Archive of Our Own

There are a million opportunities. He could kiss Bittle in the kitchen, when the Haus is dark and quiet and they’re alone and Bittle’s music is turned down low but he’s still dancing around, with Bittle’s hands floury or covered in brown sugar or soapy dishwater, cut Bittle off when he’s despairing over Jack being Facebook friends with his mother. He could kiss Bittle in Faber, at early morning checking practice with the sunrise peeking in through the windows, Bittle’s cheeks and the tip of his nose red from the chill in the rink, when Jack’s already got him close against the boards. He could reach over and hold Bittle’s hand under the table at breakfast or while they’re studying in the library or during a coffee break at Annie’s.

He could do it. He wants to do it. He thinks about it constantly, knows from the looks Shitty and Lardo shoot him it’s all over his face when Bittle talks and he stares at his lips. He could do it. He should do it. Jack’s not completely oblivious, unlike, apparently, Bittle. He knows Bittle likes him, too. It really only took one (okay, maybe two) accidental sweethearts to make him realize.

There are a million times he starts, a million times that he steps closer, into Bittle’s space, and sees hope flash in Bittle’s eyes, before his body locks up and he backs down. It’s not fear, necessarily. It’s realism, no matter how much Shitty scoffs when he says that.

The thing is…the thing of it all is that there are things he can’t give Bittle, just because of who he is, and he doesn’t want Bittle to give those things up for him. He can’t give Bittle a relationship, not for real, and it’s one thing to make himself hide who he is, but how can he ask Bittle to do that? Bittle, who came to Samwell specifically so he wouldn’t have to hide; Bittle who’s flourished and come out of his shell over the last two years.

And then, of course, there’s the fact that it’s kind of hard for Bittle to hide it. Jack knows stereotypes aren’t a good thing, but a lot of people take one look at Bittle and have an idea. And then things get complicated, because on the one hand Jack wants to tell himself he’s worried about people saying things to Bittle—hockey isn’t necessarily the most welcoming environment, no matter what the you can play program wants—and hurting Bittle. But then, on the other hand, the hand Jack hides behind his back because he’s ashamed, he knows it’s not much of a jump from thinking that about Bittle and seeing Bittle with Jack to thinking that about Jack.

And Jack…can’t. He can’t have people thinking that about him.

But then. Well. How could he have anticipated Bittle cluing in? Or maybe not cluing in, but taking a risky shot. Bittle decides, the night before graduation and three days before Jack’s leaving for prospect camp, to throw all his chips down for a last hail-Mary.

They’re in Jack’s new apartment in Providence, the one he mostly-unconsciously chose because of the view out the kitchen window and the way the low counters look big enough for the prep of four or five pies. Bittle’s helping Jack unpack, even though it’s not totally necessary he be unpacked for a while since he’ll be off at camp.

“You don’t want to come back from camp and not have things set up,” Bittle points out. “You’ll be tired and lazy.”

“I will not be lazy,” Jack protests, miffed.

Bittle rolls his eyes a little. “Well, unpacking your kitchen won’t be important to you.”

Jack can only shrug. He’s gained an appreciation for kitchens, sure, but he can’t pretend that appreciation is for the kitchen itself and not the 5-foot-6-and-a-half-inch blond shaking his ass in said kitchen.

Somehow, Bittle ends up sitting on the kitchen counter. Jack is in agony, obviously, because it’s not like he hasn’t imagined this ten thousand times. And, because he’s a glutton for punishment, he cooks up some half-assed excuse to stand too close—putting something in a drawer, the drawer that happens to be blocked by Bittle’s legs so Bittle has to spread them just a Jack’s-hips-width so he can open the drawer, and Jack’s not exactly breathing anymore, cursing himself for putting them both in this position, when Bittle apparently can’t take it anymore.

He honest to God grabs a fistful of Jack’s shirt and yanks him in for a kiss, and Jack means to pull back and protest and explain things, but instead he winds one arm around Bittle’s waist and lets the other reach up to cradle the back of Bittle’s head. Bittle wraps his legs around Jack and tangles one hand in Jack’s hair and Jack presses closer, his heart pounding hard enough that he’s almost afraid he’s having some kind of heart attack.

He doesn’t mean to groan when Bittle opens his mouth, but it happens, and Bittle reels him in even closer with his legs, and God bless these low counters, honestly, because just a slight upward tilt to Jack’s hips and a shuffle of Bittle to the edge of the counter means they’re pressed flush together and feeling each other.

Jack’s going to have an incredibly embarrassing situation here in a second, because it’s been a long time and he’s been picturing this (among other things) for weeks, at least, maybe longer without realizing he was thinking of Bittle, and he’s been half-hard since Bittle got up on the counter. He moves his lips from Bittle’s, which is sort of a herculean effort because they’re very nice lips, and trails down to his neck so he can bite a little at that damn cord of muscle that’s been taunting him forever. Bittle gasps and his breaths start coming out hitched and he tips his head back to make it easier on Jack and moans a little and Jack—

Well, that’s that.

And then Bittle’s following right after him, whole body going tense and his eyes flying wide with shock, hands clenching on Jack’s shoulders almost painfully. And then the kitchen is silent, such a contrast from mere seconds ago with their gasps and moans it’s almost comical.

“Oh,” Bittle says. Jack can’t tell if he’s blushing or if his face was already a little red. Maybe both.

“Um,” Jack answers.

Bittle laughs a little, breathlessly, and pushes a hand through his hair. His legs are still wrapped around Jack, and Jack’s still got an arm around his waist. They’re still pressed up together, and Jack knows he should move back, start apologizing and ruining this, but…

Well, they already went this far, didn’t they? He feels drunk, his brain fuzzy in a way he usually avoids these days, and he kisses Bittle again. Bittle kisses back enthusiastically, but he pulls back after a little bit.

“This is not sanitary,” he says, sounding pained as he glances around the kitchen.

“Or comfortable,” Jack adds.

“Not completely,” Bittle agrees. Jack’s coming down now, and his stomach has dropped down to somewhere around his toes. How could he do this? He’s leaving in three days. His parents will be in town in two hours. He’s basically just hit-and-run Bittle and Bittle has no idea.

Because he can see it in the stars in Bittle’s eyes—Bittle thinks this means something Jack can’t give. He thinks this means holding hands and weekly date nights and holidays visiting each other’s families, and no matter how much Jack’s stomach aches with longing, that can’t happen.

He feels like the worst kind of coward imaginable as they dig up clean boxers and sweats from the boxes in Jack’s room. They’re hanging off Bittle, of course, and the sight of Bittle in his clothes makes Jack want to push them back down and make use of the bed Bittle insisted he put sheets on, but he bites his tongue hard enough to hurt and remind him why he can’t.

He feels sick with shame as they drive back to the Haus, holding hands, knowing he’s giving this to Bittle but he’s just going to take it away. He’s able to beg off to go meet his parents at their hotel, and he hopes the next three days will be busy enough that Bittle won’t notice the way he’s slowly backing off.

His plan works out about as well as he should have expected.

The problem is Bob and Alicia love Bittle. There probably isn’t a parent in the world who’s met him who doesn’t—any person, really, because who wouldn’t love him? What this means is Bittle spends a lot of time with Jack and his parents over the next few days, and he doesn’t touch Jack with his parents there but he keeps giving Jack these looks, these looks Jack desperately wishes he deserved, these looks full of happiness and affection and secrets and Jack has to clench his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

Jack’s never been the praying type—doesn’t really even know if he believes in God at all—but he finds himself asking for the last day before he leaves to last forever so he doesn’t have to leave.

Let him live for eternity in the spring sun at the River Quad with Shitty picking up the frogs and tossing them into the water, with their shouts and curses and threats splitting the air and making everyone laugh, with Bittle sitting beside Jack on a blanket close enough that their hips and thighs are touching, with Lardo alternating between throwing bread at the evil ducks who live there and drawing little cartoons of everyone, with Ransom and Holster trying to build a “sand castle” in the dirt.

Let him stay here always so he doesn’t have to hurt Bittle.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Bittle slips into Jack’s bed that night, and Jack hates himself for pulling Bittle tight against his chest and burying his face in Bittle’s hair, hates himself for kissing Bittle deep and slow, hates himself for the happy sigh Bittle puffs out against his chest.

Jack hates himself for being selfish and taking this from Bittle, but he’s hated himself plenty before, so the feeling’s not new.

“Hey, Zimmermann, you coming with us?” one of the d-men, Willsy, calls. Jack busies himself with putting his gear in his locker.

“No, go ahead without me,” he says carelessly.

“Ah, come on, man, you never hang out with us!” their goalie protests.

“I, uh. I got some stuff I need to do,” Jack says. It doesn’t take much discouragement for them to give up on him; he’s a rookie, after all, and they realized pretty quickly early on that he didn’t really want to sit and talk about his dad. Or anything, really.

He unlocks his front door and doesn’t turn on the lights as he trudges down hall to his room, unceremoniously kicking off his shoes in the entryway. He would normally never do that, but it was a hard game, going into overtime, and he’s tired and he got checked hard enough in the third period that his ribs are sore. He avoids looking at The Counter. Capital letters necessary.

He goes to the kitchen for some food and stands in front of the open fridge for five full minutes, eyes and brain out of focus. Protein, he tells himself, and then chokes down the face that always tries to float up when he thinks about protein.

He’s four months into his rookie season with the Falconers. Four months since he graduated from Samwell. Four months since…

He closes the fridge and opens the freezer to pull out a bag of chicken breasts. While they’re cooking, he checks his phone. A string of increasingly-unintelligible texts from Shitty from while the game was going on, indecipherable to someone who isn’t used to how Shitty talks during hockey. Those filthy hands sweet jesus, and PUT! IT! IN!

He knows Shitty does it to get a rise out of him. He laughs a little and goes back to his inbox. Great game, baby, from his mother. You played hard, from his dad. Good job. They’ll talk later and do a full run-down, the highlights and low points and what Jack needs to work on, and Bob will phrase it all very gently like Jack can't handle a real critique and Jack won't complain.

Nothing else. Jack tells himself he wasn’t hoping for anything else. He opens his computer to put his stats into the spreadsheet he keeps and his Facebook, still up from earlier, automatically refreshes. Eric Bittle changed his relationship status from “single” to “in a relationship”—with Jamie Ellsworth.

Jack’s heart stops.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Jack reads aloud the comment one person left. Further examination of the profile picture of this person reveals her to be older than middle-aged, most likely an aunt or something. Well, Connie Bittle, prepare yourself for a wake-up call. Which you could get if you bothered to click on the guy’s name. Or maybe talked to Bittle. He obviously told his parents, because the first “like” on the relationship change is Suzanne Bittle.

Jack taps his fingers on the table for a second. He should close Facebook and update his spreadsheet. He should check on the chicken in the oven. He should put some ice on his knee.

He does the last one, because that’s an important, immediate concern, and then he clicks on this Jamie Ellsworth person’s profile. It doesn’t say much about him, but they have eight mutual friends: Eric Bittle, Larissa Duan, Justin Oluransi, Adam Birkholtz, Chris Chowder, Will Dex, and Derek Nurse, and then, randomly, a guy Jack knows from the history program. Jamie Ellsworth also recently became friends with Suzanne Bittle.

She unfriended Jack three and a half months ago.

He’s a nice enough looking guy; only a few inches taller than Bittle, green eyes, neatly-styled dark hair. He dresses kind of the same way Bittle does, with button-downs and sweaters and bow-ties—not a Samwell Hockey tee or baseball cap in sight. There’s a picture of the two of them in the kitchen in the Haus wearing matching aprons and Jack swallows hard and takes a deep breath.

Jack is happy for Bittle. Bittle deserves this. He deserves someone who will make their relationship public and wear matching clothes and let people take their picture while he’s looking at Bittle the way Jack only ever did in private when even Bittle couldn’t see. That’s why Jack cut things off, isn’t it? Because he knew he couldn’t give Bittle that and that’s what Bittle deserves.

He doesn’t bother trying to make himself not click on Bittle’s profile. He’s done this enough over the last four months that he knows just how many pictures he has to click through to get to the one he’s looking for. Our fearless Captain! the caption says cheerfully.

It’s a candid Jack hadn’t known was being taken; they’re at Faber, in uniform, helmets off and hair sweaty after a game, grinning at each other and fist bumping. It’s easy to tell Jack wasn’t aware of the camera, because he looks happy and relaxed, and he never looks that way in posed pictures.

He never really looks that way in general.

Jack stares at the picture, condensation from the ice pack seeping through his pant leg, alone in his dark kitchen. His chicken ends up burnt. He eats it anyway.

On November 1st, Jack signs into Facebook to see pictures from the Samwell Events page proclaiming Eric Bittle (American Studies, ’17) and Jamie Ellsworth (Accounting, ’16) the winners of the Fall 2015 Halloween couples’ costume contest. Jack has no idea what their costumes are supposed to be, but the caption says they’re people named Kurt and Blaine. He thinks they got points for sort of wearing Samwell colors, because their jackets have red piping.

There’s another picture, taken after they won, of them kissing, with onlookers smiling at them and clapping and cheering.

Jack closes his laptop.

Jack spends four days in Montreal for Christmas. He works out hard every day, and on the third day, Christmas day, his dad comes in the weight room while Jack’s doing leg extensions and frowns.

“Shouldn’t you be taking it easy?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at how much weight Jack’s got on the rack.

Jack shakes his head, grunting a little as his knee twinges. “Can’t,” he puffs. “Got a game in a week.”

His dad doesn’t say anything for a minute, just watches, and then he comes over and lays a hand on the weights. Jack stills, huffing in annoyance.

“I’m worried about you,” Bob confesses.

“Why?” Jack asks. “I’m in the best shape of my life. I’m playing NHL hockey. I’m third in the whole league and first on my team for goals. What’s there to worry about?”

Bob tries to look him in the eye, but Jack dodges, and Bob clucks his tongue. “That. You don’t seem happy at all.”

Jack’s brain flashes up a picture of Bittle and Jamie Ellsworth, smiling and kissing in plain view at a party. He sees himself as a teenager, sneaking looks at Parse when he thinks no one will notice. He thinks of the game against the Bruins three weeks ago, where a guy asked for an autograph and surreptitiously slipped his number into Jack’s palm and left Jack sweaty and cold with terror for an hour afterward. He remembers the email sitting, unanswered, in his inbox from Georgia Martin, delicately telling him the media is starting to wonder why he’s never brought a date to any team or league events.

Jack stands up quickly, needing to get away from this conversation. “Sure I am,” he says as he walks out of the room. “I’ve got what I always wanted.”

He never answered Georgia’s email, and she doesn’t take kindly to being ignored, so he finds himself in a mandatory meeting with her after the New Year.

“Should’ve just answered my email,” she points out good-naturedly as her assistant closes the door behind Jack. Jack already has a headache and they haven’t even started the conversation. He likes Georgia, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to tell her. I can’t bring a date because I’d want to bring a man. That’s not going to happen.

He fights the urge to rub his temples. “Sorry,” he says, not bothering to offer an excuse.

“Let’s talk,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. “You shy around girls? I can find someone for you, just for an event or two. It doesn’t have to be real.”

“You’re going to hire a prostitute?” Jack blurts out, shocked. Georgia barks out a laugh, startled at his conclusion.

“What? God, no, Zimmermann, what kind of organization do you think we’re running? I know women who would love the public recognition of being seen with you.”

Jack digs his fingernails into his palms. So much of that sentence makes him want to throw up. He makes himself look at Georgia, because this is a professional meeting and he can’t stare at the tops of his knees the whole time. She’s giving him a shrewd look.

“But that’s not what you want at all, is it?” she asks softly.

“Is there something wrong with not wanting a fake relationship?” he asks flatly. He has a headache and he didn’t sleep last night and her office is too warm and he feels like he’s barely holding himself together.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, irritatingly, and Jack can feel his face slipping into a sullen look and his shoulders hunching while Georgia looks at him. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” she finally asks.

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He feels like he’s in the principal’s office. Except he has no idea what that actually feels like because he never got sent to the principal’s office in school.

Georgia uncrosses her arms and leans forward a little. “Jack,” she starts. “You’re not bonding with your team. You’re not going to events. You're—”

“I’m here to play hockey!” he explodes, bursting up out of his seat to pace around. “Why do I have to do some dog and pony show, too? Why can’t I just play hockey and then do what I want? Why does everyone care so goddamn much what I do with my own fucking life?!”

She waits out his outburst with no expression on her face, and when he’s done yelling he hangs his head, all his anger draining out of him and leaving him embarrassed and exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not feeling well.”

“I can see that,” she says mildly. The ticking clock fills the air again. “Do you need to take some time off, Jack?”

His head shoots up, terror squeezing his insides. “No, no, please. Hockey’s all I’ve got.” He didn’t mean to say that. He sees pity flash over her face and he looks away. He sits back down in his chair.

“The Falconers are dedicated to making sure our players are healthy,” Georgia says. “And that includes mental health and addictions.”

Jack closes his eyes. “I’m not abusing pills.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m not going to do that again.” He opens his eyes. “I’m not going to have a mental breakdown, okay? I’m not going to overdose.”

“Do you see a therapist?” Georgia asks.

“No,” Jack answers, a little off-guard. “Not anymore.”

“The team can provide one.”

Jack drops his face to his hands, just for a second. He looks back up and sees actual concern in Georgia’s face. He holds his breath for ten seconds and lets it out slowly.

“Georgia,” he starts softly. “I’ve been through this before, okay? I know how to cope now without getting blackout drunk or getting high. I’m just having a rough couple of months adjusting.”

She searches his face and then nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll go to events,” he promises. “But I’m not taking a date.”

She looks for a second like she wants to protest, but she bites her lip. “Alright, Jack,” she says. “We’ll start there.”

Jack sticks to his word. He goes with a bunch of guys from the team to a nightclub in San Jose after losing to the Sharks. He wonders if Chowder watched the game. He wonders if the frogs hate him. He wonders about Ransom and Holster. He sits in a booth, a designated driver stamp on his hand even though the team supplies a driver, and watches his teammates do shots. He sees two guys grinding together on the dance floor and can’t look away for a minute. Willsy catches him looking and his shoulders hunch instinctively. He leans his head back against the vinyl booth and closes his eyes. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Brah how you doing? Shitty asks.

Not great. He never lies to Shitty if he can help it.

You played hard, Shitty says, and Jack realizes he’s talking about the game, the loss. You’re gonna beat Parse in goals soon if you keep this up.

Jack locks his phone screen and puts it back in his pocket.

Jack wakes up to his phone ringing. It’s four in the afternoon, and he fell asleep in front of Ken Burns’ baseball documentary on Netflix. He’s disoriented, the way he always is after an unplanned nap, and he’s answered his phone before he really realizes what he’s doing.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck is your problem, bro?” Lardo says harshly. Jack blinks a few times, still trying to figure out what’s going on.

“What?” He drags the back of his hand over his mouth. Ugh, he was totally drooling.

“You don’t get to disappear off the face of the earth just because you graduated and you’re a big shot NHL player now.”

“What?” he repeats.

“Jack,” Lardo says. “I haven’t gotten so much as a text from you in over two months.”

It’s quiet for a beat.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind if we stopped talking,” Jack admits hesitantly. “After…”

“After you broke Bitty’s heart?” Lardo supplies calmly. Jack makes a little noise he doesn’t mean to make. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she adds. She sounds sad.

“What do you mean?” he asks, pushing himself up so he’s sitting upright instead of slumped over the side of the couch. He’s sore. His hockey’s the best it’s ever been, but it doesn’t come without a physical toll.

“I figured I’d have to do most of the conversation initiating after you left,” Lardo explains. “But I didn’t think you’d stop responding at all. That’s not really your style. But it’s about Bitty.”

“I know you’re better friends with him than me,” Jack says without really meaning to. “And I was the asshole here, not him.” Lardo doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“It’s not an either/or situation,” she tells him quietly. “You’re my friend, Jack, and I care what’s going on with you. No buts.”

Jack gets an embarrassing lump in his throat. He hasn’t exactly bonded with his new team. He’s not really great at making friends, truth be told, and he doesn’t have Shitty here to force other people into hanging out with him.

But he hasn’t been very good at keeping the friends he already had, either. He’s left countless texts from Lardo, Ransom, and Holster go unanswered, feeling awkward about the situation with Bittle. They still live with him; they should stay friends with him. He talks to his parents, of course, and he talks to Shitty because he knows if he doesn’t answer Shitty he’ll get fourteen more texts asking him why he’s not answering. He knows Shitty won’t let him get away with not answering.

He should have realized Lardo wouldn’t, either.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I just…”

“You’re hurting, bud. I know.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s painfully accurate. He could feign ignorance and pretend she somehow means his physical aches, but he thinks he’s maxed out Lardo’s patience by going dark for two months.

“I felt weird,” he admits. “I know he’s…got someone. And I didn’t want to be, I don’t know, hanging over him.”

“You didn’t handle it well,” Lardo says, like he doesn’t already know that and agonize over it at three in the morning while he stares at the ceiling. Before he can think up a response, she adds, “You’re obviously still not handling it well. But, like, emotionally now, not just diplomatically speaking.”

“I don’t really know what you’re saying,” Jack says.

“Yeah, you do,” Lardo contradicts, and she’s right. “It’s okay, bro. It’s okay to be hurting. I don’t like that shit you pulled on him, but I know how you felt about him.”

“Feel,” Jack whispers, half-hoping she won’t hear him.

“Oh, Jack,” she breathes. “Still? Then why—”

“What was I supposed to do?” he interrupts, anger spilling out, anger at the world and himself and everyone. “Ask him to hide? Ask him to watch me find a beard and go to big events with her? Ask him not to tell even his own mother? How can I ask anyone to do that? But especially him.”

Lardo sighs. “Shit, dude.”

Jack blinks hard, clenching his teeth to keep it together. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I was going to leave without ever doing anything. But I just—he kissed me, and I wanted him for so long, Lardo, I just couldn’t push him away.”

She thinks that over. “I kind of understand why,” she says slowly. “But Jack, you were the biggest asshole in the world to him. You just faded out, bro, and that’s…” He can picture her shaking her head at him.

“I know,” he says hollowly. “But if I told him why he’d just tell me we could make it work. He’d tell me he didn’t mind keeping it quiet. You know he would.”

“Yeah, he would. You really don’t think it’d work though?” Lardo asks, because she’s not quite as hopeful as Bittle but she’s still sweet, down at her core, and no matter what she tells herself and everyone else, she’s secretly a bit of a romantic. It comes from being an artist, Jack thinks, because she can look at the most mundane things in the world and find something beautiful.

“I know it doesn’t work,” Jack told her. “I’ve done it.”

Lardo sucks in a little breath. “Parse?” she guesses.

Jack rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“You want to talk—”

“No.”

“Well,” she says after a beat. “I want to say first off that I still think the way you broke that off was shit. I don’t like you making decisions for him instead of talking to him and letting him decide for himself. He’s an adult.”

“I know.”

“But I understand it. And I’m not going to stop being your friend, Zimmermann. So pick up the damn phone once in a while, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he jokes. He hesitates for a second. “But he’s—he’s happy? That guy’s…”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Lardo asks softly.

His heart squeezes a little. “Please.”

She just breathes for a second. “He’s happy,” she says gently. “Jamie’s very sweet, and he adores Bitty.”

Jack almost wants to beg her to tell him everything, every detail, every aspect of their relationship, but he knows it’ll tear him up, and he knows it isn’t fair to make Lardo some kind of middle-man.

“Good,” he manages to say. “He deserves to be happy.”

Lardo huffs. “God, Jack.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Tell me about your new team. Is the manager as good as me?” Lardo makes her words light and Jack feels a little like he’s going to cry.

“Not a chance,” he promises.

He can’t stop what’s inevitable. They play the Aces on a Wednesday night in Providence in February. Jack steps out onto the ice and sees Kent. It’s the first time he’s seen him since that night at the Haus, over a year ago, and of course that makes him think of Bittle, too. They lock eyes and Jack doesn’t know what to do. Kent gives him a nod, one of those bro-y chin lifts, and Jack mimics him without thinking much of anything.

Playing against Kent is incredibly strange. He’s not used to being on opposite sides. He almost snaps at his own d-men for checking Kent. He almost passes Kent the puck. He gets pulled out of the game because he’s making stupid mistakes and missing passes. His hands are shaking as he sits on the bench.

He goes back in at the end of the second period and keeps it together. Kent keeps getting close, like he’s going to check Jack, and Jack shies away. He’s not ready for this like he thought he was. But he’s always been a little faster than Kent when he pushes himself, so he dodges and skates away. He ends up with a goal and two assists, and Kent didn’t score at all.

After the game, he’s trying to get out of the locker room fast so no one will invite him out. He’s not very fun when he goes out with the team, anyway, so maybe they’ll stop asking soon. He’s slipping out the back door of the stadium and of course Kent’s there waiting for him, leaning against Jack’s car with his hands in his pockets and that ridiculous hat on backwards.

“Looks like everything’s going great for you,” Kent says, no preamble because they’ve never been good at that.

“Sure,” Jack agrees flatly, unlocking the back door and heaving his bag in. But then Kent’s looking at him, head tilted to one side, and Jack knows Kent can see the way he’s fraying around the edges. Kent was there, before. He knows what Jack looks like when he’s falling apart, even if he didn’t know how bad it really was or what to do about it.

Jack’s not going to try the same remedies he did last time, but no one else seems to realize that. Everyone’s so busy feeling guilty for missing it the first time that they’re seeing him sliding into a second time even though he isn’t. He’s not doing great—he knows that—but he meant it when he told Georgia he’s better at coping now. Healthier, maybe, if not better.

“Are you okay?” Kent asks, the camera-ready smirk falling off his face.

“Do you ever think about coming out?” Jack blurts. Kent glances around quickly, making sure there’s no one around to hear, and Jack wants to scream. He’s so tired of looking over his shoulder all the time. He shouldn’t have said that to Kent. He can never be sure what Kent’s going to do with his words later.

But on the other hand, it feels like Kent’s the only one he could tell. Kent knows exactly what it feels like. So do, probably, a few other guys; Jack knows the statistics, okay, so he knows he and Parse can’t possibly be the only guys in the entire NHL who like to fuck other guys. The messy part is when it’s more than just fucking.

“No,” Kent answers, looking back at Jack once he’s satisfied the parking lot’s clear. “You know I like girls, too. There’s no reason to make things complicated.”

“Right,” Jack murmurs. “Complicated.”

Kent stares at him for a minute, then leans a little closer, dropping his voice. “Are you?” He sounds incredulous, and Jack can’t blame him. Six years ago, Jack’s two biggest fears were failure and being outed.

Jack hunches his shoulders. “No.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Kent says, like they’re choosing late-night burritos that are going to give Jack heartburn.

“I said I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“And you were lying,” Kent points out. “You are thinking about it.”

“I know I can’t, okay?” Jack snaps. “I’m just fucking sick of…” He rubs his temples.

“What happened?” Kent asks. “Something’s going on.”

Jack thinks of trading secrets in the dark, teenagers high off their own skills and the strength of their bodies, thinks of whispering I think I’m going crazy against Kent’s sweaty neck, thinks of Kent shoving him into a door once when they were fighting and thinks of punching Kent in the face in retaliation, thinks of Kent’s sneer and the way he fixed his stupid baseball cap in the hallway of the Haus with Bittle kneeling, wide-eyed and worried, on the floor.

Jack’s stomach starts to hurt. He wants to talk to Bittle. He wants so badly to hear that southern drawl saying anything, but especially something reassuring. He wants to go back to the Haus, to sleep in his little twin bed and listen to Shitty yelling at him through the bathroom, wants to sit next to Lardo at the library and have a conversation only in eyebrows about which one of them has to wake Holster up before Ransom gets there and catches him slacking off. He wants to know the people around him have his back.

“Nothing,” Jack says, and his voice is steady because it’s the first time he’s really let himself think about everything he’s missing. “I’m just homesick.”

“Look,” Kent starts, shrugging uncomfortably. “If you end up doing it…I mean, if you want to do that—” He breaks off.

“I’m not going to say anything about you.”

Jack sees the relief all over Kent’s face, and he wonders why he feels the opposite now, when it flipped so he feels relief from the thought of talking instead of biting his tongue. He doesn’t look back at Kent as he drives away, and he calls Shitty.

“I think I might talk to Georgia about coming out publicly,” he says calmly once Shitty’s stopped swearing at him in greeting.

Shitty goes completely silent for an entire forty-eight seconds. Jack counts.

“Are you sure?” he asks. If they were in the same place he’d wrap his arms and legs around Jack. For support, he’d say.

“I think so,” Jack says. “I—I’d have to tell my parents first. But I’m so tired, Shits.” His throat starts to get tight. “I’ve spent so long hiding it, trying to hide it, and I just don’t know if I can do it anymore.” He swipes the back of his hand across his nose.

Shitty takes a deep breath. “What do you see when you think of yourself in two years, if you do come out?”

Jack takes his time thinking it over, giving Shitty’s hypothetical the weight it deserves. He sees getting a lot of shit in the locker room, that’s for sure. But he’s a good hockey player—a great hockey player, especially this season. Plus, there’s been a lot of lip service to the you can play campaign and all that stuff; maybe it’s time to make people put their money where their mouths are.

The problem, of course, is that Jack’s not entirely sure he’s strong enough to be the one to force their hands. If he does it, he’ll be the first. It’s a landmark—he’ll go down in history, but not for his hockey.

“I’m not totally sure what I see,” he admits. “But I don’t know if I’ll make it another two years if I don’t.”

Shitty lets out a pained little noise. “Do it, then. Jack Laurent Zimmermann, I love you and I validate you and I don’t ever want to get a call from your sweet mother that anything’s happened to—”

“Shitty,” Jack breaks in. “I meant in the NHL. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Shitty sighs. “Fuck, brah.”

“Sorry.”

They’re quiet for a minute. Jack’s at his apartment, in his parking space, sitting with his head resting against the steering wheel, gathering the energy to get his bag and go up the stairs.

“Is this about Bitty?” Shitty asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Jack tells him honestly. “I mean, it’s why I couldn’t be with him. I think that’s why I started thinking about it. But even if he never speaks to me again, I—I need to. Anyway, it’s not like I can be with him now. He’s with someone else.”

Shitty is quiet for one second too long and Jack knows something’s going on.

“Shitty?”

“They broke up,” Shitty tells him, so, so gently. “Almost two weeks ago.”

Jack’s heart jumps a little, and then he scolds himself. “Is he okay?” And now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t stop—he sees Bittle with swollen, sad eyes, curling up sadly in his bed with his little stuffed bunny pressed to his chest. He knows part of the reason that mental image hurts so badly is because he was responsible, once, for Bittle feeling that way. It hurts only slightly less to think of Bittle crying when it’s not Jack’s fault.

“I think he’s alright,” Shitty says. “He’s the one who ended things. Not that sometimes that isn’t just as hard,” Shitty adds hastily, and Jack feels himself almost laughing a little at the way Shitty’s falling all over himself to think of Jack’s feelings.

“Well, he’s tougher than he looks,” Jack says. “And I’m sure that guy wasn’t good enough for him, anyway.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t hmm me, eh?” Jack requests. “I know I’ve got issues.”

“I’m proud of you,” Shitty says, in that embarrassingly heartfelt way that made Jack so uncomfortable when they first met, because he’d never met someone who was so open about feelings.

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“I love you.”

“Thanks,” Jack repeats, laughing this time.

“Oh, fuck you, Zimmermann,” Shitty shoots back.

“I love you too, Shits.”

“Knew it.”

Jack gets his bag and goes in. He stares at his phone for a long, long time, and then he takes a deep breath and he calls home.

They don’t do a live press conference. Jack can’t do that. His nerves are too frayed. Three weeks after he first tells her what he has in mind, Georgia brings him a short, concise statement to look over and make sure it’s the right tone that he wants. He’s not sure what kind of tone, exactly, he wants, so he shrugs a little and mostly defers to her. She doesn’t hug him, because she’s not the hugging type, but she does smile at him and tell him he’s making history.

He doesn’t know if he cares, really, about making history. He just knows his hands have stopped shaking.

He avoids the world for three days after it hits. He doesn’t want to see what people are saying, doesn’t want reporters thrusting microphones in his face outside the grocery store. Lardo calls him in tears and can’t stop telling him how proud she is, and Jack cries only a little less than he did when his mom said the same thing.

The only reactionary statement he reads is his dad’s: Bob Zimmermann told reporters he is “very proud” of his son’s decision to come out and “supports him completely.” When asked if he was disappointed this would overshadow his son’s hockey, “Bad” Bob, former hockey legend, said, “If you think this is going to overshadow his hockey, you haven’t seen him play.”

But the thing that stops Jack’s breath is the text he gets on the afternoon of the fourth day, after he’s gone back to practice and no one even said a damn thing. He knows Georgia got to everyone, got to the coaches and the players alike and gave them strict instructions, and he sees a few guys whispering and looking at him, but he goes to practice and they practice. They do drills and no one freaks out in the locker room and his shoulders haven’t felt this loose all season.

It’s when he gets to his car and checks his phone that his heart climbs up to his throat.

I think that was really amazing, Jack. I’m so happy for you.

It’s Bittle.

Jack covers his mouth with one hand and reads the text ten times in a row. No weird human things made out of letters, no exclamation points, but it’s the first he’s heard from Bittle in almost ten months, and his breath is coming in quick gasps and he’s giddy.

He really thought, maybe, he was starting to get over Bittle. It wasn’t him trying to convince himself; he genuinely believed it. He was completely, helplessly, almost hilariously wrong. One text—it’s only two sentences—and Jack’s palms are sweating.

Thank you, he sends back. He deliberates adding more. I wanted to make you proud? I was tired of running from things I want? But just because Bittle sent one text doesn’t mean he wants Jack to start talking to him again. Jack doesn’t get to just force himself back into Bittle’s life now, not when he was the one who completely shut Bittle out before.

You’re welcome.

The three dots pop up, and Jack waits for more. It takes a while. He doesn’t know if Bittle is writing something really long, or if he keeps typing and erasing.

You’ve always been braver than you give yourself credit for.

Is Bittle being sarcastic? Is this some kind of call-out? Jack literally turned tail and ran on Bittle. Nothing brave about that. He stares at his phone for a long time.

I can think of a time I should have been a lot braver. I wish I had been.

It takes Bittle almost forty-five minutes to respond. Long enough for Jack to drive back to his apartment and get some dinner started, biting his lip nervously and checking his phone despite it not making a peep.

No use wishing we could change the past, is what Bittle finally says. Jack hangs his head. That sounds like a dismissal. Bittle wanted him to know he’s proud of Jack, because Bittle’s a good person and a good friend even when other people aren’t for him, but it wasn’t an invitation.

I guess that’s true, Jack sends back, because he just has to push a little, just to make sure he’s reading the signals correctly. Rethinking regrets won’t change them, even when I wish it would.

Bittle never responds.

Jack spends two weeks rereading the conversation. It’s so short it almost doesn’t even count as a conversation, really. But seeing Bittle’s name up there in his messages makes him feel better, even if doesn’t get anything else from him.

It’s just hours after he’s been rereading the messages, again, when he gets the text from Lardo. At first he’s mystified, because there aren’t any words. It’s a song file, he finally realizes, and he hesitates for a second because what if it’s some kind of virus? Can phones get viruses? But it’s Lardo, and she wouldn’t do that to him.

He presses play. It’s Taylor Swift—Jack recognizes her voice now. Not as well as Beyoncé, of course, but he also recognizes the song itself because he was still living in the Haus when it came out, so he’s heard it more than once when everyone refused to listen to his “old man music.”

Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together. I would wait forever and ever.

Jack makes a face at his phone. What on earth? Why did Lardo send this to him? Maybe she meant to send it to someone else.

Except then his phone buzzes again.

Do it, Zimmermann.

Jack shrugs helplessly at his phone, like Lardo can actually see him. His phone buzzes again, but it’s Ransom this time.

He’s been playing this song on repeat for two days.

Holster? Jack asks. This seems a strange thing to say after months of their interactions being limited to Facebook.

Bitty.

Then Holster decides to add his two cents, too. He’s not thinking about Jamie.

Are you guys all sitting there together texting me?

Lardo: No time for stupid questions!

Ransom: Yeah

Holster: We’re on Rans bed

Lardo: But really do something about this.

Jack blinks a few times and replays the song. Say it’s been a long six months and you were too afraid to tell her what you want. Oh. Are they saying what he thinks they’re saying? He calls Lardo.

“Really?” he asks as soon as she picks up.

“Really,” she confirms. “It’s gonna take time, bro, but yes.”

“Hi, Jack!” he hears Holster call out.

“We miss you, bro!” Ransom adds. Jack is feeling a lot of feelings and he doesn’t know if he’s really equipped to wade through them all at once.

“What do I do?” he asks frantically. “Is it raining there?”

“Is it—Jack, you don’t have to take the song literally.” Lardo is definitely rolling her eyes at him. “You should totally drive over.”

For a second Jack’s heart leaps. Yes, every part of him says. Go see Bittle.

“No,” his mouth says. “That’s not a good idea.”

Lardo blows out a frustrated breath. “Jack, you don’t have to be scared—”

“No, it’s not that,” Jack interrupts, although that’s not entirely true. “I just don’t want to show up out of the blue after what I did to him. I mean, we went nine months without talking after…uh, after some stuff happened.” He doesn’t know how much Lardo actually knows about the situation. “I can’t just walk in and blindside him.” Like Kent did to me, he doesn’t add.

Lardo makes a little noise Jack can’t interpret. “Someday I want to have a conversation about how you think you’re not good at feelings but you’re actually really great at watching out for other people and validating them.”

“Uh,” is all Jack can say to that.

“But for now I’m going to hang up so you can call Bitty.”

Jack doesn’t get to say anything else before she does just that. He taps his phone against his lips a few times. Lardo, Ransom, and Holster think it’s a good idea for him to call Bittle. He’s not sure he completely trusts Ransom and Holster to know what would be good for Bittle—their hearts are in the right place, but they’re not quite as good at knowing what other people need as they are at knowing what each other need—but he also knows Lardo wouldn’t tell him to do it if it would hurt Bittle.

He hesitates for another second, but then he thinks about how he waited so long when they could have had at least a year together, maybe even two by now, how he let his own fear send him running from Bittle, how he only got one night to sleep beside Bittle when he wants so, so much more.

There’s no guarantee Bittle will be open to being with him, for real this time, or even with talking to him. And Jack wouldn’t blame him for that. But it’s not going to be because Jack chickened out. Not this time.

He takes a deep breath and pulls up Bittle’s contact information. He closes his eyes for one second and then hits call. It rings a lot, more than he can ever remember any phone call ever ringing before. It’s probably the most rings of any phone in the history of phones.

“Hello.” Bittle’s voice is so sweet in his ear, even with how wary it sounds.

“Hi, Bittle,” Jack manages.

“Hi, Jack.” Bittle doesn’t say anything else, but the sound of him saying Jack’s name makes Jack’s heart jump a little.

“I, uh.” Jack gulps a little. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to talk to me. If you don’t want anything to do with me, I get it. You can hang up and I’ll leave you alone.”

Bittle doesn’t say a word, but Jack can still hear him breathing, so he knows he didn’t hang up.

“I’m sorry,” Jack adds. “For what happened. For what I did. I’m so sorry, Bittle.” He can hear how choked his voice sounds and he hopes Bittle doesn’t think he’s just trying to manipulate him.

“I tried so hard to hate you,” Bittle tells him, and Jack feels a lump rise up in his throat. “I managed to do it, for a little while. Maybe.”

Jack wants to ask if that means Bittle doesn’t hate him now. He wants to apologize a million more times, send Bittle flowers and find him some kind of special baking ingredients or something like that. He wants to beg, wants to plead with Bittle to see him because looking creepily and pathetically through Bittle’s Facebook pictures isn’t the same as seeing him in person, noticing the way the cowlick on the back of his head gradually slips loose from the hairspray he uses, watching him dance and hearing him sing under his breath while he does his homework.

But he’s not going to talk right now. This is Bittle’s turn to say his piece.

“You broke my heart,” Bittle tells him. Jack flinches, both from the raw emotion Bittle’s just tossing out there with the break in his voice and from the truth of Bittle’s words. “Actually, you didn’t even have the decency to do that. You just disappeared.” There’s a silence, and then Bittle says, “Well? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

This is something Jack has rehearsed hundreds of times, in the middle of the night lying awake, in the shower, in the haze between asleep and awake, in the car on the drive between the rink and his apartment. He has his list of reasons and explanations and justifications that he has been perfecting for nine months.

“I have a lot of excuses,” he says instead of any of that. “But mostly I was a coward.”

Silence. “I want to hear the excuses,” Bittle says after a minute.

“I couldn’t give you anything real, Bittle. A long-distance secret relationship? What use is that? You deserved better. Deserve. You deserve someone like that guy, the one who kissed you at a party in front of everyone.”

Bittle’s quiet for a minute. “You didn’t stop to think about what I wanted, though.”

“I know you wanted me,” Jack murmurs. “But I know myself, Bittle. I couldn’t give you all of me and I would’ve been freaking out the whole time. Don’t you think it would’ve been worse to try things out and never really get me, even though you were supposed to?”

Bittle sighs. “I don’t know anymore.” Neither of them speak. “So now you’re out and you’ve decided you can give me everything you think I want? Do I get to make a decision this time or are you going to handle that again?”

His tone is sharp, biting, and Jack bites his lip. “I owed you an apology. Way overdue.”

“So this is just an apology?” Bittle asks. “Nothing else?”

Jack wonders what he should say. Does it make him an asshole if he admits he wanted to try convincing Bittle to give him another shot? But he doesn’t want to lie anymore, especially not to Bittle, and it seems shady to make himself look like a better person than he really is by not admitting his ulterior motives here.

“I—” His throat’s dry and he has to swallow before he can keep talking. “I miss you, Bittle. You’re…one of my best friends. I know I didn’t show that very well. And I know I really fucked up, but.” He blows out a breath. “I’ve been crazy about you for a long time.”

He hears Bittle take a sharp breath and hopes he didn’t just hurt Bittle all over again. It takes a long time for Bittle to say anything. Jack wonders idly what Bittle’s wearing, whether it’s something stylish or if he’s in an old Samwell tee and sweats, if he’s already brushed his teeth and washed his face and is ready to go slip into bed.

“I miss you, too,” Bittle finally admits, and Jack almost can’t breathe with how happy those words make him. “You were one of my best friends.” The past tense stings a little, but Jack knows he deserves it. “And I know you were scared. I know things haven’t been easy for you, Jack. Pretty much ever.” Bittle sighs and Jack has to bite the inside of his cheek. Sympathy from Bittle hits him harder, especially when he hurt Bittle so badly and here he is, making excuses for Jack.

“I know we can’t really be friends again, not really,” Jack says dejectedly. “I get that.”

Bittle doesn’t say anything and Jack wonders if he just closed a door he didn’t know was open. “I think you’re right,” Bittle says softly, and Jack closes his eyes. “But I think we could try for what we were heading toward before.” It takes a second for his meaning to sink in.

“Are you serious?” Jack breathes.

“We’ll have to go slow,” Bittle admonishes. “I don’t trust you the way I used to.”

“Bittle, anything,” Jack hears himself say. “As long as it takes.”

“I’ve been crazy about you for a long time,” Bittle echoes his words back at him and Jack has tears in his eyes and he doesn’t even care if that’s over the top. He doesn’t care if he has to spend twenty years coaxing Bittle’s trust out. He’ll do it.

Jack walks up the front steps of the Haus with a bag of flour in one arm and two identical flower arrangements in the other. The flowers are heavier and more awkward to hold onto. And then he’s facing the front door without a hand to use to twist the knob.

He sets the flour on the Haus Sweet Haus rug and manages not to drop the flowers only through his hockey reflexes. He holds the door open with his prominent ass and gathers everything back into his arms.

When he stands up, he notices Dex, Nursey, and Chowder are sitting on the couch, watching and laughing, and Ransom comes down the stairs in time to catch him using his posterior as a doorstop. His eyes light up.

“If you say a word about my ass, you don’t get your graduation present,” Jack threatens.

Ransom snaps his mouth closed and salutes. “Lardo and Bitty are in the kitchen,” he says instead, but he’s still grinning. Jack rolls his eyes and maybe gives his hips an extra little shake as he walks past Ransom, who howls with laughter.

“There he is!” Lardo calls when Jack walks into the kitchen. Bittle spins around and his face goes soft when he sees Jack. Or maybe it’s the flour Jack’s holding. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

“Beautiful,” Bittle murmurs. Jack feels his face heat up and he ducks his head a little.

“Are you talking to the flour and the centerpieces?” He jokes.

“Of course I am,” Bittle chirps saucily. “Who else would I be talking to?” He comes over and rises onto his tiptoes to give Jack a quick peck on the cheek. “Did you bring something to change into?” Bittle asks, nose wrinkling. “The graduation dinner is semi-formal, Jack, and just because your shirt doesn’t have a logo on it doesn’t mean it’s semi-formal.”

“Wait, really?” Jack can’t resist teasing Bittle a little. Bittle narrows his eyes.

“Jack Zimmermann,” he warns. “I have been up since 4 am today finalizing place settings and prepping this kitchen and making sure the tables are set up correctly in the backyard. I have spent the last three days delegating cleaning chores to the frogs and other dibs-seekers, not to mention finishing my finals. We are at T-minus two hours until three sets of emotional parents, siblings, and grandparents, plus Shitty and your parents, descend upon us, and you want to give me cheek?”

“Sounds like he needs to give you some kind of cheek,” Lardo mutters, up to her elbows in ground turkey. Bittle makes the most delightful shockingly appalled look Jack has ever seen, and he can’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

He and Bittle aren’t there yet. It’s been a little over two months since Bittle agreed to give this a shot, and they really have been going slow, a lot of long phone conversations Jack might possibly often end by falling asleep, a lot of Skype chats, and a lot of weekend dates in Walpole, MA, the halfway point between Samwell and Providence.

They’ve done a lot of making out, even some groping that leaves Jack aching for more, but they haven’t even gotten as far as that fateful day on The Counter. (Capitals still necessary.) But Bittle still has the boxers he borrowed that day, and he wears them to bed, and Jack feels like that’s a level of intimacy he’s never reached with anyone else before. He and Parse never shared underwear. Mostly because Parse never wore underwear, but still.

It’s been slow and tentative and so worth it. Jack knows it’s too early to say it, probably, but he loves Bittle. Love-love, romantic love, not the same kind of love he feels for Shitty but the kind of love that prompts him to send flowers and candy arrangements at least once a week and even, only one time, to try to write poetry. It was abysmal, so he sticks to his strengths—reaching things on the top shelves, taking too many pictures, and making them both blush as much as possible by saying cheesy things about how amazing Bittle is. He knows Bittle’s it for him—house, rings, tuxes, the whole deal someday. He plays Shitty’s picture yourself in two years game and all he sees is Bittle forever, patiently teaching their kids to roll out dough, old and stooping and still chirping Jack and dancing in the kitchen while he bakes for their grandkids.

He can’t believe it. This time last year he was ripping himself away from Bittle, ignoring texts from Lardo and Ransom and Holster, wondering if he’d even make it in the NHL. Now here he is, back in the Haus kitchen to help Bittle make fourteen pies, and sometimes they get to share a bed, and the Falconers are in the playoffs and his name is at the top of the stat sheet. His parents are on their way for a two-week visit for graduation and the Falconers’ playoffs series against the Rangers and his best friends in the world are gathering in the place he still calls home when he doesn’t think.

It’s not perfect—last week at a game he got boarded and the d-man spat faggot in his face, and he’s started getting hate mail and sometimes when people crowd around him they’re not asking for autographs but instead to tell him he’s a disgusting abomination. But Georgia handles his mail, and he has teammates who see him getting bombarded and come over to save him, and things feel better than they’ve been in a while.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to find a Facebook notification, because he learned how to make the app send him alerts when he was watching his friends from afar like a sad, pathetic weirdo.

Suzanne Bittle has sent you a friend request.

Jack shakes his head, smiling. He wouldn’t have believed it a few months ago, but he’s finally got everything he ever wanted.