Archive of Our Own

Kent is sure he never used to ache this bad in the middle of the season.

He’s old, okay; he’s going to be thirty-nine in the summer, that’s practically ancient in hockey years. Objectively, he feels great — he’s still making the top ten hottest guys in the NHL, he can still play a twenty minute game and stay on the ice for a push into OT, he’s good. Solid. Jack, too, is still one of the stars of the game — he doesn’t put up as many points as he used to, definitely leaning more into the role of playmaker as he’s gotten older, but his name is scrawled all over the record books. 

They both are. Like they always wanted to be, like they dreamed of when they were kids. Fuck, that feels so long ago now.

Somehow, Kent blinked and they became veterans. The Falcs joked about Jack being an ‘old married guy’ from his very first season, but now they actually are the old married guys. The oldest players on their team. And God, does Kent feel it.

No one who was on the roster when Jack joined the team is still there. Hell, no one who was on the roster when Kent joined is there. Marty and Thirdy and Guy retired in those earlier years, Snowy a few years after when the amount of time he spent in the trainer’s room couldn’t be waved off any longer. Poots traded to the Predators back when he and Beth decided to make a real go of things — Kent still can’t believe sometimes that Jack’s goofy rookie has become family, is the father of Beth’s children. Even Tater bowed out a year ago, after a bad hit led to a shattered collarbone and the doctors told him it was best to step down once he recovered, lest he do something even worse in future. 

None of those fuckers have gone anywhere. They’re all still regular visitors at the Parson-Bittle-Zimmermann household (or the PBJ house, as everyone continues to call it, and Jack continues to be exasperated by but secretly loves). They’re family. Any Falconer, past or present, has an open invitation to their home, and Bitty wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kent wouldn’t have it any other way, either. As frustrating as it can be sometimes when he just wants to spend some time with his husbands and suddenly they’ve got a rookie on their couch. 

He can’t blame them for wanting some captainly advice from Jack, or a pie and a listening ear from Bitty. Hell, sometimes they want to talk to him, and he doesn’t get it because what the hell does he know, but he tries his best all the same. 

Kent still loves hockey with every breath. But the seasons are starting to get hard. He’s got a repetitive shoulder-strain problem that he’s been dealing with the last couple years — he’s going to need surgery eventually but it’s going to be such a fucking pain in the ass to rehab, he might as well wait until he’s out of the game. It was fine at first but now it’s starting to affect his shot, and sure, cool, whatever, he can let the babies have their time to shine, it’s no big deal.

But it worries him. Sometimes, when he has a little too much time on his own, he thinks about that one time he broke his ribs, and how close he came to something much worse. He’s slower than he was then, his limbs a little heavier, his reflexes a little rough around the edges.

It would be easier to have another hit like that, now. Except he might not come out of it so cleanly. 

He and Jack have been ridiculously lucky, he thinks; they’ve never had anything put them on a serious LTIR, never been off the ice for more than three months at a time. Jack had a concussion that got pretty close once, and his left knee’s in about as rough shape as Kent’s shoulder. But other than that, it’s just been aches and strains and the usual aftermath of playoffs.

He knows what everyone else is thinking. They get asked about it all the time — sometimes joking, sometimes less so. Will the Parson-Zimmermann duo keep going forever? Will you boys play as long as Jagr?

As if Jagr wasn’t begging for retirement long before he finally bowed out, locked in by his own morals and family obligation. 

Kent doesn’t want to do that. Doesn’t want to stay in hockey for so long he feels like he can’t leave.

Doesn’t want to stay in hockey so long everyone else wishes he would leave.

He’s seen it before; guys who can’t bear to give up the game, who push and push until they get put on waivers and never picked up, or until injury forces them out for good. It’s always sad to see, always twists something in his gut. He doesn’t want to go that way. 

A long, weary sigh punches out of him; loud enough that Jack turns his head, raising one dark eyebrow in query. The pair of them are lying in bed, soaking in the tail end of their pre-game nap time. They’ve got a game against the Islanders that night. Kent’s excited for it; Swoops and Gina are coming up with the kids, staying the long weekend since school’s out for winter break. 

Vicky’s almost fourteen now. Kent sort-of wants to cry about it every time he looks at her. She’s the spit of her mother but with the height of her father, and the passion for hockey of her father and godfather combined. Swoops is the ultimate hockey dad now, driving her to all her games, helping her practice. She’s a goalie — somehow, Kent ended up with a goalie for a goddaughter. The only one who finds it funnier than him is Swoops. 

Milo’s going to be eleven in the summer, and he couldn’t give two shits about sports but he’s the most amazing musician Kent’s ever heard. Piano, guitar, violin; he plays them all, and sings pretty well too, which is impressive to anyone who’s ever heard Swoops or Gina sing. Swoops spends just as much time taking his son to music lessons and going to recitals as he does with his daughter at the rink. He’s the best dad, it’s amazing. 

“If you’re gonna think that loud, tell me what’s on your mind,” Jack murmurs, snapping Kent out of his thoughts. The Canadian rolls over, plastering himself up Kent’s side. Kent purses his lips.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, and Jack just huffs. A dry kiss presses to his neck.

“Don’t apologise, mon coeur. Talk to me.”

Silence stretches between them. Kent takes Jack’s hand, playing with his fingers, marvelling at the ways they’ve changed since Jack was sixteen. His hands are stronger now, even more hockey-callused than they ever were, wrinkled just a little. Three of his fingers on his right hand sit a little crooked from being broken after he blocked a 95MPH puck with his own damn hand. His wedding ring sits on his left ring finger, a little tarnished from age but still beautiful, the skin beneath it as white as parchment. Jack only takes his ring off when he has to — when he’s putting on hockey gloves. That little band of skin hasn’t seen true sunlight in over a decade.

These hands know every inch of Kent’s body, have held him through so many hardships, loved him for over twenty years. “I’m tired,” Kent admits, quiet. 

A long moment, in which Kent is sure his heart doesn’t beat. Then, Jack hums against his skin. “Crisse, me too, Kenny.”

Relief floods Kent’s system — he knows, instantly, that Jack means it the same way he does. Not tired as in needing another hour or two to nap, but tired, bone-deep and everlasting, the weariness that comes from trying to keep up to the standard you used to set when you were half the age you are now. 

“We’re having a really good season. One of our best,” Kent continues. Jack just scoffs.

“Not entirely down to us, bud.”

“Kinda is, in a way.” The younger members of their team wouldn’t be so goddamn spectacular if Jack and Kent hadn’t trained them that way. George has an eye for potential, there’s no doubt about that, but she hands every new Falc over to the pair of them and asks them to make magic happen, and they deliver.

They have a great team. Talented, sure. Hard-working, absolutely. But great; humble and encouraging and accepting of everyone. They’re the first team in the NHL — the only team, so far — to sign a trans player. No one’s said a bad word about Kicks since the goalie first showed up, and after two seasons he’s the heart of the team. Not a single Zimmermann Foundation event goes by without at least four Falconers in attendance; there’s never a shortage of volunteers for community outreach days, for Young Falconers’ coaching, for pizza parties at hospitals or protests at city hall. 

They have a damn great team, and Kent is going to miss hitting the ice with them every day. 

But there’s other things he’s starting to want out of life, now.

Jack shuffles impossibly closer, slinging an arm over Kent’s hips. “We need to talk to Bits,” he says, and Kent hums in agreement. 

“Of course, yeah. When he gets home.” Bitty’s in LA, filming a guest spot in a holiday baking competition show. He doesn’t have his own show anymore — six seasons was about all they could manage before the ratings started to drop — but his Youtube channel is as big as ever, and he’s always being asked to guest-star on other cooking shows. He’s got his own line of baking equipment, a whole shelf full of cookbooks. He’s a household name, the way Kent always knew he would be.

He doesn’t think Bitty will be surprised by this. Kent’s seen the way the baker looks at them after games, when they’re in bed and still reeking of IcyHot and ibuprofen gel. Bitty would never tell them they need to stop, but… he probably isn’t going to convince them to keep going, either. 

It’s funny; Kent never really considered the end of his hockey career. For all those times he and his husbands have looked at each other and murmured that promise — after hockey — he’s never actually stopped to properly think what that might look like. Always been worried about what might pop into his head, maybe.

Been worried that if he contemplates it too hard, it’ll look too inviting, and he’ll reach for it before he’s truly ready. 

He should probably start thinking about it, now. 

As he settles a hand low on Jack’s back, a squirm of guilt wriggles its way to the forefront. “We don’t have to do this together,” he says cautiously. “If— don’t let me hold you back, Zimms. I’ve had more time than you. If you’re not ready, I—“ he can’t say anything else, because Jack’s mouth is covering his. He lets the kiss happen for one beat, two, three — when he finally pulls away, Jack is looking at him in mild annoyance.

“I don’t ever want to play hockey without you there, Kenny,” he says simply, as if it’s a basic fact of the universe. Kent’s whole heart squeezes until he’s breathless. “I might not have been in the NHL as many seasons as you, but I did play college hockey for four years. And, well… the damage I did to my body, before, I— let’s just say I’m starting to feel my age.”

A flinch shudders through Kent. It’s been so long, yet he can’t forget that night. We lost him on the table, but we got him back. If he can survive the night, his chances are good.

Of course, being dead for four minutes probably did a number on Jack’s whole system. It’s a miracle he’s maintained the kind of shape he’s in. 

Kent wonders how often he’s been suffering without saying anything, gritting his teeth through pain and exhaustion to carry on. That’s typical Jack ZImmermann stuff, refusing to admit to weakness. Fucking idiot. 

Not that Kent himself is much better. God, they’re so lucky they have Bitty to keep them from being morons most of the time. 

“It’s both or neither,” Jack insists, kissing him once more. The way it always should be. Both of them or not at all.

Kent nods, a lump rising in his throat. “Okay, then. We’ll— we gotta go.” His eyes catch on the clock on the nightstand; they need to get back to the rink. “But we’ll talk about it. When Eric gets home.” He tilts up for one more kiss, unable to help himself. “I love you.”

“Je t’aime, mon coeur.”

They don’t say anything at the game that night. They play with as much determination as they’ve always played, though they lose 2-1 anyway. The Isles are having a good season. Swoops likes to joke they’ve been getting better ever since he retired. 

They don’t say anything when they get home either, the Troy family in tow, Vicky and Milo eagerly telling their uncles about everything they’ve been up to. Kit curls up in Swoops’ lap as soon as he’s sat down; Kent’s princess is something of an old lady now, and sometimes when he looks at her he gets that little stab of fear in his chest like the sand rushing out of an hourglass, but she’s doing okay. She still has plenty of rage in her tiny body; there’s a couple of guys on the roster that she just does not like, for no reason whatsoever. She and Puck mostly spend their time napping together these days — the dog is old too, showing his age earlier as big dogs often do. Jack’s the one who’s going to be hit hardest by that loss, but none of them are ready for it.

They’ve been thinking about rescuing another dog, a younger one, but not now, not while Kit’s in her twilight years. It’s too overwhelming.

And if other things are going to happen soon, well; it’s probably best to hold off on the second dog for multiple reasons.

They don’t say anything when Bitty video-calls, but Kent thinks they don’t need to — their third knows how to read them as well as they can read each other, and he takes one look at them and smiles softly and reminds them he’ll be home in the morning. 

Jack’s the one who goes to pick him up from the airport, while Kent takes Vicky and Milo out for some quality time together. Kent comes home to find Bitty in the kitchen making cupcakes, and as his heart tries to lurch out of his chest he strides forward to bundle his smaller husband in a tight hug, kissing him while the kids giggle and make exaggerated noises of disgust. Bitty laughs into the kiss, letting Kent dip him dramatically.

“Goodness,” the baker says once they part, “you’d think I’d been gone for months, not nine days. Jack did the same dang thing in the middle of the airport.” 

There’s a beautiful flush on his cheeks, which are smattered in freckles from the LA sun. Bitty’s always been a creature of sunshine, and sometimes Kent wishes they lived somewhere with more of it, but he wouldn’t trade this life for the world. 

He just has to take all the chances he can to admire those freckles when they appear. 

“What can I say,” he drawls, grinning roguishly. “We miss you when you’re gone.”

Bitty can’t fight the smile that blooms, and Kent kisses him again, just because. 

That happiness lasts through the long weekend, through the absolute chaos of a Hockey Family lunch, the house full to bursting with people and laughter and love; Tater and Ash’s new foster kid is half in love with Vicky, the pair of them whispering together for most of the evening, while Milo runs around the yard with Henry Chow until it gets dark and the pair are bundled inside with cookies and hot chocolate to warm up before dinner. Everyone’s glad to have Chowder and Farmer back east, the goalie finally accepting a trade to the Bruins after five years with the Sharks.

But eventually it’s just the three of them once more, and Kent shuffles downstairs in the morning to find Bitty mixing up waffle batter, Jack perched at the island nursing a cup of coffee. Kent looks at them, anticipation welling within him. “Waffles, huh,” he remarks, walking behind Bitty to kiss his cheek as he heads for the coffee machine. “What’s the occasion?”

Bitty’s gaze is shrewd. “You tell me, Kent Parson,” he returns. “You boys have been actin’ funny since before I got back.”

“So you thought you’d sweeten us up?” Jack teases. Waffles are a special occasion breakfast — mainly because Bitty’s waffles are so fucking incredible, they’d all be a hundred pounds heavier if they were part of the regular breakfast rotation. They deserve to be savoured. 

And sometimes they pave the way for important conversations. Kent glances over at Jack, who nods solemnly. It’s time.

“We’ve been thinking about retirement,” the Canadian says, straight to the point. 

There’s a loud clatter as Bitty sets the bowl down hard on the counter, going wide-eyed. “What? Are you okay?” He looks first to Kent’s shoulder, then to where Jack’s knee is hidden by the kitchen island, scanning them over as if something will jump out at him. “Kenny, you told me that hit in the Aeros game wasn’t that bad.”

As he reaches out to Kent, Kent tugs him into his arms, soothing him with a kiss to the temple. “It wasn’t that bad,” he promises. “I’m fine. We’re fine. About as much as we usually are, anyway.” There’s always some ache or pain with them; they’re hockey players in their late thirties, it’s a given. 

“Then… what’s brought this on?” Bitty worries his lower lip between his teeth, glancing from one to the other. Kent squeezes him a little tighter, while Jack reaches over with earnest blue eyes.

“It’s just… it’s time, mon chou,” he murmurs.

“But you’re both still playin’ so well!” Bitty protests. “Heck, you won the cup last season!”

“We know. But you saw how bad we were after it.” Both Jack and Kent spent the entire offseason resting strain injuries, and didn’t return to the team until a month and a half into regulation season. “We play a good game, bud. There’s no doubt about that.” Jack’s thumb swipes down the ridges of Bitty’s spine at his neck. “But we’ve done our time. We’ve had our glory days. We want to bow out gracefully.”

“I want to be in good enough shape to do this,” Kent murmurs, sliding his hands down to Bitty’s thighs and lifting him off his feet, “until all three of us are old and grey.” 

Bitty’s arms curl around Kent’s neck automatically, his legs gripping at his waist until Kent sets him on the countertop, leaning up for a kiss. He feels Bitty’s reluctance at first, the smaller blond holding back, but Kent coaxes him closer, letting his lips and tongue ease the blow until Bitty’s posture shifts. Bitty’s legs wrap tighter, pulling him in, deepening the kiss. Kent’s heart races just the same as it did the very first time they kissed, God, fourteen years ago now. 

“How soon are we talkin’?” Bitty asks, the waffle batter utterly forgotten as he leans back towards Jack, tugging him to join their embrace. 

“We’ll finish out the season,” Jack promises, his long arms enveloping them both. “Unless we can’t.”

Bitty immediately reaches to rap his knuckles against his wooden cutting board. Kent grins to himself.

“One last run, we’ll make it a good one,” Kent agrees. He and Jack never said it out loud — honestly haven’t spoken about the matter since that nap before the Isles game — but now it’s been voiced, it feels right. “Twenty seasons. Nice round number to end on.”

“Same as Uncle Wayne,” Jack points out with a slight grin. Kent winks at him.

“Fourteen is pretty damn impressive, too,” he says with a flirtatious wiggle of his eyebrows. Fourteen seasons, four Stanley cups, two Olympic medals. Practically every NHL trophy it’s possible for a forward to earn. Countless other achievements that will never be recognised by anyone but the three of them and their closest friends. 

They’ve done damn good with the chances they were given. They can be done now.

“Well, then,” Bitty sighs, voice just a little bit shaky. Kent kisses his cheek, emotion welling in his own chest. “If you boys are sure. All I want is for you to be happy.”

The rest goes unspoken; hockey has always made you happy.

It’s true, but hockey isn’t the only thing anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. 

“We will be,” Jack says, holding both of them close to his chest. “We’re going to be so happy, bud. How could we not be? We’ve got you.”

At last, that’s what does it; Bitty sniffles, then laughs wetly, a couple of tears trickling down his cheeks. “Oh, these boys,” he says to himself with a shake of his head. “I love you both so much. If you— if you’re ready to be done, I’m right here with you. Whatever comes next.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Kent says with confidence. It’s a terrifying prospect, not being a hockey player, but — exciting, too, when he lets himself push past the fear. 

They stand — or, rather, Kent and Jack stand while Bitty sits — wrapped in each other’s arms, just breathing together while each of them considers the nebulous future ahead. For the first time ever there’s a timeline, a countdown, until the fabled after hockey begins. 

Maybe by the time they get there, Kent will actually be ready to say goodbye.

.-.-.

It feels… weird, to have made this decision, after all this time.

Jack honestly can’t say he’s thought much about retirement. Not in any concrete way. Sure, he’s watched his friends and teammates retire, seen what they’ve made of their lives in a post-hockey world, wondered if any of those paths might fit him. He’s had a couple of conversations with his dad and hockey uncles on the subject, whenever they’ve remarked about how old they feel, how old that makes Jack. Bad Bob Zimmermann has crossed the threshold of sixty-five, even though he barely looks ten years older than Jack himself by now. 

No; what Jack’s thought about more is just life; he’s watched what his Samwell friends have made of themselves, marvelled at the things they’re doing. Shitty’s one of the best lawyers in Massachusetts, the way they all knew he would be. He runs his own law firm now — his father died and left him everything, and he’s spent pretty much every cent of it on improving the lives of others, setting up funds for people to get legal help, taking pro-bono cases. He and Lardo do short-term fosters for kids stuck in the middle of legal disputes. Lardo herself has a part-time job doing art therapy classes for disabled people, the rest of her time devoted to her own art. They live in a brownstone in Boston now, a huge step up from Haus 2.0; this place doesn’t even smell like weed that much. 

Ransom and Holster are both married — not to each other, which is the biggest shocker of the last decade. They moved to Toronto when Ransom’s mom got sick; he’s an orthopaedic surgeon, while Holster pretty much runs the entire Zimmermann foundation. Neither of them have kids, but they’ve got about ten dogs between them — they live in neighbouring houses and have a joint yard so the dogs can all run around together. Holster’s wife is an animal trainer for movies, and every time Jack visits it seems the dogs have learned something new. 

The frogs, the tadpoles, even the waffles — they’re all in their thirties now, just like Jack, with established lives and careers. Whiskey and Hops both went into the NHL; Whiskey is captain of the Aces now, a fact that never fails to make Kent smile, and Hops bounced around a few teams at first but has been happily settled with the Avs for the last season and a half now. 

Even his old teammates have made themselves happy with a life after hockey. Sure, most of them are still in the game somehow — coaching, commentating, managing. There’s plenty of in-house options for a retired hockey player. But a lot of them have gone on to do entirely different things. Snowy ended up becoming a fucking ghost-hunter on TV of all things. Thirdy writes kids’ books now.

Hell, Tater and Ash bought a farm about an hour out of the city and run a camp program for homeless LGBTQ+ youth, letting them interact with nature and teaching them life skills. Every time Jack visits, it seems they’ve got some new injured or abandoned animal under their care; their foster daughter, Lise — a trans girl who was kicked out of her home when she came out at the age of just thirteen — has decided she wants to be a vet. She’s not the first kid they’ve fostered, and she won’t be the last, but Jack suspects she might be the first to become permanent.

Jack and Kent are some of the last remaining of their generation of hockey players. Everyone else has hung up their sticks — Sid, Tazer, Johnny, all the guys they spent their early years being compared to. They’re all settled down in their post-retirement lives, most of them semi-regular visitors to the house, if only for Bitty’s pie.

It’ll be nice, he thinks, to join them. To be able to join in with their gatherings at the odd NHL event or important game, to sit and talk about how great it used to be when they were at their best, but how glad they are to be done. 

Jack doesn’t do well with change. He never has, no matter how big or small the change is. He thrives on routine — has had pretty much the same routine for the majority of his life. All of it revolving around hockey.

It’s going to be hard to fill that empty space. To find a new routine that doesn’t involve going to the rink every day, keeping his body in peak physical condition, travelling across several states every couple of weeks. 

He’s not going to miss that part. Crisse, he’s so sick of roadies by now. 

The first person he tells about his decision — other than Bitty, of course — is Shitty. He doesn’t necessarily plan it that way, but Shitty stops by while he’s in town for a thing, and all of a sudden Jack is blurting it all out.

Shitty just hugs him, the same way he always has when Jack’s emotions get too big to contain by himself. “This is gonna be good, bro,” he whispers. “Fuck, this is gonna be so good. We got you. You got this.”

Jack hopes he’s right.

The second person he tells is his father; that one is planned, he and Kent visiting when they play away to the Habs. If anyone’s going to tell them they’re making a mistake, it’s Papa. Part of Jack still thinks they’re being too hasty, that they’ve got a couple more runs left in them yet. Bob shoots that thought down immediately.

“Sure, you could play a few more seasons,” he agrees. “But would you enjoy it?”

Jack’s immediate, instinctive thought is a flat no — he’ll enjoy it in the way he always enjoys playing hockey, but not… not the way he’s supposed to enjoy being in the NHL. 

At the looks on their faces, Bob nods, a gentle smile taking over his features. “Then it’s time, boys. When it feels right, it feels right.”

He would know. 

When they tell Maman later that evening, she cries, but they’re happy tears. She holds them both close and kisses their cheeks and promises that whatever comes next will be wonderful for all three of them.

It’s that, more than anything, that gives Jack the courage to do what he needs to do after. Once they’re back in Providence, he drives over to George’s house, knocks on the door, and waits.

She answers, and he can tell she already knows.

“Come on in, Jack,” she says, her smile sad. “I’ll make hot chocolate.”

George is more than his GM at this point. She’s one of Jack’s closest friends, her and Melissa both. Every decision he has ever made about his career, George has met with a nod and a smile and an assurance that she’s right with him, one hundred percent. This is no different.

“I can’t say it won’t be hard,” she tells him, hands wrapped around a mug towering with whipped cream, once he’s said his piece. “To lose both of you at the same time. But I’ve been prepared for a while now. And we can afford to have a couple years of rebuilding.”

“Ringo’s gonna make a great captain,” Jack offers. The D-man has been one of his As for a few years now, not the most senior but easily the most dedicated. Under his leadership, the transition won’t be too much of a struggle.

“He is.” George nods, sipping at her drink. “Once he stops freaking out about trying to fill your shoes. Your enormous, hideous shoes,” she teases, making him laugh. Jack hasn’t owned those yellow running shoes for years, but he still gets mocked for them. 

“You know you aren’t getting rid of us, right?” George adds, after the silence creeps on for just a touch too long. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” At this point, Jack can sort-of imagine his life without hockey, but he can’t for a second imagine it without the Providence Falconers. He’s given his whole career to this franchise, all of his heart that isn’t owned by Bitty and Kent. They have helped him grow as a person more than he ever thought possible — they have helped him change the NHL for good. “I owe you everything, George. You took a chance on me, and I—“

“Don’t,” George warns, her dark eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare, Zimmermann; you said you’re sticking around for the rest of the season, so you can shove your farewells up your ass until then. You know we’re gonna have to make a big deal out of it. Have a testimonial, a party. Several parties.” She grins at him. “We can get drunk and cry together then, I promise.”

Jack laughs, the weight shifting off his chest as relief floods in — George is right, he doesn’t have to do this now. He’s still got three months and change left in the game. 

“If you insist.” Then his stomach churns, and he looks at her with pleading eyes. “Don’t make me do a testimonial on my own. I— I want to share it with Kenny.” They’re retiring at the same time, surely she can make that happen.

George snorts, looking at him in amusement. “Obviously, Jack. Jesus, like I’d do anything else for you two. You barely go to the bathroom without each other, you’re not gonna do separate testimonials.”

He blushes — they’re not that bad. But the idea of celebrating his hockey career without also celebrating Kent’s makes panic grip his stomach. They’re so closely intertwined, the same way everything about them is intertwined, it would just be wrong to have one and not the other.

With a quiet scoff, he thinks about the early days of his hockey career, when he insisted on establishing himself as a player without Kent by his side. How fucking fruitless that was.

No; he needed it at the time, if only to prove it to himself. Those years did what they needed to do, and all three of them are stronger for it. But now, this far in, Jack doesn’t want to do anything without Kent by his side, without Bitty there too. 

“So what’s the plan for after?” George asks curiously. Jack freezes — one immediate thing jumps to the forefront of his mind, but the words never make it to his lips. He can’t say it to George when he hasn’t even said it to his husbands.

“I don’t know yet,” he says instead. George nods, like she expected that answer.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

It’s the first time anyone’s said that to him — the first time in his life that anyone’s told Jack it’s okay not to have a plan. It rocks him so hard he has to grip the arm of the couch and just breathe; George waits, patient as ever, smile never faltering. 

Jack got so fucking lucky, when he met her. 

.-.-.

The people closest to them are used to keeping secrets — it’s been a while, but they’ve got no problem keeping this one. No one wants to start causing a fuss among the league while the season is still going; no one wants to distract from the Falcs’ current performance.

No one expects them to hit playoffs and just keep going.

Jack sure as hell doesn’t expect it. He and Kent agreed they wanted to play their best right up until their last moments on the ice; they want every minute, every shift, every opportunity they can to keep hold of this game that they love for just a little while longer. The team knows, because it’s hard to keep such a huge decision from them, and the news lights a fire under them that fills Jack with a deep, intense kind of pride. It’s like the guys are determined to make the most of having Jack and Kent still with them, to make sure that the season they go out on is one they can be proud of. 

Getting to playoffs isn’t the surprise. Jack and Kent brace themselves with the long-practiced motions of men who have seen more playoffs seasons than not. They ready the epsom salts, the foam rollers, the massage guns. Bitty clears his schedule and fills the freezer with hearty meals. Their family trickle into town, everyone determined to see their boys in their final playoff run. Bob and Alicia come to every single home game. 

They sweep round one in four games. Power through round two in six. Round three is a blur, and before he knows it, Jack is lacing up his skates for game one of the Stanley Cup final against the Seattle Schooners.

How fucking poetic.

Everything hurts, and in the mornings his body makes noises that no thirty-eight year old body should make. Listening to him and Kent pop their joints on the way out of bed makes Bitty shudder every time, but every time he brushes sweet kisses across their sore spots, promises all manner of wonderful things for after playoffs.

The most common refrain, and yet this time it’s different. This time after playoffs means after hockey, means the entire rest of their lives. 

“Come on, babe,” Kent murmurs, their heads pressed together as they stand in the equipment room before game six. “We’ve come this far. Just a little bit longer, yeah? Go out on a high.”

Jack’s lost enough games — hell, lost enough cup finals — that losing this one will not utterly devastate him the way it might have in the past. Even though it’s his last one ever. He can handle it.

But at the same time, it would be really, really good to win. 

Except… “What if I can’t do it, Kenny,” he rasps, feeling safe in the quiet of the room, in the circle of his husband’s arms. Kent’s brow furrows.

“Babe, it’s not just you on the team, if we don’t win then—“

“No,” Jack shakes his head, searching for the words to explain himself. As always, he finds them best in his native tongue. “What if… what if we win, and I can’t walk away?”

That’s the thing about winning. It tricks you into thinking you’re at the top of your game, that it would be utterly ridiculous not to keep going. It did that last season — the rumblings of retirement had been brewing during those playoffs, when his body hurt and his brain felt raw and he truly didn’t know if he could keep up that kind of punishing pace. But then he did, and they won, and he convinced himself he’d be foolish to stop now. That he’d regret it. 

Jack wants to think it’ll be different now, now that they’ve made their preparations, now that he knows Kent is ready too, but… the doubt still lingers.

Kent’s hand slides into his hair, tugging him down for a hard, fierce kiss. “You can,” he insists. “You can walk away. Whatever you’re telling yourself about what you owe to the world, it’s wrong. You owe it to yourself to stop when it feels right.” Then he smirks. “You said you didn’t want to play without me. Well, I’m walking away no matter what happens, so if you don’t think you can I’ll just fucking drag you with me. Eric isn’t the only one in this relationship I can pick up, y’know.”

It’s like Kent has reached right between his ribs and plucked all the hidden thoughts from the deepest part of him — Jack hasn’t even admitted to himself that that’s what the real problem is, that he feels like he isn’t allowed to be done with hockey until he’s exhausted every last opportunity, after everything it took him to get there. That he’ll be letting people down if he stops now. 

“The fans…” he starts pathetically. Kent cuts him off with a growl.

“The true fans will support your choices, just like they have since day one. The rest can go fuck themselves.” His husband’s hands settle on his shoulders, forcing Jack to look him square in the eye. “Zimms. Simple question. Are you ready to be done?”

“Yes.” Jack doesn’t hesitate. Kent’s lips curve, and he nods.

“Then let’s get out there and fucking end this thing on home ice, once and for all.”

A beat, in which Jack inhales deeply, letting that reality sink in. They can do that — they’re 3-2 up, if they win this they’re done. They can bring the cup home one more time for the people who have supported them through everything. And then they can leave.

“Let’s do it.”

To their surprise, Bitty is waiting for them in the locker room, a soft smile on his face. “Thought I’d come down and give you boys a kiss for luck, one more time.”

Neither of them are going to say no to that. Jack reaches him first, dropping his nose to inhale the ever-present cinnamon-sugar scent of his baker husband, before kissing him firmly on the lips. With Jack in his skates, Bitty has to lean right up on his toes — he’s not quite as short as he was when they met, having had one last little growth spurt when he hit twenty-eight, but he’s still barely 5’8” on a good day. Still small enough that sometimes Jack feels like he can wrap his entire body around him and just keep him there forever. 

Jack doesn’t move far when it’s Kent’s turn, keeping a hand on each of them while they kiss. When Bitty pulls back, there’s tears shining in his eyes. “Give ‘em hell, boys,” he says, voice thick with emotion. Then he turns to the locker room at large, smirking in challenge. “That goes for all of you! There’s pie in it for you if y’all can finish this tonight.”

That gets everybody excited. “Do we get a kiss for luck, too?” Bugsy, one of their younger forwards, calls with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Bitty laughs brightly.

“Don’t think your boyfriend would be too thrilled about that.”

Bugsy gives Bitty his best charming grin. “He’d be fine with it if he got one too.”

“And on that note,” George’s voice cuts in loudly, “Bittle, get outta my locker room.” She’s smiling as she says it, iPad in hand. “Clearly you’re far too distracting.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Bitty chuckles, holding up his hands. “Good luck tonight, boys. I know you can do this!” He turns to Kent and Jack, face filling with affection. “I love you. Score goals for me.”

“Anything for you, babe,” Kent replies instantly, giving a playful wink. If he’s feeling anything about this probably being the last time he can make that promise to Bitty, he doesn’t say it.

Jack just nods, too choked up to speak, and squeezes Bitty’s hand one more time before the blond scurries out of the room. They huddle up to listen to George’s pre-game speech — Kent’s shoulder is solid and warm against Jack’s, and Jack takes a steadying breath, letting his focus return to hockey. He doesn’t need to be thinking of it as his last professional game; that kind of taunting the hockey gods will surely push them to game seven, and he does not want to finish his career in fucking Seattle.

All he can do is take it shift by shift, one period at a time.

.-.

Shift by shift leads him to being on the ice as the final buzzer goes, to having Kent crash into him as the euphoria sets in and the roar of the crowd deafens his senses. “We won!” Kent screams in his ear, beaming. “We fucking won!”

Back to back cup wins. What a hell of a way to end a hockey career.

There’s that jolt, the one Jack expected, the one that tells him he can’t give this up, that he’ll regret it, that he’ll disappoint so many people.

But then Bitty is running across the ice towards them both, and it’s so very easy to push that jolt away. It doesn’t resurface, not even once, not through the entire afterparty or Kent’s cathartic eight-hour crying session the day after, or even through the victory parade a couple of days later. 

The only time it rears its head again is when Jack’s staring down at a text from George, simply asking if he’s ready. His stomach churns with a thousand anxieties, but Jack takes a deep breath, and replies in the affirmative. Kent and Bitty sit either side of him, practically on top of him, and they kiss his cheeks, their touch a welcome comfort.

This is harder for Jack than it is for Kent. It was always going to be. Kent has played twenty full seasons, won an extraordinary amount of accolades, and he’s never felt the same kind of obligations to hockey that Jack has. 

Kent’s always down for a new adventure. Jack usually takes a little more persuasion. But this is an adventure he’s finally ready to undertake. 

Within minutes, all their phones are buzzing with Twitter alerts; the full statement has been released by the Falconers.

“There we go,” Kent murmurs, chin on Jack’s shoulder, looking down at his own Twitter feed. “We are officially unemployed.”

A slightly hysterical snort escapes Jack — he’s never thought about it like that. 

Bitty reaches over, gently easing both of their phones out of their grasp, switching them onto Do Not Disturb and then tossing them onto the armchair beside a snoozing Kit. “Let’s go to bed,” he says, despite the fact that it’s barely one in the afternoon. From the heat in his eyes, he’s not talking about sleeping. 

And that— that sounds like exactly what Jack needs. He lets Bitty take him by the hand, pull him to his feet and lead him to the bedroom, the heat of Kent’s body pressed right up against his back. Familiar hands strip him of his clothes, make his body sing, and Jack loses himself in the pair of them and their combined pleasure and doesn’t think once about hockey.

“Shit,” Kent breathes, when the three of them lie in a sticky, sated heap in the middle of the bed. “If this is what retirement is like, sign me the fuck up.”

Jack hums an emphatic agreement, sucking a deep purple bruise onto the side of Bitty’s neck. There’s a pleasant ache in his ass, and his stomach tingles happily as he muses that he can have that whenever he wants, now. He doesn’t have to think about what kind of sex will leave him and Kent fit and ready for hockey, whether going too hard in the bedroom will make it difficult to play the next day. 

There’s all sorts of perks to retirement he hadn’t considered before. He can’t wait to discover more of them. 

.-.-.-.

It takes a while to really sink in, for Kent. Even after the announcement goes out, after he and Jack do what feels like a million interviews talking about their decision to retire. Even after he finally has his long-awaited shoulder surgery, and Jack goes under the knife for his knee replacement at roughly the same time. Bitty fusses and huffs about having both of them to look after, but they all know it’s just a front; he’s been getting at them to have these procedures for years, and he has no trouble whatsoever with keeping them occupied through their recoveries. Suddenly they find themselves with even more visitors than usual; Swoops uses them for babysitting while he and Gina go out for their anniversary; Shitty brings over the toddler that they’re fostering while his law firm searches for an appropriate guardian in an apparently contentious custody case that he can’t say much about; Dex and Nursey show up out of nowhere, just to catch up, the weekend Bitty has to go out of town for a book signing, and their innocent faces aren’t fooling anyone. 

It’s sweet, but Kent is kinda relieved that they head home in the morning and give him and Jack a few hours to themselves. 

There’s still a huge part of him that still sees this as just another offseason, that they’ll get this time to rest and get right back to it in a couple of weeks.

Then training camp starts without them. Then they start getting CC’ed into emails about their testimonial and the jersey retirement ceremony.

That makes it feel real. That claws at his throat and makes him sweat, makes him lock himself in the bathroom for ten minutes to freak the fuck out. He can’t let Jack see — he’s got enough anxiety without Kent’s on top of it. 

What the hell even is Kent Parson without hockey?

It’s a dumb question. He knows it even as he thinks it. Kent’s life is so, so rich and full without ever stepping foot in an ice rink ever again. He’s plenty of things without hockey, and even if he doesn’t want to let go all at once, he could easily find some sponsorship deals or commentary work or whatever, ride the wave of his fame until he gets bored. 

That’s not what he wants, though.

So sure, the transition isn’t easy. He and Jack and Bitty attend the Falcs’ home opener as spectators — it feels weird to sit in the team box, all things considered, so George hooks them up with some good tickets in the VIP section. At first intermission, Kent rubs at his aching shoulder, and Jack shoots him a knowing look. “Just feels like we’re on IR, doesn’t it?” he says under his breath. Kent chokes out a strained laugh.

“God, yeah.” Watching their team play without them, sitting on the sidelines like this. It makes his shoulder throb, like it’s reminding him that he’s not going to be in playing shape for another couple of months.

Reminding him that it doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s not a Falconer anymore. He’s not an NHL player. He’s just… Kent.

All three of them cry when they get back from that game. Bob calls, and he cries with them, promising them that it gets easier. Telling them to lean on each other, on their friends, and they’ll get through it. That it’s okay to take some time to mourn before they move on.

None of them have talked about after. Whenever Kent tries it’s like the words get stolen before they can escape his mouth, his own fear whisking them away. 

He’s been holding his breath all summer. And then their testimonial game arrives. 

It’s a sold out game, naturally. There’s merch specifically for it; hoodies and shirts and banners with their names and numbers on, posters of some of their crowning moments. Kent wonders who he needs to ask to get hooked up with it all — he wants to see Bitty in an oversized Parson-Zimmermann hoodie more than he wants to breathe right now.

They’re playing against the Aces, which Kent appreciates more than George or anyone else could ever know. Before the game, Whiskey seeks him out in the players’ lounge, and the confidence in his embrace soothes Kent’s rattled nerves. “You good?” the ex-Wellie asks. Kent gives a jerky nod. Whiskey cracks a smile — he does that so much easier nowadays, and every time he sees it Kent feels a little wave of satisfaction. “I’m gonna miss playing against you, man.”

“Yeah, me too.” There aren’t as many players still in the league that Kent is close to these days, but Whiskey is one of those faces he always looks forward to seeing on the ice. “But we’ll still hang out when you’re in town. Bitty wouldn’t have it any other way,” he adds, just to watch Whiskey grin sheepishly. He and Bitty are better than they were when they were in college. Whiskey has learned to accept the fussing and the pie with grace. Bitty has learned when to leave things be. 

“I guess,” Whiskey sighs, though he doesn’t sound mad about it. Abruptly, he bites his lip, glancing aside. “Hey. On the subject, uh— next time you’re in Vegas, I’ve, uh, got someone I want you to meet. I know you might not be for a while, now you’re not playing — I’ll be honest, I was kinda counting on you coming over for a game but like, if you happen to wanna come to Vegas sometime anyway? I— I almost brought him with this time but I figured everyone’s gonna be really emotional and also I don’t think I’m ready to inflict the entire extended family on him just yet.” His words come out in one big rush, while Kent stands there wide-eyed. “But— I want him to meet you. And Jack and Bitty. I think— I think I’m ready for that.”

“…Shit, man,” Kent breathes. “Yeah, absolutely, I— fuck, how long has this been a thing, and why didn’t you tell me sooner?” It’s got to have been at least six months, if he was planning on an introduction before Kent and Jack voiced their plans to retire; Whiskey’s known for longer than the world at large. “Wait, you do mean like, a special someone, right?” He keeps his voice low, even though there’s no one around. Whiskey isn’t out, not to the public and barely to his family. Kent is pretty sure there’s only a handful of Aces who know. 

He’s not afraid, he’s just a private kinda guy, and Kent can respect that. But while Kent knows he’s dated here and there, he’s never had someone he’s wanted to introduce to him before. It must be serious.

A reluctant smile tugs at Whiskey’s lips. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s— I really like him, Parse,” he confesses, awestruck in a way that’s all too familiar. Whiskey has always reminded Kent of himself and this is no exception — the look on his face is something Kent used to call his ‘Zimms smile’, back in the day.

Oh, this poor kid, he is done for.

“Then fuck yeah we’re coming to Vegas. I’ll talk to Bits and Zimms, we’ll figure something out.” He smirks. “Not like we’ve got much else to do after today.” The words hurt just a little bit, but Kent’s excitement is greater.

“S’wawesome,” Whiskey breathes, grinning. “That’s— great. Yeah. Let me know. I’ll get you all Aces jerseys, you can come to a game.” His honey-brown eyes twinkle playfully, and Kent laughs. 

“Think we’re covered on that front.” They all still have Parson Aces jerseys, retro as they are now. “Buy hey, maybe I’ll wear a Whisk jersey, just for you.” He can’t imagine putting Aces colours back on after all these years, but it’ll probably feel easier if it’s not his own name and number. “You’re doing great things with that team, y’know, man? I’m fuckin’ proud of you.” He still has a lot of love and loyalty for the Las Vegas Aces, and he can’t think of anyone better suited to lead them in their current incarnation. 

Whiskey blushes, ducking his head, as uncomfortable as ever with earnest displays of emotion. Bless his heart, Kent thinks, in a voice that sounds like Bitty’s. “Thanks, Parse.” He clears his throat. “I— I gotta go, but… good luck tonight.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

Whiskey’s grin turns sly. “I’ll try not to kick the Falcs’ asses too hard.”

They part laughing, Whiskey to return to his teammates and Kent to find his boys, to wrap himself around Jack’s back for a while as he tries to get a hold of himself. Jack doesn’t say anything, just covers Kent’s hands with his own. 

Kent feels like one big exposed nerve, like the wrong move will set him off — and all of a sudden he’s stood at the bench he’s spent the last few years practically living on, Jack by his side and Bitty the other side of Jack, looking at where the ice is laid out with carpets and a podium, and two jersey banners wait to be raised to the rafters. The carpeted walkway is lined with trophies on both sides, marking every accolade the two of them have ever won. Kent knows they have a pretty impressive trophy case between the pair of them, but seeing them all set out like that… fuck. They did pretty good, huh?

The stands are full to bursting with flags and banners with their numbers and names, pride flags in all shapes and sizes. Directly across from them is an enormous banner with ‘We love you Jack & Kent’ painted across it, a stylised falcon swooping across the bottom, and Kent can just tell that it’s Lardo’s. 

There was no question about retiring Jack’s number, not after everything he’s done for the Falconers. The only other Falcs to get their jersey raised are Tater and Snowy, so they’re in excellent company.

The thing that surprised Kent was the insistence on retiring his own number, league-wide. His jersey goes up to the Falcs rafters but no one in the NHL will ever wear the number ninety again. That’s just… mindblowing.

He’d tried to say that he didn’t deserve that — the only other players who had afforded that honour were Gretzky and Crosby — but no one is willing to hear it. They just tell Kent to quit being ridiculous, that he is up with Gretzky and Crosby. 

The thing that gets him to accept is Holster’s spreadsheet, comparing his entire career’s stats with both Wayne and Sid, and several of ‘the greats’, showing Kent in clear numbers that he has earned this.

(Also, the phone call from Sid, telling him to stop being such a fucking moron and accept what the league is trying to give him.)

So here they are. About to say goodbye to the last twenty years of his life. 

Jack’s hand worms its way into his, squeezing tight. When Kent looks up at him, his jaw is set; he looks so handsome in his suit, blue tie making his eyes even more striking, but Kent can tell he is barely hanging on. 

Fuck, Kent is so glad they’re doing this together. 

He tries not to cry as the owner of the Falconers steps up to the podium. On either side, sat on rows of chairs, are the staff of the organisation; the coaches and the GMs, a bunch of representatives from the NHL, even their old coach from Rimouski, and both their agents. Bob and Alicia, Mom and Graham and Olivia, Swoops and Marty and Thirdy and Guy and Tater and Snowy, all of them beaming proudly. 

All the people who have made it possible for Jack and Kent to do what they love for this long.

There are more people in the stands, in the VIP boxes, he knows - their contemporaries in the sport, wanting to pay their respects to a couple of incredible careers. Friends and family, people they’ve met through the Foundation and Outsports and the Olympics and even some from Bitty’s TV career. The hockey uncles, guys who have known Jack since the first time he ever put on skates. Kent’s a little glad that the lights of the arena make it hard to spot specific faces in the crowd, because if he could see how many people are here who have had a hand in shaping his life and his career in some way, it might just break him.

Kent will be honest, he blanks out most of the speech that’s made, lost in his own thoughts. He feels fuzzy around the edges, his emotions slipping into the same kind of void that exists within him during playoffs. He’s not going to miss that void. He’s better at processing his emotions than he used to be, but he’s never quite gotten rid of it. 

He manages to stay present enough to cheer along with the crowd for every person that’s introduced, hoping they can see how genuinely honoured he is to have them there. 

And then George is taking over the microphone, clearing her throat with a smile. “You don’t need me to tell you what incredible hockey players these two men are,” she says, and a rumble of laughter echoes around them. “From the first time I saw Jack Zimmermann playing for Samwell Men’s Hockey team—“ there’s a loud whoop that’s definitely from the Wellie contingency, “— I knew he was something special,” George continues, her smile stretching wider. “Anyone who’s ever seen Jack play, who’s ever played with him, will know that he has this… presence, on the ice. Hockey is a team sport, and I have never met a player who embodies that more than Jack; whatever team he’s on, he will make sure that every single member feels like they are contributing, like they are playing their best, like they are valued. He digs deep into others and finds things that even they didn’t know they had in them. He’s an incredible player in his own right, but he’s a star because of how he gets others to be their best. And I knew right away that I wanted him on my team.” Then she grins. “I guess I got lucky, that he didn’t want to move too far from his college boyfriend.” 

More chuckles. On Jack’s other side, Bitty giggles quietly. Really, he should be up there on the stage with all the others, but Jack and Kent had both agreed they wanted him with them for as long as possible.

“Now we all remember what kind of impact Kent Parson was having on the NHL at this point,” George continues, and Kent jolts as the crowd whoops. “I knew he and Jack were friends. I knew he and Eric were close. It wasn’t until Kent was at the Rangers that I learned the truth of the relationship between them, but it made sense. The three of them always have. And I told Jack, there and then, that I refused to lose him to New York, so he’d better tell me when the pair of them were ready to play together, and I would move whatever mountains I had to to make that happen right here in Providence. We got him eventually, folks!” she exclaims, to more cheers and laughter. “From the first time I saw them play together, I thought, this is it. This is magic. Now, far be it from me to tell you what that magic was like. Why don’t I let the tape do the talking.”

Up on the jumbotron, the screen changes, introducing a video of their combined highlight reels. It starts right in Rimouski, with their Memorial Cup win, splicing in Kent’s first few years at the Aces with Jack’s Samwell years. As the music swells, it shows Jack’s first year with the Falcs, his incredible cup run, leading into Kent’s Rangers highlights, interspersing clips of the two of them interacting with fans at events, the two of them with Bitty and their family. Then, finally, the video shows their first game as Falcs together, that incredible 7-0 shutout. The video keeps going, their best moments running one after another; moments Kent had forgotten about, some of them, and the happiness on his own face in every shot makes his chest go tight. He grips Jack’s hand even harder. 

Bitty lets out a tearful, surprised laugh when the highlight reel pops up a clip from his NHL debut, that Pride Night game that’s still easily one of Kent’s most favourite games of hockey he’s ever played, making sure to include several seconds of the three of them kissing together at centre ice. 

Every time their Olympic runs show up, there’s a loud chorus of cheers from one of the upper boxes, and he thinks he can hear Ovie jokingly booing whenever there’s footage of a medal ceremony that doesn’t include Team Russia. They splice in some clips from behind the scenes, too — the 2026 Olympics in Milan were probably some of the best weeks of Kent’s entire life; a bunch of the Samwell crew came out with them, along with Swoops and family, and Olivia, all eager to enjoy a vacation in Italy as well as some great winter sports, and cheer them on the way they hadn’t been able to in Beijing. It was amazing.

It ends with video of their most recent cup win; the last game they ever played, not that the fans knew it at the time. Kent watches the way the pair of them waved to the stands, tears on their faces, and he thinks maybe, people might have figured it out back then.

“The contribution that these two men have made to the National Hockey League, to their national teams, and to the Providence Falconers is something that cannot be measured,” George says into the microphone as the video fades out. “But tonight, we honour that contribution, and thank them both for all they’ve accomplished. To say a few words, please welcome to the ice, Wayne Gretzky.”

Kent gapes — he had no idea Uncle Wayne would be in attendance tonight, let alone this. From the astonishment on Jack’s face, he didn’t know either.

Wayne smirks as he walks past them, taking George’s place at the podium. That sneaky little fucker.

At first, Kent is glad — he’d worried for a while that Bob would be the one to do a testimonial speech, and he was not ready for the way that would absolutely destroy him.

Then Uncle Wayne starts talking about watching a couple of kids play shinny on the backyard pond at the Zimmermann house, and it turns out, it doesn’t matter. Kent is fucking gone. 

At least Jack is crying too. They can be public emotional messes together. 

Wayne looks entirely too pleased with himself when he finishes his speech and takes a seat. All Kent can do is sniffle and wipe at his face.

Then George is back on the podium, and she’s looking straight at them. It’s time. “Everybody, I would like you to make some noise to welcome two of the greatest players in the history of the NHL — Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson, along with their husband Eric Bittle.”

Kent’s legs move without his conscious thought; as soon as the lights land on him, he’s raising a hand to smile and wave, an instinct by now. His other hand is still gripping Jack’s like a lifeline. The crowd’s roar becomes white noise, vibrating all the way through his chest, the strongest outpouring of love and support he’s ever felt in his life.

Almost all of the people in this building are strangers to him, and yet he and Jack mean so much to them without even realising. And they mean a lot to the two of them, too — these are the people who lifted them up, who screamed their names in support when they most needed it, who show up over and over to watch them play the game they love.

George hugs all three of them, and while Bitty goes to take the seat waiting for him, Kent and Jack stay at the podium.

“Uh,” Jack says awkwardly into the microphone. “George promised us we wouldn’t have to make a speech. I’m bad at those.”

Everyone laughs, but the loudest one Kent hears is Bob, cracking up at his son’s discomfort with public speaking even after fifteen years of frequent public speaking.

“I guess, what we both want to say is… thank you. From the bottom of our hearts. This— this career, this life, has been a dream come true. A dream I never thought I’d be able to make reality. And it wouldn’t be possible without all of you.” Jack turns, facing the crowd of people on the ice with them. “Without all of you.”

“We have a whole lot to be grateful for,” Kent takes over, voice surprisingly steady even as the rest of him shakes down to his bones. “We haven’t exactly made things easy on ourselves, over the years,” he admits wryly. “We’ve dropped a few bombs that maybe the league wasn’t completely ready for at the time. But there’s been a whole lot of people by our sides, making sure we have the support we needed to excel in the sport we love. You all know who you are, and you know how much we love and appreciate you. We’re not going to embarrass ourselves by getting weepy over you in front of all these people.” More chuckles, covering the sound of Kent’s heart hammering in his ears. “But, as Zimms said… thank you. All of you. This— this means so much to us, and I know I speak for both of us when I say that all we wanted was to play hockey, and to make this league a better, safer and more welcoming place for all people who love hockey to come together and share in the greatest sport in the world. And I hope that we’ve done that.”

He steps back from the microphone, the lump in his throat making it too hard to find any further words. George beams, nudging them both aside, leaning up to kiss both their cheeks. “You have definitely done that,” she says into the microphone, and the crowd whoops. “And on the subject of the things you boys have done, why don’t you two take your seats while I talk about some of these shiny trophies we brought out tonight.”

Kent’s endlessly relieved to be able to sit down. Behind him, Swoops reaches forward, squeezing his shoulder silently. Kent is so fucking glad to have him there. 

George’s voice listing off their trophies and awards echoes weirdly in Kent’s head — he has a star tattooed on his body for every single one of them, knows exactly what Jack’s won down to the year, and yet hearing them all at once doesn’t seem real. The Art Rosses, the Calders, the King Clancy, the Conn Smythes and Presidents’ cups and Conference cups on both sides of the league, the Lady Byng — always Jack’s, never Kent’s, Kent never quite shed his rat-like qualities even as he got older. Jack’s Ted Lindsay and Kent’s Rocket Richard and both their Hart awards. She recounts Jack’s Mark Messier award, their combined Olympic medals, and then finally draws attention to the Stanley Cup sat in pride of place right in front of them. 

“Between them, these two players have a total of thirteen Stanley Cup championship rings; nine of those were won with the Providence Falconers. Every championship this franchise has ever won has Jack Zimmermann’s name on it, and four out of five have Kent Parson’s, too,” George says, waiting several moments for the hype to die down. “And,” she continues, “Kent Parson has the honour of being the second ever player in the history of the league to participate in two back-to-back cup wins on two different teams — first for the 10-11 and 11-12 seasons as captain of the Las Vegas Aces, and then again very recently with the 27-28 and 28-29 seasons with the Falconers.”

Kent knew that, of course he did, but it sounds so much more impressive when George says it like that, when the applause drums loud all around him. Jack flashes him a quick grin, squeezing his hand, his pride evident.

He expects that to be it — half fears that they’ll get another surprise in the form of one of their teammates, past or present, giving a speech. Kent does not want to deal with the public roasting that would entail, regardless of whoever’s speaking. They made it clear that big speeches were not really what they wanted out of tonight, other than the obligatory ones that have already been given. The surprise of Uncle Wayne is enough, surely. 

A speech opportunity had been offered to Bitty, but he’d turned it down, insisting he’d only end up crying through the whole thing.

The things they need to say to each other — the things all their loved ones need to say to them — don’t need to be said in front of a stadium full of people. They’ve been said, and if they haven’t they will be soon; tonight, at the afterparty, when they’re drunk and weepy and don’t have an audience.

“The impact these men have had on this team, on the world of hockey, will be felt for decades to come,” George says, sounding a little emotional herself. “Both of them, on and off the ice, are spectacular human beings, with enough compassion and generosity and love to fill this entire arena a dozen times over. Now, Jack hasn’t always been the best at interacting with others,” she teases, and Kent laughs as Jack reddens, “but anyone who’s ever met either of them — at a fan event, or after a game, or in line at the grocery store at three AM when they’re getting ingredients for another Eric Bittle all-night baking binge,” now it’s Bitty’s turn to blush, “will know that these two have so much time for their fans, and so much love and respect for everybody they encounter. Jack is the first captain this franchise has ever had, and his values and work ethic have been passed down to this current roster, and I know they will continue within the members of this team, to spread to those they skate with, and to influence the NHL for the better. Kent, too, has been a role model for so many young hockey players, here and with the Aces and all across the league. The pair of them will be leaving one heck of a legacy within this sport. And maybe a few couches in the players’ lounge that no one else dares sit on.”

Jack’s groaned ‘George’ is loud enough to get picked up by the microphones, even as everyone laughs. 

“But I’m pretty sure we covered all the best stories of this team’s antics when we sent Tater’s jersey up,” George says, and Tater whoops, “and Bitty might never make me pie again if I embarrass his boys too much tonight. So we’ll save those stories for the internet, where they’re all very well documented on Bitty’s Youtube channel.”

Bitty’s laugh sends sparks across Kent’s skin; he reaches behind Jack’s chair with his free hand, brushing his fingers across the back of Bitty’s neck, and Bitty leans into the touch with a smile.

“Now, there’s one thing left to do,” George declares, “but first, we’ve got a couple more folks who want to say their goodbyes.” Suddenly, a spotlight shines on the tunnel opposite.“The current roster of the Providence Falconers would like to thank Kent and Jack for their commitment to the team.” 

One by one, the Falcs skate out, dressed and ready for their game. Ringo wears the C proudly, and it looks so weird to see a Falcs C on someone who isn’t Jack, but Kent is just so happy for the kid. He’s gonna do great. 

Kent and Jack are on their feet immediately, moving over to the edge of the carpeted area to greet their team — not their team anymore, not really, but they always will be.

The line of hugs and handshakes seems never-ending. They’ve already said everything they need to say to each of their teammates, so this is mostly ceremonial, but— it still feels good.

He’s not shocked when they get ‘surprised’ with a promise of an all-expenses paid trip to wherever they want, courtesy of the Falcs franchise — Melissa was not subtle in her drunken questioning of what they might theoretically want as a parting gift several months ago. Kent’s just glad they didn’t go with the cruise. He’s not sure he could handle being cooped up on a ship for more than a couple days, even a very fancy ship.

“And,” George continues, startling him, once the Falcs have skated off to the side with the oversized fake giftcard. “The current roster of the Las Vegas Aces would like to thank Kent Parson for his contribution to their franchise.”

Shock fills Kent as a stream of white and red and black jerseys skates towards him, led by Connor Whisk. He reaches for his friend, hugging him, gripping his shoulder tight. “You didn’t have to do this.” He said his goodbyes to the Aces long ago.

“We wanted to,” Whiskey replies simply. “I don’t know if you know this, but you were kind of a big deal back in Vegas.”

Kent laughs, shoving him playfully — screaming from the crowd catches his attention, and he realises just how many Aces fans made the trek for this game. He knows that back in Vegas, they’re having their own little ceremony to retire his jersey there too; he thought that would be it for them. Didn’t realise they’d have so much of a presence here.

That’s… yeah, that feels good. To know he made that much of an impact. 

He’s already crying, has been for a while, but when he sees Scraps at the end of the line a whole new wave of tears rises in him, and he clings to his rookie, Scraps clinging back just as hard. “You gotta come visit, man,” Scraps tells him, his lips screwing up like he’s trying not to cry himself. “At least once a year, just like always.”

“I will, I promise.”

Kent has to slot himself between Jack and Bitty to compose himself for a couple of minutes. George waits patiently, smiling with tears in her eyes, and then she holds out her hand to beckon them closer. “Let’s do this, boys.”

All of them gather together to face the two jerseys, George stood between them while their families huddle close. There isn’t a dry eye between them — even fucking Graham is crying, which is weird, but Kent doesn’t have it in him to care right now. The Falcs’ owner is back at the microphone, thanking them one more time, promising that their names will always be remembered and celebrated amongst the Falconers, promising that Providence will always be home for them, and then the music starts and George holds his hand, and everyone in the arena who can physically stand is on their feet. “Honoured guests, we present to you; Jack Zimmermann’s number one, and Kent Parson’s number ninety!”

Watching their jerseys rise to the rafters lifts a weight off of his chest, a rush of emotions so tangled together he can’t begin to identify them individually. They lift higher and higher to a compilation of commentary from their best moments, sending Kent right back to those incredible days, the days where he had the whole world at his feet and Jack and Bitty’s love in his heart and he felt like he could do anything. 

When they’re settled up there, he takes a deep breath, then exhales. 

There is his name, emblazoned proudly above the ice, right next to Jack’s, forever. 

Just as it should be.

He looks to Jack, leans in, kisses him for what feels like an eternity while the crowd cheer and whistle for them. They both turn towards Bitty, who stood with Bob and Alicia to give them their space in this moment, and as soon as their eyes meet Bitty’s throwing himself forward to hug them both. 

“We’re done,” Jack whispers in the space between them.

They’re done.

“Guess there’s only one thing left to do,” he remarks, cracking the best smile he can. “Let’s watch some fucking hockey.”

With both teams as emotional as they are, it’s going to be a hell of a game.

.-.-.

Bob and Alicia, ever the organisational wizards, have rented out a bar for the celebration party after the game. Someone — Bitty’s guess is Bob — has hung a ‘congratulations on your retirement’ banner above the buffet table in the corner, which is occupied mostly by pie. 

“Wait,” Ringo says abruptly in a quiet moment, when everyone’s composing themselves after Bob gave an incredibly touching speech, “does this mean there won’t be pie in the nook anymore?”

He sounds so sad, Bitty practically doubles over with laughter. “I’m sure I can swing by every now and then. And you do know where we live.”

“But you gotta text before you come over. And actually wait for the response,” Kent warns, staring down Slider pointedly.

“That was one time!” the winger exclaims, flushing red as everyone laughs. 

It’s one hell of a party. Bitty would probably enjoy it more if he weren’t crying through most of it. Everyone they love has made it into town for the occasion, coming from all over North America — even Beth and Poots came up with the kids, though Poots has to head up to Buffalo first thing in the morning. It’s such a wonderful thing, having them all there to celebrate, but Bitty is too busy keeping an eye on his boys to properly enjoy it all.

They’re doing okay, he thinks. He hasn’t caught them sneaking off to have a breakdown in the bathroom at any rate. He did see Jack stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sid at one point, their heads bent together and serious expressions on their faces as they talked. The ex-Penguin has been so great with helping Jack through his fears about retirement, the ones he doesn’t want to voice to Kent in case he makes Kent feel like he’s dragging Jack out of the game. Bitty left them to it, and before long both of them were smiling again, laughing as Sid got kidnapped by the swarm of kids who have long since escaped from their parents.

Right now his husbands are stood talking to Olivia, who has a slide of pie in her hand that she’s defending from her brother’s clutches. She’s cut her hair short to her jawline since the last time they saw her, and it makes her look so much more mature. Sometimes Bitty finds it hard to believe that she’s not the same fifteen year-old he first met. She’s a sports analyst now, something that gives Kent no end of amusement, covering basketball across multiple leagues and levels. 

Bitty could go over there, but they seem to be doing just fine. Instead, he makes his way towards Alicia, who’s sat down with a glass of wine, watching the antics of some of the kids on the makeshift dance floor. She smiles as Bitty approaches. “Hi, sweetie. How you holding up?”

He chuckles. “Ain’t that the question.” How the heck is he supposed to feel right now?

Her smile turns sympathetic, and when he sits down she pats his arm. She’s still as beautiful as she was when he first met her, even though her hair is more silver than blonde these days. “It’s a tough transition,” she tells him, “but you boys will make it through. And if you need a listening ear, you know where to find me. Or any of us, really.” Her gaze scans the crowd, landing on Gabby and Carrie and Ash and Gina, on a number of players’ spouses who have all gone through the same. It settles Bitty, a little, to know he’s not alone. 

“Thank you.” He takes a deep breath. “I think we’re gonna be okay.”

He’s faced so many things with his boys, the rest of their lives is nothing to balk at. 

“Eric, sweetheart,” Alicia says, “I think you’re going to be wonderful.”

Her words echo in his head for the rest of the night, through the hugs and the smiles and the tears, through the ride home and the familiar routine of getting ready for bed. They have nothing to get up for in the morning — except Kit’s insistent demands for food. Bitty’s cleared the next month off his schedule so he can help his boys settle into retired life. 

They sit cross-legged facing each other in the centre of the mattress, and Bitty counts the breaths in the silence. All three of them have red-rimmed eyes, but they’re all cried out by now. “Okay, then,” Kent says eventually. “So… what the hell do we do now?”

Words lurch to the tip of Bitty’s tongue with such ferocity it takes him by surprise. But he’s not the only one.

“I want a baby.”

“I want to teach.”

“I want to go to college.”

Their confessions linger as the three of them stare at each other, surprised — by themselves or the others, Bitty’s not sure. He can’t say he’s entirely shocked by their requests; Jack’s made for teaching and his PhD has been gathering dust these last few years, while Kent has never been able to hide how fascinated he is by the concept of college life, not from Bitty. 

Bubbles of trepidation fizz and burst in his stomach as he waits for their reactions; his own statement is perhaps the most contentious of the three.

But they don’t look… upset. A slow, tentative smile stretches across Jack’s face, while wonder fills Kent’s eyes. “Yeah,” the taller blond breathes. “Yes.”

“We can do that,” Jack agrees. “I— I don’t know how, but we’ll figure it out, I— yes. Definitely.”

Bitty doesn’t know it, but he’s voiced the earliest after hockey promise his boys ever made to each other. The first one that gave them hope that there truly would be an after hockey.

What he does remember, however, is a conversation with Jack, years and years ago now, sat on a bench in the empty locker room at Faber. A prediction of their future together, spoken to an anxious boy facing so many big expectations.

“Many years from now when you’ll hopefully still have all your original teeth and joints, you’ll retire and put that history degree to use and become a sexy college professor that all the students are in love with, and Kenny will be a student at whatever college you teach at.”

Jack does still have all his teeth, and the knee replacement is negligible; other than that, they’re well on their way.

He laughs, bright and breathless, leaning in to gather his husbands close, giddy with all the possibilities of the future. “We can do all of those things,” he tells them, clutching their hands as they grin back at him with the same sort of excitement. “Oh, boys, we can do anything.”

Their hockey careers might be over. But the rest of their lives are just beginning.