Fics like at least we stole the show

One of them would go to the draft lottery winning Aces and one of them would go to the Leafs and they’d meet twice a year barring any injuries because God knows they wouldn’t be sent down to the minors. Sending Kent Parson or Jack Zimmermann down to the minors would be like sending your prize stallion out to the stables when everyone paid to see a fucking show. They’d insert feline hissing noises into the broadcast and caption it “Catfight,” they’d compare their game-day suits and judge who was hotter (not on like, Hockey Night in Canada, but on the dudebro hockey blogs that Kent pretends she doesn’t read). Kent would hate it, but accept it, because it would all mean being on the ice with Zimms again. She’d skate circles around Jack in the warm ups, bucket-less with her hair and chirps flowing and Jack? Jack would smile, helmet on, the picture of austerity save the glimmer of a smirk in her eyes. They’d had limited edition Barbies made, for fuck’s sake. Kent’s got one in a box on her mantle. The doll has its own hockey stick but the skates are high heeled. You win some, you lose more.

Fics like at least we stole the show

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