about Kent and Jack coming out like this:
They didn’t start it. Five men (boys) at a table, somewhere in a state between the Great Lakes and the Rockies, got together after a game and decided they were tired of hiding anymore
An old flame of Kent’s texts him not really thinking that the brightest star in the sky will fall down if five lesser meteors want to self-destruct in the name of pride, but they ask him anyway if he wants to join them.
He brings Jack with him. There are ten of them by the time they’re ready. (There were almost eleven, but not everyone holds onto the resolve to be the first.)
They give the press conference together, a double rank of tables and microphones, an overwhelming glut of stories and identities. Even cut short, the question-and-answer session drags on forever.
Someone asks, “So, are any of you seeing each other?” An awkward silence
Jack jumps into the breach with pre-prepared filler. “I couldn’t imagine dating another NHL player. My boyfriend did NCAA my first two years in the league, and our schedules were so hard to match up. This job is so intense. I think NHL partners, girlfriends and boyfriends, put up with so much. We don’t appreciate them enough.”
A reporter says, jokingly, “So you’re not dating Kent?”
“No,” Jack says solemnly, but he twists a smile sideways down the table. “In fact, I guarantee that Parse will be single for at least ten minutes after this press conference, and anyone interested should call his private cell at one, seven oh two–”
Kent laughs, covers his face. The player sitting next to Jack jumps on him, covers his mouth and wrestles him into silence. Everyone cracks up, breaking up the tension of the room.
Jack and Kent hug afterwards, discharging the anxiety that gathers on them like static electricity.
“I can’t believe we just–” Kent breathes.
Jack kisses his cheek firmly. “We’ll be fine. Go break some hearts, Kenny. Call me, okay?”
And they’re okay. They’re really okay.
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