Chapter Text
Two days after the Cup win, George calls Jack to update him on the status of the boyfriend revelation.
“Mornin’, Miss George,” says the person who answers, and she’s slightly embarrassed but mostly entertained by the fact that Bitty’s comfortable answering Jack’s phone.
“You’re on speaker,” says Jack, slightly too late in her opinion, and there’s a snort from the other end of the line so she’s obviously not the only one who thinks so. “What’s up?”
“You picked a very good time to come out, Jack,” she says. “Leading the team in postseason goals and points, winning the Art Ross and the Richard and the Conn Smythe, virtually a lock for the Hart, winning the Stanley Cup? The usual trolls can’t dismiss you as terrible when you’re seeing successes like Gretzky and Lemieux did. Oh, and speaking of that success, your agent called, said he couldn’t get a hold of you? He asked me to tell you that You Can Play have called him ‘oh, about sixteen hundred times’ to see if you’ll be a spokesman.”
“I thought I already made a video for them?”
“That was before you kissed a charming young man on national television, Jack. And speaking of Bitty, that’s the other thing. You picked a very good boyfriend to come out with, too. Big social media presence, polite and inoffensive. The press can’t get any mileage out of you two. The internet loves you-”
“Good Lord, I’ve got almost as many followers as Beyonce!”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“What if…” says Jack suddenly, and stops. “Hypothetically speaking, what if we might… That is, what if we were dating someone offensive?”
“Hey!” protests a voice George really hopes she doesn’t recognize, and Jack makes a noise like he’s been poked hard in the ribs.
There’s a very long pause during which she formulates and discards about ten different answers before settling on, “Are you?”
“Um,” says Jack. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Ms. Martin,” someone says, and she definitely does recognize his voice, knows who he is even before Jack hisses, “Kenny!”
“Good morning, Kent,” she replies. There are a lot of things she could say about this, about how much harder it’ll be, about the little Jack’s told her of last time, about Bitty - but she knows that’s probably not what Jack needs from her right now, so she just asks, “how long?”
“About 36 hours,” Jack says, and of course he’d be so precise.
“Then I’ll let PR know so you don’t have to, and tell your agent you’re not dead as well. Kent, Bitty, is there anyone you’d like me to call for you?”
“No, thanks,” says Kent, and she knows exactly what face he’s making - the one he uses in interviews just before he says something he probably shouldn’t, “I like to keep the Aces’ PR on their toes.”
“Bitty?” she asks, after he doesn’t respond.
“He’s Twittering,” says Jack, and she hears Kent muttering something about old men and newfangled technology.
“Well, then, I’ll leave you three to your celebrations. Congratulations and good luck!” George says, and for all she wants it to be sunshine and rainbows for them it doesn’t feel like it’s quite enough.
“Just be careful.”