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Bitty squarely blamed Ransom and Holster for his current predicament. They tasked him with finding a jockstrap, which they swore was in the old equipment room, the complete opposite of where their lounge, offices, locker room, and most importantly new equipment room were. Since they didn’t currently have a team manager, as the infamous Lardo was studying abroad in Kenya, it was up to Frogs like himself to track down random items. So when Ransom put in the request, Holster sent him on his way, across Faber.
But now, he was stuck in the old equipment room. He didn’t notice the door closing shut behind him at first, seeing as Beyonce was blasting through his headphones as part of his pre-game playlist. But he heard a faint thud over her crooning of all the single ladies, and whipped around, shining his phone flashlight directly at the now-closed door.
Bitty rushed over and tried to open it, but the handle wouldn’t budge. He frantically knocked on the door a few times and called out, “Hey! Hello? Anyone there? I’m in here!” But he heard nothing. He then ripped out his earbuds and pressed his ear to the door in vain, trying to hear any supposed stifled laughter on the other side just in case this was a prank. These were hockey players double his size, and he had teammates who hated him before.
He banged on the door a few times just to be sure. Alas, it appeared there was no one in the hallway.
Bitty pulled his phone out of his pocket so he could contact the team and get them to rescue him. His screen blinked on with a push of a button, and he eagerly glanced at the upper left of the screen before his heart fell. No Service. Curse the old concrete building. He noted the time. 15 minutes until he had to be in the team meeting. Someone was bound to find him before then, right? His team didn’t hate him. He baked them too many goods to win him their favor. Right?
He stood up and turned his phone screen back on. Holding his phone above his head, he slowly made his way around the room, searching for at least one bar of service. Alas, it appeared he was in a dead zone. Dejected, he made his way back towards the door of the equipment room. At least this area was bigger than the janitor’s closet the football team locked him in overnight in seventh grade. He had plenty of space to lay down and cry, if things came down to it. Plenty of room for a breakdown. He won’t have to curl in on himself so he wouldn’t knock into anything.
And his team would start looking for him soon, right? He clicked his homescreen on again. Only five minutes before the meeting. Surely someone, maybe Johnson or Shitty, is wondering where he is. They’ll be looking for him.
In the aftermath of the closet incident, his mama held him so tight. Dicky had stood, shaking in her arms, unable to answer the garden variety of questions she peppered him with in between kisses. Coach had stood behind them both, unwilling to display any sort of affection in public (even if it was only to the school janitor that found him and the police officer) but the relief that he was alive was evident in his eyes. Both father and son spent the next five years refusing to acknowledge what Coach expected to find.
The police were called during the Closet Incident. While Bitty had screamed himself hoarse and dehydrated over his sobs, his parents had feared the worst. He knew there would be no missing person’s report filed this time, partly because he’s an adult and one can’t be filed until he’s been missing for 24 hours. But mostly because his team was going to find him.
He checked his phone again. Three minutes until the team meeting. The guys were all probably making their way towards the locker room now. His teammates must have realized something was wrong by now. Bitty always liked to arrive a few minutes early. Surely they have noticed their shortest player isn’t amongst their midst. He pressed his ear against the door once more, straining to hear if anyone was in the hall.
Two minutes to go. He started knocking on the door again for good measure.
One more minute. Bitty called out a litany of “Help, please! I’m stuck!”
No more time. He was officially late for strategy. He renewed his efforts, raising his voice, using the flat palm of his hands instead of his knuckles so they wouldn’t get too bruised. He knew he was trapped in one of the least used areas of Faber, but people still occasionally came down this way, especially if they wanted a shortcut to the concession stand. Eventually, he had to stop smacking the door altogether, as his hands stung sharply. That didn’t stop him from hollering out his distress.
The minutes ticked by, and Bitty’s worries grew. What if the team never found him, and he ended up dying in this unused corner of Faber. All of his parents’ worst nightmares from the seventh grade incident would be proven true. And how pathetic would that be, physically dying in a glorified closet while still metaphorically in the closet. The homophobia aspect cut deeper this time around, seeing as he actually had a vague notation of a plan to come out to some of his teammates. And he knew he was gay, unlike 11 year old him.
God, he was going to have to quit the team. And then he’d lose his scholarship, and he’d be forced to move back home to Georgia, and he’ll never be able to come out while down there. Any and all progress that he made will be lost. What was he thinking, expecting people to be more accepting just because they attend a liberal arts school in the north with the unofficial slogan of 1 in 4, maybe more?
Before Bitty’s thought spiral could really take hold, he heard some type of commotion coming from outside. He started banging on the door again with his hands. “I’m in here!” he shouted over and over again.
The voices got louder, with one of them calling out, “Bitty?” repeatedly before waiting a few seconds and calling out his name once again. He kicked the door with his foot, not hard, but enough to create more of a racket.
“Bitty, brah, are you in here?” Shitty’s voice yelled from outside the door.
“Yes! I got locked in! Please get me out!” He heard the door jiggle, but it didn’t open.
“It’s locked! Don’t worry. Jack’s with me and he has the keys. He’s looking for the correct one. Are you hanging in there?”
“Better than last time.” Bitty can’t help the strangled laugh that bubbles out of his mouth before he clamps his hands over his face. He’s definitely handling this better than the Closet Incident. That being said, he pictured himself dying in here only a few minutes ago.
He heard a jangle, followed by a key being inserted into the lock. There’s a soft click, and the door handle is wretched open. Bitty squinted, the light from the hallway much brighter than his phone in the dark. He stumbled out of the closet. Jack leaned against the opposite side of the hallway, arms crossed and a furious expression across his face. Of course he's angry that Bitty is causing all three of them to miss strategy, through no fault of his own.
Shitty meanwhile, forgot about personal space and came right up to him. “Are you okay?” he asks as he places his hands on Bitty’s shoulders.
He shrugged out from under the concern. “Please don’t touch me.”
Shitty held up his hands. “Right-o! Sorry brah for not asking first. Do you mind telling me how you ended up in there?” He pointed towards the equipment room.
Bitty hugged himself and hunched his shoulders, staring down at the scuffed white linoleum. “Can you give me a minute, please?” He hears a scoff and frowns. Without looking up (and with ice in his veins, he bites, “Sorry that my anxiety isn’t sticking to your schedule, Jack. Feel free to tell the coaches I’m alive.”
Neither of his teammates said anything. When he finally looked up at both of them, Jack’s expression mellowed out. Whether it was due to Bitty’s acerbic tone or an unseen silent conversation between the two of them, he was just glad he was no longer directing his angry energy towards him.
“You want to tell us what happened, Bitty?” Shitty gently asked.
“I was on a mission for Ransom and Holster.”
Jack softly swore in French behind him.
“Dude, now is not the time.” Shitty looked over his shoulder at their captain before nodding encouragingly for him to continue.
“Anyways, I was looking for something for them. I went into the equipment room and knocked down the kickstand to keep the door open. I didn’t realize anyone else was round until I heard the door close. I tried to text the group chat, but I have no signal in this area of Faber. I’m sorry.”
“Nah, you have nothing to apologize for!” Shitty insisted.
Jack nodded in agreement. “I’ll speak with Ransom and Holster. They shouldn’t be playing pranks on game days.”
“Ready to head to strategy?”
Before Bitty could respond, Jack shook his head. “He should get his hands check first. Look at how red they are.”
“Ah, you’re right!” Shitty leaned in and Bitty reflexively curled his hands towards himself. “I think you might even be bleeding.”
“I think I’ll be okay. They don’t hurt like they did a few minutes ago.”
“Shitty, head to strategy. I’ll take Bittle to the trainer about his hands.”
“Oh, you don’t have to Jack! You’re captain!”
“That’s exactly why I’m going with you. Don’t worry, I’ll speak to Hall and Murray on your behalf. I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks.”