They beat the Titans 4-3 on the road. Down to the wire, but then - Kent makes a beauty pass to Jack who makes even more of a beauty goal, and the siren goes off, with only four seconds left on the clock. They're crashing into each other and their teammates crash in around them and for a second or two Kent can't breathe, he's covered with gloves and hockey pads and hair and someone's elbow in his face, and Jack's right there in front of him. They hug and their eyes lock and then Jack's gone, and Kent's swept away in a cyclone of victorious hockey players.
They celebrate all the way through their post-game showers and onto the bus; they quiet down for the four-hour drive back to Rimouski, eventually. Everyone makes sure to fistbump Kent, though, or mess up his hair, as if they could do any more damage to the way it looks naturally, every single guy. They're already calling it this season the Parson-Zimmermann no-look one-timer, and tonight was, to hear Carey tell it, a classic example.
"How'd you do it, anyway, Parse?"
Kent shrugs. "Ask Zimms. He was right where he needed to be."
"Zimms! Tell us, what's the secret?"
Jack smiles and shrugs. "Parse got me the puck. So I just had to put it in."
Carey sits back down in his seat, with an air of disgust. "Never gonna get anything out of you two, okay. See if I care."
Everyone piles off the bus when it gets to the parking lot back in Rimouski, finally. Relieved to stretch out their legs again, off to billets, food, parties. The bathroom. Kent moves to get up but Jack holds onto his arm and whispers, "Stay a bit," so, whatever. He listens.
It only takes a couple minutes for the bus to finish emptying, driver and all. "What did you want?" Kent asks. It's still light outside, for maybe another hour or so. They're the only people in sight, though. No one's sticking around in an empty parking lot for long. "There's nothing here on the bus."
Jack grabs Kent, around the waist then, and tugs him into his lap. He couldn't do it without a struggle, not if Kent didn't want to go. But of course Kent does want. He wants it so much, he's been waiting, been hoping. He didn't know if they were doing this again, it'd been ten days since the last time, he counted, and they'd won two games in the interval, so, anyway -
Jack's looking up at him with the softest look that Kent's ever seen on his face. A smile shouldn't make your heart break, but somehow, this one does. Maybe it's that Kent still doesn't know where it comes from; or, therefore, where it'll go. He fists one hand in the fabric of Jack's hoodie, steadying himself on Jack's thighs, while the other comes up to brush, just barely touching, the cut ends of the hair on the back of Jack's head.
"Hey," Jack says. "Nice pass today." Kent doesn't know - he doesn't think - there's no way that he could get this for every nice pass.
But if today he does? He doesn't question it.
He's frozen on Jack's lap for a second, then. Breath puffing out, mingling with Jack's, their faces barely an inch from each other. Suspended in time. What now, what next?
Kiss, of course. Was there ever a doubt. Crashing into each other - Kent's crashing. Jack's softer but no less definite.
Everything dissolves into the kiss: Kent's shock, Jack's smile. Can't hold expressions with your lips when they're all over someone else's. Kent's hands relax, can't hold any tension, not when Jack's licking around inside his mouth with his tongue, urging him closer with hands on his ass. One of Kent's hands flattens out on Jack's chest, feeling its rise and fall like waves, and Kent's other hand falls with gravity into the soft hair at the nape of Jack's neck.
They're kissing, that's the main thing. Mouths open, the whole world becomes those mouths, that kiss, their bodies pressing together in an empty bus. This is what he's breathing, not air, but Jack -
Jack nudges his face away sideways from Kent's just enough to say, into the space between them, "Anything I can do for you?" His fingers have made their way under Kent's waistband, the calloused pads of them burning hot on Kent's skin. The puff of his breath onto Kent's cheek is so warm against the chilled air. And they're still on the team bus - everyone's gotten off, no one's waiting around for them. But they should go home.
Kent can't think.
"Kenny?" Jack asks, teasingly. He runs his fingers up to the very base of Kent's spine, creating a gap between shorts and hoodie that lets in a shiver of cold air, but Kent doesn't care about that. He licks a line up Kent's cheek. Kent's never been this hard on the team bus in his life.
"What do you want?" he asks.
Jack draws back again, just a breath, just enough to kiss the tip of Kent's nose. Gentle, dry. "I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel today." Then he opens his mouth wide around Kent's nose, which is wet and vaguely disgusting and should not be hot, damn, except that Kent can't help remembering the way that Jack's been trying to dislodge his jaw, lately, around Gatorade bottles and whole chicken tenders, pretending for the team it's just a joke, but sneaking looks at Kent as he does it, with secret heat in his eyes. "The way I felt when I got that puck on my tape today," he says, and Kent's been leaning in in in to Jack this whole time, but it's only now that the force of Jack's hands overcomes the mutual friction of their clothing and his position slips so that his thigh is settled against the unmistakeable hard line of Jack's dick.
Kent wants so badly to move, to align them, to push back enough, just enough so that he can throw one of his legs over Jack's and bring their dicks together and push and pull, but he can't move. He can't make himself. It's already all too perfect, just like this.
"You tipped it in for me," Kent says. He's twisted uncomfortably, nevermind how good it feels, legs hanging off the side of the seat and chest pressing right up against Jack's. Breath for breath, not to stabilize him but galloping away with each other together. "Like magic. Past Sharky and the Claw?" He laughs, a bit. It's not like they don't know how to talk about other things. But - Jack groans, and bites on the lower side of his chin. "I should be thanking you."
"We're a team," Jack says into the hinge of Kent's jaw and his neck. His voice is lower than usual, gravelly. His hands are restless, fingers kneading into Kent's ass and hips; his own hips are restless, rocking rhythmically, minutely, up into Kent's thigh. Kent feels a special different spark of heat when Jack's fingers dig into the flesh of his ass; he thinks, maybe, maybe, not yet. But he wants. "I couldn't have done it without you," Jack says. He's trying to attack the tendons of Kent's neck with his teeth, now, though really, Kent's hoodie is in the way.
Kent doesn't know if he means the goal, or the game, or the team, or like, life, but whichever it is, doesn't matter. "Me neither," he says. Moves his hand from Jack's hair to his chin to tilt his face so that they can kiss again, panting into each others' mouths, so hungry. Damn. He needs more, and he knows Jack does, too, even if he can't seem to decide on what.
So Kent makes the executive decision for both them: kneels up off Jack's lap, and though for just a second it leaves Jack whining "Kenny? Where are you going?" in the most stupidly desperate tone of voice. Well, that's not a negative, actually. And then Kent sits back down properly, one knee on either side of where Jack's sitting, straddling his lap, and Jack says, "Oh." His hands migrate right back to Kent's ass, his face to Kent's face, and, as Kent rolls his hips, their dicks slot together through their thin gym shorts. Kent feels like he's made the game-winning connection all over again.
"Fuck," Jack says, as he lets his legs fall open under Kent's, putting more strain on Kent's thighs and turning Kent on impossibly further. Jack hauls Kent even closer to him, somehow, an infinity of last millimeters, and pushes up as Kent pushes down. "You're so good," Jack says. "At this, at everything," and then he's pushing Kent back, but - oh, just enough. To pull his dick out, swollen thick, leaking already, from the tip. One day Kent'll be brave enough to taste. He hopes it's someday soon. "You too," Jack says, pulling laughably ineffectually at the drawstring of Kent's shorts.
Kent lets go of the hold he's had on the area of Jack's biceps and shoulder to take out his dick, too, with one hand. It's not as big as Jack's, which is a dumb thing to think about, cause of course, he's not as big as Jack anywhere else, there's no surprise there. And Jack doesn't seem to care -
He's a little careful as he pushes himself against Jack, skin to skin, like this, and Jack pushes back. It's so sensitive, too sensitive, it's a little rough, even with all the sweat and their combined precome. But it feels so good. He rolls their hips together again, keeping his hand there to keep them aligned, and Jack says, voice broken, "Just like that. Come on - " he sounds like he's dying. And Kent feels like he's dying, too, in the best way. Even the roughness, even the hints of pain; he can't keep feeling any or all of this way for very much longer.
He can't, anyway. Jack bats his hand away, replaces it with his own, and pulls, frantically, on the lengths of their dicks. Kent feels like he'll die if they do come but Jack's moving like he'll die if they don't, his breathing wrecked like he's just come off doing suicides. Kent can't do anything cause Jack's doing the only thing there is to do, and then Jack slides a finger between their two dicks, rubbing that spot on the underside near the head, catching it with his nail for a second, and he's coming all over Kent's dick and his hand and their shorts, probably, but Kent doesn't care about that. Jack lets out a heavy sigh and stops moving, and no, okay, Kent needs him to keep going, needs him to finish.
"You come on, now," he says, into Jack's ear. He bites the lobe of it, gently, briefly. "I know you can do it. Finish what you started."
Whatever Jack says then isn't a word, again, but it doesn't matter. His hand wraps itself around Kent's dick, come-covered and tacky and anyway one of the hottest things that he's ever felt. It's nothing like his own hand covered with his own come.
"Tighter," he says. The fist Jack makes is so tight that he can barely move but that's good, that's great. The image of Jack all fucked-out with, with his dopey smile, his other hand warm and broad on Kent's hip still, his come drying on Kent's dick. Kent wishes he could have all these things forever; he really doesn't need much more. "Say something," he says, using all the force he has in his thighs to push his dick into the space between Jack's fingers and his palm.
"Quelque chose," Jack says.
Kent bites down on his shoulder in retaliation. "You dork."
"Um," Jack says, looking down at where the head of Kent's dick is poking out of and disappearing between his ring finger and thumb. "You're so hot? And good at hockey, and I like you a lot, and I'm glad you're my best friend - "
He's interrupted by Kent biting his shoulder again. "More."
"Mixed signals," Jack huffs. He readjusts his grip, rubbing his thumb over the leaking slit at the head of Kent's dick, and Kent groans and moves into it. How can he be this close for this long? It's unreal. "I just really like doing this with you," Jack says. He's jerking Kent off for real, now, finally, grip harder than any Kent would use himself, but the edge of it feels so good, somehow, when it's someone else and he can't just relax his hand and make it back off. "I'm so glad that you let me kiss you, and touch your dick, cause it feels so good to me, it's like hockey, but, it's better somehow," and that's when the top of Kent's head comes off.
He comes all over Jack's hand, he doesn't know, their shorts are already dirty. He feels like he's seeing stars, out of breath, like he scored the game-winner for once, like the stadium's roaring his name. Like a million cellies, all at once. Better than that.
He comes down slowly, the feeling thrumming up through his chest, up to his fingers and cheeks, down to his toes. He can't have got everything he's ever wanted, the Voltiguers are coming to play on Sunday, the season's not even half over. But he feels like it, somehow, and it scares him, sometimes when he's with Jack like this.
He burrows into Jack's shoulder, and Jack rubs his back for a minute or ten. Eventually somebody's stomach rumbles.
"Hungry?" Jack says. There's an undertone of laughter in his voice that Kent wishes would stay there always.
He pokes Jack's stomach with a finger which is - gross, but okay, so's the bottom hem of Jack's hoodie. "I think that's you."
"Yeah," Jack says. "That's why I was asking if you were hungry, too."
He's a shit with the best worst sense of humor and Kent loves him, he can't say it but times like this he can't do anything other than feel it. "We've gotta clean up first."
"Ew, yeah," Jack agrees, looking down. There's not that much of anything, of course, but still - gross.
They dig old unused fast food napkins out of Jack's bag, and a water bottle, and clean off as best they can. Climb out of the bus and look around, like it's not way too late now for anyone to have noticed them. Like there's even anything secret about them climbing out of the bus together, other than what they were doing in there inside its helpfully tinted windows.
"Timmys?" Jack asks.
"Pizza," Kent counters. "Donuts aren't lunch. I've told you this how many times now?"
"They have sandwiches," Jack says. "And soup. And it's too late now for lunch, anyway."
"But only the donuts are worth eating. And I want pizza, anyway."
Jack follows Kent down the road, arguing but not trying to win: they've had this same discussion probably a hundred times. Kent wonders what it'll be like, later, when they both have money and live in cities with more than a dozen places to eat. Whenever they see each other, anyway.
"Come on," Kent says. "Don't keep me waiting." He stops by the pizzeria's door and waits for Jack to catch up before he opens it and lets the cold air in.
Jack stops by running right into Kent. They look at each other - well. They can look at each other anywhere.
"Time for pizza," Jack says.