O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood -and sisterhood From sea to shining sea!
i’ve seen @pies-and-rockspost about Kent and the falconers like 50 times but nobody has ever written something for it so here we are at 1am, i have done it.
In Kent’s defense, Jack thinks, Kent has never actually met Tater in person, off the ice. From the times Jack has talked to Tater, he knows that they’ve always managed to just miss each other–at playoffs, at press conferences, at charities, at the All Star games, even at the Olympics. Most times when one of them has gone, the other hasn’t, and if they are both there, they never manage to run into each other off the ice.
Now, suddenly, Jack is watching Kent’s face perform emotional acrobatics as he processes the fact that he has just run into not one, not two, but five Falconers out on a morning jog in the middle of a park.
If Jack were to look left and right, he doesn’t think his teammates would look any better. They just barely beat the Aces yesterday in a shoot-out, after all. It was a… tense game. Lots of penalties. At least two fights. Nobody was exactly nice.
Kent yanks out one ear bud and points at Jack. “Okay, so. Fuck you,” he says conversationally, and fine, Jack will take that as his due.
Then Kent points at Marty. “Fuck you.”
Marty rolls his eyes.
Kent points at Thirdy. “Fuck you.”
Now Kent points at Tater, and here, he stutters for a minute while his gaze starts at Tater’s shoes and goes all the way up the man’s massive legs, solid waist, buff chest, broad shoulders, soft brown eyes. (Jack is not interested but he’s also not blind, and Kent Parson is predictable.)
“Fuck me,” Kent says.
“Okay,” Tater replies.
Thirdy slaps a hand over his face. “Tater, no.”
Kent stares for two seconds before snapping out of his funk and pointing firmly at Snowy. “And fuck you.”
“Fuck you, broski,” Snowy fires back, and his tone sounds like he’s talking about the weather but his crossed arms are asking if Kent wants to throw down.
Kent just waves at them and declares, “Fuck all of you,” and jogs around them to continue down the path.
Tater turns around and yells, “I’m say okay I fuck you, Parson!”
Thirdy still has his hand over his face. “Just go, man.”
Marty shakes his head. “He wasn’t serious.”
“And even if he was,” Snowy adds, “he’s a rat, remember?”
Tater frowns and looks between them, brows furrowed.
Jack smiles and pats Tater’s shoulder. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, right?”
Tater’s expression brightens like the sun coming through clouds on a stormy day. “Yes. I not miss shot.” He pats Jack’s cheek and jogs off after Kent, yelling, “Little rat Ace, you wait!”
Marty sighs. “Kid…I know Parson is your friend, and you know him better than we do, but I really don’t think he was serious. Tater’s just gonna be disappointed.”
Jack looks back. Far off down the path behind them, Tater has caught up to Kent and is jogging with him. Kent looks confused and embarrassed but not unhappy. Jack smiles. “He’ll be okay. Come on, we have to hurry if we still want decent splits.”
They continue running, five people down to four. Jack isn’t Kent’s biggest fan, but he thinks it might not be so bad if, the next time they go running when the Aces are in Providence, they end up with an extra man.