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There are plenty of justifiable reasons for Jack to be anxious. He allows himself to sit with them, alone in the locker room, making a mental list: the season home opener is only a few hours away, he's just found out he'll be starting, and his parents will be here to see it. Plus, the new carpeting in here is utterly hideous.
Less justifiable: Eric Bittle is just down the hall.
Jack breathes in, lets it out slow, frowns at his feet. It's like Vegas casino carpeting, dark blue with chaotic swirls of bright reds and yellows, odd starbursts of green and white. It makes no sense.
He hears the door open and turns his head to look toward it. Two managers, a handful of staff and one of the owners file in, sharp suits and ties, disrupting the quiet with their chatter. Immediately following them is actual Eric Bittle, with his bright blonde hair and a blue plaid button-down, hands tucked in his jeans pockets, and a smile Jack recognizes from countless hours lost to watching YouTube videos. He's looking around, taking in the cavernous span of the locker room while the staff rattle off facts and highlights.
Jack thought he'd be taller.
Someone holding a clipboard introduces them and Jack stands up. All he can do is stare at Eric's face, take his offered handshake, and barely contain himself from saying, I know-- I know who you are, I already know.
"Good to meet you, Jack," Eric says, all honeyed southern charm, his gaze bright. Jack has a new appreciation for why famous people are referred to as stars.
He nods quickly, his heart rate taking off, his mind racing to reconcile the reality of the person standing in front of him and the Eric Bittle he knows in his mind-- the culmination of interviews and articles, videos and albums-- all four of them plus their bonus tracks in near-constant rotation on Jack's iPod. The music has been a lifeline to him in more ways than he could even begin to express; the soundtrack to his triumphs and his sorrows and the companion to his travels. Jack's memory has inexorably linked miles of Canadian countryside blurring by through bus windows with Eric Bittle's lively and sentimental repertoire.
Eric's hand falls away and suddenly Holster appears, and the panicky flutter in Jack's stomach increases as Holster introduces himself. He asks for Jack's phone and Jack can't figure out why, handing it over anyhow, but then Eric turns a little, places a hand on his back, and Holster's holding the phone up at them and right-- of course. A photo.
"Jack," Holster admonishes. "Smile."
Jack tries, but he knows Holster's seen the contents of his iPod, has heard him go on and on about Eric. He waits for Holster to say something, to call him out and give him away and embarrass him to death, but it doesn't happen. He just hands the phone back with a knowing grin.
"Well, good luck tonight," Eric says as he's called away, something about time for the soundcheck. "Thank you for having me, I hope I can do your national anthem some justice."
"Me too," Jack says, then frowns at himself as his words catch up to his thoughts. "I mean-- you too. Thank you. For everything."
Jack watches him walk away, his gaze fixed for a long moment on Eric's slender shoulders, then the taper of his waist, the cut of his jeans. Holster knocks him from his reverie with a friendly slap on the back of his shoulder, his hand sliding up to squeeze the back of Jack's neck.
"Bro," Holster says, his voice lilting with amusement.
Eric sings, Jack's knees somehow manage not to give out, and the team wins 3-2. Jack gets back to his apartment late, exhaustion battling with the lingering adrenaline, making him restless. He's not supposed to take his laptop to bed-- he has enough trouble sleeping-- but he pulls up his email, because it's been a few days since he even looked at it. One subject line jumps out at him immediately.
Eric Bittle (@TheEricBittle) is now following you on Twitter!
Jack blinks. Ransom made him set up a twitter a long time ago. Jack remembers spending far too long worrying about what to call himself, and then even longer about what to write on it, and then he forgot about it entirely. He logs in to his twitter and realizes his last tweet was almost a year ago.
Ransom picks up when Jack calls, but it sounds like he's out, the background noise all thumping beats and loud chatter.
"Jack attack! Hang on, hang on--" Ransom says, and Jack waits, listening to the background noise recede. "What's up, man? You good?"
"Hey-- yeah. Um. How do I-- if-- when someone's following me on twitter, what do I do?"
There's a pause. "What?"
"I said, when someone's following--"
"No, I heard you," Ransom interjects. "You don't have to do anything, that's how it works, you're good."
"So should I make-- uh. Do an update?"
"Yes! If you want to. People who follow you, they can see what you write, that's all."
Ransom tells him how to bring up the compose screen, and promises to stop by the next day to explain it all to him again. Jack stares at the blank text box for a long time, thoughts and ideas rumbling around in his mind, all of them seeming mundane and meaningless. It finally dawns on him what he wants to write, and he starts to type, but then scrambles to grab his iPod, tucking in his earphones and navigating to the track he wants, double and triple checking that he gets the lyrics right, even though he memorized them long ago.
every now and then when I get to feeling lonesome, I just sing your melody and remember where I'm going.
It was never a single, but "Every Now and Then" from his major label debut has always been Jack's favorite Eric Bittle song. He tucks his computer away after that, but keeps his headphones in, turning the sound low enough that he can fall asleep.
*
Jack wakes up to 1,471 "likes" and some sort of message from Eric, which bizarrely he can only figure out how to read on his phone.
It was so great to meet you yesterday! I liked watching the game. Maybe you can explain hockey to me sometime.
Jack doesn't quite know what to say, much less how he's actually supposed to reply. He texts Ransom right away for assistance.
It's half past noon before Justin finally gets back to him. Jack's been skating in circles for two hours on the empty ice. Ransom meets him back at his apartment and brings tacos that Jack picks his apart with a fork while Ransom helps him understand replies versus direct messages.
"So what do you wanna say back to him?" Ransom asks, his expression looking far too amused.
"I dunno," Jack shrugs, pushing a pile of shredded lettuce to the edge of his plate. "I guess just like, 'sure. when?'"
"Come on, man," Ransom laughs. "You have absolutely no game."
Jack frowns. "What should I say, then?"
"How 'bout-- I dunno, something like--" Ransom grabs up Jack's phone, taps something in, then shows him the screen.
"No," Jack says immediately, snatching the phone back, smashing the backspace key a bunch of times. "I am not offering to tell him whatever he wants to hear with a-- a winky face."
Ransom gestures wildly. "The winky face is the most important part!"
Jack shakes his head. "No. Absolutely not."
"It totally says you're interested, without specifically being like, 'hey, can I see your dick?'"
"I don't want to see his dick," Jack says, trying his best to infuse conviction into his words.
"Still the worst liar in the world, bro."
Jack ends up asking Eric if he'd have any time to get dinner when the Canadian leg of his tour is over. He keeps his message simple and direct, and adamantly does not include a winky face.
It's three days later-- days in which Jack spends his free time spiraling through shaky YouTube clips from Eric's shows-- when he finally gets a reply. Eric includes his e-mail address, says he'd love to get dinner next week before he leaves for Los Angeles, and tells Jack to write him.
They begin to exchange messages and texts multiple times a day. Jack spends so much time smiling at his phone screen that his face starts to hurt. He makes Ransom and Holster take him shopping, and he asks his dad to help him get a restaurant reservation for the night Eric will be in town again. His parents both needle him, trying to find out who he's going to dinner with, but Jack refuses to say.
Jack's palms are sweating, and he drags them uselessly against the tops of his thighs as he waits. Eric shows up, precisely on time, looking effortlessly cool in a crisp white v-neck t-shirt with a pale grey blazer over it. He breaks into a smile when Jack stands up, and then he walks right over and gives Jack a hug.
"Hey you, thanks so much for meeting me, how are you? It's so good to see you again," Eric says all at once.
"Um, good," Jack replies. "How are you?"
Eric pulls his chair out and drops into it. "First of all," he begins, talking with his hands. "Canada is incredible."
Eric tells Jack all about about riding horses in Calgary and the bed and breakfast he got to stay in just outside of Vancouver. He gushes about how great it's been and how nice the restaurant is, and tells Jack that he should probably be in charge of ordering the wine because Eric's not any good at that sort of thing.
In the end they just let the waiter choose for them.
Jack tries not to be nervous, but it's hard because he remembers all of a sudden at times that he's having dinner with Eric Bittle. Except he's not just the Eric Bittle of photo shoots and playlists anymore; he's Eric who sends rambling e-mails in the middle of the night, Bittle who constantly misspells 'apparently', Eric who is cute and quirky and who asks Jack about where he grew up and what his family is like. It's the real Eric Bittle that somehow Jack has no problem talking to. It's Eric Bittle who tells Jack that when his music career slows down, what he'd really like to do is go to pastry school.
They sit in the restaurant talking for ages, until it all but clears out.
"I didn't even get a chance to explain to you about hockey," Jack says.
"Well, I'm not about to turn into a pumpkin or anything," Eric replies.
Jack checks the time on his phone. "The west coast games have just started, if you want to come back to my place to watch them?"
"Could I? You wouldn't mind?"
"I have coffee," Jack says. "And some really nice tea."
Eric smiles a little, meeting Jack's gaze. "I'd love to."
*
Jack has only just flicked the light on in the kitchen, intending to put the kettle on for tea, when Eric lets out a peculiar sound of delight. When Jack looks over at him, he's making a beeline for the oven.
"Oh my goodness, are you even serious with this?" Eric says, running his fingers along the brushed stainless handle. His eyes are wide as saucers.
Jack picked the place based on the location. The skylight in the bathroom was a nice bonus. He knows the kitchen is relatively high end, but it didn't really sway his decision either way.
"I don't use it very much," Jack admits. It's almost true. His mom used it once.
"I'm sorry, it's just," Eric closes his eyes, resting his hand on his chest, a wistful grin playing at his lips. "I haven't seen an actual kitchen in more than a month."
"Make yourself at home, then."
Eric's eyes open quickly. "Do you mean that? Please tell me you mean that."
Jack raises an eyebrow. "I mean it."
Eric grins with excitement and takes off his blazer.
Minutes later, the island countertop is covered with baking ingredients, half of which Jack has to order up from the fancy 24-hour grocery on the first floor of his building. The fruit intended for his protein smoothies gets expertly transformed into a bubbling, sugary berry crumble. They eat it in front of the television with melting scoops of vanilla ice cream, and Jack pulls up the DVR to carefully, patiently start to explain to Eric how hockey works. They sit closer than strictly necessary, but it's nice, the companionship, the occasional brush of Eric's elbow against his own, their socked feet propped up side by side on the ottoman.
"So you're off to Los Angeles after this?" Jack says, the third period ticking down and down.
"Yeah, bright and early tomorrow."
Jack's heart thuds a little harder and he bites his lip. "Thanks for-- baking for me."
"Thanks for having me over," Eric says, easy as anything. "And for teaching me about hockey."
"I don't think--" Jack starts, nervousness arresting his vocal chords for a moment, until he swallows hard. "You know how much I like you."
There's a terrifying pause before Eric responds, and Jack feels his face flood with warmth.
"You do?"
Jack nods slightly, and curls his hands where they rest on his thighs, trying to keep them from shaking. "I have every one of your albums. They're-- they mean a lot to me."
"Oh," Eric says, and he sounds vaguely disappointed.
Jack turns his head finally to look at him. Eric's smile is small, and it doesn't reach his eyes, and confusion swirls heavily in Jack's stomach.
"I just thought you'd probably want to know that," Jack says. "Before I ask you if I can see you again."
Eric's brow twitches in surprise. "You want to see me again?"
"Sometime?" Jack says, his voice going quiet, hopeful sincerity. "I know it might not be soon, but--"
Eric smiles at him, and it makes Jack's chest go tight. "Yes," Eric says. "I want to, yes."
Jack will never be able to say with any certainty which one of them kissed the other first. Only that they did, right as the game was ending, and Jack could feel himself unfolding like a map of someplace new.