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snormynight · 5 years

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Tight Spot

come get ya’ll g///omens “snz while hiding” soup >:)

“Feels spooky.”

“Oh, you worry too much. It’s worth it all. Promise.”

Leaving Aziraphale to stand alone in the center of the room, Crowley did one last security sweep before shutting the door to his hell housing. Usually he couldn’t care less about breaking the law. After all, that was part of being a demon. But he felt an extra thrill of rebellion course through his soul after bringing his angel to Hell of all places. His superiors would not like it one bit, and that thought alone made him ridiculously giddy.

“Crowley, please I can hardly stand it,” Aziraphale whined impatiently. Crowley decided to torture him for only a little while longer, just drinking in the sight of his adorable angel. His excitement was infectious, and Crowley was hopeless.

“Oh, open your eyes already, you shmuck.” Aziraphale did as he was told and beheld the sight before him. In all his years of traveling the earth, he had seen no botany like what flourished around him. The room was just so green, so full of life that it filled him with the undeniable sense of love. There seemed to be no repeating pattern among the various plants that adorned the room; everyone was unique it its beauty and Aziraphale felt a sweet gooeyness inside that Crowley, as cold as he could be, would have such a life giving hobby, one that he felt so sacred he wouldn’t share it with any one else. Until now.

“Oh, Crowley,” he gasped. “It’s like nothing I have ever seen.”

He felt compelled to move toward the cute succulents on his desk. Crowley hid it well that at that moment, a volt of pride traveled through him. He eyed his plants with a forgiveness of their past transgressions, and they seemed to visibly relax under his watchful eye.

“I’m flattered, Angel. You’ve only gone on about them for several thousand years. I figured it’s about time I showed you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled in wonder but just like any other moment they got to themselves, paranoia made herself welcome. He stole a glance at the doorway, hands meeting each other in worry.

“What if someone should discover us?”

Crowley wouldn’t let fear ruin this moment. In a swift movement, he was inches from Aziraphale, taking his hands in his own and directing the attention back to him. Aziraphale turned back to look into his eyes and found that it didn’t take a miracle to feel instantly calmer. His eyes traveled down to the demon’s lips, so tantalizingly close.

“Not to worry, Angel,” Crowley said, impossibly soft. “I’ll protect you.”

Aziraphale found that he believed him enough to take his mouth into his own. What seemed so impossible was now right in front of him, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage. He found that Crowley was on the same page. Drawing him in closer, he threw his arms over the angels’ shoulders and kissed him fervently. Aziraphale felt an itch build in the back of his throat but chalked it up to situated nerves. Unfortunately, it was not to be ignored.

He pulled away from Crowley without warning and turned away to cough into his shoulder. It did nothing to clear it and he frowned in discomfort. Crowley eyed him warily.

“Something amiss?”

Aziraphale cocked his head, noticing that he felt clogged up. He started to answer that ‘no, everything is absolutely tickety-boo,” when suddenly-

“hhh!...hhHEGSHUu!”

The sneeze ripped out of him, catching Crowley by surprise. By the time he had adjusted, Aziraphale was directing two more into his shoulder. Crowley retracted himself so he could freely hunt for the handkerchief in his pocket.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said between blowing his nose. “I believe something this evening has got me…hhh! Cuh-quite b-bothered…eh’hehchiew!”

He sneezed several more times before straightening himself up and Crowley put a hand to his forehead.

“You don’t feel feverish. What is it then?”

Aziraphale looked embarrassed, as if he had already deduced the reason but he was unable to answer as his body was wracked with even more sneezes. And leaving Crowley to play detective. He didn’t have to think long though. His eyes fell on a fallen leaf lying on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He plucked it from its spot and eyed it suspiciously.

His suspicions were confirmed when once again, Aziraphale let out a guttural sneeze. Tears had begun to run down his face and Crowley thought he might know the source.

“You’re allergic.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that began to deny such a thing, but it would have to wait. Just then, Crowley heard voices coming down the hallway. If he had blood it would have frozen in its tracks.

“Oh shit.”

Thinking quickly, he led the rendered useless angel to the back room. He threw open the closet door, shoving him inside and locking him in darkness. Aziraphale stumbled a little, steadying himself on the shelves in the closet. His breath hitched dangerously, and he moaned with irritation.

“Cuh-Crowley, I hhih!...I-I’m gonna snee-mph!”

Crowley had approached him from behind, clamping a hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. He could feel his nostrils flaring against his hand, desperately trying to stave a sneeze off.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “If they find you, they’ll-“

“Crowleyyy…”

As always, Ligur hadn’t waited for a polite invitation into Crowley’s flat. He kicked the door off its hinges and sauntered in, merely dusting himself off.

“Where are you hiding, you snake?”

Crowley now noticed that Aziraphale had begun to convulse against him with suppressed coughs. He could only imagine how stressful it was to do so, but the Angel hung on, grasping the severity of the situation. If they were caught, he’d surely be flayed alive. Just outside the door, Ligur had begun to sift through Crowley’s belongings.

“You’re a rotten demon. You report to me, do you hear? I’m very busy.”

Being extra careful, Crowley dragged Aziraphale to the back of the closet. He hoisted him up in a way that he was now looking at him, prepared to deliver some bad news but Aziraphale being a bit preoccupied at the moment could only focus on his poor tortured nose.

“I’m going to have to get rid of him,” Crowley whispered. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Aziraphale only had a second to look mortified before his lip curled in warning. He launched himself at Crowley, muffling two damp sneezes into his chest, and then pulled back, shaking him just a bit.

“Don’t go.”

Crowley put a hand to his sweet face, slid out of his grip and went out to meet Ligur, leaving the angel alone in the darkness.

“Ah, Ligur! Didn’t hear you, was busy tending to the closet dwellers. You know how it goes…”

The conversation faded to the background as Aziraphale attempted to get his breathing under control. The closet was unbearably stuffy, and to make matters worse, Crowley wasn’t entirely lying. There really were closet plants adorning the shelves. The air was thick with demonic plant food scent and it was becoming unbearable.

He backed up slowly, making his way to the other end of the closet and being careful not to make so much noise. It was hard. He could barely see an inch from his face, and Aziraphale thought that Crowley might be keeping some plants in here as a form of punishment. They would certainly not grow better in the dark.

He found himself staggering to the wall with another suppressed coughing fit and clung to a shelf as a lifeline. It was forever until he finally rode it out and an inkling of himself thought that he might actually be okay.

He hadn’t stayed quite still, rocking back and forth in waiting and unbeknownst to him, the shelf hadn’t been as sturdy as he hoped. Suddenly, the bar detached itself from the shelf and Aziraphale scrambled to grab a hold of something else. He regained his balance when his hand met a bag and he gripped it tightly. It opened, and to his horror, the contents rained down on him, sending up a plume of dust.

Fertilizer. And a whole lot of it.

Aziraphale’s eyes welled up with irritated tears and burned like hell. He squeezed them shut, hurriedly brushing off what had landed on his shoulders. The scent was overwhelming, and he scrunched his nose up. It did little to quell the itch and his breath hitched relentlessly in an attempt to hold back, his chest heaving in and out. He pressed a fist to his nose, head aching with the attempt. He felt horribly weak and helpless breathing shallowly like that.

Finally, after an eternity, light flooded into the room and a hand lugged Aziraphale out of the space. Adjusting to the light, he tumbled forward, struggling to catch his breath. It sounded shallow and odd, as if he were wheezing. Crowley grabbed his arm pulling him away toward the door.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched mockingly and suddenly he bent forward with the force of a dozen unrestrained sneezes.

“AHHtshhu! HeH-HTSHeww! ecgchhuH! Heshooo! ESsh! TSh!

Using what little breath he had left, he straightened himself up, and tried to focus in Crowley’s direction with puffy eyes.

“I-I can’t…breathe!”

And then, in extreme allergic fashion, Aziraphale flopped to the ground in an unconscious heap. Crowley regarded his form with a single phrase.

“Oh, bollocks.”

*****

Sometime later Aziraphale came to and found himself sprawled out on a couch, his couch to be exact. He was back in the bookshop and he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face trying to recollect what had happened. He gave an experimental sniff and was delighted to find that his breathing had almost returned to normal and let his hand fall onto his chest. It landed with a squelch and Aziraphale looked down to see that not only had his shirt been removed, but his chest and stomach were covered with a cooling jelly substance. It was quite nice but had him pinned and left him to crane his neck, observing his surroundings.

With a teacup in one hand and a wet rag in the other, Crowley suddenly came bursting into the room. He made eye contact with the angel who was blinking owlishly back at him, and he seemed to relax, visibly appeased now that the angel was awake. He set the content of his hands down on the table and sat down on the edge of the sofa.

“Scared me half to death, Angel. Since you hadn’t discorporated, you were trapped in that body of yours. I didn’t know what to do besides bring you back here. Seem to be doing better I hope.”

Aziraphale sighed. His breath still rattled in his chest, but he felt way better than earlier. “how long was I out?”

“Only a few minutes,” Crowley blushed, ashamed at what had happened. “I miracled us out. You had hives all over you so that’s what’s up with…that.” He gestured all over his body.

Aziraphale smiled, gingerly taking the teacup from Crowley. “How lucky am I to have you around to care so much for me.”

Crowley frowned, doing him a once over to make sure none of the hives were coming back. “Well if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have bloody asphyxiated. So not so lucky. You can bet I’m gonna give it to those plants.”

Aziraphale set a hand on his arm. “Oh, don’t be too hard on them dear. In fairness, I had no idea what was to come of that. I was so touched that you felt comfortable enough to share your favorite thing in the world with me.”

Crowley blushed a deeper shade of red and set his head down by Aziraphale. He reached for the angel’s hand, giving it a comforting squeeze and murmuring into the cushions.

“Second favorite.”

Aziraphale chuckled, threading his fingers into the hair of his very dear boy. He summoned all the love and forgiveness he could into the touch, and once he felt Crowley relax, he knew they would be okay.

And if little plastic plants started to show up around the bookshop over the next few weeks, Crowley might’ve begun to forgive himself again.

#snzblr #snzfic #rosierites

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garden-of-succulents · 6 years

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Kent Parson and the Comeback Kid - 3

After a week of Kent Parson breaking everybody's hearts I was like I AM GONNA WRITE SOMETHING FLUFFY FOR HIM IF IT KILLS ME. And tonight I wrote 6k in four hours? Which is an amazing omen for the new year, may it prove so in the future?

So this is a new chapter of Kent Parson and the Comeback Kid. It's 2021. Kent's finally gotten Andy from Leave Your Lovers Like Campsites to settle down and have a kid and marry him. They've got an open relationship and he's got boyfriends who don't appear in this fic so far; she's dating Maida Hombrebueno. Andy, who was an elite hockey player in her youth, was out of the sport for many years and just got rediscovered as a talent. She's 32 and just qualified for the US National Women's Team for the first time. Also, it's Round 3 of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and the Aces are up in the series 3-2.

(There's one little sour moment where Andy's dad is mentioned, and general BS of the media being gross, but nothing like the last part. And for people who're wondering: Katie is Kent's sister.)

At the airport, Nick jumped down and ran for her as soon as he got a clear eyeline. He almost got taken out by a luggage cart before getting within ten feet of her, and Andy sent thanks with her eye contact as the man stopped and let Nick blithely swerve around him.

"Mommy! Mommy!" he exclaimed, as she scooped him up. "What did you bring me?"

Andy laughed and rocked him back and forth, pressing her cheek to his hair. "Hey kiddo," she said, heart thudding. "I am so happy to see you. I brought you... a giant kiss. You gonna let me give you a big kiss hello?"

He did, pressing his hand over his cheek afterwards to hold it there. "I'm in pull-ups," he informed her glumly as she walked across the Arrivals area with him on her hip.

"Yeah? You peed yourself a little? Happens to the best of us, buddy," she said, tightening the arm around Nick so she could lift her other one and reel in her girlfriend.

A few years back, Andy ended her twentieth hockey season in a rec league in Minneapolis and hung up her ice skates in frustration. Half her team were skating for their first season ever, and were carried along by the half who'd been playing since they were little girls. They made great drinking buddies, but she hadn't been going anywhere as an athlete, and felt a little burned out by having to coach in her rec time over and above her day job coaching teenagers at a hockey academy.

Roller derby gave her a lot of the same things as hockey. It was fast and fun and violent, and played by women who made her laugh so hard she snorted beer out of her nose. But the player base had a deeply different ethos, embracing the weird and wonderful instead of hockey's straighter laces. When Maida Hombrebueno joined the Sin City Derby Girls, it was the first time she'd willingly participated in a team sport since the age of ten, and Andy might never have met her without it.

Maida spent her summers touring music festivals and New Age gatherings with her boyfriend Luis, a Santeria-practicing guitar player. When she wasn't rehabilitating injured wild raptors, Maida's own interests ran to composing slam poetry in indigenous Mexican languages and occult divination.

She was like water in the desert.

Once Andy got over her sense of disorientation with Maida, the feeling of being so far from any familiar cultural referents she didn't know where she was, she found herself at home. Maida was the teammate she trusted to have her back, the witch who poured blessings on her son's head. As a lover, she was like a stray cat who just walked into Andy's house one day and treated her bed like home, filling up her house with warmth and wisdom. When she left, it was on her own time and for her own reasons, but also the certainty that she'd be back. Maida was the only person Andy would trust to take her two-year-old son to the airport and let him wander freely, risking life and limb in the face of baggage carts and many other unknown horrors. Maida treated Nick with a calm, hands-off attentiveness, knew where he was every second, and could--unlike his grandmother--call him back at any minute.

Maida squeezed her in a hug, and Andy breathed in the jasmine perfume behind Maida's ears, pressing her face into Maida's hair for a minute before letting go.

"Congratulations," Maida said, and twined her fingers with Andy's as they began walking out to the parking lot.

We'll just do the long-distance thing, she'd said even before Andy left for the selection camp. No drama, no questions. Unless you don't want to. But you do what you need.

"Thanks." Andy squeezed her hand. "You coming to the game tonight?"

"Oh, no," Maida said. "You guys have fun. I'll go home when you guys head out."

Andy shook her head, smiling. Kent's friendship with Maida went back almost as many years as he'd known Andy, when he'd started exploring Paganism, and had been lovers with Maida and Luis for years; when he drove out of Las Vegas to their trailer in the desert, it was to escape hockey, to escape being Kent Parson, to escape even the memory of the pressures laid on him in the city. So even after all these years, they never went to Kent's games. Maida might acknowledge that Andy played hockey, but politely treated Kent's hockey career like a hobby that paled in comparison to everything else about him. She'd rather talk to him about music, xeriscaping, statistics, about the progress of Nick's potty-training, than let discussion of hockey pass her lips in his presence. "Series is 3-2 us," she said, just to fill Maida in. "Either they win conference finals and advance to the Cup final tonight, or it goes to another game."

"Karen's been trying to pack when she thinks Kent won't see," Maida said with dry humour. Kent and Andy were hockey-player superstitious, made uncomfortable by words or actions that implied their teams would win; Maida was idiosyncratically superstitious, more likely to believe fate was affected by the phase of the moon and the rains last winter than human actions; Karen didn't think she was superstitious at all, and liked to be well-prepared ahead of time. Karen therefore struggled to reconcile her son's habits and her household management, especially during Playoffs. In her opinion, a week's warning was hardly enough for her to prepare to take Nick to New England so they could be there at the game if Kent won, and the shuttling back and forth between home games and away was a demonic plan specifically designed to torment her. Over the past week Maida had probably been surreptitiously keeping friction between mother and son from erupting, when she wasn't tending to her birds.

"Grandma's gonna be so happy when Playoffs are over," Andy chirped to Nick, who had his arms around her neck and his head against his shoulder. To Maida she asked, "Where's Kent napping?"

"Swoops's," Maida answered. She reached over and rubbed Nick's back as they got to the car. "Though this one's not going to be too loud, I think. He was up at six this morning. Be nice if he could--" she mouthed the word nap-- "this afternoon."

"Mmm," Andy agreed, depositing Nick in his carseat. He clung to her, his eyelids drooping. She was already calculating the probability that he'd fall asleep in the car and stay asleep while she carried him inside.

The odds weren't great, but a girl could hope. It made sense that Kent Parson's son would be a stubborn little motherfucker, though.

"Kent wants to see you before puck drop," Karen said, as Nick dragged Andy by the hand. His eyes had snapped open just as Andy laid him down on his bed, damnit.

"I know," Andy said, as she retreated down the hall. "He texted me." And then she waved as Nick pulled her into the playroom.

She had to admit, privately, that she didn't always understand her son. His noises didn't always resolve into words in her ears, and she frequently relied on Kent and Karen for translation. She didn't understand why he wanted to do something with a train and a Barbie and a spaceship, and just patiently held the spaceship aloft for him until he took it out of her hands and set it to rest on a toy car. She never knew what his scribbles or Play-doh blobs were supposed to represent, and found herself falling back on phrases like, "That's a lot of blue!"

And yet, when she sat back on her heels and Maida brought her a cup of tea and a kiss goodbye, she said, "I've decided? I think I actually am a better parent than my parents were."

"Yeah," Maida said, and squeezed her shoulder. "Karen wanted me to remind you that you've only got two hours before the team goes in for strategy."

"Yeah, I know. I'll get dressed soon." Andy squeezed Maida's hand, and kissed it. "Drive safe."

Kent and Andy had an entire closet for jerseys. It was sentimental and a bit ridiculous, but there it was. Some jerseys got special treatment; his first Olympic jersey, framed with team picture and silver medal, hung in his den. One of her NCAA jerseys, and the award plaque she won that season, had the same treatment in her work office. But after a while there got to be so many--and not all fit for public display, like the All-Star jersey from a few years back with bloodstains on one side and a little penis drawn on the other in Sharpie. This was where her new Team USA jersey went when she pulled it out of its plastic wrapping, buried her nose in the fabric, and then slipped it onto a hanger.

Her chin trembled a little when she indulged in a whim and pulled out one of Kent's IIHF Worlds jerseys. It wasn't the same--different year, old logo, different neck decoration. But both jerseys were the same colour. Same team. PARSON, across one back. SCARLATTI, across the other.

She put them back in the closet and sighed wistfully. There used to be a time when she'd just throw one of them on over a pair of jeans and sit down in the stands with a hot dog and a beer. It was comfortable and familiar. She still did it for a lot of games and tournaments, but not NHL games, especially not Aces games, anymore. Instead she put her curling iron on to heat and stepped into the shower.

Kent didn't care what she wore. Or, that was, when his opinion was a deciding factor he preferred her in a jersey as God intended her. But he was a player, not a fat woman being spectated as a spectator. His fashion choices during a game didn't get dissected the way hers did. When she wore a jersey, his Twitter mentions didn't fill up with messages about her looking ugly and slovenly the way hers did. He didn't have bosses in the Aces Foundation making nervous comments about "professional attire" and "media image" the way she did. So when he was around he didn't comment on it, just helped her pull her Spanx on and zipped up her dresses.

Almost over, she consoled herself, blending her makeup.

Even the lower passages and back hallways of the arena sparked with life. This was an important game, and Las Vegas knew it. Andy waved to familiar faces--parking lot attendants, security guards, janitors in her husband's jersey. As she came down the tunnel the boom of the music playing hit her before the scrape of skates and smack of sticks did.

Jorge, the towel boy, nodded to her as she came down to the players' box, but the coaches and trainer there--Harry, Mel, and Luc--were too busy watching the ice with eagle eyes and conferring over their notes. The box was otherwise empty as the team warmed up. Andy went to lean on the boards and look out.

Swoops was still wearing fairy wings pinned to the back of his jersey, the way he had at warmups for the last three games. It was a bet Andy didn't fully understand. Dmytro was lying on his back and cycling his legs through the air, pretending that his jersey totally accidentally fell back and exposed his abs. Gordie's glove hand was still moving a little slowly when he windmilled, and therefore unsurprisingly, the backup kid they'd called up last night was nervously stretching on an empty patch of ice.

Kent was--

Kent skated away from a consultation with a rookie, snatched a puck, handled it over to the lineup to shoot on Gordie. Kent kept drawing her eye, and not just because he was hers. Kent was--

His jersey was missing the Nevada patch on the shoulder, the extra stripe of white at the bottom. Its sleeves were straight, not shaped the way they'd been for the last three years. The sides didn't have the subtly greyer panel the Aces were wearing this season. It looked retro, and it hung on him a little looser than normal, and there were what looked like scuff marks all over it, and--

SCARLATTI, it said. 14

Kent sank the puck over Gordie's glove, shook his head sympathetically, looked over to the callup kid, who looked like he was about to puke. Kent was on his way over to him when he noticed Andy.

Almost a decade ago she'd slept with him for the two weeks between conference finals and Cup final, slept with him a few times after, and then kissed him goodbye and moved back to Minnesota for four years. As a parting gift, he'd asked the team shop to custom make a jersey with her name and habitual number, to remember her year with the Aces by. A lot of the guys had signed it for her.

He'd felt self-conscious about giving her his own number and didn't want him wearing anybody else's, he'd said. But she'd always hugged a secret little hope to her chest when she wore it: that he put her own number on it because he took her a little seriously as a hockey player.

"You stole my jersey," she said through tears when he skated up.

He just grinned and wrapped her up in a hug over the boards, murmuring thanks when Jorge took the stick out of his hand. She hugged him back and gripped big handfuls of the fabric.

"I am so proud of you," he said. "You're gonna get everything you need to play. We're gonna figure it out."

"I'm wearing mascara, you asshole," she sobbed. He let her go so she could turn away and grab one of the bench tissues and turn back to him while she was crying. "I did actually know that."

"You... did?" the man wearing her jersey asked.

"I know, right?" she asked, blowing her nose. "On the plane back I just thought... you didn't actually say, but I just thought. If I made the team, and you were like, no, we can't make it work, your career is more important, after you told me to go? I'd be so fucking angry with you. You'd be an asshole." She sniffed mightily and swabbed at her face. She'd been smart; she'd used waterproof mascara, though she hadn't remembered it at first. "So it turns out I actually have, like. Expectations? And I..." she started crying again. "I actually believed you were gonna believe in me and support me? Even before you said so?"

"Babe," he said, and gathered her in again reverently. She leaned against his chest, holding tissues to her face, even when she felt him slide back on his skates and have to re-set his feet. She thought about the fact that their entire exchange had just been videotaped and clips of it had probably already been broadcast, but wasn't too troubled. Kent was shielding her; her face was safely hidden in his shoulder, and the jersey he'd chosen to warm up in told the story itself. Maybe he'd anticipated that. The media were going to want visuals to go with the story, and there had already been stories about the surprise addition to the roster before she boarded the plane back to Las Vegas. He'd already known they'd have to present an image as a team.

They just moved to the side for the first guy who came skating back to the bench, so he could step around Kent, but when it became clear this was a general exodus Andy sighed and straightened up and Kent let her go.

"I love you," he said.

She set her hands on his chest, gripping her jersey, and thumped him a little. "You make me proud tonight. Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, touched her chin, and she let him go.

Andy blotted her eyes with a paper towel soaked in cold water, and then when she got up to the family box she looked for Valentyna. It was a lively box tonight--all the wives, most of the girlfriends, the callup goalie kid's parents, various friends and hangers-on. Nick and Karen weren't there yet, but Oksana and a couple other kids had pulled out the big Rubbermaid bin of Duplo from behind the bar and started playing with it already.

It took one look--it looked like Valentyna had been waiting for her--before Dmytro's wife was pulling out her glass makeup case and coming up to one of the tables in the back of the box. She adjusted the overhead light to shine on Andy's face, frowning at its inadequacies as Andy meekly sat on one of the tall stools.

"You TV interview?" Valentyna asked, snapping open her case. Before her marriage she'd been a model in Kiev, and worked as a makeup artist when she couldn't get modelling gigs. (Somehow, Ukraine had hundreds of women more beautiful than Valentyna Mykhailuk) She was normally shy around the other Aces wives, partly because of the language barrier, but their children were friends only six months apart, and watching Andy struggle with makeup alone had pushed her past her limits. Before the big games, Andy had to pass Valentyna's inspection before being allowed out to the front of the box.

"No," Andy said, squirming a little. "And no big eyeliner wings, Valentyna."

"Accentuates face," Valentyna said. "National team! Patriotic hero! Ought to interview you."

"My face," Andy said. "My eyeliner." And then, as Valentyna loaded up a brush: "Thank you."

"Will miss you," Valentyna said matter-of-factly, and then had to pause to let Andy wipe away tears again.

She got one interview that night, as it turned out, as well as going down into the stands because a group of girls had hastily written on the back of their posterboard sign, ANDY SCARLATTI COME SIGN MY JERSEY. They played on a U18 team together in Ontario, and got playoff tickets as part of what they described as "the most amazing vacation ever." Then she hustled back up to the press box.

Sam Park was the veteran holding down the Las Vegas Star's sports reporting, which meant he bounced from NHL and WNBA games and the local Little League games and initiation hockey tournaments Andy's office either organized, oversaw, or sponsored. They'd last texted two weeks ago when she'd given him the name of a good local flooring contractor for his house, and tonight he sent, Willing to come down to the press box and talk as a member of Team USA?

An interview with an old friend like Sam was a good starting place. He liked wordy character pieces more than brief sports reporting, so he listened with interest as she threw a new light on their acquaintance--how she worked with the Aces in 2010 because she'd always known she'd have to get a paid job after her college sports career, and left in 2011 in part because of the lack of local women's hockey; the growth of professional leagues for women, and differences between men and women's hockey. How her office at the Aces foundation being literally a hundred feet from the team's practice ice meant she could go out and skate at lunchtime if she wanted, and how those hours and her time playing keep-away with Kent before the teams she coached showed up were often more player development than other women just as skilled as her could afford.

She kept quiet about her speculation about next season, though Kent had already spoken about it. In an attempt to distract the press during the first intermission from the emotional crisis their new goalie was having in the dressing room, Kent had stepped out for a brief media scrum. When asked how Andy's selection to Team USA would affect his plans for next season, he'd shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back

"We haven't settled on any details, but, y'know, I wanna support my wife," he said. "I've had ten years of support to be the best player I can be, best coaching, best training, on the best team in the best league. So I think, y'know what, fair's fair." Then, having done his best to ensure rumours of his retirement would bump clips of the kid having a panic attack on the bench from the reporting, he'd smiled and slipped back into the dressing room.

Sam was softballing her, probably planning a series of articles if the story generated much interest. He wanted to know about her family, her friends, her new teammates.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, offering her his phone.

Lansing Cougars @mi_girlshockey · 2h So proud of my daughter #AndreaScarlatti for being selected to #USNWT #TeamUSA!

For a minute she smiled, under the assumption that someone running a girls' hockey account in Michigan had hyperbolically claimed her as their daughter. Then she read the sidebar with the account information. The realization that it was the team her dad was coaching now--that it meant "daughter" literally--wiped the smile from her face.

She wanted to snatch the phone up in a typing grip and fire back a response. Fuck you, she wanted to say. You don't get to claim any part in this. I did this despite you. This was exactly the kind of bullshit that made her block her father on Twitter every time she figured out what his new handle was.

Instead she let the impulse pass through her, and when she could, she consciously relaxed her grip on the phone. She put effort into breathing normally, sitting back in her chair, offering the phone back to him. "No comment," she said casually.

How like him, he thought, to name an account after the girls he's coaching and use it as his own personal mouthpiece.

Sam's eyebrows flicked up. "No comment?" he asked. "That's... not like you."

She made sure to take a full breath and double-check her response. What did she want to say? This was Sam, right; Sam who was writing a book about the Aces, Sam who hadn't written a word about Vladimir's breakdown despite witnessing some of it himself. Then she smiled, a little strained. "When I'm ready to talk about that? You're one of the people I'll talk to. But right now I think it's wise to leave him out of the story."

Sam looked a little concerned, like he was going to ask her if she was really okay, but Andy was saved by the airhorn. The game was back on.

When the game was over Andy kissed and hugged her son goodbye, and headed downstairs. Nick was under Valentyna's watchful eye, and would be going home with her, Oksana, and Dmytro tonight. Western Conference Finals, win or lose, were Kent and Andy's date night by very ancient compact. The other guys would tease Dmytro about not wanting to go out and party, but the same way they teased Kent: good-naturedly, and without a real intent to make him change his mind. Andy was grateful to the Mykhailuks and said so. Karen split off in the hallway to party with another group of middle-aged "wine grandmas".

When Kent met her in the hallway to the parking lot, his suit was rumpled and slightly damp with champagne spray. He grinned sheepishly and laced their hands together.

"Good game," she said, kissed his cheek and looked up. "Oh, hey Gordie, good effort. Tough luck. Rest that shoulder, hey?"

"Thanks, Ands," Gordie said, dredging up the ghost of a smile, and shouldered past them. Dmytro came out, his phone in his hand.

Then Valentyna came down one of the staircases with the kids and Nick caught sight of Kent and shrieked, "Daddy!"

"Oh, dear," Andy sighed under her breath, as Kent crouched down to receive Nick in a running hug.

"Daddy won!" Nick said, hugging him. "Good game, Daddy!"

"Yeah," Kent said. "Thank you! You gonna go home with Oksana and have a sleepover?"

"No," Nick said.

"Yeah," Kent encouraged. "You're gonna go home with Valentyna and sleep over at our place, and see me and Mommy next morning."

"Don't wanna," Nick said, and then something low and incomprehensible that Kent listened to with a furrowed brow. He scowled when Kent said something softly back, and then balled up one fist and hit his father's shoulder with it.

"Hey, hey, hey," Kent said. "Hands aren't for hitting. Gentle hands."

"Daddy mean," Nick said accusingly. He stopped to consider his actions, weighing righteous fury against fear of consequences, and hit Kent again with his face screwed up for tears.

This is my fault, Andy thought suddenly. I've been away for a week. He's upset because I've never been gone that long. That's why he's wearing pull-ups. He hasn't tried to pull a stunt like this for months. It's because of me.

Kent sighed, hitching Nick up into a surer grasp, and turned to the side to let a few other players by. He took a minute to rub Nick's back and close his eyes. "I love you, little man," he said, and then, muttered to himself under his breath: "I cannot take away your pain. I can only sit with you and teach you how to feel it." When he opened his eyes again it was to meet Andy's eyes with a wry expression. He jerked his head to Valentyna, and they started walking to the parking lot together.

"I don't know what books they have at Oksana's house," Kent said as they walked. "I wonder what you're gonna read together. You've got Goodnight Moon and I Am Not a Chair with you, you could read those. But you might read one of Oksana's books."

"No," Nick whined, but his strength was fading. He was collapsing into Kent, tiredness replacing anger.

"Which one would you rather read?" Kent kept going with that gentle voice. "Goodnight Moon or I Am Not a Chair?"

"...Chair," Nick conceded, as Kent pulled open the back door to Valentyna's sedan. Nick's car seat was already in it so Kent settled him in, while Oksana climbed into hers on her own. "An' also Goodnight Moon."

"Yeah, you want both books?" Kent looked over to Valentyna as she buckled Oksana in. "Do you think you can read two?"

"I think so," she said, and leaned forward as Kent drew back. "We gonna read two books?"

"Yeah," Nick said softly. "I love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, little man. Night, Oksana."

Andy stood back, watching with a sense of wonder as Kent closed the car door. He came back to join her with a crooked smile, and they started walking to their car in the other direction as Dmytro started his sedan. They glanced back to watch it reverse out, then drive away.

"I thought we were seriously done for," Andy said, taking Kent's hand. "How did you do that?"

"I mighta let him come back with us, to be honest," he said. "Even though we've got stuff to talk about. He missed you. Coulda put him to bed first. But then he hit me, and we talked last week about how hitting never gets him what he wants." He slipped into the passenger seat of the car, and resumed once he and Andy had their seatbelts on. "I think as soon as he hit me, he knew it was over. I was gonna have to make a stand. So then he gave in pretty fast."

Andy sighed. "I feel so bad. He was probably more upset because I was away."

Kent rolled his head against his headrest to look over at her. "Babe? Welcome to how I feel all the time."

Their drive home was quiet, nerves on her part and pleasant weariness on his. Because they were old, they changed out of their nice clothes as soon as they got in the door and changed into pyjamas. Kent fed the animals and poured a drink out onto his altar to the gods of luck, then stretched out his legs on the couch so Kit Purrson could have the seat she was actively agitating for. Andy brought him a cold pack for his knee first, and then the homemade pizza the oven had been programmed to have ready for them when they got home, and finally two glasses of rosé. She'd sat down when he said, "I wanna see your jersey," and then she had to get up again.

"Sorry," he said when she came back, taking her hand and kissing it. She let him, and then handed the jersey over and picked up her wine.

"Shit," he said after a minute. He was tracing the number on the sleeve.

"They, uh," she said nervously, twisting her wedding ring. "It got us to list three jersey numbers by preference, and then they got assigned based on seniority. And there's a lot of competition for the lower numbers, and Bri's played under number fourteen forever, so I..."

"Dude." Kent looked up at her, eyes shining, hands still gripping the 90. "You're wearing my number. It's not even your birth year."

"Fair's fair," she finally got out past her tongue.

Then she had to lean forward so he could kiss her, and they both cried a little bit, and then it seemed like they were really talking about how to do this.

"I'm afraid," she said. "I'm afraid like, you'll organize some big trade to another team, and we'll change our whole lives, and move everyone, and then I'll get cut from the team in October." She made a little cutting gesture with her hands. "Whoops! I thought I had a career, but I don't."

"It'd still be worth it," he said. "Even just having that chance."

Andy reached back and wrapped her hands around the nape of her neck. "It would be so fucking embarrassing. It's not us, it's the fucking commentators. They're just..." She rubbed her face. "I don't want to do something we're gonna regret, or that you're gonna resent me for, in case it doesn't work out."

"Okay," he said, like that was easy. "What are our options?"

"I mean like, technically..." she laughed nervously, picking up a pizza crust. "I still have one year of NCAA eligibility, I think? But I mean, that's not..."

"Yeah, no," he agreed, stroking his cat.

"If it were an Olympic year..." she paused. "Well I mean, I wouldn't get on in an Olympic year, because it's just that much more intense. But then the players take the whole season to build together. Whereas now there's a training camp, and then everybody's off to their regular team until the 4 Nations Cup. So unless I wanna stick around here and keep training with you... The N, the C-dub, the Russians, or China. I mean, I could play in Minnesota, but..."

"Everything we're hearing from Patty says their league might not last the year," Kent agreed. "And you might not wanna be around for the implosion."

"Yeah," she agreed. "As nice as it would be to be home. So. Realistically? Um. Because, all of the NWHL teams have expressed interest in me. But then it's like, the two body problem. Boston can't afford you. The Sabres aren't a good team right now. Connecticut doesn't have a team at all so then you're commuting, or I am. And you..." she trailed off when he lifted a hand, asking to jump in.

"I want to retire," Kent said.

She blinked at him, and then reassembled her face into something empathetic and supportive and ate her pizza crust. He smiled and poked her knee with his toes, because he liked to make fun of her Listening Face.

"I might as well admit it," he said. "I did this season out of spite. When I came back after my paternity year, people were just... so shitty. Everything they said or did was like, 'Oh, losing his edge.' By the end of the year I was so pissed I just... didn't want to prove them right with that shitty season. So I came back." His face twisted. "And now Nick has nightmares where I'm dead."

"Honey," Andy said. "He hasn't had those for..."

"Okay, but he did," Kent said. "And I'm just... wondering how many more seasons I might've put him through if I hadn't got that far. But now I'm here, and it's..."

Andy reached out and squeezed his foot while he searched for words, and then topped up his wineglass.

"There's this art studio in Rochester," Kent said. "It's in the building where Katie works. It's like, a family creative space. Child-led play. You take your kid in and there's all these art materials around, and the person teaches you how to make like, a popsicle stick picture or fingerpaints or whatever. But the point isn't the art, it's like... teaching your child to explore. How to let them be creative while you're there supporting them but not smothering or anything. She sends me snapchats about it. I wanna go there."

Andy started on her second crust, puzzled but willing to hear him out.

"I just hate how like... all of my time with him is chopped up and scheduled and he's always tired and we can never just be together. After the summers it's almost worse because then he's used to me being around and he's like, 'Where did Daddy go?' What I want is the time to just wake up and decide we're gonna fingerpaint today, and he never has to worry about when I'm gonna leave."

"You wanna be a stay-at-home dad again," Andy said slowly.

Kent paused to think about that, and then looked at her again with something almost fervent. "There's been so many times since he was born that I've been on the ice and asked myself, 'What the hell am I doing here? I've got important things I need to do!' It's like... being around Nick feels important in a way hockey hasn't in years. Even when he's just sleeping. Something changes about him every day, and I love being able to catch it. It kills me every time Mom has to send me a video of something he learned to do without me."

"Shit," Andy said. "I thought you were doing okay."

Kent shrugged, a little helplessly. "I think I repressed a lot. But also like, he's just gotten so interesting now. He's inventing stuff and coming up with ideas, and more and more I'm like, I don't wanna miss this. I wanna be there for this. I wanna get to know him." He picked at his nails and looked up at her. "I spent all these years wishing I had people who loved me, who took care of me, who needed me. And now I've finally got you and under all the competition there's a little bit of me that's like, fuck, why can't I rest on my laurels? Why do I have to get another season out like I'm wringing out a dishrag?" He rolled his head back and sighed. "I am so fucking glad we won tonight, because that might be the only way I'm brave enough to say this."

Andy wasn't good at accepting the fact that Kent loved her. It was like she was coated with an impermeable resin, and that love only seeped in when it cracked and flaked with age. But she didn't think it was just that difficulty that left her feeling that Kent's love for Nick was so much deeper than his love for her.

She wasn't jealous. It wasn't a competition. In some ways it felt like how the world ought to be. It was just a kind of realization: If Kent and I divorced, he'd hurt a lot, but then he'd live again. If he lost Nick, he'd never recover. The immensity of that secondhand love was so deep that it threatened to overwhelm her, and she was kind of humbled just to witness it.

It's gotta be good, some part of her thought. It overcame his pride and his workaholism.

"So," she said, voice rusty. "Rochester. How far is that from Buffalo?"

#kent parson #andy scarlatti #maida and luis #kent parson and the comeback kid #stuff i wrote

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