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“Lyosha, why are you looking at Parson like you want to burn a hole in his brains?”
Alexei barely spares a glance for Sasha. “He’s weird. And he makes Zimmboni weird and I don’t like it.”
Sasha honest-to-God chortles. “Well, we are all friends this weekend. Some of us have cars to win.”
“Greedy,” says Alexei, chidingly. He raises his glass to his lips and freezes when Parson looks over at him. Parson’s smile falters. Alexei doesn’t like it. Parson is weird.
“You’ve made Parson sad,” says Sasha. “In some parts of the NHL, that is a crime.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. Punishable by tequila shots.”
*
Alexei doesn’t actually fall for it but there is a lot of tequila; pitchers of Margarita give way to shots, and Russians mingle with Americans and Canadians, and conference rivals clap each other on the back like the old friends they are.
Parson squints at him. “You remind me of someone.” He honest-to-God clicks his fingers and Alexei is briefly distracted by how long Parson’s fingers are, though they must be callused. Parson is squinting at him. “Oh my god, it’s —”
Alexei stuffs a lime segment into Parson’s mouth. Parson’s eyes widen but he doesn’t spit it out. He just watches as Alexei takes his hand, and sprinkles salt on Parson’s wrist, already moist from previous shots.
“Easy as one-two-three,” says Alexei and he licks the salt from Parson’s wrist before knocking back the nearest shot of tequila. They’re hockey players; they can afford the good stuff and this is not the good stuff. Parson seems frozen still but unafraid and Alexei bends down to bite the lime segment out of his mouth before the cheap tequila deadens his tastebuds entirely.
“No,” says Parson, before he licks his lips distractedly and repeatedly. “Seriously, is there a factory in Magn— Magnit—”
“Magnitogorsk,” says Alexei. “Many factories. Lots of iron and steel.”
“Yes,” says Parson. “No.” He gestures. “A hockey player factory for six foot a million guys with legs that go on for fucking ever—”
By rights, Alexei should be irritated. He’s been dealing with comparisons to any number of Russian players since he entered the league but there’s something kind of endearing about Parson, who’s tiny and expansive and drunk and extremely earnest with his red, wet lips.
*
“Do my legs go on forever?” Alexei is drunk so he’s not sure if the question makes sense.
Sasha is drunk, too, so it doesn’t matter.
*
They’ve gone back to the draft system this year, though there are four captains who were voted in, one from each division; Zimmboni for Atlantic, Sasha for Metropolitan, Vovochka for Central and Ghost for Pacific.
Alexei is drafted in the first round by Vovochka and Zimmboni scowls, which is a little entertaining.
Parson is not drafted, for round after round. He doesn’t look too worried, sitting with his feet up on the seat in front of him, his cap on backwards and a bottle of Gatorade in his hand. It’s probably not Gatorade.
“Isn’t it strange?” Alexei asks Vovochka. “We are in Vegas and no one is drafting Parson?”
“I don’t think the Aces have snipers in case we hurt Parse’s feelings.”
Alexei considers it for a while longer; Parson is popular in the league but he doesn’t really have many close friends, Alexei thinks. He watches as Parson moves to sit next to Jyri Jokinen, who’s a shy rookie with a mean shot, and who genuinely looks surprised to be here. Parson offers him some Gatorade and says something to the kid that makes him crack a smile.
“Draft him,” says Alexei, after a moment. “Draft Parson.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” says Vovochka. “Anyway, Sasha says you are trying to keep Parson away from Zimmermann.”
“Sasha is full of shit,” says Alexei.
It’s the last round. Zimmboni drafts Jokinen and Parson claps him on the back, grinning broadly. Jokinen looks incredibly relieved.
Vovochka has the second-to-last pick. Alexei elbows him in the side. Vovochka elbows him back.
“Team Tarasenko drafts Matthias Yoder, of the Providence Falconers.”
Alexei’s gaze flickers towards Parse, who looks just as relaxed as always. Finally, Ghost clears his throat. “Team Dahlberg drafts Kent Parson, of the Las Vegas Aces.”
*
They’re in a different bar this evening, with most of the same company. Zimmboni is here tonight, which is good. He’s at a table with the All-Star Canadians and Alexei assumes they’re all being earnest about hockey together. Zimmboni looks relaxed, which is also good. The skills competition is tomorrow but no one seems worried about curfews or early nights.
“Was it hard? To go last?” he asks Parson, who gives him this heart-breaking look.
“Nah,” he says. “I never expected to go first.” He looks at his watch. “I’m gonna head home.”
“You — not staying here?” asks Alexei.
Kent shakes his head. “I always sleep better in my own bed,” he says. He glances towards the Table of Canadian Intensity and visibly wilts.
Alexei thinks he may be a little drunk. He feels bad for Parson. “Stay,” he says. “Have drink with me.”
Parse tilts his head to the side and his hair falls in his eyes. “You’re not gonna eat fruit out of my mouth again, are you?”
Alexei barks out a laugh as his cheeks heat up. “Maybe not here,” he says and Parse’s eyes widen and Alexei supposes that Parse doesn’t know if he’s flirting or just bad at English.
It’s only when they’ve had a few drinks together, and time has passed, and they’ve been huddled over the bar, exchanging photographs of their respective pets and stories about their families, that Alexei realises that no one has interrupted them for at least half an hour. In a room full of hockey players, that can only mean one thing. Alexei looks over his shoulder and a startling number of their friends, teammates and rivals are looking at them, though they all look away, subtle as a slapshot to the face, when they collectively realise that Alexei is onto them.
Alexei nudges Parson. “Being watched.”
Parson startles and looks around. “Fuckers,” he says, good-naturedly. “They probably think I’m seducing you.”
Alexei doesn’t know how to say that Parse’s seduction technique could use some work.
Parse leans against him companionably. “Don’t worry, Tater. You’ll know when I’m seducing you.”
Alexei snorts his beer out through his nose.
Parson laughs, before swings off his barstool and leans in close, patting Alexei on the shoulder. He plants a smacking kiss on Alexei’s cheek and Alexei watches, half-stunned, as Parson walks away.
*
“I didn’t know you knew Parse,” says Zimmboni, over breakfast the next morning.
Alexei could say that he doesn’t, really, but he’s heard all about Parse’s cat’s first furballs and how Parse thought she was dying and called the vet, even though it was two o’clock in the morning. That kind of shared confidence changes a relationship. “Yes,” he says. “Good guy. Strange.”
“He is a good guy,” says Zimmboni, the words rushing out on a quick exhalation. “Is he doing okay?”
It’s strange that Zimmboni is asking Alexei about Parson when Alexei has known him for less than two days, aside from a few seasons’ worth of on-ice chirping.
“Yes,” says Alexei. It is not his place to say that Parson seems lonely.
*
The skills competition is ridiculous and fun and Alexei thinks he’s enjoyed this All Star Game more than any other. Zimmboni does well on the breakaway challenge and it looks like he’s having fun, which makes Alexei happy. Zimmboni is so often serious or strange. Even though they’re on different teams today, Alexei skates over to jostle him while they’re waiting for Sasha to emerge for his breakaway.
“Having fun, Zimmboni?”
“Yeah,” Zimmboni says, flushed and happy. “I didn’t think I would but — it’s easy, you know?”
“Are your family here?”
“Yes. Eric too.”
“Good!” says Alexei. It really does make weekends like this so much better, having family close at hand.
“What about you?”
Alexei shakes his head. “No, no. Not this time. My sister has big ballet recital in Moscow this weekend.” In any case, usually his mother comes to these things and rhapsodises about how nicely Zhenya has filled out and it’s embarrassing for all concerned.
“Lyosha!” Little Zhenya comes over, smiling brightly. “Sasha wants you to help him.”
“We’re not even on the same team,” says Alexei.
That, of course, seldom stops Sasha and what ensues is, probably, the most convoluted breakaway challenge yet. Unsurprisingly, he wins.
Parse takes part in the accuracy challenge and pretty much nails it.
“He plays good hockey,” says Ghost. “It’s why I drafted him.”
Alexei blinks at him. “But he was only guy left.”
“Best player in the league, though.” Ghost looks more smug than Alexei has ever seen a Swedish player look before. “We’ll kill in three on three tomorrow.”
Vovochka skates over to Alexei after accuracy and reaches up to sling an arm around Alexei’s neck. “Okay, Lyosha. However drunk you got Parson last night, make sure it’s twice that tonight.”
They sit down to watch the hardest shot competition and it’s really no surprise that Shea unleashes a shot that could disable a tank.
*
When Alexei gets to the bar that night, after a long video call with his family, to hear all about Anya’s performance, it takes a moment before he spots Parson. He’s sitting with Zimmboni in a booth at the back of the bar and it looks like the most awkward first date in history, or maybe it just looks like a last date.
Alexei throws himself into a seat next to Ghost.
“Lots of cross-border negotiations tonight,” says Ghost, cheerfully, raising his pint glass to Alexei. “Here we are, doing the NHL proud.”
Alexei just grunts. “Maybe I go back to room, Casper. Get sleep.”
Sasha sits down, with a tray of shots. “Cock-sucking cowboys,” he says, gleefully. “Make you smile again, Taterrrr.”
“I smile,” says Alexei. He glances towards Parson’s booth in time to see them both stand up. They hug, which should look awkward, except Zimmboni’s body kind of curves down as Parson reaches up and they fit together well. When they part, Parson lightly punches Zimmboni’s upper arm and Zimmboni clutches it, clearly overplaying some injury, but it makes Parson smile. They are so strange.
*
It’s the third night in a row that they’ve ended up together by the end of the night. Alexei wonders if Parson has noticed it, too.
“You go home now?” asks Alexei. They’re the only two at the table. Almost everyone else has moved to the dance floor, which is not a pretty sight, or they’re propping up the bar or they’ve ventured onto a casino floor. “Save cat from hairballs?”
Parson smiles at him, slow and a little sleepy. “I probably should go home,” he says.
“Tarasenko told me should get you drunk,” says Alexei. He doesn’t want Parson to go home.
Parson’s smile grows sweet. “To sabotage me or —?”
“Yes,” says Alexei. He leans in close to Parse. “You know when I seduce you.”
“Oh,” says Parson. “Oh, good.” He leans close, too, and it’s not the odd-easy way he has with Zimmboni but Alexei thinks they could fit together. Their lips are very close. Alexei can feel Parse’s breath. “So, tonight, if anyone asks, we’re just sabotaging each other.”
Alexei smiles, slowly, and Parson’s pupils dilate. “My English not always so good. You mean wreck each other, yes?”
“Jesus fuck,” whispers Parson.
“Just Alexei is okay. Not Jesus. Room is eight four five.”
*
Parse is strong. He’s a lot shorter than Alexei but he’s powerful and he knows what he wants.
“I don’t usually do this before a game,” says Parson, nipping lightly at Alexei’s jaw. “But I really want you to fuck me.” Alexei’s hands clench on Parson’s thighs.
“Okay,” he manages. “Yes.”
*
When Alexei wakes up, Parson is still passed out, half on top of him. Alexei needs to pee but if he turns his head, he can hide his face against the crook of Parson’s neck.
*
They jerk each other off in the shower and then Alexei orders them breakfast.
“You need to feed cat?” asks Alexei. Kent is sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing a fluffy white hotel robe. He shakes his head.
“No, I left her with her nemesis, the timed cat feeder.”
“Oh, good,” says Alexei. He sets his coffee cup to the side and crawls up the bed. He tugs at the belt of Kent’s bath robe.
“Mmm, going for the hat-trick?” asks Kent. He parts his legs and Alexei lets out a pleased moan as his cock brushes against Kent’s.
“Why stop with three?” asks Alexei. “Five point game. Maybe six.”
Kent wraps his arms around Alexei’s neck. “I like the way your mind works.”
*
“Why did you come talk to me, night before the draft?” asks Alexei. He’s trembling a little and he doesn’t think he can come again, maybe this year, even with Kent’s hand resting high on his thigh.
“I thought you looked lonely,” says Kent.
Alexei turns his head to kiss Kent, softly. “Hmph,” he says.
“What?”
“How are you big spoon again?”
*
Team Dahlberg wins, but Alexei genuinely enjoys the games, even if he thinks he’s a little slower to push off than usual. He tries, subtly, to watch Kent’s gait to see if there’s any lingering effects of their night and morning together but Kent is too busy being transcendent.
“He can’t stop scoring,” says Alexei.
“You’d know,” says Vovochka. “What did you do to him? Did you fuck him into excellence?”
Alexei harrumphs. “Kent Parson needs no help from me to be good on the ice.”
*
Alexei takes his phone out of his pocket to turn it off before his flight and he sees a text message from an unknown number.
hope to see you before the next asg. aces @ falcs in march??
Alexei thinks for a moment before he texts back. ok but not b4 game. not fucking another hattie out of u b4 u play my team ((((((
Almost instantly, Parson sends back a picture message of him pouting.
Alexei sends back a selfie, smiling widely and giving a thumbs-up.
On impulse, he updates his instagram with a photo of the ice in Vegas, pristine at the start of the weekend, and adds a comment.
Good wkend 4 old n new friends. ))))
Parson is so strange and Alexei is no closer to figuring out what’s going on between him and Zimmboni, or what has gone on, but that suddenly seems a lot less important. He puts his phone away and closes his eyes and rests his hand on his thigh, thumb pressing into a bite mark. Parson is strange but Alexei could stand to be around him more. In fact, he finds he's looking forward to it.