Chapter Text
Faber was beautiful, Eric had to admit. The first few rays of sunlight filtered through the massive windows on the side of the rink, hitting the fresh ice that he always felt a little guilty about ruining. Technically, he didn’t have to be here. The North Star Skating Club had told him that he didn’t need to worry about morning practices until he had gotten settled in, but he had already missed three practices because of move in, and he was nearly out of his mind from the extra energy.
He finished lacing up his skate, stretching his arms over his head as he walked to the rink entrance. It was going to be a pain, switching between two rinks everyday, but the commute to the North Star rink in the morning just wasn’t possible. As it was, it would be enough trouble catching the bus after his last class to get there in time, but he’d make it work.
He had to.
Eric shook his head slightly to get those thoughts out of his head; Lord knew that was not the mindset he needed right now. He slipped his red and black skate guards off the moment he hit the ice, setting them on the side like he had done a million times- or not, apparently. He stared at the guards on the ice. Right. Hockey rink. He settled for setting them to the side of the entrance, hoping no one would take them or step on them while he was busy.
He pulled up his workout playlist on his phone, one that he had made specifically so he could keep track of the time and be out of the rink before anyone else arrived. He tucked his earbuds in, hit play, and finally, finally pushed off.
And just like that, everything else fell away. Just like it always did, his worries disappeared, his fears, his insecurities. He was more than good at this, he was amazing , and he had the medals to prove it. It didn’t matter that he was short: when he jumped, his head was above everyone else’s. It didn’t matter that he barely weighed a hundred and twenty pounds when he was spinning so fast he blurred. If anyone was hurling slurs at him he couldn’t hear them over the sound of his blades cutting through the ice.
This was easier than breathing, easier than baking a perfect peach pie, easier than living the perfectly rehearsed lie of his life in Georgia. Just gather enough speed, push off on the edge, and fly . Whip the leg around, keep your free leg tight , keep your momentum. Keep your knee relaxed, nail the landing, repeat. Don’t think, just be .
The music paused for a long moment, and he got into position just as the last song of the playlist started: the music for his short program this season. He had been working on the choreography and was planning to clean it up once he got to a real practice, but there was no reason not to run through it right now. He swept into the motions as the violin slowly picked up, and by the time he slammed his toe pick down as his arms flew up with the end of the music he was gasping for breath.
The exhaustion was probably the reason why, when the shouts and whoops started, he was so startled that he yelped and collapsed to the ice, staring in horror at the many huge boys standing on the other side of the glass.
_/ \_
Jack really didn’t mind morning practices. He would be up anyway for a run, and frankly he’d rather be on the ice instead. He always loved the way the rink looked first thing in the morning, ice fresh and smooth. The rink was relatively quiet before practice, most of the guys too tired to cause too much of a ruckus. That was why, as they walked out to the ice, Jack could clearly hear the sound of skates cutting across the rink.
“Hey, do you guys hear that?” Holster asked through a yawn.
“Yeah, what the-” Shitty stopped so suddenly that Jack almost walked into him. He glanced over his friend’s shoulder towards the rink. The occupied rink. The boy was posed gracefully at center ice, eyes closed. Jack turned around, searching for the coaches. They were supposed to start practice in ten minutes, and this kid was ruining their ice-
“ Whoa ,” Ransom breathed. Jack turned back around to find that the blonde was now gliding smoothly across the ice, skates twisting in complicated patterns both completely in sync with the movements of his hips and arms and so utterly opposite that Jack couldn’t figure out how he hadn’t fallen. He was already mesmerized, and then he jumped.
Shitty shrieked next to him, grabbing his arm as the boy landed and immediately flew up again, landing and gliding away without so much as the slightest wobble. Rans and Holster swore as he swept into a spin that somehow got faster as he went, folding nearly in half and bending his free leg until his skate was touching his head and Jack wondered why there was so little oxygen in the rink suddenly.
“Holy shit, he doesn’t have bones.” He wasn’t even sure who was talking at this point. By now, the whole team, coaches included, was watching the little skater.
Jack forcibly tore his gaze away from the ice. “Coach Hall-”
Hall sighed as Murray frowned at what looked like the rink schedule. “He’s part of a nearby skating club. They arranged for him to have the rink for two hours before us. We’re technically early. It’s still his ice time.”
Jack hadn’t ever really thought about figure skating as something that needed a person to get up before the sun rose, but watching the boy fly up again, even higher than before, he had to admit it clearly paid off. Even he could tell the kid was good, and all he knew about figure skating was that there was lots of spinning and sequins.
The guys around him were still making various noises of delight as the boy spun frantically again, thankfully with both legs down this time.
“He’s messing up our ice,” Jack managed to bite out.
“Apparently clean ice is more important for him than us,” Hall responded. “As we were repeatedly told over the past two weeks.”
“He can have as much ice as he wants if he teaches me to do that!” Ransom half shouted as the boy jumped again. Holster nodded frantically.
“Bro,” Shitty said. “Holy. Fucking. Shit .”
The kid slammed his skate down and threw his arms up, head tilted back and breathing so hard Jack could see his chest rise from here. Now that he was staying still, he could see the dangling cord of his earbuds against the stark black of his shirt. That explained why he hadn’t reacted to the fact that over half of SMH was screaming by the time he finished his routine.
They clearly weren’t playing anymore though, as his head snapped back down to the sound of frantic screaming and whooping even louder than before. He yelped and flinched so hard his skate slid out from under him and he landed hard on the ice, staring at them with wide eyes.
Several of the boys went to help him up, but he had already scrambled up and was hesitantly moving across to them, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
“Sorry, y’all,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Jack nearly did a double take at his accent. Not to mention the fact that, now that he was closer, Jack could see how small the kid really was. And how nice his thighs were. Not that he was looking.
“Is it six already? Gracious, I am so sorry, I musta lost track of the time. It won’t happen again I promise-” He was talking faster and faster as he went on, bending down to grab a pair of skate guards Jack hadn’t even noticed and slide them on with hands that were shaking so badly Jack was worried he’d hurt himself. His eyes darted among the players, shoulders finally slumping slightly as he saw the coaches.
Well, they did until Ransom slapped him on the back and he jolted forward, eyes widening even more.
“Bro!” Ransom exclaimed. “That was fucking amazing!”
“Oh, er, thank you?”
“Can you show us how to do that?” Ransom continued, apparently not noticing that the kid was now inching slowly towards the door to the showers. “Oh, hey what’s your name, man?”
“Oh, Eric. Bittle. Um, I really do need to get cleaned up, but it was nice to meet y’all.” He bolted for the door, moving faster than Jack had ever seen anyone move in skates off-ice.
The team stared after him in silence for a moment. “Bitty.”
Jack turned to glare at Shitty. “What.”
“He said his last name was Bittle. He’s tiny. Bitty.”
“ Why are you giving him a nickname?”
“He’ll be showing up a lot,” Johnson said. Everyone turned to stare at him as he slipped his helmet on. “What?” he asked, shrugging. “The plot demands it.”
Coach Hall sighed. “Let’s just get started.”
Everyone trudged out onto the ice. Jack turned back for just a moment to stare in the direction Bittle had gone (he was not calling him by a hockey nickname). He shook his head and glided out onto the ice. He’d said it wouldn’t happen again, so Jack wouldn’t have to see him again. He could just get annoyed at the torn up ice without having to actually look at his stupid big eyes.
Or his thighs.
Or the way his hair flopped over onto his forehead.
Crisse.