Work Text:
“Hey, is that Jack Zimmermann?”
Shitty pauses at the sound of a girl’s voice coming from somewhere behind him. He waggles his eyebrows across the booth at Jack, who blinks back at Shitty over his eggs like that’s going to stop Shitty from chirping him about getting recognized at a place like this.
And that would be good enough. There’s plenty to make fun of in Jack being so famous that he gets clocked at this tiny Georgia roadside diner that looks like it came out of a movie. It has everything: the vinyl barstools, the waitress calling them darling, even a lovely display of house-made pecan pie they aren’t going to order with Bitty within the borders of the same state. (Honestly, maybe not even if he wasn’t. Bitty has really spoiled them for what makes a good pie.)
Hell, it’s not anything close to a hockey town, and Jack is still getting spotted. So, that would be plenty, but then a second voice says, “Is that who, now?”
“Jack Zimmermann,” the first girl says.
“Is he…okay, wait, is he the one who’s the bassist from that band—”
“No, he’s a hockey player. Like, a pro hockey player.”
“Well, then why are you asking me, Trinh? Why the hell would I know what Jack Zimmermann looks like?” asks the second girl in a reasonable tone.
Shitty starts to smile. Maybe they think the music is covering their conversation. The jukebox is somewhere behind him, too, and “Mrs. Robinson” is probably louder from where the girls are sitting. Then again, maybe they’re just victims of a hazard Shitty and Jack are very familiar with from their time as members of their beloved Samwell Men’s Hockey team: good old lack of volume control.
“He’s famous!” Trinh says. “He’s won the Stanley Cup! Lots of people know what Jack Zimmermann looks like!”
“Yeah, but not me. And I would have said not you either. How do you know what Jack Zimmermann looks like?”
“Because Kelsey was talking about him, like, I don’t know, a few weeks ago? She sent me a picture of his Funko Pop.”
Shitty’s grinning now. Jack’s fork has paused at the edge of his plate.
“Kelsey hates Funko Pops.”
“So do I! But she thinks Funko Pops of professional athletes are hilarious because they have that whole dead soulless eyes and no mouth thing going on, and they’re supposed to look like just some guy who plays sports, right? Like, it’s not Yoda or something, it’s just a regular human man in a sports outfit. So she sent me a pic of this one as an example—wait, here, I’ll find it—”
“Okay—”
“—and so I googled him to compare and it’s actually kind of insane how much this dumbass Funko Pop looks like this real-life hockey player—”
“Oh, shit, these pictures really do look like that guy. Maybe that is Jack Zimmermann.”
“Right?!”
Shitty is exercising commendable amounts of self-control here, listening to this without cackling until he falls out of the booth. Jack looks at him with an air of quietly martyred resignation, and Shitty’s shoulders shake with the force of his suppressed guffaws, but he valiantly holds his silence.
“Here it is, this Funko Pop,” Trinh says. “It looks like him, right?”
“No, you’re totally right. I mean, as much as a Funko Pop can look like anybody in real life. He’s got that floppy hair situation going on, and the eyebrows—”
“It’s the fucking eyebrows! That was what Kelsey was saying, like imagine you get made into a Funko Pop and you have to look at this thing and think ‘oh, shit, that does kind of look like me, they nailed my weird flat eyebrows’ and—”
Jack’s face spasms. Shitty slides down in the booth, his muscles losing their structural integrity under this relentless assault from Trinh and her friend. He can’t breathe.
“No way this is the weirdest merch that ever gets made of pro athletes.”
“No, not the weirdest, for sure. But Funko Pops are pretty weird-looking even if they’re objectively not that weird.”
“Oh, come on, Ryan likes Funko Pops.”
“And he’s wrong for that, Erica. They are way more unsettling than they are cute.”
“They’re kind of cute.”
“They really aren’t.”
“Well, the Jack Zimmermann one comes with a tiny Stanley Cup. That’s pretty cute. If I was a hockey fan, I would want a tiny Stanley Cup.”
“Yeah, okay. I guess I would also want a tiny Stanley Cup.”
There’s a moment of contemplative silence. Then Erica says, “So, should we try to get his autograph for Kelsey? Is she a fan?”
“I have no idea. I know she’s been on a hockey kick because she keeps watching hockey movies, but like, other than that, who knows.”
“Well, what team does he play for?”
“How would I know what team Jack Zimmermann plays for?”
“Fair point. Okay, what if we ask for a picture? That’s not weird, right? Like, an autograph, that’s something you get for a fan, but a picture, that’s something you can get even if you’re not a fan of the team, right?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Wow, I hope it’s actually him or this is going to be super embarrassing.”
Jack lets out a tiny sigh. Shitty sits up in his seat and takes a deep breath, ready to put on a straight face.
Then Trinh says, “Hi, ignore us if we’re wrong, but do you happen to be Jack Zimmermann?” and Shitty can’t help laughing.
Jack takes a moment to gaze at him in disappointed silence before turning to the two young women now standing next to their booth. “Hi. Yes, I’m Jack Zimmermann. Would you like to take a picture?”
“Yes, that would be awesome!” Trinh pulls out her phone. Erica looks dubiously at Shitty.
“Please ignore him,” Jack says wearily. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“So nice to meet you,” Shitty agrees. “Thank you so much for bringing Jack’s Funko Pop to our attention. It would actually be his honor to take a picture with you, and also to sign something for your friend even if she’s not a Falconers fan.”
“Oh,” Erica says quietly. “You heard that?” She glances toward the door, like she’s considering making a quick escape.
She and Trinh look at each other for a moment. Then Trinh shrugs. “Well, too late now! Our friend thinks you’re cool enough to be the example Funko Pop she showed me, Mr. Zimmermann. We’d love to get a picture and maybe an autograph.”
“Sure,” Jack agrees. “Shitty, can you…?”
“Oh yeah, of course.” Shitty slides out of the booth to take on photographer duty.
“Your name is Shitty?” Erica asks.
“Yep! Hockey nicknames, you know. Everyone gets them.”
“Really? What’s yours?” Trinh asks Jack.
“Oh, uh, I don’t really—”
“It’s Zimmboni,” Shitty interrupts. He hands Trinh’s phone back with a smile. “Here you go!”
Jack doesn’t even try to protest Tater’s nickname. “Do you have a pen?” he asks.
“Maybe in my purse—” Trinh says, but the waitress comes to the rescue, passing a notepad and pen across the counter. Jack signs one for the girls and one for the waitress.
“Thanks so much, Mr. Zimmboni!”
“You’re welcome,” Jack says. “I hope your friend likes it.”
“She’ll be thrilled,” Trinh assures him. “Nice to meet you! Good luck in your next game!”
“Thanks,” Jack says gamely, instead of telling her that that won't be until September. “Nice to meet you, too.”
The girls smile at them and depart. As they head out the door, Trinh’s voice reaches them one last time. “Where are the Falconers based, anyway?”
Shitty meets Jack’s eyes over the table.
Jack sighs. “Please don’t buy the Funko Pop.”
“Jack, my beautiful beast of a best friend, after they hear this story, everyone we know is going to buy the Funko Pop. I mean, it even comes with a tiny Stanley Cup. What hockey fan wouldn’t want a tiny Stanley Cup?”