Chapter Text
Kent's been back for three games and three nice, solid wins that mean the Aces are happy enough to have him back that he's yet to pay for a drink, much less take his turn at picking up the tab or buying a round. It's a triumphant return until he steps off the ice after game four and a hot spike shoots its way up his leg, from his knee, up his thigh, almost to the hip. He freezes reflexively, but it's gone, and he only staggers a little when Jeff slings an arm around his shoulders and pretends to not realize that he's dragging Kent off balance.
Kent laughs, and elbows him off, too gingerly. Twitchy about his knee and not getting enough footing to get any force because of it. He more squirms free of Jeff than throws him off.
"Hey, hey," Jeff says, holding both hands up like he thinks it's something he's done. "I'm just playing. You okay?"
Kent subtly tests his knee, shifting his weight on and off it, bending the joint a little. It's fine. "Yeah," he says. "Sure. Doesn't mean I'm carrying you to the lockers."
Jeff grins and gives him a little shove. His knee takes it fine.
Game five is a loss, but it's close, and Kent's leg holds up perfectly. It's not till the next day that his knee feels hot and puffy. Nothing too bad. Nothing worse than ordinary strain and most likely Kent wouldn't have noticed it himself if he hadn't been paying more attention than normal. He doesn't even need to limp as he moves around his kitchen, fixing breakfast for Kit and himself. It's really just a minor discomfort. Probably more in his head than in his knee. He ices it anyway, and after a few minutes Kit comes to join him on the couch.
Game six goes terribly, but it's not his fault, just bad luck all around in the way that means everyone is surly and argumentative in the locker room after, slamming doors and snapping at each other. Kent pokes at his knee a bit, more questioningly than because anything feels wrong, but quits before anyone can notice and decide something is wrong.
The next day his knee is still fine, and he dances Kit around the kitchen a bit in celebration of his recovery, so it takes him by complete surprise when eight games into his return, he has to limp off the ice with a helping shoulder under his arm.
He was at the bottom of a pileup, so it's not some freak incident. Not like his leg just gave out on its own or anything, but he still chews his lip raw worrying about it while the team doctor arranges x-rays or whatever the hell they think his knee needs. "A guy landed on me," Kent explains, when he can't take her neutral expression anymore. "Two guys." Just because it's not a recurring injury doesn't mean he can't be hurt, though, or that it makes him any less injured if he is. Kent frowns thinking about it, then adds, in a softer voice than he'd meant to, "I just got back."
"Maybe I'm just getting old," Kent tells Jeff, in a bar, and after he's limped off the ice two games in a row. Jeff laughs and thumps his shoulder like he thinks Kent is a riot, and Kent kind of loves him for it, but the truth is, he probably does have to watch his knee. Keep an eye on it and baby it and not do anything reckless and stupid. Like play hockey on it.
Kent laughs, not as genuinely as Jeff had, and clinks bottles with him, turning to watch the others celebrate their win, the bar a hard line against his back. He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning against it. Carl's telling some too-loud story from by the pool tables, incoherent chucklehead lies, the way he does when he's had one too many.
"Beats the alternative," Jeff says, when he notices Kent sigh and slouch. "Happens to the best of us." He gestures with his bottle. "That's all I got. I might be able to come up with something about wiser and smarter, but I'll need time to work on it."
"I'm gonna head out," Kent says, and hops off his stool. "Make sure the boys don't wrap themselves around a lamp post on their way home."
Jeff sketches a salute, and says, "Take it easy, Captain."
The next time someone hurts their knee, it's someone else, but against Kent's head. He's not even sure how it happens, and even on replay he can't make heads or tails out of it, but that could be because his vision is swimming. At least partially because of that, anyway. It's also partly because the physics of the crash make no sense.
"I see what you mean," he tells Jeff, sitting in the locker room after and still only half dressed, having made it into his jeans and one sock before running out of steam. "About the alternatives," but Jeff doesn't remember the conversation or know what he's talking about anymore.
"I can come home with you and wake you up every ten minutes," he offers, kidding. "Here, put a shirt on."
Kent takes it and drags it on, and lets Jeff hand him his hoodie as well. "You can come and help feed my cat," Kent tells him, fighting the zipper.
Jeff swears at him, but he does it. He also fixes them both human dinners, makes sure Kent's comfortable on the couch, then raids his liquor. It's a fair trade, so Kent doesn't mention it, except a little bit to Kit when she jumps up to sniff at his face and get her ears scratched, but the hit he took must have been hard enough to worry Jeff, because he lets it go without even mild comment.
He must also be concussed enough to not be thinking straight, because when he wakes up in the morning, still on the couch, there's a text alert on his phone. From Jack.
Kent squints at it. His head is throbbing a little, but it's nothing an aspirin won't take care of, and he's sure he was never out of it enough to do more than worry Jeff a little. Definitely not enough to head-trauma-dial anyone, let alone Jack Zimmerman. It's been a while since the last time Kent had tried to initiate contact, and that mostly out of stubborn habit. Maybe partly out of masochism. A little bit out of some stupid idea that Jack would tell him what the hell had happened between them so that maybe Kent could do something about it.
"Read it and tell me what it says, Kit," Kent says, holding his phone out to her. "If he's telling me to fuck off, delete it and keep it to yourself."
Kit makes an unhelpful mmrph noise and rubs her cheek against the phone, and that at least makes Kent laugh in spite of the headache and the tight feeling in his chest. Somehow Jack responding to a message has become worse than Jack ignoring all of Kent's messages.
There's a noise from the guestroom, the sound of someone snort-snoring, which means Jeff must have stayed, either to keep an eye on him or because he'd been too lazy to take himself home once he was sure Kent was alright. Which means he won't have the privacy to have a breakdown over Jack's text message, and that's probably a good thing. That probably means he should read it right now, while he has the living room to himself but a check on how much of a meltdown he can have.
The phone unlocks with a digital click, muffled under the blanket. It's dumb to have ducked under the covers to read the text, but then, it had been dumb to keep sending Jack messages the whole time too.
Good, Jack's message starts, and Kent has to scroll up to his own last message to get the context and realize it's a way belated answer to Kent asking how the NHL was treating Jack now that the shine was wearing off. The guys are great. How's Vegas?
Kent snorts. Then laughs a little. Then rubs at his face and frowns. One of those reactions has to be right, or at least close to it. His first reflex is to send back, What the hell, Jack? but it's the first time in a long, long time that Jack's initiated communication, and the first time that his response to Kent initiating communication hasn't been radio silence or to throw him out on his ass.
Kent puts the phone away to think up a reply later, when he's more awake, and instead catches Kit so he can kiss the top of her head.
"Would you and the cat like to be alone?" Jeff asks, shuffling in wearing boxers and a t-shirt. Kent lets Kit escape.
"Would you like to put on some pants?"
"No," Jeff says seriously. "But I have no choice and neither do you, so unless your brain is still scrambled, get moving or we're gonna be late."
"Ugh. Five more minutes," Kent whines, but he stretches and gets up to make breakfast.
By the time he gets on the ice, his head is fine, and his knee holds up all through practice, so the only thing really distracting him is Jack's message on his phone, in his bag in the locker room.
"How's Vegas," Kent grumbles to himself, waiting his turn between drills. "How's Vegas."
There's enough going on that no one really hears him, even though Scraps does tilt his head in Kent's direction a bit, until Kent shakes his head to indicate he hadn't said anything. "Vegas is goddamn fine," he tells his phone, when he has it alone again, in his car outside the rink "Thanks for asking." He doesn't type anything for a long time, until Jeff comes over to knock on his window and ask if he's okay. Kent holds up his phone and points at it, like he's busy making a call, then changes the gesture into a thumbs up to show that he's fine.
Once Jeff's gone, he takes a breath and quickly writes and sends, Hey, like an idiot, then starts the car and drives around until he can't pretend that he isn't just worrying about whether Jack will answer, and about having sent a message that has nothing in it to send an answer to.
Jack responds anyway, even if it takes him a day and a half and a bad Aces game. You could have made that shot, he says. Kent rolls his eyes.
Happens to the best of us, he writes back, and gets silence in response. Jack doesn't answer again until Kent lands on his face during a game and slides into the goal in a crash that's half comedic, half spectacular disaster.
Are you alright? Jack sends.
Perfect, Kent tells him, even though he's at home with his leg up while the guys are out drinking their sorrow. Which is mostly on Kent's head tonight. He should be there to pick up the tab, at least, which is another strike against him tonight.
I saw the game.
"Rub it in why don't you," Kent says out loud, but types, I take it you're impressed? Is this a fan message?
Jack sends back a flat mouthed smiley. Kent grins. Thinks about writing, I'll send you an autograph, but he's probably pushed that joke as far as it will go, and he doesn't want to force anything and come off like a jerk. Or jinx whatever it is that's going on with Jack. Gonna crash, he sends instead, even though he's going to be sulking at the TV for at least another hour. Talk to you tomorrow?
Goodnight, Jack writes. Kent doesn't grin at it, exactly, but his smile is still probably more than the message deserves.
"Goodnight," he says out loud, even though what he sends is a thumbs up and then a spade. Then he drops the phone onto the couch next to him so he can grab Kit as she's passing by, and tell her, seriously, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Kit Purrson."
Kit meows in protest and Kent laughs and lets her go.
-----
"You look cheerful for a man on a losing streak," Jeff grouches, when Kent shows up for practice the next day.
"It's not a streak," Kent says. "And I'm trying to bring positive energy to our game, so do you mind?"
It's not a streak. Their game is uneven, and Kent's performance has definitely been uneven since he's been back, but they're not losing every game. They're not going out on the ice with a curse hanging over their heads, just a bit of weight on their shoulders if the last game hadn't gone too well, and that's not great, but it doesn't make them a losing team either.
Kent socks Jeff in the arm for daring to think it, then skates away before he can retaliate, backwards in case Jeff says or does anything that needs a rude gesture in response.
"You're supposed to be taking it easy today, old man," Jeff shouts at him. Kent laughs. His knee is a bit sore, but it's fine. As long as he doesn't go full throttle, it'll hold up for practice and the next day's game.
"Smarter and wiser," Kent yells back, sliding smoothly into the pack doing warm-up laps and turning the right-way around. "Come on."
He's wrong about the game. The Aces win, but before the end, Kent's skating crooked and when the team is busy congratulating each other, he's not even on the ice. Scraps makes sure to come over and bop his head a bunch so he won't feel left out, but it's not the same.
"Positive energy, Captain," Jeff reminds him, leaning over the wall to offer a gloved fist for Kent to bump. "You played a good first period."
Kent pretends to punch him in the face, laughing when Jeff tousles back, then climbs over to push Kent off the bench, but mostly gently and careful of his knee, and for the benefit of anyone who might otherwise have noticed Kent's moping.
You played a good first period, Jack offers, a couple hours later.
"Haha," Kent grumbles, but types, Thanks, adds a frowny face, then deletes it and just sends the single word. Follows it with, Not as good as yours, and lets Jack think about what period he means even though it's just bullshit. He hasn't caught up with Jack's games, and it's a bit weird that Jack seems to be making an effort to keep up with his, after all the time he'd spent making a point of not giving a shit about Kent or Kent's life.
You're watching my games? Jack asks, as if he wasn't aware that Kent did, when he had the time. It's not like Kent never mentioned it, during the years Jack wasn't answering.
You're watching mine.
It sounds snippy. Kent deletes it and sends, Yes, instead, then adds, I try to pencil you in.
Jack sends a text heart.
Kent sends the same thing back at him, but as a proper emoji.
I do know how to send those, Jack says.
Kent sends him a spade. It's a good all-purpose response.
Jack sends a diamond, then a club, then a heart.
Well done, Zimmermann, Kent sends. There's hope for you yet. He makes sure to catch Jack's next game so he can send Jack comments on which period Jack played better, arguing against himself over the course of ten or so short messages.
Call it a draw, he decides in the end. You were great the whole game.
Jack doesn't respond to it, but a few hours later he does tell Kent, Good luck tomorrow.
Kent does have good luck. He also manages to get through the game without getting banged around too much. He's fast and smooth and at the end he thumps the top of Jeff's helmet, patting him hard enough to make a point. "Better and smarter, Swoops," Kent tells him.
"I never said better."
Great the whole game, Kent sends Jack, because he's pretty sure that Jack knows about his knee. If he's following Kent's games, then he's hearing the commentary about Kent's games and performance and he's got to know that things have been a bit up and down recently. It won't sound like Kent's a douchey winner. He adds a smiley just in case, then follows up with a question mark later, when Jack doesn't answer.
Great the whole game, Jack confirms, and a few seconds later, like he's not sure of it, adds a spade. Kent sends the same emoji back with a bunch of exclamation marks after it. It's later enough that all the post game formalities have wrapped up and he's out grabbing dinner with Jeff and Scraps, but Kent is still giddy with celebratory feelings about his team.
He rethinks it when Jeff leans over the table to snatch his phone and says, "What are you smiling at on this thing, Parser?"
Kent doesn't make a grab for it, because he's sure that's what Jeff wants. "Fan mail," he says.
"Uh huh."
Jeff's decent enough that he hits the lock button instead of reading Kent's chats, but he does slip the phone into his own jacket like he's confiscating it from some ill mannered kid.
"Okay," Kent says. "I got the message. Give it back." He holds his hand out. Jeff puts a fork in it.
"But what if my 'fan' is tweeting me?" Scraps chirps, in a mock-Kent voice. He doesn't make air-quotes, but Kent hears it in his tone anyway.
"Those 'fans' who have Parser's personal number."
"I don't know about you, but I for one give my number out to everyone. On fliers."
"Aw," Kent snips. "Someone will bite someday, Scraps."
"Now he wants to talk to us," Scraps says, directing it at Jeff.
"Come on, Scrappy. You can't expect Parser to notice the people sitting right in front of him when he's got a fan."
"It's like he's never had a fan before."
"Maybe they're few and far between."
Kent tries to scowl, but ends up laughing anyway. He retaliates by stealing pasta off Jeff's plate.
"What did this fan say?" Jeff asks, making only half an effort to block Kent's fork. Kent nabs some ravioli and shoves it in his mouth. "To distract you from our beautiful faces?"
"That we were great the whole game."
"Oh. In that case." Jeff gets Kent's phone out and hands it back. "Tell them I'd like some messages too."
Kent grabs it back, stealing a quick look at the screen to see if Jack's sent anything during those few minutes. There's no notification, but both Jeff and Scraps notice his glance down before he stuffs the phone away, because they share a look like they're preparing to give Kent more shit.
"What? Can't a guy make friends?" Kent demands, to cut them off before they can coordinate. It doesn't take.
"I thought we were friends," Jeff says, fake-hurt.
Kent's clearly painted a target on himself. He sighs, mostly in good natured resignation, but a little bit because Jack is a raw topic. Being teased about him, even unwittingly, feels like being poked in a bruise. Not seriously painful, but enough to be a tangible reminder. And one that Kent doesn't need, because he thinks about Jack and that Jack-size sore spot all the next day while his phone stays silent except for a couple times that Scraps sends him weird selfies.
"He's got a game," Kent tells Kit, when the third time he checks his phone it's Scraps again. It's not clear if he's sending his ugly mug to Kent on purpose or if something is going on with his phone. "He probably had morning skate, or had to go watch tape or something. We're busy on game day too, right, Purrson? And you never call me at all." He turns the TV on and finds the pre-game discussion, then leaves it on to head to the kitchen, Kit mewing and twisting around his feet.
"Right. Now that I'm going near the can opener you want to make nice," he scolds, but feeds her some cold chicken from the fridge anyway. Just a couple bites to keep her from sticking her head into everything while Kent rummages.
His phone chimes again while Kent is sniffing the contents of a Tupperware box from way at the back. "If that's Scraps again, I'm going to send him a picture of your butt," he tells Kit, who's climbed half into his icebox anyway, but when he checks, it's just one of the guys, asking an actual, non-stupid question. Kent checks the TV while he types his response, but it's still on talking heads.
Then it goes to pre-game interviews, audio over B-roll, and there's Jack, with that serious look he gets before games, visible in gaps between the other players until the camera gets around to focusing on him. He's pissy, and that's so familiar that it makes Kent grin. Maybe someday things between them will be good enough again for Kent to chirp him about it.
Mashkov is looking like a wall. Kent boos dutifully, but goes to flop onto the couch, propping the heel of his recovering leg up on the armrest, and shoving a pillow under the knee. Not because it hurts, but just to make sure it stays not hurting.
Jack skates out onto the ice for warm-ups, and the camera switches to an overhead as sponsors are announced, logos centered over the rink. Kent hasn't thought about it in a while, the whole show of it. He picks up his phone to write something for Jack to read later, but can't come up with anything that's quite right. That'll cover the complicated feeling of we made it but also all the things they gave up getting here.
Lookin' good, Zimms, he writes, even though the puck has barely dropped and he's sure Jack will see the timestamp, Great the whole game.
He is. When the game ends, Kent adds, Called it.
Kent is only great for two periods and a bit the next time the Aces are on. Again. And then his knee starts slowing him down. He knows Jeff can tell by the way he puts his hand on Kent's helmet and keeps it there, arm resting against Kent's back almost protectively as they sit on the bench. Like a shield, even though it's not going to do a thing once he's back in the game and everyone is gunning for him, sensing blood in the water.
Like they think Kent doesn't know how to get the puck to his teammates. Kent grins at the rest of his line as they switch back on and says, "Let's get 'em."
Did you watch the game? Kent types later, but doesn't send. It would probably come off too pushy and being that way might drive Jack away again. He'd never liked Kent's attempts to close the gap between them. "Like you," Kent tells Kit, when he moves to pick her up and she slides easily away. Twisting over his arm like a slinky, then twitching her tail at him. "See if you're still too good for me when you want your litter scooped."
Kit ignores him and starts washing an ear, back turned reproachfully and the tip of her tail still flicking left and right. Kent deletes his message before he taps something by accident, and frowns at his phone screen, thinking. He puts in a spade and a question mark, then deletes that too. Maybe not hockey. He used to have a lot of things to say to Jack that weren't about hockey.
Or, not only about hockey, anyway.
Outside his apartment, the Vegas sky is ruddy with neon, bouncing back off the cloud cover. What's up in Providence? he sends finally. It's real smooth.
Kent huffs and tosses his phone onto a counter so his hands can be free to scrub over his face, but snatches it up again when it buzzes. It's a picture of a city. Tidy and charming looking. Very not like Las Vegas. The picture is of a street, bald trees lit by a row of lamps, heavy clouds overhead and tinted orange, with bright edges catching the last of the sun.
Did you take that? Kent asks, instead of sending Zimms a picture of his cat or the socks he's left in the middle of his floor, or something weird and trying to be funny like that.
Yeah, Jack answers, with no elaboration. Kent vaguely remembers him saying something about photography during one of the arguments they'd had about how much they should be in each other's lives. He can't remember how they'd gotten on the topic. Maybe it hadn't even made sense at the time. Or maybe it had been part of an explanation about all the things in Jack's life that had nothing to do with Kent, and that were the reason why Jack's life didn't have any time or space in it for him anymore.
That's cool, Kent sends. My phone's just full of crap.
There's nothing for a bit. Maybe Jack's busy laughing.
And selfies? he eventually sends back.
You don't know how much I appreciate your not considering my selfies a part of the crap.
Kent takes a second to consider the message, then adds a heart onto the end of it to make sure Jack gets that he's kidding.
Send me one, Jack writes.
"Uh," Kent says. He sends a winking cat emoji.
Seriously, Kenny.
Kent sits down right where he is, the tile of his kitchen floor cold under his butt through the thin material of basketball shorts, and the edge of a cabinet door digging into his back just left of his spine. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Let me find a good one. He could take one now, but that feels too immediate, somehow. Too close. He thumbs over to his images and scrolls, looking for something where he's alone and looks decent, but is also funny. He ends up sending one taken outside a club, where he'd been trying to line his head up with a sign further down the street, to make the neon bunny ears coming off the top of it look like they're growing out of his head. He'd been half-drunk, and it shows in the kind of goofy expression on his face, the easy way he's laughing. Jack can take it any way he wants--Kent being cute, or Kent being stupid.
BAM, he types, right after it loads into the chat window, to show that Kent means for it to be read as a silly picture.
Jack chat-laughs, typing, Hahaha instead of lol, and that's either Jack being Jack, or Jack wanting to make sure that Kent wouldn't misread his tone. Either way, it's cute. Kent grins at it for way too long, and jumps when his phone buzzes then starts playing his ringtone.
It's Jeff.
Kent scrubs a hand through his hair and picks up. Tries not to sound cranky when he asks, "'Sup, Swoops?"
"What do you mean, 'sup me'?" Jeff demands. "Just 'cause you're getting creaky doesn't mean you have to start turning in early. We're in Vegas!"
They've been there a while. Kent doesn't bother making the argument. "So what are you thinking, then?" he asks. "A quiet dinner and some music?"
"Exactly that. I'm in your lobby. Buzz me up."
Kent gets up to do it, climbing stiffly to his feet and padding over to the door, where the intercom and control pad is. He pushes the button for a good three seconds, in case Jeff's slow on the uptake, then makes sure Kit isn't staking out the door so she can try to escape into the hall. He's gently herding her towards the bedroom, when Jeff comes in, saying, "Knock, knock, Parser. I brought you beer. Or, actually, someone brought me beer, but it's awful, so it's yours now. Let's go out."
"I'm--"
"You're what? You're not doing anything. We were great today, we should be out there--" Jeff points at the windows.
"Celebrating?"
"Or at the very least not moping."
"I'm not moping."
Jeff doesn't take no for an answer, so Kent grumbles that it's late, but gets dressed and lets himself be dragged to a bar with some of the guys, then to a club, then to an extra-extra late dinner, even though they have practice the next day. They take a picture outside the restaurant, silly and climbing over each other, trying to get everyone into the frame. Kent saves it when it goes out on the group chat, while he's walking vaguely car-wards with Jeff, taking washed out, disappointing pictures of the street and sky. Not capturing that city glow in the slightest.
The auto-adjust does a better job on Jeff's face, when Kent takes a couple test-shots of him mugging ridiculously into the Kent's camera. He doesn't say anything when Kent goes back to taking environment shots, except to give Kent a weird sideways look.
"If something's wrong," he says, when they get to where they're parked, leaning over the still locked car, arms on its roof, "you tell us, Parse." It's not an offer or a request.
"Nothing's wrong." He tries the door. "Swoops."
Jeff doesn't unlock it. "Your knee will be fine." His keyring beeps. The locks pop, just as Kent's tugging on the handle again, so the door opens suddenly, hitting him in the leg. Jeff laughs. "Get in, Captain."
"It's not--" Kent starts, then shuts up and gets in. "Sure. Better and faster, right?"
"I never said either of those." He starts the engine. "We did have a good game."
"Yeah."
"You're still our captain."
"Yup."
"We killed it today."
"I know. I was there."
Jeff doesn't answer other than to back out of the parking space too fast, and turn into the street, tires squealing as he makes the turn, then slows to drive more sanely. Kent pretends to not have noticed the maneuver. If Jeff's trying to psych him out, it'll take more than mildly reckless driving to do it.
"You good?" Jeff asks, when they get to Kent's place. "Or do you need me to come up and drink terrible beer with you?"
Kent laughs. "We have practice. Later today, in fact."
"So--yes or no?"
"No. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you on the ice."
"Parser--"
"Nothing's wrong. We're--I'm working on it."
Jeff huffs in annoyance and waves him out of the car. Clearly not buying a word of it. Kent doesn't get out for another second, trying to think of something he can say to reassure Jeff, then just repeats, "Nothing's wrong, Swoops."
"Okay. Fine. But--" He points two fingers at his eyes, then turns them towards Kent. "Now get out of my car, Parser."
Kent hesitates a bit longer, not sure what it is he's doing that's making Jeff worry, and not sure what he can say to make him not worry, but he's coming up with too many blanks to get anywhere and finally just punches Jeff's shoulder awkwardly and gets out. When he gets upstairs, Kit sneaks past him into the hall and Kent has to chase her down all the way to the elevators.
After practice, Kent sends Jack a couple of his bad Vegas photos and a bunch of question marks.
Jack sends, Sure, if you take them with your phone.
Next time we've got a game near each other, maybe you can give me tips, Kent writes, then rolls his eyes at himself and deletes. Maybe if I change some settings, he sends instead.
Sure, Jack sends back. Maybe. Kent can't tell if he's annoyed or not. If he knows Kent's just playing and not actually making light of Jack's new artistic pursuits.
You have practice? Kent asks, taking it back to safe ground. To the thing they'd always had between them.
Yeah. There's nothing else. Just that.
"Cool," Kent says out loud, but doesn't write it, because it's frustrating and sad to not have anything to say to Jack about hockey, of all things. For Jack to not be giving him anything to work with. They'd talked hockey for years, when Kent was sleeping on Jack's floor and then in his bed. They'd talked hockey all the way up to the day that Jack had stopped talking to him altogether, and probably even on that day.
Catch you later then, Kent writes, even though it's unlikely that Jack is heading out right that second. Then he decides it's too abrupt and tries to come up with something to soften it, eventually adding a pizza emoji because it's silly, and because Jack might be sick of the spades, and could also choose to interpret it as Kent going for lunch.
"Versatile," he comments to Kit, who isn't paying any attention to him anyway.
Jack doesn't respond. After a few hours, Kent sends him another bad scenery photo, just to keep the channels open, and the exchange becomes just that for a few days, Jack sending him pictures of Providence, and Kent sending back much more random and less artistic pictures of Vegas. No people, no context, like they're the only ones who exist in their world.
Kent's busy looking at a picture of a park, shot from down a nearby street, so that it's a glimpse of open space, framed by buildings and parked cars, a square of green boxed in by greys--overcast sky, white houses, dark street--when Jeff steals his phone out of his hand. When Kent doesn't jump after it, he takes it as permission to steal a peek at the screen.
"What is this?" He asks. "Why is it so depressing?"
Kent holds his hand out, waiting for the phone to be returned to it. "I think it's supposed to be peaceful. I'm not sure. I'm trying to decide."
"And here I thought you were busy looking at cat videos. Where is this? New York?"
He could lie and say yes. Jeff would think a family member had sent it, he knows Kent's from there.
"Providence," Kent says, then adds, "Maybe Samwell. From the summer"
Jeff looks over the phone at him.
"Zimmermann's into photography," Kent keeps going, because he can't seem to stop talking. "We were friends in--"
"Juniors. Yeah." Jeff had been there when Kent had first come to Vegas. The story's not new to him. He'd found Kent frantically trying to call Canada enough times to be sympathetic as Kent's panicked phone calls had slowly cooled to dogged resignation, to intermittent attacks of hopeful stupidity. "What's he want?"
He's lowered the phone enough that Kent can steal it back, locking the screen before he tucks it into his pocket. "Nothing. It's just--hockey."
"Hockey," Jeff echoes.
"I lived at his house for a long time," Kent says.
"Hey, you don't have to explain to me, Parser. I played as a kid, too." He doesn't look like he understands, though. Or maybe, like he thinks he does, but doesn't like his conclusions. He drops into a seat across from Kent, chair legs squeaking as they push across the floor. "Wanna get lunch?"
Kent shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. "I have to see the trainers." He pulls his phone back out to check the time. "In about an hour."
"Oh," Jeff says, and bounces his knee for a few seconds. Then he offers, "After, then? Or I could get something and bring it back?"