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“Bittle. It was a lucky shot.”
He leaves a speechless Bittle without another word, straightening his tie as he descends the steps outside Faber. Dad is waiting by his rental car, takes Jack’s hand in a firm handshake and offers him a ride home. Jack refuses, tells his dad to have a safe trip home and thanks for coming, but he needs the walk home to clear his head.
“You sure?” Dad sounds worried, but doesn’t press him.
“Yeah. Thanks again for coming, Dad.” Jack steps back, dropping the obvious hint. “And tell Mom—“
“I know, son. I’ll tell her.” She’d refused, as she always did, to come to Parents’ Weekend—insisted her boys have some time together. Bob Zimmermann pats his son on the back one last time, circles the car to the drivers’ side. A curt nod, a quick smile, and he sinks down into the vehicle. Jack takes a few steps backward, raising his hand in a wave as the engine turns over and the car pulls away. Then, he puts his head down to avoid the frigid wind that’s picking up, and sets off toward the Haus.
He’s halfway there when he hears his name, at least a block behind. He sighs and shifts his bag on his aching shoulder—curses himself for not accepting that ride, he forgot how fucking long it takes to get back to the Haus—and pauses, turns toward the voice. Shitty jogs to catch up with him.
“Christ, bro, you are one brisk walker,” he pants, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder (of course it had to be the one that’s bothering him, goddammit Shitty).
“Shits, it’s cold out here and I want to get home. Let’s go,” Jack goads, trying to get Shits to move.
“One second, man. Jeeeeeeesus, you’d think I’d be able to run faster considering how many speed drills we run at every practice.” Shitty’s breathing is still labored, but his hand falls from Jack’s shoulder and he strides past, prompting Jack to walk again.
“Ever think about laying off the weed?” Jack replies, with a hint of captainly seriousness in his voice.
“I see what you’re doing, brah. Never gonna happen, sorry. Anyway, why’d you skip out so fast after the game? Got a hot date you gotta get to?” Shitty cracks a smile, and Jack stares at him.
“Tough game. I’m tired,” is the curt reply.
“Yeah, tough game. But Bitty’s goal, am I right?!” His tone picks up, filling with excitement.
Jack is quiet, so Shitty nudges his ribs with an elbow as they step into a crosswalk. “Dude, I know you’re a little pissy ‘cause it wasn’t you who scored the game-winner, but—“
“He took the shot with his eyes closed, Shits,” Jack groans, and his friend laughs in response.
“Eyes closed? Claaaassic Bits.”
“Yeah, classic Bittle, always getting lucky,” Jack mutters.
That shuts Shitty up, though Jack was expecting an angry response. It’s about another block before he hazards to look over, and Shitty’s eyebrows are furrowed, his hands clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
Jack sighs. “What? Lay it on me.”
“Y’know, I know you’ve got all your superiority complexes and shit, but Jesus, bro, Bittle’s trying. Don’t you see how much that kid looks up to you?” Jack scoffs, warranting a backhanded slap to the chest. “Seriously, dude. Did you at least congratulate him on his first goal? Because that little bastard is gonna do at least two kegsters later tonight, if I have anything to say about it.”
Jack stares at his feet, focusing on their movement, one in front of the other. Shitty groans obnoxiously.
“You did NOT, Zimmermann. What the fuck did you say to him?”
“I told him the truth,” Jack says, somewhat defensively, but a hint of shame creeps in there somewhere.
“Oh, Christ, you’re an unforgivable asshole sometimes,” Shitty complains as they come up the sidewalk to the Haus. He unlocks the door and steps over the threshold, Jack on his heels. A couple of the guys are back already, setting up for the postgame party, and Jack thinks better of dropping his bag by the door, instead carrying it up the stairs. Shitty follows him upstairs and into his room, flopping onto Jack’s bed.
“You know you’ve gotta apologize, right?”
“Shut up, Shits.”
“I’m serious! All you gotta say is ‘I’m sorry, Bittle’ and that’s it. Quick and painless, like ripping off a Band-Aid.” Jack rolls his eyes at the metaphor; Shitty always uses it, especially with the frogs, and Jack thinks it’s idiotic. Ripping off a Band-Aid might be quick and less painful than the alternative, but it sure as shit isn’t painless.
“Yeah, whatever,” Jack responds and drapes his suit jacket over his desk chair, praying for Shitty to just leave. Thankfully, the guy gets the hint and rolls off the mattress, making his way to the door.
“Want me to send a lady up later?” There’s no doubt Shitty is waggling his eyebrows, and Jack hears the metallic crack of a pop tab opening—where did Shitty get a beer already?—but he doesn’t turn around.
“No thanks. Just leave me alone, dude.” Jack stares at his fingers splayed out across his desk, even after the door clicks shut. He stays there for a while, even after the party mix goes on and the music grows steadily louder, cheers erupting every so often after a successful keg stand.
It’s another few days before Jack can bring himself to apologize to Bittle—not like he could find him anyway; the kid seems to be avoiding him like the plague. He comes for team breakfast, sits as far away from Jack as possible without making it totally obvious that he doesn’t want to be around him at all. He eats quickly, makes an exit as soon as possible; on Tuesday he even gets up so quickly he nearly knocks Holster’s head into his plate. If he’s at the Haus when Jack returns from class, he fumbles for an excuse and scurries out the door. It’s impossible for the guys not to notice, and every time someone asks “What’s up with Bitty?”, Shitty gives Jack a pointed look and Jack can feel his face reddening under his friend’s gaze.
On Thursday morning, Jack corners Bittle before he can leave after breakfast.
“Bittle, I need to talk to you.”
“Oh, h-hey Jack, what’s going on?” Bittle sounds nervous, like a kid awaiting his parents’ punishment, and Jack feels like a complete asshole, his heart sinking.
“I just—‘m sorry for what I said the other night,” he blurts, then takes a breath and forces himself to slow down, make sure Bitty knows he’s sincere. “It was a lucky shot, but it was still—“ he can’t bring himself to say it was a good goal, so instead he goes for, “a game winner.” And Bittle, God bless him, smiles about half a mile wide.
“Thanks, Jack,” he replies with relief in his voice.
“Now come on back in and have some more food. You still need to bulk up so you don’t get snapped in half on the ice.” He grins, and Bittle rolls his eyes, but follows right on his heels back to the breakfast table.