Chapter Text
You’d think that as a rugby player, Eric Richard Bittle would be pretty used to getting tackled. At least, that would be the case until he clarified that he had played touch rugby down in Georgia.
This is the reason Bitty found himself curled into a ball on an early September morning, peering up at the faces of concerned coaches and teammates and one extremely pissed off captain.
“Let's get you to the sidelines, Bittle.” Coach Murray said, sighing slightly.
Shitty and Ransom pulled him up and Eric warily walked over to the bench, hanging his head as he watched the rest of the team get back to their quick 4v4 drill. A month of practice and still Bitty was passing out at the slightest sign of an impending tackle. Get it together, Eric.
…
From the moment Eric opened his acceptance letter from Samwell, he’d known that would be where he spent the next four years of his life. The proud “one in four, maybe more” slogan, its distance from Georgia, and the substantial rugby scholarship included made for the best offer available. Well, the best offer once he reconciled with the fact that he’d have to learn to take a hit on the pitch.
Outside of his crippling fear of contact and his perpetually pissed captain, Samwell was turning out to be perfect. New England was slipping into fall and Samwell’s historic campus looked like something straight out of a movie Bitty had watched with his Mama. His dorm was nice enough too, though the shared kitchen was in a down-right state.
His teammates were turning out to be great and Bitty found himself making fast friends. Ransom and Holster, the inseparable locks, had quickly embraced him as their little bro, inviting him to the Haus for more baking and Mario kart tournaments. Shitty (the origins of his name were still a mystery), Samwell’s inside center, had also quickly taken Eric under his wing.
“Brah, this pie is the best thing to have ever been tasted by my buds.” he had told Bitty on their first meeting, his eyes closed in a look of reverence.
Later that evening, Shitty even gave him his nickname- Bitty- on account of him being an “itty bitty winger.”
The only one Bitty couldn’t crack, nor was he keen to try, was Jack Zimmerman. Jack, fly-half and Captain of SMR, could barely stand Eric so it seemed. From the first moment his 10 had laid his piercing eyes on Bitty at the welcome social, there had been a look of disdain Eric had come to know well in Georgia.
It only got worse when contact practices started and Bitty discovered his likeness to fainting goats when faced with a tackle. While everyone else rushed to Bitty’s side to make sure he hadn’t broken anything or given himself a concussion, Jack stood in his eyeline, a furrowed brow accompanied by a near-scowl painting his admittedly handsome face.
And so, as the current practice wrapped up and the boys began to change out of their boots in the locker room, Bitty braced himself for another of Jack’s rants. With the same intense stare, Jack approached Bitty.
“Be awake and ready to go to the indoor pitch tomorrow morning at 4. Don’t forget your mouthguard” Jack said in his quiet but no less authoritatively gruff captain-voice. Before Bitty could even come up with a response, Jack stalked out of the locker room, leaving Eric to unlace his cleats and dread the coming morning.
“Don’t even worry about it, Bits.” Shitty said later as the pair walked towards Bitty’s dorm. “I love him but he’s always a dick during preseason. It’ll get better when we start actually playing.”
“Easy for you to say, he likes you.” Bitty huffed, pulling tightly on the straps of his backpack. At ten in the morning, the sun had turned the slightly-yellowed leaves golden, casting a sort of halo around the boys as they walked through the quad. “It’s not like I’m not trying- I know how bad my tackling is, believe me.”
Shitty clapped a hand on Bitty’s shoulder, jostling the freshman slightly. He sighed. “I know man, but Jack just really gets in his head about the team. Dude thinks he has to be perfect to live up to the Zimmerman name.”
“What do you mean?”
Shitty stopped, turning to Bitty with a gobsmacked face. “‘What, you’ve never heard of ‘Bad’ Bob Zimmerman? Jack’s dad is like, uber famous in the rugby world. ”
Bitty playfully swatted away Shitty’s hand, continuing to walk again. “No. Rugby isn’t exactly big in Georgia. Or the US, really.”
“Right well, Jack’s dad was one of Canada’s best players. He played 8-man for the 15’s national team and won the first World Cup with them in ‘87. He got the nickname back when he played in New Zealand and would absolutely demolish people with his tackles. He’s rugby royalty, man.”
“And I guess that makes Jack a rugby prince then?” Bitty laughed.
Shitty didn’t reply immediately, his mouth twisting into a slight grimace, casting his eyes downward at Samwell’s brick-lined pathways. “Yeah, guess so. Jack grew up in the rugby world, played 7’s and 15’s and was really fucking good. Like, gonna go straight into the MLR or play in England or some shit good. But that pressure did something to him, I think. You’ve never heard about his overdose?”
Bitty’s eyes widened and he quickly looked down at his feet. “Uh, no, I guess not.”
“It was a big deal but we try not to talk about it. Jack just stopped playing for a while before he enrolled here, wanting to get back to the pros, I think. So yeah, he’s really intense about the team but it comes from a good place. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be best brahs with the guy.”
“Oh lord, I had no idea.” Bitty said, feeling smaller than ever. “My mama told me not to talk behind people’s backs and now I feel like a fool.”
“Nah, he’s being a fucking dick right now, especially to you. Jack deserves to have his shit checked every once in a while.” Shitty said, bumping shoulders with Bitty. “Now c’mon, time for you to pay your rookie dues. I’m thinking of a cafeteria coffee bought with your wonderful little dining card.”
…
Sure enough, the next morning at 4, Jack was knocking on Eric’s door. Bitty opened the door to find a fresh-faced Jack with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
“Let's go Bittle. Don’t forget your mouthguard.”
The pair made their way down to Faber’s indoor facility in the cold fall morning in silence, Bitty barely awake. Faber served as the school’s indoor turf field, providing sanctuary from cold New England winters. It was a beautiful building, Bitty remarked during his first visit, especially now as the light trickled in through the massive windows. While Eric stretched and laced up his boots, Jack gathered the tackling pads, motioning for Bitty to join him.
“Listen, I don’t know what your mental block is with tackling but you have got to work on it.” Jack said, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “You’ve got great hands and serious speed to take players on the edge but being tackled and making tackles safely is just as important. Without that you’re a liability on defense and at major risk of injury on offense.”
It took everything in Bitty not to hang his head at the thought of failing his team. He nodded at Jack, meeting his ice-blue gaze- he may be an asshole but he was right.
“Let’s start with going over the right way to go down after a tackle.”
That morning, Jack never tackled Bitty. For 2 hours they practiced falling knee-hip-shoulder and how to tuck your head, rugby basics that Bitty was never taught on his touch team. Jack was only slightly less intense during their private clinic than during practice; he still yelled at Bitty for improper form and pushed him again and again, but this time he was more constructive.
“Tuck your head like this next time”
“You won’t need to go down with every contact. You’ll need to work on staying upright until you have support.”
“That’s better form. Do it again.”
Though actual physical contact was never made, Eric was exhausted by the time the little kids playing in the upcoming soccer tournament began to trickle in. Starfished on the scratchy turf, Bitty panted as Jack stood above him.
“Wednesday, same time. We’ll move to light contact and work from there.”
Bitty tightly shut his eyes but nodded. When he opened them, Jack was outstretching a hand to Bitty, ready to help him up.
“You’ve just got to trust me, Bittle.”
…
Twice a week for the next month, Jack and Bitty trudged their way towards Faber for tackling practice. Jack would start with shoulder warm ups, elevators, and pops, preparing both himself and Bitty for contact. By the end of the warmup, Eric’s shirt was stuck to his chest, already damp with sweat. As much as he tried not to notice, Jack’s was too.
On this particular day Jack had set up a box using cones to denote the corners.
“Ok. You’re going to start on this corner here,” Jack said, pointing at one of the orange cones near Bitty, “and I’ll start here. You’ll have the ball and you’ll pick one of the two sides in front of you to run at. Make a solid decision and really focus on running at game speed.”
Bitty nodded, taking in a deep breath. He looked across the grid, calling for the ball and catching Jack’s pass. He stepped a few feet off the cone then made for his right, focusing on the pretend try line and holding the ball in the optimal passing position.
Eric should have been expecting it, but he must have been so focused on scoring that he forgot the purpose of the drill. Just as Bitty was about to cross the line, a solid force hit him from the left. Knocking all of the air out of his body and jostling the ball out of his hands, Jack tackled Bitty to the ground, landing on top of him before quickly getting up and grabbing the loose ball just as he would in the game. Bitty stayed on the ground, shaking.
“Okay, we’ve got to focus on positioning again when you get tackled, as well as hanging onto the ball.” Jack said, shaking out his shoulders before glancing back down at Eric. “Are you able to get up?”
Bitty said nothing, his chest-heaving gasping the only response. That had been the first real tackle Jack ever made on Bitty and nothing could have prepared him for it. It wasn’t even painful physically, but a flood of hazy memories that had arisen with the hit left him feeling rattled and nauseous.
“Seriously Bittle, let's go again. Get up.”
Bitty slowly stood up, legs shaky and eyes wide with fear. “I’ve actually got to go. I’m sorry, Jack.” Bitty said before grabbing his bag and running out of Faber with his cleats still on, leaving behind a very confused captain.
…
“Bits, man, I never thought I’d say this but you have got to stop baking.” Shitty said, a look of awe on his face as he took in the scene before him.
After his freakout at Faber, Bitty had run back to his dorm- thank the lord his roommate had left for class by then- to calm himself down. He’d been rattled in a way he’d yet to experience since leaving Georgia. Usually at practice, he’d shut down before the tackle happened or try his hardest to outrun it. This time, the feeling of contact brought him back to the years of relentless bullying he’d thought he’d escaped. Flashes of orange and whispered slurs had been quick to surround Bitty as he laid on Faber’s turf that morning.
Knowing that most members of the Haus were likely at class, Bitty used the key Shitty gave him for “exclusive access to the kitchen for the purposes of delicious baked goods”. Baking had always been an outlet for stress, so Bitty figured he’d bake a couple of pies for the boys and leave feeling more steady. Instead, he found himself surrounded by tarts, pies, and cookies feeling the familiar uncomfortable itch of anxiety.
“Sorry Shitty, I think I got a bit lost in my head.” Eric said, not meeting his friend's eyes and instead rushing about the kitchen under the guise of cleaning up. “I’ll finish washing up these bowls and get out of your hair.”
“Naw Bitty, no hurry. What’s up? I recognize a stress-bake sesh when I see one.” Shitty said, taking a seat at the table.
Eric paused his washing, dropping the bowl in the sink and instead gripping the edge of the counter. Though he really preferred not to burden others with his emotional issues, Shitty had an air of comfort that drew him in, making him feel safe.
Bitty sighed and turned around, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed against his chest.
“Jack and I have been doing tackling clinics in the mornings the last couple of weeks. I thought I was making some real progress, y’know? But today, Jack tackled me real good and I just-” Bitty took a moment, searching for the right words. “It brought up some bad memories from home.”
“Okay.” Shitty said, not pushing the subject. His tone and facial expression were open, allowing Bitty to continue if he wanted.
“Coach- my dad- is a football coach and he really pushed me to play as a kid but even back then I was real small. I never took to it and the one time I did play, I got tackled really hard. It must have looked pretty bad ‘cause my Mama never made me go back.” Eric took a moment, looking down at his feet. “After that, I got a lot of trouble for my size- lots of the kids would pick on me. And then, when I got older, I had an incident with some of Coach’s boys where they locked me in a storage unit for a couple of hours.”
Shitty didn’t say anything for a moment, a flicker of anger crossing his face briefly before he went back to neutral. “Shit Bits, that sucks. I’m sorry man.”
Bitty waved his arms, dismissing Shitty’s apologies as he smiled sadly, once again dodging his friend's gaze. “Oh it was a while ago and really not as bad as it seems. But after that, we moved to Madison so it wasn’t really a problem. I guess I just have bad associations with contact. It also doesn’t help that I- well that I’m, y’know, gay and whatnot.”
Shit.
Bitty really didn’t mean to come out that way. He had planned to come out to his friends eventually, sure- he’d even prepared flashcards for the moment. But Shitty was just so Shitty that Eric had up and said it out of the blue.
Shitty smiled, “Well, I know you don’t need validation for your feelings, but that all makes sense. It’s a trauma response of sorts, something you can work through at the least. And for the other thing- that’s cool, bro. Glad you’re comfortable sharing that with me.”
Bitty released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, laughing a bit as he did so. “Wow. That was the first time I ever said that out loud. I was gonna tell y’all, I swear, just not in the middle of a trauma dump.”
“Not a trauma dump, just a moment between bros. Everyone needs to talk shit out sometimes. And seriously, we’re all cool here. No one’s gonna give you shit.” Shitty smiled.
“Good, that’s really good.” Bitty felt so relieved he could almost cry.
“Not to like, intrude or whatever but maybe you should consider telling Jack why you don’t like being tackled. I know he can be a dick but I really think he would understand.”
Eric bit his lip. Even now, knowing more about Jack’s history, Bitty wasn’t sure he’d actually understand. Jack had faced adversity but the borderline-abuse and homophobia Bitty had experienced wasn’t something he was sure his captain would really get.
“I’ll think about it.”
Shitty looked like he was about to say something when the Haus door banged open, the sounds of hungry locks echoing through the kitchen.
“Rans, I smell some bomb-ass Bitty cookies with our names on ‘em!”
…
When 4 am rolled around on Wednesday, their last one-on-one before the season opener on Saturday, Bitty walked into a quiet Faber to find Jack running his Bronco alone on the pitch. Eric stopped for a moment to watch.
Jack was completely focused on his pace, unaware of his teammate’s presence. Around his bicep was an armband with a tiny blue ipod tucked inside, strings of earbuds jostling around as his captain sprinted from the 60 meter mark. Jack had taken off his shirt and despite Bitty trying his damndest not to stare, he couldn’t help but notice the way the morning light trickling into Faber showed the cut of Jack's shoulders and waist, glinting off his sweat.
Jack ran through the starting line, panting, and turned off the timer on his watch. Bending over, hands on his knees, he startled a bit seeing his teammate.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Bitty said, dropping his bag. “I just figured, with the game being this weekend and all, we could squeeze in another session?”
Jack, still recovering from his run, turned and reached for his discarded t-shirt, tugging it over his head. Shaking out his sweat drenched hair, he looked over his shoulder at Bitty. “I didn’t know if you wanted to keep going after Monday.”
Bitty waved his hands, looking away from Jack as he put on a facade of a smile. “I was just feeling off, I guess, but I’m fine now! I just want to be ready for Saturday.”
Jack nodded, his brow furrowing slightly as a complicated expression crossed his face. He looked contemplative for a moment before he replied in a surprisingly gentle, yet firm voice. “Okay, sure. Go grab the tackle pads and we can start from there.”
For the next two hours, Bitty and Jack worked in the quiet of Faber, hitting the pads again and again. Jack never went to full contact but pushed Bitty to make hard hits and blow through the pads.
At the end, as the boys stashed away their pads and slipped their boots off, Jack turned to Bitty and said “Good work today.”
Bitty swore he saw the hint of a smile grace his captain's face.
…
“And that’s how you play some mother-fucking rugby!” Shitty shouted from atop the locker room bench.
SRM’s first match against Brown had ended in a blowout victory, 45-7. With the exclusion of a few missed tackles and one lost line-out, the Wellies had come out in full force. Ransom, Holster and the rest of the forward pack had scored 2 amazing up-the-middle tries and were now cheering alongside their center back in their mud-stained kits.
Jack had shined this game, scoring 3 break away tries and 5 conversion kicks. As Bitty had stood on the sideline during the first half, he watched in awe as Jack played the game. As the 10, Jack’s job was to direct the team on offense and defense, serving as the connector between the ruck and the next play. His communication alone could have led the team to victory but combined with his actual play, Jack had dominated the pitch. He blew through rucks, opening up opportunities for poaches, and muscled his way through tackles to sprint to the try zone. It was like nothing Bitty had ever seen before.
In the last 30 minutes of the game, Bitty was subbed on for the right winger. As he jogged into position, Eric felt as though his heart was in his throat, pounding away at a frightening pace. On his way over, Jack stopped him. Grabbing Bitty’s shoulder, Jack aimed his piercing gaze at the winger.
“Let’s do this, Bittle. You’ve got it.”
Bitty ended up with two assists by the end of the game, one off a simple down-the-line passing play to Wicky and one to Jack. When the final whistle blew, Bitty had screamed in excitement, turning to his teammates to celebrate the win.
“Let’s get out of these tight-ass, stanky kits and go drink up!” Shitty continued, a wild look gracing his dirt-streaked face. “Haus party tonight fuckers- theme is Greek Life and I expect all of you to be on your worst behavior when the gentlemen from Brown get here! SATURDAY’S A RUGBY DAY!”
“SATURDAY’S A RUGBY DAY!” The rest of the team bellowed back in unison.
The social after a rugby game was a huge part of rugby culture, Bitty had come to learn, and Shitty prided himself on throwing absolute ragers as the team social chair. Both teams would get together and drink at the home team’s house, singing raunchy rugby songs in ridiculous costumes.
“We are gentlemen playing a brute’s sport.” Holster had explained when Bitty asked how everyone could be cool after beating the crap out of one another on the pitch. “We put all the petty shit behind us and just try to have a good time.”
Bitty was certainly having a good time. Dressed in a classic bed-sheet toga with a faux olive branch wreath atop his head, the freshman was breaking it down in the living room turned dance floor.
The Haus had been dimmed and set up with multicolored disco lights. On the porch, the designated smoking area, two navy buckets had been filled with ice- now mostly water- for beers to bob in. Shitty had also been proud to share his latest concoction of tub juice, a disturbing kool-aid red colored mixture of god knows what. Players from Brown had entered the Haus like old friends, which Bitty guessed they actually were, mixing in easily with the Samwell crew.
The speakers boomed with the sound of Beyonce’s Naughty Girl, one of Bitty’s favorite songs, nearly shaking the floor with the volume. Bitty, feeling a warm and floaty off of one cup of the surprisingly (and scarily) good tub juice, was dancing without abandon. Maybe it was the booze or the comfort his new team had given him, but for the first time he could remember, Eric was feeling right in his own skin.
He dropped to the floor, moving his hips in time with the booming bass and the cheers of his teammates. As he grinned and tipped his head back, Bitty caught eyes with Brown’s scrummy. The player gave him a wink and Bitty blushed from the attention. Eric had never flirted openly or danced as freely as right now but he was starting to see the appeal
The music suddenly halted, rousing a chorus of boos from the dance floor crowd. Shitty and one of the Brown players, a flanker and evidently the social chair Bitty assumed, waved off the crowd, climbing on top of a sketchy-looking coffee table to overlook the social.
“Me, me, me, me, me!” The duo shouted.
“You, you, you, you, you!” Bitty and the rest of the party goers returned, giving what was left of their drunken attention to the boys.
“Thank you, fine sirs. It is now time to crown our respective men of the matches!”
Shitty bestowed the honors to the Brown hooker and scrummy, the one who had been seemingly eyeing Bitty, handing them each their prize of a Samwell cap.
The Brown player, Wyatt or Will something, gave Forward of the Match to Ransom, applauding him for his lifts in the line out and his speed in the pods. Ransom, blushing, pulled the guy into a bro-hug, accepting their pint-glass prize before being mauled by an ecstatic Holster.
“And for the Back of the Match, we gotta give it to your captain. He’s a fucking bitch to play against but damn is he good. Remember us when you make it to the world cup, okay Jack?”
The room once again erupted in a cacophony of wolf whistles and cheers. Bitty clapped and crowed along, watching as the boys peeled Jack away from the wall he’d been trying to blend in with. Jack squeezed his way to the front, thanking the Brown player and grabbing his glass as Shitty jostled him in congratulations.
“Jack, you fucking beaut!”
The captain gave Shitty a half smile and a hug before melting back into the crowd, the sounds of Nelly Furtado’s Man Eater filling the Haus.
Bitty made his way through the crowded room to the kitchen, bumping between massive sweaty bodies in search of the mini pies he’d managed to whip up after the morning match. The kitchen was mostly empty as the keg and coolers were elsewhere. The only person in the room was Jack, filling his solo cup with water from the tap.
The lights were low with nothing but the occasional stream of green or purple light glancing through the kitchen. Bitty opened the fridge next to Jack, a sliver of cool blue illuminating the space. Jack had put very little effort into his costume, opting for a frat boy like “greek life” outfit consisting of Shitty’s mirrored aviator glasses and someone’s highschool letterman's jacket.
“Having fun out there?” Jack asked, putting the cup to his lips and taking a drink. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the music but it lacked the tinge of anger that had laced Jack’s voice the first times Jack yelled at him.
“Mhm- this is the first real party I’ve been to!” Bitty shouted back, setting a plate of mini apple pies on the counter behind them.
“Looked like you were having a good time.” Jack responded, nodding his head towards the dance floor.
Bitty laughed, feeling the lightness the tub juice had given him. “I can’t not dance to Beyonce, she’s the Queen!” Eric grabbed a mini pie and took a bite, noting how he could get the crust flakier next time.
“You should eat more protein, eh? Maybe then you’d be more confident in your tackles.”
Bitty narrowed his eyes, confidence imbued by liquor as he got ready to chew out Jack before he noticed the small smile on his captain’s lips.
Bitty let out a sharp laugh. “Was that a joke, Jack Zimmerman?”
Jack simply shrugged his shoulders, taking another sip of water to hide what Bitty had a sneaking suspicion was a smile. Before he could give his teammate any more grief, the music once again quieted and Shitty’s voice rang out.
“Before we get into our songs, it’s time to honor the tried and true SMR by rules that clearly state that the first rookie to assist or score in a match has to do a keg stand! So without any further ado, Eric Bittle get your ass up here!”
The boys cheered as Bitty startled. Looking to Jack for help, he was instead met with a cocked eyebrow and expression that read “you’re on your own.” Ransom and Holster entered the kitchen, grabbing Bitty as he squabbled in protest. Bitty was starting to think that Samwell Men’s Rugby wasn’t going to be so bad afterall.
…
As fall progressed, so too did the season. SMR continued to dominate the league, having only tied UMass during their third week in a friendly. The last game before Thanksgiving break was sure to be a challenge, however. Their biggest challenge yet, Yale, was their last home game of the fall season and Samwell’s Parents Weekend, meaning the pressure was on.
Bitty and Jack continued to meet twice a week to have tackle practices. Bitty hadn’t had another freak out yet even as Jack introduced more contact to their sessions. Jack remained a man of few words, Bitty noted. He rarely deviated from his instructions and constructive criticism, falling into a quiet rhythm with Bitty in Faber’s early mornings.
As the days got closer to the game however, Bitty noticed Jack tensing up. On one occasion, the boys had been doing short distance takedowns, getting Eric more comfortable with the speed of attack and the force of contact.
On their fourth or fifth go, Bitty misjudged Jack’s step, putting his head in an awkward position against Jack’s thigh. Jack fumbled through the tackle, tripping through Bitty’s improper wrap and leaving him in a position to fall on top of Bitty’s head. Jack was quick with his reaction, choosing to land on his back to avoid concussing his teammate.
“You’ve got to be more careful, Bittle! You could’ve really hurt yourself.” Jack said forcefully, not quite yelling but with more anger than Bitty had heard in a while.
Bitty flinched slightly at his captain’s voice, knowing he was right. Jack, backlit by the tall windows of the arena, turned away slightly, closing his eyes briefly as another unreadable expression flitted across his features.
“I just mean,” he said, returning to his more quiet tone and redirecting his ice-blue stare at Bitty, “let's focus on splitting the runner’s feet again and driving forward. That should help with head position on Saturday.”
Bitty had nodded, brushing the turf off his arms and readying himself again.
On the Friday of game week, Bitty’s Mama flew in from Georgia to watch her son play before flying back with him for the holiday. When she showed up on campus, Bitty ran into her arms, not caring what the people around him thought.
Bitty and his Mama had a close bond, one nurtured over the years through a shared love of baking and lack of interest in football. He did his best to keep up with her now that he had moved away but deep down, he was missing her something fierce.
“Hi Mama” he said into the crook of her neck, taking in the smell of cloves that reminded him of his little house back in Georgia.
“Oh Dicky, look at you!” Suzanne said, pulling Eric back to get a better look at her son. “You look thinner, are you getting enough to eat? Are the boys being nice? What about-”
“Stop Mama,” Bitty chuckled. “I’m doing just fine, I told you.”
Suzanne didn’t look satisfied but let go of her son all the same. “Alright, if you say so. Now come on, let’s grab dinner so you can tell me all about what it’s like to play with Bad Bob’s son! I wonder if he’s as much of a stunner as his daddy.”
The pitch couldn’t have looked any better that Saturday. Despite it being late November, the weather had blessed Samwell with nothing more than a temperate breeze and the occasional cloud. Well trimmed and somehow still green, the grass field at Johnson stadium was ready for the upcoming showdown.
While the rest of the team went about their pre-game rituals, Bitty walked back to the locker room and from the trainer’s room, a new roll of athletic tape in hand. The backrooms of Johnson were a bit dark and damp, an old concrete part of the stadium that had been left to the rugby team when the soccer teams moved to a brand new field.
As Eric walked down the slightly creepy hallway, he heard a familiar voice echo off the walls. Bitty thought he was going crazy as he tried with no avail to make out the words floating about the hall, changing his course to see who it was.
His search brought him to one of the long forgotten loading docks, the door slightly ajar as someone had a tense conversation in, what was that, French?
Bitty peaked his head out of the door to find Jack sitting with his back against the rolled-down dock door, his phone to his ear in one hand, the other white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the dock. His head was hung down and turned away from Bitty, making his expression unreadable. Jack’s shoulders were drawn in and tight, straining against the red warm-up shirt emblazoned with SMR’s logo. His legs dangled off the dock, not quite reaching the ground below, the whole image making Jack look more like a young teen than the man he was.
“Je dois rentrer…Bye. Merci.” He said into the phone, his voice strained at the edges, before hanging up and dropping his phone to his side. “Shit.”
At his core, Bitty was a nurturer, someone who cared for others before himself. Without a second thought, Bitty stepped into the morning.
“Are you okay, Jack?”
Jack whipped his head up, locking eyes with Bitty. He was quick to school his expression, dropping what looked to Bitty like a faint trace of worry. His eyes were hooded and dark and his mouth tight ever so slightly.
“Euh, yeah, I’m fine. Just talking to my Dad.”
“I don’t mean to bother, you just seemed stressed, maybe? And I was just walking by and I couldn’t even understand because of the echo and-” Bitty caught himself rambling, taking a breath before embarrassing himself any further. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”
At that Jack’s expression softened a bit, not quite smiling but not doing his best impression of grumpy cat either.
“Quebecois, to be exact. English is my second language- I grew up in Quebec and my Papa’s whole family is from there.”
“Oh is that different from French?” Bitty asked, moving to sit next to Jack.
Jack’s gaze followed Bitty as he sat down, his legs dangling even further from the ground than Jack’s.
“Yes and no. It’s more like a dialect.”
Bitty nodded, looking back at Jack who had stopped white-knuckling the ledge and was instead eyeing his fisted hands in his lap. A small silence fell over the pair, only interrupted by the swishing sounds of their shorts as their legs kicked back and forth subconsciously.
“Are your parents here?”
Bitty leaned back against the door, bringing one leg up as he rested his chin on top of his knee.
“Just my Mama. Coach, er, my dad, was too busy with football.” He said quietly. “What about you?”
Jack nodded, letting out a sigh and straightening his shoulders. “Yeah, Papa and Maman are both here. We were just talking about strategy on the call.”
“That must be hard,” Bitty said without thought. “I just mean that I’d get nervous when Coach used to come to my tournaments. He didn’t even get the rules of touch but he always had something to say at the end.”
Jack was quiet for a moment, tensing slightly again. “Yeah, it is hard sometimes.”
“But you’re gonna do great!” Bitty added quickly, trying not to add to Jack’s impending mood. “You always do.”
Jack gave Bitty a rare smile, closed lips but genuine nonetheless. “Thanks, Bittle.”
“You kiddin’? I should be thanking you for the tackling practices.”
“Just promise me you won’t faint out there today, eh? Then we can call it even.” Jack said, hopping off the ledge, ready to go back inside.
Bitty stood too, reentering Johnson’s hallway and walking side by side with Jack. “There’s that joking again. Careful Jack, or people might start to think you’re not actually a rugby robot.”
…
Yale versus Samwell looked more like a battle than a match. It seemed like for the entire first half, the ball never progressed more than 30 meters in either direction. Each progression of play was met by a gruesome clash of bodies set at a punishing pace. It was grueling and exhausting but neither team was ready to throw in the towel.
At the 75 minute mark, both teams had 2 tries and conversions each. Tied at 14-14, a knock-on from Yale gave Samwell a much needed left-side scrum. Jack, huffing and caked in mud, grabbed the ball, bringing in the 8-man and scrummy for a quick word.
As the mass of bodies that was the scrum assembled on the left, Jack huddled the back line together.
“8’s gonna call rain.” Jack said, taking his worn down mouthguard out to speak clearly. “Get it out quick. I’m gonna run a loop off Shits and then out to Bittle. Bitty, if you’re not open, look for me on the switch or just take solid contact.”
Bitty, meeting the intense gaze of his captain, nodded. As he jogged back to place, Bitty bit down hard on his mouthguard. All he had to do was catch the ball and run. Looking at the muscular player lined up against him, Bitty swallowed the rising fear in his throat.
Samwell’s 8 called for rain in the scrum as the Sir called out the initial commands. The scrummy set the ball perfectly for Ransom and Holster to drive forward with their cadence. The 8 trapped the ball in the back of the scrum for the 9 to grab, giving a quick pass to Jack.
Jack wasted no time pinning his opponent with a quick side step followed by a pass to Shitty. Grinning maniacally, Shitty charged ahead as Jack looped behind Shitty to receive the short pass. 2 defenders down, 2 to go.
Jack was fast and strong but was being approached by the opposing winger and inside center, leaving Bitty enough space to catch the last man on defense, the 15, unaware. Bitty called out for the pass, allowing Jack to time his throw just right.
Bitty caught the ball no problem, kicking off with just the 15 approaching. He would be tight, Bitty thought, to try and outrun the defender. To his left, Jack had shaken off the others, trailing Bitty but still a potential option.
Eyes ahead, Bitty’s mind was running just as fast as his legs. The 15 was close, close enough that Bitty could see his stuttered approach, waiting to strike him.
“On your left!” Jack yelled, his red and white striped jersey visible in the corner of Bitty’s field of vision.
Bitty knew he could take the hit and pop the ball to Jack. If the timing was right, it would work perfectly. But as Bitty watched the 15 lower his frame, he made a different decision. One of the few moves in his book, Bitty pulled out the infamous goose-step. Slowing down as if he were going to cut to the left, Bitty made the defender change directions just as he sped up again, sticking to the right.
His old touch coach, a Maori woman named Kiri, had worked with him for weeks on executing an effective goose step. She had drilled into him the basics of the skill, taking advantage of his slight frame and speed to cut off tacklers. As Bitty blew past the full back and ran 20 meters to score between the uprights with a mere minute to spare, he thanked Kiri back in Atlanta for all those early morning speed drills.
The bleachers and the sideline erupted in a roar of cheers as Bitty touched the ball down. Soon, the rest of his team mobbed Bitty, shaking his shoulders and slapping his back in excitement.
“Holy mother-fucking shit!” Shitty screamed.
“That goosey was swawesome, man!” Ransom cheered as Holster screamed in delight.
Bitty handed the ball over to Jack for the kick, giving him a wide smile. Jack didn’t meet his eyes but took the ball.
Jack ran out the last minute before taking the conversion kick, putting it squarely between the posts and leaving the score 21-14 Samwell. The boys went through their end of game routine before returning to the dank locker room and bursting into a frenzy. Never in his life had Eric felt so proud.
Before showering and changing, the boys made their way over to their respective families, garnering hugs and praise over their win.
“Oh Dicky! What a wonderful game! I got so emotional in the stands, someone stopped cheering to ask if I was alright. You were so great Eric!” Suzzane rambled, running up to her son in her Samwell-red colored coat before pulling him in for a tight hug.
Bitty laughed, squeezing his Mama back and tucking his face into her fur-lined collar. “Thanks, I’m just still in shock! But I really should go and shower, get this mud off me.”
“Just let me get one more picture-”
“Would you like one of us to take it for you?” An unfamiliar voice interrupted.
Turning around, Bitty found himself looking up at an older version of Jack: Bad Bob Zimmerman.
The relation was unmistakable- Bob looked eerily similar to his son, the only differences being the laugh lines, salt and pepper hair, and warm brown eyes in place of shocking blue. He wore a wide smile comfortably, one that Bitty had only seen on Jack during a rare occasion.
Suzanne stood shocked, her mouth hanging open. “Oh my Lord.”
Standing slightly behind his father was Jack himself, still wearing his captain’s band. He had an unrecognizable look in his eyes, Bitty noted.
“Papa, this is Eric Bittle and his mom. He’s the one I told you about, the touch player.” Jack said gruffly.
“Nice to meet you Bad- ah Mister Jack’s Dad” Bitty stumbled, still a bit in awe, before sticking out his hand.
Bob gripped his hand with a firm grasp. “Hah! Please, just call me Bob.”
Moving to shake his still shocked mom’s hand, Bob continued in his Quebecois-accent. “When I first saw you come onto the pitch, I was a bit worried, but you have all the speed a winger needs and then some! Your step was beautiful.”
Bitty blushed from head to toe, looking away from Bob’s earnest glance out of embarrassment. “Wow, thank you! It was a lucky breakaway- I practically waited for him to tackle me.”
Bob shook his head, still grinning. “A good break is a good break, and goose steps don’t come easy. I’m sure Jack probably wanted that game winner for himself though, eh?”
Bob patted his son on the shoulder, still wearing his charming smile. Jack tensed at the contact, looking away from the Bittles and towards the open pitch. His lip tightened and his eyes grew dark, a look Bitty hadn’t noticed his captain wearing in quite awhile.
“It was nice meeting, you Mrs. Bittle.” Jack said, still not quite meeting anyones gaze and slipping away from his fathers side. “Je vais aller doucher papa, n'attends pas.”
Bob watched as his son walked away, his smile faltering for a second as he dropped his voice slightly. “Tout va bien, Jacques?”
Not turning around, Jack dismissively waved his hand. He continued stalking off to the locker room, his shoulders set tight. Bob continued to frown, a pinch in his brow, before remembering the conversation he was previously engaged in.
Schooling his features and once again directing his beaming smile at Suzanne, Bob picked up from where he’d left off. “You must be very proud of your son, Mrs. Bittle.”
“Please, call me Suzanne. And yes, so proud- I came all the way up from Georgia…”
…
After eating dinner at the nice Italian restaurant off campus and making sure his Mama got to her hotel okay, Bitty rushed to his dorm to quickly change into his neon short-shorts and sweatbands (opting for an aerobic instructor look for Shitty’s “Ladies of the 80’s” theme).
The walk to the Haus was short, a mere 10 minutes; situated just outside of Samwell’s small campus, the house sat on what locals referred to as The Ave, where all the minor greek houses and athlete homes tended to be. Dusk was fading to night as the street lights cast a warm glow over the brick-lined pathway leading from the dorms to the edge of campus.
As the freshman walked along the path, he caught a glimpse of Jack up ahead, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Bitty ran up to walk beside his captain.
“Jack, you headin’ home for the party?” Bitty said a bit breathlessly.
Jack didn’t look at Bitty, instead keeping his darkened gaze straight ahead as he walked at a brisk pace. “Yeah. Just finished dinner with my Dad.”
Bitty’s smile began to slip. Jack had seemed off after the game, resuming his cold, standoffish attitude that had begun to melt away during the season. Desperately wanting to bring up his captain’s spirits, Bitty continued.
“What a game today. You did so well and that last play, wow! Thanks again-”
“Bittle.” Jack interrupted, stopping in his tracks. Jack turned his head ever so slightly over his left shoulder, his eyes not visible still, and dropped his voice. “It was a lucky try.”
The captain continued ahead, his head dipped and hands shoved deep in his sweatpant pockets, leaving behind a shocked Bitty.
…
“My dude, why the no-show for the last social? You missed your Man of the Match kegstand!” Shitty exclaimed, sidling up to Bitty in the Haus kitchen.
After Jack’s harsh words a couple of weekends before, Bitty had stood in the middle of the sidewalk. It felt stupid to admit, but the sudden change in Jack’s behavior towards him had stunned Bitty, leaving him feeling hurt and alone. Bitty had turned around without much of a second thought, returning to his room much to the chagrin of his roommate and his girlfriend.
“I wasn’t feeling very well, Shitty. Just wanted to rest.” Bitty lied, carefully pulling out the maple apple pie he was baking in Betsy for that evening’s Rugger’s Holiday party.
“Something must have been going around then ‘cause Jackabelle went straight to his room too, which is kind of par for course with him but still.”
Bitty hadn’t seen much of Jack in the weeks following their last fall game. He’d left on Sunday with his Mama for Georgia, spending the week of Thanksgiving with the Bittle-Phelps clan. Upon his return (thank god- his cousins were menaces and Bitty desperately needed a break from them) practices had switched from one a days to flexible gym workouts as finals and winter break approached.
Bitty hadn’t seen or heard from Jack outside of the team group chat, though tonight he was sure to be in attendance for the party. Bitty just hoped to stay out of his way and instead focus on enjoying his time with his teammates.
Rugger’s Holiday was the team’s last celebration before everyone left for winter break. Finals had just ended- nearly killing Bitty- and everyone was ready for some downtime. The coaching staff joined the boys dressed in their best attire for a potluck dinner and age-appropriate drinks for the first half of the evening, leaving with knowing smirks and hands full of Bitty’s pies.
Once they had left, Shitty bumped up the music and brought out the cooler full of tub juice. “Let the festivities commence!”
Bitty danced into the evening, a red cup in his left hand (always have your cup in your left hand, Rans had told him before their first social. Apparently you must always be ready to shake hands and if you’re caught off guard, the offender will be forced to down their drink while the rest of the party sings an obnoxiously raunchy song) and his other pumping in the air, no sign of Jack in sight. Holster and O’Meara joined in, occasionally grinding with Bitty, tipping their heads back in laughter.
Bitty was feeling good, well on his way to being contentedly drunk. The boys were having so much fun, silly and raucous in their unbuttoned shirts and loosened ties, making Bitty feel the sense of home he’d come to know from SMR.
Lightly stumbling his way to the kitchen in a futile search for leftover baked goods, Bitty stopped in the doorway when he noticed the tense conversation going on between two figures in the kitchen. Bitty quickly tucked himself on the other side of the wall, still within eavesdropping distance.
“Jack, you have to apologize.” Shitty, it seemed, said. His voice had a slight lilt that meant Shitty was buzzed but his tone was all business.
“I know.” Jack replied, quietly. Bitty could almost picture him with his head hanging slightly and his droopy-eyes downcast, nodding along with Shitty.
“Bitty is a great guy and he’s seriously working his ass off- you know it. And things were getting better, y’know?”
If Jack replied, Bitty couldn’t hear it. With his back to the wall and his neck craned to best hear the boys, Bitty’s heart hammered away in his chest.
“I love you man, okay? You're my best friend. Don’t go all freshman-year on me again, alright.”
“I love you too Shits.” Jack replied, followed by the clap of a hug.
Bitty, having heard too much and feeling guilty for his middle-school behavior, peeled himself off the wall. What was wrong with him? His Mama had taught him better than to listen in on people’s private conversations.
Taking a deep breath in, Bitty decided he needed to sober up. Heading up the stairs, Bitty made his way to Shitty’s room. Shitty’s bedroom window served as the entrance to what had been dubbed as the Reading Room- the porch overhang where the team had set up lawn chairs on for hanging out, smoking, studying, etc. Bitty grabbed a hoodie off Shitty’s bed and slipped it on, raising the window up and climbing out.
The December evening was cold and refreshing, filling Bitty’s lungs with clear air after each deep inhale. Wrapping his arms around his chest, Bitty laid down against the shingled roof and looked up at the black sky.
Being so close to the city, the stars were muddled underneath a blanket of light. Back home, Bitty had always been able to see the stars. The dark in places like Madison was all-consuming but not in a frightening way. Laying in the grass amongst the fireflies, Bitty could always count on the collections of stars dotting the night sky to keep him company.
Eric wasn’t sure how long he’d been out there, his eyes adjusting to the darkness so he could just make out Orion’s Belt, when he heard the window sliding open for someone. Turning his head to the side, Bitty saw Jack Zimmerman putting one long leg out onto the Reading Room and ducking under the sill. Having apparently noticed Bitty when he opened the window, Jack’s ice blue eyes met Bitty’s.
“What are you doing out here, Bittle? I thought you’d be on the dance floor.” Jack said, quiet and even-toned. Donning a thick wool Pendleton jacket, the captain looked warm and cozy as he moved to sit beside his teammate. Bitty’s stolen hoodie was starting to seem like a poor choice.
Bitty stayed laying down with his legs tucked up, rolling his head to the side to better see Jack.
“I wanted to sober up and then stayed for the stars.”
Jack looked up at the sky. “They’re hard to see out here.”
“They’re up there. You’ve just got to wait to see ‘em show themselves.”
Silence fell between the pair, reminding Bitty of when he’d sat with Jack on the loading docks of Johnson Stadium just a few weeks ago. By now, Bitty’s buzz had tapered significantly, leaving him feeling mostly tired. Closing his eyes, all he could hear was the muffled bass in the house and his and Jack’s breathing.
“Bitty, I need to apologize for how I treated you after our last game.” Jack said, looking down at his teammate.
Bitty kept his eyes closed and sighed. “No you don’t Jack, you were right. It was a lu-”
“It wasn’t. Don’t say that.” Jack stopped him.
Bitty opened his eyes, meeting Jack’s gaze. Jack was looking earnestly at him, his mouth downturned at the edges. Bitty hadn’t noticed until just now how sad Jack could look, how heavy he seemed to carry things.
“You made a good game decision, you scored the winning try, and to top it off, your goose step was near perfect.” Jack said. “I was an ass and a shitty teammate.”
To be honest, Bitty was almost unnerved by Jack’s honesty. He’d always known Jack to tell the truth, but more often than not it was the hard kind. It was honest on form corrections, game outlooks, what he needed you to give for the team to succeed. Never had Bitty seen Jack delve into emotional honesty outside of a rogue smile when he thought no one was looking. To hear Jack’s earnest tone was a bit unsettling.
“Thanks, Jack. I- that means a lot. Thank you.”
Jack nodded, resuming his standard quiet. He looked back up at the sky, breathing in the night air. Bitty looked up too. After a few moments of peace, Bitty spoke up again.
“When I was a kid, all Coach wanted was for me to play football. He wanted a strong, all-American boy, someone who would share his passions, I guess.” Bitty swallowed, thinking back to his pee-wee days. “And when I stopped, he took it hard. Instead of that boy he thought he’d get, he had a son that got the shit beat out of him and was locked in storage closets.”
Still looking up, out of the corner of his eye, Bitty saw Jack look at him, his eyes widening ever so slightly before he schooled his expression. Knowing Bitty didn’t expect him to say anything back, Jack gingerly laid back against the roof, mirroring his teammate.
Bitty stared ahead. “We moved to Madison and I found touch. I thought that might make things better, for both of us. But he never really understood it, still doesn’t. I thought he’d be ecstatic when I started playing real rugby but here we are. He doesn’t get it but that’s okay- I love playing and I love the team. I belong.”
Bitty rolled his head over, noticing how close he and Jack had gotten. Jack gave him a small smile.
“My whole life I was expected to be just as good as my Dad, even more so. And my mom was famous so people were always watching us it seemed.” Jack blinked, as if trying to clear a shadow of a memory from his sight. “I loved rugby but then it became more about trying to prove a point or make Papa proud and it made me so- so anxious. It got to be too much and I- yeah I couldn’t do it anymore.”
Bitty watched as Jack went back to star gazing, exhaling loudly and unevenly as if he’d dropped a weight he’d been struggling to carry.
“Even now, when I’m better and back to loving to play for the sake of the game, I can get wrapped up in those expectations. It’s a lot.”
On their roof in Massachusetts, the two boys laid looking at the inky December sky, feeling lighter than they had just minutes ago. In the quiet between them, there was an understanding. No more words had to be exchanged to better understand.
A loud crash followed by a chorus of cheers disrupted the peace, causing Bitty to startle. Jack laughed next to him, standing up with a stretch.
“C’mon Bits, let’s head inside.”