Archive of Our Own

1

They’ve been scrimmaging for hours.

Okay. That might be an exaggeration. It’s probably closer to just one hour. But they’ve been going at it with practically no breaks for that entire time, and it feels like it’s been so much longer.

Coach Gagnon isn’t happy.

Jack doesn’t blame him; he’s not happy either. Their loss last weekend was frankly disgusting. They should have won easily, but they didn’t, and it was pathetic.

So now, Gagnon is making them scrim until someone blacks out. They might not even stop after that, just skate around the body. That’s the kind of mood Gagnon’s in today.

And Jack still doesn’t blame him. They played poorly, and now they need to make up for it. Work hard so it doesn’t happen again. Jack is more than willing to push himself to be better for next time.

He’s doing well at it, too. He’s the only one to have scored this entire time, and it was a beautiful shot, sunk top shelf right past Artie’s outstretched glove.

Now there's an open lane right in front of him and he runs with it, tapping his stick on the ice. Kenny passes the puck right to him, doesn’t even have to look because they’re so in sync. Jack takes it and goes.

He eats up ice beneath his skates, practically flying across the rink. There's no way the others can catch up to him now. It's amazing, exhilarating, leaving the others behind in his wake.

And then the next minute, it all goes to shit. Jack feels his right foot twist beneath him, unintentional, catastrophic. He wobbles, and it’s just the tiniest little motion, but it’s enough because suddenly he's airborne, and even more suddenly, he’s not. Jack hits the ice hard and skids face-first across the rink.

The whistle blast slices through the cold air, and everyone around him slows to a stop. Jack grits his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. He knows what's coming.

“Zimmermann!”

Slowly, Jack rolls himself over and sits up. There are chips of ice clinging to the front of his practice sweater and his gloves, melting down the front of his visor. His stick is lying on the rink three meters away. He’s not hurt, just a little bruised. He feels sick to his stomach.

Coach Gagnon skates over to Jack. “You wanna explain what the fuck that was?” His voice is so deadly calm, it sets Jack’s heart racing.

Jack keeps his eyes on the ice, silent. He has no explanation. He fucked up, made another stupid rookie mistake, tripped over his own goddamn feet. Unacceptable.

“Stand the fuck up and look at me when I’m talking to you, Zimmermann,” Gagnon says.

Jack lifts his eyes, throat tight. He stands, knees battered and throbbing. Behind Gagnon, Kenny shifts uncomfortably on his skates, eyes pinched, mouth tight. He knows how this works, they all do. Gagnon expects a certain level of playing from this team, and that level is high. But he also knows what it does to Jack when he makes mistakes, especially when others catch them.

Jack ignores him.

“Well? What was that?”

“I don’t have an explanation, Coach.”

Gagnon’s eyes widen, as though he were surprised. “No? No explanation? Well, maybe I have one for you. I think you don’t really want to be here.”

Jack chokes out a garbled sound, neither French nor English. “Coach—”

“You don’t really care about hockey,” Gagnon continues blithely.

“I do care, Coach, I—”

“You know why I think that? Because it shows.”

Jack feels his stomach drop. By now everyone has stopped hovering and returned to the bench, even Kenny, though he still looks particularly concerned. They’re all quiet, lest they capture Gagnon’s unfavorable attention, but clearly watching out of the corners of their eyes. An audience for this fucking spectacle, all his failures on public display. It wasn’t enough that they all got to watch him eat ice; now they get to listen to Gagnon rip him to shreds.

“—and you’re lazy on the ice,” Gagnon is saying, entirely unconcerned by his role on center stage. “You’re making mistakes my three year old son wouldn’t even make, and he can barely stand on his skates.”

Each word slices like fresh blades, and the worst part was that it was true. Yes, Jack did care about hockey, and yes, Jack wanted to be here. More than anything. But he was making mistakes children don’t even make. Jack had played better when he was fourteen and barely in control of his over-sized limbs.

“Am I wrong?”

Jack’s eyes burn, his stomach tight and heavy. He nods. “You’re wrong,” he says, forcing the words out like he was choking on them.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re wrong,” Jack says, louder this time, stronger. He still feels sick to his stomach, but the drive for peak performance outweighs the floaty, breathless feelings of anxiety. “I want to be here. I want to play. I can play.”

“Then prove it,” Gagnon says, jabbing a finger at Jack’s chest. “Be better.”

Jack nods, sets his jaw. “Yes, sir.”

2

It’s the first time Jack’s been home in ages, and it makes him a little nervous to be spending his weekend sleeping in his own room. It’s strange for him to be around his parents after all this time away. But when they win against the Remparts on their own ice, Jack couldn’t be more ecstatic.They were supposed to lose spectacularly, but instead, they dominate the rink with ease, skating circles around them.

Mack, also from Quebec City, stands on a bench in the locker room, waving his hands for attention. He shouts that his family is away and there’ll be a party at his house, which is met with whoops and cheers from the others. Jack can’t help but grin; the energy is infectious. Catching his eye, Kenny smirks and raises a brow, tilting his head at Jack in silent question. And for the first time, Jack nods back. He’ll go. Maman and Papa are always telling him to spend more time with the guys, and he’s so caught up in the hype of victory that he decides to take their advice.

Kenny’s smirk splits into a wide smile, but he doesn’t say anything else. They both turn to pack their gear, and Jack texts his mother to let her know he’ll be out late.

[Maman: ok! we would like you home by 11 but if you are going to be late please call!]

[Jack: ok i will]

They get a ride from Carter, who seems surprised Jack is there but doesn't say anything. Kenny chatters enough to cover the awkward silence. When they arrive, though, he slings an arm around Jack’s shoulders and reels him in.

“You’re not gonna be this weird the whole night, are you?”

Jack gives him a look. “I’m not weird.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, okay, Zimms.” Kenny pulls his arm back and shoves playfully at Jack before walking in. Jack follows behind.

Most of the team is here already, and the party is in full swing. They break the liquor cabinet open immediately, pouring shots and cracking beers. In the living room, someone cranks up the stereo until the floor vibrates.

Someone offers Jack a drink, but he declines and parks himself on the couch with a bottle of water clutched in his hand instead. Jack doesn’t drink at parties; alcohol can interfere with his anxiety medication in a bad way, and he’s not interested in taking those chances in front of the team.

Not that he'd tell anyone that. He’d rather they think he’s a hockey robot than a drugged-out shell.

Kenny is drinking, though. He’s got Jack’s back, knows about the medicine and the therapists and says nothing to the others, hides the fact that Jack isn’t drinking by acting more drunk than he is. Kenny has Jack’s back, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stay sober, too.

Around them, the party rages on. It’s not just the team in attendance now, but local friends and fans, too. The volume has risen exponentially, relentless chatter and shrieking laughter beneath the heavy beat of the music. An impromptu dance floor has been cleared in the living room, and it’s packed with bodies. On a normal night, it would be a lot for Jack to handle. But the pill he took before the game is still smoothing out his tangled nerves, and so all the things he hates about parties bother him less than they usually would.

He still doesn’t like the way some of the other guys look at him when he starts a conversation with them, though, like they never expected Jack Zimmermann to be able to hold a normal conversation. It stings like it always does, but Jack tries not to let it put a damper on his mood.

Next to him, Kenny is holding court with two girls from the game. Jack’s pretty sure their names are Claire and Amélie, though he’s not certain who is who. They’re both wearing Océanic jerseys, though, so there’s that. He’s several drinks in and clearly feeling good, telling outrageous stories and making the girls laugh. Jack prefers to leave this part to Kenny; he’s never been any good at talking to girls. They don’t seem to notice or mind, though, which is...fine, he guesses. It’s fine.

The night passes like this, with Jack watching from the outside. The party gets wilder, more and more people showing up, more and more drinks being consumed. Jack is just starting to feel overwhelmed when Kenny’s phone lights up with a text, and he squints at the screen for a moment before abruptly nudging Jack in the ribs. “Come with me.”

At Jack’s raised eyebrow, Kenny rolls his eyes and grabs his wrist, pulling him off the couch as he stood. “Back in a bit, ladies,” Kenny says, smirking at the girls. Jack smiles at them too, though he feels like it wasn’t nearly as sexy as Kenny’s.

Jack allows himself to be dragged outdoors, where two other guys are standing against the wall of the house. Kenny approaches the pair, hand outstretched. The taller one—Sixer, Jack thinks, though it’s difficult to make out his face in the shadows— digs something out of his pocket. He slaps it into Kenny’s palm with a leer and a raised eyebrow. “Never thought I’d see the day, Zimmermann. Enjoy.”

Kenny just winks and jerks his head for a very confused Jack to follow. They stand on the other side of the patio area.

“Kenny, what the hell—”

“You’ve never smoked before, have you, Jack?”

“What?”

Kenny holds up the thing in his hand. It’s small and thin, something wrapped in paper.

“Is that a joint?” Jack knows he’s supposed to play it cooler than that, but he can’t help himself right now.

“Yeah, dumbfuck, it’s a joint. And I know you’ve never smoked one before.”

“Of course I haven’t! Other than the fact that it’s illegal, the smoke… my lungs—”

“Jack. One little joint isn’t gonna kill you or ruin your lungs. I’m not going to make you, but I think you should give it a shot. Have some fun, fuckin’ relax, celebrate. It won’t even mess with your medicine,” he adds in an undertone.

Jack glowers at him for a moment, then relents. “Fine. Just one.”

“Yeah, okay.” Kenny lights the joint and takes the first hit with what can only be called practiced ease. Jack squints at him suspiciously, and Kenny rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says, blowing a plume of smoke at Jack’s face. It smells...weird.

“Asshole,” Jack mutters, waving the smoke away.

“Take it or leave it, Zimms.” Kenny holds out the joint. Jack takes it with careful fingers, eyeing it warily before lifting it to his mouth. The paper is slightly soggy from Kenny’s lips.

Jack inhales, mimicking Kenny, and immediately pulls the joint away, coughing and wheezing. The smoke burns—of course, the weed is literally on fire—and stings his throat.

"Jesus," Kenny mutters, plucking the joint from his fingers. Jack glares at him, though the effect is likely ruined by his watering eyes.

“You want me to show you how to do it again?” Kenny takes another hit, and it’s enviably perfect.

“Shut up, I can do it myself. I was just...surprised.”

Jack takes the joint and tries again, but it goes just as well as the first time.

Kenny pulls it away. “I'm gonna help you.”

“I don't need your help.”

"You wanna get high or not?"

Jack crosses his arms.

"You're so fucking stubborn, Zimms. Just gimme a damn answer, thing's still burning."

Jack blows out a short, hard breath. "Yeah, Kenny, Crisse. Just do it.”

“Knew you'd come around.” Kenny takes Jack’s hand and pulls him further around the side of the house, out of view. He inhales and steps closer. With the thumb of his free hand, he coaxes Jack's lips apart and leans in as if kissing him. Instead, he exhales gently into Jack's open mouth. Startled, Jack gasps, breathing the smoke into his own lungs. It still burns but less so than before. Something inside of Jack buzzes, though he’s uncertain if it’s the weed or the feeling of Kenny's lips on his.
Kenny leans back with a smirk, barely a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "That better?"

"Tabarnak," Jack breathes. "Again."

Kenny sucks a hissing breath through his teeth. Jack can only imagine the blush spreading down his neck, the wild heat in his eyes. He does it again and again until they’ve killed it, and Kenny has to grind out the roach on the muddy grass.

“Told you it was good,” Kenny says, smug as always, and this time, it doesn’t annoy Jack like it usually does.

They traipse back into the house and collapse on the sofa, bodies loose and languid. It’s late, late enough that Jack should probably text his mother, but time has slowed to a magnificent crawl, and everything seems much less urgent than before. It’s nice. One of the girls from before tucks herself into Jack’s side, and Jack lets her. He talks to her, and to the other girls, and to his teammates. He has no idea what he’s saying, but clearly they like it because they’re smiling and laughing, and it’s not derisive or uncomfortable like it’s been before. They like him.

Jack feels...amazing. The weed gives him a headrush like he’s never felt before, sensation pushing through his body and sending him reeling. It’s nothing like the way his medications make him feel, the way they steamroller his unruly emotions into a flat dispassion. This is lightness.

Jack rolls his head along the back of the couch, revelling in the way his brain sloshes around in his head. He catches Kenny’s eye and feels his lips stretch into a stupid smile, and giggles—actually giggles—when Kenny gives him a stupid smile back. They're both high as kites, and it's the best thing—the only thing—Jack has felt in months. The smoke kind of hurt and tasted a little gross, but it was worth it for the way his shoulders finally come down from around his ears. The knot of fear that resides between his lungs has dissolved, and for the first time in forever, he feels like he can take a deep breath.

Life is good.

-x-

Artie drops him off at home around 1:30 with a grin and a “See ya, Zimms.” Nobody besides Kenny has ever called him that before, and Jack can’t help but smile back.

The door swings open quietly and Jack slips in. When he realizes that he’s just snuck in for the first time, a wave rolls over him, and he lets his eyes close and leans against the door, feeling the smile stretch over his face. It feels good, satisfying, in a way that’s bone-deep and settles something inside his chest. It feels normal. Going out and partying and getting high and sneaking home early in the morning — those are things normal teenagers do.

Jack hasn’t felt normal in years.

When he thinks he can stand by himself again, Jack makes his lazy way into the kitchen. His mouth is sticky and dry, and he wants a glass of water before he goes to bed. In his pleasant haze, he doesn’t notice that the lights are already on.

“Jack.”

For a brief, stupid moment, Jack would have sworn time had frozen; he knows his heart did. Sitting at the island counter are his parents, dressed for bed and looking decidedly frustrated that they are not asleep.

“Papa— Maman—”

Papa holds up one hand, gesturing for Jack to stop speaking. With his free hand, he points to the open chair, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

Jack feels his stomach plummet like a stone. Just like that, the haze is gone, cleared away like smoke, leaving Jack feeling painfully sober. He sits, because his father told him to, because he thinks his knees might give out if he doesn’t.

Beside Papa, Maman is appraising Jack coolly, like she’s judging him and finding him lacking. Jack can already sense his throat tightening. He never could stand disappointing his parents.

“You know,” Maman begins after a moment. “I’m not even going to ask you if you know what time it is, or why you never answered our calls, or even where you were and what you were doing. Clearly you don’t think it matters to let us know.”

“Please, Maman,” Jack croaks. “That’s not— I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you, I just— I lost track of time, I wasn’t thinking. Please, don’t be mad at me.”

“Don’t be mad? Jack, we asked you to be home by eleven or let us know if you were going to be late. You agreed, and yet you didn’t come home, and you never called. Of course I’m mad. What were you thinking?”

Jack blinks helplessly at his parents, mouth open and gaping like a fish. He couldn’t get anything out, breath locked in his aching chest, words evaporating on his tongue. He hadn’t been thinking, really. Or rather, he had been thinking of what his parents told him and deliberately chose to ignore it. He hadn’t even been bothered by disobeying his parents, the chemical calm of the marijuana soothing his anxiety.

Not that he could use that excuse.

“Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself, Jack?”

Maman is staring at him, one perfect eyebrow raised. Jack hates that look.

He opens his mouth and closes it, once, twice, a third time. He feels his shoulders rise in a tight shrug, head shaking. There were any number of things he could say to appease them and get out of this situation. They just wouldn’t come out.

“Well?”

The seconds drag out into an agonizing minute, and Jack can’t do anything except shrug his shoulders higher, mouth open soundlessly.

“Jack!”

“I just want to go to bed,” Jack blurts, hoarse and meek. Desperate.

Maman sighs and pushes a hand through her hair. She’s exasperated, irritated. It’s Jack’s fault. He wants to fix this, to spill everything and apologize and be forgiven. He wants it so bad but he just can’t do it.

“Fine. Go,” Maman sighs. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Jack stands up so fast his chair nearly tips over. His jaw is clenched and his shoulders are frozen up by his ears. He feels awful but the relief of getting out of the kitchen, away from his parents, is enough to keep him from losing it until he gets to his room.

But Jack should have realized by now that he just can’t catch a goddamn break. Just as he makes for the door, Papa’s eyes widen, and his hand snaps out to catch Jack by the arm.

“Why do you smell like pot? Jack, are you high?”

Jack yanks his arm back, tucking his hands against his chest even as his ribs become claws and strangle his lungs. He opens his mouth but the only thing that comes out is some kind of choked whimper. Pathetic.

Behind Papa, Maman has put her elbows on the counter, face in her hands. She can’t even look at him, she’s so disappointed. Jack doesn’t blame her. He has fucked it all up.

“Crisse,” Papa is muttering, pinching his nose between his fingers again. “What the hell were you thinking, Jack? You can’t combine that stuff with your medicine. Not to mention you could have been arrested or kicked off the team if you had gotten caught.”

“K-Kenny said it would be okay. Safe.” Jack says. His voice is scratchy and barely this side of audible, and seriously, that’s the first thing he decides to spit out now that his voice has returned?

“Are you honestly taking medical advice from that boy?” Papa asks, incredulous. It’s a fair enough question; what the hell does Kenny know? He barely passed biology.

“I—” Jack tries, but that’s it. His voice fails again. He’s about ready to crawl out of his skin, he needs to get out of here, but he can’t just leave.

Papa sighs heavily, and Jack can suddenly see how tired he looks. How tired Jack has made him. “We thought you would be better than this, Jack.” He looks up at his son. Jack never quite understood what people meant about wanting the earth to swallow them whole until this moment. He would happily disappear forever if it meant not having to see the pure disappointment in every line of his parent’s bodies.

It seems that Papa can tell that he’s not going to get anything else out of his son except mute panic, because he waves a hand at Jack. “Go to bed, son.”

Jack turns on his heel and stumbles up to his room, numb. He only cracks apart when it’s safe, when the door is shut firmly behind him and he’s curled into his bed.

This is what he gets for trying to be normal.

3

The truth is, Jack doesn’t want any of this. He’d never say anything out loud, not to himself and certainly not to anyone else, but that’s the dark truth that sits heavy and noxious in his chest. He doesn’t want to hear his name called first at the draft, or second, or even at all. He doesn’t want to be at the ceremony or see anyone, not Maman or Papa or Kenny. He doesn’t even want to play hockey. He doesn’t want to do anything. At all. Ever.

The meds help for a while, dissipating the anxiety that clouds his brain like fog. He doesn’t like the therapy that goes with the medicine, but that’s easy to deal with. Dr. Laflamme is an idiot, nods solemnly along at whatever bullshit Jack can drag up and scribbles out prescriptions for anxiolytics and benzos. They keep him going, keep his hands from shaking and his chest from caving in with the weight of words thrown his way. It’s not ideal, but if it will keep him on the ice, he’ll gladly take whatever he needs to do it, damn the consequences.

(And the consequences are unpleasant, dry mouth and headaches, and he can’t—to his eternal mortification—keep it up when he and Kenny get a spare moment alone together. But the side effects could be worse—he couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he started gaining weight—and he’s not wasting his free time off the ice crying in the shower, so he’ll take what he can get.)

And so it goes, for days, weeks, months, washing down pills whenever it’s safe, doubling down on his workouts until he’s drenched in sweat and drowning in endorphins. It’s not fun, Jack doesn’t like it, but he’s getting done what needs to be done, and that, he likes. His coaches have never been happier, his fans have never been more fanatic, and his parents have never been prouder. He would rather die than disappoint any of them.

-x-

The night of the draft  he slips away from everyone and hides in the bathroom, back pressed against the bolted door, knees barely keeping him upright.

He can’t do this.

His legs give out and he slides to the floor in a heap, crumpling the lines of his fresh new suit. Not like it really matters, though, he’s already sweat through his nice white shirt.

He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he doesn’t want to do this. His coaches, fans, his parents, Kenny, everyone, waiting to see him, see what’s going to happen to him, his future decided in an instant in front of the whole goddamn world. It’ll go down in history whether he’s drafted first or second, or last, or maybe not at all, maybe it’s gotten around what an asshole he can be and nobody wants him, or perhaps it got out about his medication and therapy and nobody is willing to take that risk.

Jack’s knees pull up to his chest, hands raking through his neatly gelled hair. His breath comes faster and faster, whistling down his throat, burning in his lungs. In his pocket, his phone chimes.

[Kenny: Zimms where r u?]

Jack ignores it.

[Kenny: Srsly its gonna start soon]

His fingers go white around the plastic casing. He’s going to be sick, stomach heavy and sour, bile rising. The phone chimes again with another text but he doesn’t look at it, just shoves it in his pocket.

Crisse, what a fucking mess he is, can’t even show up for the most important event of his life. He worked his ass off for years, and on the one night when it’s finally supposed to pay off, he’s shaking to pieces on a fucking bathroom floor because he can’t get his shit together long enough to show his face and do what he’s meant to goddamn do. What a waste.

His phone starts to ring. Jack’s hands are shaking so badly now it’s a fight to get it out. He finally extracts it and something falls out with it, but he’s too out of his mind to piece it together.

Maman’s number flashes across the screen. The ceremony is about to start, only two minutes to go. She’s looking for him, they’re probably all looking for him. Famous Jack Zimmermann, who can never get a moment’s peace.

The phone stops ringing, and a notification pops up for a missed call.There’s a wild moment of relief before it starts ringing again, this time from Papa’s number. Jack loathes talking on the phone on a good day, no matter who’s on the other end.Today he’s downright incapable, and the stupid, tinny jingle of his ringone makes him feel like he’s about to rip out of his skin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! ” Jack flings the phone across the room and it shatters against the wall. It feels good, wild and savage, to see the bits of plastic and glass on the floor, but only for a moment. The panic returns, and this time, it subsumes him. He feels like his chest is collapsing, aching the way it did when he cracked two ribs a couple years ago. He’s gasping, not even breathing so much as sucking air in tiny, short bursts until his lungs are ready to pop, might even be crying, though he can’t really be certain, can’t exactly feel his face.

His palms slap against the floor, an attempt at grounding himself, but he just— he can’t—

Something small and smooth meets his restless fingertips, and it rattles when he picks it up. It’s a pill bottle, discrete enough for Jack to keep it on his person at all times, and he does. He needs his pills. He pops two now, though he can’t even swallow with the way his throat is closed up. Two pills is more than he’s supposed to take, but his tolerance is high, and it’s never been this bad before. He wants it to stop.

Jack staggers upright, blindly groping at the walls to get his feet under him. He lunges at the sink, turns the faucet on full blast. With cupped hands he gulps down enough water to swallow the pills. He leaves the water on in a weak attempt at masking the gasping cries tearing from his throat.

He stares at the mirror, and the boy that stares back is unrecognizable. His face is red and blotchy, sweaty hair falling limp over his puffy, bloodshot eyes, lips chewed and swollen. He’s got a white knuckled grasp on the edges of the sink. He looks like a mess, he is a mess, some kind of fucking human disaster. Jesus, why can’t he get ahold of himself? Jack moans, head dropping between his shoulders. Everyone is going to hate him for ruining this night. Why can’t he just get over himself? Selfish asshole, pulling this ridiculous stunt on one of the most important nights in the NHL. They’re going to be so mad. He deserves it, though, deserves their anger. He’s let them down so many times. What a disappointment, can’t get his shit together. Fuck.

“You were supposed to be better than this,” he whispers, breath fogging the mirror.

The pills aren’t kicking in yet and he still feels like a wreck. He’s spiralling, he knows it. It’s a panic attack, he’s had them before, but it’s never been so bad. He feels like he’s going to die.

He reaches for another pill, gets two by accident, stuck to his sweaty, fumbling fingertips. He takes them both, chokes them down, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s far too much for him to be taking at once, but he doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care. What’s the worst that could happen, he dies?

The thought stops him cold, heart freezing in his chest. He could die. Overdose. He’s not supposed to think like that, to want—

But…

But it’s not the first time he’s thought about it. About dying. Not existing, not being out-of-his-mind miserable. Not being scared or anxious about literally everything he does and says and hears and thinks. Day after day. It’s so exhausting.

And he could make it stop.

It’s not the first time he’s thought about it, but it’s the first time that he’s seriously considering it. The first time it's a real, viable option. The thought gives him something like an illicit thrill. He’s not supposed to want this, it’s wrong, completely and undeniably fucked up. But Jesus Christ, he’s so tired. Every goddamn day is a struggle, and it would just be so nice if it would all just stop. He could stop worrying all the damn time and his parents wouldn’t be bothered by him anymore. They’d be sad for a while, but they would be fine. Maybe even better off, in the long run.

Crisse de câlisse. His stomach rolls at the thought. He’s disgusted with himself, how could he not be. He’s not supposed to be like this, to think these kinds of thoughts. But he does, all the time, and he feels so guilty, but he can’t help it.

“I want to die,” he whispers. He can’t hear himself, but he sees his lips move in his reflection, and emotion rolls over him like a tidal wave because now it’s real.The words have been spoken aloud, and that gives them strength. So these words that have now been born into the air, they have real meaning. This feeling is real.

Dr. Laflamme always did say that all of his feelings were real and valid.

Jack looks at himself in the mirror and says the words again, louder this time. “I want to die.”

He’s still shaking, still feels sick to his stomach, but the wild fluttering in his chest has settled. It’s approaching the way he feels on the ice, pure determination, head clear of all distractions, only one thing on his mind: success.

He sucks in a deep breath that still shivers and stutters, but it’s not as bad; the drugs are starting to work. His hands are steady when they unscrew the pill case and dump the contents into his palm. The pile is substantial; he always carries more than he’s supposed to.

With methodic precision he places them on his tongue, one by one, swallowing them down with water from his cupped hand. He feels nothing. It’s not the numb emptiness that used to crack open his chest and force him to his knees in the shower, crying into the hot spray. It’s just...nothing. He has a goal to accomplish, and he’s working toward that goal. Failure isn’t an option, isn’t even on his radar. He will do this.

The pills he took before have completely kicked in. He’s surpassed calm; he’s downright drowsy, nearing stupefied. The face in the mirror blinks slowly, mouth slack, like the time he smoked with Kenny but without the fuzzy joy. He feels strange, but in an acceptable way, like he’s so far removed from the situation, from himself, that he can’t be bothered to care. It’s nice.

Jack only stops when the room starts spinning so badly that he loses his balance, swaying to one side before catching himself on the sink basin. The few remaining pills slip from his palm and scatter on the floor. It’s okay, though. He’s taken enough.

Moving slowly, he lets himself slump against the wall and sink to the floor. He’s so tired, far too tired to feel elated or proud, but there’s a deep sense of relief that sweeps through him like a warm breeze.

It’s done, it’s over. He’s done, he’s over. At long fucking last he can be at peace, no more worrying about every failure he’s bound to make, about disappointing everyone he cares about.

His muscles are so relaxed that he can’t stop himself from slipping further down the wall until he flops over to one side. It’s fine, though; the floor is soft, and Jack is so, so tired.

Things get fuzzy from there. Time goes loose, and often, it goes missing. Jack isn’t certain how much time has passed; it could be anything from seconds or minutes to lifetimes. He doesn’t know. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Nothing matters. Nothing can bother him. Not even the pounding on the door. Not even the screaming.

Jack closes his eyes and sleeps.

4

It's quieter upstairs, but Jack can still feel the bass humming under his feet. It only makes it all feel more surreal. He hasn’t seen Kenny since before rehab, and now his former best friend is standing here in his bedroom, looking mostly the same as he did years ago. Jack’s not sure what to think. It’s a surprise, to be sure, and not necessarily the good kind. Or maybe it is, and Jack just hates surprises.

“Nice place you got here.”

The line is so stupid that it startles a laugh out of Jack. “Jesus, Parse.”

He grins up at Jack, and it’s nothing like the smirks he was giving out downstairs. It’s crooked and sweet and so, so familiar. It hurts.

“Jesus, Parse,” Jack breathes. His words are so soft, he can barely hear them over the music. Nothing feels real right now, between the late hour and the dim lights, the muffled music and the alcohol. Kenny’s not supposed to be here, but he is, and it’s unsettling, but...it’s been so long. Years. When Kenny showed up the first time during Jack’s freshman year, it was all still too painful. He’d said things, they’d both said things, and then nothing. Until now. And Jack still doesn’t know what to think.

The grin has disappeared, replaced with something more solemn. Kenny takes a step closer. “Jack…”

“Kenny, what—” What are you doing here, what do you want, what’s going on?

“I won’t, if you don’t want me to,” Kenny tells him before cupping the back of Jack’s neck, fingers curling into his hair.

“What— ”

Kenny kisses him.

His lips are hot and insistent, and Jack is just drunk enough to throw all his carefully cultivated caution to the wind and kiss back, clutching at the back of Kenny’s shirt. He shouldn’t, oh, God, he shouldn’t, this won’t end well, it didn’t before and it certainly won’t now, and God, Bittle—

“Fuck, I missed this,” Kenny whispers against his lips. “Missed you.”

Jack hums in return, fingers spasming against Kenny’s back. He hates himself a little, but he missed this, too, missed Kenny and his stupid backwards hats and stupid cowlick and stupid lips. It’s been so long. When they fought, they fought, brutal, no holds barred. But when they weren't fighting, Crisse— they were electric.

They pull apart but don’t go far, still breathing each other's air. Kenny looks disheveled, hair mussed and shirt untucked, and Jack knows he looks the same. It makes something settle and glow in his chest.

“If you can play as well as you kiss, you should be just fine in the NHL,” Kenny chuckles quietly.

Jack lands a gentle punch to Kenny’s bicep, grinning. “You know I can. We played together for years.”

“Yeah, but it’s different, Zimms. Playing pro isn’t the same as Juniors, and it sure as hell isn’t anything like this,” Kenny says, waving his hand at Jack’s SMH shirt.

“What are you talking about?” It feels like the room gets colder, quieter, like a cloud passing over the sun. Jack’s muscles tense as if preparing for a blow.

“C’mon, Zimms. You guys do all right, but you can’t think the game you’re playing here is anything like the real deal. And yeah, you’re the best player they’ve got by far, but, like… no offence, Zimms, but if you wanna go pro and be any good at it, you’re gonna need to be better than this.”

Jack is silent. Kenny doesn’t seem to notice, flopping into Jack’s desk chair. “So who’re you signing with?”

Jack sits on the edge of his bed and gives a tight shrug.

“You have no clue?”

“I mean… it could be Montreal, it could be L.A., okay? I don’t know.”

Kenny is quiet for a minute before looking over, uncharacteristically shy. “What about Las Vegas?”

For a brief, terrible moment, Jack considers asking, What about Las Vegas? It’s not to say that he hasn’t considered it; of course he has. The Aces are a relatively new team, but they’re a powerhouse. They’ve already won a Cup for God’s sakes. But he’s back to feeling restless and on-edge with Kenny in his room, like he’s some sort of wild animal trapped in a corner, back against the wall.

But he’s not cruel, so he just gives Kenny the truth. “I… I don’t know, okay?”

Kenny’s mouth twists like he’s not happy with the way this is going. Jack doesn’t like that look on him; he’s never liked it when Kenny was sad. He leans forward, trying to catch Kenny’s eye. “Look, it… It’s not a ‘no,’ okay?”

“Not a ‘yes,’ either,” Kenny mumbles, petulant.

Jack sighs, burying his face in his hands. None of this is going the way he wanted it to.

A quiet creak breaks the silence, and it’s the only warning he has before Kenny is crowding close to him again, forcing Jack upright and seating himself right in Jack’s lap. His arms rest on Jack’s shoulders and wrap around his neck.

“Parse—” The weight of him is different than Jack remembers it to be, and it makes sense; six years of major league hockey has done wonders for the short, skinny boy Jack used to know.

Jack doesn’t like it.

“C’mon,” Kenny whispers, lips brushing against Jack’s. His breath smells like Shitty’s tub juice. “Say you will, c’mon. It’ll be like Juniors again, the two of us against the world.”

“Jesus,” Jack mutters, twitching his shoulders. He feels itchy, like his skin doesn’t fit quite right. “Not now, all right?”

“You’re running out of time, Jack. If not now, when? You can’t keep putting this off because you’re afraid of—”

“Kenny. I can’t do this.”

Kenny heaves another deep sigh before kissing him once, hard. “Jack, come on.”

“No, I— uh—” He’s cut off as Kenny kisses him again. It’s not a nice kiss, not calming or grounding. It’s mean. Says shut up, says you’re being ridiculous. Jack pulls away, shoving at Kenny’s shoulders.

“Kenny!”

“Zimms! Just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me. I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board, and they can free up cap space. Then you can be done with this shitty team. You and me—”

“Get out.” Jack moves until Kenny stands up, and he follows him to his feet.

“Jack—”

“You can’t— You don’t come to my fucking school unannounced—” The room is spinning, Jack is shaking. Christ, he feels sick.

“Because you shut me out!”

“—and corner me in my room—”

Kenny steps closer, closing his fingers around Jack’s wrist. “I’m trying to help.”

“—and expect me to do whatever you want!” Jack pulls his hand away and shoves Kenny, hard.

“Fuck— Jack!” He stares at Jack in shock, like he’s been betrayed. “What do you want me to say? That I miss you? I miss you, okay?!” Kenny sways on his feet for a moment before falling against Jack, his fingers curled into Jack’s shoulders in a desperate clutch. His breath is warm across Jack’s chest. “I miss you.”

Jack swallows and looks away, arms suspended awkwardly by his sides. He’s angry that Kenny would do this, pull this card, try this shit again. He’s angry, but still, his chest aches. God, it aches so bad. He missed this, missed hearing this, even though it’s not true. Jack takes Kenny’s hands in his own and gently releases their grip on his shirt. “You always say that.”

“Huh…” Kenny pulls back, and that cold mask he used to wear is back. “Well, shit. Okay. You know what, Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough? Everyone already knows what you are, but it’s people like me who still care.”

It shouldn’t shock him, the way Kenny talks when he’s hurt and scared. He’s always been this way. But somehow it still hits Jack hard, each word designed to lodge itself in the cracks in Jack’s armor and bruise the air from his lungs. He can barely get the words out. “Shut up.”

But Kenny keeps going, because that’s what he does, takes everything too far so you can’t get him back. “You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right? Oh, don’t worry, just give it a few seasons, Jack. Trust me.”

Everything spins around them. Jack is going to throw up. “G-get out of my room.”

“Fine. Shut me out again.”

“And stay— stay away from my team.” His voice shakes but it holds.

“Why? Afraid I’ll tell them something?” Kenny’s eyes are hard and bright, a threat. Jack knows he’s not playing around.

“Leave, Parse . ”

Parse yanks the door open and stops. Jack’s heart stops. On the ground is Bittle, staring up at them with wide brown eyes, clutching his room key to his chest.

Parse steps past him, clearing his throat and settling his stupid hat back on his head. “Hey. Well. Call me if you reconsider or whatever. But good luck with the Falconers. I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”

He walks away without a backward glance.

Jack’s eyes are glued to him, frozen, he’s frozen, Jesus, he can’t move . His heart is flinging itself around his chest like a wild thing, trying to beat it’s way out. He's shaking, spiraling down. He hasn't had a panic attack like this in a long time, but there's just something about Parse that makes everything so much worse.

Bittle is still kneeling on the floor, looking after Parse, too. Jack can’t lose it now, not here, not in front of Bittle. He forces his leaden feet to move, numb fingers reaching for the doorknob. One step, two, almost there, almost safe.

There’s a soft gasp behind him. “Jack—”

Jack slams the door behind him. His room feels smaller, shrunken, like someone sucked all the air out. He can’t breathe. Can’t stand up straight. His legs are tingling and he lets himself carefully sit in a heap against the door. He tucks his head between his knees, tries to breathe. Wishes, for the first time in years, that he had his pills.

But no. He doesn’t do that anymore, doesn’t use those. He can manage it himself. He can.

Somehow, through the howling rush of blood in his ears, he can hear Bittle shuffling in the hall, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. The uncertainty makes Jack feel even worse.

Just when Jack is really about to lose it, there’s a gentle knock on the door.

“Jack?” Bittle’s voice is quiet and insecure, but still desperate to help like always.

Jack should let him in, let him help. He always got over his panic attacks faster when someone was there to hold his hand, keep him from floating away, lost and aimless. Bittle would have his back. It’s the right thing to do, the mature thing. He can let Bittle in, let Bittle support him. He can, and he should. He doesn’t have to be alone.

There’s another knock, another tentative “Jack?”

Jack curls into himself tighter. He can manage it himself.

He will.

5

“We turn now to hockey. Last night, the Falconers lost in spectacular fashion against the Boston Bruins at home in Providence, five to zero.”

Jack pulls his cap down further over his head, as though it will block out the voices of the sportscasters on the restaurant bar’s television.

It doesn’t.

“It was a rough night for Falconers goalie Steven Snow, who just returned from a nearly two week absence due to a hand injury sustained in a previous game. Bruins forward Brad Marchand sinks one two minutes in, and Patrice Bergeron closes the first period with another goal for the B’s. Second period sees a goal from Matt Beleskey, very nearly stopped but not quite. Snow blocks the first two shots but can’t quite get that last one.”

“Third time’s the charm, eh, Mark?”

“For the Bruins, maybe. Alexei Mashkov gets the closest to a goal for Providence in the third period but doesn’t quite make it all the way, courtesy of Boston defenseman Torey Krug. Bergeron scores twice more with the hat trick to close the game. Certainly a very disappointing night for Falconers fans.”

“That’s not to say, of course, that the Falcs weren’t trying their best. Several shots on Boston’s goal, some of them very nearly in, plus a lot of great work from the Providence defense.”

“Absolutely. But you can’t deny there was a lot of sloppy playing on the part of Providence. They’ve been having a great season so far, but last night, they just dropped the ball. Jack Zimmermann, son of hockey legend Bad Bob Zimmermann, had a particularly difficult night.”

“He sure did. We’ve been seeing some really great playing from Zimmermann, but last night he just couldn’t get it together.”

“He got awful close to the Bruins’ goal several times but took some nasty checks from Boston defensemen Zdeno Chara and Kevan Miller he could have easily avoided to make the goal. And not only that, but he lost every faceoff they put him out for.

“To be fair, every time Zimmermann was on for the faceoff, he was up against the most formidable players the Bruins have.”

“You’re not wrong, Al. Why the Falcs pitted such an inexperienced player against those guys, I have no idea.”

“I'm with you there, Mark. Of course, this is the kid’s first season in the NHL, and the B’s are a seriously talented team. But the fact of the matter is that it’s getting awfully close to playoffs, and the mistakes he’s making are ones that could end the chances of making playoffs real quick.”

“I agree one hundred percent, Al. He’s clearly still finding his footing, but he’s really going to need to be better at keeping the pace if he wants to make it any further in the season.”

“I suppose we’ll have to see what happens when the Falconers travel to New York City to play the Rangers tomorrow night. Hopefully a better game for them than last night’s.”

“I’ll be sure to keep those fingers crossed, Al.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

He knows he fucked up last night, everyone watching the news knows he fucked up. The sportscasters were right; he really hadn't been prepared for the sheer intensity of the game. He'd spent most of his life playing at a high level, but in the face of the Bruins, all those years felt like child's play.

But it shouldn’t have mattered who he was up against, the best or the worst. He shouldn’t have been playing like that last night. He had been confused and overwhelmed, horribly, terribly lost like he hadn’t been since he was a child.

It cannot happen again.

Bitty comes back from the restroom just as the news turns over to some inane commercial about cat food. Jack’s heart is surging, stomach flipping, body tight in his seat. He feels ice in his veins, bitterly cold and shrivelling him down inside to nothing. He’s agitated, and Bitty notices.

“Jack, is everything alright?” His eyes are so wide, head tipped to the side, genuine concern radiating from every part of him. He wants to know what happened, wants to help and make things better. It’s what he does, and he does it well.

But this...this isn’t something Bitty can help with. He’s an amazing hockey player, but if even Jack can’t handle this, Bitty certainly can’t. Jack can’t really say that, though, because it will come out sounding unkind, and Jack never wants to be unkind to Bitty ever again. So he presses his lips together and says nothing, the weight of it all sitting heavy and suffocating at the base of his throat.

“Sweetheart?” Bitty’s quiet voice grounds him, but only for a moment. He has until tomorrow night to get his shit together and play at the level he should have been playing at last night. He doesn’t have the time to sit around in a restaurant when there are more important things to be doing. And he hates that he thinks like this, because he wants to sit around in a restaurant, wants to spend time with his boyfriend doing anything other than hockey. He wants so many things that his brain won’t let him. He knows he’s supposed to be in control, knows that there are ways to manage all this shit, but it’s not easy, it’s not, it’s so goddamn hard. And it’s maddening because he’s worked so hard to get here, to get to this point where he can think about anything other than himself and hockey, and yet it’s not far enough. He’s still concerned, all the time, that he’s not good enough, that he won’t ever get past all this shit and make something of his life.

Jack stands abruptly, chair scraping the floor. It makes Bitty flinch and he hates it, hates himself for being this way.

“I need to get back on the ice.”

+1

Between the game, the post-game interviews, and a round of celebratory drinks with the team, it’s after midnight by the time Jack makes it home. He drops his bag by the door and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water; he’ll deal with his gear in the morning.

Down the hall, the bedroom door is open and the bedside lamps are on, but Bitty is asleep on top of the duvet, phone still lightly clasped in his hand, like he was waiting for Jack to come home. He looks so sweet like this, mouth slack and hair sleep-rumpled, and Jack is so tempted to dig out his camera and save this image of Bitty forever. But it’s been such a long, long day. He’s exhausted, and really, he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed with Bitty, so he slips into the ensuite with only one more backward glance.

Maybe two. Who’s counting, really?

Jack makes his way through his routine in a fog, not even paying attention to what he’s doing, just going through the motions by rote. He’s so tired that he almost doesn’t notice the sticky note stuck dead center on the mirror over the sink.

You’ve come so far and I am so proud of you. I love you! <3

It honestly makes him pause for a moment, toothbrush hanging, forgotten, in the corner of his mouth. It’s not the first time Bitty has left him a note, far from it. He’s been doing it since his sophomore year, when he put a little note in with some cookies he somehow smuggled into Jack’s luggage. And it’s been going on ever since, written in Bitty’s neatest scrawl on sticky notes of all different colors and shapes and sizes, all miniature works of art. They still come in little boxes of baked goods, but these days, Jack finds them everywhere else, too: in his sock drawer, on the fridge, even tucked inside his running sneakers. Each one makes him smile, makes something warm and gold fill his chest.

This one, though. This one is different from the rest. The words strike something inside him, something deep and real and raw. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s heard this from Bitty, they’ve had that conversation, more than once, full of stammered words and bitter tears. They’ll probably have it again, too. But seeing it written out like this, tangible and absolute, on a piece of paper in his handwriting, it’s...a lot to handle. It makes his throat ache, because it’s real, it’s real, he gets to have this, gets to love someone and be loved so fully back. Jack knows this isn’t a cure, knows he’ll probably never stop feeling anxious. There will always be that airy flutter in his chest in the face of the unknown and that heavy stone in his stomach when something important hasn’t gone right. But it isn’t out of control. Even though Jack may feel these things, he can manage them. He can count his breaths until he can speak again and remind himself that sometimes things just won’t go his way, but it isn’t the end of the world.

Jack comes back to himself and realizes he’s been standing at the vanity for a long time. So he finishes up in the bathroom, wipes his eyes, carefully takes the sticky note off of the mirror, and goes back into the bedroom. Bitty hasn’t moved an inch, still curled up into himself, so tiny in sleep.

The note goes in his bedside table drawer alongside all of the other notes. He keeps every one of them, because they're not just a cute thing his boyfriend does for him; they’ve taken on a greater meaning than that. They’re little pieces of Bitty that Jack can hold and reread, reminders that Bitty was thinking of him each time he wrote a note. It’s nice to know there’s somebody thinking of him like this. Jack’s almost tempted to look through them all again now, but getting into bed with Bitty is still more tempting. As quickly and quietly as possible, Jack peels out of his suit and drapes it over the desk chair; that can wait until morning, too.

When he turns around, Bitty is sitting up against the headboard, squinting against the light but smiling gently.

“Hi, honey. Congrats on the win. Sorry I fell asleep.”

Jack clambers up the bed and scoops Bitty into his arms to kiss his temple. “Don’t be sorry. I came home later than I meant to.”

Bitty wriggles against his hold until he’s facing Jack, one hand curled around his neck, fingers scritching the short hairs on the nape of his neck. “You did so well tonight. All of you did. Y’all deserve a little celebration!”

Jack chuckles. “Thanks, Bits.”

Bitty smiles again, and Jack goes willingly when the hand on his neck starts to pull him closer. Their lips meet, soft and slow and sweet, and Jack is full of feeling that he’s half-certain he’s going to burst from it all.

They pull apart but don’t go far, filling the small space between them with warm breath and tiny smiles.

“C’mon, let’s get in bed,” Jack whispers. Bitty acquiesces easily, climbing under the covers and never straying too far from Jack’s side. They settle on their sides, facing each other with their legs tangled and fingertips brushing.

Jack tangles his fingers with Bitty’s. “That note you left...that…” Jack pauses, the words stuck somewhere between his heart and his tongue. Bitty waits patiently like he always does, thumb brushing against Jack’s palm in a slow sweep.

“It means a lot,” Jack says, then frowns. The words feel inadequate, like they’re not enough to capture everything he feels. But Bitty, beautiful, wonderful Bitty, seems to understand.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he says, kissing Jack’s fingertips.

The air between becomes quiet in the best way, peaceful and unassuming. Victories like the one they managed tonight always make Jack’s blood buzz for hours, and it's nice, it's fun, but there's something even better about letting it fizz out and getting to bask in it.

Bitty helps him do that.

They just lie together, not speaking, not needing to speak. Jack smiles, Bitty giggles, Jack smiles wider, Bitty sighs a laugh. It goes on like this for a while, looking and laughing and loving, God, Jack is so in love.

“I really do mean it, though, Bits,” Jack says at last. “About your note. You… You’re right, I have worked hard, and I’ve made a lot of progress. And I know that, and I’m proud of me, too. But… But it’s nice to hear it. From you. And when I forget, you remind me, and...I just...really appreciate you. And everything you do for me.”

“Lord, Jack,” Bitty whispers. He twists himself impossibly closer, gathering Jack’s hands in his. “I will always remind you, every day. You don’t need to be anything better or anything more than who you are, because you are so good, sweetheart, just like this. And you deserve every good thing that happens to you.”

It takes a moment for this to sink in, and when it does, it sinks deep, spreading through every inch of Jack’s body. He feels like he’s glowing. He feels like he’s free.

“I dunno, Bits. Not sure I ever did anything good enough to deserve you.”

“Jack!” Bitty gasps and swats at Jack’s bare chest, ducking his head. Jack takes the hand on his chest in his, giving it a squeeze. With his free hand, he reaches out and tips Bitty’s face up towards his.

“Oh,” Jack sighs, swiping at the tears in the corners of Bitty’s eyes. “What’s wrong, mon coeur? ”

“Nothing,” he sniffs. “You just… Jack Zimmermann, you are just somethin’ real special. And I am very grateful to have you in my life.”

“Me, too. Kiss me?” Jack asks, nosing against Bitty’s cheek. Bitty responds instantly and closes the gap between them, kissing him and kissing him, and it’s real, it’s his, it’s theirs, it’s love .

“I love you, Jack,” Bitty whispers against his lips. “Je t'aime.”

Jack laughs softly, squeezing Bitty’s hand. “Je t’aime, Bits. Je t’aime.”

Bitty presses one more kiss to Jack’s lips before tucking his face into Jack’s neck. “Lord, I must be getting old,” he yawns. “Falling asleep by midnight, can you believe?”

Jack snorts and rolls onto his back. He stretches his arm out so Bitty can cozy up next to him, head on Jack’s chest. “You’re twenty-one, Bits.”

“Just ancient,” he mumbles, stifling another yawn against Jack’s skin. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Jack lays a light kiss to the top of Bitty’s head. “Goodnight, Bits.”