Archive of Our Own

Jack closed the door with a quiet click and tossed his keys in the bowl. They clinked against the ceramic -- they were the only keys in there, so Bittle was probably out. He’d said he was going to watch the game at a bar with friends.

It was better for Jack to be alone tonight anyway.

It had been a hard loss, and he just wanted to get something to eat and go to sleep.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Bittle’s bedroom. The voice was deeper than Bittle’s, a Cuban accent rather than a Georgia drawl, as the voice heaped praise on Bittle’s mouth.

So. Not alone. Apparently Bittle had been in too much of a hurry to drop his his keys in the bowl on the way to his bedroom, which meant he would be searching his room for them frantically before he had to leave for work in the morning.

If Jack had told him once, he’d told him a thousand times: Just put the keys in the bowl every time you come in. That way they’re never lost.

Bittle had taken to mimicking him every time he gave that advice, mouthing the words right along with him. Still, Bittle put his keys in the bowl. Most of the time.

By the time Jack was in his own room with the door closed, the shouts from Jaime had crescendoed and quieted. Then he started up again, but this time it sounded like he was urging Bittle on. Of course Bittle look care of his partner (hook-up? lover? boyfriend?) first. Bittle always took care of everyone. Really, he should find someone who would put his pleasure first. At least Jaime seemed to want to reciprocate.

Jack turned on the white noise machine that sat on his bedside table so he wouldn’t have to listen anymore.

It wasn’t really anything new, Bittle finding guys to hook up with. Shitty explained it to Jack: Bittle had been closeted the whole time he lived in Georgia, had been made to feel like he was wrong down to his very bones, and once he moved north, into cities that wore their welcome of LGBT people as a badge of honor, he was doing more than making up for lost time -- he was declaring that he was proud to be who he was, and taking pleasure in something that his early tormentors promised would only bring him pain.

But Bittle hadn’t started cutting a swath through the eligible men of Samwell as soon as he set foot on campus, or even as soon as he came out to the team and had the formidable wingman skills of Ransom and Holster at his disposal. He’d been cautious at first, maybe a little tentative, until nearly the end of Jack’s senior year.

There had been a kegster (of course there had) and when Jack walked through the living room, he’d seen Bittle shimmying and swaying in the middle of a crowd of people. His tiny shorts and crop top put acres of golden skin on display, and he shimmered with sweat and -- probably -- body glitter.

Bittle had looked happy enough, even if he was dancing by himself rather than with a partner. Jack’s eyes swept the room once; he counted at least three guys eyeing Bittle up, and saw one approach and try to insert himself in Bittle’s space. Bittle spun and danced away.

If Jack stopped to watch for a few minutes more, well, he was just being responsible. Checking on the party to make sure trouble wasn’t about to break out.

Jack had gone upstairs and started a documentary on Netflix. He’d lost track of the time, maybe even dozed a bit on his bed, when he heard a bump against the outside wall. No one should be out in the Reading Room now -- the rest of the Haus residents were downstairs letting off steam, and the only way to the porch roof was through bedroom windows or climbing the pillars. Besides, even Shitty agreed that bringing guests out there when almost everyone had been drinking was a Bad Idea.

Jack threw his window sash up and leaned out, already drawing a deep breath to read the riot act to whoever was there. Probably football players. Or maybe LAX bros, trying to get into the bedrooms and do mischief.

But it wasn’t. It was Bittle, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, back against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and wrapped around his ankles.

“Bittle,” Jack said, and stopped. Bittle had his own window that opened onto the roof. He could go out whenever he wanted, and it wasn’t Jack’s place to tell him off. He wasn’t Bittle’s captain anymore.

But then Bittle was looking at Jack, dark eyes enormous in his pale face.

“You shouldn’t be out here if you’re drunk,” Jack finally said.

“‘M not that drunk,” Bittle said. “And I’m not gonna fall off sitting right here.”

“Still,” Jack said, pulling himself through the window.

“You gonna come and keep me safe?” Bittle asked.

“Okay,” Jack agreed, settling next to him. “Why are you up here anyway? You’re usually the life of the party. Something happen?”

Bittle was silent for long enough that Jack thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Finally he snorted.

“Nope,” he said. “Nothing at all. That’s kind of the problem. I mean, I see Ransom and Holster disappear with two girls -- together even -- and then come back, and Chowder’s got Farmer, and there are people making out on that awful couch ...”

Bittle shuddered.

Jack was confused -- surely by this time the idea of people hooking up at a kegster wasn’t surprising?

“And I just keep dancing by myself,” Bittle said, with a bitter little laugh.

“I’m sure if you wanted to --” Jack started.

“I know, I know,” Bittle groaned. “I know I could find someone to dance with if I wanted. Or -- you know. But none of them are right.”

“Right about what?” Jack asked.

“Not right about anything,” Bittle said. “They’re not the right guy.”

“There’s a right guy?” Jack asked.

“Hush,” Bittle said. “I didn’t mean to say that. I just -- I’m ready, you know? I want to have my first, well, everything. I don’t want to be sweet little virginal Bitty that everyone pats on the head anymore. But I went and caught feelings for someone, and it just doesn’t feel right to be doing that kind of stuff with anyone else. But I don’t think he’ll ever -- I mean, I should know better than to fall in love with a straight boy.”

“Bittle, any guy would be lucky --”

“It’s kind of you to say that,” Bittle said. “Anyway, I really like him. We’re friends. ‘M always afraid I’m gonna get caught looking, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make things awkward. So.”

Bittle gave a decisive nod, and Jack began to suspect that Bittle had more to drink than he first realized.

Jack shook his head at the thought of Bittle feeling like this. Didn’t Bittle realize what a catch he was? Even if the guy was straight, he should be flattered that Bittle was interested. Bittle shouldn’t be afraid that his feelings would be scorned. Besides, even if Bittle thought the guy was straight, this was Samwell. There was always a chance.

“I think you should tell him,” Jack said, because he wanted to see Bittle happy. Besides, that’s what Shitty would say. Wasn’t it? Shitty was in favor of communication. Even if the thought of Bittle with a boyfriend made Jack’s stomach churn just a bit.

Bittle had looked up at him then, eyes impossibly wide.

“Really?” Bittle asked.

“Really,” Jack said.

Bittle leaned up and pressed his lips against Jack’s, so carefully, so tenderly. Jack willed himself to stop breathing -- willed his heart to stop beating for just a moment so he could take it in.

Then he put his hands on Bittle’s shoulders and gently pushed him back.

“Bittle,” he said, feeling his own heart break. “I can’t.”

Then he watched Bittle’s heart break in front of him. Bittle looked back at his knees, and mumbled, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jack said. “You’re great, and if I could, I would. I promise I won’t make it weird.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bittle said. “I guess I had to take a shot.”

Jack didn’t think Bittle was drunk enough to not remember any of it, but Bittle never said anything about that night again, and Jack wasn’t about to bring it up. If Bittle was a little more distant, a little less likely to touch Jack’s arm when he shared some news about the team, or to bump shoulders with Jack as Jack showed him pictures for his photography project, well, Jack wasn’t going to call him on it.

For his part, Jack did his best to act like nothing happened, still sitting next to Bittle at team breakfast (still telling him to eat more protein), still calling goodnight to Bittle from the room across the hall on the nights Bittle was home. Which were fewer than before.

Jack could tell Shitty thought he knew something by the way Shitty looked from him to Bittle and back again, but whenever it looked like Shitty was going to say something, Jack asked about Lardo and Shitty dropped it.

Graduation was … harder than Jack thought it would be. The ceremony was fine, but afterwards, he had to say goodbye to his friends, to the place that had become a home and where he’d made tentative peace with himself. When Bittle straightened Jack’s tie, then hugged him, Jack could smell his cologne and his shampoo, and Jack wanted to keep him there in his arms forever. He wanted to kiss him so much they’d end up breathless and laughing at the idea that anything could come between them.

Instead, Bittle stepped back, patted Jack’s chest, and said, “Next time I see you will be on TV.”

Jack told him that of course that wouldn’t happen, he would come visit the Haus before the season started, and that was that. Papa asked if he had any unfinished business, and he said no. Because he was going to play in the NHL, take up the career he should have started half a decade earlier. He wasn’t going to risk everything again by telling the world he was bisexual.

He’d tried having a relationship with a teammate once, and it had been a disaster. Being with Kent hadn’t caused Jack’s anxiety, but it ratcheted Jack’s stress level up when he was already standing on the edge of a cliff. Kent’s favored stress relievers -- booze and sex -- didn’t help, not when getting found out would mean the end of everything Jack worked for, and the combination of booze and benzos nearly ended Jack’s life. He couldn’t go back there.

Jack did go visit the Haus before the season, and again when SMH had its first home game. Bittle skated even faster, if that was possible, and all the checking practice was paying off. He still couldn’t pull off a really effective check, but at least he pushed people now.

Which was why Jack was surprised when he got a call from Ransom a month into the season.

“You’ve gotta tell Bits to slow down,” Ransom said. “He’s got a different guy like every other night, and he’s so tired it’s really starting to show in practice. I don’t think he’ll listen to us as well as he listens to you. He’s always liked you.”

Jack couldn’t tell Ransom why he was the last person who should talk to Bittle about that, so he promised to try.

The conversation was an exercise in awkwardness, starting with “Rans and Holster are worried about you,” right through to Bittle’s assurance that he was practicing safe sex “so you can tell Shitty I don’t need another lecture.”

Jack wanted to tell him that having sex with so many partners was inherently risky, but it wasn’t his business, so he just said no protection was foolproof and asked Bitty to please be careful.

Somehow their friendship survived, and miracle of miracles, the next time Jack talked to Ransom, Ransom said that Bittle was staying in and hanging with the team most nights.

Jack knew Bittle had a couple of casual dating (maybe more friends-with-benefits — Jack wasn’t certain he understood the difference) relationships over his senior year. If it was odd that Jack was still close enough to Bitty to know about that almost two years after he graduated, no one mentioned it. He was still in regular contact with Shitty, too, although they had been together all four years of college.

So when Bittle started worrying out loud about having to go back to Georgia when he finished school unless he could find a roommate to live with, Jack volunteered his place.

“It’s not in Boston, but you can get there on the train if that’s where your job is,” Jack said. “And I have plenty of room. You don’t even have to pay me rent.”

“Of course I’ll pay you rent, you silly boy,” Bittle said.

It had been nine months since Bittle moved in, and Jack couldn’t say he regretted it, even if it was more challenging than he expected.

Bittle was, in most ways, an ideal roommate. When Jack told him what his rent would be — which was as low as Jack thought he could get away with — he cocked a skeptical eyebrow at Jack and wrote a check. He continued to pay every month before Jack had a chance to ask.

Bittle got a job on the communications staff of a biotech startup right there in Providence and left the apartment every day by 8:30 am, returning most evenings around 6.

He bought groceries, and cooked, and freely shared his food with Jack. Which, well, Jack wasn’t sure Bittle could survive without feeding people. It was a good thing Bittle had his coworkers to take most of the baked goods.

He kept the apartment reasonably tidy, although as their things mingled in the living room and kitchen, it looked less like a way-station and more like a home.

He never asked for Falconers tickets, but if Jack offered, he usually took them and enjoyed the game. Jack’s teammates met him and he was universally well-liked, even if Jack thought a few people suspected their relationship was more than platonic.

Really, Jack couldn’t imagine a better roommate.

But. Bittle would stumble out of his room in the morning to use the hall bathroom in those tiny shorts and T-shirts or tank tops that were worn thin and soft. Sometimes he still had creases from the pillowcase on his face. He was adorable, and when Jack bumped into him on his way back from his morning run, Jack wanted to wrap him in his arms and carry him back to bed.

If Jack was still home when Bittle left for work, Jack would see him head out the door in neatly pressed trousers and button-down shirts, often with a bow tie perched jauntily at his throat. He cleaned up well.

The first time Jack saw Bittle dressed to go to a club, he nearly swallowed his tongue. The black skinny jeans made it very clear that Bittle’s hockey butt was still as good as ever, and the almost-sheer top showed that he didn’t have to be big to be ripped. And his face — “Are you wearing eyeliner?” Jack finally asked. “Yes?” Bitty said, because why would Jack need to know that?

“You look good,” Jack said, turning back to the tape of the Islanders he was watching, glad he wouldn’t have to stand up before Bittle left.

It was torture. And that was before Bittle started bringing people home.

Jaime was the third man Jack had encountered in his own apartment, and he had lasted the longest — four occasions over about three weeks so far. All of the men had been six feet or taller, all of them had dark hair and eyes, and at least two had noticeable accents. The other one hadn’t spoken in Jack’s presence. Bittle later told him that the guy — Mario? — was so flustered to be in a professional athlete’s home that he’d known right away it was never going to work. That one had never been invited back.

But if Jaime was going to be a regular thing … Jack wasn’t sure he could take it.

He didn’t want Bittle to go, no matter how much it hurt having what he wanted right there and being unable to reach out and take it. Maybe Jack should invest in noise-canceling headphones, because he really did not want to hear how good Bittle was in bed. Not when he wanted Bittle in bed with him.

And wasn’t that a thought. Jack tried not to indulge in it, remembering that he had rejected Bittle already because he was too afraid of being out, or being outed. If he wanted to be noble, he could say he didn’t think it would be right to ask Bittle to go back into the closet. He really didn’t think it would be right, but Jack suspected that what was really stopping him was fear. Besides, he didn’t even know if Bittle felt that way about him anymore.

The apartment was quiet the next morning when Jack left for his run, but when he got back, he smelled coffee and peppers and onions cooking. Might as well be polite, if Bittle was making breakfast for Jaime. But when Jack turned the corner, he found Bittle alone, his music turned low while he cooked eggs and vegetables. There were two places set at the counter.

“Jaime still in bed?” Jack asked from the doorway.

“There you are!” Bittle turned and offered a tight, little smile. “We’re on our own.”

“Gone already?” Jack said.

“Gone for good,” Bittle said. “Wait — how did you even know —“

Bittle blushed to the tips of his ears as the realization hit.

“If he’s gone for good, I guess I won’t need to buy those headphones after all,” Jack chirped, and was gratified to get a giggle instead of a scowl.

“Lord, but he was loud,” Bittle agreed.

Jack wondered what happened, since it hadn’t sounded like anything was wrong last night. But it wasn’t his place, so he didn’t ask.

“I made breakfast because I wanted to talk to you,” Bittle said, plating the eggs and vegetables and adding toast. He carried the plates to the counter and waited while Jack poured himself coffee and brought it over.

Once they were both seated, Bittle said, “You’ve been more than generous, but I think it’s time for me to move out.”

Jack set his fork back down without taking a bite.

“I’ve saved up enough to get a place,” Bittle continued, “and I’m sure you’d rather have me out of your hair and get your guest room back.”

“No,” Jack said. “I like having you here. We get along. We have fun together. Is it something I did?”

“It’s nothing you did,” Bittle said. “You’ve been great. If you ever need a reference from a roommate, I’m your guy.”

“Then what is it?” Jack said. “The rent’s not too much, is it? You don’t have to pay --”

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, I am taking up space in your home, and I will continue to pay my share. It’s not the rent.”

“Then what?” Jack asked.

Bittle put his fork down too, and looked at his plate.

“Remember the night I kissed you up in the Reading Room?” Bittle asked softly.

“Of course,” Jack said, because Bittle knew Jack hadn’t been drinking, knew he would remember.

“When I did that, I thought -- I thought a lot of things,” Bittle said. “I know I should have asked before I kissed you, but that was one way to make my intentions clear and get my first kiss out of the way. I hoped -- I hoped that even though I knew the answer was going to be no, just putting it out there and getting rejected would be enough to help me get over my crush. But it really didn’t work. And then you kept being nice to me, and we kept on being friends, and I really didn’t want to lose that.”

Bittle looked up at Jack.

“When you said I could move in so I didn’t have to go back to Madison, Jack, I don’t know when anyone’s done anything nicer for me.”

“It wasn’t just for you,” Jack said. “I like having you here.”

“I’ll look for something close if it helps,” Bittle said. “But, Jack, I can’t do it anymore. I never got over my crush on you, and it’s not doing me any good seeing you when you come back from your run, or when you first wake up. I think I need just a little bit of distance. I said back then that I knew better than to ever fall in love with a straight boy, and that hasn’t really changed.”

“But … Jaime?” Jack asked. “And the other guys?”

Bittle blushed.

“None of those were going to work out,” Bittle said. “Not when I had feelings for you, and you were right here all the time. But, y’know, sometimes a guy has to try.”

He shrugged.

“They were nice guys,” he said. “But I never let them get too close. That’s what happened with Jaime … he asked if I’d be his boyfriend, and I couldn’t say yes. He wasn’t happy with me, and he told me I needed to get over you.”

Jack found himself a little offended. What business was it of Jaime’s if Bittle cared about Jack that way? Bittle told Jaime he wouldn’t be his boyfriend; Jaime should step off.

Bittle must have read something in Jack’s expression, because he reached over and laid his hand on Jack’s arm.

“No one’s blaming you, sugar,” he said. “Most of us have experienced straight boy pain.”

Jack looked at Bittle’s hand, and looked at his face, earnestly trying to make sure Jack wasn’t feeling guilty, and felt more guilty than ever.

“What if I wasn’t straight?” he blurted.

Bittle withdrew his hand and sat upright.

“But you are,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve spent enough time wishing you weren’t. And you dated Camilla and ...”

“No one, really, since her,” Jack said.

“So are you telling me you’re somewhere on the ace spectrum?” Bitty asked.

“No,” Jack said. “I just don’t usually have much interest.”

“Okay. You realize that might mean you’re some kind of ace, right?”

“But I have had sexual relationships --” Jack said.

“I know, but --”

“-- with women and with men,” Jack finished.

Bittle’s eyes got wide, and his mouth closed, and then his chin started to tremble.

“Bittle --” Jack said. “Don’t cry. Didn’t you say you hoped I wasn’t straight?”

“But I’ve been telling myself I didn’t have a chance with you because you didn’t like men,” Bittle said. “When all along you just didn’t like me.”

He sniffled.

“But, Bittle, of course I like you,” Jack said.

“Not like I like you,” Bittle said, and choked back a sob. “I appreciate you letting me down easy back then, but you could have told me. Now I just feel like a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” Jack said. “I’m a coward.I was too afraid to tell anyone that I wasn’t straight. I’d screwed everything up once, and if I did it again, I wouldn’t be able to come back. I spent my whole life preparing to play in the NHL, and I was too scared I would lose that.”

“Okay,” Bittle said, pushing his untouched plate away. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I can find a place. I can take today off work and look.”

“Please don’t leave,” Jack said.

“I think I have to,” Bittle said.

“I hope you don’t,” Jack said. “Because I was so scared, I made a huge mistake. I didn’t want to push you away, but I did. And by the time I realized how stupid I was, you had moved on, and I figured I missed my chance. There didn’t seem to be any point to saying anything.”

“You didn’t think there was a point to telling me the truth?” Bittle asked.

“I never lied,” Jack said. “I never said I was straight.”

“There’s a lot I’m sure Pastor Rob back in Madison and I don’t agree on,” Bittle said, carrying his plate to the trash and dumping the uneaten food. “But I seem to remember him saying something about lies of omission that made a lot of sense.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t braver,” Jack said. “But I don’t owe it to anyone to share my sexuality. At least that’s what Shitty’s always said.”

“Shitty knows?” Bittle asked. “Well, that would explain the pitying looks. I thought it was because I was throwing myself at you when you were straight. Not because I was such a fool.”

“You're not a fool,” Jack insisted. “If anyone's a fool, it's me. Anyway, we go on the road today. I’ll be back next Friday. Please, at least stay until then?”

“I have to go to work. I’ll clean up later,” Bittle said. “And where are my goddamn keys?”

*************

Jack’s eggs had gone cold during their discussion, but protein was protein, so he still ate his portion. Maybe it was penance for not talking to Bittle sooner.

Jack knew he was right -- he didn’t have to tell anyone he was bi if he didn’t want to. And he was bi -- at least that’s what he’d always thought he was after Kent, because he knew he liked girls too. But he also didn’t like jumping into bed with just anyone. He had to be close to them first. He knew not everyone was that way -- he’d been watching teammates hook up with people they’d just met since he was in juniors -- but surely it wasn’t that unusual? He wanted to talk to Shitty about it -- Shitty wouldn’t tell anyone about him -- but everything was all tangled up with Bittle now, and Bittle already felt like Jack had made him look like a fool in front of Shitty. And he had to get to the airport.

He had time to clean up before he left, so Jack pulled on the rubber gloves Bittle kept under the sink and washed the plates and the coffee cups and the cutting board and the pan. He dried everything and put it away. Then he went to his desk and pulled out one of the cards his mother insisted he have printed, the ones with his name on them, and thought about what he wanted to say to Bittle.

I’m sorry, he started.

He wasn’t sure where to go from there. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was bi three years ago? But he wasn’t, really. What good would it have done, if Jack wasn’t ready to date Bittle anyway? Wouldn’t it just make it worse for Bittle? Or would it have made it worse for Jack, because he’d have to face the fact that he was too scared to kiss Bittle back way back then, even though he wanted to?

I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you back when you kissed me? Jack was sorry about that now, but he knew that if he was back in the same position -- just a few months from making it to the NHL, terrified of messing up again -- he’d probably make the same decision.

Bittle wasn’t facing the kind of scrutiny Jack was, but he had his own pressures. Jack knew he still wasn’t out in Georgia, not even to his parents.

I’m sorry I haven’t had your courage, Jack eventually wrote. I want to try, if you do. Please don’t leave until I get back.

P.S. I never told Shitty I wasn't straight.

At least Bittle had gone to work, instead of looking for a new apartment. As long as he was there when Jack got back, maybe there was a chance.

Jack didn’t call Bittle that night when he got to his hotel room. He didn’t text him either, even though he usually did when he was on a road trip. It felt like there was nothing he could say until they settled this: Would Bittle stay or go? Had Jack blown any shot he had by not speaking up sooner? Could they even stay friends?

With all that hanging over him, he couldn’t chirp Bittle about how it was a good thing Jack left sometimes to give Bittle and the kitchen a little alone time, or tell him what Tater said at dinner.

He was in bed reading Chernow’s biography of Grant on his tablet when his phone vibrated next to him. It was a text from Bittle. All it said was, Good night.

The next day, at least, was a game day, so Jack had a routine to follow. He wasn’t usually the most jovial of people, so maybe the guys would just leave him alone and let him get through it. They’d get home late, after Thursday’s game. Or really, very early Friday morning. Jack would be able to go home and see if Bittle’s things were still there unobserved, because Bittle would be asleep. He would have time to cope with whatever happened before he had to deal with anyone.

But that was a foolish thought, Jack chastised himself as he pedaled faster on the stationary bike. Even if Bittle decided to leave, he could hardly have moved all his stuff out yet. Even if he decided to leave, he might still be there, asleep, when Jack got home because he wasn’t able to find a new place to live in a week.

Jack supposed Bittle could always go stay with Shitty and Lardo or Ransom and Holster. Any of them would be happy to have Bittle as an indefinite overnight guest. If Bittle told them what happened, would they blame Jack too? Maybe Bittle wouldn’t tell them. He said he felt like he’d been made a fool of in front of Shitty; maybe he would be embarrassed.

Jack pedaled harder. He didn’t want Bittle to feel embarrassed. He hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe fall for an idiot. A coward. A cowardly idiot. But Jack also didn’t want his friends to blame him, when all he was trying to do was protect both of them. He’d thought Bittle would move on, leave him behind, just like Kent had. He’d assumed Bittle had moved on, when he started bringing guys home. He hadn’t thought he was hurting anybody but himself.

“Jack, kiddo, slow down,” Marty said. Jack hadn’t even noticed him approach. “We have a game tonight, remember?”

“Sorry,” Jack said, letting the pedals slow to a halt. “I kind of lost track.”

“No need to apologize,” Marty said. “Just save some energy for the ice. Everything okay? You talk to Bitty today?”

“Uh, no,” Jack said.

“Maybe you should give him a call,” Marty said. “You’re usually in a better mood if you talk to him.”

“I can’t right now,” Jack said.

“Trouble in paradise?”

At Jack’s scowl, Marty stepped back, hands raised in surrender. “I’m just chirping you,” he said. “I know he’s probably just at work or something.”

Jack watched tape with the team, had lunch, took his nap, and returned to the arena for the game, still feeling unsettled. His uneasiness made him more aggressive than usual, and he was called for an interference penalty in the first and was about to drop the gloves in the second when Tater pushed him back.

“Not your job, Zimmboni,” Tater said. “You lead the team. Not need to fight. Not tonight.”

Jack got a goal in the third -- at least that was more productive -- and the Falconers won 5-1.

He didn’t get called for press, so he showered and dressed and found a seat by himself on the bus.The bus went directly to the airport, where there was a short wait to board their flight to the next game.

Jack checked his phone again.

There was another text from Bittle: Good game.

But there were no little pictures after it. Jack wasn’t sure exactly what to make of it, so he just texted back, Thanks. See you when I get home?

There was no return text before the plane took off.

The week continued like that, from Philly to Raleigh to Columbus. Bittle texted at least once a day, but never more than twice, and never more than a couple of words.

When Jack got home before dawn on Friday, he placed his keys in the bowl gently, trying not to let them clink against Bittle’s keys, which were already there. The apartment was immaculate -- Jack didn’t see Bittle’s laptop or any books or magazines on the coffee table, or shoes kicked under a chair -- but the dim lamp on the end table was turned on.

Bittle must be home then. It looked like he’d spent the evening cleaning. His red Samwell throw was still over the back of the couch, and the throw pillows Bittle had bought were still scattered on the cushions. There was a still a wire basket of lemons on the kitchen counter, and the rabbit-shaped salt and pepper shakers were next to the stove. There was a sticky note on the fridge: There’s cassoulet if you’re hungry.

Jack put the dish in the microwave, then crept down the hall and turned the knob on the door to Bittle’s room, just to be sure.

Jack could see the top of Bittle’s blond head sticking out from under the blankets in the light that leaked in from the hall and the windows. He breathed a sigh of relief and went to get his food out before the microwave beeped.

By the time he woke up, Bittle was gone. It was 10:30; the earliest Bitty would be home would be 6.

Jack stretched and made coffee, then rummaged in the fridge and the cabinets to make himself a smoothie. He opened his laptop and plugged in the flash drive he kept in the pencil cup on his desk.

The drive held his senior thesis, along with his research notes, the images from his photography final project (who had he been kidding? Bittle was in almost every picture) and the recipe for the apple pie Bittle helped him make for Atley’s class.

He knew Bittle could have made that pie in his sleep -- probably had made that pie in his sleep a couple of times -- but Bittle had been nothing but patient teaching Jack. Jack, for his part, had found it no effort at all to listen to Bittle’s light, soothing voice, to watch his quick, competent hands. Jack had heeded Bittle’s request to not go looking for the baking vlog Bittle made while he was Samwell, but he could see how it would be successful, if that was the way Bittle taught.

But Bittle wasn’t going to make this pie. Jack was. He knew they had flour and butter and shortening, salt and vinegar. Bittle would never be without the ingredients for pie crust.

There would be cinnamon, of course, and sugar and cornstarch, but it looked like he needed to get apples. He could go to the produce market on the way home from the practice facility this afternoon.

He could make dinner, too. Bittle had taught him how to season chicken breasts for the grill, and he could do a rice pilaf and pick up vegetables and salad ingredients at the market.

Jack knew it was probably silly, wanting to cook for Bittle, but he didn’t want to make Bittle cook for him (again) and they couldn’t go out and talk about it. Take out was just … no. And he wanted Bittle to know how much influence he’d had in Jack’s life, how much Jack had listened to him and learned from him.

But only if Bittle actually showed up. Jack texted him before he left for the optional skate: Will you be home for dinner tonight? I’m cooking

By the time Jack was starting his truck, he had an answer. I’ll be home. I can cook something quick you want.

Jack responded, Let me do it tonight. I want to.

Then he tucked his phone in his pocket and pulled out of the garage.

The skate was fine, or it would have been if Tater and Marty hadn’t kept sneaking looks at him.

“Little B make you breakfast today?” Tater asked.

“No, he was at work,” Jack said.

“No wonder you look grumpy,” Tater said. “You always look happier when B feeds you. He make pie this weekend?”

“I don’t know, Tater,” Jack snapped, wondering if it was too late to regret introducing his roommate to his team. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time -- Bittle and Shitty had come to a game, as his guests, and he’d invited them down to meet him outside the dressing room when it was over. Shitty, being Shitty, had something to say to every player as they came out, and then Bittle got introduced, and a week later, Jack was hosting Tater, Marty, Thirdy and Snowy for dinner. Two weeks after that, he was placing two pies in the nook, because Bittle had been stressed about a big project at work and he’d made so much he said he couldn’t possibly bring everything to his office.

“I haven’t talked to Bittle since before we left for Philadelphia,” Jack said. “I can ask him.”

Later, getting off the ice, Marty jostled Jack as they headed down the hall, and said, “Everything okay with you and Bitty? You usually keep in touch even when we’re on the road.”

Jack shrugged. “He was talking about looking for his own place.”

“What?” Marty stepped to the side before entering the dressing room, grabbing Jack by his practice jersey and pulling him with him. “What happened? I thought you guys were good.”

“We are good,” Jack said. “He just moved in with me because he needed to build up some cash while he started his job. He’s saved some money now, and he’s thinking he might want to find an apartment of his own.”

“No, I mean you guys are good together,” Marty said. “You’re more fun since he moved in. He seems happy. Why mess up a good thing?”

“You know we’re not, like, together, right?” Jack asked.

“You know you could tell me if you were?” Marty countered. “You know no one on the team has a problem with Bitty.”

“I know,” Jack said. “But you know it’s different, knowing someone who’s gay who’s outside the game.”

“Maybe,” Marty said. “I’m just saying, if you and Bitty were, like, together --” Marty made air quotes “--it would be fine if you told the team.”

Jack shook his head. “I get it, okay? Can I go change now? I have to stop at the store on the way home.”

“See? That’s what I mean,” Marty said. “You guys are sickeningly domestic. You stop at the store, Bitty cooks …”

Jack pulled the door to the dressing room open. “Actually,” he said. “I’m cooking tonight.”

Two hours later, Jack wasn’t so sure he could call what he was doing “cooking.” Or, technically, baking.

The pie crust had come together all right, even if it was slightly more crumbly than when Bittle made it. The filling was simple. Rolling out the bottom crust hadn’t exactly been easy, but he’d been able to line the blue pie plate that had always been his favorite. He spread the filling inside, and then started to make the lattice for the top.

He’d been working on it for half an hour, which he knew was too long. There was no way the top crust was going to be tender and flaky, with the amount of handling it had taken, and the simple weave was even more wonky than the one he’d turned in for class. It would have to do, if he was going to have time to prepare the chicken and chop the salad ingredients so dinner would be almost ready when Bittle came home.

The pie went in the oven and Jack rinsed the chicken and patted it dry before seasoning it and starting the coals in the grill on the deck. Some of the guys laughed at him for it, but he was a grilling purist, insisting on charcoal instead of gas.

Then he started chopping vegetables, one eye on the clock. When the pie was about half done, he would put aluminum foil around the edges so they wouldn’t get too brown.

Just before he did that, he smelled something burning. It couldn’t be the pie yet. He opened the oven door and saw the pool of juice from the pie filling sizzling on the oven floor. Shit. He’d been trying to do something nice for Bittle, and he’d gone and messed up Bittle’s oven.

He couldn’t do anything about it now, so he carried on with making dinner.

By the time Bittle walked in at 6:15, bow tie a little droopy instead of jaunty, the rice was keeping warm in a serving dish in the oven, the chicken was just about ready to come off the grill and the pie was cooling on a rack on the counter.

Bittle raised his eyebrows. “You baked?”

“I baked,” Jack said. “It’s the pie from --”

“Atley’s class?” Bittle said. “I recognize it. Well, sort of. I think the one for class looked better.”

“You helped with that one,” Jack said. “Anyway, I just have to pull the chicken off the grill and assemble the salad while you change. If you want to change.”

“I definitely need to change,” Bittle said, as his eyes swept over Jack. “Dress code is early Burger King bandit? I’m not sure I have anything that’s exactly appropriate, but I’ll try.”

Jack wasn’t sure exactly what to make of that, except that he felt like this was the first time in a long time that Bittle had looked at him like that, like he wasn’t carefully keeping his eyes up on Jack’s face. Did it mean something? It probably meant Bittle had been keeping a tight hold on himself, not letting his eyes wander, for months now. It must have been exhausting for him.

Jack plated the chicken and rice and put the salad bowl on the table. He pulled the whole wheat rolls he bought from the oven where they were warming (yes, he had learned a lot about meal presentation from Bittle) and poured water for both of them before Bittle came back to the table, in his own track pants and a worn-in Samwell Men’s Hockey T-shirt. His feet were in socks.

“You know you didn’t have to cook, right?” Bittle asked. “I don’t mind cooking. Usually I like it.”

“I know,” Jack said. “If I thought you minded, I’d wouldn’t let you cook for me so often. I always thought it was kind of a win-win: you get to do something you find enjoyable, and I get to eat delicious food that mostly fits my nutrition plan.”

Jack paused to take a bite of rice and a sip of water, and he watched Bittle cut a small piece of chicken and start chewing.

“This is really good,” Bittle said.

“Thanks,” Jack said. “I learned how to make it from you. Pretty much everything on the table I learned from you -- if not the exact recipe, then just the technique for how to do it and have it come out right. I wanted you to know how much being with you has changed me. How much you’ve taught me.”

“I’m glad,” Bittle said. “It’s only fair. If you hadn’t helped me with checking, I couldn’t have stayed on the team, and I could have lost my scholarship. Especially when I came back for my second year. Hall and Murray made it clear that I wasn’t a frog anymore, and there would be a limit to their patience. I’m pretty sure you saved my ass that year.”

Jack knew he’d saved Bittle’s ass that year. When he’d heard the coaches had told Bittle he would be cut if he didn’t get better, Jack had taken it upon himself as captain to meet with them and ask for more time. Hall and Murray weren’t bad guys, and they really did want Bittle to get better, but they were afraid that trying to play was too much for his mental health, that he was putting too much pressure on himself, and they thought he should give himself a break. If he got help, and got over his issues, he could come back, they argued.

Even then, Jack had known Bittle well enough to know that he’d be devastated to be taken off the roster, even temporarily, because of what he saw as backsliding. Jack had seen his determination to overcome his fears when he was a freshman, and being cut after going through all that … no, that wasn’t going to happen if Jack could help it. At least when they started checking practices again, Jack only had to knock on the door across the hall to wake Bittle, instead of walking halfway across campus.

“At least you were never an asshole about teaching me,” Jack responded to Bittle, recalling that first morning, when he’d shown up unannounced at Bitty’s dorm room knowing Bittle had been drinking at the kegster the night before, knowing he’d only been sleeping for a couple of hours and would be hung over. It was like Jack wanted to punish him for for being small and fast and bright and popular with the team.

But it had been months -- and long past the time Jack wanted to make Bittle suffer for anything -- before Jack had figured that out.

“Anyway, I spent the last couple of days trying to think of what I could say to get you to stay,” Jack said. “Because I’ve spent the last nine months grateful to have you in my life in whatever way I could, even if it wasn’t what I really wanted, and even if it hurt to see you with other guys.”

“Okay,” Bittle said. “But --”

“I promise I want to hear everything you have to say,” Jack said. “But please let me finish first?”

“Okay,” Bittle said. “Go on.”

“I really wanted to talk to Shitty about it, but I didn’t think I should, because that would be sharing your stuff too, not just mine. So I thought about what Shitty would tell me,” Jack said. “And I figured he’d tell me to let you make your own decisions, not to try to make you stay if you didn’t want to.”

Bittle took another bite of chicken and put his fork down.

“But I do want you to,” Jack said. “Stay, that is. I meant what I said in the note -- I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to go for it with you before I graduated, but I can’t change that now, and if you don’t want to try for that with me now, I understand. But I hope you do.”

Bittle took a bite of rice and chewed it, like he was thinking.

“I feel like I should apologize,” Bittle said. “But I’m not sure what for. Maybe for bringing guys home to your apartment when you were carrying a torch for me? But it’s not my fault you were hiding it, and apparently never intended to do anything about it until I told you my silly crush never went away.”

“I don’t think you should apologize for that,” Jack said. “But I’m not sure it’s a silly crush if it lasted for three years.”

“Three and a half,” Bittle said. “Maybe more like four.”

“Wait … you mean when you were a freshman?”

Bittle nodded.

“After I got that concussion, you were so kind,” Bittle said. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly afraid of you anymore, but you were different after that. Maybe because no one expected me to play hockey for a while, so I couldn’t fall short of expectations.”

He shrugged.

“But you kept coming by to check on me, and then once I was up and around and I’d go to the Haus, you’d hang out with me even when everyone else was busy and I couldn’t watch TV or anything because it made my head hurt. It was just a different side of you.”

“I felt so guilty,” Jack said. “If I hadn’t called that play …”

“Then you might not have scored and we might have been out of the playoffs,” Bittle said. “It should have been fine, Jack. You’re not the one who threw a hip check at me way after the play. It was a dirty hit because he was mad they were going to lose. Not your fault.”

Bittle kind of grimaced, though.

“So all the attention was because you felt guilty?” he asked. “Not because you liked me?”

“Both?” Jack said. “It was my responsibility as captain to make sure you were following medical advice and getting better. But I did like hanging out with you. I already liked you -- you know about my anxiety, so you know I recognized what you were going through with checking as a kind of panic attack. I admired the hell out of your determination to stay on the ice despite that.”

“But you didn’t want me on your line,” Bittle protested.

Jack grimaced.

“That was wrong,” he said. “And it wasn’t all about you. I didn’t want it to seem like I depended on anyone, not with the scouts that were coming to watch. And you were the worst for me, because …”

Bittle looked at him expectantly.

“Do you remember when Kent showed up at the kegster right before Christmas?” Jack asked.

Bittle nodded. “You didn’t seem real friendly.”

Jack took a deep breath.

“What I’m going to tell you … you have to keep it to yourself. Completely. I haven’t actually told this to anyone since I told my parents in my therapist’s office. Because it’s not all my secret to share, but I need for you to understand.”

Bittle’s eyes were wide and he had stopped eating.

“Kenny and I were lineys for two years in Rimouski, and people said the same thing about us,” Jack said. “They said we made each other better. And he was kind of like you -- small and fast, with the softest hands. The fact that you were both blond -- well, it might help people draw comparisons.

“Anyway, Kenny and I were really close, best friends, maybe he was the first best friend I had. We drove together to practice, we roomed together on the road -- and right before the end, our relationship got physical.”

Jack heard rather than saw Bittle suck in a breath. Jack kept his eyes on his plate, where he was using his fork to push the rice around.

“It wasn’t a good time,” he said. “Not just because of what we were doing. I was already drinking too much --”

“You were 17.”

“And you were 18 when you got to Samwell and did your first kegstand. But I was drinking way too much for a teenager, for any athlete, really, and I was on benzos for anxiety, and everyone wanted to believe I was doing okay, and I wanted everyone to believe I was doing okay, but I wasn’t,” Jack said. “Not for months, really. And it all crashed down at the draft, and Kenny went first and I went to the hospital and to rehab.”

Jack took a long pull on his water.

“Kenny had his first Cup before I got to Samwell, after time in rehab and a season coaching peewees,” Jack said. “I liked those kids -- even if some of their parents didn’t seem to trust me. Is it awful if I say you reminded me of them when you first got to Samwell? Some of them were as big as you.

“Anyway, Kent and I basically stopped talking. Or I stopped talking to him. That’s how he would say it. But any time we did talk, it was all about going back to the way we had been, and how I could play with him and we’d win the Cup together and everything would be fine. He didn’t seem to get that going back … I couldn’t do that. The only way through for me was forward. He took it as rejection, and maybe it was. But it wasn’t about him.”

“Seems that Kent Parson has a hard time understanding that not everything is about him,” Bitte sniffed.

“Maybe,” Jack said. “Maybe he just needed some time to grow up.”

“I don’t know what exactly happened in your room that night, but I heard the way he talked to you.”

“I know,” Jack said. “If it helps, that wouldn’t throw me like it did then anymore. And I think he has grown up. I try to look at it from his side -- 18, alone in Vegas, the team’s success riding on his shoulders? I know I couldn’t have handled it. But this isn’t really about Kent. Anyway, I never told anyone at Samwell that I was bi, not even Shitty. And if I dated, I dated girls. It was fine. Until you.

“Like I said, I did like you, at least by the end of the season. But I didn’t even let myself think about whether I was attracted to you. It would have been totally inappropriate for us to date when we were teammates, especially with me being the captain. Even after you moved into the Haus -- I knew you were attractive, I wasn’t blind, but so did everyone else there. You know Ransom and Holster tracked how many more people started showing up for kegsters after you moved in?”

“They did not,” Bittle said. “That team had some ridiculously hot guys on it.”

“They did,” Jack said. “And no matter how hot the guys on the team were, you never hooked up with any of them, so I think you get it.”

Bittle nodded.

“Then when the season ended, and the kegster happened and you kissed me, I wanted to -- I wanted wrap you up and bring you back to my room and never let go,” Jack said. “But I thought it would mean the end of everything I worked for. That’s the way things worked for me -- anything that could go wrong would, and I hadn’t signed with a team yet, and even if I had, that didn’t mean they’d play me if I caused even more of a scandal. And I thought you’d been drinking and it was just a crush and you’d get over it.”

“I never did,” Bittle said, picking up his fork again. “Obviously, I guess.”

“Or not,” Jack countered. “At least not to me. It seemed like you were living your life, getting out there …”

“Getting laid?” Bittle smirked and Jack felt his face heat up.

“Believe me, I did not want to talk to you about that, but I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. They knew we were friends. And then you started bringing guys here …”

“And you didn’t notice I had a type? Tall, dark hair, built? Most of them even had accents.”

“Jaime had dark eyes,” Jack said.

“No one else has your eyes,” Bittle said. “I mean, I wasn’t looking for relationships, but it’s not like there’s a catalogue of guys you can choose from to hook up with.”

“Isn’t that called Grindr?”

“Haha,” Bittle said. “You’re still stuck with whoever’s on there.”

He took another bite, then gestured at Jack with his fork. “You should eat. This is good.”

Jack pushed his food around more.

“Are we still friends?” he asked. “I mean, I guess I can see why it sucked that I didn’t tell you, but I honestly didn’t know it it would matter to you.”

“Jack, honey, listen to me,” Bittle said. “We’re always friends. First and last. And I thought about what you said, too. It’s not like I wasn’t hiding my feelings. But you -- all of you, your feelings and your thoughts and everything else -- that always matters to me.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “That means a lot. I guess the only other thing I wanted to tell you was that I didn’t ask you to move in under false pretences or anything. I was okay with just being friends, or I thought I was. And even if that’s all we can be now, I still want you to stay as long as you want to. I lived here for two years alone, and this is better. I like seeing you in the morning before work, and I like when you’re here when I get home. I like going to the farmers market with you on the weekends and running with you when I can get you to go and cooking with you. The guys even like me better when you’re around.”

Jack stopped and cut a bite of his chicken.

“You’re done now?” Bittle said, sitting up a little straighter. “Because I have some things I want to say too.”

Jack must have looked like a deer in headlights, because Bittle said, “Don’t look like that. It’s not that bad.”

Jack blinked and swallowed, and Bittle continued.

“First, if you don’t think I noticed you were stupidly gorgeous the first time I saw you, you don’t know what you look like. But I kind of went cold on you when you started to yell at me every practice.”

“I’m sorry --”

“No, looking back on it now, you were right,” Bittle said. “At that point, I had no business on the ice with you. I was fast, and I had stamina, but I was too small and too scared to be effective. But I’m not the one who recruited me, and it seemed like you eventually figured that out when you decided to help me instead yell at me. So thanks for that.”

Bittle paused to take a drink, and continued.

“And then we got to be friends, and that was great -- I got to know your sense of humor, even though you work so hard to hide it, and the way you care about your team, and I could see why Shitty and the others kept telling me not to give up on you. But I also was seeing your ridiculously handsome face all the time, and by then, I actually liked you, too. I guess I was a goner.”

BIttle shrugged. “I never meant to tell you. I was sure you were straight, and most straight guys don’t react so well when a gay guy makes eyes at them. But I’d had a bit to drink --”

Jack snorted at that.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Bittle said. “But I was feeling lonely and frustrated because there were all these other guys there, and they were all the wrong guy, and the right guy was right there, but I couldn’t have him. Couldn’t even tell him.

“Then there you were talking about how if I liked someone I should tell him -- you should take your own advice, by the way -- and that even if the guy didn’t like me back, it would probably be okay.

“Anyway, I’m glad I wasn’t too drunk, because even if it was weird after, I remember my first kiss. And it was okay after. You didn’t get mad, or avoid me, or make fun of me, and I really appreciated that, but we never talked about that night, so I never said.”

“I would never -- even if I didn’t --”

“I know that,” Bittle said. “That’s why I think I went for it at all. I didn’t really think it would work out, but maybe I’d get over it, you know? And I knew you wouldn’t be awful. And I was right.

“When I was graduating and didn’t have anything lined up ahead of time, you saved my life by offering me your guest room. I was dreading moving home, having to try to fit back into that life. If I went back, I don’t know that I’d ever live outside Georgia again.”

“You had a job by the end of June,” Jack said. “You would have been fine.”

“Maybe,” Bittle acknowledged. “Maybe not. I don’t know that I would have been here to take the job. So I’m glad I was here, and I like living here. But I don’t really have to anymore. I’ve saved up a little -- since you insist on charging me way below-market rent. I could get a place. I will, if me living here is going to be a problem for either of us.”

“Do you think it’s going to be a problem?” Jack asked.

“If we try to keep going this way, yes,” Bittle said. “You talked about how hard it was for you to see me with other guys. I know how hard it was for me to keep hands and eyes to myself. If I bring someone home, you’ll resent it. If you complain I don’t put my things away, I’ll feel like you’re taking that resentment out on me.”

“We stayed friends before,” Jack said.

“Yeah, but I thought that was just because you were straight,” Bittle said. “I couldn’t really resent you for not giving me a shot that I was never expecting anyway.”

“I wouldn’t resent you,” Jack said.

“Jack, sugar, I resented you sometimes even if I knew it was unreasonable. Just for being there, and being so perfect, and so unattainable,” Bittle said. “So I just stayed out more until you graduated, and then we had a couple of years to practice being friends before I moved in here. And it was still hard.”

Jack needed to stop this conversation, just for a minute. He needed some time to breathe, to steel himself in case his life -- at least the life that he’d built up in his fantasies while studiously Not Thinking About It -- fell down around him.

“I was hoping that pie would be a celebration pie,” Jack said. “What do you say we cut into it before this is all over?”

“First, there’s nothing wrong with a consolation pie,” Bittle said. “And it’s never the wrong time to have pie. Let me help with the plates.”

They cleared the table together, and Jack irrationally wished they had a dog. Then the leftover chicken wouldn’t go to waste.

Bittle carried dessert plates to the table while Jack carried the pie. Bittle handed the pie server to Jack and said, “Your pie. You do the honors.”

Jack cut two slices. Bittle’s was bigger, because Jack was cheating even though it wasn’t his cheat day, and there was only so far he was willing to go.

“You said you wanted this to be a celebration pie,” Bittle said, after taking a bite and pursing his lips, a considering look on his face. “What were you hoping to celebrate?”

“Us,” Jack said, even though it might sound stupid. “That there could be an us.”

Jack took a bite of his pie to stop himself from saying more. It wasn’t up to Bittle standards -- now he knew exactly what Bittle meant about the crust getting tough with too much handling -- but it still tasted good, with a surprising but not unpleasant tartness to the filling.

“Don’t take this badly,” Bittle said, “but what makes you think there could be an us now, when there couldn’t three years ago?”

“I’m older,” Jack said.

Bittle just looked at him, the “go on” implied by hs expression.

“I’m not as afraid of being out,” Jack said. “I’m not ready to shout from the rooftops that I’m bi, or put it on Twitter or anything. But maybe, if I had a reason, I could be ready in a while. And I’m not worried about the team finding out. I think a lot of them already think we’re together anyway.”

“So you wouldn’t expect me to be your dirty little secret?” Bittle asked. “Because I love you, Jack -- I do, however which way this goes -- but I’m not going to live in the closet again. That would make me resent you.”

“I know,” Jack said. “And I love you too, either way, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that. But I have to say that Marty and Tater at least are really hoping we work this out.”

“How’s that? “I guess I was more intense than usual this trip,” Jack said. “I was trying not to think about this. And Marty kept suggesting that I talk to you. When I said I hadn’t, he asked if there was, and I quote, ‘trouble in paradise.’ He said he was only chirping …”

“But you don’t really believe it.”

Jack shook his head.

“So if you do leave, I have to break the news of the end of a relationship that never was,” he said.

Bittle shook his head too.

“That’s just sad,” he said. “When you made such a good pie, too.”

“There is one way around it,” Jack said.

“There is,” Bittle agreed, and licked the last bit of filling from his fork.

“Well,” Bittle said, and he looked like he was trying to suppress a grin. “I do have a few tips to improve your baking skills. It’d be a shame to move out before I could share them with you.”

Before he was done speaking, Jack was out of his chair and rounding the corner of the table to crouch next to Bittle.

“But you said that would only work if we were in a relationship,” Jack said, reaching up to cup Bittle’s jaw in one hand.

“I did,” Bittle said. “And I was serious about not going back in the closet, at least not all the way. I’m not saying you have to come out, but I’m not hiding from your team -- or Shitty and Lardo for that matter.”

Bittle had laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder, so it didn’t sound very threatening.

“I don’t want to hide this from them,” Jack said quietly, “not from people who care about us.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bittle whispered, and leaned down to kiss Jack.

This wasn’t the soft, sweet press of lips of three years earlier. This clearly was not Bittle’s first kiss, Jack thought, as he let Bittle take control. Bittle’s lips and tongue were a marvel, one Jack was willing to spend a lifetime learning about.

Bittle pulled back after a minute or two, and Jack was gratified that Bittle was breathing a little hard too. “What do you say we put the dishes in the dishwasher and move this somewhere more comfortable?” Bittle said.

“Sure,” Jack said. “Your room, my room or the couch?”

“No expectations, and we can stop whenever you want, but I think we’ve known each other long enough to skip the making-out-on-the-couch stage,” Bittle said. “Unless that would make you uncomfortable?”

“Nope,” Jack said. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

“Then your bed,” Bittle said. “It’s bigger than mine.”

So Bittle loaded the dishwasher and rinsed the rice pan and left it in the sink while Jack checked the door and turned out the living room light. He checked the dish on the side table as he passed, smiling when he saw Bittle’s keys nestled next to his.