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They all had routines when they arrived at the arena before a game. Carly meticulously checked over his equipment. Jonesy taped his stick at least three times. Berger listened to a devotional and read his bible. Most of the other guys, Kent included, would listen to music, stretch, and walk around in their own little worlds until it was time to get ready for the team meeting and warm-ups.
But not today.
Kent was antsy. He didn’t sleep well the night before, and at practice earlier, he kept fucking up the timing of his passes. He brushed it off as needing a good nap to reset everything, but the most he did earlier in the afternoon was rest his eyes for an hour.
When the team arrived at the arena earlier, he quickly changed out of his suit, the tie feeling like it was choking him. Now, wearing a t-shirt and athletic shorts, he felt a bit better, but also like the walls were caving in. He exited the locker room not towards where the athletic trainers were stationed, where he typically visited before a game, but instead wandering the back halls. Looking for somewhere quiet, away from everyone, where he could try and get out of his mind.
Kent eventually found a small room to hide in. He didn’t dare turn on the light, in case someone found him there. He would be chirped relentlessly if one of his teammates found him freaking out. He closed the door behind him and sunk to the floor, grateful that it was at least carpeted. He pulled his knees up to his chest and dug his hands in his hair.
He didn’t understand why he was so anxious now.
Sure, they were playing against the Canadiens, but they already played them earlier this season in Vegas, and they won. While both of their teams were still contenders in receiving playoff berths, the Aces were almost guaranteed, needing to win two of their next 15 games. Unlike Montreal, who would be fighting until the end of the regular season. Even then, they may only qualify for the wildcard slot.
Alas, Kent knew deep down that the Habs weren’t the issue. It was the building itself. Fucking Bell Centre. He hadn’t stepped foot inside here since the draft all those months ago. This place changed his life, but it also sent him into a future he didn’t think was for him. Sure, he went first overall, but he’d rather have gone second if that meant that Jack was also in the league with him.
And that was the issue, he thought as he tried to take in deep, measured breaths, trying to quash the panic attack welling up inside. Kent Parson wasn’t supposed to be the answer to all of the Aces prayers. And despite breaking team records left and right and being well on his way to winning the Con Smythe at the end of the season, he felt like a pauper. He kept playing his best, because if he let the facade fall for even a second, everyone would realize he wasn’t who he said he was. He was faking it all the time, and he wondered how long it would take for him to be considered legit.
He hated Montreal. It held some of his best memories, but also his worst. Thank god they weren’t staying at the same hotel Jack and him stayed at leading up to the draft. Kent didn’t know what he would’ve done if he had to stay there again. Ever since the team arrived in the city, he can’t help but see the open orange bottle, little blue pills spilled across the bathroom tile, and Jack in the middle of it all, pale, clammy, and worst of all, not breathing.
“At least he’s alive,” he tells himself, his voice scratchy and exhausted. Although Kent hasn’t heard from him since he was released from rehab last year.
He tries not to think about it, along with the email he sent Bob two weeks ago, asking if he would be at the game tonight. He never received a reply, so he assumes that’s rich people speak for politely saying no. He wished Bob would’ve told him instead.
He wished he had someone to watch him play.
Kent removed his hands from his hair and covered his face instead, hoping to muffle his sobs. He doesn’t want to be here, in Montreal, so close to Jack and his family, yet unable to get even an acknowledgement from them. He also doesn’t want to be here, in Bell Centre, where so much happened in so little time. He’ll forever associate this arena with one of the best and worst days of his life. He just needs to suck it up and get over it. He has a hockey game to play, goddamn it!
He removed his hands from his face, and he could feel hot tears streaming freely down his face. He wiped at them, yet more kept coming. He sniffled, and wished he had a tissue to clear out his nose. He pats his pockets, searching for his phone so he can see how red his face and eyes are. He doesn’t find it. Fuck. He must have left it in the locker room. He has no way to tell the time, but the last thing he wants to do is face his teammates when they know he was weak and cried.
Kent leaned his head back against the door and hugged his knees close to his chest. He didn’t know why, but being small like this helped him calm down. He began counting in his head, resolved to exit and find a bathroom once he reached 300. He could toss some cold water on his face and then no one would know about the tears, unless his eyes fucking betrayed him.
123… 124… 125… He was startled out of his counting by a knock on the door. “Parser, are you in here?” a muffled voice called out.
“Uh… who is it?”
“It’s Swoops. Strategy started five minutes ago.”
“Shit!” Kent scrambled to his feet and opened the door. He squinted against the bright light of the hallway, forgetting about how deranged he looked until he heard his teammate’s sharp breath.
“Don’t tell them I cried!”
“Shit, Parser! I promise I won’t say anything.” He gave him a once-over. “You do look pretty rough though. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m fine, Swoops!” he insisted with much more bravo than he actually had.
“I can talk to the coaches, see if they’re willing to scratch you.”
“Why?” Kent demanded, throwing his hands in the air. “So everyone will know I’m weak. Carly and the others will give me a new nickname like Pansy or Crybaby or some shit!”
Swoops remained remarkably calm. “Its okay to admit you’re not okay. Everyone gets a healthy scratch now and then. Besides, we don’t want a situation like Zimmermann–”
Kent cut him off. “Don’t talk about Jack! You don’t know him! You don’t know half of it. You–You weren’t there,” he gasped as he tried to talk around the lump in his throat.
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I won’t mention him again.” Swoops placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed down, encouraging him to sit back down. Kent obliged, sliding down the wall. He tried to will the tears to stop falling from his eyes. He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his own thoughts until he felt a light tapping on his arm. He glanced up to find one of the team’s trainers, Aleah, kneeling in front of him.
“Do you think you can stand up and follow me?”
He mutely nodded, and she rose to give him space. Once he was standing again, he noticed that Swoops was gone. He’d been sent to the strategy meeting, most likely. Kent suddenly wanted to sleep for a week. He followed Aleah through the maze of hallways to the training room. The only other person in there was one of the assistant coaches, Arthur.
Kent tried to avert his gaze, as if that would stop the other man from noticing him. He was embarrassed to say the least.
“You can take a seat right over here,” Aleah told him, pointing to a light blue chair in the corner.
He listened to her, and accepted the cup of water gratefully. He took a sip, and was surprised at how refreshingly cool it was. He drank the entire cup without complaint.
“Oh good!” Aleah said as she came back over to him. “I’m glad you drank it all. You’re probably a little dehydrated.”
“Thanks for the water.”
“It’s no trouble! How are you feeling?”
Absolutely exhausted yet still restless. “I’m tired.”
Aleah nodded. “Also understandable.” She looked over her shoulder. “I think that Coach Wheeler wants to speak with you.”
Kent nodded. Mind as well get this over with sooner rather than later. Aleah caught his attention and gestured for him to come over.
“Kent, I’m glad Jeff found you. We were all worried when you didn’t show up to strategy. Especially when you’re typically one of the first to arrive.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I promise it won’t happen again. I forgot my phone and lost–” he stopped talking when Arthur held up a hand.
“I may have coached NHL hockey for the better parts of two decades, but that does not mean I believe in the traditional ways that things are done. The Aces organization believes strongly in taking care of the health of each and every one of its players. That means physical and mental health. I know you are a rookie and being the number one draft pick means you feel like you have some very big shoes to fill. That being said, your own mental health comes first. If you are feeling burnt out, please speak to someone on staff so we can schedule a healthy scratch or two. We can also get you in contact with a sports psychologist.
“What I am trying to say is this: you don’t have to suffer alone. We have the resources to help you, so please don’t hesitate to ask to use them. I don’t want to see you in this position again, understood?”
Kent hung his head, unable to meet his coach’s face. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. You’re scratched from tonight's game and you’ll need to speak with a sports psychologist when we return to Vegas.”
“I can still play,” Kent weakly protested.
Arthur shook his head. “This isn’t a punishment and you need to rest. You’ll thank me later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good kid, and a good player, Kent. We all have to work on ourselves sometimes. It’s now your turn. I’ll have Aleah send you the name of the sport psychologist, and I expect a doctor’s note from them so I know you’ve met with them, understood?”
Well, there went the idea of lying about visiting the therapist. “Yes.”
“It’s only one session. If you want to keep seeing them or get a referral to someone else, no one has to know, okay? I just don’t want you to burn out in your first season.”
More like the owners don’t want their magical unicorn to stop producing wins before they win a Stanley Cup, but Kent felt the same way. He wants to play hockey for as long as he possibly could. If visiting the shrink once is a requirement, he can grind his teeth and bare it.
So he smiled, and nodded, and said, “I understand,” although he really, truly, didn’t.