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“To the left, to the left, to the left. Mmm.”
Bitty could hardly manage to sing along with the song that was playing through his earbuds. His throat was thick and his nose was running and he wasn't even trying to stop the tears that were dribbling off his cheeks and leaving wet patches on his red Samwell T-shirt.
His shirt, not one of Jack’s, not big and soft and stretched out and perfect for sleeping. Those shirts were folded neatly in the box on Bitty’s bed.
He hesitated over the Falconers shirsey. Jack had given that to him. It was a gift. It was his, not Jack's. The same with the replica jersey that Jack had signed. Well. What use would Jack have for a replica of the actual jersey he wore on the ice? Or for his own autograph, that he could produce any time he picked up a pen? There was no reason to give that back.
“Talkin’ bout, I'll never find a man like you,” Bitty breathed as he bent down to retrieve the old pair of shower shoes Jack kept stashed behind Bitty’s duffel bag.
The fact was, he'd never find a man like Jack, and he knew it. Jack, who was gorgeous and strong and tender and so much more than the hockey robot most people saw. Jack was Bitty’s first love -- his first everything -- and just now, Bitty wasn't sure he’d ever find another. He wasn't sure he wanted to. The idea of not loving Jack -- that wasn't something he could imagine.
But Bitty knew he wasn't Jack’s first love. No, that honor went to hockey, still first in Jack’s heart. And Bitty was OK with that, he told himself; after all, it was hockey that brought them together.
“You're irreplaceable,” Bitty sang with Queen Bey, straightening up and adding some DVDs Jack left to watch while he was with Bitty at the Haus. There was Jack's red flannel. That one Bitty had stolen. It should go back to its rightful owner. The puck from Jack’s first goal as a Falconer. Jack had given that to him, yes, but it had special meaning for Jack. It should go back. But the toy Jack Zimmermann that he gave Bitty when they made their relationship official? Bitty was definitely keeping that.
The problem was that their relationship couldn't be -- could never be -- all that official, not if nobody could know about it. This morning had just been the last straw, the incident that brought into focus just how many times he'd done something that came thisclose to ruining Jack’s career. And Bitty would not be the cause of that, even if he had to give Jack up.
It had all been so innocent, a quick Skype conversation after Bitty's 9 o’clock class, before Jack left the hotel for the morning skate in Chicago. Bitty wanted to tell him about the A on his French quiz, and to wish Jack luck playing in the United Center. Jack was asking about the next time Bitty could come to Providence when Tater came in the hotel room.
Bitty couldn't see him at first, only heard him say “Zimmboni, time to -- oh, is that your girlfriend?”
Then Tater walked around and saw the screen with Bitty sitting in the Haus kitchen. Bitty could see the flush rise in Jack’s cheeks as he said, “No, it's just my old teammate Eric Bittle. The team wants to come to another game.”
Tater smiled, waved, said “Hello, Eric. Make him bring you to locker room, yes?” Then to Jack he said, “If I'm interrupting nothing, time to go.”
Jack had looked back at the camera and said, “Talk to you later, Bittle” before he broke the Skype connection.
It took a while for Bitty to parse the mixture of hurt he felt at Jack’s dismissive tone, fear at how close they came to being caught saying something beyond platonic, anger that they had to hide, and above everything, relief that they had gotten away with it. Again.
But they wouldn't always, a small voice inside Bitty said. One day, he'd forget and kiss Jack’s cheek or hold his hand in a restaurant, and someone would snap a photo on their phone. One day, someone would overhear them exchanging “I love you”s, or even worse, suggestions about what they might do when they were alone. Bitty’s Haus-mates were wondering where he went when he was away overnight; he'd made plans to sneak out the next time he went. He knew Jack's teammates were asking when they'd meet his girlfriend.
And if anyone ever went through Bitty’s Twitter and vlog …
He'd skipped his afternoon class and done just that, going through his social media posts one by one, taking down anything that might raise suspicion. There was so much. Some of the vlogs he might be able to edit and re-post, but still. There was no way this was going to work, he realized. People would figure it out eventually. That's when he started packing Jack’s things.
He kept the note short and to the point: “Dear Jack, I love you so much but this isn't going to work. I can't cost you everything you've worked for. I think I need to stay away from you for a while, but please don't worry about me. Don't bother sending my stuff. You can just toss it.
Love, Bitty”
He wrapped Jack's key in the note and laid it on top of the box. He tried to stop sniffling as he taped it shut and wrote Jack’s address on the top with a black Sharpie.
Chowder saw him leaving the Haus with the box the next morning.
“It's s’wawesome how close you guys have stayed,” he said when he caught sight of the address. “I think Jack gets more pie than we do!”
Bitty forced a smile and said, “Don’t worry. I'll bake more for the Haus.”
If he got the box to the post office today, it should arrive before Jack got home from his road trip, and SMH would be conveniently on the bus to Ithaca when he received it. They played at Cornell, and the next day at Colgate, and Bitty would be plenty busy.
Bitty spent the next three days avoiding his phone. He left it in his room when he went to class or baked in the kitchen, turning out more pies for the team than they'd ever had in 48 hours. He asked Chowder or Lardo or anyone else wandering though to let the group chat know when food was ready. He only picked his phone up to reply to Jack’s texts, and, by the end, voicemails, when he was certain Jack wouldn't be able to answer right away.
By the time the team was getting ready to board the bus on Friday, he knew they had noticed his strange behavior. His plan had been to forget his phone in his room again, and if someone reminded him, to leave his charger behind.
It didn't work. He was just leaving the Haus when Chowder caught up to him and thrust phone and charger at him.
“You forgot these,” Chowder said. “Wouldn't want to go without your tunes, right?”
“Thanks, Chowder,” he said, stuffing them in his coat pocket.
He decided to try to act natural, but he still wanted to avoid Jack, so he put his earbuds in with the phone turned off and leaned back to sleep. Good Lord, why was it this hard to keep news of a break-up from his team when they hadn't even known he was dating anyone?
As he curled against the window, he caught his name. Holster was asking Ransom about him.
“Has he said anything to you? Because there's something going on. I don't think there's any butter left in Massachusetts.”
Ransom was quiet a moment before he said, “He hasn't said anything, but he also hasn't been as attached to his phone as he usually is. If he has music on in the kitchen, it's coming from his laptop. You think someone’s, I don't know, harassing him? He’s pretty much stayed home unless he's got class.”
“Like a stalker?” Holster said. “Maybe. But he should know he can come to us.”
“You guys talking about Bitty?” Chowder asked. “Have you asked Jack? I know Bitty talks to him a lot. He was sending him a care package right before he started making all those pies.”
Bitty inwardly groaned. He couldn't tell them not to call Jack -- not without an explanation -- and besides, he'd been eavesdropping. He shouldn't even know they planned to call Jack.
He thought about turning his phone on to see if Jack had gotten his package yet. He was sure he would have called. Jack's messages the last three days were at first normal -- “Hey, Bits. I saw a rabbit this morning and thought of you. Text me when you can talk.” And, “Hi, Bitty. I was hoping to catch you before class. Call me?” -- then, when all he got were vague texts and voicemails back -- “Sorry we keep missing each other. I've been up to my elbows in pie” and “Sorry I didn’t pick up. I left my phone in my room” -- Jack's messages got increasingly frustrated and then worried.
“Please, Bitty. It’s been too long since we talked. Tell me what's going on.”
“Bitty. Eric. Call me whenever you get this, no matter how late it is. I need to know you're all right.”
Eric. That broke his heart just a little more. He resolutely turned his face to the window and did not turn on his phone.
***********************
Jack was standing at his counter staring at Bitty’s note when his phone pinged with a text notification. He was still standing there when it pinged again, and again. Why would Bitty do this? What had Jack done to screw this up so badly? Was Bitty angry about when Tater came in? That was the last time they actually talked.
He had moved to the sofa, still staring at Bitty’s note, when his phone actually rang with an incoming call. He didn’t answer. He just read the note again. If Bitty thought Jack would throw away his things, he didn’t know Jack. The strange kitchen tools that Jack couldn’t even name? The little blue shorts? His socks and underwear that had their own drawer in Jack’s bedroom? No. They were staying, and Bitty would come back. He had to.
He read the note again. Bitty was upset -- crisse d’osti de tabarnac, be a little more obvious, Jack -- but he didn’t seem really angry. There wasn’t a single “Bless your heart” anywhere. So why would he break up with Jack? Via UPS, no less? He picked up his phone to try calling again, but it was already ringing. Lardo.
“Hey, Lardo.”
“Jack, dude, what is going on?” she asked. “Did you and Bitty make a secret pact to see who could stay off their phone the longest or something? We’ve been trying to reach you all day, almost.”
“Bitty? Is something wrong with Bitty? Is he OK?” Jack asked.
Lardo paused, then said, “That’s what we were trying to ask you. Has he said anything to you about why he’s been upset?”
“Upset how?” Jack said.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that’s not a ‘no,’” Lardo said. “But like, he’s made 12 pies in the last three days, and he hasn’t given any of them away. He keeps leaving his phone behind, and he’s not even listening to music much. Chowder had to grab it from his room today or Bitty wouldn’t have even brought it on this road trip. It’s like he’s trying to avoid someone, and we thought maybe someone was, I don’t know, harassing him or something.”
“But he’s OK?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know, Jack,” Lardo said. “I mean, if someone was bothering him, he’s got a Haus -- a team -- full of hockey players that have his back, so you’d think he’d say something. But he likes to keep his private life private. I mean, he never says anything about hooking up with anyone, and a boy that cute? You know he’d have plenty of takers.”
Jack’s stomach clenched at the thought. Maybe Bitty wanted out just so he could have some fun his last two years of college. As much as Jack didn’t like the thought, it was only right, he thought. Bitty shouldn’t waste his time waiting for Jack to be able to call him or, even more rarely, see him.
But that didn’t explain why he just stopped talking to Jack and cut off communication with, apparently, everyone.
“Anyway,” Lardo continued, “he’s just not himself. He’s not dancing around and singing or smiling. He always looks miserable. And he’s been super-aggressive at hockey practice.”
“Aggressive, like hitting people?” Jack couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
“N-no, not really,” Lardo said. “But he’s turning on the afterburners and stealing pucks and not really getting out of people’s way. If he gets hit, he gets this really determined look on his face and gets up, like he’s trying not to cry. But Ransom and Holster are hopeful about the game tonight, at least.”
“That’s right, where are you guys?” Jack asked.
“Cornell,” Lardo said. “Colgate tomorrow. About Bitty? Any ideas? Because while our two-headed captain is glad to see him playing like a demon, they’re a little worried that Chowder’s level of concern will knock him off his A-game.”
“Don’t worry about Chowder,” Jack said. “If it helps, have them tell him he has to give his best effort for Bitty. Look, I can’t make it tonight -- you play in like an hour, right? -- but I’ll see if I can drive out tomorrow and try to talk to him.”
“That’s great, Jack,” Lardo said, relieved. “He always listened to you. I gotta get the water bottles and stuff done, but I’ll let our captains know.”
Jack put down the phone and looked at the note again. Bitty wasn’t talking to anybody, it seemed. Bitty always talked, even when he rambled in circles around anything really important. Whatever it was was so important he couldn’t talk in a ring wide enough, Jack concluded.
He didn’t know if his presence would help, especially since Bitty had clearly asked him to stay away, but he thought he deserved the opportunity to ask why, at least once, face to face.
When Jack pulled up outside Starr Arena, he turned off the car and took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. Bitty said he didn't want to see him. Maybe he should just do what he said and leave him alone.
No. Not yet, Jack told himself. Bitty wasn't some fling or hookup for him; he loved Bitty, and he was almost certain Bitty was it for him.
He wasn't sure he was it for Bitty, but he knew Bitty loved him too. Bitty told him so all the time, even in the first sentence of his breakup note. If he loved Bitty and Bitty loved him, it was going to take more than a five-sentence note to end it.
But he couldn't ambush Bitty, at least not right before a game. He pulled a Habs cap low over his eyes and zipped a dark red hoodie -- close enough for either Samwell or Colgate -- halfway before buying a ticket and taking up a position on the concourse at the top of the stands. That way, there’d be no awkward conversation with whoever was in the seat next to him. He texted Lardo, “Here. I’ll come talk to him after the game.”
When Samwell took the ice, he could see that at least Random and Holster had gotten the message by the way their eyes roved lover the crowd and stopped on him. He gave them a curt nod and they went back to their warmups. Bitty never looked up from the ice in front of him.
Jack hardly took his eyes off Bitty for the whole game. Bitty sat on the bench and stared at the ice, not looking at or talking to his teammates. When his line was out, he skated like the devil himself was after him, making it almost impossible for either opposing players or his teammates to keep up with him. Ollie and Wicks, playing with him this year, had adjusted, letting Bitty take off when they got possession and sending the puck up to him.
It was effective, at least at the beginning of the game, but it made Bitty too vulnerable, Jack thought. He was skating up ice by himself on rush after rush, and it didn’t take long for Colgate to catch on and start leaving a D-man back to intercept him. But Bitty didn’t adjust, slow down and pass the puck off. He just kept skating forward, like he couldn’t even see the massive player bearing down on him.
Bitty had a goal and an assist -- not a pass, but a shot that rebounded onto Ollie’s stick -- at the beginning of the third period, and Samwell was up 4-2. Wicks stole the puck with a nifty poke check to the left of Chowder’s net and Bitty was off to the races again, receiving the puck on his tape just before he crossed the blue line.
Then he collided, full speed, with a defender that had to outweigh him by close to 100 pounds. It was a clean check, Jack could see that. It came from the front, and the defenseman actually crouched to get his chest and shoulders below Bitty’s head. But it was violent, sending Bitty bouncing straight back, off his feet, landing with a thud on his back while the puck skittered forward without him.
Wicks skated past him to try to get the puck from the corner while Bitty rolled to his front and rose to his hands and knees. He hadn’t gotten to his feet yet when the whistle sounded; it vaguely registered that Wicks must have gotten the puck for the ref to stop play.
Dex and Nursey skated up to him and Dex extended a hand, allowing Bitty to pull himself up. He made it off the ice under his own power. Before he could take a seat on the bench, the trainer was signalling him back to the tunnel to run the concussion protocol. Merde.
But Bitty came back to the bench and sat at the end, so he had no symptoms. Still, Hall and Murray didn’t look too eager to put him back in the game, lines and players moving around him while he sat and looked forward.
The game eventually ended with Bitty playing only another two shifts. Samwell won 5-3 -- the last on an empty-netter by Ransom in the last minute -- but the team seemed subdued as they headed into the locker room.
Jack hustled across the concourse, through an unmarked door and down the stairs to the concrete service hallways.
He found his way to the visitor locker room and waited outside the door.
It was only moments before Lardo slipped out.
“Hall and Murray are talking to the team,” she said. “They’ll be out in a minute -- you might want to wait around the corner? -- then I’ll send Bitty out. You gotta talk to him, bro. I don’t want to see that happen again.”
“Is he OK?”
“I think so,” Lardo said. “Physically, I mean.”
Jack ducked into a doorway further down until he heard the locker room door open and close and Hall and Murray walk away. Then he went back to the middle of the hall and waited for the door to open again.
Lardo was saying, “I know you don’t think you want to see anybody, but you’ll want to see this visitor. I promise.”
“I really don’t think so,” Bitty was saying.
Jack stepped out in front of him.
“Yeah, no, I don’t want to see him,” Bitty said, trying to get around Lardo back into the locker room.
“Bits.” Jack spoke quietly, trying to make eye contact. Bitty looked at the floor, at Lardo, at the wall.
“Bits, I need to know you’re OK.”
“I’m fine, Jack. I didn’t hit my head. I just got the wind knocked out of me.”
“Not just that. Come on, talk to me.”
“I have to change.”
“Your stuff will still be there. Right, Lardo? Bitty, Lardo called me because the whole team is worried about you.”
Bitty finally nodded, looking at the floor, and then shuffled past Jack. Bitty’s skates were off at least, Jack registered, and his jersey and shoulder pads, but he still wore his pants and socks. His T-shirt was soaked and his hair was growing stiff with drying sweat.
Lardo gave Jack a look and disappeared back into the locker room. Jack caught up with Bitty and, with a hand on his back, steered him to the loading dock. Jack could feel Bitty’s shuddering breaths, and, once the door closed behind them, could hear him trying not to sob.
Jack put his other arm around Bitty and pulled him closer.
“Shhh,” Jack said, rubbing his back, burying his face in Bitty’s dirty hair. “Whatever it is, it’s OK. I promise. Or it’ll be OK.”
Bitty stepped away and looked up, no longer trying to hide the tears on his face.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, miserable. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because I love you,” Jack said. “And when you say you love me, I believe you. And you’re unhappy and it looked like you didn’t care if you got yourself killed out there. And I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what I did.”
Bitty walked over and sat on a stack of pallets, looking away from Jack. “You didn’t do anything,” he said.
“Then what?” Jack said. “Why did you say you didn’t want to see me?”
“When we were talking, an’ Tater came in …”
“Is this about me saying you were just my teammate?” Jack asked. “Because we agreed --”
“I know, Jack,” Bitty said, his voice stronger now with an edge of anger. “I know we agreed to keep our relationship secret. And I’ve tried, really I’ve tried, but I’ll make a mistake. I’ll say too much online and someone will figure it out, or someone will take a picture of us holding hands.”
“Or I’ll forget and kiss you in front of Lardo or Tater or somebody,” Jack said. “If it happens, it happens.”
“But if people find out, and it ruins your career -- or if you get hurt on the ice because of me -- I couldn’t face that,” Bitty said. “I know hockey comes first for you. It always has, and you’ve been clear about that. But I can’t be the reason it gets taken away. You’d hate me, and I couldn’t live with that.”
Jack stood in front of Bitty, confused by the sudden flow of information, trying to order his thoughts.
Anger was creeping into his voice when he said, “First, you can’t live with me hating you, so you send me all my stuff and a stupid note to tell me not to contact you? Really? Because that kind of felt like you didn’t care how I felt at all.”
He stopped and breathed. Bitty was miserable, and he was shrinking away from Jack like he used to do. Crisse. Calm down, he told himself. For whatever reason that Jack couldn’t even think about right now, Bitty had thought he could walk away and Jack … wouldn’t be too bothered? Non, he couldn’t think about that yet.
“Second, who’s to say people finding out would ruin my career? Yes, I want to establish myself, I want to be known as good hockey player before I’m known as the gay hockey player.”
“Bisexual,” Bitty said.
“Whatever. You know they’d call me gay. Third, when did I ever say, even once, that hockey was more important to me than you?”
“I’ve always known it,” Bitty said. “I mean, you’ve spent your whole life working for this. You don’t want to give it up for someone like me. And you did say it, that day in Providence, when you told me about what happened with Kent Parson. You said the relationship had an expiration date, and it would be bad for your careers. ‘When push comes to shove, hockey comes first.’”
“Wait, you’ve been thinking this since August?” Jack said. “Why didn’t you ever say? I didn’t mean this, between us. Kent and I were kids, and we were looking at playing on different teams if we both got picked early. We were just teenagers.”
“And I was just a teenager last year,” Bitty said.
“But you’re not Kent,” Jack said. “And I’m not the same as I was. I never meant that about us. I want to try if you do. I mean, if you really don’t want to be with me, I’ll hate it, but I’ll leave you alone. If you want time to date other people or whatever, I won’t try to stop you. But if that’s what you want …”
“Of course it’s not what I want,” Bitty said, almost yelling now. “What I want is for you to be happy. And I’m willing to try to keep it a secret, but someone could, I dunno, walk in on us in an empty loading dock. And I don’t want to be the thing that breaks you.”
“Bits, Bitty,” Jack’s voice was soft. “You won’t break me, at least not unless you leave, and then you might break my heart. You make me happy. I love hockey -- and yeah, I guess you could say hockey was my first love. But I’ve grown up a lot, and I’ve learned hockey will never love me back. Don’t ever think hockey is more important than you.”
Bitty was looking at the floor, sniffling. Jack sat on the pallets next to him and put his arms around him, remembering the way Bitty had done that for him the previous spring. Even then, he knew now, Bitty had loved him, but thought they could never be more than friends. And Bitty had embraced him, and fed him, and chirped him and made him smile and never asked for more.
Maybe sacrificing his own happiness for Jack’s comfort -- for what he thought, however wrongly, Jack wanted or needed -- was more in character than Jack realized. And maybe Bitty was better at keeping secrets than he thought, but it came with a cost.
Jack shifted on the pallets and pulled his phone from his pocket.
Lardo had texted a few minutes earlier. “Boys are ready to get on the bus. You guys alright?”
Jack texted back, “Leave Bitty’s stuff. He’ll be back to shower and change in a few. Go on without him. I’ll drive him back. We had some personal stuff to work through.”
“Who’re you texting?” Bitty asked, dragging the back of his arm across his face and making it, if anything, messier. Jack leaned over and kissed him just at the corner of his mouth anyway.
“Lardo,” Jack said, offering his phone for Bitty to read. “She said the team wants to get going.”
Bitty’s eyebrows leapt up to his hairline when he got to the last sentence. He said, “We had some personal stuff --” at the same time the phone dinged with another text from Lardo.
“‘WE’ Zimmermann? Have you been holding out on me?”
Jack looked at Bitty and shrugged.
“She’ll have our backs. I’ll take you home. I have the box of stuff you sent in the car, if you’ll take it back.”
Bitty looked up and grinned.
“Can I drive the Jag?”
Jack was confused again.
“What? You can drive if you want, but I have an Audi.”