A/N: So I've been working on this fic for quite a while…and before you say that this is super short how have you been working on this for a long time, I'm doing this as a multichapter fic simply because the format fits that better. I have the next couple chapters already written, I just have to revise them (while I simultaneous work on the last couple chapters). This fic is eventually going to cover a lot —the endgame ship is Patater, but there will be references to past Jack/Kent, and heavy involvement from Zimbits in the events of the fic. It will be ten chapters, and I hope to post them all in fairly quick succession. I hope y'all will come along for the ride :)

Kent Parson is the number one overall pick of the NHL Entry Draft. The Aces spend less than a minute on the clock before their pick comes in. Gary Bettman walks out on the stage and says: "With the first pick in the 2009 NHL Entry Draft, the Las Vegas Aces select—Kent Parson."

Kent is ushered on from backstage by the stage manager, and meets the Aces upper management in the center of the stage. They drape a jersey over his shoulders and shake his hand before directing him to look out into the auditorium. "Smile," the Aces GM whispers in his ear. Kent tries—he doesn't know whether he hits the mark, but whatever face he pulled, it's immortalized forever.

This is supposed to be the happiest moment in his life.

The second Kent is out of the public eye, out of view of the television cameras, out of view of the other players anxiously waiting to see if they'll be picked, out of view of the NHL staff manning the event, the smile fades from his face.

He runs. He tears off his jersey. He sheds his jacket. He loosens his tie. He can't breathe. His clothes are too tight, his body is too warm. He claws at the buttons on the sleeves of his shirt, undoing them and sloppily rolling his sleeves up.

Kent bursts into a bathroom somewhere deep in the First Niagara Center. He immediately heads to the sink, twisting the knob to cold water. He cups his hands under the flow, splashing the water onto his face until he doesn't feel like he's dying. He flattens his palms on the cheap, imitation-marble countertop, using his arms to support his weight, since his knees feel far too weak to hold himself up. He breathes shakily, futilely attempting to suck in air and calm down.

The bathroom is deathly quiet. Kent's head is not. His ears are filled with a dull roar, the constant bleating of his mind:

This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong. It's not supposed to be you! You shouldn't have gone first! Jack should've gone first! But Jack is…

Kent digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Fuck. He can't go there right now. He's supposed to be getting a grip so he can rejoin the other players for the rest of the draft, instead of causing himself to break down again.

The door to the bathroom swings open and heavy footsteps of a large man pound against the white and black floor tile. Kent inhales weakly, lifting his head to glance at himself in the mirror.

He looks like shit, and that might be putting it mildly. He hasn't slept more than two or three hours in the last four days, his attempts always interrupted by ghastly images of Jack, deathly pale, chest barely moving as he lays on cold tile. As such, there are deep, dark purple circles under his eyes. His cheeks are also splotched with bright red spots. He hasn't cried yet today, which is about the longest he's gone since Jack…but anyway, given the number of times he's cried since it happened, he's not surprised the evidence is still there.

"Kent! Is great day, no?" the new occupant of the bathroom says loudly, in a thick Russian accent.

Kent flinches at the overt cheeriness of the man's tone. He takes one more deep breath, praying that he doesn't see through Kent's unstable façade.

When he turns, he meets the eye of the man. It's the burly, towering Russian, Alexei, who Kent knows only because he was often mentioned in the conversation for top 5 in the draft, along with Kent, Jack, and a couple of guys from Canada and Sweden.

Kent nods slowly in response to his question. "It's—y-yeah, it's uh—it's great," he says, stumbling over the simple words. He's trying to convince himself it's great as much as he's trying to convince Alexei, but he knows he's not buying it, and Alexei doesn't seem to either.

Alexei is still smiling as he says, "Is very impressive to get pick first! Must be very happy!" but Kent can see that it's faded a little.

"I'm—"

Kent falters as he looks into Alexei's light rust-colored eyes again, warm, inviting and pleasant. As the smile completely fades from Alexei's face, Kent sees the concern in his eyes and he feels his illusion start to crumble.

"Do not look very happy," Alexei says, placing his large, warm hand on Kent's shoulder. "Something wrong?"

So much has happened the last four days, but never once has someone asked Kent if he was okay. It was a fruitless question anyway, because Kent had to be okay, or at least act like he was. Confronted with the question now, Kent tries to give the answer that everyone expects him to give—no, nothing's wrong—by shaking his head, but he shudders as he exhales, betraying the true answer.

"I—" Alexei stops, glancing down at the floor for a long second in hesitation. "Is not my place but—is about Jack?"

Jack has been the lead story in sports news ever since it broke that he was in the hospital. Their careers in the Juniors were inextricable from each other. It makes sense that people would connect Kent to Jack's situation, since so many people are aware of how close they are (were? Kent doesn't even know right now). But no one—besides Jack's parents—are aware of how close they truly are/were.

Kent inhales sharply, his vision blurring at the edges. He can't think of Jack without seeing him on the floor of that bathroom. It brings with it panic and a weight on his chest, heavy and painful, forcing the air out of his lungs like the one time he was seven and got a knee to his gut colliding with a defensemen on the ice. It hurts worse than that, worse than anything Kent's every felt before, because he wants Jack to be here with him now, celebrating going 1-2 in the draft.

Instead he's here with Alexei, a Russian that he's never met before, and has only a shaky grasp on the English language. And Jack is in a hospital somewhere. All Kent knows is that he isn't dead. There's no information on how badly he's hurt, if he's even awake and not in coma, if there was any brain damage, or if he's ever going to play hockey again. No one is answering his calls or texts. Kent is in the dark.

Even worse, he's been alone since spending that first night with Jack in the hospital. Bad Bob had told him to head to New York.

"You can't miss your chance because of Jack. He wouldn't want you to do that."

Kent had tried to protest, but Bob had pushed him out of the hospital. By the time he was forced into a waiting car, Kent was pretty sure that Bob was seconds away from picking him up and carrying him out. The car took him to the airport. Kent flew to Buffalo, got a taxi to his hotel, and secluded himself in there.

Kent really doesn't want to cry, not here. He's been holding it together so well today. But there's no denying that he's so fucking fragile. Even when he hasn't been a crying mess, he's been right on the edge, ready to fall apart at the drop of a hat.

Kent hunches in on himself as a sob is ripped from his throat. He tries to back away from Alexei, hopefully to make his way into a stall. This isn't Alexei's mess to deal with. But he has other intentions, reaching out and drawing Kent with his long, gangly arms.

"Shhh," Alexei whispers. "Is going to be okay."

Alexei, a stranger, envelopes him in a warm, tight embrace, somehow giving Kent the loving support he's needed for the last four days. Kent buries his face in Alexei's chest as his hand slowly runs up and down Kent's back, massaging it comfortingly. Kent cries harder because, for the first time since Jack overdosed, he doesn't feel like his whole world is crashing down around him.

Kent doesn't know how long he sobs into Alexei's shirt, but when he finally stops, even though he feels completely spent, he also feels more okay than he has since he found Jack sprawled out on that bathroom floor.

Kent pulls away and looks up sheepishly at Alexei, noticing for the first time that he has Kent's jersey and suit jacket draped over his shoulder. "I'm sorry to give you all this trouble," Kent mumbles, wiping the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand.

Alexei smiles softly, giving Kent a pat on the shoulder as the step apart. "Is not problem. You will be okay to go out again, yes?"

Kent breathes deeply, carefully considering the question. He feels like he's going to be okay, at least for a while. He let out a lot of what had been building up inside him, and even though the ache in his chest is still there, it isn't as prevalent as before.

Kent nods. "T-thank you," he says, his voice gravelly and raw from crying so hard.

Alexei pulls the suit jacket off his shoulder, offering it to Kent. "You are welcome."

"Oh, um, one sec," Kent mutters, awkwardly wrestling with his rolled-up sleeves.

"Here, I will help," Alexei says, draping Kent's jacket back over his shoulder for a brief moment. He reaches out and grabs Kent's unraveled sleeve, messing with the button on the cuff while Kent works on the other sleeve and his collar.

When they finish, Kent takes the jacket from Alexei and shoulders it on.

"Looking like new now," Alexei beams, winking slyly at Kent.

Kent blushes. "Thanks," he says, ducking his head as he shuffles to the door.

They both arrive backstage at the same time, and they head to their spots. Kent gets a few curious glances as he sits back down, but Kent ignores them, watching as Bettman walks out to the podium to announce the next pick.

A/N: And if you weren't already feeling severely emotionally compromised from reading that, bahoreal/tumblr/com drew this art (bahoreal/tumblr/com/post/148696769951/ive-been-thinking-abt-kent-parson-a-lot-and-its) of this scene and basically destroyed me so yeah, thanks Jay ;)