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The day after his seventh birthday, Kent woke up on his seventh birthday.
That year his mom took him and his sister to the Big Phipps Family Fourth of July Reunion. This was the first year Kent's dad was out of the picture, and therefore the first year Kent's mom (legally no longer a Parson and back to a Phipps) was free to reconnect with her family. Being around all the many Phipps aunts and uncles and cousins he'd never met before was exciting, and the cookout at the designated campground a few hours drive away from home was even better.
After watching the fireworks, which he was old enough to know weren't actually for his birthday but appreciated anyway, he crawled into bed, full of hotdog and cake, and thought, I can't wait to do this again next year.
In hindsight, maybe that was what started it all. But regardless of the how, Kent was delighted to get to redo the day. He celebrated it by eating way too much cake, and went to bed sick and happy. And then, on his third seventh birthday, when Kent awoke with no ill effects, he replayed the day yet again.
That night, after the third time, Kent dreamed of nothingness. A void. The memories of the past three versions of his birthday.
He became aware of a presence.
“Choose,” it said. So Kent chose a day, and finally woke up on July fifth.
It kept happening. Kent lived each day, every day, three times, and then got to decide at the end which version to keep. No one else seemed to notice or remember the days he didn't choose, and Kent learned pretty quickly that telling someone led to questions he couldn't answer and to too many concerned faces.
So it was a secret, his secret, and Kent guarded it jealously. He learned how to redo days to get more out of them, to make better choices, to learn exactly how much he could get away with before getting in trouble. Usually he would end up using the first two days as practice, and then have the third day the one that stuck. But sometimes an earlier day would be luckier, and Kent would never turn that down.
Life got better and better. If he made any mistakes or crossed any lines, he knew to avoid it next time around. His grades improved with little additional effort, since he always knew what would be on a test. His teachers would comment on how quickly he picked up new material, and if Kent sometimes lost his temper with a classmate, that was okay, no one else would ever know.
He got better at hockey too, what with three times the practice as everyone else. He began to discover that he was quite good, actually: early in his freshmen year of high school, his coach pulled Kent aside and told him that if he worked hard enough, he could potentially go pro. Kent was never afraid of working hard, especially if it was for hockey, so now he had a goal. He would be a pro, and he would make it happen.
Kent had a realization when he was 16: if he was happy with the outcome of a day the first time, he could do whatever he wanted for the other two. He didn't need every iteration to be a good option; he only needed one. No one would know of the others but him.
The first time he tried it was on a regular Tuesday: politely daydreaming his way through school, working hard at the rink, eating healthfully enough. It was a perfectly acceptable day, so he went to sleep that night with plans.
On the second version of Tuesday, he snitched his mom's wallet, took a bus to Manhattan, and hit all the tourist spots. It was crowded and noisy and bright and Kent loved the freedom to do whatever he wanted. Of course, when he got home that night, it was to a very angry and very worried mother. So Kent sullenly nodded and apologized, as expected, but his heart wasn't in it. She could ground him all she liked, it wouldn't take.
For the third go-through, he once again grabbed the wallet, but also grabbed his best friend, Mark. Kent took him on a whirlwind of a day down in the city, going through the best of what he saw yesterday. Late in the afternoon, having built up his courage, Kent kissed him. It didn't go well, but it ended just with awkwardness, not hatred. So really it was a win in the long run: their friendship would be back to normal tomorrow, Kent could finally get over his crush, and Mark would never know Kent was gay. There would be other cute guys, and in the meantime he could learn some skills without building a reputation.
With the Q came Jack, and Kent learned him quickly. Though Kent never let himself redo a game (just "got too sick to play" for the second and third attempts), doing the practices multiple times let Kent memorize where Jack liked to be that much faster. It was truly beautiful how they fit together on the ice. Kent made them fit.
They fit together off ice, too. Kent learned what Jack liked, and learned to like what he liked. How to soothe him, how to build up his confidence. How to blow him. Kent could make Jack relax; he was the only thing that could turn Jack's overactive mind off, and Kent was proud of that.
They would fight, of course. Explosively. It was more difficult after games, because of Kent's refusal to redo those days and erase those arguments, but Kent learned how to yield and how to push in just the right way to get what he wanted without upsetting Jack. And the good times made the arguments worth it, even as they fought more and more the closer the draft got.
Kent would still do over what fights he could, of course. Jack had enough on his shoulders. Kent was doing him a favor, really, by helping him be the best he could be.
When Jack overdosed, Kent discovered the limitations of this ability. He and Jack had been fighting after the day's practice again, for whatever reason. Probably Jack was being a selfish dick, offhandedly insulting Kent (like he did). Kent gave it back, of course, with his own cutting remarks (like he did) and Jack had the gall to be offended. It was normal.
Jack being hospitalized that first night was not normal, though, so Kent knew he had to make some changes. He had to soften himself more. He could deal with sucking it up and putting up with Jack's endless lashing out about his daddy issues, just so long as it kept Jack from downing those pills. But somehow what he tried was worse: on both the second and third night, Jack didn’t even make it to the hospital.
If time were real in the dream void, it would have been hours and hours that Kent spent sobbing and begging the voice to let him try again.
“Choose,” was the only reply. So eventually, Kent chose, and Jack lived.
The draft the next day was rough, of course. The damage had been done the previous night, so all three versions of the day had Jack still in recovery and Kent going first. It didn't really matter what Kent did that day, so he bottled it all up, grinned his way through the ceremony, and went with the day that he cried the least.
And then after that, all he had was hockey. But Kent could do hockey. Kent was good at hockey. Maybe Jack wasn't returning his calls, but that didn't matter when there was hockey to do.
So instead of drowning in misery, Kent poured his energy onto the ice. In training that summer, he reminded the Aces exactly why they drafted him—he was dramatic, quick, cocky. Bold, but never selfish. He never slipped up. He always gave them a show.
They only saw what Kent wanted them to see, so they only saw his best. Besides, an off day when everything was too much could easily be erased; he only needed one out of three days to be perfect.
Still though, Kent never, ever repeated a game day. Win or lose, he'd keep it as is. He could deal with a fucked up personal life, he could manipulate his friends through trial and error, but cheating at hockey felt like a step too far.
That is, until he tore his left Achilles a minute into the second period of his fifth professional game.
He was too young, too driven, too good to have his career end so early. So he made the call, broke his rule, got a hat trick instead, and proved beyond a doubt that he deserved to be first pick, Jack be damned.
From then on, it was easy to redo a game. Why win in overtime when you can make that one pass a little cleaner and win in regulation instead? Why bother riling up the d-man to the point of having your jaw broken when the game is a loss no matter what? Why not make increasingly daring plays just to see if they’ll pay off?
He justified it to himself pretty easily: after all, it was still him playing. Even if his body didn’t remember the additional days of practice, his mind did. He put in the work. It wasn’t his fault that he could put in three times as much as anyone else. If they were jealous, they should nut up and make an accidental birthday wish, too.
Kent developed a reputation as a risk taker. His style was flashy; he knew how to make people pay attention. And they ate it up: after all, the poster boy of Vegas hockey should take risks. So Kent gambled, and won and won and won, and Vegas loved him for it.
Jack, however, probably hated him. Jack's new little twink hanger-on certainly hated him, not that Kent cared. It was only fair, really: Kent crashed a party at a college frat house to make out and argue with his ex-love-of-his-life. The blond twerp was obviously listening in, out there in the hall. Whatever.
So sure, the first night wasn't Kent's finest moment, but who the fuck cared. Kent could do it again better. Sometimes, though, Jack wouldn't know a gift if you hit him over the head with it. Didn't Jack miss playing with Kent? Didn't he miss him?
Day two, Kent tried to be nicer, he really did, only to be rebuffed again. Why didn't Jack get it? Jack was a better player with Kent; everyone knew Jack shouldn't be wasting his best years with this podunk team. The Jack he knew cared about being better. God, Kent was just trying to help, and Jack just threw it back in his face.
So on day three, Kent went for the throat and told Jack how it really was. And it felt good. It felt like power, like purgation. It felt like Jack finally got a taste of what he put Kent through. Afterward, in his rental car, Kent was expecting some guilt, some shame, but all he felt was satisfaction.
Then, that night, having used up his anger, Kent was about to answer the voice with day two; since none of the three were successful, why burn a bridge? He knew by now how to make the best of three mediocre options, and at least he was nice on day two. But then he paused.
"Choose," the voice commanded.
"Give me a fucking minute," Kent replied.
Why bother with Jack? What was the point? These three attempts were proof that no matter what Kent did, Jack would never understand what Kent gave him. Jack won't ever appreciate him, and it wasn't his business if Jack insisted on tanking his career. So why not let him drown? Far be it from Kent to get in the way.
So Kent chose, burned a bridge, and felt no regret.
It was a hard fought game, the first Aces/Falcs game since Jack got his head out of his ass and joined the NHL. Kent had to play a little risky to win, but that was normal, so win he did. Crashing into Snow essentially ended any potential flings with Mashkov, what with being called a rat and all, but Kent wasn't exactly desperate for attention from other closeted queer hockey players (and oddly enough, Snow was still down to fuck, as he found out a few weeks later). By that point, Kent knew his colleagues, and knew exactly how to seduce several of them, as well as exactly who not to flirt with. And if none of them remembered it, well, that wasn't Kent's concern. No one wanted their secrets to come out, so it was better for everyone if nothing ever really happened.
And so what if he watched Jack kiss that blond kid on center ice all three days it happened. So what if he never shut his homophobic teammates up, and even joined in once. So what if he picked fights and got too drunk and came out in interview after interview only to erase the day. Kent had made himself into what he needed to be, and his secrets were still his own.
He was lucky. He was successful. He was the best goddamned hockey player in the world. He would keep on winning until the day he died, and he'd do whatever it took to make it so. And if he crossed a line? Well. He'd just choose otherwise.