Work Text:
I'm the trust in the mistrust.
At the end of one midwinter roadie, a storm comes in so hard it forces their bus driver to pull off the road. The team ends up staying overnight at a motel instead of sleeping on the bus like usual; the coaches scramble to alert everyone's billet families and to figure out the paperwork to get reimbursed for renting the rooms.
They end up cramming as many guys as they can into each room. They get lucky: the woman on night duty in the motel office is a big Major Juniors hockey fan, and even though the Rimouski Océanic are technically a rival team, she takes pity and lets them borrow several cots and take extra towels, despite how it's blatantly helping them exceed the official room occupancies.
Jack agrees to stay in the one room with six guys instead of five--two in each bed, one in a cot, and whoever's unlucky enough to get stuck with a heap of blankets on the floor between the beds when they draw straws--because he's the captain and that's what a captain is supposed to do. Both his alternates agree to do the same, although Kenny grumbles about skipping out to Stevey's room instead if he gets the short straw.
When Jack pulls his backpack out of the pile of luggage and starts clearing space on the desk, everyone else groans and chirps him for never having fun and then leaves for other rooms.
Jack hesitates as the rest of the guys are pulling their wet boots back on, his fingers slid inside the textbook without opening it yet. Maybe he should join them--he is being boring, and there's still time before curfew. Maybe he's undercutting the team's chemistry by not joining in, or acting like he thinks he's better than the other guys or too good to hang out with them--but then Kenny asks: "You got the algebra test Monday, yeah?"
Jack nods. "Yeah."
Kenny makes a face. "I got another French quiz comin' up, too.... Alright Zimms, I'll come back and do the nerd thing with you after a couple rounds."
Jonah headlocks Kenny with a grin. "You mean when we kick you out for cheating?"
"Not my fault you go in expectin' to lose, man," Kenny drawls.
Jonah snorts and shoves him out the door after Michel opens it. Kenny just laughs as he yanks his hood up against the snow, a brief flash of a grin over his shoulder before he disappears to the left.
Jack's halfway through the assigned problem set when Kenny comes back to the room later, alone. He flips the lock and then hooks the chain on the door too after he shuts it, with a "Serves you guys right."
Jack looks over as Kenny toes out of his boots, holding down an amused smile. "Already tossed out for cheating?"
"It's not 'cheating' to be better than the competition," Kenny tells him, with that little confident half-grin that shows the edges of his teeth in the back.
It's the one that Jack usually wants to see last longer than it normally does. That almost always makes Jack want more of a lot of things.
He looks back down at his textbook, shaking his head.
Kenny chuckles to himself as he comes over and starts to rummage though Jack's backpack. He stands right next to him to do it; his sweatpants and hoodie are still chilled from the walk between the rooms, radiating cold against Jack's forearm.
Jack thinks about wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling Kenny closer to warm him up. He keeps staring at his notebook instead, scratching a doodle in the margin because he forgot where he was with the equation. "I thought you had French?"
"Nah, not 'til next week," Kenny answers, meaning he lied for Jack. Again.
Kenny pulls the European history textbook out of Jack's bag and carries it over to the nearest bed. Jack pokes him in the side as he turns away, but he's not surprised; Kenny's been taking the book all semester, whenever Jack's not using it.
Kenny spent most of last year copying Jack's history homework in exchange for letting Jack use the English homework Kenny was borrowing from Stevey. Jack knew it wasn't that either subject were too hard for him--Kenny had tested into AP physics, and consistently did extra credit in sociology--he just didn't see any value in those classes, so he refused to spend more time on them than he had to. He put in just enough effort to skate through on minimally-passing grades.
So Jack pointed out that most guys on an NHL team were going to be Canadian or from Europe. It was in Kenny's best long-term interest to try and learn some of their history.
And Kenny did after that. But his grades were still pretty low, and he didn't manage to test into AP history like Jack did. So instead Kenny just takes his textbook and reads it whenever the other guys aren't around to make fun of him.
He still complains about how it's boring--though Jack's pretty sure that half that's just Kenny giving him the gears for how Jack himself likes the subject--and he also gripes that the textbook's way too heavily focused on Western Europe when most guys in the league are gonna come from the East or Russia, "So that argument's actually kinda bullshit, Zimms." Jack couldn't disagree; that annoyed him about the class, too.
Kenny flops down on the bed and flips through the textbook until he stops at a page somewhere in the second half. Jack stares at his notepaper, and actively pulls his pencil away from the margin and puts it back on the equation.
He manages to finish it. He stares at the next equation and tells himself to do the rest--he needs the practice, they're gonna be on the road a lot longer than expected tomorrow, he's being weird again, they could get caught. They would get caught. The other guys would come back and find them and then--
Jack exhales hard and squeezes his eyes shut.
They could...put something in front of the door. Claim it was for the same reason Kenny locked it in the first place--getting back at one or more of the guys for whatever'd gone on in the other room. He was worrying too much again. It'd be okay. It's stupid to waste an opportunity like this, they never get them.
Kenny's never said no before. It'd be okay. He should just ask.
Jack sets the pencil down, and then rubs his hands for a second before looking over his shoulder. "...You wanna de-stress?"
Kenny keeps staring down at the textbook with that frown he gets when he's focused. He doesn't answer.
Of course not. It was a stupid question. They'd get caught. They both know better than to run a risk like this. Jack shouldn't have asked, this isn't the place, he's being weird and too-horny again--
Kenny pokes his finger at one of the sentences, and then he shuts the textbook and swings his legs off the bed. "Yeah, okay."
Jack drops his shoulders with an exhale and pushes the chair away from the desk, turning toward him. Kenny comes over and slings a leg across Jack's own, settling heavily on his thighs and making the chair creak slightly as it tries to sink lower under their combined weight.
Jack rests his hands on Kenny's hips, sliding his thumbs under his sweats' waistband as Kenny shrugs awkwardly out of his hoodie. When Kenny tilts to the side enough to lob the hoodie at his bag, Jack lets himself rest his forehead on Kenny's shoulder.
Kenny slings an arm around his shoulders, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself. Jack plants his feet more solidly to stop the rolling chair from sliding backward; Kenny chuckles, and shifts his weight to brace a foot on the floor too.
"Test's gonna be fine, man," Kenny tells him, slap-patting his shoulder a few times. "Your grades're fine, you could bomb it and still be alright. Relax."
...It's not that. Not really.
He and Kenny've been rooming together this year whenever a roadie puts them in a motel instead of sleeping on the bus, and Kenny's noticed the pills.
Jack knew he would--Kenny notices much more than he ever lets on. It's what makes him such a good playmaker, and dangerous roommate. Jack tore the label on the bottle where the dosage was listed and pretended it was just normal travel-related wear-and-tear; but that's only going to work until the next refill. Unless he just transfers the pills back into this bottle, but then maybe Kenny'll think that's weird too, sooner or later?
And his next refill isn't for twelve more days, even though he's down to seven pills left. He can stretch it with over-the-counter stuff if he has to, but that never works as well--and if he does that again he'll have to go to the grocery store on the other side of the town, just in case. He can't risk the employees at the store where he normally gets his prescription filled noticing that he's buying more anti-anxiety medication than he's supposed to take.
He used to be able to really stretch it out if he bought some liquor from one of the guys on the team who's old enough to be legal, but now that he's captain that's not--people would notice. They would've noticed before, but now especially. And the small amount of beers he can get away with buying under the pretense of sharing isn't really enough. Unless Jack forces himself to go out to a party with Kenny or other people, where there's more available to drink, it just doesn't work anymore.
And he knows he shouldn't really be drinking too, anyway. It messes with his ability to sleep, and the last time he was weighed the trainer said he was a half-kilo overweight, which--he's gotta get that under control now, before the coaches tell him--
Kenny tugs hard on his hair. Jack hisses.
"Relax," Kent repeats, like it's just that fucking easy. "It's gonna be fine, Zimms."
Kent keeps pulling on his hair until Jack lifts his head back up to reduce the pressure. He doesn't like it when Kent does that--it stings, it doesn't feel good--but it's something to focus on.
And then Kent leans forward and kisses him.
That's something else to focus on. Jack reaches up and tugs on Kenny's wrist; Kenny lets go of his hair and grips the back of the chair instead, tilting into the kisses.
Jack wraps his arms around Kenny's waist, shifting their weight as he tries to draw him closer and making the chair creak again. Kenny laughs a little against Jack's mouth, and scoots further into his lap before pulling up the bottom of Jack's hoodie.
They finally break off kissing so Jack can drag it over his head. Kenny stands back up as he does, leaving Jack's thighs colder and his chubbed-up dick embarrassingly obvious. It was just some kissing, why's his body always have to overreact like this?
Kenny readjusts his own dick through his sweats, eying the door with a considering expression. He smacks the back of the desk chair. "Here, gimme this."
Jack pushes out of it, dropping his hoodie on top of his homework as he does, and Kenny drags the chair over to the door and wedges it under the handle. It doesn't work very well; Kenny has to redo it a few times, because the wheels keep sliding on the laminated floor.
"That's not gonna work," Jack says, looking over the other stuff in the room. Maybe if they piled up the bags in front of it? If the desk weren't bolted to the wall--but that would look too weird, too much for a small-scale prank, the other guys would catch on that something's up.
Kenny just shrugs. "Nah, but it'll slow 'em down." He flips off the light.
The curtains were already pulled shut; the room goes really dark. For a few seconds, he can't see Kenny anymore.
And then Kenny bumps into his side, before shifting to face him. He fumbles at Jack's stomach for a moment before finding the band of Jack's exercise shorts and curling his fingers into it; Jack wraps an arm back around his waist.
They stumble around the backpacks and equipment bags littering the floor as they make their way to the bed. It doesn't help that they've got the far one, closer to the bathroom, because Jonah raced to be first to open the door and then threw himself across the nearest bed to claim it, and then Jack had to duck so Kenny could throw his bag across the room onto the far bed to claim that one. Jonah and Kenny both booed him when Jack pointed out that they had to draw straws first to see who was getting the floor, in order to be fair.
Jack's calves hit the corner of the bed. He steers Kenny to the left as Kenny's shoving off his sweats; Kenny kicks them away and then pulls down the blanket and sheets. Jack pushes his own shorts off and tosses them into the gap between the bed and the wall, as Kenny sits down on the mattress. He catches the hem of Jack's boxers to drag him onto it, too; Jack goes, grabbing the blanket and pulling it back up over them as Kenny scoots further over on the mattress.
It feels rushed, like usual. Jack wishes it didn't, wishes this didn't normally feel so ironically stressful, but they don't know when the guys'll be back. It's like there's always something.
After he settles down on his side to face Kenny, Kenny pulls his boxers halfway down his thighs. Jack tries to figure out what to do with his arm, the one pinned underneath himself, and finally just jams it under the pillows as Kenny asks, "Who was last time?"
"Uh..." Jack says, even though he knows it was Kenny who got them both off last time. Their unspoken deal is to trade; but Jack likes the way Kenny's hand feels on his dick. Even if it's selfish to cheat and make Kenny do it more often, sometimes if he pretends he just doesn't remember either, then Kenny will--
"I got it," Kenny says, shrugging as he pushes down his own briefs and kicks them toward the end of the bed. He flops back onto his side and squirms closer, and Jack cups a hand around his hip to help pull him forward. It's a good excuse to touch him.
Kenny licks his palm and wraps a hand around both their dicks, exhaling quietly once he does. Jack shifts closer, closes his eyes and tries to just--relax. To enjoy this while they've got it.
He wants to. They've done this enough times that they both know how to make it feel good: the pace that's a little bit of a compromise but still works for both of them, the grip that does the same, the way that Jack doesn't mind pressure on the head of his dick but Kenny doesn't like it. It's easy to get harder as Kenny strokes them together; it's nice to feel Kenny's dick getting hard against his own. It should be easy to focus on that.
But it's not. Jack's never really sure what to do with his hands like this--Kenny's pushed his other arm under the pillows as well, grabbing a fistful of pillow next to Jack's knuckles. He's still got his free hand splayed over Kenny's hip--but he doesn't know if it's okay to move it, to touch more of Kenny like he wants to, or if that's too much, if it'll turn this weird.
He doesn't know if Kenny even considers when they jerk off together like this to be sex. They both just call it "de-stressing." Jack's not sure if that's all it really is to Kenny, if he's the one putting too much weight on it because he's always weird about being horny.
The way a lot of guys on the team talk about girls and sex--the amount of time they spend doing it--usually makes Jack feel like he doesn't think about sex enough. Sometimes he sees people who are attractive, but he usually doesn't feel like doing anything about it. He doesn't seem to fantasize or even jerk off as much as most of the guys say they do.
But Kenny almost never seems to think about sex. At least, not more than he thinks about anything else: hockey, school, having fun. A couple guys've chirped him for never dating, but Kenny always just shrugs and says none of the girls here are worth the distraction.
Around Kenny, Jack feels like he's always thinking about sex, or at least about sex with him. Definitely more than Kenny does. He doesn't know who's normal--Kenny or the other guys--and why he can't just be like one of them.
Kenny rubs his thumb heavily over the head of Jack's dick, making him jerk into the touch with a shudder and a muffled curse. "C'mon, Zimms."
Kenny's breathing harder now; Jack can feel it against the fabric of his t-shirt.
It feels good. A lot does right now, or at least it feels good enough. If he could just quit thinking about what if the guys come back now, if he'd just taken another pill earlier like he wanted to so all these endless thoughts would shut up and he could just focus on what he wants to--
"Okay," Jack says, swallowing hard and trying to shove out everything else in his head. Kenny drops his forehead to Jack's shoulder with a muffled encouraging noise, and keeps stroking their dicks.
It does feel good. If they can just have a few more minutes....
Jack slides his hand up Kenny's waist, under his shirt, and rubs his thumb slowly along Kenny's abs and ribs, feeling the way Kenny's body shifts under his palm as he breathes. Maybe this isn't sex; or maybe it would be, with somebody else. It doesn't matter right this second--it feels good either way. Kenny's hand is getting slicker as he smears their precome along their dicks: it was a little too dry before, but now it feels nice.
Kenny's breath hitches as he starts panting a little harder. He does it again a few strokes later; Jack feels him tremble faintly under his palm as Kenny clenches the pillow tighter.
He knows that sound, that shiver. Jack slides his arm up Kenny's back, pulling him closer. "C'mon."
Kenny exhales sharply through his teeth. "You close?"
There's no point in lying--even if he's the one who's always thinking about sex, he's also the one that takes forever to actually get off. They both know it. "Not yet."
"Fuck," Kenny hisses, and then he lets go of their dicks and shoves himself up on an elbow. He starts tugging up his own shirt; Jack helps him pull it off, and then throws it at the wall as Kenny drops back down onto the mattress. Kenny squirms his hand back in-between them, but this time he only wraps it around Jack's dick.
"It's okay," Jack tells him, but Kenny just shakes his head once and keeps jerking him off, now with the pace and grip that Jack likes the best.
It's selfish to make Kenny wait just because he takes so long, but Jack knows he's selfish about this. He slides his hand up Kenny's spine, wiping away the prickle of sweat along there. Kenny presses his forehead into the crook of Jack's neck, breathing hard through his teeth.
Jack curls his arm against Kenny's back, shuts his eyes, ignores the way Kenny's hair is tickling his jaw and ear, and tries to get closer to coming.
They've only had maybe for-real sex a couple times. The first time went bad--Jack didn't do it right. He wanted to make it good for Kenny, and he really tried, and Kenny didn't admit out loud that he didn't like it--but the way he looked like it hurt, the way he tried to hide his face to cover that he was grimacing, and tightened his jaw to smother his uncomfortable noises, eventually freaked Jack out enough that they quit trying to have sex like that. He pulled out instead, and sucked Kenny off to make up for it even though Kenny claimed he was fine, it'd just felt weird.
The second time, he told Kenny to fuck him. Jack figured once he knew how it felt, he'd be able to figure out how to make it better for Kenny if they did it a third time. That one went....
...It went weird. It felt good. It felt really good, enough that Jack was pretty sure something was wrong, specifically something was wrong with him, because the first time had definitely hurt Kenny despite everything Jack tried to make it better--but then when Kenny fucked him, it felt good. It had ached a little, but not that much--just enough to make him really focus on his body and what was happening, instead of getting lost in overthinking for once.
It felt good enough it'd been embarrassing. Jack shouldn't have been that turned on by having a dick up his ass, right? That wasn't normal?
It would've been worse than embarrassing--it would have been humiliating--if Kenny hadn't looked so startled and happy for him. That was the only way Jack could stand it: by watching Kenny genuinely smile at how much he'd liked it.
He's getting closer now. He's almost too warm--it'd feel better to take his t-shirt off too, like Kenny did, but if he does that sometimes Kenny bites. Jack's told him not to, multiple times, but Kent always points out that Jack likes it so what's the problem?
And he does, at first. But then the bite mark's still there afterward, and then Jack has to strip down in the dressing room the next day, and his stomach's in knots wondering if anyone's going to notice it before he can get his pads strapped on and he spends so much time trying to figure out the right casual lie in case anybody asks and it's just--it feels good at the time, but not enough to make it worth the stress afterward.
But Kent just shook his head when Jack told him that, and said that nobody actually cares as much as Jack thinks they do. That if anyone tries to drag him, Jack should just deflect it and chirp back until the other guy's too focused on bragging about all the trim he supposedly gets to bother asking more questions.
Like it's that easy.
Jack huffs out a breath, and tells himself to get out of his damn head and just--enjoy this already. It was his idea.
He pushes his hand between their bodies until he can curl it around Kenny's dick. Kenny shivers hard.
"Don't," he says, "I'll--"
"Okay," Jack tells him, kissing Kenny's hair. "'M close enough. C'mon."
Kenny shivers again and swears under his breath, gripping the pillow tighter.
He's not close enough, not exactly, but as much as he likes the way Kenny's hands feel on his dick Jack also likes how it feels to get Kenny off himself. He'd rather do all their de-stressing this way--having Kenny jerk him off while Jack does the same for him--but maybe that's too much. Maybe it's only not weird if they share doing the majority of the work every other time. He's not sure. It's not like they talk about it.
"Fuck," Kenny rasps out with another shudder. "Zimms--"
"C'mon," Jack urges, sliding his hand underneath the pillows until he can cup it around Kenny's fist. Kenny makes another rough noise and presses his forehead heavier against his shoulder.
Jack concentrates on keeping his pace steady. Kenny doesn't like it if anything changes when he's close to coming--it throws him out of the feeling--so Jack wants to get this right. Kenny's struggling to keep the same pace that Jack likes despite everything; it's only fair to return the effort.
He can't move his legs a whole lot with his briefs pulled down his thighs--something he doesn't really mind, it means at least one less thing he has to think about, not having to try and figure out what to do with his legs--so he just hooks an ankle over Kenny's. "C'mon, Kenny."
Kenny shakes again, harder than before; and then it's not much longer before he's coming, swearing and panting harshly into Jack's shoulder, completely losing the rhythm he was jerking him off with. Jack chuckles and keeps working him through it, until Kenny squirms in an effort to pull back. He lets go after that, and wipes his hand on the sheet before resting it over Kenny's ribs.
Kenny lets go of the pillow and drags his hand down to brace the heel against Jack's shoulder, catching his breath. "Shit."
He thumps Jack's shoulder before squeezing his dick slightly, making Jack shiver. "Liar."
"Uh-huh," Jack says, because he doesn't have a better answer and he doesn't want to try thinking of one. "C'mon."
"Yeah," Kenny says, smearing some of the come that got on Jack's wrist onto his own hand before gripping Jack's dick a little tighter and starting to stroke him again. "I gotcha, Zimms."
"Yeah." He does. It's slicker now, the right tightness, the right speed, the right everything because they've done this enough times that Kenny knows what he likes. Jack exhales hard and drapes his arm over Kenny's side again, before rolling over onto his back. Kenny goes with him when Jack tugs.
Kenny shifts until he's kneeling over him. Cold air gets in as the blanket falls down his back, so Jack tugs it up once more and then slides his newly-freed hand into Kenny's hair. He hasn't cut it for a while; it's getting curly again. Stevey was chirping him about it on the bus.
Jack can't really see Kenny's face like this in the dark, but he can see enough. Kenny's always taking note of things around him, always reading the room and responding to it, always thinking in the same way that Jack feels like he's always thinking, just differently; but sometimes, if the sex is good enough, Kenny's just there with him, just focused on feeling good instead of putting up a façade. Jack always wants to see that.
It won't take him much longer to come at least. He was pretty close, and he's pleased about getting Kenny off good, and Kenny's working his dick in all the right ways. Kenny's knees are dipping the mattress in next to his thighs and Kenny's got a hand braced on his shoulder, a little like he's holding Jack to the bed instead of just propping himself up, and even though Jack knows it's probably weird and messed up for him to like that, he still kinda does.
Kenny shifts his weight and then presses a knee between Jack's thighs, making him jolt.
He tugs Jack's boxers down until he's shoved them off one of Jack's legs. Jack starts to kick them away completely, but then Kenny wedges his other leg between Jack's own. And then he pushes them apart, spreading Jack's thighs open wide around him.
Jack shudders hard as he abruptly, viscerally remembers the last time they were like this: Kenny kneeling between his legs, working hard, sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead and eyes dark as he told Jack how good it felt, half-begging Jack to come like this, with Kenny inside him. He swears roughly and flails a hand up to grab Kenny's arm. "I--!"
He shouldn't like this. For the first time, Jack's grateful it's dark--his face is too hot, and knowing that he's blushing makes his stomach twist with humiliation. He shouldn't like feeling Kenny's weight pinning him down, shouldn't be okay with the way it feels so vulnerable to be on his back with his legs forced open, shouldn't feel closer to coming remembering how good it felt to have Kenny's dick in him, it's not how he's supposed to--
He's supposed to be tough. Supposed to be a real hockey player, like his father, he shouldn't like--why is something always wrong with him? He's supposed to--
"I got you, Zimms," Kenny promises, soft and sincere. He tugs down the collar of Jack's shirt and kisses him below the throat, still stroking his dick.
Jack shivers and swallows hard. And then he wraps his arms around Kenny and drags him closer, pulling more of Kenny's weight down onto him.
It doesn't take him long to come. Jack presses his face to Kenny's shoulder to stifle the noises he can't stop making as Kenny talks him up to and through it, with his usual half-mumbled encouragement and praise: all those words Jack desperately wants to hear and live up to while Kenny's saying them, even though they leave him ashamed at how needy and weak he was once it's all over. "C'mon Zimms, you got this, there y' are."
Afterward, Kenny shrugs loose from his grip and drops onto his side next to him, rubbing his hand dry on the sheet. Jack rolls over to face him, but stops short of reaching out, hesitating. Sometimes they don't really touch after these things, and sometimes they do, but Jack still hasn't figured out the rule for when it's okay and when they're supposed to just get up and wash off. He usually ends up following Kenny's lead.
And he can't help remembering the pathetic, shaky noise he made when Kenny pushed open his legs, or the way Kenny's fingers curled against his shoulder at the sound. Jack rubs a hand over his face, telling himself to just--get it together already, why is everything always so--
Kenny reaches out and pushes his bangs back above Jack's hand. "You good?"
"...Yeah," Jack says quietly. He forces himself to drop his hand. Kenny heard worse embarrassing stuff from him the last time they had sex, and he's still here. It's okay. It's gonna be okay. It has to get okay eventually, it can't be like this forever.
Kenny brushes his bangs away from his face again; and Jack exhales slowly and leans into it.
After another long moment, Kenny says, "...'S not just the test."
It's partly the test.
But also, they won their game today, but they lost the last two. He's got another radio interview he has to do in seventeen days, and he hates those. At least with magazine interviews, he might feel awkward posing for the photos when those are included, but nobody sees it in the writing if he stumbles while responding. And there's finals, and the holidays and he promised to go down to New York and give Kenny a ride to Rimouski. He's the one who offered it, because Malone's less than two hours from Montreal, and even though Kenny gets super touchy when talking about money Jack knows if he just tells him to chip in twenty dollars for gas, that'll mean more money Kenny'll have for sticks and tape next semester than if he has to take a train or bus back. But that's going to mean meeting Kenny's parents--and Jack's never met the parents of somebody he's had sex with before. Even knowing he should just act normal around them like anyone else, he's still kind of afraid that when he gets there he's going to screw up and say or do something to embarrass himself and Kenny both.
During the holidays, Jack's going to be watching the World Juniors games, not participating in them.
He took an injury right when Canada was putting together its roster. It wasn't too bad--he'd worked hard on his recovery, he would've been back in time--but the competition was so tight that it knocked him out of consideration. His father and the coaches and everyone told him that it was just a fluke, that he'd be playing the 2009 game for sure, but still. It's not--he didn't want to go there and play poorly because he pushed too hard and went out while still injured, but then he got better and he was fine and he could've done it, but there's already so many good players on the roster of course none of them were going to be cut for him--
Kenny tugs on his hair again, but gentler than last time. Jack exhales through his teeth.
Kenny lets go. "C'mon, man," he tells him, cupping the back of Jack's neck. "It's gonna be okay, Zimms. You freak out about stuff too much, it's gonna be alright."
...Kenny's not going to the World Juniors, either. Jack doesn't know why; Kenny won't talk about it, and he got openly angry at Stevey when he kept pushing the topic. Jack doesn't know if it's money--the games are in the Czech Republic this year--but still, the U.S. should've found a way to get a skilled playmaker like Kent Parson over there.
Or if it was a bad scouting report, or the result of discussions between coaches and league staff and the other adults in their world. The coaches reprimanded them both for the last party they went to; somebody took pictures there. Or if it was something else--there's so many things in their world that can drop you lower in the draft, get you cut from tournament games, delay your arrival into the league, stall careers--
"Zimms," Kenny starts, pushing himself up on an elbow--and they hear a key in the lock.
Kenny throws himself out of the bed and dashes into the bathroom. Jack yanks the blankets up to his ears, and then wrenches his boxers back on under them as Kent smacks the bathroom light on and starts the shower.
The chair rolls away and hits the floor, and then the chain catches. "What the--dammit. Parse!"
"Yeah?" Kent says casually from the bathroom.
Jonah retorts, "Don't you fuckin'--come on. Jack!"
"Runnin' to the captain already?" Kent replies, heading for the door with an eyebrow raised. He's wrapped a towel around his waist. "Pussies."
"Kent," Jack says automatically, because they talked about this. You can't use certain words.
"Yeah yeah, cap," Kent drawls, before pushing on the door. "Back off, I gotta shut it to take it off."
Jonah tells him, "You're gonna lock it again and I'm gonna punch you."
"Well, if that's what you want," Kent replies, before shouldering the door shut and flipping the lock again. Outside, another one of the guys swears at him and Jonah both.
Kent takes off the chain, flips the lock again when someone tries to re-open it, and then darts back into the bathroom.
Jonah shoves the door open and stalks past the beds for the bathroom as the rest of the guys come in. Michel gives Jack an annoyed look as he shuts the door and turns on the lights. "Thanks, Jack."
Jack props himself up on his elbows, pulling up a leg as well even though his dick's soft again. Just in case. "He said it served you right."
Michel snorts. "You suck."
In the bathroom, there's a thump and then a louder crashing thud before Jonah goes, "Shit! Parse you dick!"
"Serves you right," Kent says cheerily. "Work on your footing."
"Son of a--"
"Knock it off, both of you," Jack orders. "Other people are staying here too."
Jonah stomps out of the bathroom, head wet and hoodie half-damp. He pulls it off and wipes his face with the dry part, muttering under his breath.
"Why's it stink in here?" he asks, throwing his hoodie over the hanging rack by the sink; and Jack freezes up.
He forgot--of course the rest of the guys would smell it if they had sex, how could he forget, what're they gonna say, how does he explain--
"You came back," Kenny replies dryly over the shower, and Jonah calls him an asswipe.
"Shut up already," Davy says wearily, shouldering Jonah away from the sink and starting to brush his teeth. Michel makes an agreeing noise as he sits down on the cot and pulls off his boots.
Later, after curfew, once the coaches have gone around checking that they're all in their own rooms, and they've all settled down and gone to sleep, Jack gets up and takes his bag into the bathroom.
The toilet and shower are in the enclosed part while the sink's outside and visible to the room, and he can't turn on the tub's faucet without seeming weird, so he'll just have to live with sleeping in a pair of slightly come-stained boxers. It could've gone worse.
Jack turns on the light and the vent and then unzips the bag and finds his pills.
He opens the bottle inside the bag, with his spare shirt over it to muffle the noise of the lid snapping off. Just in case.
He thought he could make it to Monday, could get through the trip home without taking any more--he needed to make it, because now he's going to have even less until he can refill the prescription--but he's tired. He just wants to sleep.
He wants to quit thinking about how shitty it feels to always be sneaking around like this, pretending that he and Kenny are just friends, unsure if maybe they are only friends, hiding, worrying about their careers first, lying. Lying about a lot of things, lately.
He makes himself only take one pill, dry-swallowing it before zipping his bag back up quietly, a finger pressed against the zipper to cut down on the noise.
It's not like he doesn't recognize this is a problem.
He didn't used to sneak around like this. The roommates he had last year didn't pay attention, didn't care if he took medication; Jonah takes his own pills everyday for allergies, and Davy has to carry an epi-pen because he's allergic to eggs. And anyway, Jack wasn't taking as many then.
But Kenny keeps asking. Keeps tracking how many pills he sees Jack take, or how many drinks he has.
But even doing that, Kenny keeps acting like it's fine. Like Jack mostly has it all together, like it's all going to be okay eventually, and Jack just--
. . . He just wants that to be true.
Wants that to be right. Wants to live up to that expectation, too, along with all the others. Somehow.
Jack flushes the toilet, shuts off the vent, goes out and washes his hands, turns off the light, gets his bag and sets it down about where it was before, and then climbs back into bed and waits for the pill to kick in.
Kenny shifts over to face him after Jack pulls the blankets up. He braces himself for another question--even though he knows Kenny isn't going to ask anything right now, isn't going to say anything in front of other guys. Kenny wouldn't do that to him.
Kenny reaches out and bops the side of his hand lightly under the blankets.
Jack swallows again, trying to get rid of the chalky aftertaste in the back of his throat. He presses his hand against Kenny's.
Kenny slips his hand around Jack's own and intertwines their fingers before squeezing once tightly.
Jack swallows again, and rubs his eyes, and squeezes back.
...It'll be okay, eventually. He'll get everything back under control, and it'll just . . . it'll be okay. It'll get better.
It'll be all right eventually.
It'll get better.
This isn't everything you are.