Chapter Text
Jack had been at Samwell for two years. Two years of learning and growing and not necessarily forgetting the past, but attempting to make peace with it. Part of him knew he was not that much better than he was when he arrived, but the largest part did not care. Jack had friends, he had his sport back, he had his life. That was enough.
And then that little shit came along.
“Jack, we gotta go, brah! Wake that fucking glorious ass up,” called Shitty from the bottom of the stairs.
The fucking glorious ass in question was still in bed despite the late hour of 9 AM. Jack very rarely slept in past 7, but for some reason the thought of facing the new frogs as their captain for the first time was too daunting, and he wanted to stay in bed as long as could. Holding onto his sophomoric dreams of what captainship would be like instead of the reality of being able to let a team down. Again.
Chest tight, Jack sat up in his bed and tried to take a few steadying breaths.
“A cup and a half of flour. A teaspoon of salt. Cold butter.” Jack whispered measurements under his breath as he busied himself getting dressed. Several years ago, a half-formed memory of someone had taught him how to calm his mind by making imaginary blackberry cobbler. “Jeans. Samwell Hockey shirt. Socks and shoes.” He had adjusted it over the years, of course, and used it calm himself while continuing whatever he needed to do; listing the steps over and over until it was all he could process.
Jack tied the last knot on his sneaker and headed out of his bedroom. Shitty was waiting in the kitchen, pouring sriracha on a Hot Pocket.
“Breakfast of champions, dude,” he said triumphantly. “Eat up.”
“Euh, that’s okay. I’ll grab a protein shake when we come back.” Jack backed up like Shitty was holding a time bomb and opened the fridge to grab a water bottle. He was sure there was one left behind the piles of expired take out and smuggled chicken tenders from the caf. Water bottle retrieved, Jack turned around to see Shitty shoving the desecrated Hot Pocket in his mouth.
“You ready?” Shitty asked around a mouthful.
“Yeah. Let’s go meet the frogs.”
The pair set off on the quick walk to Faber. Jack listened contentedly to Shitty mourning the loss of their manager Lardo who was off spending part of her sophomore year abroad.
“I mean, like, I miss her commanding presence, y’know? I need a friend that can partake in my shitty habits and also keep me from fucking up. Like she’s so good at that,” Shitty lamented.
“Yeah, Shits. A friend,” Jack laughed.
“You motherfucker,” Shitty grunted as he shoved Jack’s shoulder. Jack only laughed harder.
“Bro, you’re the one who fell in love with a freshman.”
“She’s a sophomore! And I’m not in love with her,” Shitty protested. “I just have a strong appreciation for her and everything her tiny little legs stand for.”
Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Whatever, man. You gonna tell her when she comes back?”
“Why don’t you go French that tennis player, huh?”
Jack huffed and kicked a rock across the sidewalk. “Camilla and I aren’t really anything. She’s like a good friend I sometimes make out with.”
Shitty looked at him sideways.
“I’m not in looove with her,” Jack schmoozed.
“Brah, shut up, I swear to fucking God!” Shitty reached over to punch Jack’s shoulder again, but Jack had already sprinted ahead and left Shitty behind cursing and laughing.
When they reached the lobby of Faber, Jack could hear the excited frogs before he even saw them. He remembered the excitement of the first official day on the day and all the nerves that came with it. Maybe he could connect to these frogs a little more than he had first thought. That eased some of his nerves.
“Oh, it’s just a cup and a half of flour, a pinch of salt, cold butter, ice water, and just one more little thing that I can’t tell you ‘cause it’s a family secret! A flaky pie crust is essential to the perfect pecan pie. Wow! Say that ten times fast!” A high, pealing laugh followed the loud voice. Jack turned the corner to face the group of frogs and stared openly at the blond boy with a ruined pie in his hands.
Some of the veterans were already gathered around him, in fact all of them except Jack and Shitty were. Seemingly drawn to the freshman by magnetic force. Jack could only see his back but he was shorter than all the other boys by at least a head, with shaggy blond hair and a pale checked button up. He was rather slight for a hockey player, Jack couldn’t help but think.
At this point the other players caught sight of him and Shitty and began to call excitedly for them to meet Bittle.
“Jack, you gotta try this pie, brah! It’s like the most ‘swawesome thing I’ve ever had,” Rans exclaimed. He shoved a plastic spoon into the pie and scooped out a chunk. Bittle made a noise of protest, turning around to see who else was about to eat his pie like a felon.
Jack was hardly paying attention, and unthinkingly opened his mouth to ask Bittle had he been around on campus earlier; he looked familiar? And just as he took the breath to ask, Rans shoved the spoonful of pie into his mouth.
Jack’s eyes widened in shock. He coughed until his eyes watered, and just about every hand in the room was thumping against his back trying to be helpful. Jack waved them off, feeling like he was choking even more.
“Oh, lord!” A loud accented voice cried out. “Y’all give him some space! Oh my goodness, I am just so sorry, are you alright? Are you allergic to pecans?” The smaller blond boy—Bittle—had picked up Jack’s bottle of water and was trying to hand it to him, concern creasing lines into his tan, freckled face.
“He’s allergic to having pecans shoved down his throat,” Shitty chirped. “Jesus, Rans, you almost killed him.”
Rans looked horribly remorseful, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was, “He spit the pie out. Holtzy, he wasted that beautiful bite of pie.” Holtzy looked equally remorseful. Jack eyed them down as he caught his breath.
“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, still coughing a bit.
“Are you sure?” That worried Southern accent came from Jack’s shoulder again.
Jack stared down at him. Warm brown eyes. Freckles dotted so lightly across his button nose, Jack had to squint to see them. Blond bangs framed his eyes making him look about 15. Bittle was so familiar that Jack knew he wouldn’t feel right until he figured it out. But for now, he had a hockey team to meet with what little dignity he had left.
“I’m okay. I’m Jack. It’s nice to meet you, and uh, thanks for the pie.”
Bittle beamed up at Jack like he had just given him a puppy for Christmas. “Nice to meet you too!” Jack’s stomach flopped awkwardly.
He turned to address the rest of the frogs, a flush high on his cheeks, and his plan for the speech shot to hell. “Welcome to Samwell, Frogs of 2016. I’m your junior captain, Jack Zimmermann.”