A/N: I finished revising this chapter this morning, so I have an update two days in a row (what? omg it's been so long since I've managed to do that) :) So, I have no idea how the hockey schedule works out exactly, where February puts teams in their schedule, so I just guessed...I hope it's close enough, or if it's not, just ignore it I guess lol. Hope y'all are ready for more feels!

Kent pauses outside the locker room and leans up against the wall, heaving a long sigh. It was a hard fought game they just played against the Falconers. The four expansion teams—the Aces, Aeros, Falconers, and Schooners—all have nasty rivalries with each other. And with a rivalry game comes all the vicious (and questionably legal) hits traded by both sides. Kent is already feeling the effects—most of his body feels sore and tender. They lost, 4-1, so it's not like he got any payoff from the multitude of bruises he's going to end up with.

Kent is exhausted and there's still two months of the season left.

The Aces record is 17-31-6—in other words, they really suck, and Kent hates it. He's in contention to win the Calder, but the last thing he cares about is personal accolades. He's here to win, not to be the only decent player on a terrible team.

Being on a losing team is bad enough, but Kent also despises Las Vegas—or at least the Las Vegas strip, by which the Aces arena was built. The whole place is too bright, too busy, filled with loud and obnoxious tourists and flashing lights and—it gives Kent a headache when he has to drive by or through.

And it's too fucking hot. Kent grew up in northern New York, where temperatures rarely break 90°F and there's a noticeable difference between fall, winter, spring and summer. Not so in Vegas. Kent is lucky if he sees a day under 90°F, and it's hot and dry all year round, the sun perpetually beating down and scorching Kent's skin when he steps outside.

Finally there's Jack. Jack hasn't talked to him since he overdosed. Kent calls every day—no response. Kent sends at least 10 texts a day—not a single one of them are read. He can't visit the hospital where Jack is staying—he's too busy, and he doesn't even know where it is. Bad Bob talks to him, but only about hockey because apparently Jack wants him to be all alone and in the dark in this god-forsaken desert.

Kent wants to be there for Jack as much as he can be, but Jack apparently wants nothing to do with him. Kent misses Jack like hell, but some days, Kent doesn't know whether to cry because he misses Jack or throw things because he's so angry at Jack. He just wants to hear from Jack—it doesn't matter what he says, if he spends the whole time screaming at Kent, if he breaks up with him and then hangs up—he just needs something from Jack.

Kent rubs at his eyes. He's 18. He's not really an adult yet. He wasn't prepared to be thrust into this situation all alone—in the spotlight, dealing with his best friend/boyfriend nearly dying from an overdose. Some days it feels like too much, and all he wants to do is get on a plane and fly to New York and crawl into his childhood bed and sleep for a month.

"Kent!"

Kent startles, his head snapping up at the booming voice. He wasn't expecting anyone else to be here. Usually, the facility has mostly cleared out by now. Kent is almost always the last player—even sometimes person—out of the locker room. He routinely spends thirty minutes being interviewed by reporters because, you know, everyone has to get their own unique soundbite from the Aces' star first round pick.

Kent glances down the hallway, and he can just make out a lanky silhouette (why are all the hallways so dimly lit?). It's a familiar enough figure to make Kent's pulse quicken because if he's right, then the events of the last time they met is going to make this so awkward.

"Kent!" he says, sweeping Kent into his arms, hugging him so tightly that he lifts Kent's feet off the floor. "Is so good to see you!"

He was right; it's Alexei. Kent would recognize that loud, thickly-accented voice anywhere. But instead of feeling awkward like he expects to, Kent simply feels—calm. He exhales softly, feeling less tense as Alexei holds him. No one's hugged him off the ice since—well, since Alexei did on draft day. It's nice to be held.

"Yeah, it's—it's good to see you too Alexei," Kent says quietly into Alexei's shoulder.

Alexei gives him a tight squeeze before he sets him back down on the ground.

"Call me Tater," he replies. "Is what all my teammates be calling me."

Kent's brow furrows in confusion. "Oh. Okay—Tater. Um…how'd you get that one? It's not—I don't really get the connection."

Tater grins. "Last name is Mashkov. So mash—like potato. See?" Tater explains, chuckling. "Is funny, right?"

Kent shakes his head and rolls his eyes, even as he smiles—hockey players are a very bizarre breed. "Yeah it's definitely amusing," he says. "I guess if we're trading nicknames, you can call me Parse."

Tater frowns, scrutinizing Kent for a moment. "No. I am liking Kent much better than Parse," he answers, slinging one of his incredibly long arms around Kent's shoulder.

"Call me whatever you want I guess," Kent says. "Except—please don't call me Kenny. It just—" Kent stops. He can't exactly explain to Tater why. "Yeah, just please don't."

"I am liking Kent best," Tater responds.

"Thanks," Kent mumbles, willing himself not to get emotional just because of the name Jack always used to use.

"So," Tater says, lowering his voice, which up to this point had been an exuberant almost-shout. "How you be doing?"

Kent jolts, looking up at Tater, eyes wide. Given that Tater hadn't said anything yet, Kent had assumed that he'd either forgotten about the draft, or wanted to pretend it never happened. But from the gentle tone of his voice, Kent has no doubt that he's bringing it up now.

He's shocked. No one he's talked to since coming to Vegas has given two shits about how he's feeling. It's always been How's your training going? Have you been strictly following your plan like you're supposed to? or Parse, get your head in this game! Stop fucking around, we need your best effort! Kent's chest feels warm and tingly that this man—someone who is still a complete stranger that he's met once—cares about him enough to ask how he's doing.

"Oh," Tater says, and Kent belatedly realizes he's been silent for a long time. "I do not mean to pry. Not need to answer if you not want to."

"No it's—you're not prying," Kent says, cheeks flushing. "I mean, you saw—it's okay to ask. I was just—uh, surprised that you remembered—and cared."

"I find Kent crying mess alone in bathroom? And he think I do not remember or care," Tater scoffs, spinning Kent so that they're face to face. Tater looks him dead in the eye, at once both soft and intense, and Kent feels a little overwhelmed. "I care about everyone Kent. People I find crying in bathroom most."

"Thanks for—yeah," Kent mumbles, and Tater pulls him into his chest again. "It's um—it's still rough but—I'm doing better than I was—you know—that night."

"Good to hear," Tater says. "Know that I am always here for you if needed."

"Thanks—I might—maybe I'll take you up on that," Kent says, stepping away when Tater releases him to fish his phone out of his pocket.

"I be looking forward to it," Tater says, frowning down at the screen. "But is team. Bus be leaving soon. I must go."

"I understand," Kent says, feeling extremely disappointed, even though he knows there's no way Tater could stick around to talk more. "Find me the next time we play, okay?"

"I will do," Tater says, smile returning to his face. "Oh, before I go—trainer is doing good work. He is doing you much good," he adds with a wink.

"Oh!" Kent says, inhaling quickly, his face turning scarlet. "Uh you—I mean—um—thanks? And you—yeah, you too."

"You are welcome," he says smirking. "And thanks. I try hard, but I not look as good as you. Is okay. We cannot all look like Greek god."

With that, Tater turns and walks away.

Kent needs some fresh air, or maybe some cold water.