Chapter Text
Jack jerks awake to his phone ringing ten minutes before his alarm is set to go off. He squints blearily at the screen, but sits up quickly when he sees who it is.
If Bittle is calling him at 8AM, it must be important.
"Hey, what's up?" he answers, fighting a yawn.
"Hey, sorry to wake you up, Jack. It's just—I just got off the phone with my agent, and I wanted you to hear this from me."
Jack's heartrate picks up immediately. What bad news could Bittle have gotten from his agent? Is he being sent down? That wouldn't make any sense, he—
"I've been traded. To the Falconers."
Bittle's voice is a little breathless, and Jack can't tell if he's happy or upset. Jack swallows.
"Oh. Wow."
Jack had first heard of Eric Bittle when he became the first out NCAA men's hockey captain. It was at the start of Jack's fifth full season with the Falconers, when he'd just gotten the A.
The story would have caught his attention anyhow, but the fact that Eric was at Samwell made it particularly interesting. After rehab, Jack had thought about going to college and since it was his mom's alma mater, he'd talked to the coaches there. He'd been admitted and offered a full ride—he would've insisted the scholarship go to a student who needed it, but he'd seriously considered accepting the admission. But he was also talking to Georgia Martin, then the newly-hired AGM of the Falconers and seemingly hell-bent on making him her first recruit. He'd have to spend a year on the farm team, but if he kept his nose clean and stayed in therapy she could practically guarantee him a spot on the roster after that.
If her offer had leaned more on the "nose clean" than the "stay in therapy," Jack might very well have wound up at Samwell. But George was determined to make the Falconers a franchise that cared about shit other teams neglected, like mental health, and she'd won Jack over. When he first saw the story about Bittle in OutSports, he'd wondered what it might have been like to be on a team like that, where a gay player could not only live openly but even be elected captain.
Thankfully, mental health wasn't the only thing George was adamant about, and Jack didn't hear a single negative word about the story in the locker room.
Jack had kept an eye on Samwell that season. Bittle was good. Fast, aggressive. Soft hands and a real talent for seeing plays. In that first article, he'd mentioned that his figure skating past helped him with speed. He'd been bullied relentlessly for being gay (or assumed gay, since he hadn't been out before college), and his parents had gotten him therapy to deal with the PTSD plus self-defense classes that turned into martial arts training. Add in a lower center of gravity and that extra bit of speed, and he was a small player capable of checking guys twice his size into the boards.
When Samwell took the championship, Jack mentioned the kid to George, who confirmed that they'd already sent some scouts and were probably going to make an offer. In the end, apparently Toronto's had been better.
Before their first game against the Maple Leafs that fall, not just George but Marc Anderson, the GM, had sat the whole team down.
"I want to make it clear," he'd said, face deadly serious, "that if any of you decides to target Eric Bittle—or any other player, for that matter—for his sexuality, this organization will not be on your side. Whatever punishment the NHL hands down will only be the start of your problems. And I'm not just talking about slurs—rough him up the same as you would anyone else, but if we start to see a pattern of anyone targeting him more than usual, you'll be in trouble. You don't have to like him, you don't have to be friends with him, you don't have to avoid getting in fights with him. You just have to show him the same basic respect as a human that we expect you to show all other players."
Jack had gone up to Anderson afterwards to thank him.
"Yeah," Bittle says, and now he sounds a little uncomfortable. Jack squeezes his eyes shut. He knows why Bittle called. Of course. They can't keep on like this, not if they're teammates. He's called to break it off, probably as gently as he can. Jack understands, of course. It's neither of their faults, just the way it is.
"So, um," Bittle continues, "I guess I figured I should call you because, um. Well." Jack leans back against his headboard with a quiet sigh, bracing himself. "I suppose we'd better shit or get off the pot, huh?"
A startled giggle escapes Jack's throat. "To put it delicately, eh?"
"Well, no, not exactly," Bittle replies with a snort. They're both quiet for a moment as Jack processes what Bittle just said. Finally, the silence is apparently too much for Bittle to bear. "I mean, it—it seems like a terrible idea, right, casual hookups with a teammate? And the longer we wait to talk about it the more awkward things'll be, so we really should hash this out before my first practice with the team tomorrow—"
"So there is a 'shit' option?" Jack asks, knowing that if he doesn't break in Bittle isn't likely to stop to take a breath for a while.
"A what? Oh!" Bittle laughs, a little shrill and clearly still nervous. "As opposed to getting off the pot! I did say that, didn't I? I suppose that one's my own fault."
Jack huffs a small laugh. "A bit, yeah."
"I mean, that option's certainly on the table for me? But it'd be awful hard to hide a real relationship. I mean, we'd probably have to tell the team at the very least, and it might be hard to keep it from the public, and I know you don't have any plans to come out anytime soon. So I won't take it personal if that's not an option for you. And I know this is sudden, I'm so sorry, I'm not trying to rush you—"
"It's okay," Jack says. "It's not your fault you're being traded. I'm assuming you just found out this morning, too?"
Bittle huffs, too, but it's not laughter. "Yeah. I literally just got off the phone with my agent and called you. I knew this was how trades work, but I don't think it really hit me just how sudden it is until boom, it's happening to me!"
"Heh, yeah, that's how it happens, all right. I know it's out of your control. But, Bits…" Jack lets himself think about the possibilities, about what he can have if he just lets himself. He smiles. "I've wanted this for a while now. Something… more, with you. And if you want it, too, then that's all that matters to me."
"You have?" Bittle's voice is so small, and Jack kicks himself for not making his feelings clear sooner.
He didn't get the chance to meet Bittle off the ice until the second time they played against each other. Marty had an old friend on the Maple Leafs, Josephson, and so a bunch of Falconers went to get dinner with a bunch of Leafs after their matinee game. Jack happened to sit next to Bittle.
Jack was awkward. Bittle was charming. Which only made Jack more awkward. It didn't matter much, though, as once he managed to get Bittle talking about something he found he didn't have to contribute much to keep the conversation going. He mentioned he'd considered Samwell, and Bittle told him all about it, going on and on about his teammates and their frat house and traditions until Jack could almost imagine himself there. He asked about the mini pies Bittle had passed out to everyone before they left the arena, and Bittle held forth on baking for a good ten minutes. Every once in a while he seemed to notice he was rambling and get embarrassed, but Jack was never bored.
The next time the Leafs played in Providence, Tater tried to get Jack to go out to a bar with some of the guys afterward like he did almost every home game. Jack only said yes occasionally, but Tater still asked every time. Jack told himself that the fact that some of the Leafs were coming along had nothing to do with the fact that he was suddenly in a more social mood than usual. The way his stomach flipped when it turned out that Bittle was part of the group was harder to ignore.
After that, if any of the guys noticed that Jack was more sociable when they played this particular team, they didn't say anything. Bittle always greeted Jack warmly and stayed near him most of the night.
It was March, their last regular season game against the Leafs, when Jack finally gave in.
They were in Providence. Not at their usual post-game bar, but at a new club someone had wanted to try out. Jack didn't love nightclubs, but he liked watching Bittle. The only person he'd want to dance with was Bittle, and he wasn't anywhere near ready for that yet, so he just watched. But over and over again, Bittle would come back from the dance floor to slide into the booth next to Jack instead of any of the other dozen empty spots in the large VIP section the players had to themselves.
Jack had been letting himself flirt all night, not that he was very good at it. Mostly chirps that made Bittle blush adorably mixed with maybe touching his arm more than was strictly necessary. Bittle had seemed a little hesitant at first, and Jack was about to give up rather than make him uncomfortable. Then Bittle came back from another round on the dance floor, one where he'd caught Jack watching him, with a determined look in his eye. He sat closer and leaned in more than was really necessary to be heard above the music. When Jack touched his arm, he reciprocated. Eventually, his hand found Jack's knee under the table, though it never stayed for more than a few seconds.
Finally, it was getting late and Jack knew the Leafs must have a curfew at some point. He might even be too late.
"Would you want to come back to my place for a bit?" he asked, lips not quite touching Bittle's ear. "Before you guys have to go?"
Bittle looked at Jack for a moment, biting his lip thoughtfully.
"You know," he said, not breaking eye contact, "you're not the first player to proposition me, though you certainly are the most handsome. Normally it's easy to write it off as a terrible idea, but…" His eyes flickered down over Jack's body, and Jack could only sit and wait for judgment. "For once, I'm not sure I want to pass this up."
By the time they got back to Jack's, they didn't have much time, but they didn't need it. They didn't linger, didn't have any long, drawn-out conversations while lounging in Jack's bed… not yet. It wasn't as awkward as Jack had expected, though, despite the fact that it'd been a good year since he'd slept with anyone and… a lot longer since he'd been with a guy. (Kent, since he'd let Kent talk him into a few Vegas hookups that he always regretted.)
It was fun. Bittle was sweet and hot and good in bed. When he left in an Uber fifteen minutes before his curfew, they hadn't exactly agreed to do it again, but they certainly hadn't ruled it out.
"Of course I want more," Jack says. "This stopped being some random hookup a while ago. You mean a lot more to me than that."
"I guess I know that, deep down," Bittle says slowly. "It's just—when we're together, I know. I know what this is. But it's hard sometimes, when I don't see you for a month, to tell myself I'm not imagining things. Oh my goodness, listen to me, I must sound so insecure—"
"No, I'm exactly the same," Jack rushes to reassure him. "I thought you were calling me to break it off. When you said you were being traded. I just… automatically assumed you wouldn't want…"
"Oh, honey," Bittle says.
"I mean, I think part of it was not quite being awake yet," Jack says with a small laugh, "but, yeah. It's not like we've really talked about this. I'm sorry, I should have said something sooner—"
"It's not your fault, sweetheart," Bittle interrupts him. "We've both avoided talking about it. But we don't have to anymore."
Toronto didn't make the playoffs that season, so Jack didn't see Bittle again. Which was probably for the best—it wasn't like they were likely to hook up after one of them had just beaten the other in a playoff game. He told himself it wasn't creepy to keep half an eye on Bittle's press that summer—if the guy got a boyfriend, Jack didn't want to embarrass them both by hitting on him.
He didn't appear to, though, and when they played a preseason game in Toronto, Jack couldn't deny the butterflies he felt when Bittle showed up at the bar afterward.
He came right over to Jack, taking the seat next to him at the high table he was sharing with Snowy, Thirdy, and Poots.
"How was your summer, Mr. Zimmermann?" It was an innocent enough question, but the way he held Jack's eye while he asked it, voice slow and accent thick as molasses, made it feel heavy, like it was a dozen questions rolled into one: Did you meet anyone? Do you still want me? Are you willing to risk it again? Are you even still willing to talk to me in front of your friends? Do you still want me? Do you still want me?
Jack fought against the shiver it sent down his spine, but didn't shy away from the eye contact.
"Nothing exciting." I didn't meet anyone. "I'm glad the season's started." I'm glad I have the chance to see you again. "How was your first NHL off-season?" Did you meet anyone?
"Not too different from a summer in college, really," Bittle said. His voice was light, but he still didn't take his eyes off Jack's. "Saw my family, old friends." One corner of his mouth quirked up mischeviously. "Looked forward to seeing my new ones again."
"I'll drink to that," Jack said, lifting his one beer for the night. Neither of them looked away as they took a sip.
They made small talk for a few minutes. The tension between them seemed to fog Jack's brain, so that afterward he couldn't have repeated a word they said to each other.
Finally, Bittle leaned in. "We should probably stay and be social for, say, half an hour, but after that would you want to get out of here?"
Jack nodded, and later, when he saw Bittle leave, he made his excuses. He found Bittle outside, unlocking a little red car.
They were on their fourth hookup when they finally made it back to Jack's apartment early enough that Bittle didn't have to leave for curfew as soon as they were done. They didn't exactly cuddle afterward, but they hung out, naked and comfortable in Jack's bed, talking.
"So how has it been?" Jack asked. "Is your team supportive?"
Bittle raised an eyebrow. "You're not askin' 'cause you're planning your own announcement, are you, Mr. Zimmermann?"
"Not planning, no," Jack said. "But it's not like I've permanently ruled it out. It'd be nice to know it's an option if I ever wanted it. I would if I had a reason to."
"Huh." Bittle looked surprised, though Jack wasn't sure why. "Well, I think it was an advantage, being out when I signed. No one can claim I was hiding anything, I was trying to trick them, anything like that. The Leafs knew exactly what they were getting, and they wanted me anyhow."
"They weren't the only ones," Jack pointed out.
"I take it you knew you guys made me an offer?" Bittle asked with a smirk.
"I talked to George about you as soon as Samwell won the Frozen Four. Speed isn't exactly a strength of ours. Gregson's good, but you would've been better."
Again, Bittle looked surprised, even though that seemed obvious to Jack. Then he flashed a cheeky grin. "You know, I'm already in your bed, there's no need for flattery."
Jack frowned. "If I compliment your hockey, it's because you deserve it."
Bittle's smile softened into something that melted Jack's frown. "Well, thank you, Jack. But yeah, I talked to Georgia Martin quite a lot. She's fabulous, y'all are really lucky. I think you've got a team you really could be out to, if you wanted, y'know."
"She is," Jack confirmed. "And I do trust her and my team. If I did want to come out, the Falconers wouldn't be the problem."
"No," Bittle agreed, "I don't think they would be. I came very, very close to signing with y'all. Especially with all my friends in Massachusetts. But to be completely honest, what with Trump and all I kinda felt like I should jump at the chance to give Canada a try."
That got a laugh out of Jack. "Can't say I blame you there. So the Leafs have been good to you?"
"They really have," he said, nodding as he looked off into the distance. "The farm team wasn't great, honestly. Nobody said anything outright homophobic, but I got a lot of looks, and most of the guys just weren't super friendly. I just kept my head down and played the best hockey I could and got incredibly lucky to be called up as quick as I was."
"That's not luck," Jack can't help pointing out. Bittle's blush looks good on him.
"Thank you. Though there certainly was some luck involved, but I do hope my hard work contributed. But yeah, my teammates in Toronto have mostly been good guys. It's the other teams that are the problem. Not to mention some of the fans."
"I know you had some problems in Raleigh," Jack said quietly. It had happened before Jack had even met Bittle the first time—there'd been a protest at the arena, and a bunch of fans had been kicked out for throwing shit at Bittle before the game even started.
"That was definitely a low point," Bittle muttered, and Jack suddenly wished they were cuddling. He wasn't sure if it would be weird to pull Bittle into his arms. He settled for finding Bittle's hand under the covers and giving it a quick squeeze, which seemed to be appreciated. "Honestly, the 'Canes were fine, they haven't caused a single problem. They even gave me extra security to get out of the arena after the game, and they've stepped up security when we've played there since."
"That's good."
"As far as teams go, I doubt it'll surprise you if I say the Blackhawks in particular have not been a joy to play against. Nobody's stupid enough to call me a fag, but they go after me on the ice like you wouldn't believe. I wasn't gonna say anything about it, but Josey's actually the one who brought it up, and once he said something everyone agreed it was clear they had it in for me."
"Shit," Jack said. "I don't think I've seen any of your games against them."
"There've been a few other incidents. Overall, I'd say it's been not as bad as it could be, worse than it should be. Some guys have been just lovely, thank goodness. Lord, Holtby keeps trying to set me up with some friend of his who moved to Toronto last year. And obviously the Falcs have been great, though I must admit most of your teammates haven't been quite welcoming enough to suck my dick."
"Most?" Jack propped himself up on one elbow and looked at him seriously. "Bittle, I'm gonna need deets here."
Bittle cracked up, and Jack tried not to look too self-satisfied. It wasn't like it was hard to make Bittle laugh, but not everyone got Jack's deadpan humor.
Unfortunately, by then it was time for Bittle to get going. They kept chatting while they got dressed and he ordered an Uber. Jack walked him to the door, then had the sudden urge to kiss him, like it was the end of a date. But it wasn't a date. Just convenient sex.
Bittle stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked at Jack thoughtfully. For one second Jack had the wild thought that Bittle knew what he was thinking and was about to admonish him for making this out to be more than it was.
Instead he said, "You know, the first time you asked me back here, I wasn't sure I should say yes. I don't tend to sleep with closeted guys, partly 'cause I'm not a fan of being treated like a dirty little secret and partly 'cause I've heard too many stories about guys who'll gladly get their dicks sucked then turn around and throw all kinda nastiness at you to try and 'prove' they ain't gay. But you seemed nice enough, and I mean you are the single hottest guy in the NHL. I'm glad I did. You're a good guy, Jack. I always have a lot of fun with you."
Jack smiled. "Me, too. I'm sorry we have to go straight to the airport after our game against you next week."
It wasn't a date, and it was still basically just sex, but maybe it wasn't just about convenience for either of them.
"I was going to. Actually. Talk to you." Jack tries not to stumble over his words too much, but he's suddenly uncertain, hoping he's reading this right. That they really do both want the same thing. "I mean, last week seemed too early, with so much of the season left, but I thought… Our last game together, next month, I was going to ask you—I, um… I'd kind of been hoping maybe we could spend some time together this summer. Like… a few weeks, maybe." The admission leaves Jack breathless.
"Oh, sweetheart, that would be wonderful," Bittle says, and Jack can hear the size of his grin. Then he laughs. "I guess spending a few weeks together isn't really a question anymore, huh? But…" His voice sobers quickly. "Again, Jack, you know bein' out hasn't been a breeze for me, and I don't wanna pressure you to do anything you're not ready for."
"I wouldn't be rushing to come out right now if this weren't happening," Jack admits, "but being with you is more important to me. I told you a long time ago, I'd do it if I had a reason. I know it's not easy, but it hasn't exactly destroyed your career. And you dealt with it as a rookie, with everyone saying your team was taking a huge risk by signing you. I'm in a way more secure place."
"That's a very polite way of saying that you have two more Art Rosses than I am ever likely to see in my career," Bittle says, but there's no bite in it. "Hopefully not one more Stanley Cup than I'll ever get, but I suppose we'll see."
"My point is, and I've said this before, what you did took a ton of courage. Me coming out would be a walk in the park next to that. Honestly? I'd be willing to take much bigger risks to be with you."
"You would?" Bittle's voice is nearly a whisper.
"Yes," Jack says firmly. He doesn't want to admit the number of times he's wondered if maybe, if things are still good between them when his contract is up next year, he should consider seeing if the Leafs might be interested. "And hey," he adds, trying to lighten things a little, "it'd be nice to get the guys off my back, eh? As far as they know, I haven't been on a date or slept with anyone in a couple of years, and they're always trying to set me up."
Bittle laughs, then pauses. "You really haven't?"
"No," Jack says, and suddenly things feel heavy again. "I mean, obviously not all of that is because of you, but… some of it is. The past few months, I… What's the point, really, if I'm just going to wish they were you?"
"Oh, sweetpea," Bittle murmurs. "I mean, I haven't really been with anyone else, either, not since… gosh, since last season, at least. Y'know, my first few months in the league, I was such a novelty I had every gay hockey fan on the continent lining up and I did hook up with a few of 'em, but… Turns out, guys wanting to sleep with you because they see you as a novelty isn't as fun as it sounds. You were the first guy in a while who seemed interested in me, and not just interested in a gay NHL player. Even if it was just physical at first."
"At first," Jack agrees. "But I liked you as a person, even then. I'm not the type who can ignore personality if someone's hot enough."
"No, you never did seem like that type," Bittle says. "I liked you, too."
They're quiet for a minute.
When the Maple Leafs got knocked out of the playoffs in the first round, Jack found himself wishing he had Bittle's number, just to text his condolences, but it wasn't like that. They had their fun and parted ways, and didn't have any contact until after their next game against each other.
That changed in late July. Jack was on the email lists for the history departments of several colleges in the Boston area, and he'd gone up to Cambridge to hear a lecture at Harvard. Afterward, he walked around Harvard Square for a bit, thinking vaguely about birthday presents for his mother. He was looking at some necklaces in a shop window when someone down the block a bit started shouting.
"Bits! What the fuck do you mean you haven't been to motherfucking Bartley's? You're shitting me, how have I never introduced you to the finest burger in all of the Boston metropolitan area?"
That person was loud, but their exclamation was little more than a background buzz in Jack's ears until a more familiar voice replied:
"Shitty, calm down. All of Harvard Square does not care whose hamburgers I have or haven't eaten!"
Jack's head whipped around. Sure enough, two storefronts down was Eric Bittle, hands on his hips, looking fucking amazing with a tan, a tank top, and blissfully short shorts. The mustachioed man yelling at him was wearing a Notorious RBG tank top, cutoffs, and very large sunglasses. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but was just barely long enough, so chunks of it were hanging in his face. A short woman with a buzz cut was leaning on the wall next to them, smirking at the loud guy with the hair.
"Bittle?"
When he looked over, Bittle's annoyed expression melted as he recognized Jack.
"Jack!" He waved excitedly and took off down the sidewalk. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Jack wasn't quite prepared for Bittle to launch himself at him, but the tight hug was worth stumbling a little. He should have guessed Bittle was a hugger.
"I live an hour away," Jack reminded him with a laugh. "What are you doing here?"
"I went to college here, silly!" Bittle said as he pulled back. "Most of my friends are still in the area." By then, the other two had caught up and were lingering behind him. He motioned to them as he made introductions. "This is Shitty, he was on my team at Samwell. He just finished law school here at Harvard. And this here is Lardo, his fiancée. She was our team manager, and now she works for a graphic design firm in Boston. Guys, this is Jack Zimmermann. We hang out sometimes when we play the Falconers."
"Fuckin' A, Bits, I keep forgetting you know real fucking hockey players now," Shitty said as he shook Jack's hand enthusiastically.
Lardo seemed content with a nod and a "Hey."
"I was here for a lecture thing in the history department," Jack explained. "They don't have many over the summer, and it's hard to get to them during the season, so I figured I shouldn't miss it."
Bittle's face twitched oddly, like it couldn't settle on a fond expression or a chirping one. "You know, Jack almost went to Samwell with us," he said to his friends, his eyes still on Jack. "I think he woulda been your year, Shits. Sounds like you woulda fit right in, Jack."
Jack shrugged. "Sometimes I think maybe after I retire I'll go back for my degree. Probably won't be allowed in the NCAA then, though."
Shitty laughed loudly and clapped Jack on the shoulder. "A hockey player and a nerd! You're my kinda bro, man. You ever had Bartley's?"
Which is how Jack somehow found himself eating sweet potato fries and a cheeseburger named after a politician with Bittle and two people he'd never met before, one of whom seemed to have latched onto him as his new best friend. Not that he minded; Shitty didn't seem the least bit concerned with Jack's celebrity status. He wanted to hear about the lecture Jack had gone to, then told them some stories from his internship at the Suffolk County DA's office. Jack was never good with new people, but both Shitty and Lardo put him at ease. Shitty couldn't stop talking while Lardo hardly said a word, but they both seemed so genuine; Jack never got the feeling that either was being anything but completely themselves, which was something he always found reassuring. He'd spent enough of his life around people who were trying to be whoever they thought he would want them to be.
Jack's knees bumped Bittle's under the table occasionally, but they never maintained the contact. They snuck glances at each other, but didn't stare. Jack didn't even check out Bittle's ass in those tiny shorts when he got up to get the pepper from the next table, though he definitely wanted to. If either Shitty or Lardo suspected they were sleeping together, neither showed it.
By the time they were done and getting ready to pay their bill, Jack had heard enough tales of their time at Samwell to wonder if he really should have gone there. He didn't regret taking George's offer, hadn't ever regretted it for one moment since he signed the papers. When he imagined his life going a different way, it always involved him avoiding the overdose and making it into the draft; he'd never spent much time wondering what would have happened if he'd gone the college route. For the first time, he let himself imagine meeting all these people a few years earlier. It would have been good.
As they left the restaurant, he realized he still had no way of contacting Bittle, who was staying with Shitty, Lardo, and a couple of their other college friends for three weeks before he had to start preseason training. They'd be within easy driving distance of each other for ten more days, and Jack couldn't pretend like those tiny shorts weren't calling to him, begging him to find a way to get Bittle back into his bedroom. More than that, he realized, he really did just want to hang out with these people again.
"You know," he said once they were back out on the sidewalk, "I'm having a barbecue this weekend for my birthday. You guys should come down. Friday night?"
The other three responded enthusiastically, but then Bittle paused, a hand on Jack's arm.
"Wait, a barbecue? You don't even have a yard, where are you gonna put a grill?"
Jack raised an eyebrow. "I have a balcony. A big balcony with more than enough space for a pretty nice grill."
"You do?" Bittle's face scrunched up, like he was mentally reviewing the layout of Jack's apartment. "Where?"
"The doors open onto the dining room?" Jack said. "They're covered with curtains."
"Ohhhhh," Bittle said, but anything else he might have been about to say was cut off by Lardo.
"Dude, you've hung out, like, at his place?" She didn't sound suspicious, just confused. "I thought you usually just go to bars and stuff after games."
Bittle just shrugged. "Usually, but not always. Even professional hockey players want to just hang out with a few friends at home now and then."
Jack was impressed with Bittle's poker face; he hadn't thought of a single thing to say, himself, and probably would have blushed and stammered until Shitty and Lardo figured out exactly why Bittle had seen his apartment.
As it was, they seemed satisfied with Bittle's answer, and Jack got Bittle's number in order to text him the address.
Also, to see when he might be available to come down to Providence without his friends.
Which happened to be the next day. Shitty and Lardo both had to work, so Bittle didn't even have to find an excuse to come down alone.
Jack: Do me a favor?
Bittle: What's that?
Jack: Wear those shorts again?
Bittle: *blushing emoji*
Bittle did wear the shorts, not that they stayed on for long. It was fun, having hours and hours together, neither of them having to disappear like Cinderella after the ball. The sex was fantastic—Jack wasn't sure he'd ever had that many orgasms in one day before—and in between they watched some TV, ordered takeout, and baked cookies (after getting some groceries delivered because Jack did not own brown sugar, chocolate chips, or baking powder).
This time, when Bittle was heading out for his Uber, Jack didn't hesitate to pull him in for one more long kiss.
"See you Friday?" Bittle asked as they pulled back.
"I hope so," Jack said. "Oh, and do me a favor?"
"What's that, sugar?"
"Don't you dare wear these shorts."
Bittle was smirking as he left. Jack closed the door behind him, then leaned back on it, smiling to himself. He realized suddenly that he definitely thought of Bittle as a friend now, which he supposed made them friends with benefits. The last time he'd used that phrase was with Kent, and he marveled at how different the two situations were. He and Bittle were actually, literally opponents rather than teammates, yet off the ice there was none of the insistent thrum of competitiveness that had run through Jack and Kent's friendship even before they started having sex. He wasn't that close to Bittle yet, but Jack could tell he was a good friend in a way that Kent wasn't really capable of being. Not back then, at least.
Two nights later, Jack opened the door to find Bittle there with Shitty, Lardo, and two guys who must be their other housemates. He was balancing an impossible-looking stack of pies… and wearing those same little red shorts. Jack took two of the pies and led the way into the kitchen.
"By the way, you're a terrible person and I hate you," he muttered as they arranged the pies on the counter.
"Who, me?" Bittle said, batting his eyelashes innocently.
"What? You no hate Little B! Nobody hate Little B, not when he's bring so many pies!"
Jack startled at Tater's voice, but recovered quickly as Tater threw an arm around Bittle's shoulders.
"He knows what he did," Jack said darkly, giving Bittle an exaggerated glare. "And he's not even sorry, look at him."
"I have done nothing wrong, ever, in my life," Bittle said, nose in the air.
"I know this, and I love you," Tater replied seriously.
Jack squinted at them. "I feel like I'm missing something." Tater just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder on his way out of the kitchen. Bittle shook his head, a fond look on his face, and went back to pie-arranging.
Later, Jack was on the balcony alone, manning the grill, when Bittle came out and leaned on the railing next to him.
"This might be kinda silly," Bittle started, picking at the label on his beer bottle, "but I realized I really don't actually know you all that well yet, so I thought maybe I should check—you're not really mad at me, are you?"
Jack blinked at him for a second before he realized what Bittle was talking about. "About the shorts? No, no! Maybe a little frustrated, but… not the bad kind of frustrated."
Bittle smiled a little. "Okay. I just… I know your team is here and all, and I don't want to cause any trouble for you…"
"Bittle." Jack waited for him to look up before continuing. "If my teammates figure out what's going on because I can't keep my eyes off your ass, that's my problem, not yours, no matter what you're wearing. And besides, it's not like the whole team is here—only some of the guys I'm good friends with. If they did find out, it's not my first choice, but it's not the end of the world, either. You're fine."
He felt like he was getting a little overly-serious by the end, so he gave Bittle a small smile to make sure he knew Jack really wasn't upset. Bittle nodded.
"Okay, then," he said. "Thanks." He gave Jack one last small, private smile and headed back into the party.
As he turned over the burgers, Jack thought about what he'd just said. He really would be okay with any of the guys there knowing that he'd slept with Bittle. He wasn't completely sure about Bittle's friends yet, but Shitty and Lardo at least seemed trustworthy enough. He wasn't going to run over and tell them; there was no reason for them to know. But if they did, it'd be fine. He'd be fine. If some part of him maybe wanted them to know, wanted everyone to know… well, he wasn't ready to look at that part too closely just yet.
The silence on the phone stretches a little too long, like neither of them quite wants to be the one to finalize whatever it is they're deciding here.
"So…" Jack starts, not sure how, exactly, he's planning to finish that sentence.
"If we break up, it'd be an awful mess," Bittle says, quiet and fast like he doesn't want to say it but feels like he has to.
Jack's heart is in his throat. This is so much more than he thought he'd be saying anytime soon. Probably more than he should say even now, but… "It would. We shouldn't do this if we think there's any chance of that happening."
"…But you think we should? Try?"
"Yeah. I do. I want to."
Bittle laughs, and it sounds like he might be crying. "Lord. How the hell did I get in so deep so fast with you? You were not supposed to happen, Jack Zimmermann, but I'm damn glad you did."
"Me, too," is all Jack can think to reply. His phone buzzes in his hand and he pulls it away from his ear just long enough to glance at the screen. "Oh, hey, George is calling. Probably to tell me about the trade. Should I tell her? About us?"
Bittle takes a deep breath. "Guess you'd better. The paperwork's all signed; not like they can back out now."
"They'd better not," Jack says, grinning.
"Well that's that, then," Bittle says. "Lord, I can't believe I'll be waking up tomorrow in Providence to put on a Falconers uniform!"
If Jack has anything to say about it, Bittle will be waking up in his bed. "Let me know when you get your travel plans set, okay?"
"Sure thing, sweetheart. I can't wait to see you."
"Me, too."
They say their goodbyes and Jack manages to pick up George's call just before it goes to voicemail.
Jack can pinpoint the moment he realized he was in love.
After Bittle went back to Toronto, they kept texting regularly. Not about hockey, just about what they were doing. Bittle gave him updates on a case Shitty had been talking about at the party. He tried to bake something from Bittle's recipe and sent photos of the disastrous results. It was friendly, casual—the same kinds of things he might text to Tater or Thirdy.
Once the season started, they started hooking up again. But now, they were very clearly doing it as friends. Friends who, every time they saw each other, had grown closer in the intervening weeks. They didn't hide behind socializing with their teams anymore, preferring to spend as much time alone as possible. If they both happened to have a few hours off between practice and their game, they'd spend it at each other's apartments. Not having sex, not right before a game, but baking or watching TV or playing video games, then napping together. Their limited time together began to feel precious in a way Jack wasn't prepared for—he found himself missing Bittle, thinking of him randomly, wishing he was there.
When the Leafs came to Boston to play the Bruins in a matinee game, Jack met up with Bittle and his Samwell friends for dinner after. He felt at ease in the group even though he'd only met them a couple of times. They all clearly loved Bittle, not just accepting him but embracing him for who he was. It felt safe enough that Jack had to fight against the impulse to take Bittle's hand or put an arm around him. But it would be a silly risk to take for no good reason.
On his way home, thinking back on the evening, Jack realized that if they lived in the same city he'd want to be more than friends with benefits. He wondered what would happen if they went out for a romantic dinner, just the two of them, after a game sometime—would photos wind up online? Would there be speculation? A few years ago, the idea would have terrified him. Somehow, it didn't anymore.
Weeks later, when Bittle came back to Boston, Jack just went up and met him at a hotel for a couple of hours, because it was the best they could do.
The best they could do never quite felt like enough.
Then came the All-Star Game. Jack made it in, which was neither new nor a major surprise, given the stellar season he'd been having—but so did Bittle, having been voted in by fans.
There were parties, there was the thrill of playing together instead of against each other (and God, Bittle fit with Jack on the ice like nobody had since Parse), and there was a lot of time in hotel rooms with no curfew and few expectations pulling them away from bed. And entire nights where neither of them had to account for precisely where they slept.
After they'd thoroughly worn themselves out the first night, they lay there, tangled together, faces inches apart, talking quietly about the next day and trading soft kisses. Bittle's eyes started drifting shut between sentences, and then suddenly he burrowed into Jack's chest and below the covers.
And Jack knew.
He also knew he couldn't say the words. Even if Bittle felt the same way—and it seemed like he might—what good would it do either of them? What kind of relationship could they have, seeing each other a couple of times a month when they were lucky, usually less? Not even being able to spend most of those nights together? They never talked about who else either of them might be dating or sleeping with, but Jack couldn't ask Bittle to stop seeing anyone else for that. It already killed him that they couldn't have more than this; admitting the depth of their feelings would only make it hurt worse. For both of them.
Maybe someday. But not yet.
He held Bittle close, and fell asleep dreaming of the far-off day when they would be able to love each other freely, never imagining that it was less than a month away.