your shots are usually pretty,” Jack said. “But I was serious -- the backhand’s a little slow, if you adjust your grip it’ll release faster.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Kent laughed. He grinned at Jack.

Jack glanced up from the camera. Was he? Was it obvious?

Kent’s shoulders dropped a little as the grin slid off his face. “I was kidding.”

Of course he was. Jack shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“Sure,” Kent said. He gave Jack an uncomfortable smile before pushing off with one foot, skating away.

Jack stood still for a moment, just watching him glide around the ice. Kent’s face looked… serene, at ease, and after a moment, Jack lifted the camera again, focusing carefully before taking shot after shot as Kent idly skated along. He didn’t know if they’d be useful or not, those pictures of Kent skating, but the lines of his body were perfect against the sheet of ice and Jack had never been able to resist the urge to distill a moment. When Kent paused in front of the backdrop, Jack moved to join him.

“We’ll do a couple here, okay?” he said.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Kent said.

Action shots, those were the bread and butter of the ESPN Body Issue. Jack gave Kent instructions about active posing, getting a few images of him taking shots, face intense as he tried to follow orders. He was pretty good at taking direction, leaning when Jack told him to lean and tilting his chin exactly the right amount when asked. It was just --

“C’mon,” Jack said, “flex. I’m serious.”

“I can’t flex any harder!” Kent insisted, laughing as he held the hockey stick and leaned forward for the shot. “C’mon! Is it done yet?”

“Not yet,” Jack said, taking another photo, grinning as Kent let out a little whine. “I thought you guys were tough!”

“I’m a weakling!” Kent insisted. “Haven’t you read the internet?”

“What, the whole internet?” Jack asked. “Okay, okay. You can stop, now. Let’s do some shots by the net.” He gestured with an arm so his assistants could prepare the set.

“Yeah, like, the entire internet,” Kent said, accepting a towel and wrapping it around his waist.

“I don’t have the attention span for the entire internet,” said Jack.

“Liar,” said Kent. “I bet you could get through hella Wikipedia on the right day.”

“Wikipedia,” said Jack, “is not the entire internet. Now go over there.”

“So bossy,” Kent said.

He took various pictures with the net in the background, including more of Kent skating and taking shots. “That’s about all I need of this,” Jack said, finally. “The next set is with the Zamboni, and then I think we’re done.”

“I’m actually, like. Freezing. Can we take a break or something?” Kent asked.

“Yeah,” said Jack, “of course, sorry. Yeah.” Checking his watch, he felt bad for not suggesting it earlier. They could set up the next bit while Kent took a break to warm up.

One of the assistants brought Kent a robe, and he shrugged into it so fast he dropped his hockey stick. “I’m just gonna --” he jerked his head toward the exit.

When Jack went back to the locker room after giving out directions for the set, Kent wasn’t there. It took him a moment to find someone who knew where Kent had gone, but eventually a stylist told him that Kent had stepped outside. Jack set his camera down.

Once outside, he found Kent sitting with his face tilted up toward the sun, eyes close. His hair was a brilliant sort of gold in the sunlight, and Jack wished he hadn’t left his camera inside. Kent reminded him of a flower.

“You’re doing great,” Jack offered, after a moment of silence. Kent cracked one eye open and Jack smiled. “We’ll be done soon.”

“It’s fine,” Kent said, voice a little flat. “I’ll totally be ready in a minute, sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Jack leaned on the wall with one hand.

Kent looked up at him. “So you like history, huh?”

Jack laughed. “Yes,” he admitted. “Documentaries, that sort of thing.”

“That’s cool.” Kent looked out in front of him, staring at the parking lot. His lashes were long, darker gold than his hair. “I only watched The Crown because it looked pretty.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Looking down at the top of Kent’s head, the freckles on his shoulders, Jack missed the way he’d laughed earlier, holding the duck.

“Why do you think they asked me?” Kent asked, a moment later, and Jack frowned.

“What?”

“To do this,” Kent said. “Why do you think they asked me?”

“Why did you say yes?” Jack asked.

Kent turned his head, looking up, and that smirk was back on his face, the one Jack had seen in post-game interviews a hundred times. “Haven’t you read the internet?” he asked.

“Like I told you,” Jack said, leaning in a little, “I don’t have the attention span for the entire internet.”

Kent sucked in a small breath, lips parted, and he looked like he was about to say something else when Jack’s phone buzzed, startling them both.

“I’ll see you back inside,” Kent said quickly, as Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He pushed away from the wall and ducked back through the door, not waiting for a response.

Jack frowned.

By the time he got back to the ice, Kent was talking to an assistant, holding a steaming cup in both hands and smiling. He’d kept the robe on, presumably trying to stay as warm as possible until the last minute. When Jack joined them, camera in hand, the assistant smiled.

“Almost done here, huh?”

“Almost,” Jack agreed.

“I think everyone’s starving,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Kent said, “I’ll be a good boy, I promise. We’ll get this over with.”

She laughed.

Turning to Jack, Kent smiled. “So, um. Sit on the Zamboni, huh?” He paused. “Did somebody clean it first?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said, and something in Kent’s smile faltered a little. “I can have someone --”

“No, it’s fine,” Kent said, “it’s fine, sorry. I’m -- I’ll just --” He climbed into the seat without another word.

Jack took a few practice shots, testing his framing before giving Kent a few instructions on how he wanted him to sit. “Just -- yeah, okay, perfect. Do that game day smile,” he said, and that got an actual laugh out of Kent.

“This one?” He smirked.

“That’s the one,” Jack said, and he snapped another photo as Kent draped an arm over the back of the seat. The smile slid off his face a moment later.

Jack didn’t think these shoots were usually so uncomfortable. The editor, when giving him his assignment, specifically mentioned matching people based on how she thought the shoot would go, that she’d thought about whose style would fit who. Maybe she had expected them to gel faster?

But then, they’d done so well, earlier.

“The, uh.” Jack motioned at the prop guy. The popsicle shots weren’t his idea, but the editor was convinced they’d be… something, Jack wasn’t sure what, exactly. But when the prop guy handed a rocket pop to Kent, he got a very confused look back, and something twisted in Jack’s stomach.

“Just, y’know.” The guy took it back, unwrapping it. “Here.”

Kent didn’t reach for it. “What is that?”

“It’s a popsicle,” the guy said. “Y’know. You eat it.”

“Yeah, I --” Kent swallowed, still not reaching for the popsicle.

Jack looked up as Kent turned his head, looking down at him from up on the Zamboni.

“I don’t wanna do this, okay?” Kent said, voice soft.

“Okay,” said Jack, because of course he didn’t. How had that not occurred to him earlier? He couldn’t ask the first out player in the NHL to do what would basically look like a softcore porn shot. Jesus.

“It’s really not --” Kent fidgeted a little. “I just --”

He didn’t have to explain. “It wasn’t my idea,” Jack said, cutting him off. “I don’t care about it. We’ll skip it. It’s no big deal.”

But what could he do instead? Sure, just the photos sitting on the Zamboni were fine, but -- “I’ll be right back,” Jack said. He handed his camera off to an assistant before running out to his car, grabbing a map out of the driver’s side door.

Would using a map on a Zamboni make sense? No. But would it be funny? Yes. Yes, it would. When he returned from the car, he handed the map up to Kent. “Here, we’ll do this instead.”

“A map?” Kent unfolded it, staring at it for a second.

“Yeah, ’cause you’re --”

“’Cause I’m driving,” Kent said. “Right?”

Looking up at him, Jack smiled softly. “Exactly,” he said.

Kent broke into laughter and that? That was how Jack wanted him. “How do you even have a paper map in your car in 2018?”

“In case I need it,” said Jack, because it was obvious. Why else would anyone have a map?

“You’re such a dad,” Kent said, and Jack snapped a picture of him, smile crooked and warm.

The rest of the shoot felt like it took minutes. With the map, they were able to create a funny, relaxed atmosphere, and Kent cooperated easily with the rest of Jack’s directions. They’d have plenty of material to edit and choose from, and Jack privately thought the photos with the map would be much, much better than anything he could’ve had Kent do with that popsicle.

When they were done, Jack packed his camera back up, thanking the assistants as they took down lights and returned things to their rightful places. Kent went off to the locker room, making sure to pause and thank everyone he passed along the way. Jack didn’t see him again until they met at the door.

“Thanks,” Kent said. He was back in clothes, now, a soft-looking shirt that read boring is best across the chest and a pair of blue shorts. He’d pulled his Aces cap on backwards. “For not insisting on the -- the whole, y’know. Fellating a popsicle thing.”

Jack shook his head. “Not at all,” he said.

“You know, I mean. I’m out already, I don’t really think the world needs, like. Naked photos of me putting dick-shaped stuff in my mouth --”

Whatever else he said faded out as Jack tried not to think about Kent looking up at him from a different angle, mouth wet and open. Fuck.

“Oh my god,” Kent said, voice breaking through Jack’s thoughts. “You’re imagining it now, right? Dammit! See? I knew it!”

“I wasn’t!” Jack protested.

“Yeah, right,” said Kent, but then he laughed. “Fuck. Okay, well.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, biting his lower lip for a moment.

“So you like boring stuff,” said Jack.

“Yeah,” Kent said. “You know. Like, uh.”

All right. He was just going to go for it. He was pretty sure he hadn’t imagined that moment earlier, outside in the sun. “Like kids’ hockey coaches?” Jack suggested, and he was gratified to see Kent flush just a little. He mumbled something Jack couldn’t really catch and then chewed on his lower lip again, not really looking at Jack’s face.

“Listen, I’m actually really bad at the whole reading signals thing,” Kent said, after a little bit of silence, “but, um. If you’re --”

Jack held out his business card. “Here’s my number,” he said.

“Oh,” said Kent, “okay. Great. Signal received, then.”

“My cell’s on the back,” Jack said.

“Oh,” Kent said again, turning the card over in his hand to reveal Jack’s bold print across the back. “Are you, um. Busy?”

“I am now,” Jack said.