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Jack always felt something bubble in his throat when he heard "and" associated with their names. Parson and Zimmerman. It would get stuck there for a moment while he tried to make sure his face was passive, that his hands were at his sides and not balled up, that his heart was keeping a steady even pace, as if whoever was speaking could see it under his shirt.
That was the thing, keeping secrets had never been something Jack was good at because he had never had to keep any. Play hard on the ice, keep your head down in life, and smile for the camera. Being a Zimmerman was easy if you stuck to those three rules.
Kent made his palms sweat.
"Come on Zimmerman,” Parse says. "Are you in or out?"
Parse gestures to the door of the closet as if he has a choice. One time at a party they had made out in a bathroom, which had been a nice change.
Jack closes the door after him and Parse is immediately on him. He leads with his hips, pinning him against it. Parse likes to pretend he has finesse, that he knows everything, and Jack could see it happening some day. It was like how his mom always told him he would grow into his ears; Parse would grow into being a sex god.
“We could do it,” Parse mouths against his jaw, his hand slipping into the waistband of Jack’s sweats. “I was watching some videos last night, and fuck, Zimms, I couldn’t stop thinking about doing that to you.”
Jack lifts his hips into Parse’s touch and tilts his chin to let Parse get better access to his skin. He can’t help thinking that it might not be a bad thing. It might not be a bad thing to try this here, now, after practice. The scouts will be here in a few weeks; Bad Bob has been calling him every week to make sure he is getting in the right amount of practice and the right kind of practice. He asked last week if he should come up and run him through some drills personally, it's only a three hour drive. He hisses as Parse squeezes him harder than necessary. “Focus, Zimms,” Parse says, biting his chin. “Bend you over right here, because damn that hockey butt.”
“Parse,” he mutters, because that’s all Jack can say out loud. They don’t say things like, we should make it special or maybe I didn’t picture my first time in a supply closet or Parse, please can’t you pretend for a second to take this seriously? Instead Jack just says, “Okay.”
Parse laughs a little, “Show a little enthusiasm Zimms.” Before he can even chirp Parse back he’s moaning because Parse has managed to get down on his knees and his mouth is on his cock. Jack threads his fingers through Parse’s hair, closes his eyes, and lets any reservations he has go. Sure, they could go back to Parse’s billet house, they could pony up some cash and get a motel room, this could all go very differently. Spending a night together would mean that Parse would have to watch him take medications, the delicate balance of pills that keeps him together by a thread when Bad Bob will inevitably call. He would be able to see the way Jack’s shoulders shake and hear how his voice could break at any moment. It would make whatever they have something far more dangerous.
“Comme ça, ça c’est bon,” Jack mutters.
Parse pinched his thigh and Jack hears a wet pop. “I’m going to start, and if you say anything else in French I swear, dude, Zimms, I will check you into next Thursday.”
Jack smirks. “Only because it turns you on so much.”
“Fuck you,” Parse replies, grabbing something out of his bag—lube, he really has come prepared—then slicking it on his fingers. “Any second thoughts?"
Thousands.
“No.”
And it wasn’t bad, it just was. Like running. Parse really liked running and so Jack would go running with him, not because it was something Jack likes but because he likes Parse. Parse does something with his fingers and it was like skating, or maybe better than skating because Jack would let him do this forever. Maybe he would just skate and have sex with Kent Parson for the rest of his life.
“Sainte Mère de toutes les bonnes choses,” he said, letting his head hit the door. “Parse.”
“You look really fucking good like this Zimms,” Parse says, grabbing something out his bag. “I’m gonna—fuck—just turn around.”
So Jack does, because Jack always listens to Parse. He hears the condom foil rip and asks himself one more time: is this what you want? Is this how you want it?
The answer was easy though: when it came to Parse, he would take anything he could get.
“Hurry up,” Jack mutters, his forehead against his arm. He wants that feeling again. Parse has officially turned him into a deviant, and it only took a few fingers in a supply closet to do it.
Parse laughs and Jack feels him pressing against his back, before he grabs Jack’s chin and kisses him sloppily. “Try not to scream too loud,” he whispers as he starts to push in.
Parse hisses and Jack tries to relax. It’s like running, but it will be like skating, and he just has to trust Kent. He can do that. “Just give me a minute, just—“
“It’s okay,” Parse says, kissing the back of his neck. “I mean, fuck it, you feel great, but just tell me when because Zimms, I need you.”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to think too hard about that. About the intimacy behind that. He could end up needing that just as much as skating, Kent’s fingers, Kent’s mouth, Kent’s laughter.
He needs to stop thinking.
“Okay, okay go.”
Parse starts going and it's different from his fingers, it's better. Jack bites down on his arm because the cocky asshole might have been right, he might just scream. Parse is saying something and the words aren’t making any sense, but then he’s stopping, and his hips stutter and Jack can feel his head fall between his shoulder blades. “I’m sorry,” Parse says, grabbing Jack’s hips tighter. “I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t think I’d be that one minute fucking virgin.”
“It’s okay,” Jack replies. “It’s okay, Parse, I just need you too so please.”
Parse spins him around and kisses him hard, pumping his cock as he does it. It doesn’t take long until Jack is coming, moaning into Parse’s mouth. Jack falls back against the door, sliding down to sit against it and Parse follows him. Then Parse starts laughing and Jack looks over at him like he grew a second head. “You’re so fucking Canadian. Please jerk me off. Who else would be so polite about that?”
Jack laughs with him and can’t help but think that maybe things will be okay. The draft is weeks away, he’s predicted to be the number 1 draft pick and Parse is also in the top. Parse puts his arm around Jack’s shoulders and pulls him closer. It’s unlike Parse but Jack relaxes into him, putting his hand on Parse’s knee.
“I’m gonna use my signing bonus to go on vacation,” Parse says, an air of casualness that sounds like he is trying way too hard. “You could come with me, if you wanted to. I was thinking of going some place warm. Maybe the Keys.”
Something in Jack’s chest feels tight. “You’re assuming you’re gonna get signed,” He jokes to avoid answering.
“Oh I may not have a legacy name like Zimmerman, but I’m going to get signed,” Parse retorts, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
Jack still doesn’t know how to respond to going on vacation with Parse. The feeling in his chest hasn’t gone away, a vice grip on his heart. Parson and Zimmerman belong on the ice, doing shots at parties, locking themselves in closets. He has a hard time imagining them on a beach somewhere, laying in the sun. Jack imagines that Parse looks good with a tan.
“It was just a thought,” Parse says finally—bitterly—pulling away from him. He stands up and adjusts his sweatpants. “Whatever, I mean, we’ll probably start press rounds after that. We won’t have time for that shit, gotta settle down, find a place, it was a stupid thought.” Jack wants to argue with him but he still doesn’t have the words for it. Whatever it is. so he watches as Parse grabs his bag an looms over him. “I’ll go first. Guess I’ll talk to you later Zimmerman.”
Jack just moves out of the way and lets Parse leave. He sits there with his head in his hands until his billet mom calls, wondering where he is.
It’s time to go back outside.