Chapter Text
Original Ask: All these omgcp updates and all I can think about is Dan watching this Kent/Jack drama unfold on the ice.
[This prompt is from… a year ago? Two years ago? I actually started it back when you sent the ask and now, after months of being in drafts, have finally finished it. I have no excuse, but I do have a fic!]
I mean, you can go one of two ways with this: In the original story, Dan “finds out” (guesses? Figures out? Suspects?) Jack is gay sometime during his first season when Dan goes to look at his time and Samwell and meets his photography professor (read all about it here) (Jack doesn’t come out for another few years)
Which means that, depending on how early in the season it is, Dan probably wouldn’t actually know any of the full Jack/Kent history at this point. And even if he did the Jack story… he also was working as a “fluff” writer, handling most of the feel-good stories, so why would he really interact with Kent Parson unless…
Dan suspects this is going to be one of those times where he is going to get screwed. Because, of course, he’s the one stayed behind and doing all the actual research (dammit, shouldn’t he have some sort of intern or something?) but if what he thinks is true, then it’s definitely going to be shuffled along to someone higher up. Someone who, you know, actually gets to talk to the famous, rich, sport superstars.
Dan is more of the… “Oh, you had twins and now both play on the football team, even though one is a girl? Let me come out to your small town in Indiana and interview everyone!” Which is not to say he doesn’t love his job, but it’s not quite the same pay-grade as, you know, Kent Parson.
And Dan Erikson is 99% sure that that is where this lead is taking him. He just has to make a few more calls and then he’s supposed to be getting an e-mail and…
Yup. There it is. Kent Parson. Goodbye story for Dan Erikson.
He shoots of an e-mail to Donna, his boss: Did some digging and found out that Kent Parson donates over 20,000 dollars to LVPA (Las Vegas Pet’s Association) every year. Has been since he moved there five years ago. Could be a good piece if someone could get him to comment.
He stands, stretches, and honestly considers calling it a day because it’s almost seven and if he rushes, he can totally make it home in time for Jeopardy. Then spend the next five hours scrambling for a new story, which is due in…. 8 days?
Fuck. Maybe he should skip the Jeopardy.
His phone rings just as he’s deciding to leave.
“Okay,” Donna’s voice says. “I’ll have our people call and see if he’ll talk- be on the next plane out anyway.”
Dan blinks. “What?”
“Kent Parson.” Donna repeats. “Did I read the wrong name? Didn’t you just e-mail me about some cat shit with Kent Parson?”
“Uh. Yes,” Dan says. “Yes, but–”
“Okay, then get out there. Usually the Aces wouldn’t bother but Parson probably needs some good press after that brutal game against the Falconers with the whole goalie thing. I bet they want a nice fluff piece right about now. So, go, Fuckin’ Zimmermann isn’t giving us any hockey news.”
“He did just set the record for rookie–”
“I mean any personal news,” Donna snaps and Dan can hear her eyeroll over the phone. “Kid should’ve taken a public speaking class at that fancy university. Fucking “sticking to our game”, “on a good run,” “working hard”- nothing like his father. Anyway, go out there. At least Parson might give you something worth writing about.”
Dan wants to ask more questions. About why they don’t just have Paul ask at the next game conference but– hell, he’s not about to miss this.
“Alright,” he says. “I’m on the next plane.”
*^*^*^
By the time he gets off the plane, he has a text from Donna telling him that Kent Parson has agreed to meet with him. Tonight. He has an address and as much as he wants to say that, with the time difference, it is now almost 1 o’clock in the morning, he knows better than to miss this.
He drinks some coffee, tells himself that forty isn’t that old, reminds himself that some of his best work is still done at 3 in the morning, and heads out.
The address is a bar. It’s not on the main strip but it’s bright and loud, even at ten. At least he doesn’t have trouble finding Parson. The hockey players is at the bar, surrounded by three women and Dan would feel awkward about interrupting, except, fuck it, he’s exhausted.
“Kent Parson?” he makes it a question and watches as Parson’s attention glides over to him. “I’m Dan Erikson. My office called about setting up–”
“With Sports Illustrated,” Parson clarifies. “Yeah, no, I know.” He nods to the girls and they leave and Parson’s grin looks like a weapon. His eyes are hard, even as he asks Dan what he’d like to drink.
“Oh,” Dan says, surprised. “Oh, uh, um… anything with coffee in it? Is that a thing?”
Parson looks at him as if he doesn’t quite make sense. But he dutifully relays the request and the bartender, who assures them that he’ll bring something over to the usual table. Parson nods, snags the beer the man offers and leads Dan deeper into the bar.
At least they end up at a table tucked far enough into a corner that it is almost quiet. So Dan finally gets a moment to take out his pad of paper, take a breath, and look up.
Kent Parson’s smile has not dropped an inch.
“So,” Dan starts. He reaches a hand across the table because it’s quiet enough that introductions would probably work better now. “I’m Dan.”
Parson nods, takes his hand after a beat, and repeats “With Sport Illustrated.” His mouth twists to the side and Dan can’t tell if he’s making fun of him or inviting him to laugh with him. He realizes that he is not remotely prepared for this interview. He is used to people who blush and stammer and keep offering him baked goods like he is the celebrity because they are excited they are going to be in a magazine (!!) and thank goodness the bartender works fast because Dan gets a moment to process as he returns with coffee.
Parson doesn’t say thank you but he nods at the man and his shoulders relax for half a millisecond. Which is a thing Dan notices because he is a good reporter and so he also knows that that means Parson probably comes here often and knows the staff and if he were writing a piece like that, he would interview the bartender but–
“So,” Parson says, leaning forward a bit. Dan blinks and takes a bigger chug of coffee. He needs to get his head on right. “My agent said you do the human interest stories?”
“Yes,” Dan says, grateful for this in. “Yeah, on the back page, usually. So I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. I just have to ask a few questions. Is that alright?”
Parson’s jaw flickers, but he nods. “That’s why we’re here, right?”
Dan should start asking questions. He just…
He doesn’t know why, to him, Parson looks so scared.
“I’m afraid I really don’t know too much about hockey,” he starts, making a show of opening his notepad and writing down the date (as if he would forget). Sometimes he rambles before interviews. He finds that it makes people underestimate him. Or at least see him as a person they can talk to. “I mean, I did a piece on Jack Zimmermann a while back, but–”
He was going to fade out and then apologize for not being able to ask questions about the game, but across from him Kent Parson goes stiff and Dan sees his hand clench and then, all at once, he is suddenly perfectly relaxed. His shoulders drop and his head tilts to the side and his legs sort of spread and that smile-smirk is back.
“Oh, well, Zimmermann and I haven’t really kept in contact,” Parson says casually. He takes a drink of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking towards the door.
On the plane, Dan had read what he could about Kent Parson. Which means that he knows about Jack and Kent and twitter had provided him with the pictures of Kent at Samwell with everyone (it seemed) but Jack. And he’d found the rumors. And he’d seen Jack’s pictures. And he could bring that up now, if he wanted. He could ask about their past and visiting Samwell and the game he’d just played against Providence but that was not what this story was about.
“This story isn’t about Jack Zimmermann,” Dan says, looking directly at Parson and waiting to see how long the man will take to fully meet his eyes. It takes a beat. “It’s about you.”
“Me?” Parson repeats. “I don’t know what I’ve done that constitutes a human interest. I mean–” his hand spasms as if it wants to clench but he doesn’t let it. “I just play hockey.”
“Well, I did some digging,” Dan starts and barrels on quickly before that flash of tension can come back. “And apparently, you donate quite a bit of money to the Las Vegas pet shelter every year.”
Kent Parson blinks at him.
“… pet shelter?”
“Yes. Upwards of $20,000 some years.”
“You… you want to write about the pet shelter?”
“I’m here to ask questions,” Dan clarifies. In front of him, Kent Parson is changing somehow. “I mean, if it turns out you just do it for the tax break then–”
“No!” There’s a flash of indignation there. Simple and pure and it’s probably the first emotion Dan has been easily able to identify. Parson seems to realize his mistake. “I mean… I just… I like animals. It’s a good cause.”
“You’re a very generous person,” Dan says. Kent Parson frowns at him.
“Not really. I just… they need supplies. And they had to re-do the whole cat wing after the flood a few years ago.”
“2014?” Dan asks, writing something down. Parson looks suspicious. “That was the year you actually gave $50,000.”
“Oh… well. I-er- I don’t need it. You know. I can only spoil Kit so much–”
“Kit?”
Dan is rewarded for his questions with what seems to be the beginning of a blush rising across Parson’s cheeks. That, and the way his shoulders climb to his ears makes him look younger.
“Um. My cat,” Parson explains. “Kit. I got her at the shelter so that’s where I heard about it, you know? I got put on their mailing list and they sent out an email that year about needing money for a new cat play room so…”
“Can I see a picture?” Dan asks and suddenly he’s on familiar ground. Cat people are crazy. He’s learned this. He’s used this as an icebreaker many times before.
Cat people cannot keep their shit together when pictures of their cat come out.
Kent Parson may know this because he hesitates for a second and then looks around as if afraid someone is watching and then he pulls out his phone.
A large white cat is his lock screen. At first he holds it out across the table and then Dan says the magic words of “Oh, isn’t she beautiful” and then Kent is dragging his chair over and, yup, a different picture but still of her is his home screen and then the gallery is open and Dan had thought looking through Jack Zimmermann’s early photographs were a bit repetitive but holy shit.
“This is one where she is laying on the mouse she is looking for. See?” Kent Parson’s face has gone incredibly soft. “Look, she’s so dumb. Oh my god, she is cute though. And she’s not really dumb, actually. I think I have– yeah, I have one of her figuring out how to open the pantry door to get food. She will rip open bags of bread and eat them too. She’s horrible. Had to buy a bread basket thing. Oh wait, here is one–”
Dan doesn’t have to say much more. Occasionally he makes an appreciate grunt and mumbles something like “Oh, that’s a good one.”
For a good five minutes, Kent Parson is an open book. Pictures and stories flood out and this is going to make a great article. His voice is higher than it had been and at one point he coos at the screen and he taps Dan on the chest if he thinks one picture is particularly cute and then–
“Oy!” The voice is loud and drunk. “Kent Parson! I saw you ‘gainst the fucking–”
The man sort of stumbles and Kent Parson rises and disappears.
At least, that’s the only way Dan can describe it. The grin is suddenly back and the forced relaxation of his muscles that Dan reads as entirely false and Parson adjusts his hat and then walks over to the guy and stabilizes him, all smiles and laughter and “Yeah, man, will do. Next time.” as the guy tells him to fucking fight that asshole next game. Something about a check and not letting the big guys have all the fun? Parson nods and laughs a lot. Dan tries not to glare at Big Drunk Dummy.
The bartender arrives and drags the guy away, sternly telling him that the bathroom is not this way, with a look of apology towards Parson that gets the same nod as the coffee did. And then Kent Parson turns back to him and the moment is over, Dan knows. Parson know just looks vaguely embarrassed and uncomfortable.
And sad.
Dan doesn’t even know how he picks that up but he does.
Kent Parson is sad.
“So, yeah,” Parson says as he sits back down. “Um. That’s why I give to the animal shelter. I-uh- Kit is a pretty cool cat and so I just want other cats to be happy too. I guess.”
“Animals can be better than people,” Dan says. Parson nods.
The interview is over. Dan has more than enough to write a little one-page story. They’d promised this would be quick. He’d got his 10 minutes. He can email for a picture of Kit in the morning.
But Kent Parson looks sad. So,
“Hey, feel free to say no,” Dan says. “But, you live around here right?”
He gets a cautious nod.
“Think I could come meet the princess in person? 5-10 minutes, maybe snap a few pictures. Does she let you hold her?”
“Yeah, she does. If she’s in the mood. Yeah. Let’s– it’s right around the block.”
“You sure it’s not too much trouble?” Dan asks. It’s a big overstep, really. But Kent Parson smiles. It’s smaller than his other ones. Softer.
“Nah, no problem. Let’s do it.”
Dan ends up staying for 45 minutes. He’s exhausted by the end and has cat hair all over him and still, he knows it was worth it.
Kent Parson smiles the whole time. Smiles, not grins.
Dan appreciates the difference.