Work Text:
Wild Card
Eric's first year in the NHL flew by. The prospect camp for the Schooners was fun and went better than he could've hoped. In September he killed it in the rookie exhibition and the preseason games.
Come October, he was playing in the NHL, for real. He, Eric R. Bittle, Jr., was playing professional hockey! A former figure skater from Georgia was on the starting roster of the Seattle Schooners!
If you’d told him in his freshman year that this was what he’d be doing after graduation, well, he’d probably have been quite concerned about your head injury, or perhaps asked for your supplier on Shitty’s behalf.
It was terribly difficult sometimes, to be sure. Jack was on the other side of the country. Skype helped, and calls every day they could manage. Trying to pack months of affection into holidays that were all too brief.
But they won games. And lost some. But the important thing was, they won enough .
Enough to make the playoffs. PLAYOFFS!!! And wasn't that something else altogether. Out of 34 teams, he was on one that was getting a chance at the Stanley Cup!
And then. Not long after they'd secured their spot, there was a team meeting. Nothing unusual, Eric thought, the coaches just wanted to get them psyched up, keep them focused.
Which, it was, yeah. But after the expected speeches...
"Okay, so if there's any trouble with the creature features..." there were several amused snorts. "...Just see us or the trainers. We know it can get hard to deal with, especially for the rookies." He went on to tell them about proper fang dental hygiene (which was the same as usual, but get extra toothbrushes, and eat more calcium, apparently).
"What," he said incredulously. "That's...something that happens? Playoffs turn you into...into a monster?!?!"
He looked around. Most of the other rookies looked kinda stunned. The more experienced players just nodded.
"Yeah, how much usually depends on ice time," Cricket said. "And no, you wouldn't have heard of it. Being able to actually see it, that's limited to players, other playoff teams, and some of the hands-on staff, like the trainers. It's been happening since at least the '60s, they think. Maybe earlier, but they don't really talk about it that far back."
"Wha- Why?" Eric stutters out.
"It's...I dunno, a thing with the hockey gods. The regular season is hard enough. All the big and little sacrifices to make it on the ice. To get through playoffs, you need more. And so we get a little help. It’s temporary, doesn’t tend to last long after the end of playoffs. Though if you win it, sometimes things stick."
His stomach twisted. He thought back to last year, when the Falconers had made their own deep playoff run. George had warned him, obliquely. Jack had been grumpier, more irritable sometimes, but not really any worse than he'd been at Samwell. Bitty just chalked it up to it being his rookie year in the pros. Of course it would be more stressful.
That night, Eric makes a somewhat stammering call to Jack.
After the sweet greetings and I-love-you's are said, Bitty finally asks.
"So. Hockey gods and monsters on ice. What the fuck , Jack?"
Jack looked slightly sheepish. "Ah. Guess I should've expected this once Seattle made the playoffs."
"I mean, it does explain why you were a bit weirder than usual last year. And the biting." Jack pinked at that. Eric smiled at him. “Not to say that I’m complaining ‘bout that, mind.”
"So many times I wish I could've told you. But would you have believed me without being able to see for yourself?"
"No, I suppose not. But you look perfectly handsome as ever."
Jack dipped his head and gave a shy grin. "Well, of course, the first round hasn't even really started. Nothing to see, yet."
"I figure I'll deal with that as it comes. How bad could it get for a rookie? I'm a little more concerned about...appeasing the hockey gods. Gosh, there's a sentence I never thought I'd say with any sort of seriousness."
Jack was silent for a minute, clearly thinking. "Hrmm. A quick prayer never hurts. But with how my dad and Yags talked about it, it's in the little things. Our pre-game routines, the cellys, even the fights and injuries, all the little dedications that sometimes you don't even realize you're doing. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’re as dedicated to the game as anyone I know."
"Wait...Yags?"
"Oh, Jaromir. Jagr. He's with the Aces now, you might face him soon enough! He's been in the NHL for longer than you've been alive, Bits. Longer than I have, even! He knows things."
Eric didn't know why he was surprised. Of course Jaromir Jagr was among Jack's hockey uncles. He’d won a couple of cups with Bob and Mario. They probably didn’t get to meet up much because oh yeah, he was still playing pro hockey.
On the other hand, hockey gods and ice magic could explain a thing or two about that.
At the Schooners’ next practice, Eric paused to breathe in the chill of the rink. Okay. Fine. Whatever happened, he would do his best. He’d made it this far.
His spine tingled a little. Just excitement. Or maybe the hockey gods were watching?
Far be it for him to disappoint them.
Round 1
They won the first two games. It felt really fucking good. It was definitely harder than a regular season game, everyone giving it their all. The speed, the rush of it all...it was amazing. Every goal seemed that much sweeter.
Game 3...was a loss. But it was so, so close, going into overtime with them tied 3-3.
The next morning, Eric's jaw was sore. He probably had just been clenching his teeth in frustration. They'd all played well, but sometimes the other team was just luckier. But there were at least two more games left in Round One. It wasn't over yet.
He brushed his teeth grumpily. They had the morning to rest, with practice in the afternoon, Game 4 the next day, and the flight back to Seattle after that.
He stretched and grimaced at his reflection, side tender where he'd been checked.
Oh.
OH.
Okay.
He poked his tongue at newly sharp eyeteeth. Oof. Pointy. No wonder they ached like new fillings.
Well, then.
Their captain had said things like this were almost common, in playoffs. Pointed teeth and ears, patches of fur or scales. Horns and armor sometimes, in the later rounds. He could live with pointy teeth.
He was just a rookie, though a pretty dang talented one if he said so himself (and so did Cricket, and Jack, and the Schooners GM, and...) How much could really happen to him, anyway?
He spared a brief but delightful thought for how much Jack would squirm if he bit him now, and all the nice noises he’d make. It would leave a nice mark, he mused. Then he shook his head. No time for nice daydreams, though. Now was playoffs, and they’d barely started. Hopefully.
Hopefully there would be many more games ahead, and if they were really good and really lucky, sixteen wins.
It was weird. This hockey monster thing...was the strangest thing that had happened to him since...probably since he went to college and joined Samwell Men’s Hockey. With people like Shitty, Holster, and Johnson...yeah, the rest of the campus was right, the team was full of weirdos.
At the same time...it felt sorta good. He really was a hockey player, he’d earned his spot here and he belonged on the team.
The Schooners won Round One in six games.
Whatever magic it was that happened during playoffs, Eric was grateful for it. The last game was another tough win, and he knew, KNEW that any other time, playing like that would leave him near exhausted. But now, even after cellying like crazy out on the ice, waving their sticks like madmen, he just felt energized. Even if he crashed afterwards, they had a few extra days to rest and practice before Round Two.
But right now, a few drinks to celebrate wouldn’t be amiss.
Thank you, hockey gods, he thought. God had bigger things to worry about, surely, than playoffs. All it said was no gods before Him right? This was just like...asking an angel or a patron saint for something. Yeah. Hockey was totally an earthly-type matter, the gods of playoffs had more time to devote to hockey players anyway. They needed all the help they could get.
Probably he should ask if there were names for them, he thought, a little tipsy. It would only be polite. So he could thank them. Maybe he could make them a pie? His teammates would be more than ready to eat it afterward.
The next morning saw him peering confusedly at mostly illegible drunken scribbles on his nice stationary. Apparently he’d ended up trying to write a thank you note to the hockey gods.
Wow they mixed their drinks strong at that bar.
He squinted at a familiar-looking scrawl. And he’d been trying to work out what pie would be most acceptable as an offering. It was down to maple-apple and...something else now illegible.
The day after that, Eric blinked at eyes that had gone from warm brown to a molten amber.
He'd...he'd gotten plenty of ice time, that was all.
Everything was fine.
Round 2
(Everything was not fine).
The extra days off were welcome, but not idle, filled with practices, tape review, and a meeting or two with the trainers.
He even managed to squeeze in a Skype call with Jack.
It took a second to register, but he was showing his own playoff changes.
“My, what big teeth you have, Mr. Zimmerman.”
“Bits!” Jack ducked his head shyly, and grinned, showing off sharp canines. “Oh..oh wow, your eyes, look at you,” he murmured fondly. “Gorgeous.”
Eric didn’t really know how much he needed to hear that until he did.
“But how are you, Bits, really?” Jack asked, voice warm with love and concern.
“Pretty okay, so far. It’s a lot to take in, if I really stop to think about it. But then, if this is what happens to pro hockey players, it means I belong here. Fuck every single last bigot that ever said I couldn’t make it in the NHL.”
“The hockey gods have spoken,” Jack intoned solemnly, then smiled toothily.
They won Game 1 against the Flames with a resounding 4-0 shutout. Eric marveled again at where he'd ended up. A lean little former figure skater from Georgia, and here he was on a contending professional hockey team.
Things were off to a great start, but Round 2 was that much more intense. Malkin had it right, Eric figured. It's not fun, it's playoffs.
Well, it was still kinda fun. He couldn't check that hard, but with his speed, he’d distract them for a second, which was all he needed to snatch the puck out from under them and be off on the other side of the ice by the time they realized what happened.
Not fun was the whole body aches he woke up to the day after that first win.
Eric stared at the ceiling. He knew he hadn’t been injured, and if it was bad enough that he didn’t remember, they wouldn’t have let him go home, so what the hell? He checked his phone. He hadn’t lost time or anything, it was only the morning after.
He staggered into the bathroom and blinked blearily at the mirror.
He prodded gingerly at the greenish-gold spread along his shoulders. It wasn’t quite the right color to be a bruise.
Oh. So that's why he'd been peeling like after a bad sunburn. Between Seattle's rain and training, he hardly saw the sun that much.
So. Scales. Okay. Teriyaki had some too, shiny blue-green ones scattered across his shoulders. These spilled down his arms, almost to his elbows.
Almost like armor. That would be useful, he thought.
He regretted everything after Game 3. It was a definitive loss.
Eric methodically stripped off his pads. He was frustrated, and he hurt everywhere. Only after getting off the ice did he let himself feel every ache in his bones.
"Holy...!"
"What," Eric asked tiredly.
Cricket gestured in the general direction of his upper body.
"Oh. Great. More hockey magic fuckery."
Eric did not have the emotional capacity right now to deal with the spread of ridged and spiky armor along his shoulders and arms and more scales inching along his back and up his neck.
This was all giving him a headache.
"Wow. A couple of the guys had mentioned it, but that is the first time I've seen the Change hit anybody so hard, let alone a rookie."
Eric just grimaced at Jeremy, one of the trainers. "So everybody keeps telling me. I felt better after eating two freaking breakfasts, but I still feel pretty sore. Not sure what's from the game..."
"...or the shift. Yeah, joint and muscle pains are common, especially with armor. The nutritionists aren't really in on the whole thing, but I know enough to say, just do more of the same. Eat when you're hungry, and snack even when you’re not. Your body's trying to rebuild itself."
"Yeah, but into what, I'd like to know," he grumbled.
Jeremy didn’t answer.
Into what, indeed.
It was easy not to think about it. There were practices, and tape review, and the extra drills he set for himself, to see if the thicker scales and armor would slow him down. And having about six meals a day.
Brief calls to his parents, and even briefer calls to Jack.
Mom and Coach were as proud as anything, though of course hockey wasn't nearly as much a thing as football. Especially not after the Thrashers left. Still, Coach was making a good effort to singlehandedly make Madison into a hockey town. It wasn't football season yet, so they may as well put on the NHL playoffs at the local bar, anyway.
After practice, Eric found Karpov, who had won a Cup with the Kings. Surely he'd have some insight about the whole...monster thing.
Seattle was a great team of guys, but their playoff appearances were sporadic.
"Hey, Misha! Um. I was thinking...what was it like, getting that far in playoffs?”
He looked at him consideringly and rubbed at the patch of scales on his shoulder. "You're asking about the monster thing, yeah? You know, you're the first rookie to ask me that in a while. First one here in Seattle, anyway."
He thought a moment. "It's...strange. Ha, not that it isn't already, but to get as far as the Cup Finals - things get pretty odd." He saw something in Eric's tense and worried face. "Ah, are you worried that the outside won't be the only thing to change?"
The silence answered for him.
"Pretty sure I'd be lying if I said nothing else was different. Perhaps it's just the sport. Everyone gets...intense. Can't say if it's just putting two dozen guys in the pressure cooker of playoffs, or...something else. You feel...sharper. I tended to guard our goalie more than he'd like. He wasn't always very happy with me for that. You think about winning more. Other people, outside of hockey, definitely notice. But...how do you say, it’s never something that wasn’t already there.”
“Oh. huh. Well, thanks,” Eric said.
“Anytime.”
And that was that, until one morning Eric saw the two little hard bumps on his temples, just past his hairline. Horns were the last straw. They weren’t more than little nubs yet, but with how things were going...who knew.
“Cap. This can’t be normal.”
“Huh. That’s, yeah, unusual, especially for a rookie.”
Eric was methodically working his way through two plates of lunch when Cricket settled in next to him.
"Oh. Hey, " he greeted, muffled behind a bite of pork chop.
He felt a faint twinge of shame, he was raised to have manners, after all, but between playoffs and...the other stuff, this was his second round of lunch. He was just. Hungry. All the time.
"Bittle. How are you holding up, really?" he asked.
He was a great captain, really he was. Supported everyone on the team, made sure Eric felt welcomed and helped deal with some of the crap that had come up during the regular season. There was a distinct uptick in penalty minutes on their parts, but that was par for the course for the first out player in the NHL.
"It's awesome being in the playoffs, but, wow, it is stupidly exhausting. I don't get how some teams can do it years in a row!"
"You just came from the trainer's, yeah?"
"Yup, got a lot of knots worked out..."
"But things still hurt."
Well, if he could see right through him...not that Bitty was used to hiding much. And the trainers might've mentioned something to him too.
He clenched his fists. "Yeah. On the ice seems to be the one place where everything eases up. Right now, it's kinda like a cramp that won't quite relax, like if I can just stretch a little more it'll feel better." He rubbed tiredly at the scales inching past his elbows. "If...alla this is supposed to help, I don't even wanna know what it would be like otherwise."
"Bittle. You can always talk to me, alright? Or any of the A’s. We're here for you. I'm not gonna lie, it's unprecedented for our team, and for a rookie, to be hit as hard as you."
"So I keep hearing," Eric noted ruefully.
Carter looked on in horrified fascination as they watched Bittle steadily demolish the pile of meat and vegetables on the plate (mostly meat though). This restaurant had one of those steak eating challenges, and for some unfathomable reason, Eric had decided to try it. Not like he couldn't pay for it if he didn't win.
Well. He had said he was hungry.
But their little right winger was well on his way to getting his photo on the wall of fame.
There was a horrific snapping sound as he...he just BIT through the t-bone, okay. One of the other rookies was looking a little faint at the carnage.
The crunching noises as the bone was chewed into shards were kinda sickening. He couldn't look away. It was like one of those nature shows with a pack of, like, hyenas or something enjoying a downed wildebeest.
Only reenacted by one (1) average sized young athlete with a large steak.
After...what was probably (definitely) too little time for a cut of meat that big to disappear into someone Bittle's size, the scraping of knife and fork stopped.
"Oof," Eric sighed. "That was really good, Markus, I'm glad you dragged us here." He grinned, displaying teeth the likes of which he'd last seen....probably at the natural history museum. A lot of them were definitely sharper than when the fangs had first come in the first round. Shit.
"Hey," Sorensen nudged him. "Think they'd let us have the Stanley Cup if Bittle eats the other team?"
"Jesus, no, what the fuck?...Besides, we have to get past the Aces first."
“Ha, Mr. Bitey here would gladly gnaw on Parson and call it a day.”
That...well, he couldn’t argue with that. Bittle, who got along with pretty much everybody, was quite cool towards Kent Parson, to say the least.
As playoffs wear on, everyone's focus narrows. Eric welcomes it. Just get to the next practice, the next game.
Don't think about the new scales spreading everyday. Or the bony spurs along his knuckles that came in after that last fight. Definitely not the spikes growing along his forearms.
Don't dwell on that nightmare the other night, the one that had him up way too early, and led to him sneaking into the rink, just to get some extra practice in, had to learn to play through, play with the changes.
Eric was dreaming, he knew this. He was somewhere dark and quiet. He flailed in the dream, trying to wake up, but ended up just battering against whatever hard barrier was in front of him. He couldn't stay there, he knew it, he was suffocating, he had to get out, he had so much to do.
The wall in front of him finally broke, pieces crumbling off as he climbed through into a somewhere dimly illuminated by firelight. The relief was brief, as he glimpsed his clawed hands, arms covered in shiny green-gold scales and spines, no soft human skin to be seen. There was something heavy on his back. He screamed.
On the ice was the only place the hurt receded.
Round 3 - Conference Finals
The few days until Round 3 were unfortunately full. He'd barely had time to send a congratulations text to Jack, between their schedules of practice, tape review, and for Eric at least, eating everything in sight.
The little nubs of horn didn't stay little for long.
Where was all this even coming from?
Oh yeah, the aforementioned eating everything in sight. He was hardly gaining weight. He wasn't wasting away either, but whatever calories weren't taken up by hockey went to the Change.
It was...a challenge to face the mirror nowadays. It was just about okay with the team, he had their wholehearted if somewhat bewildered support. He could just about deal with it if they were all in the same boat (ha. boat jokes were to be expected. It had started with the formation of the team and never let up).
At home, alone with his thoughts...he didn't have time for that right now. He allotted himself a good half-hour of freaking out on his off days, and that was that.
If only Jack was here...but the Falcs had made it to Round 3 too, and he couldn't, wouldn't be a distraction. Just a few more days, a few more games, and they'd either move forward or end the run. The low simmering anger could wait. He could use it on the ice. Just focus and push through.
On the day they had to grind down the freaking horns so he could get his helmet on, some part of him shattered. The anger was still there, but there was a sort of peace. If all this...freakishness was his punishment for daring to be out and gay in the NHL, he would damn well play the best he ever had, and help get his team a Stanley Cup. There was no time for shame.
The Schooners lost in Game 7 against the Aces. It was so so close, but in the end, the bounces didn’t go their way. Las Vegas would be moving on to play Washington for the Cup.
The handshake line was subdued, and Eric wanted to scream.
“Hey. Bittle,” Parson said quietly, eyes a bright cat-like green. “You did great. You’ll make it again, I know it.”
He smiled thinly back at Kent. “Thanks.”
At least Jack was here. He’d flown to Seattle the day after the Falconers had been knocked out by the Capitals. It helped, knowing he was waiting for him.
Eric hardly remembered showering, or changing, or the drive back to his place.
“Hey, Bits,” Jack said softly, greeting him at the door, and gathered him up in a hug.
Afterwards
Eric curled up deeper into the covers, fruitlessly wishing if he just spent enough time in the dark, all the...everything would go away. It was the day after locker clean-out and he had no idea what his feelings were doing.
He couldn't help snapping at Jack, he loved him, he did, but there was this hurt place full of jagged pieces inside his chest and they scraped against each other. And. He just couldn’t right now.
He could faintly hear Jack making a phone call, but couldn't be bothered to try and make out what was said. It was warm and dark and things hurt less.
Some time later, another presence came in.
"Eric," came a soft Quebecois-accented voice. Oh, great, Jack called his dad.
A touch over the covers, not a hug, but it wanted to be.
"I'm so sorry, Eric. I should've listened to you more closely. We'll figure this out. Let us help, please."
Bitty let him peel off a layer of the blankets.
"Euh...and I hope you won't be afraid when you see me. I don't usually let it get so far, but maybe it will help you, to see? I'm retired, but of course you know now how much it marks you. Even Jack wasn't quite prepared to lay eyes on me when he got into the playoffs the first year. There was a definite yelp. A shriek, even."
Jack made an indignant noise.
"Yes, kind of like that, but higher-pitched." Bob wrapped his arms around the lump under the covers.
Something unwound inside. He ventured to poke his head out.
"Ah, there you are," Bob said.
And. Okay, he hadn't been kidding. He appreciated the warning, but. Wow. Horns curled back to behind his ears, scales were scattered down his neck, and hints of armor could be seen underneath his shirt.
"But I'm just a rookie. How can it be that I'm looking as...as different as your dad, who's won seven Stanley Cups?!" Bitty asked hysterically.
"I don't know. I have a couple of suspicions. But there are people we can ask. We'll figure this out."