sender kisses receivers neck. (kent)
The idea that Kent Parson invited him to tea, presumably to talk, wouldn't surprised him had it been anyone else on the team. John liked to think of himself as his team's safe space. Someone they could share a heart-to-heart with, someone who wouldn't throw a fit or judge them for making irrational decisions other coaches would have deemed ridiculous. He is a good listener. He always had been. After all, how could he not? He used to let little Peter hang by his side as he gripped little Rose's shoulder. He'd listen to their stressors, their miseries, their dilemmas, and then he'd ponder over them and offer his solution. He always made sure they sounded as kind as possible, silently hoping that they'd work and that was the end of it. Little kids didn't deserve to learn how cruel the world could be at their age. A few more years in ignorance is a grace by god. In fact, part of John hoped that Peter and Rose would never truly had to see the world for the way it is.
He wished the same for his team.
Kent Parson, in particular. While the other hockey players had their own battles to fight, Parson didn't seem like he was winning his. From afar, he always thought that Parson looked like he was missing a beloved wife who perished in a car crash.
Maybe that was why he'd allowed that mistake to go unreported. It's just a touch on the lips, he'd told himself. Another lie he'd told himself what what if it made Parson happy, even for just a moment, then it's a sacrifice John was willing to make. He's unmarried, and he had no children. What could possibly go wrong, right? There couldn't have been a grander lie.
He should stop this. The thought flickers through his mind, weak and distant, like a candle guttering in a storm. He should take Parson by the shoulders gently and guide him off his lap. He should clear his throat and offer tea, actual tea, and a quiet word about boundaries and the professionalism expected of them both.
But Parson leans in, and the thought dies.
The first brush of lips is tentative. John feels the soft exhalation of Parson's breath against his mouth, smells the faint, clean scent of his soap and his deodorant, and something in his chest gives way, like a lock finally springing open. He doesn't answer with words. Instead he tilts his head, deepening the press of his mouth, by letting his hand slide up from the small of Parson's back to cradle the back of his skull, fingers threading through that carefully dishevelled hair.
Parson makes a sound. The kiss turns hungry, ravenous, and devouring. Parson's hands fist in the fabric of John's coach's polo tee, pulling him closer as if he could crawl inside his skin. His tongue sweeps against John's lower lip, and John opens for him without a second thought, a low groan vibrating in his own chest.
This is not gentle. This is not the careful, considered listening he offers his team. This is a different kind of communion entirely. John's hands, so used to the heft of a clipboard or the supportive clasp on a shoulder, now map the landscape of a man. He feels the powerful sweep of Parson's back, the shifting muscles beneath his hockey jersey, the solid weight of him straddling his thighs. It's overwhelming, and oh-so very wrong. He kisses Parson like he's the answer to a question John didn't know he'd been asking.
In the midst of this frantic, consummating heat, he feels a cold truth settle in his bones. He's a coach. Parson is his player. They're supposed to play for Las Vegas - one of the most observe team in America. And yet he's breaching his professionalism. With every slide of lip against lip, every scramble of fingers for purchase, he feels it: Parson's fingers like hot iron against his skin, burning away his honour.
