Archive of Our Own ^beta

September 2008:

Jack breathes in, slowly counting to five, and exhales.

Nothing.

He repeats the exercise, willing his hands to stop shaking. In. Another count of five. Out. Jack feels like he’s hyperventilating. He tries to bring one of his mother’s calming mantras to the front of his mind, but all he can hear is Kent. Kent’s breath on the back of his neck, Kent’s arms around his chest like a vice, Kent’s voice, low and desperate, as he whispers in his ear...

It’s gonna be fine.

It’s gonna be fine.

It’s gonna be fine.

It’s gonna –

Jack hears footsteps in the hallway. Three people, maybe four. Moderate pace, no talking. They pass his door. Jack lets go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think about anything other than the sterile hospital room and the harsh fluorescent lights and the throbbing in his leg.

His knee, he mentally corrects himself, before swallowing back a sob.

Jack had promised himself that he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the coaches. Not in front of the doctors. Not in front of his parents. He’s spent the past few years slapping a smile on his face while he bottled up every tear, every urge to collapse, every hitch in his breath, and that wasn’t going to change.

No crying. Not even when he was alone, anticipating the worst.

Five years ago, Jack had managed to beat two NHL rookies in a shootout. Of course, those poor guys played for the Bruins, his father had joked, but in that moment, Jack had felt like he on top of the world – and his father was right there by his side, ruffling his hair and planting a kiss his temple. His father had even mentioned it later that year at Jack’s bar mitzvah, smiling at his son over a glass of red wine. Watching his father’s eyes crinkle, Jack knew that, in that moment, his father was truly proud of him. He had earned his father’s love, and, for a few precious moments, Jack was genuinely happy.

Now, not so much.

Back in February, he had dislocated his knee. Fortunately, it had popped back into place, and after the initial swelling had gone down, he was good to go back on the ice. A month passed before it happened again, but Jack was good at working through the pain and soon it was business as usual. The third time it happened, Jack was mid-celly, having just scored his second goal of the period and his fifth point of the game.

A panicked ER trip and several surgeries later, he was easing back onto the ice with a freshly taped stick, working to regain some muscle memory with Kent. Océanic management had been excitedly whispering plans for next year’s season, adjusting lines as they speculated their Memorial Cup chances. His coach had given his shoulder a hearty slap as he exited the rink, commending Jack on his recovery and remarking that “you can’t keep a Zimmermann down.” With a chuckle, his coach had left him alone to talk to maintenance about the uneven ice around the goalie nets.

Jack had walked toward the parking lot exit, gear slung over his sore shoulder, and had let his mind wander. He was a year away from the draft, was playing some of the best hockey of his life, and – around Kent, at least – was starting to feel like less of a wreck. His life was finally coming together, and if he could just get a handle on his nerves and figure out what to do with Kent, he might be able to fix whatever was wrong with him. Car keys in hand, he opened the door, letting a trainer talking animatedly into his phone rush past him.

Jack had twisted his leg going down the steps outside the arena.

And here he is now, shivering on a hospital bed as he waited for his parents to arrive. Upon hearing the news, they had dropped everything and promised Jack that they would be in Rimouski as soon as humanly possible. The call had lasted no more than five minutes, and it had been over three hours ago. Every footstep in the hallway could be his mother’s pointy-toed flat or his father’s tattered boat shoe. Listening to the ambient noises around his private room, Jack finds himself feeling edgy and nauseous. Focusing on his breathing is all well and good, but as the buzzing in his ears gets louder and louder his breaths get shallower and shallower and his nails dig deeper and deeper into his palm and the back of his neck gets –

A nurse pulls back the curtain, revealing his parents. His father immediately goes to the seat by his bed and offers Jack his hand. It’s knobby and scarred, but it’s the hand that shook hands with Béliveau and Richard, the hand that gave high-fives to Lapointe and Lafleur, the hand that passed Stanley Cups to Uncle Mario and “nudged” Bobby Orr on the chin. Jack’s vaguely surprised by how clammy it is. His mother hovers by the foot of the bed, giving Jack a wan smile as she expectantly eyes the doorway. They both look tired, and Jack feels guilty for dragging them across the country in the middle of the night. They shouldn’t be inconvenienced by his failures. Ashamed, Jack stares down at the hospital blanket, and his father gently squeezes his hand.

“Your mother’s going to be talking to the doctor.” His father’s tone is subdued, a far cry from his usual, gregarious self, and Jack’s stomach sinks. The last time he had heard him use that voice, he had been four years old and his father was telling him that Grandpa Jack had died down in Louisville. His father had started crying as he shared the news, while his mother collapsed, speechless and bangs in sweaty disarray, against the doorframe of his bedroom.

Jack had felt powerless then, watching his mother shake in his father’s embrace, Jack’s own hug around her midsection doing nothing to stop their tears. Now, as he awaits his fate, Jack feel just as powerless, knowing that bad news is coming and that he can’t do a thing about it.

The doctor steps into the room and closes the curtain behind her.

A minute later, Jack begins to cry.

———

Years later, Jack would look back on those hours in the emergency room with acceptance. He’d understand the tone of his mother’s voice, her questions for Dr. Bouchard clipped and scarily calm. He’d understand the quivering grip of his father’s hand around his, his silence accompanied by the persistent clenching of his jaw. He’d understand the shattered way they looked at him, how this wasn’t his fault, how his parents were upset for him, not at him.

But not then. Then, Jack only knows two things – he’s 18 years old, and his future has been torn away from him.

October 2008:

Casting his crutches aside, Jack crumples into the couch in the living room, staring at the black TV screen. His mother gently asks him if he wanted to watch something, gesturing towards their shelves of DVDs. Jack shakes his head, and she quietly retreats upstairs, probably to talk to his father in the office. A few minutes later, his dad pops his head out of the doorway, proffering a turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce. He probably even used Jack’s preferred brand of mayo.

Jack can't bring himself to say anything.

The doctor they had found in Montreal, while soft-spoken and kind, had given Jack the same prognosis as he had a few weeks ago. A torn ACL was one thing, and a torn PCL was another, but healing from both injuries would be a long and arduous process. It would be months until he was walking, and many months more of physical therapy to regain strength and mobility in his knee. At that point, he might be able to comfortably go for a run or hop on the bike, but his knee would never be the same.

Hockey was out of the question.

Jack didn’t know what to do. Kent had called, but Jack hadn’t been able to face him, even over the phone. His mother had filled Kent in, giving him a few more details than what had been in the press release, and had promised to relay his well-wishes to Jack. Apparently, he had tried texting Jack, but Jack’s cell phone had been crushed in the fall, and he hadn’t bothered getting a new one.

He has no desire to talk to anyone, anyway.

His father doesn’t really understand this, but Jack has always been on the quiet side. Extroversion doesn’t come to him naturally like it does his dad, who could walk into a room of strangers and walk out with a dozen new friends. He’s the type of person who takes to people like a duck to water, effortlessly charming grizzled NHL-ers and snooty fashion designers alike. His mom was more like him, introverted and observant, but she could slip into her “Alicia Zimmermann, supermodel, award-winning actress, and humanitarian” mask with a blink of the eye.

Jack envies her for that. He had tried to fake that particular brand of outgoing confidence, only to feel even more awkward than usual. Where his parents were charismatic and eloquent, he was all brittle smiles, sweaty handshakes, and vocal cracks. Jack couldn’t talk to unfamiliar faces without feeling self-conscious, his brain getting caught up on saying the “right” words, making him trip over syllables and switch sentences mid-thought. Watching himself on-camera, Jack couldn’t help but hate everything about himself.

Not going into the NHL would give him fewer opportunities to embarrass himself, at least.

Jack doesn’t know how long he stares at the blank television. He’s not hungry – he hasn’t been in weeks – but he would feel guilty letting a perfectly good sandwich go to waste. He takes a disinterested bite, not really tasting anything, and manages a few more halfhearted mouthfuls. Turning on the TV, he flips to MétéoMédia and doses off to the sounds of tomorrow’s forecast.

———

He wakes up to the sensation of fingernails dragging across his scalp and the smell of powdery perfume.

His Oma smiles down at him, her brown eyes scrutinizing his face. They are greyer than he last remembered, the outer ring of her iris a milky slate. Cholesterol, Jack's mind adds unhelpfully. She gives his cowlick a playful scratch with her long nails and goes back to watching a report on the Nazko earthquakes. Jack can’t quite see the television from where his head’s settled in his grandmother’s lap, so he just closes his eyes and listens. He can feel her eyes on him, but she says nothing, letting their shared silence do the talking.

Jack feels so painfully silly, being so miserable next to his grandmother. She had survived a Depression and a World War, had immigrated to Montreal with little more than a sewing needle and a basic knowledge of French, and had worked as a seamstress for decades to put four daughters through school and a son through hockey. Oma had watched her family be torn away from her, her husband die in a car accident, and her body slowly waste away following a stroke. His grandmother  had spent most of her life bearing the weight of six numbers on her left forearm, and Jack? He’s just some kid who has the nerve to cry over a game with some sticks and a rubber puck. Jack’s ashamed of himself, for feeling so bad when really, he has it so good, when he has no right to –

“You are thinking.” The pads of her finger smooth out his furrowed brow, and she lets out a sigh, prompting Jack to speak.

“I’m just… sad.” Over something ultimately trivial and meaningless but important to me and I don’t know why I can’t just deal –

“Mm?” He pries an eye open at her question, hesitantly meeting her gaze.

“Without it,” he whispers. She nods, and looks up at the television, her white hair a little blue in the light. Oma’s gearing up to say something, but since her stroke her words don’t come quite so easily to her. At least, not in English or French – her German had remained mostly intact, though, so that was something. Jack didn’t mind hearing mein Schatz and lecker over breakfast, but he really couldn’t keep up with the longer words and foreign idioms.

“It is fine. You can be sad. Traurig.” She says it like she’s giving him permission, and purses her lips, searching for something. She focuses on the urn on the mantel, and her voice chokes up a bit. “You have lost a part of yourself.” Tearing her eyes from the urn, she stares into Jack’s eyes, her gaze suddenly piercing.

“It is time for sadness. You must grieve for that lost part.” Her voice becomes serious and heated in a way that Jack hasn’t heard from her before, and her words start to flow out of her like she’s had to say them before. “But you haven’t lost all of you. Just one part. It may feel big now, but you will go on, and it will feel smaller. You will find yourself in new things, add new parts. That hurt will become ache, that ache become memory, and you can accept memory. But to get to memory, you have to work through grief, and that mean sadness.”

Oma pauses, giving him a tight-lipped smile, before continuing. “It is hard work, but you are strong." Her gaze softens. "Mein Liebling Enkel.” 

Jack is frozen as she presses her lips to his cheek. Her pink lipstick leaves a mark, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Her hands, soft with her lavender body powder, gently trace his chin, and he feels breathless. He doesn’t know which one of them initiates it, but suddenly they’re hugging and he’s crying and she feels big and strong and alive in his arms.

———

She would have her third and final stroke in the springtime.

———

Watching his father argue with Aunt Karen and Aunt Christine over whether or not to have her cremated – it went against Jewish law, and she hadn’t specified cremation in the will the way Opa had, but they were both pretty secular – Jack muses how he would have dealt with this while playing in the Q and preparing for the draft. “Kenny” and “Xanax” aren’t comforting answers.

Aunt Charlotte, a retired lit professor, helps Jack navigate the synagogue in his crutches and slips Jack a brochure for McGill’s School of Continuing Studies during the shiva. The youngest of her sisters and closest to “Robby” in age, she also offers to help his father clear out Oma’s bedroom, but his dad swiftly declines. Instead, they share a bag of cashews from one of the many shiva baskets littering the dining room, laughing about the time when Oma knocked over their childhood mailbox with the family Cadillac.

———

Months later, Jack wakes up to the muffled thunks of his father packing up Oma’s closet in the middle of the night. Listening to the screech of the metal hangers and his dad’s labored breathing, he wonders if his parents are just as depressed as he is, or if they’re just better at hiding it.

Jack doesn’t go back to sleep. But he does bring it up with his therapist the following day.

April 2009:

Sarah invites him into her office after one of their PT sessions. Mark, his old physical therapist, had recommended her after Jack had been too ashamed to even make an appointment with him. Mark had a stellar reputation for rehabilitating hockey players, but Jack didn’t think he could take the inspirational posters – one of which starred his dad and several Stanley Cups – and pitying looks.

What he needed was a clean break. Somewhere where he could start anew. Somewhere where he could stretch with Therabands or work a foam roller down his leg without running into former teammates, old opponents, up-and-coming players, people who worshiped his dad, guys who played with his dad, and that one trainer who really liked his mom in that one Vogue Italia shoot.

Somewhere where the physical therapist would shake hands with his parents, politely ask them how their day was going, and then spend the rest of the intake session talking directly to Jack. Just like he was any other patient. If Sarah had been at all starstruck, she had done a good job of hiding it, and the way she had spoken to him, giving him the time to answer and carefully considering his responses, made Jack like her immediately.

That wasn’t to say he liked their sessions together. With every moment of weakness, every wobbled step, every labored breath a new wave of disappointment washed over his body. No matter how many times Jack did his at-home exercises, he’d still wince as he squatted, the pain in his knee radiating up to his hip.

Sitting down is still a bit of a challenge, especially with the brace, and Jack’s nostrils flair as his knee bends at just the wrong angle. Before he can mentally berate himself, Sarah passes him a mini-water bottle and gives him a knowing look from behind her desk. Coming from his mother, that look never bodes well, but Sarah’s lectures tend to be a bit more abrupt.

Jack sighs, sipping his water and slouching into the chair a bit.

“You’re doing very well, you know. The strength and stability in your knee have increased sevenfold since you’ve started here, and you’re walking much faster than I anticipated.” Jack gives her a curt nod, which apparently does nothing to satisfy her, as her gaze remains probing. Sarah leans back into her chair and gives him an appraising look, her calloused fingers tapping the edge of the folder on her desk. “What do you want to do, after this is all said and done?”

“Running.” His parents run every morning, and his mom’s training for another charity marathon. It’s a good way to stay in shape. “Golf, maybe?” He likes playing with his dad, but there’s a lot of pressure to talk… “I dunno.” The sensation of gliding across the ice, a breeze caressing his face, flashes across his mind.

“You dunno,” She slowly repeats, glancing down to the folder before casting her attention back to Jack. Sarah seems a little nervous, which is odd, considering how unflappable she comes across during their sessions. “Have you considered rowing?”

“Um.” Boating has never really crossed his mind, but Sarah looks like she’s about to burst, and his dad won’t be picking him up for another twenty minutes. “Should I be?“

“Well, I think it could be a tremendous opportunity for you. You’ve shown some real promise on the rowing machine, and you definitely have the build for it, but it’s not just your potential. Rowing is a relatively low-impact sport, meaning that it’s something you can train – and be competitive in, even – for your entire life. That’s not to say it isn’t challenging. It works the entire body, tests rhythm and balance, and requires both speed and endurance. More than that, it’s a wonderful team sport, especially if you end up rowing in a larger boat, but if you prefer to be alone, you can do that, too.” Jack makes to stop her there, but she just keeps going, her sentences becoming progressively faster. “And colleges! So many colleges have rowing teams, and there’s a huge demand for talented rowers on the collegiate level. Lots of scholarships, and the recruitment rates for rowers are pretty high – 1 in 4 for guys, 1 in 2 for – well, I’m rambling at this point. I rowed in college, so I’m a little biased, of course, but it’s really something to consider.”

Sarah gasps, totally out of breath, giving Jack a few moments to process it all.

“You had quite the speech laid out there, eh?”

She gives him a lopsided grin. “Sorry about the spiel, but I’ve been trying to convince my son to try rowing – he’s about your height and has a good build for it – but all he wants to do is fling around a lacrosse ball and break our neighbors’ windows.”

Privately, Jack agrees that that sounds pretty stupid, and he smiles back at Sarah.

—— —

Over the next few months, Jack discovers a few things about rowing, which he documents religiously in a spiral notebook:

• A rower either rows or does crew. One does not “row crew.”
• A “coxswain” – pronounced “cocks-in” (Bon Dieu) – is typically tiny, is referred to as a “cox,” and uses a microphone called a “cox box.”
• The Concept2 rowing machine he’s been using for years is actually called an ergometer.
• No one calls it an ergometer – “erg” is the accepted nomenclature.
• He has been using said “erg” wrong for years.
• For one, the damper should be on 3-5, not 10. Also, the display should be showing watts or pace per 500 meters, not calories.
• Secondly, whatever he’s been doing on the erg before is totally wrong. There is a set technique – catch, drive, finish, recovery – that is graceful, efficient and has him pulling sub-2:00 splits on his 2k pieces. For a novice, a 7 minute 2k isn't all that bad.
• ARMS BEFORE KNEES – he bolds and underlines this in his notebook.
• There’s something calming about the rhythm of the movement and the sound of the fan that he likes.
• However, 6k pieces are absolutely terrible, as are the blisters he gets from the erg handle.
• Spandex is of the utmost importance. Baggy clothes can (and will) get caught on the slide, leaving you stuck and potentially bloody (see also "track bites").
• Going out on the water is… indescribable. The early morning fog, the crisp air biting at his cheeks and nose, the sun slowly rising over the water, the feel of the boat gliding through the water after the eight of them figure out how to set the boat for a few strokes – It feels… right, somehow. Like hockey, but not like hockey at all, like he’s moving and breathing with everyone else and they’re creating something bigger than themselves, sculpting the waves and air around them.
• He loves it.
• He doesn’t love the new blisters from the oar handle, though. The bruise on his shoulder from being the tallest one carrying the 8-shell from the dock to the boathouse is new, too.

June 2009:

The three of them are still in their pajamas, Jack and his mother making the first batch of banana pancakes – 2 for her, 4 for his dad, and 3 for him – when he receives his SAT scores. His new phone (a Blackberry someone had gifted his dad) pings mid-flip, distracting Jack from the job at hand. He’s trying to learn how to cook from his parents, but so far anything involving a spatula is beyond him. At least he has yet to ruin a skillet… After the tongue-lashing his dad had received, Jack would forever remember that cast iron is cast iron, metal utensils are metal utensils, and never the twain shall meet.

His mom nonchalantly flips a pancake with a well-timed flick of the wrist. A little envious, Jack turns off the burner and slides his charred pancake onto his plate.  Passing the charging nook on the way to the fridge, he picks up his phone and opens his email.

“Oh.” His dad looks up from the funnies, his reading glasses a little askew. “Everything okay there?”

Jack nods, suddenly not hungry, as he clicks through the email and waits for the CollageBoard website to load. He inputs his username and password, presses "submit," and holds his breath. He hadn’t been this nervous getting the scores for his GED, even though his high school education had been a bit lacking, but the SAT was different. He had gotten the big blue book and worked through a dozen tests, and these results had the power to prove that he was worth something, that he could actually do something (aside from not play hockey and mope around the house), that he could actually do well in college, that he could –

Get a 2290.

Oh.

Jack doesn’t know how to react, but when he glances up at his parents, who are looking at him expectantly, a small smile finds its way to his face.

“My SATs. I did – okay.” Jack doesn’t quite know how to be proud of himself, so he shows his phone to his mom. Her jaw drops.

“Oh, honey! That’s more than – 2290!” The velcro curler in her bangs digs into his ear as she hugs him close, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You've worked so hard and I’m so proud of you.”

Jack blushes, embarrassed, and mumbles into her hair. “They could be better... You got a 1600. And I still need to take the subject tests for – ” His father cuts him off with a warm bear hug.

“You did a wonderful job and should be proud. I know I am.” He ruffles Jack’s hair – Jack’s noticed that his dad’s started to do that more, perhaps in response to his increasingly grey head of hair – and gives him a kiss on the temple. His dad then turns to his mom and goes in for a kiss and – ugh.

“Not during breakfast. Please,” he adds plaintively. His dad just winks at him, giving his mom another quick kiss, and they settle down to eat. After demolishing his stack of pancakes, Jack whips his phone out and pens a text to Kent.

< I got my SATs back.

He pauses for a moment, wondering if he should tell him his exact score, but the two of them had always been competitive… Well, maybe not when it came to grades, but Kent never liked any of the assigned reading and hated having to do homework for the classes he did like – math and physics – when he could just read the textbook (“Why does Marsha have so many fucking watermelons?”) and ace the exams.

> anddddd

> ?

< 2290.

> !

> u fuckign nerdddddd

> i knew u could do it

< What, sit in one place for a few hours?

> precisely

> are you free rn?

> for a call?

A nervous pit forms in Jack’s stomach as Kent’s name fills the screen. They weren’t in the habit of calling each other. In fact, Jack had spent weeks avoiding the phone after his surgery, and that first post-injury phone call (complete with his mother hovering behind the couch, insistent that he continue talking) had been uncomfortable beyond belief. At first, every word was stilted and awkward, but after forty minutes of exchanging superficial pleasantries, they finally broke down and talked. Jack’s mom had left the room by that point, giving him some privacy to blink back his tears, and they promised to text.

The hadn’t called each other since.

“Hey, Kenny.”

“Hey, Zimms.” Kent’s a little hoarse, like he’s been yelling or crying, and Jack doesn’t really know what to say. Ask if everything’s okay, maybe? They both know it isn’t, but that would be the polite thing to say, and Jack is Canadian, so it couldn’t hurt. Jack opens his mouth to respond, but Kent starts talking, his words too loud and rapid to sound natural.

“Congrats on the score, man! I’d say it’s a surprise, but you’ve always been good with tests. And papers! God, Ms. Mason’s still waiting on my ad analysis from sophomore year… Really, though. Congrats. It’s just so great, you know, that you’re – um,” Kent trails off, his voice raspier than ever.

“Kenny, are you – ?” He goes quiet, listening to Kent’s breathing on the other end. It’s unusually heavy, but Kent starts to speak before Jack can dwell on that.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just… with the draft and the reporters and – I can’t help it – I’m fine really, but I’m just so fucking tired of the questions and I can’t stop wondering about what might’ve – what could’ve – I’m sorry. This is stupid. I don’t know why I called.”

“It’s okay. That you called, I mean,” Jack says hesitantly, trying to sound as supportive as his mom does when Jack’s on the verge of a panic attack. ”Hearing your voice. It’s nice.” For a moment, Kent doesn’t say anything, and Jack wonders if he’s messed up and if Kent’s going to hang up.

“I miss you,” Kent whispers into the phone, and those are definitely sobs filling Jack’s ears. Jack just listens, sinking into the couch as his best friend continues to cry. This goes on for a few minutes, and Jack wonders if he should go get his mom, but Kent blows his nose and starts to chuckle, his wet laughs somewhere between a gasp and a cough.

“God, I’m such a mess. Some guy from TSN asked me about going through the draft without you, and I dunno why, but I just… I’m getting that question everywhere, though, and I need to get used to this stuff. To not let it get to me. So.”

“We could practice?” Jack offers, meekly.

Kent scoffs. “You’re terrible at media.”

“Yeah? Well, so are they. For asking those things.” Reporters had always been quick to ask them about each other, grill him about the team not getting the Memorial Cup, and constantly remind them about having to live up to the hockey legacies pinned upon them both – Jack as Bad Bob II, Kent as Gretzky 3.0.

Kent’s silent for a moment. “We made each other better players, you know?” Jack nods, before stupidly realizing that he’s on the phone.

“Yeah.”

“It was hard, playing without you. And it’s gonna keep being hard. I keep expecting you to be there, for me to just slip back into wing, but. You know.”

Jack knows. “Is that what you’re going to tell ESPN?”

“What? That my best friend should have been drafted right there with me? That life just sucks sometimes?” Kent says, a little incredulous.

“Sure. Work on the phrasing, though,” Jack teases, extracting another quiet laugh out of Kent, whose breathing isn’t as shaky.

“What would you suggest, then?” Jack has no clue, but he knows what he’s been instructed to say for years. “Um. You’re honored to be here. Ecstatic to play in the NHL. That kind of stuff.”

“Oh, so totally avoid the topic, be boring, and sound nothing like myself. Got it. Great material, 2290.”

“You could also talk to your agent about this. You shouldn’t be doing everything yourself, and I’m sure he could whip together something more eloquent.”

“Okay, you don’t need to rub the SAT vocab in my face. I can use words too, you know. Ergo. Profligate. Ubiquitous. Dipsomania.” Jack doesn’t know that last one, but he’s hardly going to admit that.

“Your agent is there for a reason, Kenny.” Jack sounds like a stern father when he says that, but at least Kent agrees with him. “And, um, I’m sure my dad wouldn’t mind talking, either. You could email him, too, if his accent’s still too thick for you.” Jack rattles off his dad’s contact information, just in case Kent didn’t have it. He already does, though, so after a quick thanks, Kent hangs up.

Jack just sits there, phone in hand, wondering if he helped at all.

———

Kent goes second in the draft to the Providence Falconers, right after a huge Russian D-man is scooped up by the Aces. Jack texts him a photo of himself and his parents, smiling in front of the TV.

< We’re all so happy for you!

September 2009:

Evening classes are surprisingly fun. Jack doesn’t mind spending his Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights on McGill’s campus, even if it means having to sit through three-hour lectures and be the youngest person in the classroom. Aunt Charlotte had helped him pick out some classes to ease into the college workload, and so far German 101D and Intro to Western Civilization were fascinating. Jack found himself annotating the margins of his readings, singing along to German songs on YouTube, and even speaking up in class.

Occasionally.

(It’s new for him.)

Jack’s a little less enthused about Management 100, but at least the professor speaks in French. Plus, his mom had kept her old notes and textbooks from her MBA, so studying’s a little easier. Another plus, her color-coding system and outlining method make perfect sense to him, which gives him a good way to organize his own notes, albeit using less elegant scrawl. He adds handwriting to the ever-growing list of things he needs to improve.

No, things he wants to improve. His therapist is constantly reminding him that he doesn’t need to be anything, that there’s no one ideal that he has to live up to. That he just has to be himself, whomever that may be. It sounds a little cheezy, but if his parents, his therapist, and his therapy-prescribed workbooks are all saying that, there's a good chance there's some semblance of truth to the idea.

Regardless, he’s starting to settle into a routine. Outside of classes, if he’s not in physical therapy or actual therapy he’s in the gym at the Club d'Aviron de Montréal. With the help of Sarah and his mother’s checkbook, Jack had signed up for introductory rowing classes in late May. Based off of his research – he’d done some reading online and checked a few books out from McGill’s library – he’d expected to be working at the novice level for awhile, especially since his knee was still in a compression brace. Nevertheless, even with his long, slow strokes he had passed all four technique exams within two months, which was unusual. Sarah had deemed his progress “exceptional,” but it was her job to encourage Jack to do better, so he didn’t put much stock in her praise.

During the summer, one of the coaches had pulled him aside and questioned him about his dance experience. Apparently, his body-mind awareness and sense of rhythm conveyed a background spent in the studio, not on the ice. (Jack has his mom to thank for that, unless his father’s stories about tearing up the Montreal dance floors in the 70s were true – Jack's seen Bob's old polyester leisure suits and can only imagine...) That same coach had even bumped Jack up to the recreational team, claiming that, should Jack’s performance continue to improve, he might even be eligible for the club’s competitive team come springtime.

In the meantime, he’s reading library books and watching technique videos online to supplement what he’s learning in practice. While Jack understands the basic techniques behind rowing, it would be quite some time before he would be experienced enough to easily transition from sweeping with one oar to sculling with two oars, especially if he wants to row in a single shell (he does). With that in mind, he uses every practice as an opportunity to improve, carefully listening to the corrections of the coaches during his erg pieces and paying attention to the team coxswain.

Divya’s a small girl with a large voice (“Perfect for crew, and plus, I like bossing you tall people around.”) She eyes a tall boy lagging behind the rest of the group, his head stuck in his phone, giving him an exasperated look. “And that includes you, Siddharth!” Jack had thought Sid was kind of cute the first time he met him, but his lax attitudes towards personal hygiene and timeliness quickly extinguished that crush. Anyway, entirely inappropriate. Good-looking or no, they are teammates.

And roommates, unfortunately.

Jack’s first regatta takes him to a suburb of Toronto, where he, aside from rowing his first race in the novice eight, becomes intimately acquainted with Sid’s socks. After years of hockey, one would think that Jack had gotten used to the noxious combination of Axe and Febreze, but alas, he’s not so lucky. The smell, however, pales in comparison to physically encountering a good dozen sweaty socks strewn throughout their hotel room.

How Sid goes through them all, Jack will never know. Rowers are known to carry extra socks around, often tucked into their spandex bottoms – or “trou” – because there are few things worse than cold, wet feet on the boat. But six pairs of socks for less than 48 hours? It's a little excessive.

Jack doesn’t bring it up on the team bus, but Divya gives him a sympathetic look when he sits down next to her, as far away from Sid as possible.

“I know. I’ve tried getting the coaches to talk to him, but…” she trails off, quickly checking her phone. Jack just shrugs and stares out the window, wondering if he should finish his granola bar. It takes a while to reach the race course, but when they do, there’s no mistaking it for anything but a regatta. His eyes flit from hundreds of multicolored oars lying on a hill to the sea of rowers, wrenches in hand, quickly rigging and de-rigging boats. Parents are busy setting up tents, and some already lounging around, flasks in hand as they prepare to watch the day’s races from the shade. Merchandising stands mingle with food trucks, and a good forty-something Port-a-Potties encircle the whole spectacle.

“I see white people,” Divya quips in a Shyamalan-esque stage whisper, and well, yeah, Jack can’t disagree with that. One of the guys sitting across the bus aisle gives her a weird look. “Rowing’s not really that diverse. Don’t see a lot of people like me out there,” she adds at his blank expression. The guy – Jack’s pretty sure his name’s either Chad, Todd, or Beau – just snorts and returns to his magazine.

“Not a lot of Indian people in hockey, either.” Jack doesn’t know why he says this, but it’s better than being rude and ignoring her. Divya’s head snaps towards him, surprised. Seeing that he’s actually up for conversation, she leans towards him.

“My family’s Pakistani, actually.” There isn’t any heat in her voice, but Jack feels like an idiot.

“Sorry. Um. I didn’t mean to assume –”

“No, it’s totally understandable,” Divya says, assuring him that he’s not a total dick. “I’m Hindu, and there aren’t a lot of Hindus in Pakistan, with the partition and all.”

“The partition?” She just brushes him off, claiming that it’s just history stuff.

“I like history stuff,” he automatically responds, before wincing. Feeling awkward, Jack's torn between shutting up and eating a granola bar or asking for more information. Shaking her head at his nerdiness, Divya grins before indulging him.

“Well, I think it was 1904 or 1905, but anyway...”

August 2010:

Out of the seven colleges he got into, there’s something about Samwell University that calls to him. Maybe it’s just that it’s not in New Haven – Yale had really been a contender for him, especially with the strength of their rowing team (though Samwell was no slouch) – but whatever it is, he can’t quite put his finger on it. The moment he had stepped on campus, it felt like everything was falling into place, like he, Jack Laurent Zimmermann, was not only welcome there but meant to be there.

Jack still can’t explain that feeling, but as he and his mom drive down to Boston, his new SUV loaded down with a dozen plastic storage bins and a collapsable dolly, he feels something akin to excitement. It’s still a little odd to not have his hockey gear tossed behind the passenger seat, but as the two of them sing along to Linda Ronstadt – “Hasten Down the Wind” is actually one of his favorite albums (no matter how much shit Kent gives him for having it on his iPod) – he doesn’t care quite as much.

Yeah, it’s weird not having hockey, and it’s going to be weird, but there’s nothing he can do about that weirdness but accept it. His therapist put it a bit more eloquently in their last session, and he had a few more quotes written down in his journal, but there was something about the mantra of “accepting the weirdness” that his brain had latched onto.

He probably shouldn’t be whispering it under his breath as he rolls the dolly down an empty dorm hallway (a benefit of moving in two weeks early), but he needs to prepare himself for meeting his roommate, another member of the crew team. Double-checking the room number in his move-in packet, Jack swipes his keycard into the appropriate door and props it open with his butt.

A good-looking guy looks up from his cardboard box and does a double-take. Jack knows that look. He hopes this guy isn’t too die-hard of a hockey fan. Unfortunately, the madras shorts and polo don’t give him much hope. Wheeling his stuff in the door, he holds out his hand.

“Jack Zimmermann.” The guy shakes it, palms damp from the sweltering August heat, but still looks at Jack strangely, like he can’t quite process what’s happening.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just, well, this is a little earlier than usual. Normally you start next fall, giving you more time to bond with main characters and aide in character development, but this AU is a little odd. More spandex, less humor, and a little OOC. She’s ESL, though, so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.”

Jack doesn’t know how to respond to that (accept the weirdness), so he gives the guy – “Johnson, Jack Johnson” – a curt nod and goes back down to the curb. His mother is chatting up an RA, taking a silver Sharpie out of her purse and signing a clipboard. Even while relatively incognito in jeans and a t-shirt, Alicia Zimmermann is still a people magnet, with random passersby constantly coming up to ask for autographs and photos. His mom almost always indulges them, and even though he’s watched it happen his entire life, Jack still finds it odd.

The two of them go back to the car, and his mom blasts the A/C for a bit, whipping out her compact to powder her nose. Jack’s no stranger to being photographed and having his appearance critiqued, but he can’t imagine having to spend so much time painting his face, only to be called out for “an aging neck” or “flaky mascara” or whatever other nonsense that’s being flung at his mom. They don’t allow tabloids in the house, but it’s hard to avoid the headlines when you’re grabbing some milk at the grocery store or reading articles on Deadspin. It’s hurtful, even if it’s not directed towards him, ugly baby and fat kid extraordinaire, and Jack knows his dad can’t stand it either.

Walking through the automatic doors at Bed Bath & Beyond, Jack and his mom almost instinctually veer away from the magazine stands. Jack needs a garbage can and hangers, but half-an-hour later, their cart is laden with a body pillow, an area rug, and a shower caddy that his mother insists is an essential.  Jack’s brushing his hand across an exceptionally fuzzy blanket – it doesn’t really match his quilt, but it’s just so soft – when he notices his mom go rigid. He turns around and immediately notices two women staring at them from behind a curtain display, furtively nodding and pointing at his mother.

When the two women notice that they’ve been discovered, they quickly dart towards his mom, like they’re afraid she’ll disappear. Jack and his mom hold their breath, awaiting their approach.

“Are you Christie Brinkley?”

“Oh! No. I –” The two women visibly wilt, and, seeing an out, Alicia exchanges a conspiratorial glance with Jack. “I get that a lot, though. Not Christie. Just me.” Still suspicious, they give Alicia another once-over before slowly walking away. As soon as the women turn the corner, Jack and Alicia share a look.

“Huh. I usually get Claudia Schiffer,” his mom says, her voice unusually high as she tries to contain her amusement. She makes to examine the blankets in front of her, but Jack ends up chuckling at the pinched expression on her face, and she starts giggling when his voice accidentally cracks, and then the two of them are grinning like maniacs as they gasp for breath in the aisle.

Summer 2011:

Jack makes Canada’s Under 23 National Team for Men’s Single Scull. He’s a little shocked, considering how he’s only been rowing for two years, but none of the coaches at Samwell or Club d'Aviron seem at all surprised.

Jack’s a little more shocked when he’s invited to the World Rowing Championships in the Netherlands. He has to miss a few summer classes at McGill, but he doesn’t feel so guilty about skipping Early Medieval History as he wanders around Amsterdam. Why bother reading about Rembrandt in a textbook when you could tour Rembrandt’s home? Or, even better, get within touching distance of his most famous works? Jack takes some photos with his phone – the museums are something else, but the many trees and ponds in the Vondelpark are what really catches his eye – and mentally prepares himself for the upcoming races by telling himself that all he can do is eat well and try his best.

Kent texts him afterwards.

> congrats on 8th!

> and on getting me to watch a shitty youtube stream

> your jawline was all pixelated

> a real travesty tbh

< Thanks for watching.

> the commentators were v impressed

> not that it matters but

> youre kind of a big deal

< Haha.

< I’m not the one with the Prince of Whales right now.

< Sorry, Whales.

< Whales.

< WALES

> i’d tell you to how turn off autocorrect but i’m honstly so amused

September 2011:

“Dude, this smells amazing,” Shitty exclaims as he rubs sunscreen onto his face, smearing a bit into his eyebrows. He examines the light green bottle, getting another whiff while he’s at it. “No wonder, bro. It’s got all those ‘advanced multi-protection anti-oxidants’ caressing your face. You wear this all the time?”

“Don’t forget your ears. And the back of your neck. And yeah. My mom, uh, worked for Estée Lauder.” She actually used to be the face of the brand, but Jack’s doesn’t exactly want to advertise that.

“Yeah, I vaguely remember those ads. All those sparkly orchids. Or were they lilies? Some type of flower… Sorry, not that into horticulture.” Jack wants to sink into the ugly carpet of the bus seat, but just takes another bite of his bagel and stares out at Oklahoma City. It may be an early regatta, but OKC is an Olympic training site, making the event a huge draw for boats of prep school students and grandparents alike. Jack isn’t looking forward to facing Harvard’s men’s four again, as their lineup dominated last season, but at least their four-seat – a J. Crew model in his spare time – wasn’t too bad to look at. Especially in that handsome uni.

Samwell’s new unitard design, on the other hand… Well. White lycra is not forgiving. The team might be able to practice in whatever spandex shorts they liked (Jack was partial to basic black trou, while Shitty seemed to have a never-ending collection of trou in psychedelic prints), but for competitions they now had to wear a uni with a white bottom portion, which puts the spotlight on everything. The girls were complaining about camel toes, the boys were complaining about moose knuckles, and everyone was wearing their Samwell sweatpants for as long as humanly possible.

Except for Shitty, who’s sitting next to Jack, shamelessly sweatpants-free. He’s still lathering up in preparation for their practice run on the Oklahoma River, trying to rub the cream onto his ears without getting any in his hair. Mostly successful, he hands the tube back to Jack.

“Thanks, man. It’s cool sunscreen. The stuff my team at Andover shared, though – I guess the acne was a good team bonding experience? Banana Boat was not the way to go.” Jack smiles at that, and Shitty, thankfully sensing that Jack’s really not in the mood for conversation, heads over to chat with Sophie and Jia. They’re all in the same 8:30am Intro to Sexuality Studies section, which means they have to leave practice early with someone who has a car on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Jack munches on his bagel, wondering if he should bring his car down in the springtime, before checking his phone.

> pietran-hellooooo

> he has that “jim from the office” vibe that i’m really digging

> like

> he’ll treat u right

> veryyy right

Jack briefly considers not engaging Kent, but the bus is stuck in traffic and they don’t have team dinner until 6. At least they’re going to Noodles & Co. over Friday’s – the women’s team knew better than to recreate last year’s dining disaster (Jack would never look at a bowl of French onion the same way) and had automatically vetoed the men’s suggestion.

< I’ve never seen The Office.

Kent responds immediately. The Falconers’ season hasn’t started up yet, so he’s only really busy with practice and Kit. And possibly that RISD student he met during the summer. At this point – which took two years-worth of awkward phone calls and therapy for Jack to get to – Kent and he are more friends than anything. Still, when they meet up, the two of them are together, and when they’re not, they’re free to ogle (or urge the other to ogle) whoever. It feels a little odd to Jack, but he just likes having Kent in his life, even if it means having to endure his constant chirping. Kent’s still miffed that Jack didn’t make a move on that “fucking exquisite” Croatian rower at Worlds.

> do u even live in this country

> backes ain’t bad tho either

> daddy vibes for dayzzzzzz

< Please stop objectifying the St. Louis Blues.

< Also, you don’t play them for another month, so what’s up?

> gotta get a head start on my plans

> full steen ahead

Jack turns off his phone in protest.

Summer 2012:

Jack’s knee’s a little iffy when he does his erg test, but he still earns a spot on Canada’s U23. After the various NCAA championships – Samwell’s men’s eight came in fourth at Dad Vail and the women’s varsity four finished first at IRA – he steps up his training over the summer, which means that he’s spending less time in the classroom and more time in the pool and on the bike.

It pays off, though. Jack takes home a bronze medal from Lithuania. He also has a fling with a Swiss rower, and, while she’s charmingly sweet and terribly pretty, they don’t get much further than a drink and some kissing. She does teach him some fun German slang, though (Mostly swine-related idioms, but Ich habe sowas von die Nase voll! is his favorite), which should help Jack in Advanced Conversational German next semester.

He doesn’t tell Kent about that part of the night, though, because even he realizes how nerdy that sounds.

August 2012:

Jack knows three things about Ransom and Holster.

One, they both used to play hockey, but switched to crew in high school because it was (slightly) less expensive and let them stay closer to their families. Plus, hockey scholarships are a hell of a lot harder to come by than rowing scholarships, and they both liked showing off in their unis – to the point that they’ve been featured on Hot Male Rowers multiple times. Jack’s heard that it’s on “tumbler,” and can only hope that: (1) he’s not been featured, and (2) it’s not as bad as the website created to document his butt.

Two, they have a cardboard cutout of his dad in their dorm room, and it’s covered in Post-Its and Lisa Frank stickers. Jack’s pretty sure those were a gift from Shitty, who has now entered the glitter period of his trou fashions. Either way, the photo he emails to his parents delighted his dad to no end, and it somehow resulted in Kent sending a life-size cutout of himself to Ransom & Holster’s dorm.

Three, they’re absolutely terrified of the new coxswain, and with good reason:

“WAY’NUFF!” Larissa’s loud. Jack can hear her across the Pond, her voice impressively sonorous even without her cox box, which have notoriously finicky microphones. She’s in Art & Architecture, and Jack has absolutely no clue how she has time for her studio classes, morning and afternoon crew practices, and training to manage the team.

Off the water, though, she’s intimidatingly quiet. Paired with the fact that she probably carries an X-Acto blade 24/7, no sane person dares to cross Larissa, even if she’s barely five feet tall and a freshman. At the daily team breakfasts, she has a spot at the head of the table, and at Haus parties, she’s the one choosing the drinking games.

At the last team party before the semester starts, Jack had watched from the sidelines, sipping at his water, amused at the way she utterly destroyed Holster at beer pong and flip cup. After a celebratory keg stand, during which she had been dubbed “Lardo” (Jack’s still not used to that one), she had ambled over towards Jack, asking him what he was drinking. After some nerve-racking experiences mixing alcohol with his meds in the Q (and having heard countless stories about his father’s tendencies during the late 70s and early 80s – Montreal was pretty hard on its players), Jack had mostly sworn off drinking. Still, it’s hard for Jack to defend his decision to not drink, as most of the people drunkenly interrogating him at parties want a deeper explanation than Jack’s willing to give.

Lardo, however, had just nodded when he nervously replied "water," and then asked him to pass her a solo cup.

A few days later, Jack sits next to her in his photography elective.

Summer 2013:

Kent wins a Stanley Cup in Chicago. Jack wins a gold metal in South Korea. They meet up to compare hardware over pizza, kiss over beer, and officially break it off over a pint of ice cream. It turns out Kent had found himself a Blue – well, a Blue Jacket (“Close enough, asshole.”) – and there was something there. Jack’s happy for Kent, he really is, but he can’t help but feel a little bit like he’s being left out in the cold.

His twinges of loneliness don’t compare to the confusion he feels at receiving an email from Johnson later that night, though.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Don’t worry. Have you thought about the accelerated MBA program? 

- Johnson

Jack hadn’t, but it’s only one extra year at Samwell. His parents can afford it.

January 2014:

Holster slides down the wall outside the erg room, covered in sweat and insisting that his legs have officially given up. His blonde hair is plastered to his head, dark brown with perspiration, and his entire torso is flushed pink from exertion.

Ransom, gasping as he wipes his face with his discarded t-shirt, collapses next to him. “Never again.” Holster shut his eyes, whimpering in response.

Jack quietly observes them, annoyed with how his sweaty bangs keep falling into his face, before rolling off the blue mat and starting to stretch. These 90-minute erg pieces are never fun, but this year somehow felt worse. At least Jack had maintained a decent 1:50 pace throughout, even with his knee acting up in the cold weather. Grabbing his toes as he extends his legs, he listens to the sounds of Lardo coxing the last few minutes out of a bitching Shitty and panting Johnson.

A bunch of novices bound down the stairs towards the erg room, some more aware of their impending doom than others. Ollie and Wicks, the freshmen with the obnoxious matching Oakley sunglasses, hadn’t believed Jack when he warned them about the 90-minute test back in November. Now, their faces look pale at the prospect of spending so much time on the erg. Eric brings up the rear, the only one not dressed in spandex shorts and crew socks, and he flashes Jack a grin over the top of his clipboard.

Jack smiles back.

Eric Bittle. The rest of the boys call him Bitty, but Eric suits him perfectly. Not that Jack’s ever voiced that opinion, but he can’t help but find Er-Bitty impossibly adorable and charming. And he’s a good cox, too. He’s young, though, and Jack’s the men’s team captain, and… It’s easier to watch from afar.

Even if “afar” is sometimes less than a foot away. The coaches like to switch the coxes between boats, especially in the lead-up to fall racing season, as the boat dynamics have yet to become fixed. After being placed in Jack’s coxed four, Bitty had spent most of the previous semester guiding their boat to top-three finishes. Jack had gotten used to Bitty’s company, even if that meant enduring daily critiques of his choice in athletic wear.

No matter what Bitty said, Jack knows that splash jackets are supposed to be visible, so neon yellow is an obvious choice. Perhaps not the most flattering choice, but if you’re all alone on the river in a tiny single shell, you want everyone else to be able to see you. Bitty still insisted that he “send it back to Satan,” which prompted further ribbing on Jack’s ensembles from the other guys in his boat. It’s not like Bitty had much room to talk, what with his seventeen layers of clothing and heavy pair of Bean boots to keep warm.

Now, though, Bitty’s walking through the erg room wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and Jack can see the muscle definition in his arms as he walks towards Lardo. Though he might be a cox, Bitty still joins the team on their afternoon jogs, often setting a brutal pace, and joins them for yoga. He’s flexible, and that leads Jack’s mind down very dangerous paths that are only made worse by those shorts Bitty’s so fond of during the warmer months.

Jack would normally continue watching the action in the erg room – he’s responsible for leading the team, and he likes to keep an eye on everyone – but he has a German club meeting in less than an hour, so he really should be making his way to the locker room for a shower right now. Ransom also has a meeting for Samwell’s global medicine society, so the two of them slowly rise from the floor and begin to gingerly climb up the stairs. Still sprawled across a blue mat, Holster grunts a goodbye, making no effort to move.

A few hours later, Holster’s in much better condition, chugging down a bottle of beer as he continues to debate Jack’s choices for top Tragically Hip songs. Jack’s taste in music skews a little older, especially compared to his younger, pop culture-savvy teammates, but Holster’s musical knowledge is surprisingly vast. A few minutes later, Holster’s doing his best Natalie Merchant cover – his falsetto is truly impressive, but “San Andreas Fault” doesn’t sound quite the same – and Jack’s making his way to the kitchen in order to avoid any additional second-hand embarrassment.

There are several pies and assorted treats on the counter, and Bitty’s in his zone, doling out sweets to a bunch of tired rowers. Bitty’s smile widens when he notices him by the door, and Jack can’t help but smile back.

“Jack!” He waves him over, handing him a plate of something blue and crumbly. Jack’s a little hesitant at first, but he just burned well over a thousand calories, so what the hell. He takes a seat at the kitchen island, grabs a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream as well, and digs in. A few novices filter into the kitchen, capturing Bitty’s attention, and Jack finds himself congratulating Nina, one of the women’s co-captains, on a new PR. The women’s team had the earlier testing times – which sucked, as they had to go straight from the erg room to classes – but they had posted some great times. He also discovers that Nina had finally read The Boys on the Boat over break, and she promises to geek out with him at the captains’ meeting later that week.

Grabbing a few beers for her friends, she exits the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone. Bowl in hand, Bitty sidles up to the stool next to Jack’s and portions some of the blueberry dessert he made earlier. Jack watches him take a few bites, slowly chewing as he analyzes his creation. Bitty wrinkles his nose after sampling his crust, which Jack finds absolutely adorable, before catching Jack’s eye.

“Well, what do you think? I didn’t have quite enough of everything for a blueberry pie, so I made a hybrid of a cobbler and a crumb cake. It’s a bit of a mess, and I had some reservations about using too much vanilla extract, but that bottle was ready to go…” Bitty stands and starts cleaning off the table. “It always takes a few tries to perfect a recipe, and this is only version one-point-oh. I hope it wasn’t too terrible,” Bitty rambles, clearing some solo cups into the trash.

“It’s good.” Jack takes another bite. He swallows. “You’re always good.” Jack’s eyes widen as he realizes what he just said. “With baking.” Decent recovery. “I really like your apple pie, too.”

Bitty grins, a mischievous spark popping into his eyes. “Apple, huh? That’s a little all-American for you Canadians, isn’t it?” Jack continues eating as Bitty ties off the trash bag and props his hip against the island counter. He’s leaning towards Jack, wiry forearms exposed, and Jack can’t help but notice just how good he looks in that red henley. Jack looks down to his bowl, eyes tracking the path of his spoon as he tries to not give himself away.

“You could add some maple,” Jack suggests, making  Bitty snort.

“Of course, Mr. Zimmermann. I'll be sure to use Vermont's finest." Jack makes an affronted face, and Bitty continues. "But don’t expect me to be whipping out the gravy and cheese curds anytime soon.”

“Haha,” chuckles Jack, before pausing and leaning towards Bitty. Bitty cocks his ear towards him, and Jack adopts a stage whisper. “Don’t let Ransom know this, but. I. Don’t. Like. Poutine.” A mock look of shock crosses Bitty's face, and his hand goes to cover his heart, exclaiming “Sacrilege!” as the two of them descend into giggles. “It’s all that squeaking when you chew,” Jack finally says, smiling. He notices that he's still leaning into Bitty’s space, and he wonders if he should move back. Bitty doesn’t seem to mind, though, propping his elbow on the table and getting even closer to Jack.

“Totally understandable. What I don’t understand is all that country music you play while you study. I mean, I’m from Georgia, and even I don’t like all that twanging. Are you sure you’re actually Canadian?”

Jack muses for a bit. “Well, half of me is. But that shouldn’t matter. Neil Young is Canadian.”

Bitty shakes his head, grinning. “Oh, don’t let me get started on him. Just be glad I’m not from Alabama. But Dolly Parton? I know I heard her signature twang coming from your laptop a few weeks ago.”

His mom’s taste in music strikes again. “I, um, like her album with Linda Ronstadt.” Jack resolves to only wear headphones from now on.

“Hmm,” Bitty hums, considering. “Why no Sheryl Crow?” At Jack’s look of confusion, he sighs and pats Jack’s shoulder. “Oh, honey. This ignorance cannot stand.” Jack smiles crookedly in response, and they stay there for a while, knees brushing as they stare into each other’s eyes.

Someone stumbles in the hallway outside the kitchen door, and the moment is gone. Jack clears his throat, breaking the silence. “So, music appreciation lessons? Any time work for you?”

“We’ll find a time.” Bitty’s smile falters a bit. “I’m just busy. With my work-study and classes and crew – and my baking – there’s a lot to do. I’m on partial scholarship, which I was lucky to get for crew and be able to keep with my shoulder injury anyway, so…”

“You could just email me links to look at?” Jack interjects. “Though I’d be missing out on your commentary…”

Bitty nods vigorously. “That would be the real pity. What does Lardo always say? Think with your cox? You’ll need me there to explain it all. Especially when we get to Beyoncé.”

“Well, if there’s Beyoncé, of course.”

May 2014:

Jack gets his BA in History and Germanic Languages on a Friday morning. His dad won’t stop bragging about him on Twitter, which doesn’t really make sense, as Jack will be back in this same quad next year to get his MBA. But then again, his dad's the scrapbooking type and loves to show off wallet and phone photos of his family, so Jack shouldn't really be all that surprised.

At least all that tweeting means that Kent has something to distract him from a bad playoffs loss. Kent’s splitting his summer between training in Boston and “training” with his boyfriend (“Not that we’re calling each other that, Zimms, it’s just that we kind of like each other’s stupid faces.”) and Jack’s going to be in NYC, doing a digital humanities internship while also training for the big regattas. For now, all Jack can do is shake his head at his friend’s teasing texts and tweets.

All morning Kent’s been retweeting every one of his dad’s posts and adding his own commentary, which only reinforces Jack’s decision to refrain from Twitter. So far, he’s been chirped about being an Academic All-American – @bbobzimm HE’S A NERD WITH A BOAT. AND CANADIAN. – and having the gall to wear his mortarboard – @bbobzimm WHICH IS SHARPER – THE HAT OR THE SIGNATURE @aliciazimm57 CHEEKBONES – but it’s ultimately harmless.

What’s not harmless is the way Bitty keeps smiling with sad eyes at all graduating seniors, especially those from his boats.

Turning away from his parents – his dad’s talking to Johnson about learning to play the flute, and his mom is teasing his dad about his aspirations of being in a Jethro Tull cover band – Jack wanders over towards Bitty, who’s bowtie is a little wonky. Jack resists the urge to straighten it.

“Hey, Bits.” Bitty wraps his arms around him immediately, and Jack returns the hug. When they part, there are a few tears in the corner of Bitty’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

Bitty sniffles, wiping his eyes. “Of course! It’s just a little hard to see everyone go, especially if I – well…” He trails off, his gaze downcast.

“If you –” Jack continues, prompting Bitty to speak.

“If I don’t have a scholarship, come fall. They want a lightweight rower, not a male cox who is limited to only coxing men’s boats and is a good twenty pounds heavier than the ideal and I just really want to stay at Samwell. But that’s not your problem, why am I telling you this, I’m ruining your special day and –” 

Jack interrupts, hands rising to Bitty's shoulders in an attempt to calm him down. “I’ll talk to the team about setting up a baking fund. And you’re in my room now, so you don’t have to worry about housing.” Bitty had gotten Jack’s dibs ages ago – the news of which, for some reason, had confused and amused Johnson to no end – and had put a few cardboard boxes full of clothing in that room while Jack was packing his own things up.

Bitty looks a little perkier at that, but he still shakes his head. “I’m going to be working double-time down in Georgia, but. I just don’t know. I won’t have time for another job during the semester, unless I quit crew and take classes part-time, but that’s not. No.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do, so he just hugs Bitty again.  After they say their goodbyes, he asks his dad for advice.

November 2014:

The last regatta of the fall semester always culminates in a team Epikegster at the Haus. This year was no different, thanks to the women’s team – who couldn’t live together outside of the dorms and host parties there due to the university’s sexist housing policy – and their record finish times.

Jack, no longer a NCAA athlete, had entered the regatta independently and had done well enough – though winning the men’s heavyweight single race wasn’t all that difficult when there were less than five rowers in his age division. The men’s boats had placed in the top 10 for each race, which wasn’t terrible, but the exasperated look on Bitty’s face as he cleaned up the huge puddle of spilled punch at the base of the stairs suggested otherwise.

Wringing out the rag into a bucket, Bitty lets out a sigh. Jack attempts to catch his eye from the living room, but Bitty just kept staring down at his rubber gloves, expression withdrawn.

“Hey.”  Bitty’s head snaps up towards him. “Hey!” He pauses for a moment. “Can I talk to you?” Jack nods and follows him up the stairs, jumping over the caution tape blocking the hallway towards the bedrooms. They end up in Bitty’s room, and Jack is directed to sit down on the duvet. Bitty closes the door and leans up against it, not quite meeting Jack’s eyes.

“We haven’t really talked this semester, have we? With you and those grad school classes, me and my crazy schedule… What’s up?” Bitty’s words are genial, but Jack can’t help but notice the tension in his shoulders.

“Nothing much..." Jack slowly responds, cautiously trying to figure out what's wrong. "That’s not what you want to ask, is it?”

Bitty begins to stalk towards Jack, his words growing more and more accusatory. “No. It’s just – well, I find this kinda funny, but did you know that the rowing team got an anonymous donation just before this year’s tuition bills were sent out? And that the money went towards developing our coxing programs? And that, somehow, Samwell’s suddenly offering me $4,000 more in scholarships per year? It’s – ahh – funny.”

“Um.” Jack doesn’t know what to say, and he must look guilty, as his hesitant reaction only spurs Bitty on further.

“You can’t just do that, Jack. Even with your mom and your dad and all that money – you can’t just do that!” Bitty exclaims, his voice hitting a hysterical note. “You don’t have the right to just –”

“I wanted to help!” Jack’s standing up now, indignant. “And it helps Lardo. And Nisha. And we need a new boat!” He doesn’t mean to get up in Bitty’s face, but Jack’s trying not to yell and he’s more than a little upset and all he wanted to do was help and –

“So, it’s for the team?” Jack nods and Bitty pauses, taken aback. “Not just... not me.” He looks into Jack’s eyes, searchingly. “I’m just overthinking this and you’re just helping out your friends and it’s completely –” Before he knows what he's doing, Jack's lowering his lips to Bitty’s and administering a gentle kiss.

"Oh," Bitty exhales. He doesn’t kiss back, and Jack feels like an idiot for assuming too much. He timidly steps back, eyes cast downwards in shame, but Bitty grabs his hand before he can reach the door.

“Jack. I –” His eyes are shining in the light of the lamp, and Jack has to tear his gaze away, a small "sorry" escaping his lips and a lump forming in his throat. He should've asked, gotten consent and all that, should've said–

“No, Jack, it’s just that – I wasn’t expecting – oh, come here you.”

———

Bitty snuggles up into his arms, a little sweaty, and Jack sniffs at his hair. Letting out an amused huff, Bitty turns to face Jack, one hand coming up to play with Jack’s chest hair.

“Just so you know, this isn’t about thanking you for the – you know. This is from earlier, I mean, I’ve – gosh, I’m really bungling this –” He’s rambling, and Jack presses his lips to Bitty’s cheek, reassuring him.

“I like you, too.” Bitty smiles brightly at that, and Jack's fingers itch for his camera. 

“Good. I don’t do that with just anyone.”

“Glad to have made the cut,” Jack jokes, and he receives a light smack for his efforts. Bitty nuzzles into his neck, his nose grazing along the sensitive skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He gives Jack’s throat a series of whisper-light kisses, and his hand trails downwards as he bites down.

———

Jack makes them a plate of toaster waffles and maple syrup the next morning. Hair mussed, Bitty wrinkles his nose in mock disgust, but he ultimately invites Jack back into the warmth of the sheets. For the next few minutes, Bitty rubs his ankle across Jack’s as their forks tangle.

Their kisses taste like Eggos.

July 2015:

Jack’s hesitantly trying some fried okra when Mrs. Bittle – “Just call me Suzanne, honey!” – walked over to the picnic table, dragging an unknown redheaded woman with her.

“Dee, this is Jack, Dicky’s friend from school. They were on the crew team together, and now Jack here is going to be an Olympian!”

Blushing, Jack holds his hand out to Dee, who shakes it. “I just did well at trials. We’ll see.”

Suzanne protests, waving a hand his way. “Oh, don’t be so modest – with all those medals, you’re going to Rio. Anyway, Jack, this is DeeAnna, and she’s been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember.”

Dee grins – “Hey, there! Any friend of Eric’s a friend of mine.” – and sits next to Jack, sipping a glass of iced tea as she gives him a scrutinizing look. Suzanne wanders off to chat with the neighborhood dads manning the grills.

“So, I bet you can’t wait to be reppin’ the old red, white, and blue come next year. Your parents must be proud!”

“They are, thanks, but I’ll actually be wearing the maple leaf. Canada, eh?” Jack lays his accent on a little thick, and Dee laughs.

“I couldn’t quite place where you were from, so I guess that answers it. Quebec, right?”

“Well, that’s the providence, yes, but I’m from Montreal. ‘Mow-ray-al,’ if you’re French-Canadian.”

“Sounds much fancier that way. Still pretty far north for the likes of me, but I’m sure Eric doesn’t mind.”

Jack, catching what she’s hinting at, freezes. Bitty’s not out to his parents, much less the people in his town, but Dee’s smile is soft and genuine, just like his “Aunt” Janet’s had been when he had introduced Bitty to the Gretzkys. “I hope not,” he cautiously responds.

“Either way, it’s nice to see him bringing home a friend. Y’all should feel free to visit more.” Jack watches her walk away before turning back to his plate, appetite completely gone. A few hours later, he describes his encounter to Bitty as they lay in bed. Suzanne had shooed them away from helping with dinner, and they had absconded to the bedroom they were sharing.

Eric’s jaw drops, and he goes a little pale. “She –? Oh. I’m… gonna go have a talk with Mama.” He jumps out of bed, grabbing his shoes and starts to untangle the laces, his movements frantic and jerky. Bitty’s breathing is rapid and shallow, and Jack recognizes the beginnings of a panic attack.

“Do you want me there?” Jack asks slowly, joining Bitty on the floor. He reaches out to touch Bitty on the shoulder, and Bitty throws himself into Jack’s arms, nodding. The two of them stay there, taking deep breaths together, until Bitty’s feeling calmer.

They head down the stairs, hand in hand.

August 2016:

What does it take to be the Canadian flag bearer during the Olympic Opening Ceremony?

1. An Under Armour campaign that’s nowhere near as cool as that of Michael Phelps, but Jack does like the way they styled his hair.
2. No less than three appearances on CBC, one of which is an hour-long interview that focuses on hockey and his sexuality.
3. A willingness to endure countless jokes about how he’s “going to the wrong Olympics, son!” (It’s almost as if he doesn’t do a winter sport anymore!)
4. A father who’s A) a national icon, and B) a former Olympian – and thus impressive enough to the news media and the Canadian Olympic Committee.

Or, at least, that’s how it happens for Jack.

It wasn’t something he was really shooting for, but he certainly appreciates the symbolic gesture. A rower hasn’t carried the flag for Canada since 1968, much less an openly bisexual one, so it’s kind of a big deal. Kent posts a photo of him on Twitter, captioning it with “OH, CANADA!” and a string of indecipherable emojis. Jack’s pretty sure eggplant isn’t the right reaction to him in the Team Canada uniform – the oddly-shaped DSquared2 shirt and blazer do weird things to his butt – but he didn’t look like a complete idiot, so there’s that. Buzzfeed also features him in their “10 Hottest Flag Bearers” (he’s right behind Mr. Tonga and that one Italian fencer), and both Bitty and Kent give him a hard time for it.

A few days in, Jack Skypes Bitty, who’s still working for his summer camp up in Georgia. After initially discussing the relative merits of the Italian fencing team – “They’re gonna need more than those fifty Olympic condoms, honey, and those British divers aren’t exactly hideous, you know…” – and examining Jack’s room in the Olympic Village – “That comforter is horrendous.” – they go over Jack’s racing schedule so that Bitty knows when to watch the live streams.

For men’s single sculling, the racing begins with heats along the 2000m racecourse. The top three boats in each heat move on to quarterfinals, and the remainder to repêchages, where the top two boats in each repêchage can also progress to quarterfinals. The top three boats in each quarterfinal race qualify for semifinals, and, based on times, the top three finishers in each race progress to finals A through F. Medals are only awarded to the top three finishers in Final A, and, even though Bitty keeps telling him he can do it, that medal stand seems increasingly further and further away.

This isn’t some national regatta broken down by age groups and experience level – this is the Olympics, and Jack can’t help but feel that has to prove himself. To Bitty? No. To his parents? Maybe. To his country and all those obnoxious reporters? Definitely.

So Jack rows. And rows. And rows. And rows.

He’s sweaty. He’s sore. He’s hungry. His left ear is sunburnt. He has nightmares about slicing his leg along the slides of his boat, “catching a crab” due to sloppy oar handling and being ejected into the water, his Team Canada uni becoming completely see-through due to water or sweat or both – a completely legitimate fear, considering the amount of white in the general trou region… The list goes on. Still, Jack vows to do the best he possibly in every race and not beat himself up about his performance, and he does, for the most part.

On a balmy August afternoon, like any other day, Jack qualifies for Final A.

Two days later, Jack’s setting his boat in lane four, preparing to give his all during the next seven minutes.

(Buzzfeed posts an article, “We Are All Bad Bob Zimmermann Watching Jack Zimmermann,” documenting his dad’s expressions during the race. Jack’s personal favorite GIF is when Bob shrieks and does a little jump at the end. How his mother simultaneously conveys her happiness at her son succeeding and a general air of being unimpressed by her husband’s antics is beyond Jack. It’s probably in the eyebrows.)

Two days later, Jack’s landing in Montreal and working his way through customs. Rounding the corner, Jack’s eyes are immediately drawn to Bitty, whose nose is still trapped in his phone. Slowly making his way through the throng of applauding Canadians, Jack can’t help but grin when Bitty finally looks up, noticing Jack a few feet away from him and beaming. Smiling, the two of them move slowly towards each other, the cheers of the crowd around them dulling to a muted roar.

Dropping his duffle bag, Jack reaches for Bitty. Swooping him up into a kiss, Jack can't find it within himself to care about the photographers or the bemused looks of his parents or the not-so-subtle pointing from across the room. He just keeps kissing his boyfriend, focusing on the sensation of Bitty’s hands around his neck and the gold medal digging into his chest.

It’s a good feeling.

September 2018:

Jack wakes up to light streaming in through the blinds and Bitty’s hand tracing the scar on his knee. Bitty is convinced it looks like either a cactus (“You can be a little prickly, dear, Canadian politeness be damned.”) or a crossing guard (“Oh, so I’m a little guarded, eh?”), while Jack only sees a stick. Or maybe a branch? To paraphrase Shitty, it's something vaguely horticulture-related. Whatever it resembles, his scar always gets a kiss whenever Bitty sees it, and this morning is no exception.

Jack shifts his hips mid-kiss, rustling the sheets and catching Bitty’s attention. Grinning, he clambers up Jack’s chest, his sleep-mussed locks briefly catching the warm rays of the morning sun. It’s nothing Jack hasn’t seen before, but his fingers still itch for his camera, eager to capture that radiant golden halo and joyful quirk of the mouth. Bitty leans down to give him a kiss, smile still dancing across his lips.

“Morning, handsome.” Smirking into the kiss, Bitty gives Jack’s nipples a little “hello” with a sharp tug, and if that’s how this morning’s gonna be, Jack’s only willing to play along.

“Mm. Morning breath,” he teases. Making a face of disgust, Jack squirms out of Bitty’s grip, only to pin him down on the bed and nuzzle against his neck.

“Rude,” Bitty pouts, managing to sound both fond and put out, before pushing at Jack’s shoulders. Taking the hint, Jack slowly kisses his way down Bitty’s chest, paying particular attention to Bitty’s left nipple. He’s always been fond of Bitty’s pecs – not nearly as defined as his own, but still soft and sun-kissed, still beautiful and bitable – and is well aware of Bitty’s sensitive spots. Jack reacquaints himself with them, drawing a few wet gasps out of Bitty, before continuing his path downwards. Nuzzling the freckled planes of Bitty’s stomach, he zeros in on Bitty’s belly button, giving it a sloppy smooch.

Pausing, he toys with the elastic waistband of Bitty’s briefs, admiring the way Bitty’s cock tents the fabric. Carefully meeting Bitty’s gaze, Jack noses at the firm ridges of Bitty’s hips, giving Bitty a few feathery pecks before planting a raspberry on his hipbone.

Bitty cracks up.

“Oh my god, you are the worst. Incorrigible to the core, I swear!” Giggling, he gives Jack’s shoulder a half-hearted smack, and Jack can’t help but get lost in the sunny crinkles of Bitty’s eyes, in the rosy blush dusting his cheeks. Bitty drags him up the bed and pulls Jack into his arms, covering Jack’s face in a flurry of kisses.

“In my defense” smack “I was just –” smack “trying t–” smack “diffuse the tension?” That sets Bitty off again, and Jack receives a raspberry of his own for his efforts.

“Nuh uh. No more teasing. From now on, you just–” he pauses, a mischievous look crossing his face, and Jack knows he’s in for something good. Bitty adopts a sage expression and, eyes full of mirth, continues.  “You just need to think with your cox.”

Jack's head drops into his boyfriend’s neck, his laughter bright and happy.