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Kent loses track of the puck for a moment, it's moving so fast. Then Jack's jerking, slipping backward, and red splatters the ice.
His heart jumps to his throat and a moment later he realizes he’s jumped to his feet, reaching toward his 82 inch LG like he'll be able to touch Jack, get a real look at him, see and feel the damage.
Instead, he sits back down, hands clenched in fists on his thighs as he waits for the cameras to change angles and show Jack's face.
They don't.
For one, they're shooting mostly from behind or from his right side, and for two, Jack's hand and the towel from his trainer are in the way. It's frustrating as hell and it's all Kent can do not to blow up Jack's phone with texts once he disappears down that tunnel.
It was bad enough when Jack made that amazing shot his very first game, keeping back the urge to text him a double text of epic proportions, full of congratulatory praise—now he's barely into the pre-season and he's injured bad enough that he's out for the rest of the game, with no word from the commentators what's going on.
Kent just wants to know if Jack's okay, and he's not allowed to ask.
Or, well. He is. Kent can ask. But like every text he's sent or call he's made since that stupid college party, Jack won't reply. If he didn't know better, he'd wonder if something weird is happening with his texts and they aren't getting received. But he does know better.
Is it possible to get ghosted when your relationship ended several years ago to the tune of hospitalization and bitter jealousy? When you have to show up unannounced just to not be ignored?
Kent isn't sure, and what's more, the semi-confirmed rumors (by Jack himself, on fucking Falcs TV) of Jack dating someone are like a dull spike through the gut. Another thing he's not allowed to ask about.
It takes until the next morning before sports news sources start reporting the number of stitches and reassuring fans that he'll be back on the ice maybe even by the next game, and Kent can finally breathe again. He could also sleep now, but too late on that one—there's conditioning at 11 and despite Kit's attempts to pin him down by using him as her bed, he's wearing the C and he won't be getting away with skipping out on weights day.
He spends another half hour after the last google search pulling his phone from his pocket, staring at the screen, and putting it back before he finally types out a message.
Glad you're okay bro, he writes, staring at it blankly, this feeling like he's evaporating fizzling in waves over his skin.
Kit butts his chin with her silky little cheek.
Kent hits backspace and closes out his texts, hesitating before he shoves the phone back in his pocket.
The phone's sitting on his couch cushion, screen dark, as he loads up his bag and slips out of his apartment.