Chapter Text
Contrary to popular opinion, domesticity isn’t Kent Parson’s #1 fear.
Sure, Vegas nights are good. Better than good, actually. He loves the nightlife and he pretty much lives in the party capital of the country. But as years go by with Stanley Cup wins, and the people he meets at bars breeze in and out of his apartment, Kent realizes that he’s having a midlife crisis at 27. He’s done everything that he wants. He’s a household hockey name. And for past eight years he’s lived in the very same apartment by himself and Kit, who’s great company but, alas, not human company. What’s he going to do when he retires? When is he going to retire? He’s well-off financially, and he’ll always have enough for his mother back in Brooklyn to ensure that she’ll never have to work a day in her life again. But is this…it? Clubbing every weekend and then coming home with a guy who leaves in the morning, then go on the Internet and tweet with Kit by his side? That can work for a week, but god, for the rest of his life?
He goes on his Twitter and sees Zimmermann’s latest post: it’s a photo of him and Bitty, with Jack pressing a firm kiss on Bitty’s temple and Bitty holding up a tray of mini-pies with little maple leaf designs on them. They look so happy and settled, Kent thinks. He’s made his peace with Zimmermann (okay, so he’s made like two phone calls, one of them apologizing for everything that he can’t actualize vocalize into words and the other was to tell Zimms an awkward “Uh. Good game tonight” to solidify their not-quite repaired friendship), but god, he wonders if he’s ever had that chance with Jack. To come home and have Jack waiting for him, or vice versa. To post dumb couple photos like this all over social media because they’re so in love.
Kent can’t cook; he can make a mean instant ramen, but somehow that just didn’t compare at all with homemade pastries and Bittle himself. Maybe all that butter will clog their arteries one day, but with Kent’s luck, they’ll probably die one after the other when they’re nearly 100, surrounded by multiple grandchildren who have convoluted Southern-Canadian accents. And Kent will still be in this goddamn apartment in Vegas by himself, living the bygone days in his mind, and the public will only hear of his death when the police finds his cats eating his carcass or something. Christ.
The panic sets in. Instead of reaching for the wine that Jeff gave him for his birthday (he can’t drink that right now, not alone; the possibility of him finishing the whole thing before 12 AM and hitting his head on some countertop trying to get to his bedroom is too high), he decides to Netflix and finish the rest of his Ben & Jerry’s. And it works. Almost a little too well.
“Jesus, Parser, what happened to you?” Todd says, eyeing his dark circles the next day on the ice.
“Late night,” Kent replied tersely.
Todd looks worried for a split second and throws a glance at Dom.
“Okay,” he says carefully, trying for a light tone. “Should’ve invited us, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry, Toddy. Next time.”
What he doesn’t tell Todd was that he hadn’t been at the bar. He had skimmed over at least seven romcoms for a good part of the night until he found Julie & Julia. With the combination of seeing Zimmermann’s Instagram of perpetual happiness full of Bittle and butter and the stupid movie about some woman cooking her way into enlightenment or something like that (so Kent skipped over some parts; big deal), Kent makes his choice.
“Hey, Todd,” he starts, “you free this afternoon?”
“Cooking?” Todd says incredulously, like Kent had said he liked to eat cat food in his spare time. “Why cooking?
“I had to do it, okay? I was thinking last night—”
“Wait, wait,” Todd cuts in, “were you drinking the thing Jeff gave you?”
“—and I thought—wait, what? No!”
“Oh.” Todd hesitates, then, “Can I have it?”
“No, that is for emergencies. Jeff says it’s the good stuff, and I checked the label. It’s vintage old as balls.”
“This sounds like an emergency,” Todd frowns. “You hate cooking. And you’re not even good at it.”
Kent really regrets asking Todd in the first place.
“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” he sighs. “I panicked last night. I’m 27 and hockey careers are not that long, unless you’re counting Jagr. I’m not good at anything else, but I have to be.” Kent violently points at Kit, who was licking her crotch on the living room couch. “If I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life, I refuse to be eaten by cats.”
Todd blinks.
“I’m not sure how you got to that conclusion. You’re not gonna die alone, man. You took us to a gay bar last week and like five dudes tried to buy you drinks. Jeff had to fight this guy who wouldn’t let you leave the club without getting your number. Dom took a video, remember?”
“Not the point. And tell Dom to delete the video, Jesus.” Kent rubs his hand on his brow. He refuses to get into the whole Zimmermann saga again about his Big Failed Romance and how that led to a string of people threading through his sheets but never managing to stay longer than a week. “Todd, will you help me or not? I don’t know when my hockey expiration date is. And it’s either this or gardening.”
“Let’s stick with the food,” Todd agrees. “But I’m not eating anything you make if it looks messed up.”
It goes a little something like this: they don’t buy Mastering the Art of French Cooking, because Kent has a working iPad and the Amazon reviews indicate that the books have no actual photos and only vague diagrams of food, and Kent is not about to ruin his kitchen when there are perfectly good adapted recipes online. Todd has been made aware of the location of the fire extinguisher and all smoke alarms. They make a chart and an agreement: Kent buys all the ingredients, and if the recipes turn out edible and tasty, Todd takes home half. Todd will pick out the ones that look the best (and more or less doable), and then tackle one a week, two if there’s time between practices and games.
“Scrambled eggs?” Kent says, clearly insulted at Todd’s choice for the week. “What the hell? I can make eggs.”
“Yeah, but yours taste like leather. I’ve had your hangover breakfast,” Todd shoots back. He points at the butter-yellow pile of egg goop on the website. “These are Julia Child eggs. They’re probably patented. And I thought it would be a good place to start!”
“Fine, ugh. It doesn’t feel like a challenge.” Kent rolls up his sleeves and arms himself with two eggs. “I’ve made eggs for three hookups and they were very impressed. Prepare to have your socks knocked off.”
The eggs turn out leathery, in the end. Todd pokes at his plate sadly.
“What the fuck? What the fuck? I followed the instructions!”
“I’m imagining myself in their shoes,” Todd says. “I’ve just fucked Kent Parson, found out he’s mediocre, and now he’s making me eat his leathery eggs.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’ll get it right.”
The next batch are too watery, but the sprig of parsley makes it look nice in the photo, Todd thinks, as he snaps another shot for his Twitter.
“It says cooking time is five minutes,” he suggests. “Maybe we should set a timer.”
They do. It takes two more tries for the consistency, color, and taste to turn out alright. By the end of the night, Kent has used an entire carton and, as he tried flip the eggs, a few flecks land on Kit and she latches on to Kent’s leg, yowling angrily. But it’s one recipe down. Kent tweets it and captions it “egg-cellent” with an egg on frying pan emoji.
He sees Zimmermann like his egg photo, and he stares at it for a good five minutes before going to bed. It doesn’t feel like a victory, though.
From eggs, Todd upgrades him to potato and leek soup. It’s a yellow mess, not unlike the eggs, but when Todd helps him sprinkle some chopped green onions on top, it doesn’t look as bad as before. They eat potato and leek soup with Chinese takeout that night, and Kent puts on Pacific Rim because it feels appropriate in this weird, warm way. This isn’t exactly the Bittle-Zimmermann domesticity he was going for, but eating something he made while sitting on the floor and watching a mecha flick with an equally single friend seems like a good start.
“Hey, Mashkov retweeted your potato soup.” Todd chews slowly, and reads, “‘Looks good! When am I coming over? Haha.’ Oh, and then he added a parenthesis to the end. But like, just one.”
“Huh.” He’s met Mashkov once, at an awards ceremony. They didn’t talk for too long, and all Kent could remember was the guy’s height and his very enthusiastic handshake. “How many likes do I have on the soup?”
“Right now? Like ‘round four hundred. Why?”
“Hm.” He doesn’t want to ask if Zimmermann had favorited it. He raises the spoon as he swipes through his phone with his other hand, but misses his mouth and the potato-leek soup spills down his shirt. “Shit.”
Todd’s tweet for the night was just a photo of Kent dabbing at his ruined shirt with a napkin captioned “Is he six?” The photo alone gets 854 favorites.
They steer clear of the baked goods. Kent knows it’s silly to think it sacrilegious to use his instant ramen-making hands on pastries, but he hasn’t been in a mood to vague-tweet Bittle through posting his own shitty baking or anything. In two months, Kent makes it through a lamb stew, braised onions, coq au vin (he downs a half bottle of red wine when the coq au vin turn out like slops), three omelets, a steak that Kent maintains to this day that Todd took home more than a half of, and crepes with more scrambled eggs. Todd finally clears Kent to make the infamous boeuf bourguignon for the following week, and Kent realizes that he’s enjoying cooking. Yes, he’s on a strict diet, but he figures if he portions everything so that it lasts him the week, it should be okay. And yeah, he’s definitely had meltdowns and once Todd videotapes him on the floor next to a fallen mash of butter and potato chunks, but the process was fun, and he’s looking forward to making something for himself that wasn’t hockey-related.
Not only that, his followers seem to be enjoying his newfound interest. Some chalk it off as a dare, but most comments have been positive. #CookingwithKenny starts to trend, and when Todd tells him about it mid-stew he allows himself a split moment of smugness before the kitchen starts smelling like smoke; he’s even getting mommy bloggers on his twitter giving him suggestions on how to streamline the cooking process, which feels kind of new and exciting. So far, Todd’s video of Kent’s tantrum on the floor (“Parser, what are you doing?” had been countered with a low whine of, “There’s just so much stuff on the floor. Ugh. Kit, no, don’t eat that—”) has the most retweets at 1.4K. Mashkov seems to be liking all of his food posts, adding a comment or a chirp here and there. Kent looks forward to those the most, and he’s starting to respond to them.
@amashkov_09 [In reply to Kent Parson]
@TheRealKVP Is not too late to be chef!
@amashkov_09
@TheRealKVP When im coming over?? hahaha
@amashkov_09 [In reply to Kent Parson]
@TheRealKVP if only u play like u cook, then maybe u win ))
@TheRealKVP [In reply to Alexei Mashkov]
@amashkov_09 I’ll make u eggs the next game after i win
@Toddy-S
@amashkov_09 don’t do it!! Leathery eggs
The Aces notice the cooking and a few try to convince Kent to make something for them when they see Kent and Todd’s lunches.
“What the hell, Parser? You’ve been holding out on us? And why does Toddy have some but not us?” Jeff asks, eyeing the sautéed mushrooms and chicken blend. “Gimme a bite.”
“No, dude, Todd made it with me, he gets half the profits,” Kent says, moving his container to the left to avoid Jeff’s fork.
“And the mistakes,” Todd mutters.
“Woah, are you two like, dating? Why didn’t you tell me, man?”
“Stop making dumb assumptions. We’re two guys trying to make food for ourselves so we don’t end up at 35 eating takeout all the time like you, Jeff,” Kent replies savagely, but Jeff just laughs.
“How much butter is in that, Parser?”
“Shut up.”
He gets home that night and microwaves himself the leftover shrimp in lemon and garlic (Todd tested, Kit approved). His phone flashes from a new text notification from Todd:
Toddy: Hey, Mashkov is trying to steal your thunder. http://t.co/thkJ90
Kent: ????
The link brings him to Mashkov’s latest tweet:
@amashkov_09
making stew tonight! #BoeufBourguignon #cookingwithtater
@amashkov_09
@TheRealKVP why this not look like internet picture
Attached to the second tweet was a horrifying conglomerate of chunky dark brown and the remnants of mutilated carrot chunks. Kent stifles a laugh, then quickly types out his own response.
@TheRealKVP [In reply to Alexei Mashkov]
@amashkov_09 dunno. Haven’t made it yet myself. Try again??
@amashkov_09 [In reply to Kent Parson]
@TheRealKVP ((
Kent squints.
Kent: What does “((” mean
Toddy: I think it’s a sad face
Kent: wtf
Mashkov gives up on the beef stew, but in a few days he posts a successful photo of what looks to be an adapted version of coq au vin.
@amashkov_09
@TheRealKVP better than u! #cookingwithtater
@TheRealKVP [In reply to Alexei Mashkov]
@amashkov_09 >:(
At this point with three Stanleys under his belt, Kent knows the difference between a real taunt and a teasing jest. He hasn’t met Mashkov face-to-face since, but he’s tweeting him back and forth so much that they’ve probably moved to casual acquaintances at this rate.
@amashkov_09 [In reply to Kent Parson]
@TheRealKVP (((
@amashkov_09 [In reply to Kent Parson]
@TheRealKVP I actually cheat. Use slow cooker
Lord, Mashkov is really something else, Kent thinks.
@TheRealKVP [In reply to Alexei Mashkov]
@amashkov_09 maybe one day u can be a pro like me
@amashkov_09 [In reply to Kent Parson]
@TheRealKVP )))))))))))))))
@Toddy-S
@amashkov_09 @TheRealKVP can you guys use the DMs
The week of boeuf bourguignon is cursed, Kent thinks, and not because they’re playing the Falconers in Vegas, and not even when they lose with a last minute shot by Zimmermann. It’s because Todd comes to him post-game and says he has to rush home to San Diego because of a family emergency, and Kent’s beef chunk has been sitting in the freezer for quite a while. How long does beef even last in the fridge? He gets the text from Todd right after the game:
Toddy: have 2 go 2 sd, grandma in hospital. Sorry make bef boginonnone next time sorry sorry
Kent: No man don’t even worry about it. Let me know if you need anything I’ll be right there
Toddy: Thanks!!!!!
So as of now he is one man down, and the website rated the boeuf bourguignon difficulty level as ‘Difficult,’ which Kent interprets as that he’ll have to man the fire extinguisher and cook at the same time. He should just make eggs tonight, but he had bought a nice cut of meat. And Kent Parson is not known for being a quitter. He laces up his shoes, slings the hockey bag behind him, and he’s ready to head home to start dinner and feed Kit when he hears Mashkov calling his name.
“Parson!” Mashkov weaves through the crowd and stops in front of Kent, all 6’4 of him looking as enthusiastic (and sweaty) as he had been during the game, but when he starts to speak again, he seems almost uncharacteristically shy. “You leaving so quick. Almost did not catch you.”
“Oh, yeah. Good game tonight.” He readjusts the hockey bag strap. “Zimms really has improved, hasn’t he? Tell him I said hi.”
“Yes! I will. He is much better now.” Then he falls silent. “So. I, uh, follow your cooking.”
“Yeah, it’s a thing I’ve started.”
“You do very good.”
For a good ten seconds or so, they stare at each other. Meeting face to face shouldn’t be this hard, but Mashkov isn’t making it easy tonight for some reason.
“Um,” Kent starts, “I was going to go home. Kit’s waiting for me”
“Oh. Your girl?” Mashkov says, disappointed, but schools his composure. He holds out a hand. “I will see you next time, then.”
“More like my cat,” Kent corrects. Something in his head whirs. “Wait, are you free tonight?”
Mashkov blinks. “Falconers were going out tonight, but—”
It was now or never.
“Do you maybe want to make food with me?” Kent sputters out before he can swallow his words. Mashkov looks thunderstruck, but it’s too late for Kent to turn back, so he continues, “I have a chunk of beef in the fridge and I have to use it up tonight. Well, not tonight exactly, but I don’t know how long beef can keep? I don’t usually cook alone, I might burn something, but it’s okay if you—”
“Yes,” Mashkov says immediately. He places a hand on Kent’s shoulder, solid and warm, and he smiles. “I cook with you.”
“Oh,” Kent says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Oh, good.”
This had been a bad idea. The stew turns out slightly better than mediocre, and they don’t have to use the fire extinguisher at all. But Mashkov had proved a wonderful dinnertime companion with his animated speech and surprisingly dry quips here and there. Kent breaks out the vintage as balls wine that Jeff gave him, which is excellent all on its own, and Kent gets the strangest feeling that he should also get out the candles and slow music. Mashkov falls in love with Kit, even if Kit does try to swipe a sharp claw at the man’s foot before letting herself be picked up. Kent also discovers that Mashkov’s laugh is just as he expects: deep, rounded, and full, like good alcohol. Maybe even better.
So while Kent had anticipated Mashkov to leave at around 10, they end up talking until 11:30, and Kent manages to convince Mashkov that he might as well just shower and stay in the spare bedroom, since Mashkov does have a spare change of clothing in his hockey bag. Kent scrubs at the dishes as he pretends to not hear his shower running, wondering if he imagined Mashkov’s eyes lingering on his face and hands during the meal. Probably not. The overly friendly thing seems to be a defining quality, Kent is probably thinking too much into it.
Kent knows he’s somewhat fucked when Mashkov comes out smelling like his shampoo.
“I must ask. Why the cooking now?” he says casually, leaning against the counter as Kent pretends to be even more absorbed in dishwashing.
“Well, I mean, it’s an important skill,” Kent replies slowly. “I’m a grown ass man, I should be able to make something other than cup noodles.”
Mashkov—no, it’s Alexei. Alexei laughs. Kent loves his laugh.
“I understand. Zimmboni’s baker, his Bitty, always cooking and making pies. Very impressive.”
“Zimms lets you call him that?” Kent inquires, raising an eyebrow.
“He not say no yet.” Alexei shrugs.
“I see.”
“Here, I help.” Alexei grins at him. “Maybe you can be your own Bitty one day.”
They wash dishes together in companionable silence. Kent imagines that this must be what Bittle and Zimmermann do every day. Alexei stands a tall and sure mass next to him, a comforting presence.
“I’m not—” Kent clears his throat. “I’m not trying to be Bittle. I just—do you ever feel like you’re going somewhere, and you’re so sure you’re going that way. And when you get to where you want to be, you feel like you either got there too fast and now you don’t know what else to do?”
“Many times. Is normal.” A short response, but Alexei’s tone feels earnest. “Do you feel that way?”
“Sometimes. Well, more often lately, yes. And I hate it. I love what I’m doing now, I love hockey, and the team. But at the end of the day, I come home and I’m no better than I was yesterday, and I’m waiting for things to start going downhill.” Alexei says nothing, and rather than feel the space of nothingness and uncertainty weigh him down again, Kent keeps talking, “I know I’m in a good place, but hockey isn’t a lifelong sort of deal. I’m not good at anything else. I’ve never tried, so I need to do something different before it’s too late, or maybe it’s already too late, and if it’s just making food, then I guess that’s okay—”
“Kent, you are good. More than ‘okay.’”
“That’s nice of you to say,” Kent says absently. “But I’m not.”
Alexei suddenly reaches out and grabs Kent’s elbow. The movement was so sudden and jarring that Kent nearly drops a plate.
“Jesus, what are you—”
“Kent,” Alexei says firmly, “you more than just good. You are funny, and great with your team. A great captain. Why you think so little of yourself?”
Kent gapes.
“I don’t—I’m not—” He finally settles with, “I don’t know. I’m no Zimmermann.”With Bittle, he thinks. But he doesn’t want Alexei to know.
“Why do you want to be Zimmboni?” Alexei asks, seeming genuinely confused. “You are captain of the Aces.”
“I—I know, but I mean…” Kent’s brain slows. Alexei’s hand is still grabbing at his arm, forcing Kent to face him. “Zimms is happy,” he hears himself say. “And I’m not. Not really.”
“Oh, Kenny.”
He is not going to cry. Anyone can call him Kenny. He is 27 years old and he will not be thrust back eight years in the past and undo all the progress he’s made. Kent bites his bottom lip as Alexei’s hand travels to his, flipping his palms over and holding onto them gently.
“Do you think this helps? The cooking?” Alexei asks softly.
“Yes,” Kent breathes, looking up at Alexei. “A little.”
Alexei grips his hands harder, interlocking their fingers to form a clasp. “Tell me if this not okay.”
Kent’s mouth flops open, then closes. “I’m done with one night flings,” he mutters.
Alexei’s eyes flash. “Good.”
“Oh. Oh, good,” Kent whispers for the second time that night, before surging up to link his soapy hands behind Alexei’s neck to pull him downwards for a kiss.
(Alexei extends his stay in Vegas by three more days.)
Todd jiggles his ring of keys to shake out the spare key Kent had given him after their cooking experiment had begun. His grandma had been fine; by some miraculous fluke, her tumble down the stairs had resulted into little more than a few bruises on her hips, so Todd leaves after two days. He picks up a couple of strawberry and cheese danishes and coffees from the local bakery before driving down to Kent’s apartment.
“Hey, Parser,” he calls out, setting the goods on the nearby counter. “My grandma’s fine. I brought breakfast and I’m completely free to watch you destroy your kitchen today—”
“Um. Good morning?”
Todd looks up and finds a shirtless Alexei Mashkov at the stove, flipping what appears to be crepes. He freezes and they stare at each other.
“Oh,” Todd squeaks out. It comes out like Eeh.
“Are you Todd?” Mashkov says awkwardly.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Kenny still sleeping, but I get him if you need?” Mashkov makes a move to turn off the heat, but Todd hurriedly waves him off.
“Oh, no! No, it’s fine. I can just leave! Goodbye!”
He darts out of the apartment and shuts the door before he can hear Mashkov’s response, but realizes that he forgets his own coffee and pastry.
“Sorry, sorry, just grabbing my—oh, no one’s here.” He looks around the living room, but it seems like Mashkov went back in. Todd is about to step out when he hears Mashkov’s faint accent float in from the bedroom: “Good morning, love” which was followed by Kent’s sleep-coated voice, “Oh my God, Alexei.”Todd grins to himself, but darts out in case he hears anything he may regret.
@Toddy-S
I’ve been replaced!!! :’( #nomorecookingwithkenny #rip