Chapter Text
Scrolling through the history of his twitter, Bitty found himself pressing his smile into the pillow. From the first tweet from Jack, to the very last message he’d received.
@jayzimmsNHL- @omgbittybakes: doubt they’ll be good as urs but I’ll give it a try. #omgcupcakes
@jayzimmsNHL- I’m on my way. I miss you.
Bitty felt the bed shift behind him. A warm arm snaked round his waist, hitching him close. A nose pressed into the back of his neck, and he felt the vibrations from a sleepy murmur. Jack wasn’t awake, he knew, but he was attuned to Bitty’s presence like they’d been together for years instead of months.
Tomorrow Jack was playing for the cup. Tomorrow Jack would face off with the Rangers on his healed shoulder, for the final game in the playoffs. Jack had a ring already, and his name on the Stanley Cup. Both teams were playing fiercely, and the game would determine who was going to take it home.
Bitty had watched old games, had seen Jack intense, even with his win it had seemed he wasn’t as happy as he might have been. Now Bitty thought, even if Jack didn’t take the cup home, he might still have a smile. He might still be proud of his progress.
He wasn’t easy to get along with during the playoffs. He’d warned Bitty, and Bitty had taken him seriously. But he never slacked-off with his signing tutor—they were almost exclusively voice-off now when Bitty was with him, and when Jack’s attitude got out of hand, he was quick to apologise.
Bitty was distracted enough during this season. His recovery went well, but not without set-backs. He could breathe on his own, without the constant treatments, without the vests or the nebuliser, or the oxygen. It was an adjustment, and he lived in constant fear that one day his body would just stop accepting his new lungs.
His digestive system took a hit, and the infection spread to his heart which led to all of December spent in hospital. Jack spent the last two nights of Hanukkah with him there. They lit electric candles, Jack taught him the prayer, and Bitty turned up his hearing aids all the way so he could hear Jack’s soft voice singing in Hebrew.
‘Bilingual,’ Bitty signed, then spelt the word because Jack hadn’t learnt that one yet.
Jack laughed. ‘I only know a little HEBREW. The French though…”
‘QUEBECOIS,’ Bitty chirped, and Jack had laughed, tackling him back to the bed—gently, minding all his tubes and IV—and kissed him slow and soft and sweet.
At the end of December, Bitty was released, and went home with his mother to watch Jack’s games on TV. They were on a roadie which left Bitty with short skype conversations and text messages. But Jack did what he could to make sure Bitty knew he hadn’t been forgotten.
Dawn was cresting over the horizon. Bitty could see the sky going lighter through the space in Jack’s curtains. Later, Jack would get up and go for a run, he would eat his pre-game breakfast, shower, dress, then head to meet the team. Bitty would hang back until Rans and Holster arrived. They’d meet up with Shitty and Lardo, sit in the family section, and cheer Jack on for this game as loud as they could.
But now. For now. Jack was his.
Bitty slid his phone onto the nightstand and twisted in Jack’s arm. Jack was asleep would remain so until his alarm went off. When Bitty first slept over as Jack’s official boyfriend, he played a game, trying to see what would get Jack up. Jack was responsive to kisses, fingers in his hair, tickles behind the ear, but he didn’t wake until his phone began to chime.
So Bitty knew he didn’t have to worry now. He could lay here and appreciate the wonder that was Jack Zimmerman, and the wonder that was falling so damn hard, and so damn fast for this man. He brushed the back of his knuckles along Jack’s sharp cheekbone, smiling when Jack let out a puff of hair, and nuzzled in closer.
Bitty wrapped his arms tight round Jack, shuffling downward until he could press the side of his face against Jack’s chest. If he pressed hard enough, he could feel the gentle, slow, thrumming beat of Jack’s heart. He loved him. He loved him so damn much. He wanted this, needed this. He didn’t know what he’d done to get so lucky. Maybe, for all the shit the Universe had sent his way since the day he was born, maybe it was finally trying to make up for it.
Let me have this. Let me have a life as long as I can, with him, Bitty begged quietly into the soft light of the morning.
Bitty only knew the alarm was going off when he felt warm lips pressing kisses along his forehead, over his temple, a nibble on his earlobe. A hand snaking between them, Bitty’s head turning up, and a warm mouth capturing his own.
***
Bitty had been to games before, but this…the energy, the intense spirit. He was behind the glass where the team was sat, and Bitty was wedged between Shitty, and Bad Bob Zimmermann. He hadn’t realised Jack’s parents were coming—Jack assumed Bitty had just known they’d be there, and Bitty hadn’t even really thought about the fact that Jack’s father was a Hockey Legend, and his nerves shot from about a ten to a hundred when he saw the smiling face of a man Jack was sure to look like in thirty years.
To Bitty’s utmost and extreme surprise, Bob raised his hands and signed, ‘Hi! Nice to meet you.’
Bitty stared, then remembered his manners because he was a good, southern boy, and quickly returned the greeting.
Bob laughed and signed, ‘Sorry, I’m learning. Only 2 weeks along.’
Bitty waved his hand dismissively and leant in. “It’s no worries, Mr uh…Bad Bob uh…Bad…Mr… Jack’s dad.”
Bob chuckled and squeezed Bitty’s shoulder before spelling, ‘BOB. JUST BOB.’
Bitty laughed, and felt his shoulders unclench. He met Alicia shortly after, and Shitty quickly leapt in to function as terp, though Bob and Alicia both insisted on signing as much as they could. Bitty felt warm, he realised Jack had talked about him, told his parents about him. Whatever reservations Bitty might have been holding in the recesses of his mind, they were gone.
He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, of course. The press were everywhere, Bitty’s face appearing on the jumbotron more than not thanks to his proximity to Bob—who at one point was snatched away for guest commentating. Bitty missed the presence until the teams took the ice. Just as Jack skated by, stopping to wave and wink in Bitty’s direction, a new face filled Bob’s seat, and Bitty turned to see Kent.
‘What’s up?’ Kent signed.
Bitty grinned and elbowed Kent. ‘When did you get here?’
‘Hour ago. Took me forever to get a cab. Thought I was going to miss it.’
When Bitty learnt that not only half the Falconers, but also Kent, had hired on ASL tutors, he wasn’t sure what to do with the information. Half of him wanted to tell Jack not to bother—there was a chance he wasn’t going to live long enough for it to matter, anyway. But the bigger part of him wanted it, desperately. Bitty had spent most of his life struggling to fit in a hearing world, and suddenly multi-millionaire, professional athletes were following his vlog, following him on twitter, and learning his language.
When he’d brought it up to Kent, Kent just rolled his eyes and elbowed him. ‘We learnt Russian for Tater. You think we won’t learn this for you?’
Bitty flushed, and didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just said nothing at all.
He was grateful to see Kent there. It was nice having Shitty and Lardo, but Kent more than anything understood the pressure the game was taking on his significant other. Tater handled the pressure better than Jack, but it was obvious he was feeling it. The few times Bitty had seen Tater in the corridors or at practise, his eyes looked dimmer, his smile was tighter.
Bitty made sure to ply them all with baked goods, as often as he could manage it, but really, they just needed to get through tonight. Whatever would happen would happen. They would win or lose, and then Bitty would have the rest of the summer with Jack.
It made all the pain, all the surgery, all the recovery, completely worth it.
Lights flashed, and then dimmed. The game was going to begin shortly, and Bitty realised that his heart was in his throat.
***
Jack had long-since learnt to deal with playoff nerves. He’d already won a cup, and losing would be disappointing, but it had ceased to be the most important thing. The most important things were sitting in the stands, watching him as they started their pre-game warm-ups.
The most important things were smiling and waving—Shitty jumping up on his seat, Lardo rolling her eyes, his mother winking, Kent flirting with Tater across the ice.
And Bitty.
Eric Bittle. Who was staring. And smiling. And blushing.
Eric Bittle, who was holding up a hand, curling his middle and ring finger into his palm to sign, ‘I love you.’
Through his gloves, Jack did the sign as best as he could, then pressed his padded fingers to his lips, then out to Eric. Then he reached his team. He saw the look Tater was giving him, but he puffed out his chest and gave them the best pep-talk he could manage.
The game after that, was absolute madness.
Sixty seconds on the clock, and they were tied. The Bruins had their reserve goalie out, and everyone was exhausted. Jack couldn’t seem to keep the puck, and his collarbone break—though healed—was aching fiercely. But he looked over and saw Bitty in the stands, clinging to his father’s arm, watching with his wide dark eyes.
And it didn’t matter if he won, but he still sent the prayer up anyway. ‘Let me get this. For him.’
It was a wild, slap-shot. It probably shouldn’t have gone in. He’d hit it glove-side, and the guy had been stopping shots for the last nineteen minutes.
Only somehow—and maybe it was a miracle, and maybe it wasn’t—it sailed in.
The screams were overwhelming. He could feel them in his chest. He was tackled to the boards, then onto the ice. Tater was hugging Snowy, sobbing. There was still twenty seconds on the clock, but it didn’t matter. Tater took the face-off, got the puck to Jack, and he ran the clock out.
Everything felt surreal after that. They shook the Bruins’ hands, and then the next thing Jack knew, he had strong, small arms around him. Big, dark eyes staring, and he lifted Bitty by the waist with his sweaty hands, Bitty’s feet perching on his skates, and he pushed Bitty against the boards and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.
Camera flashes were everywhere, people were singing, and crying, and cheering, and Jack swore nothing could compare to this. It wasn’t the feeling of winning, it was the feeling of this. When Bitty’s hand curled into a fist in his jersey over his heart, and used his other hand to drag Jack in, and he whispered with that sweet, southern drawl right in Jack’s ear, “Je t’aime,” Jack knew it was all over for him.
He pulled back, curling his middle and ring finger into his palm. ‘I love you,’ he mouthed along with it. ‘I love you. Forever.’
Bitty was laughing and surging up to kiss Jack again.
Who knew what the future would hold—and really it didn’t matter. So long as he had this. So long as it was Jack and Bitty, and looking into those dark, imploring eyes, Jack was certain that whatever miracles there were in life, they belonged to them both.