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Jack doesn’t check his phone on game days. It’s a distraction he doesn’t need, a worry he can literally put away, and anyone who knows him knows that he won’t be reachable from lunch through his nap right until he’s had his shower and he’s in his suit, waiting for the bus to the airport. He’s used to it blowing up on him when he does turn it back on, so he puts it on silent and leaves it in the pocket of his bag for a few minutes, until it’s not an overwhelming tornado of notifications and he can work through it at his own pace.
It’s January. The Falconers are in Montreal, and Jack has permission to stay overnight to he can spend some time with his parents, time he didn’t get over the holidays. He’s got Bitty’s game schedule memorised as well, knows that the Samwell boys are on a roadie, and that Bits isn’t going to be available tonight. It’s probably for the best. It’ll be late when he’s done with his parents, and he’ll need to sleep at some point. He’s bruised and tired, and there’s still a way to go before the season’s over. Until then, he has to focus on keeping himself in shape and healthy.
He finds his dad chatting with Georgia when he’s done with interviews. They look animated from his perspective, his dad’s face mobile and his eyes bright. He envies that a little, doesn’t know quite how to hold himself with a camera and a microphone pointed at him and consequently goes a little flat at times (though he thinks he’s getting better with practice). He worries about giving the wrong answer, and the questions come so fast that he doesn’t have time to process what the correct answers are. He forgets to smile sometimes. His dad doesn’t do that. Bob Zimmermann is a delight on camera, and whatever it is that he’s talking to Georgia about, it has her laughing as well. The studs in her ears catch the light as she throws her head back. It’s - nice. Jack thinks it’s nice.
He doesn’t have a chance to interrupt them before he’s intercepted by his mom, a crease of worry between her eyebrows. Jack feels his own eyebrows draw together, an almost perfect mirror of hers.
“Have you checked your messages?” she asks him, and he shakes his head slightly. He hasn’t. There’s nothing on it so important it can’t wait until he’s had dinner and is ready for bed. Congratulations on his goal, commiserations for the loss, an indecipherable string of emojis from Bitty that he’s learning mean he’s proud and alternately happy or sad, depending on the result. His mom’s frown deepens, and Jack feels a spike of worry stab him.
“Why?” he asks, and she doesn’t say anything, just pulls him into a hug that he returns automatically, though it does nothing to ease the tension he can feel pulling tight across his shoulders and like fire ants beneath his skin.
“Shitty sent a message to your dad earlier,” she says as she pulls away, “Or Larissa did, through Shitty. Jack -”
Jack’s not listening, though. There’s a distinct white noise beginning to buzz in his ears, and he knows where this is going.
“Bits,” he breathes, and his mom’s strained expression tells him everything he needs to know.
He feels as if he’s being moved through tar. Everything feels heavy, sticky, pulling him back and dragging him down. He recognises the firm grip of his dad’s hand on his arm. He can feel the weight of his kit bag as it’s lifted from his shoulder.
“Jack? Do you want to go back to Providence? Jack!” That’s his dad. He blinks, molasses slow, and turns his head. Bob looks worried, and Jack thinks maybe it’s not the first time he’s been asked that question. He hasn’t heard that note of concern in his dad’s voice in a long time.
“They’re away,” he says. “Quinnipiac.” They’re standing beside Bob’s truck. Jack has no concept of how they got there. He pats his pockets for his phone, only to find it in Alicia’s outstretched hand. “What happened?” His phone is too slow, he can’t wait for it to start, for it to deal with the slew of messages. He can’t handle the delay as it finds the right message. He can feel his breathing getting short and shallow, and his mom’s hand between his shoulders, rubbing gently.
“He’s okay,” she says, her voice soft and calm. She mastered that voice when he was 18, but right now, it doesn’t work. “He woke up -”
“Woke up?” Jack can feel the lightness in his own head, and lets his dad manhandle him into the truck.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Jack,” Bob says. “They wanted to reassure you that he’s just fine. He was packed off to hospital to be checked over, but nothing’s broken. Just a concussion.”
Jack nods, and, in his hands, his phone rumbles through a slew of incoming messages. “Just?” he asks, and Bob chuckles and squeezes his shoulder.
“Nothing you boys didn’t go through as kids,” he says. “Eric’s a good kid, good player. He’ll be okay.”
Jack stares at his phone and stews uselessly. “I should -” he starts, and huffs a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know what he should be doing, just that it’s not this. Not - not nothing. The soft thud of the door closing makes him jump, but it’s the realisation that none of the other doors open that clears the fog from around him.
He scans his messages for any from Bitty, ignores the ones from everyone else. He ignores his voicemail as well - he can’t filter it for one person alone, he’ll just have to listen to everything in order and that would be frustrating.
There’s a notification over his Skype icon, though, and he only really uses Skype for one person. Or for one person who’s not in his immediate vicinity right now, anyway, and so he taps on it to open it. There’s a new message from Bittle, and Jack’s feels the tightness inside of him ease a little. Bits has left him a video message. He can see with his own two eyes how hurt he is. He plays it back twice, and lets himself breathe. Bits says he’s kinda bruised, took a hit way too hard.
“You should see the other guy,” he grins, a little lopsided but there all the same. “Chowder said the guys were super worried for a hot minute when I didn’t get up, but you can’t keep me down. I learned from the best.”
He looks bright enough, Jack thinks. He’s certainly seen him worse. He touches his phone, and Bitty says, “So I checked twitter and I see y’all lost. But your goal is on the highlights, and I’m so proud of you. And I love you. And uh, don’t worry about me, hey? I’m fine. I know how you can be.”
Jack smiles slightly, and glances up when his parents get into the truck. “He’s okay,” he says, and inhales slow and deep. “He’s okay.”
Alicia nods, and Bob gives him a thumbs up, and Jack breathes and repeats, “He’s okay.”
(He Skypes later, after dinner. He’s read his messages, knows Bittle is downplaying a check to the head that saw the other player ejected. Bitty mostly sounds tired, though, and annoyed that he’s not allowed to sleep. It’s good to hear his voice and to see his face, and to be able to ask him what happened in real time.
“I told them not to bother you,” he says, a crease between his eyebrows that makes Jack smile fondly. “What could you do from the Bell Centre?”
“I’d have flown back directly,” Jack says. He’s not entirely certain, but he thinks that would be the correct response. Bitty’s his boyfriend, he’s supposed to have some degree of priority. Bitty cants his head and smiles fondly.
“I know,” he says. “And there was no need.”
He stretches and yawns, and Jack feels exhaustion overtaking him as well. It’s late, he’s tired. His body is exhausted. Bitty’s eyes are fond when Jack finds them.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
And Jack does. He closes the lid of his laptop, content that Bittle is - well, not fine, but as okay as he can be after some jackass tried to decapitate him. He’ll drive up to Samwell when his plane lands and check himself, but for now, it’s okay.)