Work Text:
1.
September 2005
Kent leaves home at fourteen. Ashley is ten and doesn’t really understand where he’s going, why he’s going.
“Why can’t he play hockey here?” she whines in the car to the airport.
“Because he can’t, honey,” Mom says, distracted.
“I’m gonna play somewhere better,” Kent says.
Better: somewhere they don’t know about how their deadbeat dad ran off when Ashley was just a baby. Better: where he doesn’t have to get the bus after practice because Mom is too busy working three jobs to pay for Kent’s second-hand equipment to ever pick him up, and he wouldn’t want her to anyway, because then his teammates would have to see their run-down clunker of a car. Better: where his snotty, snivelling little sister doesn’t trail around after him, and he doesn’t have to get her dressed and make her breakfast and bundle her off to school because Mom is asleep, shush, she just got off shift.
“I hate you,” Ashley says when he gets out of the car. She means I love you, I’m gonna miss you, but somehow it doesn’t come out right.
“I hate you too, squirt,” Kent says. He grins at her though, and reaches back to knuckle her hair. Then he hoists his kit bag onto his shoulder. It’s practically bigger than he is.
“Got your ticket?” Mom asks.
“Yep.”
“Okay,” she says. She breathes deep, knuckles on the wheel whitening. Ashley doesn’t understand why this is such a big deal.
“See you at Christmas, I guess,” Kent says.
Mom nods. Her voice is wet when she says, “Bye baby.”
They watch him walk into departures until they can’t see him anymore.
2.
December 2007
At thirteen, Ashley Parson is pretty sure she’s gonna rule the world someday. Okay, maybe not the same way that her brother’s going to, already on track to be a real hotshot, even if he is small – because Kent’s kind of awesome, not that she’d ever tell him, because duh – but she’s pretty cool too, in her own way.
She’s reading Twilight for the sixth time, and she – miraculously – convinced Mom to let her play her High School Musical soundtrack CD on the car stereo. They don’t get over to Rimouski to see him play home games very often – it’s a six hour drive from Plattsburgh – but they try when they can.
It’s Kent’s last game before Christmas. They’ve just beaten the Remparts 7-4 and it’s a great note to go into the break. The Remparts are shuffling off the ice, looking miserable, while the Océanic, flushed with victory, huddle by the home bench, congratulating each other.
Ashley scuffs her feet and looks bored, pretending she isn’t scoping out every single guy on the team. They’re all older than her, obviously – Kent, at sixteen and a half, is one of the youngest – and some of them are pretty hot. Not like, Edward Cullen hot, but getting there.
“Good game, dude,” Kent is saying, patting his teammates’ butts as he works through the line. “That save was sweet, bro. Nice passing. Awesome work.”
He lingers in front of Zimmermann, who Ashley recognises from a previous occasion: the guy is half a foot taller than Kent, with big blue eyes, dark hair that curls a bit, and a dopey grin. He has a blue C on his jersey. Ashley is kind of surprised. She knew that Kent was good, that was why he had an A despite being so young, but this guy doesn’t look much older.
“Dude, Zimms, you rocked,” Kent says.
Zimmermann gives him a fist-bump. Ashley thinks they look really stupid.
“It was mostly you,” he says.
Kent rolls his eyes. “Shut up and take a compliment, captain.”
“He’s cute,” Ashley says later, in the car back to Kent’s billet house. They’re going out to an early Christmas dinner with Kent’s billet parents, then they’ll start the long drive back home in the morning.
“What?” Kent says, “Who?”
“Zimmermann,” she says, as if she doesn’t know that he knows exactly who she’s talking about.
“What,” Kent says flatly. “No, Jack’s just… Jack. Anyway, you’re twelve, you’re too young. Stop.”
“Excuse me,” she says hotly, “I’m thirteen.”
“Same difference.”
“Anyway, you think so too,” she says.
“No I don’t,” Kent says. He reaches across the car and shoves her, hard, in the shoulder.
“Ow!” Ashley shouts. “Mooooom, Kent hit me.”
“No I didn’t!”
“Kent Parson, you are sixteen years old. Do not hit your sister.”
“She started it!”
“I did not.”
Mom doesn’t turn around, doesn’t pull over. All she does is sigh. “I don’t want to hear it. Both of you, stop. If you can’t behave, we won’t go out for dinner tonight, and you can both go straight to bed.”
The idea of being sent straight to bed at the age of sixteen seems to nettle Kent, who slinks back in his seat to stare, moody and disgruntled, at the city passing by. Ashley sticks her tongue out at him when no-one is looking.
Later, Ashley is bunked down on an air mattress on the floor in Kent’s room. It’s uncomfortable, and there’s a bit of a draft coming under the door, so she wriggles until her feet are tucked right up and she’s curled into ball under the blankets.
Kent’s bed is above her, so she can’t see his face when he whispers, “Sorry,” into the darkness.
“I forgive you,” she says, because she knows that’s what she’s supposed to say, even if he did hit her really hard and it still kind of hurts. “I was right though. You do think he’s cute.”
“Yeah,” Kent says. “But you know… I guess you don’t. Boys aren’t supposed to like boys. Especially not… especially not hockey players.”
“I guess,” she says slowly. That’s what Father Murphy says, but he also says that everyone does bad things, and that God doesn’t mind as long as you’re sorry. “But you aren’t supposed to, like, cross-check, are you? Or fight. That doesn’t stop people.”
There’s a shuffling sound like Kent’s shrugging against the sheets.
“It’s like, Edward isn’t supposed to like Bella. She’s human, and he’s a vampire,” Ashley explains. She has yet to make Kent read the book, but she’s hoping she can drag him along to see the film with her when it comes out. Well, she’s going with Taylor and Abigail first, but she wants to see it more than once, okay, that’s just obvious. “So he’s all sad, all the way through New Moon, because he thinks it will be safer if they’re apart. But then, it turns out they’re better off together, because they love each other, and that’s what’s important, even if people disapprove.”
“Jack’s not a vampire,” Kent says dubiously.
“Way to miss the point, stupid,” she says. She sticks her tongue out again, and pokes the side of his mattress.
There’s a pause. Ashley wriggles again. Kent is breathing, long and slow, like he’s nearly asleep, but she knows he’s not.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Thanks, Ash.”
“You’re welcome.”
3.
July 2008
They all go to the Zimmermanns’ in Montréal for a long weekend, a big Canada Day and Fourth of July and Kent’s birthday celebration rolled into one. Mom always hates it when Kent drags them to meet the Zimmermanns, because she knows that she can’t compare to Mrs Zimmermann, who was like, a movie star or something, ages ago, before Ashley was born, and is really pretty. Mom is not not pretty, she’s just, kinda plain-looking and always tired all the time. Ashley thinks that Mrs Zimmermann doesn’t care, because she’s nice as well as a movie star, but the point is that Mom cares. She cares about the Zimmermanns' house too, because it’s basically a mansion, and how their crappy old Corolla looks in the driveway next to Mr Zimmermann’s Porsche.
Kent doesn’t care. He just wants to hang out with Jack.
They do everything together these days. Ashley can’t have a single conversation with Kent without him saying “Jack prefers Mario Kart,” or “Jack’s dad is taking us fishing,” or “Jack’s Uncle Mario is gonna play roller-hockey with us, isn’t that awesome?” and, ugh, shut up, because she was trying to tell him about Taylor’s new puppy, and how awesome The Hunger Games is, and how she’s never going to be friends with Abigail again because she said that Ashley’s Hannah Montana posters were for little kids and therefore totally lame.
What Kent doesn’t ever mention is the little bottle of pills that she finds in his washbag when she’s looking for toothpaste. It’s an orange bottle, and it doesn’t say Kent Parson on the label, or Jack Zimmermann. Take two tablets by mouth twice daily, it says, for relief of anxiety and insomnia. She doesn’t recognise the doctor’s name either.
Ashley doesn’t ask him about it.
They have a barbeque on the Fourth. Mrs Zimmermann is American too, apparently, so she understands the necessity. Mr Zimmermann pretends to scowl a bit, but he’s mostly laughing underneath, Ashley thinks. Kent doesn’t stop smiling, seventeen years old and his smile is so bright and white now he’s had his braces taken off that Ashley is pretty sure he’s going to blind all of them. Jack doesn’t smile a whole lot, like, it’s not a big wide smile the same way Kent’s is. Instead, it’s a small, secretive smile that spills out at the corners of his mouth and his eyes.
They look happy though.
They eat in the garden. The sky is blue and cloudless, and it’s hot – so hot Ashley is really glad she had her hair cut short, even if the kids at school starting calling her mean things like dyke. When they’re done, the grown-ups are drinking wine on the deck, and Ashley flops down on the sun-dried lawn to re-read Eclipse again because the new one is coming out really soon and she needs to swot up before she next sees Taylor. Jack and Kent disappear into the house, saying something about playing NHL 08 or Smash Bros or something. She doesn’t really care.
It’s not until the evening turns and the sun sets that Ashley decides she wants her favourite sweater, the Hannah Montana one Mom got her for Christmas. It’s packed in Kent’s case because there wasn’t any room left in hers, so she runs upstairs and barges into the spare room he’s been given for the week without thinking.
They’re kissing.
Ashley takes three steps back and nearly falls down the stairs.
They’re sitting, side-by-side on the bed, kissing.
Jack is cupping Kent’s face, smiling a proper smile now, and he says, "Happy birthday," before kissing him again, and Kent is climbing into his lap, quick hands balled into fists in Jack’s hideous plaid shirt, and Jack’s eyes are closed now and his hands are in Kent’s hair, and Ashley cannot be seeing this.
“Oh,” she says involuntarily.
They haven’t seen her. She backs off, quietly as she can, and ducks into her room. Her own case is on the floor, her Jonas Brothers pyjamas peeking out from under the pillow. Balance and normality restored.
She’ll just have to wear a different hoodie. Abigail said that Hannah Montana is lame, after all, and maybe Ashley is starting to agree.
4.
June 2009
“Ash?”
Kent’s voice is hush-hush, middle-of-the-night quiet.
“Hey,” she replies in the same tone.
He’s already in Montréal for the draft; Ashley and their mom are coming up on Thursday night, because she can’t get off work any sooner, and Ash really shouldn’t miss any more school. It’s late; she should be asleep, and she definitely shouldn’t be on the phone. Neither should Kent, but she doesn’t blame him if he can’t sleep, if he’s lying awake staring at the hotel ceiling with the weight of the world on him, simultaneously given everything he’s ever wanted and the most horrific thing he can possibly think of, all in one day.
It’s not every day your best friend – boyfriend, Ashley thinks, maybe, because she walked in on them kissing that time, and it was nearly a year ago but who knows if they’re still… if they were… – tries to kill himself.
She can’t blame him if Kent never wants to take his sleeping pills again.
“I saw the news."
"Does Mom know yet?"
"No, she's asleep. I didn't want to wake her. I... Are you okay?”
There’s a hoarse laugh.
“No.”
5.
June 2013
Stanley Cup celebration parties are pretty fucking awesome.
Okay, so the first time the Aces won, Ashley was fifteen and Kent was nineteen, so she definitely wasn’t allowed to drink, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to drink nearly as much as he did.
This time around, though. This time, she’s eighteen, and the Aces have claimed the Cup on Canadian soil, so the champagne in her hand is abso-fucking-lutely legal. Aw yeah.
“I’m reallllly proud of you,” she slurs. She grins sloppily at him. “You’re awesome.”
“You’re my baby sister,” he says, “You’re contractually obliged to say that. Also, how much have you had to drink?”
“Not that much,” she says. “And anyway, it doesn’t count if it’s out of the Cup.”
An unbidden grin lights up his face. The Cup, and he got to lift it, because he’s captain. “Yeah, okay.”
They lose each other in the melee of the visitors’ locker room. Ashley dances with a couple of Kent’s teammates and their girlfriends, before accompanying one of the rookies to an empty equipment room for a very high school seven-minutes-in-heaven session that is ended abruptly when the Assistant GM wanders in, celebratory cigar in hand. Ashley high-tails it out of there before someone can rat her out to Kent and he comes down on her like a ton of bricks all condescending and prudish.
All things told, it’s nearly two in the morning before she finds him again.
Music is still thudding down the hall, making the empty offices vibrate to the bassline. She would have thought a massive concrete stadium would have better soundproofing than this – it must be pretty hellish during a game, with a 20,000 strong crowd screaming above them. She’s looking for a quiet bathroom to cool off and maybe throw up, heels hanging from her fingers and feet bare on the scratchy carpet, when she hears Kent’s voice, quiet but unmistakeable, coming from an empty room.
“I miss you,” he’s saying into his phone.
He’s drunk. Verrrry drunk. And possibly crying.
“You should be here. I shouldn’t be doing this without you. We always said.” He hiccups, sniffles, “We always said we’d do this together.”
Ashley pauses, close enough to the doorframe that he could see her if he cared to look, but not wanting to really interrupt, exactly. He’s sitting on the floor, back to the wall, phone pinned to one ear and an empty solo cup tipped over beside him.
“God, Zimms,” he says, and of course he’s talking to Jack Zimmermann, just another rambling drunken voicemail to add to the hundreds he’s sent over the years. Ashley wonders if Zimmermann ever listens to them before deleting them. “I miss you so much.”
He finally stops, breathing heavily, and lets his phone slide out of his grip onto the floor.
“I didn’t know you still had his number,” she finally says. It’s a lie, but it’s an opening.
He doesn’t look up. His face is in his hands, fingers fussing in his hair.
“You… You shouldn’t let him get to you like this,” Ashley says. She dumps her shoes and slides down the wall next to him. “This is supposed to be, like, the best day of your career.”
“I know. It is,” Kent says. His voice is shaky. “It’s just…”
“What’s gone is gone,” she says flatly.
All the years, all the tears, have left her with very little sympathy for Jack Laurent Zimmermann, even if Kent defends him at every given opportunity. She won’t deny that the connection to Bad Bob, and by extension Lemieux, Gretzky and the rest, has helped Kent’s career immeasurably, but she is pretty sure that Kent’s good enough that he could have got here by himself. He didn’t need a famous father to get where he is today; and look where having a famous father got Jack.
Fathers, in her opinion, are more trouble than they’re worth.
“I know,” Kent says again. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.
Ashley reaches across and grabs his hand. It’s big and broad, square-palmed, with callouses and scars. Hers is pale and small by comparison, and her new nail polish (black and white with aces on, because duh) is already chipped.
“He made his choices,” she says. She’s said it a hundred times before, but maybe now she’s an adult – she’s older now than he was then, and isn’t that a thought – maybe now it might mean something. “I’m not asking you to blame him, I can do that enough for both of us, but you’ve got to move on, Kent. You’re captain, you’re on top of the world. He’s not a part of your life any more, and you aren’t a part of his. That’s just how it goes.”
“On top of the world, huh,” he says.
“Yeah,” she says. She punches him, gently, in the shoulder, a friendly love-tap, teammate to teammate. I’m on your side, it says. Even when you’re not. Remember that. “Come on, captain. There’re drinks to drink and a Cup win to celebrate.”
Kent smiles at her then, and it’s a pale imitation of his first, best smile – the one that reminds her of long summers in Québec – or even of the fake, public one he drags out for pressers and media days, but the important thing is it’s real.
“Alright,” he says, and he takes her hand and follows.