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Prospect camp is over, and Jack hasn’t seen Bittle in a month and a half. He graduated Samwell with his history degree, two proud parents, and the lid on the bottle containing his feelings for Bittle tightly in place. He thought it would be better this way. He doesn’t really believe in long-distance relationships.
But a month and a half without Bittle at his elbow, a month and a half of texting every day and a phone call or two per week, a month and a half that shows Jack what the rest of his life is going to be like if he doesn’t do something, changes his mind.
This is agony. It’s impossible. He’s not going to make it. Being Bittle’s friend is one of the best parts of Jack’s life, but every day he worries Bittle’s going to find someone else, someone who doesn’t trip over his feelings or stammer when he talks, someone who can think about being seen in public together without his hands shaking.
The thing is, surprising Bittle with the new oven on his birthday and seeing Bittle that happy lit some kind of fire in Jack. He wants to keep making that happen. He wants to put that ecstatic blush/laugh/cry look on Bittle’s face as often as possible. He wants to do anything and everything possible to see Bittle cover his mouth and suck in a breath because he’s so surprised and so happy. So Jack does what any logical NHL player missing his best friend/secret love of his life would do—he calls said friend’s mother and says conspiratorially, “I have a secret plan I need your help with.”
Two weeks later he’s stepping off a plane in Atlanta and grimacing at the sticky heat. He doesn’t have to wait long before he sees Suzanne waving, grinning wide with that smile Jack’s seen on Bittle’s face, and Jack smiles back.
“Hi,” he says, feeling a little shy and awkward.
“Oh, hello sweetheart,” she squeals, pulling him into a hug. “This all you got? One bag?”
“Uh, yeah—”
“Well, I guess when you ain’t packing a kitchen along with you it saves on space,” she says with a laugh. “Dicky never can manage to do with one bag.”
“Not even for a few days?” Jack laughs.
“Oh, honey, he’s got to have an outfit per day and his workout clothes and an apron or two and o’course he’s gotta bring some rolling pins. You shoulda seen him back in his skating days, oh Lord. Different costumes for different programs and clothes to change into and warmups for waiting time.”
Jack can’t stop smiling. It’s an hour from Atlanta to Madison, and he watches as the buildings give way to pastures full of cows. He knew, sort of, that Bittle was from a small town, but he’s kind of surprised at how little there really is out here.
“Now, Dicky’s at the rink, so what do you think we should do? By time we get there he’ll be done coaching for the day, so do you want to surprise him at the rink or be waiting at home?”
“Rink, please,” Jack says automatically, because he can’t think of anything better. “If you think that’ll be alright.”
Suzanne smiles. “I think that’ll be perfect. Oh, he’ll be so happy to see you, honey.”
Jack has never been called so many pet names in his life. His family isn’t very big on endearments—his mother calls him baby when she’s especially worried or proud of him, and his dad calls him son occasionally, but that’s it. He thought Bittle got him ready for this, for a sweetheart here and a honey there, but Suzanne uses them almost like punctuation.
Jack’s getting a little nervous the closer they get, but the sight of the rink puts him at ease. It’s not a rink he’s ever been to, but ice is ice and ice is where he’s most comfortable. Seeing Bittle at an ice rink seems the most natural thing in the world.
“You follow me, darlin’, I’ll show you where he is,” Suzanne promises. “But wait one second, I’m gonna get my camera ready.”
Jack waits patiently, smile refusing to leave his face. He can’t wait to see Bittle. He can’t wait to see Bittle’s eyes go wide with shock and see his mouth drop open. Suzanne leads him inside and waves at the teenage boy behind the skate counter. Jack can already see Bittle, out on the ice with a group of tiny kids wobbling on their skates. When they get a little closer, he can even hear Bittle, though Jack makes sure to stay hidden behind the boards.
“Now, y’all did so well today!” Bittle praises, prompting shy smiles and giggles out of the kids, none of whom can be older than seven. Jack can’t even describe the feeling in his chest at the sight of Bittle on the ice with those kids. One little boy’s holding tight to Bittle’s hand, looking at the ice dubiously, and the other five kids are gazing up at Bittle adoringly.
Jack knows the feeling.
“Marcy in the office is gonna give y’all stickers, okay? And Lindsey, I will make sure you get two, just like I promised, because your figure eights were so good today. Tomorrow we’re gonna start our choreography for the show y’all are gonna put on for your parents, so you rest up and make sure you eat good dinner and breakfast so we can work hard tomorrow, y’hear?” His accent is thicker here, thicker than even when he comes back to the Haus after breaks.
“Yes, Coach Eric,” the kids chorus.
“Ryan, can you try skating to your mama on your own?” Bittle coaxes. Ryan, holding onto Bittle’s hand, shakes his head in terror.
“Coach Eric, please don’t let me go!” he begs. “I’ll fall down!”
“Ryan, I will not let you fall, cross my heart and hope to die,” Bittle says, completely serious. He even uses his free hand to make an X on his chest.
“He’ll take Ryan on over to his mama,” Suzanne whispers, pointing to the bleachers on the other side of the ice. “And then he’ll skate over here.”
“Okay,” Jack manages to say, heart starting to pound a little harder as Bittle and little Ryan slowly make their way across the ice. Just as they get to the other side, Bittle convinces Ryan to take two strides on his own, and he cheers so loud for those two shaky strides it echoes through the rink. He talks to Ryan’s mom for a second or two, ruffles Ryan’s hair, and starts back across the ice.
He skates lazily, easily, and does a few turns just for fun. Jack can’t wait for him to come all the way off the ice. He doesn’t have skates on, but he knows his way around ice.
“I’m gonna…” He gestures and Suzanne makes an excited little noise. Jack squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and steps up onto the ice.
It takes Bittle a moment to notice, because he’s having fun, but he’s nothing if not aware on the ice, so he looks up quickly. When he sees Jack, he stops. Every part of him just seems to freeze.
“Jack?” he asks, confused. And then he sucks in a gasp, mouth opening just like Jack imagined, and starts flying across the ice. “Jack!”
“Hi, Bittle,” Jack says, just before Bittle slams into him. They fall, of course, because Bittle is fast and didn’t slow down and Jack doesn’t even have skates on. They land in a heap on the ice, Bittle’s arms around Jack, and Jack’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.
“Oh, Lord,” Bittle fusses. “I’m sorry, Jack! I hope I didn’t hurt you. I just got so excited—what are you doing here?”
Jack sits up. “Came to surprise you,” he says. “Surprise.”
Bittle flings his arms around Jack’s neck, both of them still on their asses on the ice, and buries his face in Jack’s shoulder. “I can’t believe this,” he babbles. “I can’t believe you surprised me and you’re here.”
“I, um.” Jack clears his throat. “I really missed you.”
“Oh,” Bittle breathes. “Oh, Jack, I really missed you, too.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed,” Jack teases. Bittle pulls back, blinking quickly at the sheen in his eyes, and Jack feels impossibly fond.
“Don’t you chirp me,” Bittle scolds, trying to keep his voice normal. He glances over and sees his mother. “Good heavens, Mama’s recording all this.”
“She helped me,” Jack admits.
“Can’t believe y’all were in cahoots against me.”
Jack snorts. “Cahoots, eh?”
Bittle rolls his eyes and stands up, offering Jack a hand he very gladly takes. “Yes,” Bittle says regally. “Cahoots.”
Jack lets go of Bittle’s hand reluctantly, because the rink isn’t empty and the commotion of their greeting caught everyone’s attention, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Bittle, and when Bittle looks over and smiles at him, Jack thinks it might be the best day of his life.
It’s been four days of Jack’s week-long trip to Madison, and he hasn’t told Bittle how he feels. He’s pretty sure Bittle’s caught on by now; not just from the surprise in the first place, but also from the way Jack finds excuses to lean close, to let a hand trail across Bittle’s back, to sit with his arm on the back of the couch when they watch a movie.
But Jack runs into a little snare he hadn’t thought about—Bittle isn’t out to his parents. Now, Jack has his suspicions about how clueless Mama Bittle, at least, really is, but still. He’s not sure he can put the moves on Bittle in their house when Bittle hasn’t told them.
But he’s not sure he can hold back much longer.
They’ve skated and gone on runs every day, because they both have workouts to keep up on, and they’ve baked pies together, listened to music Jack doesn’t recognize together, Skyped with Shitty together, watched music videos as part of Jack’s “pop culture education” together—everything Jack imagines when he thinks about spending time with Bittle. But there are new things, too.
There’s the creek behind Bittle’s house where they went swimming one hazy afternoon, taking turns on a rope swing and splashing each other, Bittle’s hair shining in the sunlight and freckles splashed across his nose while they ate a picnic spread out on the bank with the sound of creek rushing past.
There’s the drive-in movie theater they went to with some of Bittle’s friends from high school, lying close together in the bed of a pickup with the stars overhead and fireflies flashing by, Jack getting brave enough to hook an ankle around Bittle’s under the blankets but afraid to do anything else with other people around.
There’s the way Bittle looks at Jack and doesn’t look away as soon as he looks back, the way their hands bump together when they’re walking and neither of them pull away, the way they lie on opposite ends of the couch with their legs heaped together in the middle.
It’s been four days and Jack’s only got three left, and he can’t figure out if he’s supposed to do something or not. They’re watching a movie, and it’s late—Suzanne and Coach went off to bed already, and Jack spent the last half hour carefully inching closer and closer to Bittle on the couch until they’re close enough that their thighs are touching.
And then Bittle falls asleep.
Jack wants to sigh a little, because what if he was going to finally work up the nerve? He doesn’t want to wake Bittle up. Bittle murmurs a little and shifts, and his head drops down onto Jack’s shoulder. Jack looks down into Bittle’s face for a minute and feels a swell of affection as he watches the fluttering of Bittle’s eyelashes.
He’s still looking at Bittle when Coach comes out to get a glass of water. By now, Jack’s got an arm around Bittle’s shoulders and Bittle is snuggled securely into Jack’s side, and Jack’s even stroking his hand up and down Bittle’s arm. But then Coach comes around the corner, and their eyes lock, and Jack freezes.
Bittle’s father, this big Georgian football coach who Jack hasn’t heard say more than ten sentences in four days, takes in the sight of his son cuddled up close to another boy, and Jack can’t breathe. What’s he done? Did he just ruin Bittle’s life?
Coach’s eyes go from Jack’s face down to Bittle’s body sagging against Jack’s, look at the way his son’s face is relaxed and soft in sleep, glance down at Jack’s arm wrapped protectively around Bittle, and then come back up to Jack.
Coach nods at Jack, just once, and then he keeps walking into the kitchen. He gets himself a glass of water, and as he walks back out of the kitchen, he silently toasts it at Jack. Jack can’t even imagine the look on his own face, but he could swear Coach’s eyes are twinkling in amusement.
Jack doesn’t move for a full five minutes after Coach has retreated back to his bedroom, unsure what just happened. Surely that wasn’t really what he thought it was. Was it? His heart’s hammering away in his chest and his palms start to sweat. It felt an awful lot like acceptance.
“Bittle,” he says, nudging Bittle a little. Bittle stirs, blinks a few times, and realizes he’s leaning against Jack.
“Um, sorry,” Bittle murmurs sheepishly. “Didn’t realize I was falling asleep.”
“Bittle,” Jack repeats, more earnestly. Bittle realizes Jack’s arm is around him and he blinks up at Jack.
“Jack?” he whispers, eyes starting to go a little wide. Jack takes a second to just smile at him, and he sees the spark of hope that lights up Bittle’s eyes. That’s all it takes. Jack only has to shift a little to lean his head down and kiss Bittle.
Bittle sighs against his lips and brings a hand up to cup Jack’s face, stroking across his cheekbone so gently it makes Jack want to cry a little bit. He opens his mouth and feels Bittle do the same, and they sit there exchanging soft kisses until the credits roll on the movie neither of them watched one bit.
Jack sighs as he swipes to unlock his phone. He has to call Bittle. Eric. It’s weird figuring out what to call him. He’s almost always Bittle in Jack’s head, but Jack knows it’s probably not normal to be on a last-name basis with your…boyfriend. Your secret boyfriend. Your secret, long-distance boyfriend.
Yeah. That’s getting kind of old.
Especially in times like this. Georgia just sprang a last minute promotional thing on him, and now he has to cancel his weekend plans. He and Shitty were going to Samwell to see Lardo and Bittle before Jack has to leave again Sunday afternoon for a road game. Of course it’s just his luck that he has to go to New York this weekend while Bittle’s in Samwell, when next weekend Bittle will be in New York.
“Hi, Jack,” Eric sounds surprised when he picks up the phone. “I thought we were Skyping later?”
“Yeah,” Jack assures him. It isn’t that he forgot they had already arranged to Skype; he’d just wanted to call Eric right away. It’s happening more and more often—as soon as Jack gets news, or even just when he gets five minutes to himself, he wants to call Bittle. “Um, I just have some bad news.”
“Oh,” Bittle says, already sounding disappointed.
“I can’t come this weekend,” Jack confirms what Eric’s probably already worried about. This is the third weekend in a row Jack has had to cancel plans. “I have to do promo stuff.”
“Okay,” Bittle says quietly, and Jack can almost see him pasting on a fake smile. “Well, is it going to be a commercial this time? Maybe you can jumpstart your acting career. Your mama will be so excited.”
Jack doesn’t answer Bittle’s rambling. He’s just trying to cover his disappointment with cheer and it makes Jack’s heart hurt. “I’m sorry, Eric.”
Eric sighs. “I know it ain’t your fault.”
“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Jack points out.
Eric huffs a little laugh. “It surely does. But really, what is it?”
“I have to speak at some sponsor dinner in New York,” Jack groans. “Thank them for giving money to the league, answer their questions. Ellis was going to do it but his wife went into labor this afternoon.”
“How rude,” Bittle jokes.
“Georgia asked if I could do it or if I had a good reason to get out of it and…”
“And you couldn’t say you were coming to see me,” Eric finishes.
“Going to see my old team less than an hour away isn’t really a compelling reason to bail on sponsors,” Jack murmurs. “Especially because George already knows I went to the opener last month and you guys came to our opener.”
“Yeah,” Eric says. “I get it.”
Jack feels like his guts are twisting up. His anxiety makes a long-distance relationship especially hard, because he’s constantly worrying that Eric isn’t happy. Cancelling plans and hearing the resulting dejection does nothing to dissuade his dark thoughts from convincing him he’s disappointing Bittle at every turn.
“Maybe I can come up sometime next week,” Jack suggests desperately. “Before you leave for St. Lawrence.”
“Hm,” Eric hums. “But aren’t y’all getting back from Tampa Bay Thursday night?”
“Yeah,” Jack sighs. “I could just come as soon as I get back?”
“We’re leaving Friday morning,” Bittle points out. “You wouldn’t even get here until nine or ten, and you’ll be exhausted, Jack.”
“But I’d get to sleep next to you,” Jack murmurs, feeling his face burn.
Eric’s quiet for a minute. “Well, I can’t pretend I don’t want that.”
“You miss me, eh?” Jack tries to sound lighthearted but he’s pretty sure he just sounds pathetic instead.
“Jack,” Eric says softly. “I do miss you. And this is hard and I hate missing you and I wish we could be in the same place. But I’m so, so happy with you. Y’hear me?”
“I hear you,” Jack promises, ducking his head and smiling, even though Eric can’t even see him. “Thanks.”
It’s not easy to sit in a suit at a fancy dinner making small talk with sponsors when he could be sitting in the Haus kitchen in jeans listening to Eric sing along to Beyoncé. He just has to get through dinner and then give the speech Georgia wrote thanking the sponsors and answer a few questions and then he’ll be done.
Giving a speech is not something he wants to do, especially when he thinks about the fact that at the time he’ll be giving the speech he could’ve been tucked into Eric’s bed, and he certainly doesn’t want to do the Q&A because Georgia couldn’t script that for him and it’s not an after-game interview where he can just talk about the hockey he and his team just played.
The NHL website will be live-streaming the speech and Q&A, which is just great. Even more people can hear Jack fumble his words and try to sound like a normal human being. Eric will be watching. Jack’s parents are here at the dinner, but for some terrible reason Jack was assigned to a table full of strangers and one teammate he doesn’t even like all that much. He is a twenty-five-year-old professional athlete, but he wants his mother at his side to help him get through this night.
“So, Mr. Zimmermann,” one of the older women at the table says after Jack hasn’t spoken in at least five minutes. “You’re an eligible young man. Do you have a girlfriend?”
Jack holds in a groan. She probably thinks she’s being hospitable, motherly, even, by including him in the conversation, but it’s one of the worst questions she could have asked.
“He must!” Hallsy interrupts before Jack can say anything. “He’s on the phone all the time and I’ve heard some of the stuff he says.”
Jack’s stomach lurches. “What?” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral. His hockeybot monotone comes in handy here.
“It’s always I miss you and maybe I can come next weekend and let’s Skype tonight.” Hallsy wiggles his eyebrows. “Zimmermann sounds totally lovesick.”
Jack swallows hard, reminding himself that yes, he can get a full breath and no, he isn’t having a heart attack, no matter what signals to the contrary his body is screaming at him. He glances across the room to his parents’ table like he’s a little kid at a family reunion, trapped by a distant relative. His parents are both laughing politely at something someone said.
“Oh, long-distance relationships are so hard,” the woman says, patting Jack’s arm sympathetically. “Where does she live?”
“I—that’s not—”
“Zimmermann, you’re up,” one of the dinner organizers saves him. Jack sighs in relief.
“Excuse me,” he says politely to the table at large, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. Alicia Zimmermann has always done her best to make sure her son has at least two nice-fitting suits and the class to go with wearing them. The second part is harder to achieve than the first. His mom gives him a little thumb’s up and his dad gives him a sympathetic look as he passes their table.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests,” Jack reads from his cue cards. “We are so grateful for your sponsorship and hope our gratitude has shown tonight.” He does his best not to slip into monotone, but it’s hard when that’s what comes naturally. “The league runs on your support and…” And the next card is missing. Jack gulps a little and looks through the cards. At least they’re numbered. The room is silent while he tries to recover.
But the second card is gone. His cards go from one to three. Two is lost somewhere, probably crumpled under his table because of his nervous fidgeting with his pockets all night. He glances up and sees his parents’ concerned faces. He pictures Eric watching the livestream, probably with Lardo, Shitty, Ransom, Holster, and the frogs gathered around. They’re all watching him flounder.
He doesn’t know what goes between the league runs on your support and dedicated to you and your importance to this organization. He read the damn speech fifty times and had it practically memorized, but it’s all gone from his brain now, and improvisation with words isn’t exactly Jack’s strong suit. He can feel his face getting redder by the second. Someone coughs quietly.
“The…league runs on your support,” Jack repeats slowly, and he can see the polite smiles fading off people’s faces. He feels a little sweat break out on the back of his neck. “And…we, the athletes, are in—” he clears his throat—“indebted to your support.” He cringes a little. He’s said support way too many times now. His father is biting his lip, looking pained.
Jack looks at his mother. She nods encouragingly. Keep going, she mouths. Jack takes a deep breath, reminding himself not to say eh. “And this…this night is dedicated to you and your importance to this organization.”
He cut out a whole notecard there, but he doesn’t care—he’s back on track and people aren’t looking morbidly fascinated by the train wreck that is Jack Zimmermann anymore; they’re back to looking politely bored. His parents are beaming. Eric probably has a hand pressed to his heart.
“And now I will take four questions,” Jack announces, a bit stiff but not terrible.
“How’s Ellis’s wife doing?”
“She’s great,” Jack answers easily. The whole team knows this news, and Ellis put out a press release two days ago when the baby was actually born. “She and the baby are home now. Ellis sent us all about forty pictures already.”
Everybody laughs and Jack feels the little knot of tension in his stomach release a little.
“Were the notes for your speech not in English and you had to translate?” The next question gets rid of any ease Jack felt. His spine stiffens and he swallows hard.
“I, um.” He licks his lips. The guy asked it lightheartedly, as a joke, but Jack can’t help but take it as censure. There are titters in the room and Jack feels like everyone is laughing directly at him. Breathe. Why is that voice in his head using a southern drawl? “Giving speeches isn’t really what I do best,” Jack says hesitantly. “But if anyone wants to have a shootout after this, I’ll be there.”
The joke lands well, and Jack breathes out. He used that joke on Eric earlier today. Praise be, as Eric himself would say.
“How’s your first season going?” His father tosses him a softball question to help him out and Jack’s breathing eases even further.
“I’m having a great time with the Falconers,” Jack says, the usual party line. “We’re all working really well together and I’m lucky to have the veterans on the team passing on their experience.”
“Final question,” the organizer says. Jack almost smiles. He’s almost there. Answer one more question, say thanks, sit down.
“Your father met your mother during his rookie season. Will you be spending time with supermodels trying to find a wife, too?”
People around the room laugh. Jack’s hands start sweating. His mother makes a little face at him, almost imperceptible if you don’t know her, commiseration and annoyance on his behalf. His dad looks uncomfortable. They know about him and Bittle. And they love Bittle, of course they do, but still. This is an awkward question for anyone, and especially Jack.
“Oh,” he says. Great start. “Uh, no.”
“You don’t want a supermodel wife?” someone calls out. Jack’s sweating hands start to shake a little and he clenches them into fists to make it stop. He looks at the organizer, but apparently this doesn’t count as a separate question. Or maybe oh, uh, no just doesn’t count as an answer. He thinks of Eric, sitting on his bed in the Haus watching this, and wonders how he’s taking it.
“I, um, I don’t…” Jack sputters.
“Maybe he wants to date lots of supermodels just to date them and not to look for a wife,” Uncle Mario says loudly. It’s supposed to be helpful, and it is, sort of, but it doesn’t stop the tremble in Jack’s hands or the way his mind flashes to Eric picturing him with supermodels.
“But you gotta settle down eventually,” someone else points out. “Pass on those Zimmermann genes!”
“Well, I don’t know if I’ll ever be passing on my genes,” Jack hears his mouth say without the permission of his brain. His parents are both staring with wide eyes.
“You don’t want kids?” the person who asked the original question asks.
“I’m not sure this is really the point of this Q&A,” the organizer steps in, but not quickly enough—Jack’s mouth has already said the sentence,
“I do, but I’m gay.”
Dead silence. Jack feels his own mouth drop open in shock that he just said that.
One part of him feels absolutely sick with fear and dread. He might have just killed his career. He might have just invited every bigoted homophobe in the league to come after him. This is going to be a huge PR thing and he didn’t run it by Georgia, at the very least, or the whole team of press people he’s supposed to talk with about this kind of thing. His mother presses a hand to her mouth.
But another part of him sighs in relief. If he still gets to play, he can talk about Eric and call him by name instead of saying, “one of my old teammates.” He can get out of events like this by saying he’s going to visit his boyfriend. He doesn’t have to call in secret and make sure no one goes through his texts. He doesn’t have to endure people trying to set him up with every woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty just because they've seen a hockey game once.
The room explodes, but the organizer stammers some excuse and hustles Jack off the stage. He walks straight past his table and his worried parents and out the back door and doesn’t stop until he gets to the parking lot. He pulls out his phone and calls Eric.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Eric gasps as soon as he picks up.
“Are you mad?” Jack asks worriedly.
“What? Why would I be mad?”
“This affects you, too, and I didn’t make sure you’re okay with it. Sorry.”
“Jack,” Eric says. He sounds so fond. “Everyone important to me already knows. And you didn’t even say my name.”
“Oh,” Jack says, not even entirely sure what he’s saying. “Alright.”
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Eric asks. Jack knows the sweetheart isn’t really a pet name the way most people Jack knows use it, but hearing Eric say it makes his heart calm down a little. He takes a deep breath of cold night air.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
“Is it gonna be bad?” Eric asks softly.
“I don’t know,” Jack repeats. “George’s probably going to kill me.”
“Well, she better not,” Eric says. “Not when I can finally hold your hand in public.”
A giddy feeling wells up in Jack’s chest. “I can tell everyone what you really are to me.”
“Oh?” Eric asks, and Jack can picture him raising an eyebrow. “And what exactly is that, Mr. Zimmermann?”
Jack laughs a little, that bubble in his chest making him forget, just for a second, how serious the situation really is. “My boyfriend.” He says it confidently, firmly, no hint of awkwardness marring his words.
“I like the sound of that,” Eric tells him, and Jack can hear the smile in his voice.
“Me, too.”
They’re quiet for a minute, Jack matching his shaky breaths to Eric’s even ones and calming down because of it, and then Eric sighs a little.
“I really hope it doesn’t make things awful for you,” he starts. His voice sounds a little choked up. “But either way, you know I will be right here with you. Whatever happens.”
Jack looks at his shiny shoes against the dull slushy snow he’s standing on and pictures Eric sitting on his bed, probably hugging Señor Bun, eyes wet with unshed tears at what Jack just did. A full smile breaks Jack’s face.
“I know,” he murmurs. That thought is what makes Jack sure it’ll all be okay.
“I’ll see you in two hours,” Jack reminds Eric, smiling. On the computer screen, Eric’s answering smile is almost blinding.
“I can’t wait,” he murmurs. “Can’t wait to get my hands on you.”
“Whoa,” Jack laughs, raising his eyebrows. “Graduation’s brought something out in you, eh?”
“Mm,” Eric hums. “I’ve got a short window of time with no responsibilities and I want to use it.”
“Your parents will be there,” Jack reminds him.
“Jack.” Eric rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean I was gonna throw you down on the front lawn of the Haus and have my way with you.”
“Now there’s an idea,” Jack teases. Eric laughs and shakes his head.
“I’m just excited to be in the same place again finally.”
“I know,” Jack says. “Sorry.” His schedule’s been increasingly hectic as the Falconers head into playoffs again, and he hasn’t been able to see Eric as much as they’ve gotten used to.
“Never apologize for good hockey,” Eric scolds seriously.
“Wow, I love you,” Jack breathes, and Eric laughs out loud.
“Alright, Mr. Zimmermann, I love you, too, and even for non-hockey reasons, but I have to go try to supervise the setup for dinner tonight for as long as Chowder will let me get away with it.”
“Okay,” Jack says. “See you soon.”
“Bye, bye, sweetheart.”
They disconnect and Jack gathers his keys. Eric’s expecting him in two hours, but he’s got errands to run before then. He heads toward Boston, humming along with the music from whatever playlist Eric put on his phone last time they were together.
First he swings by Shitty and Lardo’s house, paint brand new from last month when they’d gathered to replace the peeling gray with a bright turquoise. Lardo takes shotgun and Shitty folds himself into the backseat, but not before he reaches forward and gives Jack a noogie.
“Their flight’s right on time,” Lardo assures him, holding up her phone with the flight tracker. “Bits really doesn’t know?”
“Not a clue,” Jack confirms with a smile.
“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you are a fucking romantic and I can’t believe you hid that from me for so many years,” Shitty complains.
Jack shrugs. “I like making Bittle happy.”
Lardo pretends to gag, but she’s smiling, and it’s not like she and Shitty don’t have their own ways of being gross and in love, too. It’s weird stuff like Shitty hauling a heap of scrap metal he found on the side of the road home to Lardo and Lardo saving the hair from Shitty trimming his mustache, but whatever works.
They get to Logan and have to drive around three times before Ransom and Holster find them, and there’s a lot of confusion and angry parking attendants and Shitty laughing, but Ransom and Holster finally squeeze into the backseat with Shitty and lean over the front seat to hug Jack and Lardo.
“I can’t believe we’re going back to the Haus!” Holster yells enthusiastically.
“I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks,” Ransom admits. “Do you think Bitty’s going to cry?”
“Yes,” Jack assures them all. “He definitely will.”
“Awww!” Holster cries, leaning over Ransom to pound on the back of Jack’s seat. “I know you guys have been together forever now, but I haven’t gotten to see it in action very much! Last year you guys were still pretty awkward about it.”
“I bet you’re the cutest hockey bros who hooked up ever,” Ransom adds. “All this time and you’re still giving Bits big surprises.”
Jack can feel his whole face turning red. “I like making him happy,” he echoes his response to Shitty. It earns him another round of seat-punching and awwing. They get to the Haus and Ransom and Holster hide around the corner while Jack, Shitty, and Lardo go in.
“Bits!” Lardo yells as soon as the door’s open.
“Bittsy-boo!” Shitty adds.
“Y’all been pre-gaming?” Eric accuses as he comes out of the kitchen. He hugs Lardo and Shitty and then grabs Jack tight. Jack presses his face into Eric’s hair. They haven’t seen each other in almost three weeks except for on a computer or phone screen. He doesn’t even care that there are a bunch of people, including the new frogs he doesn’t know very well, in the room—he puts his hands on either side of Eric’s face and kisses him long and deep and slow.
“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly once they’ve pulled apart, Shitty whistling obnoxiously like they don’t kiss in front of him all the time.
“Hello there,” Eric replies, grinning at him. “Missed you.”
“Missed you, too. Your parents here yet?”
“Not yet. Their flight was delayed so it’ll be another half hour at least.” He pouts just a little, because he misses his parents and can’t wait to see them. Jack’s parents won’t get in until tomorrow morning, just in time for the ceremony itself, because Bob had a speaking engagement he couldn’t get out of, even though, he assured Eric, he really would rather be there with them.
“Ah, I could’ve waited for them,” Jack says. Except, wait, no he couldn’t have—not with Ransom and Holster in the car.
Eric waves a hand around. “Rather have you here right now, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Good. Well. Want to see something?” Jack asks. Eric tilts his head, confused, and Lardo throws the front door open. Ransom and Holster pop into the doorway excitedly.
“Happy graduation, bro!”
“BIIIIITTTYYYYYY!”
“Oh my Lord,” Eric breathes, squeezing Jack’s arm in his surprise. “What are you two doing here?”
He rushes forward to hug them, and no one can explain for a while because of the excited yelling. In addition to Holster’s natural loudness, Dex, Nursey, Chowder, and some of the sophomores are bouncing around excitedly at the sight of their old teammates. The new frogs have heard stories about Ransom and Holster but look a little shell-shocked to see them in the flesh.
“We wouldn’t miss your graduation, bro,” Holster says, touching his heart like he’s hurt Eric would even think it.
“But…how?” Eric asks. “I just talked to you three days ago.”
Ransom rolls his eyes. “You should know by now we can keep a surprise under wraps.”
Eric gets an arm around both of them again. “Thank you so much,” he says, voice starting to get choked. “I’m just—I can’t believe I got all y’all here with me for graduation. Such a special day with all my special people.”
“Well, Jack set it all up,” Ransom says, smiling. Eric’s face goes soft and he sighs a little.
“Jack Zimmermann,” he murmurs, leaving Ransom and Holster to the rest of their old teammates and wrapping his arms around Jack again. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“I missed your birthday,” Jack points out. “Had to think up something big to make up for it, eh?”
Eric rolls his eyes. “You had to have planned this before you knew you’d be missing my birthday.”
Jack shrugs, smiling. “It’s your graduation, Eric,” he says softly. “Needs to be special.”
“I love you,” Eric whispers.
“I love you, too,” Jack says, ducking his head a little.
“Awww!” Holster yells, running over and grabbing both of them around the neck.
“Group hug!” Ransom screeches, crowding close, and Lardo, Shitty, Dex, Nursey, and Chowder oblige happily.
“I missed you guys so much!” Chowder says enthusiastically. Eric is pushed up close in Jack’s chest, and he smiles up at him, eyes a little shiny, and Jack can’t think of anything better.
“And then I had to just sit there and wait for the butter to warm up like a damn fool,” Eric finishes, shaking his head.
“Why would they leave the butter in the fridge that whole time?” Jack asks. After knowing Eric for almost seven years, he knows that’s a terrible idea.
Eric gestures wildly. “The million dollar question!”
Jack laughs at him a little. He’s just picked Eric up from the airport after being apart for four days, because Eric got invited to some big celebrity bake-off in California and Jack couldn’t go with him because he had, to his mortification, on-ice publicity shots to take. He’d had to skate around an empty rink with dramatic lighting and try to look serious while a bunch of photographers took pictures of him. It was awful.
It’s not something Jack could ever imagine doing, but Eric’s vlog has been doing so well he’s actually making a career out of it, and he’s something of an online celebrity now. Making their relationship public bumped up his views, but Jack is sure it has more to do with Eric himself than anything else.
Eric smiles, too, and reaches over to hold Jack’s hand. “And what did you get up to without me, Mr. Zimmermann?”
Jack shrugs. “Not much,” he says. “Just hockey.”
“Just hockey,” Eric echoes, rolling his eyes. “Like that’s a just anything.”
Jack shrugs again and squeezes Eric’s hand. “Well, there are things more important than hockey now.”
Eric snorts. “You’re so cheesy,” he murmurs as a blush steals across his face. He brings Jack’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “Guess you missed me a little, huh?”
“Well, I got the whole bed to myself,” Jack teases. “No one to hog the covers.”
“Is that so?” Eric raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying I should be gone more often?”
Jack scrunches up his nose. “Maybe not. I ate spaghetti for dinner every single night you were gone.”
Eric cracks up laughing. “Mmhmm, I know what you use me for.”
Jack shakes his head, smiling. “Not if you think it’s your cooking.”
Eric leans over and pokes him in the shoulder and Jack laughs. That’s when he takes a right instead of the left that would take them back to their apartment. Eric looks confused.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Jack tells him, grinning. Eric stops looking out the window and gives him a suspicious look.
“Please don’t tell me you planned a surprise welcome home party,” he sighs. “I’d rather get my welcome home from you in private, thank you very much.”
That’s almost enough to get Jack to call off what he’s got planned, even after five years together and nearly a year of living together, but he shakes his head.
“It’s not a party,” he promises. He turns onto the residential street, heart starting to pound a little harder.
“Gracious, who lives here?” Eric asks, a little awed. The houses are pretty huge. Jack turns down another side-street and stops. The house they’re in front of is smaller than the others around it, but the property is bigger. There’s a big tree in the front yard and a pond out back.
“Come on,” Jack says.
Eric stops when he sees the For Sale sign. “Jack,” he starts, voice inscrutable. “Did you buy this house?”
Jack gives him a look. “Yeah, Bittle,” he says sarcastically. “I made a huge, life-altering decision without even mentioning it to you, let alone talking it over.”
Mollified, Eric follows him up the front steps, and Jack notices him admiring the bench swing on the porch. Jack roots around in the mail box and pulls out the key, just where the real estate agent said it would be.
“Do you know these people?” Eric asks slowly.
“Maybe,” Jack says. Eric just looks more confused as Jack unlocks the door and ushers him inside.
“Oh, look at this entryway,” Eric murmurs. It’s wide and open, a grand arch welcoming people in. They walk into the living room and Eric whistles. Shiny hardwood floors, a fireplace, and a huge picture window that takes up an entire wall. Jack hustles him down the hall before he can go to the kitchen. That’s last.
The hallway is long and wide, with three bedrooms and a bathroom down its sides. One of the bedrooms has an attached bath, which Jack thinks makes a nice setup for visiting parents. But the end of the hall leads to the master bedroom, and Jack wants him to see that. Eric appreciates the walk-in closet, loves the Jacuzzi tub in the giant master bath, but what he really falls in love with are the French doors leading to a little back porch.
“This is gorgeous,” he breathes.
“You want to see the kitchen?” Jack asks.
“Oh thank Heavens, I was starting to get worried we were leaving that out,” Eric says, rushing out. Jack laughs and follows him, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Eric lets out a little shout when he finally sees it. The real estate agent called it “country rustic”, which Jack shrugged at but thought sounded nice, and it seems to be working for Eric. Jack just likes all the windows, because he loves seeing Eric with sunshine in his hair. There’s another set of French doors and a porch overlooking the pond.
Eric turns to him as they’re standing on the porch, listening to some ducks quacking out on the pond, and puts his hands on Jack’s hips to tug him in close.
“So you didn’t buy this place?” he asks suspiciously.
Jack tilts his head. “Eric, I’m not just going to buy a house without talking to you.”
“But?”
Jack smiles softly. “But I saw this place and started thinking about us living here.” He leans closer into Eric. “You love that kitchen, eh? And the pond’ll freeze in the winter. We can play shinny whenever we want. Plus there’s room for our parents and Shits and Lardo and everyone else when they come. And, uh…well, you know, a bunch of rooms if we.” He shrugs, heart pounding. “Need extra rooms someday.” He can’t quite manage to say have kids, but he can see from the soft look in Eric’s eyes that he gets it.
They’re swaying slightly, and Eric’s sniffling a little, and then he looks up at Jack and looks so happy Jack’s heart almost stops.
“I love it,” he says. “We can afford it?”
Jack huffs a laugh. “Uh, yeah, I think we’ll be fine.”
“And you love it?” Eric checks.
Jack puts a hand on Eric’s chin and tilts his head back to kiss him. “I love it,” he confirms. “All I can see is you in that kitchen. Us on the porch swing.”
“Making s’mores in the fireplace.”
“Yeah, maybe not too often, though,” Jack laughs. He’s already gained a good six pounds since they moved in together, which doesn’t sound terrible, but still. He’s a professional athlete. Eric kisses him again.
“I can’t believe you,” he says, shaking his head a little. “You and your surprises.”
“I like making you happy,” Jack tells him.
“You do a very good job,” Eric promises, looking around at the house they’re going to fill with furniture and pies and memories, and he leans in and kisses Jack again and again. “The best job.”
“I got us ice time at Faber,” Eric says as they get ready for bed in the cramped hotel bathroom. Jack laughs around his toothbrush.
“I swear I just went back in time eight years.”
“I know.” Eric bumps his hip against Jack’s to get to the sink. “I’m gonna kiss you in that rink like I always wanted to.”
“Like I always wanted,” Jack corrects. “I liked you before you liked me.”
Eric scoffs. “Please. I was head over heels for you ‘fore you even knew my name.”
Jack laughs out loud. “I was the captain, remember? I knew everyone’s name before you even got to school.”
“I knew I loved you before I met you,” Eric sings. Jack shrugs and Eric shakes his head sadly. “I still despair of your musical knowledge.”
“Hmm, I’ll get over it,” Jack teases under his breath as he pulls back the covers and gets in bed. It’s not Beyoncé, he knows that, so it’s not a murder-worthy offense.
They’re back at Samwell for an alumni weekend, the first one they’ve managed to get to together. Tomorrow they’re going to skate at Faber and eat breakfast in the dining hall and visit the Haus. It’s kind of surreal.
“I hope whoever lives in the Haus now doesn’t mind us stopping by,” Jack says worriedly. Eric rolls his eyes, leaning against the bathroom doorframe in just his boxers, his lithe body a sight Jack never gets tired of seeing.
“Yeah, I bet those college hockey players will be so annoyed an NHL superstar dropped by on a Saturday afternoon. What would they want to talk to a Stanley Cup winner for?”
“Alright,” Jack says, waving a hand.
“They’re gonna be like, ugh, the NHL leading scorer for the last three years in a row came over today. How lame.”
“Okay,” Jack laughs. “I get it.”
“Mercy, I was just trying to shake off my hangover after last night’s kegster and Jack Zimmermann barged in and ruined my day with free autographs and selfies.”
Jack throws a pillow at him.
Faber looks exactly the same, and for a second Jack almost can’t breathe. This is where it all started for him and Eric. This is also where Jack figured out how to be happy and learned to appreciate and value himself, how to let himself relax and focus on other things but his own shortcomings. This rink is important and he can’t believe he went so long without skating here.
“Oh,” Eric breathes. “Can you believe we’re back here?”
Jack shakes his head. “So much happened here.”
Eric smiles at him and holds out a hand. “Well?” he says. “Let’s get out there.”
It’s not like it’s life-changing or anything. Jack’s been skating on ice all around North America for the last six years. Eric works out with him on the Falconer’s ice sometimes, and they skated on their pond all the time last winter. It’s ice, and they’re both used to ice.
Still. There’s something kind of magical about this specific place, together, where they first became friends and started growing into more. Jack thinks of how timid Eric was, afraid of being checked, and thinks of how gruff and annoyed he used to be with Eric.
They skate around playfully, pushing each other into the boards and reminiscing, and they hold true to their word and kiss at center ice. They laugh about it, because it’s not a big deal now, but back then Jack had so many dramatic, heartfelt thoughts about Eric and this ice, and a lot of anguished ideas about how nothing could ever happen between them.
Music starts playing over the PA system and Jack looks around worriedly. “How long are we supposed to have?” he asks. That’s when he notices the look on Eric’s face—soft, happy, and a little nervous.
“A little bit longer,” Eric reassures him. “But there’s something…well. Lord, give me strength.”
“Eric?”
“You know what song this is?” Eric asks. Jack listens. I can see your halo, halo, halo.
“Beyoncé,” he answers confidently. “Halo.”
Eric laughs a little. “You walked in on me in the shower when I was singing this song.”
“You were singing ridiculously loud very early on a Sunday,” Jack points out. He’s gotten used to that now, but he stands by his past grumpiness.
“I was,” Eric allows. Jack’s heart is picking up. If this is what he thinks it is…
“And I called to ask you about this song over winter break,” he offers. Eric’s face lights up a little more.
“That was the first time you called me.”
“It wasn’t the first time I wanted to,” Jack reveals. “I just had to think of an excuse.”
Eric comes closer, biting his lip. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you, too,” Jack chokes, heart hammering away. Eric takes a minute to just smile at him, and then he drops to one knee right there where Jack did so many face-offs and pulls out a little ring box.
“Jack,” he says, already crying. Jack’s throat is so tight he can hardly swallow past the lump there. “Will you marry me?”
Jack can’t even talk, just nods frantically and pulls Eric to his feet to hold him tight. He can hear whooping and hollering that he knows has to be Shitty and Lardo, but he can’t look away from Eric. He kisses him over and over, their tears mingling.
“I can’t believe you,” Jack finally manages to say. “You surprised me.”
Eric huffs, wiping at the tears on Jack’s cheeks. “That was the plan. Had to get one on you since you always do it to me.”
“I have a ring for you, too,” Jack confesses. “I was gonna do it when we got home.”
Eric stares at him for a second, gob smacked, and then laughs out loud. “Well, never forget I got the jump on you, Jack Zimmermann.”
“I won’t,” Jack promises, kissing Eric again.
“I know you hate surprises,” Eric says.
“Not this one,” Jack assures him. “I love this surprise.”
He’s going to have to call his publicist, make sure the story doesn’t hit until they want it to, and they’ll need to start planning—they need to call their parents, they need to decide where the wedding will be, they need—Jack makes himself stop thinking about all that, and just enjoys the ice under his skates and the love of his life in his arms.