Work Text:
Alarm. Breathing exercise. Set of stretches. Water. Stretch some more. Protein shake. Check schedule. Run. Shower. Breakfast.
Every day.
Routine is important.
-
It isn’t that Jack is lonely. Frankly, Jack doesn’t have time to think about being lonely. Grinding through a season of professional hockey doesn’t leave time for much else, despite the fact that he’s older than the other rookies and half the team still seem to be wary of him. Like he’s either going to go on some coke-fuelled rampage or try to end himself in the showers when they lose.
And, boy howdy, do they lose.
(“Look, the guy was a predicted number one draft pick and, sure, that’s not what happened but you’ve got to wonder if the GMs over in Providence aren’t starting to question what they spent their money on. He’s have an average rookie season but the Falconers were expecting more than that and rightly so when you look at tape of him at Rimouski and at college. Everyone in the league knows that he is better than this. What’s it going to take to make him play up to his potential?!”
Jack turns the TV off.)
-
There’s a team meeting before the January break. They are told that, after the break, the expectation is that they play with pride but play offs obviously aren’t happening and some good odds in the lottery could go a long way to the next season being better. There’s an unhappy rumble around the room but no one actually disagrees.
The meeting moves onto a plea from the PR team to help promote the Valentine’s game and “please, try to ensure that the ladi - your loved ones - attend. I’m not asking for much here. Let Lea know if you need someone to work on travel arrangements.”
Jack sits, slouched, his blank PR mask firmly in place and listens to the whispers about whose girlfriend is flying in from Kelowna, whether Marshy’s wife will be able to find a sitter and thinks “Fuck it.”
When the meeting ends, he loiters in the hallway and sends a text.
-
He checks his phone as soon as they get off the ice, sweaty and uncomfortable. A string of cheerful emoji are waiting for him and he can feel the smile on his own face.
“Oh, my fucking god. Zimms can smile?” Evans shouts as he gets to his stall. He grabs Bircher and shakes him slightly before Birch shoves him off. “Did you know that Zimms was capable of human emotions?!”
Jack glares at Tyson and sighs loudly. “Or, you could go fuck yourself, Evans?”
Tyson laughs and throws his practice jersey at Jack’s face. “Weak, man. Weak. We’re still getting smoothies, though. Right?”
-
They drink their traditional post-practice smoothies and Tyson talks and talks about every little thing.
Jack’s not stupid. He knows that he’s being handled but he also appreciates the way that Evs doesn’t push him too hard, too soon.
“Like, there’s no way in hell Molly is going spend that fucking game in the Wives’ Room. Can you imagine? She’d fucking Hulk out. I mean, she hates the whole fucking thing anyway. Every game - why do they call it that? doesn’t anyone realise that it is really intimidating, as well as being super-heteronormative? what if you were gay? would your boyfriend be welcome? - and on and on.” He sips his smoothie and he glances at Jack briefly before focussing on a scratch on the table. “Don’t get me wrong, those are all valid concerns but I’m like, Mols, don’t fucking go to the suite, I can get your other seats, I play on the fucking team, I'll convince them to let you sit on the fucking bench, for fuck’s sake. Just, enough with the fucking Wives’ Room.”
Jack chuckles. “My mom used to try and avoid it as much as possible. She’s got some stories, though. Tell Molly she doesn’t want to miss out on the stories.”
They drink in silence for a few minutes and Jack spends a few minutes fucking around on his phone, responding to messages. He looks up when Tyson kicks him in the shin. Evs stares at him, eyebrows raised and does a little half nod as if to say ‘go on.’
Jack stares back. “What?”
Tyson’s expression immediately falls into a much more put-upon one. “What nothing, Zimmermann! You lit up like a fucking firework or some shit earlier when you got some message. Now I’ve seen a lot of Agatha Christie shit in my time so I think you’ve invited a special someone to the Valentine’s game and I want to know who. Let me have this. Please.”
“It’s just a friend. It’s actually the only weekend they can make it.”
Tyson raises his eyebrows again. “Oh, really? And is that because it’s the only weekend that you’ve invited this friend?”
“No! They were meant to come with that other group, you know, in December but it didn’t work out. This was the backup weekend for all of them.”
It is clear that Tyson wants to settle in to interrogate Jack further but a glance at the time and he has to run. “I’ve got a thing with my agent. Love ya work, Zimms.”
Jack is finishing off his smoothie and checking Instagram when a text notification comes through from Tyson.
look im not tryign to be awkward but im not sure if that was a game of gender neutral pronouns due to potential boyfriend material or some genderqueer thing but i would fucking punch myself if i didnt tell you that eithr is fine. molly would also punch me. so whatevs floats your bot, zimms. its all cool.
*boat
Jack takes a moment. Breathes.
That’s the typo you chose to chose to correct?
Breathes again.
Thanks. He is just a friend, though.
-
They get back from a four game road trip with one win and one OT loss and Jack isn’t sure when that started feeling like success.
He stumbles into his apartment at 2am Friday morning and they don’t play again until Sunday. Sunday February 14.
Shoes by the door. Water the plants. Glass of water. Unpack bag. Check schedule. Stretch. Sleep.
-
Numbers at optional skates have been dwindling since the meeting in January and it’s Jack, Tyson, Boyle and Van der Berg left at the end of the session.
They’re on the bikes cooling down when Evans opens his big mouth.
“So, when’s your friend getting here?”
Out the corner of his eye, Jack sees both Boyle and Vanner’s heads snap around to stare at him and Tyson.
Boyle waves in Jack’s direction. “You’ve got a ‘friend’ coming in for the Valentine’s game?” He tries to position himself so that he can lean forward to intimidate Jack and still stay on his bike. “You’ve never brought a ‘friend’ before. This is like the most sickening romantic gesture of all.”
Jack closes his eyes. “It’s an actual friend . Non-romantic. And I have in fact brought a huge group of friends to games before.” He tries to outstare Boyle’s disbelieving face. “And it was the only weekend that would work!”
Vanner jumps off his bike, pats Jack on the shoulder. “Of course, Zimms. Just one of those coincidental things. No deeper meaning at all.”
Boyle laughs in Jack’s face as he heads off to the showers too.
Jack turns to Tyson and glares. “You are the worst.”
Evs shrugs. “That was a genuine but, in retrospect, terrible mistake.”
-
Before he gets home, his phone is already blowing up as Boyle relates the entire story to the team chat.
Jack doesn’t often participate in the whole team chat but he needs to curb this misunderstanding before Bitty gets to town.
I will repeat this for those whole seem to be having trouble grasping some basic concepts.
1. I have a friend visiting and attending Sunday night’s game.
2. He is a friend from my college team who was unable to attend with the rest of them.
3. Boyle has an overactive imagination.
4. Evans is the actual worst.
Jack sighs at the responses come in. Why is everyone in the NHL so fucking nosy?
-
He eats his trainer-approved dinner and thinks about Bitty visiting. About what it is going to mean to have Bitty in his home for two days, part of his routine, like he belongs there.
Sometimes, Jack regrets having spent most of his senior year skirting around this thing with Bitty; the not-date dates, the chirps, the gentle smiles.
He made the decision though and has to live with it.
Bitty was young and away from home for the first time and learning about himself and it didn’t seem fair for Jack to force his way into something. Jack’s not completely oblivious - he was aware that Bitty found him attractive and, that if Jack asked, Bitty would have given and given and given until he resented Jack for asking.
It was better for them both if Jack never asked.
Jack runs. Shower. Stretch. Check the schedule. Read four chapters of his book. Sleep.
-
Saturday. Alarm. Breathing exercise. Set of stretches. Water. Stretch some more. Protein shake. Check schedule. Run. Shower. Breakfast. Morning training.
-
Molly is waiting for Tyson after training and forces Jack to agree to lunch with them, saying that she feels bad for crashing their smoothie date. They end up getting a huge amount of sushi and taking back to Jack’s apartment because Molly loves the view from Jack’s balcony.
Jack is busy loading as much ginger as is seemly onto a piece of tuna and only sees Molly's side of the strange facial expression-based conversation that she and Tyson are having. It seems to rely heavily on eyebrows.
“Mol, don’t -”
“So, Jack, this friend that’s coming to town; it’s a guy, right?”
Jack nods warily.
“So,” Molly says brightly, “he can be my excuse to stay away from the Wives’ Room.”
“Molly,” Tyson groans.
“Please, Jack. I don’t want to spend three hours looking at Cartier bracelets and thinking up new things to say about them.”
“Well, I already arranged a seat for him but I’ll text him.” Jack starts writing Bitty a message but looks at Molly, suddenly. “He gets a bit intense about hockey. Fair warning.”
Molly gives him a deadpan look. “I watch two different types of cricket with this man,” she gestures at Evs, “and I understand the rules. I know intense.”
Tyson looks at her, betrayed. “You were the one who insisted we start watching Twenty20. You.”
Molly throws a napkin at him.
-
After they leave, Jack walks around his apartment to make sure everything is ready. Fresh towels set out in the guest room, bookshelves tidy, random assortment of crap moved off the pool table and put away.
He drives to the station and waits for Bitty’s train to get in. It’s late and Jack is thankful for the nearly abandoned station so he isn’t forced to discuss the Avs’ defense while he waits. Finally, the train arrives and he spots Bitty, 300 yards away, rumpled, shouldering his bag and rolling his head to stretch his neck. It feels both exactly like senior year and nothing like it at the same time.
Jack feels rooted to the spot, not wanting to spoil this moment by calling out and drawing attention to himself. He waits and allows himself this time to gaze at Bitty and think about the possibilities that won’t happen.
Bitty turns and sees him. His face lights with a tired smile.
“Oh, Jack. I told you I’d get an Uber.”
Jack takes in the slight stiffness in Bitty’s gait, his sleepy eyes.
“Bittle, you’ve played two games in two nights. I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t sleep here at the station if I didn’t come and get you.”
Bitty chuckles. “Got the Ws, though. Chowder got a shutout tonight.”
Jack pulls him in for a quick hug. “I know. I’m really proud.”
They have a brief but polite scuffle over Bitty’s bag but, in the end, Jack hoists it up over his shoulder and shepherds Bitty to his car.
When they get to his apartment, Jack manoeuvres Bitty straight into the guest room.
“Sleep time, I think,” he says over Bitty’s protests, “we both need to rest. We’ll have time to catch up tomorrow.”
He points out where the guest bathroom is and says good night. He closes the door to his room behind him and leans against the door, eyes closed. He gives himself a minute to be anxious about everything that this visit means to him and, once the minute is up, forces himself back to routine.
Shower. Stretch. Check the schedule. Try to forget about Bitty warm and tempting in the other room. Sleep.
-
Alarm. More breathing exercises than usual. Set of stretches. Water. Stretch some more. Protein shake. Check schedule. Stand awkwardly outside the guest room. Get dressed to go for a run. Stand outside guest room again. Knock.
“Bits, I’m going for a run if you want to come.”
Footsteps. The door opens and Bitty is there, bare-chested with hair mussed, yawning.
“What time’s it?” he yawns.
“It’s just after seven. I’ll be back by eight.” He smiles at Bitty. “You should sleep.”
Bitty glares at him. “Fuck you, I’m coming for the run. You just don’t want me to come because everyone will see how slow you are.”
Jack laughs and feels warmth spreading out from his chest. He had missed this.
“Sure, Bittle. You definitely look ready to impress the locals.”
Bitty glares at him again. “You’re all chirpy this morning, aren’t you? Just you wait.”
-
Bitty wipes the floor with him. They get back to his building and Jack is feeling sweaty and tired but the good kind of tired. Bitty looks like he barely broke a sweat.
“Old and slow, Mr Zimmermann. It’s kind of sad, really.”
Jack ruffles his hair as he heads to the kitchen to get them some water. “I was taking it easy on you and I need to save some energy for that NHL game I have tonight so . . .”
Bitty downs most of the bottle of water in one go and Jack has to stop himself from staring at his throat.
“Very casual there, Jack. Very subtle mention of your career as a professional hockey player. Impressive. I bet it works well when you go out.” Bitty’s expression is hard to read. “I mean . .. you know.”
Jack sips at his water. He isn’t sure if he’s reading this wrong but it feels like a test.
“Bitty, I’m in my rookie year. All I do is skate, work out, eat and sleep. And we haven’t had a lot to celebrate as a team. I haven’t been out in . . . well, since the other Wellies were here.”
Bitty’s face clears and he smiles at Jack before starting to look around.
“Well, it’s lucky you have such a nice place to eat and sleep in. You haven’t even shown me around! Tour, please.”
Jack feels a bit ridiculous leading Bitty around his apartment but Bitty seems genuinely interested, like he’s paying attention to all of the stories about Jack and his parents choosing rugs and fighting over a dining table - a proper fight that required his mother to essentially put both he and his father into time out - and Jack insisting on sleeping on the couch because they hadn’t finished assembling the guest bed that first night. Bitty touches things as they walk through the apartment, pauses in front of the series of photos from his senior year that he’s put up in the hallway, gently strokes the puck on the bookshelf with FIRST NHL GOAL written on the tape around it. They end on the balcony, Bitty staring out at the city spread out in front of them, water sparkling in the morning sun. Jack hears him sigh and then he turns, smiling widely at Jack.
“So, game day! What’s the routine like here? What time do you need to nap?” His eyes go wide. “You need to head in for morning skate soon, right? I haven’t made you late, have I?”
Jack glances at the time on his phone.
“No, I’m not late yet but I do need to get moving. I’ll be back by 1pm.” He hesitates. “You could come in with me, if you wanted.”
Bitty gives him a funny little half-smile. “I don’t want to mess with the routine. I’m going to sleep some more and then spend some quality time with that TV.” He pauses. “I could make lunch? Unless you eat with the team which is fine, of course.”
“Lunch would be great, Bits. The fridge is pretty well stocked.” His phone starts beeping at him to tell him to get moving. “I’m going to grab my stuff and then I have to go.”
The goodbye is awkward in a way that he hasn’t been with Bitty for ages; Jack leaves as quickly as possible.
-
Tyson hassles Jack from the moment they leave the ice, wanting to come and eat at his place and meet Bitty.
“Where are you going to nap?” Jack asks him, “I mean, if I let you come.”
Tyson looks at him like Jack has lost his memory. “Um, in your guest bedroom where I have slept previously.”
“You can’t sleep in the guest room, that’s where Bitty’s staying.”
Tyson stops walking and stares at Jack, head tilted to one side. “Huh. He’s really just a friend, hey?”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Yes, as I have been telling you for the best part of a month.” He gets his phone out to text Bitty to see if he’ll be able to feed an extra hungry hockey player. Bitty’s reply is an unimpressed emoji and have we met?
Tyson is still talking. “I’ll sleep on the fucking couch, Zimms, whatever. I need you to feed me because Molly laughed at me when I asked her to go and get groceries this morning.”
Jack turns back to Evs. “Get in the car, then.”
-
“And you cooked this? All of it?” Evs gestures to the remains of their lunch. “You aren’t trying to save face by saying you cooked it but, really, you ordered it and then put it on platters and shit?”
Bitty laughs. “I assure you, Mr Evans, that I cooked every morsel.”
Tyson turns to Jack. “Jesus fucking Christ, he needs to stay forever.”
Bitty bursts out laughing again and Jack feels the blush rise in his cheeks. His phone beeps at him again.
“Nap time,” he says, standing up.
-
He’s lying on his bed, doing some breathing exercises to try and fall asleep when he feels his phone vibrate.
hes lettin me sleep in the guest room anyway so ha
Jack needs to concentrate on sleeping. Fine, he sends back, hoping that his curt response with stop any further messages.
No such luck.
zimms hes so nice and you are so into him. and he cooks. wife/life goals man. you need to make a move.
Jack ignores it.
i know youre ignoreing me but you know im right. youre both hot and single (i know i asked him) and theres no reason not too. id flatten the first guy on the team to say anything negative abyway.
*anyway
Jack sits up.
Why do you insist on correcting just the one typo? It is so frustrating. I need to sleep. You need to sleep. Just stop. Please.
Jack settles himself again. Breathes. Silence.
-
They warm up and it takes Jack a few laps before he sees Bitty and Molly sitting at the glass, Bitty wearing one of Jack’s old Samwell jerseys and a Falcs cap. His heart beats a little harder.
-
They lose again but Jack almost feels used to it now. He rushes his post-game routine as much as possible, says his approved bland statements to the press, makes his excuses to the boys who are going out and comes out of the room to find Evs and Molly talking to Bitty very intently. He races over and overhears Evs’ saying “just something to think about” before he and Molly say their goodbyes.
Jack feels the weight of Bitty’s gaze as they make their way to the car.
“You played well,” Bitty murmurs.
Jack shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Some of them don’t really care anymore. I mean, we’re all competitive but management more or less told us to tank so a couple have taken it to heart.” He runs his hands through his hair, messes it up. “I don’t get it. I mean, a good draft pick might be great or . . . it might not be. I just can’t imagine not trying.”
Bitty grabs his arm, forces him to stop. “Of course you can’t, Jack.” He stares at Jack, that same difficult expression on his face.
They walk the rest of the way to the car in silence.
-
Jack turns on the TV as soon as they get in to check in on the rest of the league. He grabs them both a beer and they sit on separate couches and talk on and off about plays in the game. After half an hour or so, Bitty goes to the kitchen and comes back with two pieces of pie. Jack laughs at him.
Bitty looks down his nose at him. “If you thought I wasn’t going to bake something in that oven, you clearly don’t know me at all.”
Bitty sits down next to him.
They sit there, side by side, eating pie, discussing the highlights and Jack thinks back to the conversation they had after the game. He moves his leg the tiniest amount so that his thigh is pressing up against Bitty’s, lightly enough that it could be an accident.
Bitty glances down, leans forward to put his plate on the coffee table and does the same with Jack’s. He twists, so that he is looking at Jack but their thighs are still touching. He puts his hand on Jack’s other leg, boxing him in.
“Jack,” Bitty’s voice is low and hesitant, “I’m not reading this wrong, right?”
Jack grasps the arm that’s across his chest and uses it to pull Bitty in closer to him. “Not at all.” He threads his other arm around Bitty’s back and lifts him up so that Bitty is on his lap. “Bits . . . you must know how I, I mean, it’s not new.” He pulls Bitty as close as possible and buries his head in his neck. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages but I was -”
Bitty leans back slightly, his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “You were being ridiculous, is what you were being.” He leans back in, brushes his lips gently across Jack’s throat. “No more decisions without me.”
Jack moves his head back to give Bitty better access. “Right.” He loses his train of thought as Bitty starts to nip at his neck. “Bits, we need to talk before we do much more.”
Bitty goes still suddenly and then pushes himself up off Jack’s lap. He looks vulnerable, shaken. Jack replays the previous moment in his mind.
“Oh, god. No, Bits. I meant, relationship stuff. And expectations.” He grabs Bitty’s hands. “And, yeah, consent stuff, too, but I thought I’d made my consent pretty clear.” Jack watches as the worry on Bitty’s face lessens. He thinks back again to that conversation and he feels braver than ever before, can’t imagine not trying. “I mean, I want a relationship with you, like, a proper relationship. Not just sex. And if you aren’t interested in that, we should probably stop now because I don’t want us, this friendship, to be ruined in the morning.”
Bitty slowly releases a breath. He avoids Jack’s eyes while he takes another deep breath. When he does finally meet Jack’s eye, he looks sad.
“I can’t not be out again, Jack. It was part of the deal I made with myself before starting at Samwell - I’d only pretend when I was with my family - and I don’t even need to do that anymore. I told them and it was,” he breathes deeply again, “it was fine. They were fine. I don’t think they’ve processed it entirely yet and I don’t think it’s quite what they were expecting for Christmas but . . yeah, it was fine.” He meets Jack’s eye again. “So, I’m properly out now and I can’t not be.”
Jack gives a short laugh and Bitty is suddenly staring at him.
“That’s . . .” He stops, breathes, starts again. “I’m so happy for you. And proud.” He pulls Bitty in for a quick hug. “And the Falcs management know. We’ve talked about when I’m going to make a statement. At the end of the season, most likely.” He takes a moment, concentrates on his breathing. “I haven’t told the team - well, Evs knows - but I’m not not telling them. Obviously, I’ll say something properly before I go public.” He laughs again. “George and I have this joke plan to do the statement during one of the Cup finals. No one’s going to give a shit about some rookie from the Falconers during a final.”
He sits back on the couch, tries not to be terrified of the silence. Minutes pass. He’s about to open his eyes, get up and head to bed when he feels Bitty’s weight on the couch as he scrambles back onto Jack’s lap.
“Jack.” He is voice is shaking. “Fucking hell.”
Jack opens his eyes and looks at him. “Yep, first one out. I figure people talk a lot of shit about me anyway; it makes sense for it to be me. I’m used to it.” He shrugs and then focuses on the top button of Bitty’s shirt. “I know it’s not going to be easy. I mean, everything - making the statement is going to suck and all the press afterwards and I know you weren’t asking me to come out for you and I’m not. I’m not coming out for you. Or anyone.” He takes three deep breathes. “It’s for me. And my parents. Mostly me, though.” He holds Bitty’s gaze. “So, that’s where we are. Two months to go.”
Bitty wraps his arms around Jack and they sit there, silent, breathing in time with each other.
Finally, Bitty lightly kisses his temple. Bitty moves his hands, cradles Jack’s face, like Jack is something precious to protect.
“Two months is nothing. I can do two months.”
-
Alarm. Breathing exercise. A hand on his chest. A body curled around his.
"Ignore the routine today, sweetheart."
Kiss. Breathe. Sleep.