Archive of Our Own

Shit…

What did he take the day before?

Bob tried to open his eyes. It was way too early – but there was an alarm ringing, and it was loud.

Half unconscious, he tried to reach for the alarm clock on the bedside table. He had no such luck. Slowly, he opened his eyes – the alarm clock was right there, a fancy new thing with red digital numbers flaring at him, but the sound wasn’t coming from it.

Bob felt his heart stopping when suddenly, he felt an arm on his shoulder, and saw another reach the bedside table to take a little black… TV? Watch?, touch it, and stop the noise instantly. The person then dropped the screen and went back immediately under the covers, before literally kicking Bob out of the bed, groaning.

Okay.

That wasn’t Alicia.

And that wasn’t their bedroom.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Everything was still blurry, but now that he was out of the bed, Bob could more or less navigate.

Ok, so.

He was standing, in his underwear, in the middle of a room he had never seen, with a girl he couldn’t remember hiding under the covers, and he had a wife and a baby waiting for him at home. Where did he play yesterday again? It was… Boston. Or New York?

It didn’t matter actually, because what mattered was that no amount of alcohol or coke could excuse the fact that he ended blacking out enough to cheat on his wife. Well. He probably didn’t cheat on anyone. He loves Atzi too much. He just… Got so drunk that he couldn’t remember the way back to the hotel, and this girl brought him back to hers, and nothing nefarious happened. It wasn’t even a lady! Probably! He hoped! It definitely was a guy in there anyway – so, definitely nothing happened. Yes, that’s exactly what went on yesterday.

On the wall opposite to the bed, the door to the bathroom was opened – Bob made his way here.

Getting some fresh water on his face helped to finish to wake himself up. Things were still blurry, but at least he could keep his eyes open.

He needed to go back to his own hotel soon, he thought, examining his face on the mirror. Something was off. Was it the five-o-clock shadow? Why did he even have one? He usually needed at least two weeks to reach this point? Urgh.

He didn’t feel like using anything in this overly fancy bathroom, really. He just picked some clothes on the floor that seemed more or less his size, put them on, and left the bathroom, then the bedroom where the person was still sleeping. 

It was… one hell of a fancy apartment. The style was unlike anything Bob had ever seen, all in white and beige and greys with small touches of colour here and there, but so – tame.

There was a huge, furnished kitchen open on the living-room area, so, immediately, Bob made his way to the fridge.

The fridge had a television screen and seemed way too futuristic, in a boring way. And was full of vegetables and fruits and boxes of lentils and of something that looked like meat, but definitely wasn’t meat, and – tofu? The package reads tofu, but Bob had never seen tofu before, where the hell did he end up now – but he finally managed to find some normal milk in between “almond milk” and 50 jars of jam, right after the fridge started to beep at his face.

There was some bread on the table to go with the jam, so Bob sat down there, with some cookies he found, a tall glass of normal milk, (the coffee maker was scaring him. He definitely didn’t know how to use this monster.) and some paper and a pen he found in a drawer. Boy, was it still blurry.

So. He needed to find his wallet, and remember where the hell was his hotel to get a taxi there. Probably wait for the person who brought him here to get some explanations about yesterday, too. He didn’t see any phone in this place, so he needed a few quarters to call his teammates for them not to worry and to call Alicia too.

Oh, and clothes. He needed his clothes. No way this plain black T-shirt and boring jeans were his.

Ah; he probably had puked all over himself the night before.

What a mess. He had promised to slow down on parties when Jack was born.

“Mmh… You’re not running?”

Bob startled. Behind him, the owner of the place had just entered the kitchen.

It was definitely not a lady, at least. It was a short, blond man, that Bob had never seen, and only wearing a blue hockey jersey that was way too big.

“… No?”

“Uh- Sweetpea, you mean you woke me up early for nothing?” the guy groaned.

… Sweetpea. Okay, who did this guy think he was-

“Ah, I could just go to work early, I’m late on paperwork as usual. Do you want me to drop you off at the rink?” he asked. “Tater can bring you back- uh. You didn’t feed the rabbits, did you?”

The man waked to the fridge, opened it and pulled out some vegetables before cutting them on the nearest counter.

Bob just frowned at his back.

His blue jersey, more precisely.

Bob never had a blue jersey.

Red and then yellow in his early years, red and white with the Habs, black and yellow now.

Not this turquoise, flashy blue and white. And the number 1? Bob may not have one humble bone in his body, but he knew better than to display it like that, for everyone to see.

What the fuck?

The guy had finished cutting the vegetables that he brought to the living-room, and he was now eating some bread and drinking coffee (he managed to make sense of the coffee maker in ten seconds!) while watching a mini-TV in his hand.

Bob couldn’t eat any more. The guy was quick to finish though, and to leave the kitchen, announcing he was going to the bathroom. Once out, he scolded Bob for not being ready yet, handing him a pair of awful, bright neon yellow shoes.

What the hell.

A quick look at the shoe rack let him know it was the only sneakers that would fit his feet.

He couldn’t be seen in public like that.

He didn’t have much of a choice, though, because the guy rushed him with a big hockey bag into the elevator, all the way down to the basement where cars were parked.

“I’ll text you when I’ll know when I’ll be back, but probably not before mid-afternoon,” the guy said while sitting in a sleek black car that he opened without a key. “I’ll stop at this bakery with Dex after lunch, we need to go over a few things with the baker before the video we’re shooting on Friday. He doesn’t know much about YouTube, so…”

Bob didn’t say anything, just sat in the passenger seat that was warm under his ass and kept his hands clenched on the armrest, his eyes on the dashboard -that was just a television screen- because the alternative was to keep his eyes on the wheel that the guy didn’t even touch on some segments of the trip. The car was driving alone. Bob was going to die before whatever acid he had taken the day before wore off.

He tried to also not look at what was outside, because the very little he’d seen was definitely not Pittsburgh. Or New York. Or Montreal. Or any city he had ever seen in his life, to be honest. The music on the radio didn’t really help him feel better, really. He never heard it before.

Bob had no fucking clue where he was, in more way than one. Everything was still so blurry.

The guy finally stopped on a parking lot, near what seemed to be a big, way too modern building. An arena, it seemed like. Bob didn’t know many kinds of buildings besides arenas, to be fair.

“Hop down!” the guy said and Bob grabbed his bag and started to open his door. “See you later, love!”

And then – the guy kissed him.

Bob didn’t even have the time to react, he was already out of the car and the guy was driving away.

He felt like barfing.

What. The. Hell. Who did this- this guy think he was¸ to peck him on the lips like that, gross, a guy, and, fuck, Atzi and Jack were waiting for him at home what the hell was he doing and -

“Hey, Zimmermann!”

Bob jumped at that, clenching his fist on his bag. Please, tell me they didn’t see that guy kiss me.

“The hell are you doing, standing there?”

It was a short lady, with brown hair and thick glasses, who was talking to him, waving in her hand something that seemed to be her car keys. Her tone was more concerned than surprised.

“I- I was going to, eh.”

“I saw Bitty leaving, how is he doing?”

Bitty, uh. Bitty.

Does she know him?

“Eh.”

“Yeah, okay...? See you in PT later, if you ever manage to make it there,” she just said, entering the building.

Bob breathed out. She clearly hadn’t noticed what happened in the car. So instead, he focused on the building – it was, indeed, a rink.

He knew rinks.

Breathe in, breathe out, and Bob walked in the building, past the security officer near the door.

There was… a lot of blue. It clearly wasn’t the main entrance of the building, but the staff door, and Bob arrived in a big lobby with arrows everywhere and no idea of where to go.

He never saw this arena, ever, in his entire life. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He felt his hands tremble and his mind go glassy – and his hands never tremble, his mind is never glassy, what is happening, looking desperately for something, somewhere, that would tell him where he was.

On one of the walls of the lobby, the one right in front of him, was spread a huge picture of a hockey team standing on the ice with huge grins, blue confetti and, in the middle, the Stanley Cup.

Providence Falconers 1^st Cup, it was written.

What. Where the hell is Providence. What the hell was the Stanley Cup doing there.

Bob came a bit closer, rubbed his eyes to try to see clearer, to try to recognise a player, somewhere, someone.

He just recognised himself, in the middle, with a A on his white and blue jersey and holding the cup with one arm and this ‘Bitty’ from this morning with the other, kissing his cheek.

“Mais qu’est-ce-” he uttered, because what would you want him to say?

Next to this huge spread, on the wall, there was a collection of newspaper clippings and smaller photographs, but the thing that drew Bob’s (and everyone’s, really, it was standing out like a sore thumb) eye immediately was a clipping pasted on rainbow paper and framed in purple.

It was the front page of the newspaper, with a colour picture of Bob, kissing this Bitty; he read the headline, in a big and bold font: “Zimmermann gay??”

No, Zimmermann not gay.

“Hey, qu’est-ce c’est qu’tu fais là?”

Bob, once again, startled, and he turned around to see a man standing next to him, just as tall and built as himself. A quick check on the wall confirmed that he was (probably) this one guy on the other side of the cup.

“Allez come on, on va être en retard à l’entraînement sinon,” the guy said, and he put his hand on Bob’s shoulder to lead him towards a corridor.

Practice. That, Bob could do, even if still probably high on psychedelics.

Practice was hard. The gym seemed straight out of one of those science-fiction movies that Alicia loved so much, so he tried to do his own thing with the oldest-looking machines he found, and ice-time wasn’t any easier. The exercises the coaches asked them to do were nothing like Bob was used to – or, they were, but much more intensive than what he was used to.

At least, he didn’t have to think. He was just following the ‘Zimmermann!’’s from the coaches and his teammates and followed as well as he could. He recognised none of his teammates, of course; neither their faces nor their names, emblazoned on their backs.

One of them -Robinson- slapped his shoulder between two exercises, and he asked, with a worried tone:

“You okay man? You don’t react half of the time when we’re calling you.”

“Fine. Fine, I’m fine.”

“Zimboni!” (Zimboni, what a stupid nickname.) “You team with me for the exercise!” a tall-ass player (Mashkoff?) shouted from farther away in the rink.

“Uh. Well, go with Tater,” Robinson said, “but honestly if you don’t feel well just tell the coaches and sit out of practice, you’re just going to hurt yourself. I don’t want to have Bitty after my ass if you’re injured.”

Why is everyone so obsessed with this kid anyway?

Bob scoffed and skated to this ‘Tater’, to try to exercise as well as he could.

There was a lunchbox in his hockey bag, with a post-it with a ‘Love You’ and a heart on top and some chickpeas and couscous and cucumber salad inside, and another with a slice of pie. Bob tossed them at the bottom of the bag, and followed the guys to the staff cafeteria in hope to get some actual food to eat.

They all frowned at his plate of cafeteria meat and slice of chocolate cake. Bob did his best to try to ignore them. He was so hungry. First, eat, then, try to sit down alone in a corner to actually take the time to freak out and to think. Or to wait for the drugs to get out of his system.

Two of the guys (Robinson and St-Martin?) in particular shared a look over his plate.

“Hey… Let’s reschedule this afternoon’s captain meeting, ok?” one of them said.

“We’ll face time tonight instead, good for you?”

Bob had never heard ‘face time’ for ‘meeting’, but he still hummed so they’d leave him alone. Fuck, that was some good meat. He felt like his body hadn’t gotten a steak in two months.

“I bring you back home, Zimboni!” Tater loudly said. “But I chose the music.”

Tater’s car was at least acceptable. Well. It was a Mercedes. Bob had never seen this model, and it still had a television-dashboard, but at least it wasn’t driving itself.

“You sick?” Tater finally asked while they were stopped at a red light.

“Maybe,” because being delirious often was a symptom of illness.

“You argue with Bitty? You didn’t have lunchbox.”

“No!” because, really, what kind of hallucination was that where everyone was obsessed with this Bitty?

“You will, if he knows you ate cafeteria cake. I won’t tell.”

Bob crossed his arms and didn’t say anything until the guy stopped the car in front of the same building as this morning. Bob got out of the car, his hockey bag in hand and was about to run inside without saying goodbye, but the window of the car opened.

“Honestly, if you have problem, you tell me okay?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You promise, Jack?”

And the guy left.

Bob stayed on the pavement for a while, looking at the car driving down the street, and then turn.

Slowly, Bob walked to the front door of the building. The glass reflected his own face. Probably. All was still blurry. There was a key in his jacket pocket, that he managed to put in the door with his trembling hands.

Climbing the stairs was a feat, his breathing was getting more and more erratic, and not only because he was climbing so many stories, he didn’t even remember which it was when he took the elevator this morning. He checked the names on the doors from the ninth floor, and when he finally found ‘Zimmermann – Bittle’ on the twelfth, he was trembling from head to toe. Still, he managed to open the door with the key, and he ignored the mezuza when he entered.

The hockey bag fell from his shoulder. His mouth was so dry.

What was happening. Was he still hallucinating? Was he even hallucinating?

There was a mirror on the wall of the living-room, in between pictures of bridges, ducks and people grinning. This Bitty, a lot, other people, with ‘Samwell’ shirts, also. Samwell was Alicia’s alma mater. Bob never set a foot here. And yet – right next to the mirror, there was this picture of himself, in graduation robes, grinning and arm in arm with a smiling man with a thick moustache. Bob never finished high school.

His reflection in the mirror was so lost. But- but it was himself. His build. His height, his shoulders. He brought his hand to his cheek – he could feel it. His mouth, his nose – so big –, his cheekbones, his hair. Atzila’s eyes.

Jack’s eyes.

A beard that wasn’t much but more than Bob could grow; teeth that haven’t been bothered to be whitened in a while if at all. No scar on his neck, where he took a skate once, hopefully not deep enough to actually hurt – but one on the chin. A collection of moles, shallow fresh scars -like pet scratches- and bruises on the forearms, that he couldn’t recognise. Bitten nails, at the end of way too long fingers, on hands where you could feel all the callouses and yet, with a skin so soft. The ring on his finger, that wasn’t the big gold wedding band Bob was always sporting, but a plain, silver in colour one, that was just that – a band.

“Jack?”

There was something visceral in Bob’s guts when he heard this voice, -the kid’s voice-, but he couldn’t put a word on it.

“Jack? Where- Oh.”

He could see from the corner of his eye the guy hounding around him, crouching to his level, but not touching him.

“Ok, Jack. Breathe with me. In- Out.”

Bob couldn’t follow.

“Ok; I- Ah. Oh, God. Five things you see? Can you tell me five things you see?”

Bob couldn’t talk. He just shook his head.

“Ok, ok. I’ll just talk until you calm a little, okay? Tater texted me he was bringing you home early because you weren’t feeling well. Dex is with me. Well he’s downstairs now, he’s taking the mic and the lights he bought this morning out of the car. We’re going to work in my office this afternoon. We were supposed to meet with this baker for the video we’re shooting soon but we’ll do the brief on Skype instead. And we have the editing of at least three videos to finish. Otherwise, er- At the cooking school, I finished all the paperwork I had to do, and had the time to place the orders for the next three classes I’m giving. I’m doing the kiddies class on Saturday- the one where Marty’s son goes, remember? And- ok, you seem to be breathing better. Can you get up?”

Bob probably could, but the kid said: ‘I’m going to touch you, okay?’ before helping him up and leading him to the bedroom. He was so tiny.

The kid didn’t let go of him until he was sitting on the bed, and then went to the bathroom. Bob could hear him fill a glass of water, and open some drawers. Not sure of what he should be doing, Bob got up, and slowly walked to the bathroom, still trembling a bit.

“… You forgot your anxiety meds this morning, right?” Bitty asked, loudly. “Really, you- oh, you’re here. Feeling better?”

Bob wasn’t sure if he was feeling better, but he now breathed normally and he didn’t feel like his head was a traffic jam.

There were several pills packages on the counter, and the boy had a small screen in hand, that was displaying… So much text, that he was skimming through without a second thought.

“I don’t remember the dosage of what you should take during a panic attack. And I’m checking if you can take your daily meds at this hour. You texted all of this to me once, right? Err… You’re the one who usually remind me to take my ADHD meds, I’m not used to… anyway. No wonder you were out of it all morning,” he rambled endlessly.

“Mmh,” Bob just said, taking a pill bottle to try to read it. He had to hold it so close to his eyes, but even then, it was hard to try to make sense of what was inside.

Bitty rummaged a bit more under the counter, and pulled a small, transparent box from there, and he asked, sounding really concerned:

“… You forgot your contacts too this morning?”

Ah.

Contacts.

Suddenly a lot of things seemed clearer.

Or, rather, they were still as blurry, and that was the problem.

“It really isn’t your best day, mmh?” Bitty said, opening the lenses case. “Hop hop, put them on before you get a headache.”

No way that in this reality, or any other, Bob would put something ON his eyes. No. Way. He’s not sticking his fingers on his eyes. He’s not gluing contacts on them.

He slowly raised his still trembling hand, probably to do something, anything to protect himself from those horrors, but Bitty interpreted it differently.

“Oh, yes. You’re still trembling, you’re just gonna poke your eye. And it’s nap time anyway, uh- take your glasses,” he said, looking at some old-school looking frames on the counter. “And take that, too,” he said, shoving the pills in his hand and the glass of water.

Bob took the pills first, one by one, while Bitty explained to him he was going to ‘do some editing with Dex’ in the office, to just come in or text (?) if he needed anything, and Bob was, once again, all alone with his thoughts.

He put on the glasses, and his son’s big, sad eyes were looking back at him in the mirror.

How did he not notice sooner.

And now… what.

Bob went back to the bedroom and lay on the bed, trying to focus on calming down. The pills must have had some effect, because he felt more like he was thinking a bit more clearly. Or was it because he was finally putting together the pieces of the puzzle?

He was, for some reason, in his baby Jack’s body instead of his, at least twenty years in the future, and… And Bob was fairly sure he wasn’t tripping, now. He did his fair share of psychedelics before Atzi got pregnant, and, let’s be honest; nothing had been this real. This long, this precise, this weird.

So, what’s the other option? God pulling his leg? Bob didn’t care much for the guy, but he knew he did nothing to offend Him (ok, maybe a few things, but nothing really really bad), so He’d probably have better things to do with his time.

What, now… Cup Magic?

Bob had heard of the rumours, of course. The Cup doing tricks to the players who just won it. This one turned into an animal, those two being unable to talk for a while, this one being served with so many proofs that his wife was cheating… Two other switching bodies…

It was just rumours.

It would make sense, though, if Bob could remember winning the Cup recently.

His last memory was – New York? He couldn’t have won the Cup in New York, right? They were in the same division as Pittsburgh, but- the playoffs. They won against New York in the playoffs, he remembered now. And now- Yes. He played the entire playoffs. The flashes were coming back to him, all at once and tangled together. He was so lost in his head when it was playoffs seasons. And Jack was at home, and he was crying all day and all night, so… So Bob wasn’t spending a lot of time with him. But the playoffs were important, he’ll have all summer to hang out with his little buddy. Focus, Bob. Did you play the finals?

Minnesota. Yes. He won. In Pittsburgh. Atzi and Jack were here, and on the ice, he had tried to sit Jack in the Cup and instead, his son took a shit in there. How could he forget?

After that – they left Jack to the baby-sitter, and Atzi and he went out to party with the team, and then, absolutely nothing came to his mind. Okay. He must have been black-out drunk, and then, wake up here.

Okay. It made sense. Kind of.

Now – why?

Jack hadn’t won the Cup the day before, clearly, because it was fall right now. The trees outside were all almost naked, it was cold and humid, not the Cup-winning season at all. So, it wasn’t a switch between a Cup winner and another. It was just any other random day in his son’s future life. Maybe there was a lesson that he needed to get from this mess – but which?

There was something in Jack’s life that was important for Bob to work onto, and-

And to be fair, there were so many, that Bob didn’t even know where to begin.

That life- that life wasn’t what Bob had envisioned for his son, at all. The self-driving car and the pool table in the middle of the expensive condo, maybe, but.

Jack was gay and Bob wasn’t sure of what to do with this information. He wasn’t sure of what Future Bob was doing with his information, actually. No one mentioned him, today. Were they even talking? Was he… was he even alive? Maybe today was the day he dies, or something, so that’s why he gets to see it, or? No, Bob. Don’t think about morbid things, you’ve got enough on your plate already.

Jack was gay. Ok. Bob wasn’t a fan. Who would be? Who would held their newborn son, and instead of saying ‘You… You’re a Jacob’, would say, ‘You? You’re going to be the most flamboyant homosexual I’ve met.’?

It’s not that Bob had fundamentally something against gays, they can do what they want away from him, it’s just that… It’s his son. His flesh and blood. That’s different. You don’t want to have a son and learn that he’ll chose this lifestyle – Fuck. The promiscuity. The morals. The illness. Which father would want that for his son?

At least, one look at this boy of his and everyone knew who was the man.

Being gay didn’t seem to stop Jack playing in the NHL, at least. Or it probably did? Of course Bob dreamed of the NHL for his son, and he knew he was going to do everything in his power to help him reach this goal, but, fuck. Providence. Where was even Providence? Who cared about hockey there? It was probably some small expansion team, not the Penguins or the Habs or even, fuck, the Bruins, so what was Jack doing there? There was no way it was prestigious enough for Jack Zimmermann, the third Zimmermann playing professional hockey after Bob and Bob’s own dad. Were they the only ones who’d sign him?

Bob remembered the pictures on the wall of the living room; there were some also in the bedroom, the same group of people, the jerseys, the hoodies. Jack went to college; Samwell, even, where Atzi went. At what age did he sign in the NHL? How long of a detour was it? Why? Was he not good enough to start earlier?

And the pills. The pills he had to take when his brain just shut off, something that Bob never experimented before, the pills he apparently had to take every day, the fact that, pill taken or not, Bob clearly felt like his brain wasn’t wired normally and how he’s used to.

Where did Bob fuck up his son. Had he been sent here to realise his mistakes? Get another chance to do it right? Because, fuck. Bob would do anything to give his Jack a better chance at life.

He could hear this Bitty talk with this ‘Dex’ in the next room. The sound of the nails of the rabbits on the wooden floor.

Pet rabbits. Who had that. Why not a dog, like everyone else. And who let them roam free in an awfully expensive apartment with awfully expensive furniture. And fed them fresh vegetables instead of all-ready mixes. Who even had a fridge with only fresh vegetables and not a ounce of meat anywhere.

Bob got up of the bed, walked a bit around the room (there wasn’t much in this big room, to be fair), and he finally sat at the desk. There was a collection of pictures on the wall right above it that held his attention.

An old one, of his Papa, in black & white. He was wearing a Habs jersey. Shamuel “Sammy” Zimmermann had played semi-professionally for the As de Québec, except for a few games he got to play in the NHL for the Habs. This picture had been taken before his first game on the big boys ice. The second picture… Was Bob, himself. With his Habs Jersey. And his Papa at his arm. Both were grinning. It was, once again, taken right before Bob’s first NHL game.

The third picture was Papa and Bob, both in their jerseys, around a shyly smiling Jack in his own, white and light blue Providence jersey. Probably taken right before his first NHL game.

It’s a bit heart-wrenching to see his papa here, so old and so frail. A bit of a relief, too; Bob had many more years with him, it seemed. He should call him when he’ll be back.

“You’re up?”

Bitty had entered the room, but it looked like he was trying to be discreet.

“I’m just – I need my laptop charger to work, I’m going back now- But you’re not napping?” he asked, as he walked to the desk right next to Bob.

“No, I… Not tired.”

“You’re feeling better, at least?”

Bitty’s voice was soft, and he was looking with such intensity in Bob’s eyes… In Jack’s eyes, actually.

“Eh… Yes. Yes, I’m good.”

The boy’s hand was now suddenly on Bob’s cheek, and he was gently stroking it with a sad smile on his face.

Bob didn’t know what to do.

“Glad you’re feeling better.”

“I… Yes.”

“You know you can tell me when you’re having a bad mental health day, right? You could have told me this morning.”

“I- I didn’t realise I wasn’t feeling good,” Bob tried.

“Yeah, I know. You’re so set on doing everything yourself. But, Sweetpea. You can rely on me, you know? You’re always here when I need you. Let me be here too for you, okay?”

Bob just hummed at that, turning his eyes away from Bitty’s, even if only slighty, because he just couldn’t hold his gaze any more. Bitty’s smiled grew fond – loving, even, Bob had to accept it – and the kid pressed a kiss on his forehead.

“Love you.”

He then separated from Bob, and gathered a black electric cable that was plugged below the desk and connected to nothing.

“Ah, Dex and I are pulling together a quick apple pie with the dough that was in the fridge. With the expensive apples, because apparently you like those so much more. It should be ready in one hour and a half, if you want a slice.”

“Err… Aren’t you working?” Bob frowned.

“Oh, please, stop hounding me!” the guy suddenly said, over-dramatic. “Yes maybe we’re working, but that’s just a pie! Who doesn’t just bake a pie or two while working?”

Bob closed his mouth and looked back at the pictures on the wall. If five years with Alicia taught him anything, it’s that sometimes it’s better to not insist.

“Ok… So, pie, one hour and a half. But- I don’t have a watch,” Bob diverted.

“A wa-… ? Where the fuck is your phone?” Bitty frowned, spinning on himself to scan the room. “Here. On your nightstand, big idiot,” he said, walking there to pick the small television screen and throw it towards Bob who caught it. “Anyway, I go back to work now. I need to upload the video tomorrow morning!”  

He left the room, leaving Bob along with this television screen that was, definitely, not a phone. He tried to handle it a bit, until he clicked on one of the very discreet buttons on the side and the screen lit up in an instant!

It displayed a picture Bitty and two of the people Bob saw on the pictures on the wall – the lad with a moustache, and the short Asian lady cuddling on the couch with the two rabbits that were roaming in the condo. Phones could take pictures now? That was something Bob could look up too. (And invest in. He really should make a list of all the technologies he needs to invest in.) It also showed the date (November 26) and the hour (just past two), just before turning off again. Bob tried to click on the side buttons more, but couldn’t get the screen to display anything else, until he touched the screen itself. It asked him to draw a schema to unlock. Bob gave up on the thing.

Well.

What, now.

Bob felt like he was here to learn something. To learn how he could help his son.

There must be something. Anything.

So, he started to go through what was on the desk – a lot of papers, neatly ranged in binders for medical stuff or money or bills, books, pens, (so many cheap pens and a fucking S.T. Dupont shoved here like it’s nothing), a potted plant that had seen better days, two half-empty water bottles and a Rubik’s Cube; in the drawers next to it, journals, so many of them, some empty some filled from the first page to the last, some knitting yarn, needles and half-finished projects (knitting now, really?), and on the top drawer, a folded tallit, some well-worn tefillin, a collection of kippot and prayer books.

The tallit was all white. It was the one Atzi’s parents got for Jack when he was born. One of the two kippot that was at the top, and probably used the most, was the one Shamuel Zimmermann brought when he crossed the Atlantic during the war.

Bob didn’t even know how to put on tefillin.

He put everything back, and he re-opened the journals drawer. He randomly opened one – the writing was harsh, a bit inequal, but easy to read and all in French. It was so weird to see Jack’s handwriting. Jack was making messes with his crayons and eating the fingerpaint Atzi had brought.  

Reading all of those was probably a bit intrusive – but Bob needed to understand. Just… Read enough, to know what he should do, for his son.

The journals all were numbered on the spine. He picked the first. There was no preamble, no front page. Just, the first entries.

It hit Bob like a freight train.

2009 – Jack was 18, almost 19.

Rehab.

Quick, he skimmed through the next entries, trying to get any information.

Bob had to close the journal so it wasn’t ruined by his tears.

He was right. He had been the one who fucked up his son.

His son – who was clapping when he was on TV, who was grinning when he was trying to walk, one step at a time towards his arms, who was singing ‘papa papa papa’ to himself for hours, who was scared of the dark and hated socks as much as broccoli, was so disappointed in him that he tried to…

Fuck. How could Bob fuck up enough that Jack could think, for one second, that he wasn’t proud of him.

Slowly, he reopened the journal, trying to pick the entries he read.

He felt some guilt about doing that. But that was his son, who needs him. Had needed him. Will need him.

And then, he arrived in Israel, and apparently Jack was seeing a girl he was in his Ulpan with. Or maybe not, because Jack described a few romantic outings and then a ‘She tried to kiss me. Apparently we had been dating for a while and I didn’t realise.’ He started a job as a peewee coach, because his grandma who didn’t really understand the whole NHL thing and how it had fucked Jack up had seen the local rink was looking for a coach and she had sent his resume because she was tired of him moping around the house all day. He went from hating the job to loving it as the entries went. There was the associative LGBT centre of Tel-Aviv he was walking in front of every time he was going to the rink – he was psyching himself up for entering it for months, but he never did.

He mentioned maybe wanting to go to college. His coworkers all went to uni, and he joined a few classes as a listener. In the journal, there was summaries of the two classes he went to – both in English, and about History, and he seemed passionate about it. He had drafted in the journal an ‘e-mail’ he wanted to send a professor to know if he could write the same essay as his classmates and have a grade, just to know if it was good, even if he didn’t have to as an auditor. The peewee classes and the uni classes were all Jack was talking about.

Bob wondered if this Jack used to be as passionate when talking about hockey.

He came back to Canada in Early June 2010.

Then, the entries were mostly mood reports with dosages and names of meds. Homework about food intake, too. About finding a new peewee team to coach.

With the months, a few words about NHL games he had watched this day.

After that, lists of pros-cons of different colleges.

Bob was glad to see that ‘hockey team’ was among the criteria.

The choice was on Samwell, in the end. A few entries where he wondered if he would be good enough for the classes, for the team, for Bob and Atzi. Of course you will be! Bob wanted to yell, but then there was an almost relapse where Jack managed to call for help before anything terrible happened.

College seemed harsh, but Jack made a friend “with a moustache, who calls himself Shitty”. Barely no mention of the rest of the team, at least not about things that weren’t hockey. He talked a lot about classes. A bit about parties where he felt so out of place when he got nothing to dissociate out of them. About a girl he saw a few times and he wished he could love.

Apparently, Jack would be moving in in the ‘Haus’ in September, and Shitty too so Bob was relieved. He was voted captain too, one and three votes above the two other guys running for it. A new change of meds for the summer. Shitty who came a week to visit, and apparently a very awkward dinner with Atzi and Bob because they were convinced the two were dating. There were no entries after this one, the first day, until Shitty was back home. A prospect camp. Then, Jack bought a camera for the summer to busy himself. There were no pictures in the journal, but lists of places to go to to get some nice shots.

The pictures in the apartment were probably all Jack’s. They all were perfect to Bob. He wondered if his own house was now covered in Jack’s pictures.

New year, new team, new faces. Kent visited the Haus to see Jack apparently, and the entry this day was short but erratic and the page damaged. The next entry said he had a panic attack during the night. The manager, the brother of one of the players, was a disaster and was quick to be replaced by an art student that “Shitty met when he was going on a run. A run to go buy his weed, I mean. She bought what was left before he got to have any or something.”

Not a lot of entries, to be fair. Anxiety peak at Parents’ weekend because Atzi and Bob would be there. Bob wished Jack felt anything other than stress around them. A plan for a road-trip with “Shitty, Lardo, Ransom & Holster (URGH)”. Disappointment because the team wasn’t as good as it could be. The scouts were still coming, at least, and there were some prospect camps in the summer.

Soon enough, Jack’s third year started, and most of it was a long, long vent (several months long) about ‘Bittle’, an awful freshman that couldn’t take a hit on the ice without fainting and that Jack had to give checking clinics to twice a week at five AM. Therapy stagnating. New change of meds.

It was getting repetitive, so Bob skipped a lot of the entries.

Then, he looked though Jack’s final college year journals, and quickly skipped most of those entries with a guilty look because those were a long, long vent (once again, several months long) about ‘Bitty’ and the obvious, terrible crush Jack was nursing on the guy, who was apparently as much as an idiot as his son, but was ‘marvellous, wonderful, stunning’, and had the sun shining out of his ass. New characters too, like Nursey and Dex (probably the same Dex who was now working with Bitty) and Chowder, who had NHL ambitions and that Jack had so much to say about.

Kent visited again. Bittle saw everything. He had a panic attack again.

Jack had never talked so much about his friends and his team was going great. So many entries just talking about history also, of course. He was passionate about his thesis, his advisor was proud of his work and proposed to re-work it to publish it in some review. Maybe there was a copy of this thesis somewhere – Bob should take a look at it.

They lost in the finale. Probably. The entry was just “We lost.” and then nothing for a few days.

Then he talked about Bittle again.

Then, there were the lyrics of a song called ‘I won’t say (I’m in love)’ printed on a paper and pasted on the next page. He had been pasting a lot of things those past months, exhibition or movie tickets, flyers, doodles some friend or another did.

Bob also noticed it was the first time Jack mentioned the NHL this year. Ok, he didn’t read everything – but it was the first time he mentioned signing, at the very least.

Then Jack graduated, kissed Bitty, changed psychiatrists, and the summer become once again a therapy report where in-between the self-doubts, the imposter syndrome and the anxiety, the ‘I got to talk with Bitty today!’ or ‘Sleepover in Boston with Shitty and Lardo’ ‘The team seems ok’ were often the only positive highlights of the days.

Then, there was the entry the day before the first game.

The NHL wasn’t easy. Lot of dates for therapy appointments in the margins. Drafts for meal plans for the week, some with asterisks, that meant ‘find how to turn this vegetarian, Bitty will be over this day’. Bitty and him came out to their friends because it was too hard. Then, actual, complex, personalised plans to come out to the Falconers. Most of the team seemed good with it. He met with Kent for the first time since he joined the NHL. Fewer appointment dates in the margins. Play-offs hit – the appointments came back. Lot of talk about Bitty, who couldn’t come out to his parents.

There was something that warmed Bob’s heart at this.

They kissed on centre ice when Jack won the Stanley Cup. Jack had been the first out player and that was huge. Bitty didn’t come back to his parents’ this summer, but was captain in Samwell the next year. Jack went with him to his parents’ for Christmas, and it was “the most awkward experience of all my life, also incredible how we can’t share a room cause we’re not married and yet we’re introduced at each other’s ‘good friend’. Good cookies though. Couldn’t try the pies, they all had lard.” So much poetry was waxed about the kid, Jack was saying every week that “we’re It for each other”.

Lot of ‘Mario Kart tournaments’ with his friends, with his team. A page-long rant about how unfair it was that it was so hard to keep kosher on roadies, that devolved into using big words Bob didn’t understand to deplore that society was such that his mom had to go from ‘Atzila Benzaoud’ to ‘Alicia Johnson-then-Zimmermann’ to make it in Hollywood. Bob deplored that too, his wife’s name was beautiful. Providence didn’t make it to the playoffs, but Jack didn’t spiral this time; he was disappointed at the situation, not at himself. Jack had suspicions Bitty would propose during the summer, they had agreed on the kind of ring they’d like, so he went with Shitty and Lardo to buy a ring to propose before Bitty. Did it the day of graduation. Moved in together, got pet rabbits, dinners with the team, travelled the two of them and with their friends, wedding planned. Bitty got a job in a cooking school and on “the Youtube” and Jack didn’t understand much more than Bob how it worked, just that he hired Dex to help him out. The team was doing good, Jack was comfortable and happy there. Got married. Bitty’s parents didn’t come. The entries were rarer those days, it was easier to only find those around the same theme.

“You just need someone who accepts you as you are, that’s all, my Jack,” Bob managed to say as he read this very last entry, the voice low as if Jack could hear him.

He probably could not.

Bob wondered if he still told his son he loves him. He used to do it all the time when Jack was a newborn.

Fuck, what wasn’t there to be proud of in Jack? he thought, wiping his eyes. His son went through hell and hit rock bottom. And he still made it. Despite everything. Thanks to everything, maybe.

Bob hadn’t failed as a dad because his son wasn’t straight, or he was autistic, or he needed meds to think clearly, or didn’t follow his tracks but made his own. He failed because he had thought that all those things were problems, instead of what was making his son who he was.

Bob had to face reality; there was nothing wrong with Jack’s life. It was a pretty great life, even. The pet rabbits were really cute, the Providence team was incredibly kind, cared for him a lot, and played good hockey, good enough to win the Cup, Jack had hobbies that made him happy and medication that helped him, and a passion for academia and research that’ll send him back to school as soon as he retires for sure, great friends, and so many plans for what was to come. Bitty was a great person, and Bob felt disgusted by himself for being so grossed out and despicable towards the guy earlier. It was clear he was in love with his son, and that his son loved him back. And they were able to get married! And have kids, maybe! Who cared, if he was a guy. He and Jack were obviously made to be. He was probably a great son-in-law.

Bob had a lot to unlearn if he wanted to raise his son to become this hard-working, passionate adult. And he was willing to make the effort. He had to. Jack visibly thought he was a good dad. He couldn’t disappoint him.

As he put the journals back in their drawer, Bob couldn’t help but long for this son he won’t get to meet for another twenty-eight years. He wished he could meet him, this boy who was almost the same age as Bob and yet had accomplished so much more already.

He felt like he was going to forget this whole experience. That twenty-eight years from now, he wouldn’t appreciate his son enough.

He took a pen, - the S. T. Dupont, thank you very much – and a piece of paper. His own handwriting was hesitant, not sure of what Jack would want to read, of what he needed to write.

And he tucked it in the last journal, not sure if it was that much of a good idea.

He wasn’t sure of what to do now. Maybe he’ll go back when he goes to sleep tonight. He’ll just have to finish the day.

The phone indicated that it was almost time for the pie, and indeed, there was a nice smell in the whole apartment.

Bob felt as groggy and out of it as before, but for different reasons now.

He ate the pie with Bitty and Dex (a tall, lanky readhead who talked angry but wasn’t mean) in the living-room, letting them do the conversation and just humming when he needed to. The pie was good enough to shut him up, anyway. Once the slice was eaten, Bitty was quick to tell Dex to go back home to rest some.

Dex promised to get in contact with Bitty later tonight “in case there’s the same encoding error at the upload but hopefully your tube has fixed the issue” or something, and left, with Bitty walking him to the door.

And, when Bitty came back to the living-room… he was obviously stressed, and was holding his phone in his hands.

“You’ve seen Jess’ email?” he asked with a timid smile.

Bob had no fucking idea of what an email was.

“You haven’t. Ok. I shooed Dex out, because- that’s it. She has the blood draw results.”

He sat next to Bob on the couch, trembling, and he said:

“We just have to open this mail and we’ll know if we’re going to be dads.”

Oh. Now Bob understood why today.

But he couldn’t let Bitty find out now – Jack needed to be here. He couldn’t – he couldn’t help Bitty if the results weren’t good. It was too hard with Atzi, for the two years they tried. He couldn’t steal the moment from Jack if it was good.

“Are you sure – don’t you want to. Wait.”

“That’s big. I’m so stressed. I can’t open it. Do it, you.”

Bob shook his head; he couldn’t do it even if he wanted to. He still didn’t know what an eemail was.

“Ok, I’m doing it. I’m going to open it,” Bitty said, his eyes closed and his thumb hovering over the screen.

“No! Wait!”

“3… 2… 1…”

If Bob felt slightly out of his body all day, he truly was now. Everything was vaporous, blurry, the sounds were like a field of cotton.

He just got to see Jack and Bitty hug and sob and hear muffled cries of joy, and he woke up in Kleppy’s bathtub with the worst hangover of his life, his co-captain Danny next to him and the Stanley cup laying on them both.