Chapter Text
(c) Contractor will attend the Boston Pride Parade, dated June 8, 2019. Contractor will document players before and during the Pride event and festivities. Parade route and total walking expected at greater than 5 miles. Water and transportation will be provided. Ideal photos will include candids of players interacting with fans and attendees.
Location: Boston, Copley Square
Attire: Outdoors, sun expected
Arrival time: 9:00am
Minimum hours required: 6
Jack doesn’t make it to Pride without everyone else catching on to the whole Bittle thing.
Lardo: Bitty keeps asking about you. 👀
He doesn’t respond fast enough, apparently. A moment later, his phone chimes again, another familiar name appearing on the screen.
Shitty: What’s this I hear about Bittle?
Jack puts them in a group chat to respond, because he’s always been told it’s best to address rumors upfront. Not that Jack has a history of heeding that advice but hey–here’s to turning over a new leaf.
Jack: He’s nice. We’ve been emailing.
Shitty: !!!
The conversation continues, and Jack manages to divert it away from Eric eventually to talk about the upcoming Pride March. Lardo starts talking about how disorganized the logistics have been for the event, and once Jack gets Shitty talking about the ethicality of corporate Pride sponsorships, he’s successfully managed to divert the conversation away from him and Eric.
He doesn’t want to say too much, or too little, and he doesn’t know how to describe the daily emails they’ve been exchanging. He doesn’t tell them that he tried to make Eric’s last recipe and ended up calling him for help after several desperate attempts to get his popovers to rise. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that Eric is working on a video about the perfect PB&J, which was always Jack’s pregame snack, because he mentioned that offhandedly. He doesn’t mention that he’s started sending Eric texts of photos he takes throughout the day, just to see his exclamation point reactions.
The thing is, it’s just easy to carry a conversation with Eric. It’s different. Special.
But that’s too much to share. Everything still feels too new and fragile and delicate, and Jack is trying to walk the line of it all. It’s not like he’s seen Eric since their last shoot. Surely there’s nothing to report otherwise.
-
Jack meets Lardo and the rest of the team at the Bruins training facility to catch a bus to the parade. Downtown is a zoo, and it takes him half an hour to crawl from his apartment to the practice facility. The whole way, it watches traffic pass in resolute silence, willing himself not to freak out about the whole situation.
Including his decision to show up with a pink, blue, and purple bisexual flag pin on his shirt.
In the end, it wasn’t Shitty, or Lardo, or Eric that pushed him over the edge to wear it.
The night before, he had a conversation with his dad , chatting in easy Quebecois on the balcony. Jack mentioned he was a few episodes behind in the latest docu-series they were watching, and his dad made a joke about hockey drawing him back out of his shell. And in some ways, it was true, but in other ways, he was really behind because he was staying up late to brainstorm new ways Eric could take photos of his baking.
The sun was setting over the harbor when Jack said something.
“I think I met someone,” he tells his dad, voice steady. A boat sails by in the distance, oblivious of the momentary silence on the line. He wrings his hands for a moment, tracing the calluses on his fingertips.
“Oh?” His dad says, voice lifting. He sounds interested, sincere, but not shocked. In the back of his head, Jack can see his dad’s brows raise in his head.
“He’s a Bruins player.”
Jack allows the pronouns to sit in the airwaves for a moment before he clears his throat. “ Papa?”
“Jack,” Bad Bob says down the line, voice serious. Jack feels a momentary strike of fear run through his chest. He’s never explicitly bridged the gap about his sexuality with his parents – and while he’s sure they made some educated guesses about him and Kent, the only people Jack’s really come out to other than his therapist have been Shitty and Lardo. And now Eric, of course. “I want you to first know that your mother and I are so proud of you. And we love you so much.” He takes a breath, voice softening. “Tell me about him?”
What is there to say? Eric is enigmatic, kind, cheerful, and an amazing player. He keeps Jack talking when he doesn’t know what to say next, and always has a GIF for whatever they’re talking about. He’s only known him for a handful of weeks, but he’s starting to feel like something Jack could be good at.
“ Crisse. It’s Bittle.”
His dad hums, like he’s not surprised at all, and covers it up well with a cough. In the background, Jack hears his mom’s voice, asking Bob something. Alicia has always been known for eavesdropping, and now appears to be no exception. Bob excuses himself, and then puts Jack on speakerphone.
“Are you together?” Alicia asks, somehow tracking the conversation Jack was sure she had no context to.
But like he’s said – unless it’s the puck, Jack’s been known to miss things right in front of him.
“No,” he says hastily. “We’re just talking. We’re just friends.”
“Ah,” Bob chuckles. “I remember when your mom and I were just friends . And she was sneaking out of my apar—ow, what was that for, eh?” Jack hears his mom swat at him.
Her voice comes through the line a moment later. “Jack, sweetheart. You’re talking? It’s that sweet Bruins player you were all telling me about?”
“Just talking,” Jack repeats, teeth grit.
“Okay,” Alicia says gently. “Do you want it to be more than ‘just talking?’”
Yes.
Yes , Jack does. He likes talking to Eric, and wants to get to know him better. He thinks he’s hot, and funny, and witty in ways that Jack can’t figure out how to be. But the crazy thing is – he thinks Jack’s funny too. He gets his dry sense of humor, doesn’t shy away from the ugly of it all, signs his messages off with Bitty , like Jack has earned the privilege to know him that intimately. And that’s the thing – Eric is letting him into his world, and Jack wants to reciprocate that, except he’s scared to be that much in the public face.
He says all of this, in some arraignment of words, to which his mom counters:
“You don’t have to come out to the world yet, Jack. You can just see what you want this to be.”
He turns away from the harbor. There, printed on his desk, are the photos of Bittle he’s taken over the last two events. Bittle, posed with people, Bittle, candid on the ice, Bittle in the moments he isn’t looking and all the times he is.
“I think I want this to be something, though.”
“When do you see him next?”
Jack eyes the pile of photography gear packed by the front door. “Tomorrow. Boston Pride. I’m working though, I can’t make a move.”
“What does your uncle always say?” Bob teases across the line, and Jack rolls his eyes. He steps inside and locks the patio door behind him.
“Whatever you choose to do, Jack, we’re proud of you.” Alicia reminds him in the interim.
And so what, Jack is in his thirties, but he still feels something unknot inside his chest at his mom’s words.
Long after they hang up the phone, Jack lays in his apartment and thinks about everything he needs to do before he leaves the next morning: the remnants of anxiety from the day. And the word Pride , running like a loop in the back of his mind, a specter that Jack has never been quite willing to reach out and grasp.
Eric is the first one to notice the pin, when he makes it to the stadium.
“Jack!” He cheers, jogging up to greet him in the parking lot when Jack steps up to the bus, hauling a backpack full of gear behind him. “Nice,” he says, tapping the pin. Bitty himself is in a Bruins pride tank top, a pair of rainbow sunglasses, and a series of trans flag temporary tattoos on his arms. Jack traces the neat lines of Eric’s waist with his eyes before he manages to rip his attention away and back onto the conversation in front of him.
“Hey, Bittle.” Jack greets him, and Eric pulls him into a hug. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the sweet smell of Eric’s cologne and the way he has to stoop just slightly to meet his level. When Jack pulls back, he lifts his camera and snaps a photo before Eric can fully realize what he’s doing, catching him in a half-candid grin.
“You can call me Bitty, you know.” Eric – Bitty – says. He gestures to the van. “We’re still waiting on a few people, but I brought cookies. C’mon.”
The whole team won’t be joining – it’s midway through off-season, after all, and this was an optional drop-by and media stop, as with the rest of the Pride campaign. But, as Bitty tells him as Jack tries a heavenly peanut-butter-marshmallow cookie, almost every player on the team has shown up to at least one of the events, and the ones that were out of the country or couldn’t join have all reached out.
The Bruins are a special team this year, especially under Bitty, and Jack tells him that. Bitty’s cheeks color under the praise, and Jack snaps a photo. And then another one of Lardo carrying a box of Bruins Pride swag out of the back of her car, Shitty following along in an absolutely hideous striped rainbow shirt, completely unbuttoned.
It means something that Bitty noticed. Jack hears his parents’ words in his head, telling him to just let this happen however he wants it to.
Jack lifts the lens again. It’s easier to process the emotions through his camera, just like how everything felt easier on the ice. He knows what he wants, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it.
It feels like fate that his viewfinder finds Eric first.
-
There’s thirteen players and staff total, by the time they get everyone checked in and into the van. Bitty and Jack were among the first people to get to the Bruins facility, and the rest of the group trickles in various shades of punctuality.
Bitty takes the AUX cord when they get on the bus and proceeds to play a dizzying concoction of Top 50 hits Jack barely recognizes. By the time they hop out, it’s even warmer, and Jack flushes from the heat, his general anxiety about the situation, and his proximity to Bitty singing along to Ariana Grande.
“Hey,” someone says from behind Jack. He turns to see Shitty, grinning and holding his arms out. “Don’t think I didn’t notice this, brah.” Shitty points to his pin. “Proud of you.”
Jack can’t help but feel a sneaking suspicion he knows what Shitty is going to suggest next. He can’t help but feel like he dodged some kind of bullet by line of Shitty’s attorney questioning.
The team is led through the backstage and the preparation area, where they’re greeted by a worried looking producer in a headset. She points them in the direction of their float, decorated in collaboration with a local LGBT organization, and hop on board.
And then they’re off.
Jack’s snapping photos from every angle as half of the Bruins’ starting line waving out of the bed of a glorified flatbed truck, tossing things into the crowd and waving. Bitty spends most of it off the float, often joined by the two D-men he saw bickering during their pickup game, and Tater, who seems to have made it his goal to hand out as many rainbow condoms as possible.
On the other hand, Bitty is running from person to person, shaking people’s hands and appearing to attempt to break the world record for number of selfies taken during a five-kilometer route.
It moves so fast that Jack barely has time to think while he’s on his feet. There’s music, and dancing, and people yelling, but Jack is in the zone . He’s firing away rapidly, taking photos of everyone, stripes of rainbow and splashes of color in every frame. By the time they make it to the end of the route, it’s all turned into one long blitz of light, sound, and swapping batteries on his cameras. He’s dripping sweat, and his legs are shaking with the sustained effort of walking backwards to shoot for so long. The entire team looks to be slightly in shambles -- Tater might even be drunk – but everyone is glowing with the aura of people who have gotten to do something very special.
The streets are closed following the parade, and there’s still people milling in every direction, all grinning and laughing. No one looks at Jack twice. Not one person points out his pin, or his camera, or his famous parents that they don’t realize he has. Right now, he’s just another person in the community, taking part in a celebration with the rest of a city and a sport Jack was starting to fear he’d never really be able to love again. Jack loses Bitty and the rest of the Bruins in the midst of the end of it all – he’s done his job, got photos of the team – and promises to meet Shitty and Lardo back at the van shortly. He wanders around the block, taking photos of the festivities and thinking.
In the last month, there’s been one thing that’s started to change his perception on everything.
There’s a certain blonde in all his photos, glimmering in the sunlight.
It hits him, all of a sudden, like a rhinoceros attack.
The common denominator – in the last month, in all his photos, in the way his life has started finally feeling like something worth living again – was Bitty .
He can’t let him go. Jack’s whole body feels like it’s been suddenly doused in cold water – despite the sweat and the humidity, it strikes him with such clarity it can only be described as ice . He needs to find Bitty.
Jack weaves his way back toward the team van, where everyone who wanted a ride back to the stadium was due to meet. No one is there – unsurprisingly, Lardo warned him that most of the team was planning to stay in the city after the parade, and she doesn’t seem to be back yet.
He pulls out his phone, realizing that he doesn’t actually have Bitty’s number. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he did have it: “Hey Bitty! Realized I can’t let myself let this go without telling you how I really feel, mind breaking up the party to come talk to me in an empty staging area?”
He’s trying to calculate the likelihood of Bitty checking his email in the next twenty minutes when a pair of footsteps come rounding the corner. Jack turns and –
Oh.
Oh.
It’s Bitty, blonde hair flying in every direction as he jogs toward Jack.
“Jack,” Bitty pants, like a figment of Jack’s imagination, conjured in front of him. Jack faintly wonders if he should pinch himself. “ Goodness , I was worried you already left. I just saw Shitty and Lardo and they asked me where you were, and they looked shocked, and I realized that I haven’t been entirely honest.”
God. Figments of Jack’s worst imagination flit through his mind. Bitty’s had a boyfriend this entire time. He doesn’t feel this way at all and Jack talking to him has been weirding him out. He lifts a hand to stop Bitty, about to apologize for it all, but Bitty keeps going.
“I like you, Jack Zimmermann. I’ve liked you since I first met you, and you had the audacity to be charming and interesting and a fantastic photographer. And then I liked you when I asked Lardo about you and made her promise not to tell. And I thought you hated me when we first started emailing, because Lord, you need to learn to use an exclamation point! But that’s besides the point – I liked talking to you about baking, and photography, and hockey, and I really do like you.”
His eyes are wide, blazing into Jack’s with a glow that can only be described as earnest .
“And I totally understand if you’re not into me, or want to be in the public eye, or anything. I just couldn’t go without saying something, especially because…” Bitty gestures to the two of them. “It’s Pride, and everything.”
And oh, wow. Bitty is standing in front of him, confessing his feelings and looking a little bit desperate, and Jack never wants to see him look like he’s lost ever again.
He closes the space between them in a stride, reaching his right hand to cup Bitty’s jaw when he pulls their lips together. Their bodies crash into each other, Bitty’s hand landing fisted in Jack’s shirt and Jack’s other hand reaching around to press into the small of his back. He pulls Bitty close to him in the kiss, and Bitty leans in, lashes fluttering when they pull apart.
“Bitty.” Jack says, sure as anything. “That’s how I feel.”
Bitty doesn’t answer – just reaches up with a gasp and pulls them back together. Jack tightens his grip, leaning back into the kiss and changing the angle between them.
It’s magic when he winds a hand through Bitty’s hair, cradling the back of his head in his palm as he tried to close the gap between them. Bitty moans into the kiss softly, sending sparks through Jack’s body. He presses closer, desperate for more, and then–
“Oh – oh fuck !”
Jack and Bitty jump apart.
Shitty stands there, wide-eyed. A moment later, Lardo turns the corner and takes in the scene, Jack standing a foot away from Bitty with his hands resolutely shoved in the pockets of his jeans, Bitty blushing in front of him.
“You owe me,” is all Lardo says, knocking a fist into Shitty’s shoulder. “Congratulations, you two. Let it be said that I am the best matchmaker of all time, and also, I still want my photos by the end of the week.” She winks at Jack, squeezing Bitty’s shoulder as she passes. “Go enjoy this.”
-
In the end, the photos come far earlier than the end of the week. Jack and Bitty take the van home with a few more stragglers, and end up back in the Bruins parking lot as the sun begins to set.
“This might be forward of me,” Jack offers after Bitty finishes helping him load his gear in the back of his car. “But if you wanted to come back to mine, we could pick up dinner and go through the photos?”
The corners of Bitty’s lips curl into a smile.
“I would like that very much, honey.”