Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack wakes up to the scent of dark roast coffee.  He flings an arm out and finds a cold spot in the bed beside him.  It’s early. When he looks over to the alarm clock, it reads 5:22 a.m.  Jack can’t think of any reason Bitty should be up so early, but he supposes his boyfriend could just be trying to get back onto a skating schedule.  Rolling over he finds Señor Bun propped up on Eric’s pillow, pointed toward Jack like a silent sentinel, his small, love-worn face blank but comforting.

He lunges out of bed and fixes the sheets, making sure Señor Bunny is sitting right on the midline between their pillows.  Foregoing a shirt, Jack scratches his stomach and heads toward the kitchen. It might just be him, but he thinks it’s warmer than usual in the apartment.  He and Bitty had fallen into bed late last night and cuddled up tight for comfort, too tired to make good on their earlier flirtations. Bitty seems to have recovered, however, because when Jack sees him standing at the counter chopping fruit, his eyes go wide.  

He’s finally getting a glimpse of the infamous short shorts and Jack is… appreciative.  For the first time in years, he thinks he can feel himself get hard in his underwear. Blood rushes south as he takes in the view.  

The shorts are red, cutting Bitty just below the curve of his criminally toned ass.  He’s pulled on Jack’s old Samwell shirt and long white athletic socks with red stripes ringing his legs above the knee.  Now he knows why Bitty turned the heat up. He’s practically indecent.

Bitty’s standing on his toes, one leg bent at the knee, foot balanced on his inner thigh.  It’s obvious he’s been getting antsy, eager to push forward with his recovery. This morning, he seems to be working on his flexibility.  

Jack watches as he extends his leg and slowly raises it until he can get his heel up on the counter.  His calves strain, but he points his toe anyway, back straight, neck arched. The sunlight pours in the large wall of windows and glints off the shiny countertop.  Jack stares, mesmerized by the way it highlights the soft blond hair on Bitty’s thighs.

It looks impossible, but Bitty is still chopping up a pineapple, humming softly something Jack recognizes as Beyoncé.  He drops to his heel, deepening the stretch, and Jack’s mouth goes dry as he sets the knife down on the cutting board and leans into it.  Bitty gently raises his arms above his head in a dancer’s pose and twists his torso, bending at the waist to drape his upper body along his outstretched leg.  He lowers himself, inch by inch, but he only gets halfway to a full bend before gasping in pain and straightening out.

“You’re pushing too fast,” Jack says, finally finding his voice.  

“Jack!” he yelps, heel sliding off the counter as he spins around.  “You scared me!”

“Good,” Jack says, coming in close for a snuggle.  “You know you shouldn’t be bending like that just yet.”

“Don’t be such a mother hen, sweetpea,” Bitty says.  It starts as a grumble but turns into a giggle as Jack nuzzles into his shoulder and mouths at his collarbone.  “Katya’s coming up next week and I need to be ready.”

“She’s not going to push you onto the ice right away.  They’ve already chosen the Olympic team for 2018, haven’t they?  That’s over four years you have to get ready.”

“Lord, you know nothing about competitive figure skating,” Bitty breathes, words trailing into gasps as Jack nibbles along the expanse of his throat.  “I have to qualify and that means regionals then sectionals, then nationals and worlds and then maybe, if I skate consistently… then maybe the Olympics.  Not to mention getting registered with a federation and grands prix and all that traveling!  I’m going to need all those years!  It’s a long road, sugar,” he finishes softly, tone falling like he’s already discouraged.

“I’ll help,” Jack says against Bitty’s skin.  “We’ll get you everything you need and you’ll go slowly until you’re fully healed, and there’s a club in Providence, isn’t there?  I know we can make it work,” he says softly, earnestly, hopefully. “I want to make it work.  You’ve had to give up so much of yourself in this life already… I don’t want you to give up on your dream.”

“Jack,” Bitty says, taking a step back until he can look into Jack’s eyes.  “I love your enthusiasm, I really do. But are you sure about all this? We’re talking about a lot of money, a lot of time and commitment.  I’m going to have a crazy competition schedule. I might not be able to make all your games. We might be on opposite ends of the globe for weeks on end.  And it’s not just me we’re talking about. It’s Mama and Katya, too. That’s three whole people for you to support, and I just don’t know if I feel comfortable with it.”

“Eric,” Jack says, taking both of his hands.  “I know talking about money is always going to be awkward between us because of what happened to you and how I grew up, but I need you to understand one thing.  I don’t need any of the money that I have,” he takes a deep breath before continuing.  This is where things are going to get uncomfortable for Bitty.

“I already had a trust fund before I even started playing.  I don’t live that extravagantly and I regularly give to charities on my own, even apart from my family’s foundation.  I gave a million dollars to the True Colors fund as soon as you told me about it. I actually gave Miriam Hospital that million dollars I promised the EMTs.  I give to You Can Play and the Human Rights Campaign and so many others. I could do that every year for as long as I live and still not have to worry, so I don’t want you to worry either.”

Bitty’s eyes are growing wet and he’s biting down so hard on his lower lip that it’s gone white around his teeth.

Jack knows Eric will start protesting or crying any second, so he lets out a breath through his nose and prepares himself.  It’s so important for him to be clear, so he takes his time. Jack doesn’t want there to be any confusion about this.

“I know you don’t want to take things from me, but please stop thinking about it like it’s charity.  I already give to charities.  You are not a charity.  Mama is not a charity.  I haven’t met Katya yet, but she certainly won’t be a charity.  She’s going to do a job and we’re going to pay her a salary. I know it’s got to be a huge adjustment for you, going from worrying about everything to wanting for nothing, but I want that for you.  I don’t want you to have to worry about a single thing. I want you to be my partner in every sense of the word. I want you to think of it as our money.  From now on.  Alright?”

“W-we’re not married, Jack,” Bitty says, eyes wide and mouth dropped open.  

“Well, no.  Not yet anyway,” Jack says, giving Bitty a small smile.  “But I think we both know we’re headed there. I know it’s soon, but we’ve already been through so much together.  And I know you’re young, but I’ve never been more committed to anything in my life. There’s you and there’s hockey.  That’s it for me. You’re it for me.  So I’m going to get you a credit card and a bank card and if you have something you’d like to invest in, or donate to, you tell me about it and we can set up an appointment with my financial advisor.”

“I can’t just charge things to your credit card, Jack.  That’s ridiculous,” Eric says, shaking his head. “Don’t you want some sort of commitment from me?  Like a prenup or something? I could take you for everything you’re worth. You’d be a fool to give me access to your money.”

“Then I’m a fool.”

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Eric says with a huff.  “Please be sensible.”

His lips turn upward when he sees the frown on Eric’s face.  There’s something about that dimple between his eyebrows and the way he wrinkles his nose when he’s upset that always makes Jack feel incredibly fond.  “I have your commitment. I know I do,” Jack says, squeezing Bitty’s hand. “I never doubted you. Even when I found out you’d been lying, I still knew you loved me for me.”

“Of course I loved you, Jack.  That’s why I was lying!  I just needed to get a job and get on my feet and then I was going to be good enough.  If I could have gotten an apartment and a phone by myself, then you never would have had to know,” he drops Jack’s hands and paces away, agitation growing.  “I was getting there. I swear I was,” Bitty starts to babble, eyes shining with moisture. “I had a job at the rink lined up for the summer and by the fall I would have had enough saved up to at least find some roommates.  Then we could have been together for real.”

“We were together for real,” Jack says, shaking his head with a fond smile on his face.  “Everything about you is real. I loved you then and I love you now and you have always been good enough—for me or for anyone else.  I know why you were lying. I know that you were scared and trying so hard to be what you thought I wanted, but I trust you. I trusted you then and I still trust you now.  I know you’d never take advantage of me.”

“I just—Jack, there’s no way you’re sharing your bank account with me before we get a prenup.  You need some kind of protection. Some sort of commitment…”

“I do want the commitment, but I know it’s too soon to ask,” Jack says, still smiling.  Bitty can be so dense sometimes. Doesn’t he see that he already has everything he’s ever wanted?  All Jack wants is to put them on even ground for the first time in their relationship. All he wants is to make Bitty’s dreams come true, and if it takes a million dollars to do it?  Jack has more than enough to spare.

“All I need from you is one thing,” he says, gaze softening as he takes in the sight of the love of his life in his kitchen.  The sun is higher now, shining through the gaps between the buildings on the other side of the water, the almost metallic glow warming Bitty’s blond hair.  He’s beautiful and perfect, looking so earnest as he waits for Jack to speak.

“What?” Bitty asks, sucking in a deep breath like he’s going to have to argue against whatever stupid condition Jack comes up with.

“When I ask you to marry me—say yes,” Jack says, lips curving into a slow, sweet smile.     

“God, Jack,” Bitty breathes out.  “You had me worried there for a second.”  

“What did you think I was going to say?”

“I don’t know,” Bitty says, laying a palm on Jack’s chest, “but that sure wasn’t it.”

“Look,” Jack says seriously, clutching at the hand on his chest like he’s afraid it will disappear any moment.  “I don’t want you to feel pressured. I don’t want to rush into things that you don’t want or aren’t ready for. If you don’t want to marry me, that’s okay.  If you want to break up with me—”

“—I do not want to break up with you, sweetheart.  That is the last thing on my mind right now.  I—”

“—Just let me finish,” Jack begs, squeezing Eric’s hand even tighter.  “If you want to break up with me… now or ever… I’ll—well I’ll be devastated, but I will never, ever take this away from you.  Even if we were just friends, I would still want to give this to you. I want you to train and to skate and to win whatever competitions you set your mind to.  I want you to set the whole fucking world on fire, Bits. Even if we’re not together, I will be your best friend and your biggest fan for the rest of your life.  So no, I don’t need a prenup. I’d never ask you for that, because I know you would never hurt me on purpose.”

“Jack,” Bitty breathes, taking his free hand and bringing it up to cup Jack’s cheek.  “I love you with everything I’ve got, which, granted, isn’t much. But just so you know,” he ducks his head then, a blush rising to cheeks.  When he looks up, he’s biting his lower lip and fighting down a grin. “When you ask? I’ll say yes.”

“You mean it?” Jack asks, letting his face tilt to the side just to feel more of Bitty’s skin on his, to sink deeper into his touch.  His eyes fall closed and he takes a deep breath, soaking up the scent of Bitty, the texture of his fingertips against his cheek.

“I know I’ve been rushing you.  And I’ll pull back if you need me to.  I mean—” he catches himself. “—I don’t know how to give you less but I’ll try if that’s what you need.  I’ve never been in a relationship like this before and I don’t think I know how to do any of these things properly.  I’m sorry if I dive in too quick and pull you into the deep end too fast and—”

“—Jack, look at me,” Bitty says, waiting until Jack opens his eyes to continue speaking.  “I never asked for less. I don’t want less. I want all of you. I think we dove into that deep end a while ago, don’t you, sugar?”

Jack nods, relieved he can stop talking himself in circles and just look into Bitty’s wide brown eyes.  

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to Jack’s lips.  “Now let me love on you for a little while, Mister Zimmermann.  It’s been too long.”

“Ouais,” Jack says, letting Bitty pull him down by the shoulders and into a scorching kiss.  

Eric licks into his mouth and reminds Jack that a few minutes ago, he was hard just at the sight of him in these tiny little shorts.  Accepting Eric’s tongue, Jack reaches down and trails his fingers over the hem of the shorts where they graze Bitty’s ass.

Shivering, Bitty bites down on Jack’s lower lip.  “Like them?” he asks between kisses. “I picked these out special for you this mornin’,” he drawls, lips shiny and swollen.  “They’re Samwell red.”

“I got hard just looking at them,” Jack admits, cheeks heating when Eric’s eyebrows creep up his forehead.  

“You don’t say,” he mutters, sliding one thigh between Jack’s legs to feel for himself.  “Why Mister Zimmermann… what do we have here?”

Jack can’t help it, he ducks his head, overcome with embarrassment.  His nipples are peaked and his dick is hard after only a few kisses. He feels like a horny teenager.  

“You have nothing to be shy about, honey,” Bitty says, hooking a finger under his chin and lifting his face.  “You’re beautiful. Every inch of you is beautiful.”

Jack’s hands clench down on Bitty’s butt cheeks and knead them as he rocks against Eric’s thigh.  “I want you,” he whispers against Eric’s throat, biting down low on his neck and worrying a mark there.  

“Yes,” Bitty says, tangling his fingers into Jack’s hair as he begins leaving a trail of love bites up his throat.  

Taking what is being offered, Jack slides his hands under the hem of Bitty’s shorts and finds that he’s not wearing underwear.  His fingers creep toward Bitty’s center, just barely brushing over his hole. Eric freezes under Jack’s touch, tightening like a coiled spring.  

“How do you want me?” Bitty asks, voice breathy and high as Jack continues to ravage his neck.  

Jack groans and cants his hips forward, searching for more friction.  It’s an odd question, one that Jack doesn’t know the answer to. He has no intention of topping Bitty—has never really wanted to take the lead.  Even now when his erection is heavy and insistent, he doesn’t know what he wants to do about it. “Non, s’il te plaît,” he practically whines, biting down on Eric’s throat one more time, “dis-moi.  Me fais pas choisir, s’il te plaît, mon lapin.”

“Put me on the counter, Jack,” Bitty says, somehow understanding him through tone alone.  

It’s easy to comply.  Jack already has his hands on Bitty’s ass, so all he has to do is lift him a few feet off the ground and turn to face the counter.  Steering clear of the cutting board, Jack puts Eric down on the other side of the sink and steps into the vee of his legs. When he pulls his face away and looks at Bitty, he can’t help but lick his lips.

Eric’s thighs are tantalizing, thick muscle covered with a soft layer of blond hair.  They attract Jack’s hands like magnets, thumbs trailing from the inside all the way up under the hem at Bitty’s crotch.  They brush against his balls and rub small circles there, fingertips clenching down on the tops of Bitty’s strong thighs.  

He surges forward and captures Bitty’s mouth, paying special attention to the small divot in his lower lip.  Taking his time, Jack deepens the kiss, digging his thumbs into Bitty’s inner thighs and moaning when he feels Eric’s cock twitch against his fingers.

“Want you to fuck me,” Jack says against Eric’s lips.  Breaking away for a second to catch his breath, Jack’s fingers sneak under the hem of Bitty’s shorts and wrap around his dick.  When he looks down, a damp patch is forming at the head and the shaft is plumping up, trapped beneath the tight fabric.

“Take them off, baby,” Eric says.  “I can’t even get hard all the way in these tiny things.”

“Ouais,” Jack says, licking his lips and gulping as he reaches for the button.  

Eric’s hand is tight in his hair and Jack feels a shiver shoot down his spine when short nails scratch along his hairline.  His dick gets even harder at the contact and Jack begins to wonder if he’ll be able to come without Bitty stimulating his prostate.  He’s talked to Blaire about it but after his last panic attack they agreed that taking the final step down off his of Cymbalta would be an unnecessary experiment right now.  If he’s still unhappy with his sexual dysfunction after the season ends, they’ll discuss it then.

“Jack?  Are you listening to me?” Eric asks.  

“Uhh,” Jack says, realizing his hands are frozen, his thumb and index finger still pinching Bitty’s button.  

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Jack says, shaking his head slightly.  “I was just thinking about my dick, actually.”

“I’m thinking about it, too,” Bitty laughs, squeezing Jack’s biceps.  “I’m thinking about how much you’re going to come once I get my hands on you.”

“W-will you fuck me?” Jack asks, eyelashes fluttering as his lips stumble over the words.  

“I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll be speaking French.”

“Quebecois,” Jack corrects immediately.

“Right.  Quebecois,” Bitty repeats, butchering the pronunciation.  “I swear I’ll get one of those language apps on my phone as soon as we’re done here.”

“Will you keep the socks on?” Jack asks, licking his lips.  

“Honey, I’ll keep the shorts on too if they make you hard like this,” Bitty says with a smile.  “I just need you to get the button undone before I pass out.”

“They are very tight,” Jack says, fiddling with the button.  “I think your dick is just too big for them.”

“You are ridiculous, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes.  “I mean, you’re not wrong, but you’re ridiculous for pointin’ it out. I don’t think I was quite full grown the last time I put these on.”

“I’m not complaining,” Jack mutters, pitching his voice low enough to make Eric’s hand tighten in his hair.  He finally slides the button through its hole and pinches the zipper pull.

“Mornin’!” Suzanne calls as she makes her way through the living room and into the kitchen.  

Jack and Bitty jump apart, Eric’s thin fingers fumbling with his button as he drops to the floor and turns back to the cutting board.  He’s fairly well hidden, pulling the Samwell shirt down over his hips as far as it will go. Jack however, has nowhere to hide. He turns to the counter as well, hands reaching for a dish towel.

“What are you boys doin’ up so early?” she asks, the smile dropping off her face when she rounds the counter and sees the state of them.

“Just makin’ Jack a smoothie before his run,” Bitty squeaks, tossing a handful of spinach into the blender along with some pineapple slices.

“Good Lord, Dicky,” she says, eyes widening in shock.  “Those shorts are so short you can see Christmas!”

Jack tries not to laugh, because he is in no position to be teasing Bitty when he has a raging erection and is practically naked, but the way Bitty’s face turns beet red as he struggles to come up with a response is making it impossible.  

“Jack,” Bitty mutters out the corner of his mouth.  “I will spank you raw if you don’t stop laughing right now.”

Jack drops the dish he’s pretending to dry into the sink with a clatter.

“That’s what I thought,” Bitty says smugly.  “Now why don’t you go put on your running gear while I finish your drink?”

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice.  He gives Mama a small little smile and a shrug and then runs back to his room still holding the dish towel in front of his crotch.  

“In the kitchen, Dicky?  Really?” he hears Suzanne say as he looks through his closet for some Under Armour.

“We’re grown men, Mama.  Don’t you even think about lecturing me.  Not with the way you’ve been carrying on.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, parading around in that getup.  You’re gonna to give that poor boy a heart attack.”

“Get your straw outta my sweet tea, Mother,” Bitty says before switching on the blender.  

Jack can’t hear the rest of what they’re saying over the noise, so he finds his clothes and begins pulling them on.  Except he’s still hard and it’s obvious in his leggings. He pulls shorts on over top but there’s still a pretty large tent in the fabric.  “Fuck,” he mutters. He finally gets an erection that lasts beyond direct contact and now he has to get rid of it. With a heavy sigh, Jack heads to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face and the back of his neck until he cools down.

“Here you go, sugar,” Eric says as soon as he reenters the kitchen.  He’s poured the smoothie into a bottle for him and is holding it out cautiously like Jack might not like it.  “I put some of that gross protein powder in it and everything,” he adds, smiling softly and shaking the bottle in his direction.

“Pretty soon you’ll need the gross protein powder too, eh?” Jack says, taking the bottle and pecking him on the cheek in gratitude.  

“I don’t think so,” Bitty says, scrunching his nose up in disgust.  “I always did well enough with real food. Salmon and chicken and almond butter, you know.”

“Almond butter?” Jack asks, perking up at the thought.  

“Yessir.  Homemade almond butter,” Bitty says, expression brightening.  “I could make you some, but I’d have to go to the store. You don’t have anything in the pantry.”

“Bits,” Jack starts with a sigh.  “There’s nothing stopping you from going to the store.  Just take my wallet and the truck and get whatever you need, alright?”

“Jack—” Bitty starts to protest.

“—Don’t start this up again.  I’ll be gone with Tater for a few hours and come back for a nap before dinner.  Take the truck for now and we’ll start talking about what kind of car you want tonight.”

“First of all, you are not buying me a car.  Don’t even think about it. But,” he says, considering, “your parents do want to take Mama out apartment hunting.  I suppose I could go to the store myself,” Bitty hedges, biting his bottom lip.

“If you don’t want to go alone after what happened, I’d understand,” Jack says, not sure what has Bitty more frightened, being attacked again, or being spotted by fans.  “But if you’re just worried about taking advantage again… maybe just baby steps, right? You’re only buying food and it’s food that I’m going to eat with you. It’s not an extravagance.  Alright? It’s just daily life.”

“Right,” Bitty says, letting out a deep breath.  “It’s just the market not a shopping spree.”

“Good,” Jack says, smiling fondly.  “I love you. Spare key for the truck is on the hook, okay?”

“Okay.  I love you too, sweetpea,” he says, accepting a goodbye kiss and watching Jack slip out the front door.  

Chapter Text

“I don’t know what to do,” Jack groans as they slow to a walk and then stop to stretch.  

“Just tell tiny baker not wear sex shorts until after Mother Bittle go to sleep,” Tater suggests, shrugging as he hikes his shorts up to stretch out his quad.  “They break my Zimmboni.”

“I’m not talking about sex, Alexei.  I’m talking about life,” Jack says, shaking his head and then turning it into a roll as he works the tension out of his neck.  

“I not understand,” Tater says, eyes narrowing.  “You get Mother Bittle apartment, then everything fine, yes?  Grown men not meant to live with mothers, at least not in America.  In Russia, is different.”

“It’s not just his mother, Tater,” Jack says, bending at the waist to stretch out his back.  “We love each other, more than anything, but every time we talk about the future it’s like suddenly I’m the one whipping around the rink too fast.  I’m the one leaving him behind covered in snow.”

Tater ducks down to a crouch and looks at Jack where his face hangs upside down between his legs.  His brow is furrowed in confusion the way it gets when he needs to read someone’s facial expression to understand the words.    

“We don’t know how to be together yet,” Jack tries again, doing his best to explain.  “I want him to feel like he belongs—like he’s home, but something isn’t connecting. He just seems so uncomfortable with the idea of being partners.  Not if it means money and fame and responsibilities, and that’s me. That’s my whole life, one big pile of expectations that I didn’t ask for—tons of money that still doesn’t fix anything.”  Jack lets out a long exhale, leaning into the stretch. “What if we can’t make it work?”

Tilting his head, Alexei considers this.  He actually stands there with a frown on his face while he thinks it over.  

Resigned to not being understood, Jack sighs heavily.  “Nevermind. I’m just tired and getting a little hysterical.  It’s going to be an adjustment, but we can handle it. We will handle it,”  he amends, shaking his head.

“You still think Itty Bitty needs more,” Tater says finally, eyes narrowing.  “You think he find boyfriend that less trouble? Less anxious? Less broken? Less work?  You afraid he leave you?”

“I—” Jack starts to protest but chokes on the words.

“Everyone take work, Jack,” Tater says, laying a hand on his shoulder and then ducking his head until Jack looks at him.  “No one perfect boyfriend, perfect husband all the time. Eric know this. He love you anyway.”

“I guess…”

“Jack,” Tater drawls, waiting Jack out until he lifts his head and gives his full attention.  “You listen closely,” he says, giving Jack a quick smile when he nods. “It only first week. Love take time, family not always easy, but if you plant it right, water it, feed it, give it time to make roots, it grow.  This is truth.”

“I don’t know how, Alexei,” Jack protests.  He’s a mess. He’s always been a mess. Jack’s one and only long-term relationship literally ended in death and he can’t let that happen again this time.  He needs to make this one last, preferably for the rest of his life.

Tater squeezes Jack’s shoulder and smiles, eyes lighting up like he’s just had a thought.  “On ice, you captain,” he says, grin growing. “At home, uh—” he falters, looking for the right word.  “In private… you no captain, yes?”

“Yes,” Jack agrees, feeling the embarrassment rush to his cheeks.  Is it that obvious? Is that bad? Jack doesn’t want to broadcast the details of their personal life if he can help it.  Not only would the media have a field day, but he’d never hear the end of it from the team. If Shitty ever finds out, the chirps would be endless.

“Then you meet in middle.”

“What?” Jack says.  His brain comes back online with a lurch.  

“You meet in middle.  Every time,” Tater says, voice pitched deep like this is a very important point.  

The gravity of the words hit Jack the second time around.

“No one should be captain all the time,” Tater carries on like he didn’t just cause a permanent shift in Jack’s world view.  “You no let Eric decide everything, you don’t give everything away, not when is important. Itty Bitty can’t get all power because you feel you too lucky to say no.  You understand?”

“I think so?” Jack says, turning it all over in his mind.  Maybe he has been letting Bitty get away with murder. Maybe he should make it more equal somehow.

“You talk more, worry less.  Every time you worry, you tell Itty Bitty.  You explain worry, you decide together how to make worry go away.  And if that not work, you do what my babushka use to do back in old country with dedulya.”

“What’s that?”

"Vedete peregovory,” Tater mutters and then frowns, searching for the English.  It doesn’t come to him, so he waves his hands and starts explaining. “You say no pies before dinner and he say three pies and you say no pies and then he put on sex shorts and you say okay, one pie before dinner.  How you say?”

“Negotiate?”

“Da!  Negotiate!” Tater crows, taking out his phone to write the word down in his notepad.  “Sometimes it easy and sometimes it means you chop firewood until your toes fall off, but it always work.”

“We used to do that,” Jack says, mind wandering back to some of the first emails he ever got from Eric, the ones that traded a hat trick for a maple pecan tart, the ones that got Jack his first kiss from his boyfriend, all hot skin and melted chocolate.  “I could try it.”

“Good,” Tater says with a grin.  He runs a hand through his sweaty hair and grimaces.  “You go try that now. I need shower and nap.”

“We still have four more miles, Alexei!” Jack groans when Tater starts backing away from him and down the street.  

“You have thinking to do and I have napping to do,” Tater says, lunging forward one last time to ruffle Jack’s hair.  

“Fine.  Go,” Jack says, pushing him off.  “But I’m adding these four to Thursday’s miles.”

“No one need more than 10 miles at once, Zimmboni.  Not even you.”

“It’s only a week until break.  You can’t slack off now,” Jack argues.  

“And you can’t be so afraid Eric leave that you don’t make relationship good enough to stay,” Tater says, abruptly changing the topic.  

Jack opens his mouth to answer, but he’s struck dumb.  

Tater smiles, raising his eyebrows as he jogs backward and away from Jack, back toward home.

“Fuck,” Jack mutters, dashing off in the direction of his apartment building.  “I’ve been a complete idiot.”

Chapter Text

When Jack returns, Bitty is back in the kitchen, the food processor running and Rihanna blaring from the speakers.  He’s changed, much to Jack’s dismay, back in the same old clothes he was wearing when they met. Jack will have to take him shopping for some new things.  At the very least, he’d like to make sure Bitty’s warm and comfortable.

“You changed,” Jack points out, frowning at Bitty’s worn jeans.

“Well, I couldn’t very well wear those shorts out in public,” Bitty trills, head still bobbing to the beat of the music.  “I don’t have a death wish.”

Jack frowns even harder, face so tight he can feel his forehead wrinkling in dismay.  “How was the store?” he asks, upset that Bitty might have trouble walking the street without fearing strangers.  

“Just fine, sugar,” he says, hips shaking to the beat.  “I got almonds and cashews and I think I’m gonna compare and contrast.  I also got some cherries and plums on sale so Mama and I can make some jam later.”

“Sounds good,” Jack says, watching with great interest as Bitty returns to the counter, biceps flexing as he kneads and shapes some kind of dough.  “What’s that?” he asks. The scent is heavenly even unbaked, rich with molasses and oatmeal.

“Just some multigrain bread.  I figured you could use some sandwiches for your pre-game snack.  Mama used to make them for me before every competition… wrap them up in these little tin foil packages with encouraging notes on them, cut the crusts off and everything,” Bitty says, forming the dough into a ball with a smooth, tight skin.  

“I like the crust,” Jack says blandly, still focused on the way Bitty’s arms bulge with every movement.  “Please leave the crust. It’s more fiber.”

“You are utterly ridiculous, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty says, tone fond.  “But fine, I’ll leave the crust.”

“Thank you,” Jack says with a smile.  He goes to the fridge and fills a glass with Powerade and ice.

“It’s no trouble, honey,” Bitty says, scooping the nut butter into a waiting Tupperware.  “I’m just glad to be doing something useful while I wait on Katya and heal up a bit more.”

“You know you don’t have to earn your keep, right?” Jack asks, growing more and more concerned about Bitty’s behavior.  “You’re allowed to just chill out and catch up on Netflix.”

“I might take you up on that at some point, but for right now, I think I just need to keep myself busy,” Bitty says, snapping the lid of the Tupperware closed and setting it aside.  

“Are you busy now?” Jack asks, smiling sheepishly as he surveys the messy kitchen.  

“Not especially,” Bitty says with a knowing lilt.  “Mama won’t be back with your parents until dinner.  Let me just set this bread to proof and I’m all yours.”

“I’m gonna get in the shower,” Jack says, backing away.  He’s pretty sure he can smell himself and figures it can’t be pleasant for Eric.  

“I’ll be right there,” Bitty says, raising his eyebrows in appreciation.

Jack hurries to the master bath and turns on the water, stripping out of his sweaty clothes as he goes.  He’s just about to step under the spray when he hears Eric enter the bedroom and lock the door behind him.

“I’m so sick of getting walked in on,” he mutters as he approaches the bathroom door.  “Just between you, me, and the fence post, I hope Mama finds an apartment today.”

“That would be nice,” Jack says, testing the water temperature with his hand before stepping under the spray.  He knows he enjoys Bitty’s natural scent, but he’s pretty sure no one could be expected to appreciate the way Jack smells after a ten-mile run.  Lathering the soap in his hands, he gives himself a quick wash before Eric even gets in the shower.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bitty drawls, closing the glass door behind him.  “I feel like I haven’t seen you naked in ages.”

“It’s been three days,” Jack says with a small laugh, finishing up with the soap and starting to rinse off.  “Maybe four.”

“That’s four days too long,” Bitty says, running a hand down Jack’s chest.  “Now kiss me until the water goes cold.”

“I can do that,” Jack says smoothly.  Things are always easier when Jack’s given a clear instruction.  Before he’s made a conscious decision to comply, Bitty is already crowding into his space, pressing him against the cool tile and attacking his mouth.  

It feels incredible.  

After all the stress of their journey to Georgia and diving right back in to hockey, Jack wants nothing more than to be consumed by Eric.  He sinks into the sensation, letting himself be flattened into the wall, Bitty’s thigh tucked up between his legs, rocking into him gently.  Opening his mouth for more, Jack lets out a groan.  He can feel it reverberating off the glass door, somehow amplified by the heat of the falling water.  

“Please,” Jack manages to say when Bitty stops for breath.

“Please what, baby?” Bitty breathes, panting a mere inch from Jack’s mouth.  He rubs their noses together, catching Jack’s lips with every pass.  It’s clear that he’s sweating, the steam turning their small little cage of bodies into a sauna, but Jack’s never been so turned on in his life.  If he turns his head just so, sticks out his tongue and laps just right, he can catch the taste of Bitty’s sweat.

“Anything,” Jack moans, eyes falling closed.  He tips his head back against the tile and tries to catch his breath.  

Bitty doesn’t let up for one second.  He’s everywhere: nipping at Jack’s jaw, pinching his nipples, rolling his balls in the palm of one hand.  It’s all too much and not nearly enough.

“Please…” Jack tries again, shaking his head from side to side and widening his stance.  “Anything.” There’s water dripping everywhere, but he feels parched.  He licks his lips and finds only steam and sweat.  It’s no relief.

There’s a light touch on his wrist, but it quickly tightens.  Jack can feel Bitty’s thin fingers circle both of his wrists and grip hard, controlling his movements.  In an instant, Bitty’s up on his toes, pinning Jack’s hands to the tile on either side of his head.  The hold is tight, but Jack knows he could throw Eric off easily if he needed to.  

He doesn’t need to.  He doesn’t want to.  Jack doesn’t need anything but for Bitty to keep doing exactly what he’s doing.

“Don’t move,” Eric says against his lips, pressing a hard kiss there before darting away again.  “Can you do that for me, sugar?”

“Ouais,” Jack mutters, eyes clenched tightly closed.  He doesn’t want to get water in his eyes, but beyond that, keeping them closed seems to heighten everything else.  Jack can feel the cool tile where it warms against his knuckles, can hear Bitty’s labored breathing over the steady beat of the water, can taste the sweat on his upper lip, diluted by the steam.

“Of course you can,” Bitty says, voice pitched low.  “You’re so good for me, baby.  Just keep your hands to yourself.  Be good and I won’t stop.”

“Ouais,” Jack says again, rubbing his dry lips together.  He tries to wet them, but there seems to be nothing to quench his thirst and even less oxygen.  

“Good boy,” Bitty says, sliding down Jack’s body and leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the way.  “So perfect, Jack.”

He tries to cut it off, but a whimper escapes his dry lips.  

“That’s alright, sweetheart,” Bitty purrs, mouth low at Jack’s waist now.  “You can be loud.  No one’s around to hear you but me.  So just let me hear you.”

Jack nods, head knocking back against the tile with the motion.  Bitty chuckles low beneath him.  Before Jack can comment, Eric’s tongue laps at his balls and trails up his shaft.  He spreads his legs instinctively, knowing Bitty will give him what he needs.

Bitty licks around the head of Jack’s dick and as soon as he spreads his thighs there are damp fingers rubbing at his perineum.  “Want me to stretch you open, honey?” Bitty asks before sucking Jack’s head into his mouth.

“Ah!” Jack cries out, hand dropping to Bitty’s hair to hang on.  

Bitty pulls off immediately and stills.  “What did I say, Jack?” he asks, words clipped.

“Uhh,” Jack says, blinking the water out of his eyes so he can look down.  Eric looks incredible on his knees, mouth just a few inches away from Jack’s dick.  He can feel the heat of it, even in the warm water, wants nothing more than to part Bitty’s lips and slip back inside.  After a few seconds, his mind catches up to the rest of his body and he pulls his hand off of Bitty like he’s been burned.

“No touching,” he says simply.

“That’s right,” Bitty says darkly, eyes alight with mischief, lips quirked upward into a wry smirk.  “No touching,” he repeats, getting up from his knees.  He grasps Jack’s wrists again and pushes them up above his head this time, nails scraping at the delicate flesh over his thin blue veins.  “If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, I’ll tie them.”

A shiver runs through Jack at the thought.  He has no idea how Bitty could possibly manage that with them still in the shower, but a small part of him is interested in misbehaving just to find out.

“You like that, don’t you?” Eric asks, biting down on that dimple in his lower lip that Jack can’t get enough of.  He leans in, pressing down on Jack’s wrists until it’s just shy of painful.  “Want me to hold you down and fuck you so slow you can’t stand it?”

Jack’s chest heaves as he meets Bitty’s eyes.  His hands clench into fists and his hole spasms with want; he feels empty without Bitty’s fingers inside, bereft.  When he twists his hands to test the hold, Eric’s nails press into his skin.  Heat pools in Jack’s stomach and a moan escapes him, high-pitched and broken.

“You can tell me,” Bitty says, kissing across Jack’s chest and to the right side of his throat, teeth coming down to nibble on the shell of Jack’s ear.  “Use your words, baby.”

“Want you,” Jack whines, feeling like he’s about to burst.  Desperate tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as his focus narrows down to the sharp points of pressure on his inner wrists and now his left nipple where Bitty mouth has moved.  “Please.”

“Hmm?” Bitty hums around Jack’s deltoid, teeth worrying the skin there.  He’s moving so fast, everywhere at the same time, digging in deep enough that Jack can feel himself being scraped hollow.  His head spins with lust, barely keeping up.

It takes him a second to answer, distracted by Bitty’s sinful mouth and the way it makes a rumble grow in his chest, but eventually Jack manages a response.  “Please,” he pants, still desperate for water, and now too, for Eric’s touch.  “Fuck me.”

“Turn around, sugar,” Bitty says, loosening his grip just enough to let Jack twist under his fingers.

Letting out a deep breath, Jack turns to face the tile, arms twisting to cross above his head.  

“Perfect,” Bitty says, squeezing his wrist tight in reassurance.  “Now don’t move. Stay just like that until I tell you,” he whispers low behind Jack’s ear on his way back to his knees.  

“Tabarnak,” Jack mutters to himself as Bitty trails kisses and bites down the back of his neck and across his shoulder blades.  

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Bitty says just before licking down the midline of Jack’s back and mouthing at his sides.  “All these muscles you work so hard on, every inch of this perfect skin… all for me.”

“Yours,” Jack breathes, hot against the wall.  He lets out a hint of a whimper when Bitty finally sinks back to the floor, his tongue following the path of his body all the way to the top of his ass and downward still.  

Unable to help himself, Jack widens his stance further.

“I thought I told you not to move,” Bitty warns, hand coming down swiftly to give Jack’s ass a light smack.  

It doesn’t hurt, but it’s just enough to have Jack rocking forward.  He shies away when his overheated dick comes into contact with the wall.  “Fuck, sorry,” he groans, pitching his head forward until it rests against the tile.  His shoulders are tight, muscles flexed as he holds his arms high above his head.

It shouldn’t ache like it does.  Jack’s done far worse at the gym, held himself in planks for minutes on end, completed countless pull-ups, but none of that has ever come close to the tension he holds in his body as he waits for Bitty to touch him.

Bitty massages the sting out of Jack’s ass and then uses both hands to pull Jack’s cheeks apart.  “It’s fine,” Eric says, breath ghosting over Jack’s exposed hole. “If you want to be punished, be my guest… but don’t say I didn’t warn you when your ass is sore for your game tomorrow.”

“Câlisse,” Jack hisses through his teeth at the thought.  He’s tempted, if only to see what it would look like.  He wants to know what it would feel like if Bitty were to keep his word and smack Jack’s ass raw.  It’s equal parts terrifying and thrilling, wondering if he’d be able to skate through the pain, if others would notice.

Jack knows he would hate it, the chirping if the boys were to ever find out what he lets Eric do to him.  That would be too invasive, too embarrassing. But at the same time, Jack loves wearing Bitty’s marks, knowing he’s owned.  He pictures what his ass would look like, purple and bruised, covered in imprints of Bitty’s delicate hands.

All of those thoughts go flying out the window when Bitty’s tongue touches him.  It’s hot and wet and soft as velvet as it laps and laves, flicking in little swirls around his hole.  Bitty takes his time, coaxing Jack’s muscles until they’re pliant and grant him access, pressing in and sucking with his lips every so often until Jack is shivering.

Jack can’t even begin to hold back the noises he’s making, so he stops trying entirely.  His hips jerk against the cold tile every time Bitty thrusts inside and soon there’s a hand there, pointing his dick toward the shower floor and stroking him slowly.  

Eric has trouble holding him open with one hand but makes up for it with enthusiasm.  Jack’s face flushes with a blush when he feels Bitty all but bury himself in his ass, sucking and licking and making what feels like a sloppy mess of him.  He blushes even harder as he imagines spit sliding down his inner thighs, covering Bitty’s chin.

As good as it is—and Jack’s constant stream of curses and spasming muscles are undeniable proof of that—it’s not enough.  He’s hard in Bitty’s hand and enjoying the sensations, but he’s not getting anywhere near orgasm. The heat in his groin stays at a low simmer and soon Bitty has to pull away to get his breath back.  

“God,” Bitty says, rubbing his fingers through the mess of saliva on Jack’s skin.  “Your ass is a gift, baby. I could write poems about it.”

“Shitty already has,” Jack mutters, slowly coming back to his senses.

Another smack comes down on his ass.  Jack grins to himself, arching his back and all but presenting himself for more.  “No talk of other people while I’m touching you.  No thinking about anything but me and what I’m doing to you,” Bitty says sharply, squeezing Jack’s dick right below the head.  

“Ouais,” Jack says in reply, rolling his forehead on the tile and awaiting further instruction.  

“Look at you,” Bitty says, his free hand stroking up and down Jack’s ass and thigh.  “You’re begging for it, aren’t you? You cruisin’ for a spanking, Jack?”

“Ouais,” Jack says again, pushing his ass out toward Eric and doing what he hopes is an enticing wriggle.

“Well, then you’re definitely not getting one,” Bitty teases, pressing two fingers into Jack without warning.  “That’s not how it works.”

“Tabarnak,” Jack moans, pressing back further, chasing the sensation.  He’s never happier than when he’s full to the brim with Bitty.

“I decide when,” Bitty tells him, fingers pounding into Jack, hand flying up and down his shaft in a tight stroke.  “I decide how much. You know why?” he asks, biting down hard on Jack’s ass cheek.

“Ahh,” Jack moans, arms quivering with fatigue.  

“Because I know what you need,” Bitty finishes, not demanding Jack’s response this time.  “I know exactly what you need.”

He must have come into the shower prepared because mere seconds after Bitty wrenches his fingers out of Jack’s hole they’re back, slick this time.  Three slide in easily and Eric drives them deep, honing in on Jack’s prostate and nailing it hard enough that he can feel a little precome jerk out of his dick.  

“Fuck, Eric,” he groans into the wall, turning his head so he can catch a breath of fresh oxygen.  “More. Please.”  The water sputters and cools down slightly, quenching some of the fire on Jack’s skin.  He’s sweating and his muscles burn from holding the same position for so long, but he refuses to move his hands.  Instead, he spreads his fingers and flexes them, trying to give his arms and shoulders a little relief.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Bitty purrs, spreading his fingers as well until Jack can feel the stretch.  “Tell me.”

“Ah, ah, fuck,” is all Jack can manage with the way Bitty’s rubbing relentlessly at his insides.  

“Use your words, honey,” Bitty tries again, this time pressing down hard against Jack’s prostate, stealing the air from him on purpose.  It’s a vicious game, asking Jack to speak and then making it impossible, but Jack is enjoying it too much to complain.

“Fuck me,” he huffs out, cheek pressed flat against the wall, lips brushing the tile as he speaks.  “Please, fuck me.”

“I’d love to,” Eric says, standing.  He removes his fingers and slicks up his cock.  Jack waits with bated breath, listening to the bottle click closed and drinking in the little moan that escapes Eric when he finally touches his own dick.  Thin, strong fingers grip Jack’s hips and angle him down.  Bitty’s cock nudges at his cheeks but doesn’t quite reach.

Jack groans out loud at the near miss.  He bends his knees and lowers his ass, pushing out from the wall with his crossed palms, desperate to get Bitty where he needs him.  

“Fuck, you’re tall,” Eric whines, one knee coming up to lean beside Jack against the wall as he makes another attempt to press forward.  His dick slides against Jack’s slick hole and misses again.

“Let me,” Jack says, sliding all the way down the wall until he’s on his knees, arms still crossed above his head like Bitty asked.  

“Honey, I love you for trying, but there is no way I’m going to do this on the floor,” Bitty says with a soft laugh.  “Especially not after you hurt your knee.  These tiles would just wreck you.  Get up,” he says, gripping Jack by the elbow.

“Non,” Jack whimpers, jutting his hips back in clear invitation. “Baise-moi.  Baise-moi, s’il te plaît. Me fais pas réclamer.”

“Fuck,” Eric lets out slowly behind him, running a hot hand down the dip of his spine where it’s gone hollow.  “Just give me a second,” he says, taking another deep breath and releasing it slowly as the tension bleeds from his hands.

Jack keens low in his throat, rolling his shoulders and dropping his head back.  The angle is all wrong.  He can’t catch a glimpse of Bitty.  All he can see is his bathroom ceiling, water droplets condensing into patterns above him.

“Stay still,” Eric says into his ear, giving him a hard squeeze on the hip before standing.  The shower door opens and Jack startles as the cool air hits his skin.  It shuts quickly and before he knows it, Bitty is back saying, “Here you go.  Just scootch back a few inches.  There,” he says with an audible smile when Jack complies.

Jack looks down to find himself kneeling on one of the new fluffy towels his mother sent them when she realized Eric would be moving in.  

“You don’t have an ounce of self-preservation when you get like this and one of us has to think of your career,” Bitty says fondly, falling to his knees behind Jack and running his hands down his sides.  “A little rug burn is better than bruised kneecaps.  I can tell you that from experience,” he says.

Jack barely hears the words.  All he can focus on is the tone of Bitty’s voice and the way his thin fingers dig into the meat of his waist, guiding him back up the wall until he’s in position.  Instinctively, Jack arches his back to an almost painful degree and thrusts his hips out, turning his head to the side to catch a glimpse of Eric over his shoulder.

“Now?” he asks, impatience sliding into pleading.  “I need—”

“—I’ve got you, baby,” Eric soothes, sliding two fingers down the midline of his back, between his cheeks, and to his hole, thrusting in, deft and sure.  

“Crisse,” Jack moans, giving up all hope of watching and letting his forehead lean against the tile with a soft thunk.  “More, please.”

“Good Lord, you’re incredible,” Eric says, voice soft and full of wonder as he adds a third finger and pushes deep, brushing Jack’s prostate.  “All this skin, all these muscles, just for me.  I can make it so good for you Jack.  Let me do this.”

He can’t help the pained whimper that escapes his lips.  Jack feels like he’s been waiting months for this, coiled tight as a spring, desperate for Eric’s touch.  “Tabarnak,” he groans, frustrated and needy when Bitty pulls his fingers free.

Then there’s the blunt pressure of Eric’s dick pushing into him, slick and hot, tight and perfect, and Jack’s hands clench into fists, holding tension, pressing against the tile to give him that little bit of leverage.  

“You’re so perfect, Jack,” Eric says, voice steady even as his hips stutter to a halt, tucked up tight against Jack’s ass.  “Such a good boy, holding so still for me.”

“Please,” Jack whines, breath catching in his throat as Bitty swivels his hips.  “Fuck me.”

“Is this how you want it?” he asks, barely giving Jack time to adjust before he’s withdrawing and then slamming back in full force.  

There’s nothing for Jack to cling to, nothing to stop his cheek from being flattened against the tile as Bitty pounds into him with unrelenting speed and precision.  He can feel it in his teeth, all the way down to his toes that are bumping against the shower floor, lifeless and numb.

“Ouais,” Jack gasps, dry throat clicking.  “Plus fort.”

“I swear I’m going to learn French one of these days,” Eric growls through clenched teeth, snapping his hips sharp and steady.  

Jack moans, the noise reverberating off the hot tile, loud and shameless.  If he tilts his hips up just so, Eric’s cock nails his prostate every time.  He presses back, grinding into it when Eric bottoms out, taking him as deeply as he can.

“Fuck,” Bitty says behind him.   “I’m not going to last.”

“Je m’en fous,” Jack babbles, unaware that Eric has no hope of understanding him.  “Fais-le. Vas-y. S’il te plaît, Eric!”

“You first, baby,” Bitty argues, reading his tone and body language.  

Jack is tight as a bowstring, unrelenting tremors running down his body.  He hasn’t been so wound up in ages. It just now dawns on him how long it’s been since Eric has done this, how he hasn’t felt full for weeks, since before Eric’s accident.  The thought hits him like a shot, wracking his body with frissons of electricity.

“You need help, don’t you,” Eric says, more to himself than to Jack, because he doesn’t wait for a response.  Before Jack is done parsing the words, a hand reaches for him, hotter than the water and more effective than Jack’s has ever been.  

Bitty’s movements are quick and relentless, beating him off with such surety it steals the breath from Jack’s lungs.  In seconds, he’s overcome, squirming under the onslaught.  It’s all too much, Bitty’s dick hard and thick, pounding into him at just the right angle, Bitty’s hand slick with lube, squeezing just under his head like a vice.  Even Jack’s position adds a frenetic energy to the scene.  His arms shake with the effort to stay exactly where Bitty left them, his mouth is open and dry, teeth clicking against the tile every few thrusts when his muscles give out and he doesn’t have the strength to hold his face up for air anymore.  

“Come on, honey,” Bitty mutters, leaning in to speak directly into Jack’s ear.  “You can do it. I’ve got you.”

Jack wants to come.  He’s never wanted anything more, in fact, but his body isn’t cooperating.  Everything is hard and tight but no matter what Eric does, the tension isn’t snapping.  “I—” he starts to whine, blinking tears and sweat out of his eyes.  “I don’t think—”

“I know, I know,” Eric says, dropping his dick to wrap a hand around his hip instead.  “You need more.  It’s okay,” he adds, cooing to Jack, soothing him.  “It’s alright, baby.  I know what to do.”

“Please, I—”

“—I know,” Eric repeats like a mantra.  “Just a little bit more and you’re going to paint this tile for me, aren’t you, Jack?”

The sound of his name coming out of Eric’s mouth is enough to have Jack whining, tossing his head from side to side as Eric picks up a punishing rhythm.  

“You’re overheated, aren’t you, honey?” Bitty asks, gripping his hips with both hands now, making Jack bounce against him in quick, hard thrusts.  “All this water in here and you’re just parched.  It’s humid like Georgia in July in here, isn’t it,” he goes on, working Jack up with that slow southern drawl.  

“I bet you could just pass out,” Eric says, pulling Jack against him over and over again, still somehow hard and patient.  “You’d go slack like a rag doll and just keep bouncing on my dick, wouldn’t you, Jack?” he teases, leaning in to nip at Jack’s shoulder.  

It sounds especially dirty coming out of Eric’s mouth in his sweet accent, but that only makes Jack want it more.

“You’ve come so hard you’ve passed out before,” Eric says, slowing his hips down to a measured drag across Jack’s prostate.  “You drenched me in come and then you went limp in my arms.  Like I just fucked the fight right out of you.”

Jack nods, whimpering at the slow, rough slide of it, his hole clinging to Bitty like he needs it to live.  

“Want me to do it again?” Eric says, dark and rich in his ear.

“Ouais,” Jack breathes, panting.  “Eric,” he pleads, the word coming out of him in a low whine.  

“I’ve got you, honey,” he says and pecks Jack’s shoulder with a quick kiss before finishing strong.  Abandoning his hips, Bitty’s hands find new homes, one flat against Jack’s lower abdomen, right above his dick, the other over his mouth, thumb and pointer finger pinching his nose.  “Come for me, Jack,” Eric says, low and rough, pulling Jack’s head back to lean on his shoulder.

The hand on his stomach is strong, pulling him back onto Bitty’s cock like he’s leading him to the ending of a slow dance.  Eric’s hips roll and hitch, never leaving the swell of Jack’s ass and soon, his vision is blurring, bright spots exploding in front of his eyes.  He tries to take in a breath, but Bitty’s hand is there.  The tension in his lungs builds, cresting into a sharp pain that finally erupts.

For several seconds, Jack feels frozen, suspended in air, hanging on the precipice, but then it slams into him.  Bitty’s hand digs into his stomach and he spasms in his grasp, jerking himself free of Eric’s hand.  His fingers unclench and scramble against the tile for purchase as Eric presses a forearm across his shoulders and rams into him, one, two, three more times before stilling.

A minute passes, Eric still twitching inside him as he softens, his breath short and raspy in Jack’s ear.  Eventually, it evens out and Bitty removes his arm, allowing Jack to pull his face off the tile.  “Fuck,” is all Eric manages to say, his voice shaking with exhaustion.  

“Fuck,” Jack says back, emphatically, his arms still glued to the tile above his head, shoulders tight and neck sore.

“Oh God,” Bitty says, pulling his hips away until he slides out of Jack.  “Are you alright?”

“I think so?” Jack answers, repeatedly licking his lips, trying to wet his parched throat.  

“Fuck, honey,” Bitty says, hands trailing up Jack’s arms, soft and gentle.  “You—you can move. I’m sorry, I should have said—”

“—It’s alright,” Jack replies, rolling his shoulders as Bitty’s thin fingers start digging into the sore muscles.  “I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?” Bitty asks, a tinge of awe in his voice as he continues to massage the stiffness out of Jack’s back and arms.  

Jack ducks his head, already feeling the heat rush to his face.  “I like doing what you tell me to.  It makes me feel…” he trails off, searching for the words.  Nothing sounds right in his head.  There’s nothing big enough to describe everything that Eric does to him.  

“Good?” he asks, hopeful.  

“Better than good, I promise,” Jack assures him, tilting his head back to press a kiss to Bitty’s frowning lips.  

“You’re sure?” he asks as soon as Jack pulls away.  “It’s not too much?”

“I’m not sure ‘too much’ is in my vocabulary, but I’ll tell you if we ever get there.”

“You promise?”

“Of course, I do,” Jack says with a what feels like a doofy smile on his face.  “As far as I’m concerned, though, I’ll never have enough of you.”

“You sound awfully smug for someone who just came so hard he almost chipped a tooth on the wall.”

“I did not,” Jack protests.  He’s pretty sure Bitty’s hand was over his mouth at that point.

“It was a near thing once you started thrashing around like a catfish in a net,” Bitty says, dragging his palms through Jack’s hair from forehead to nape in a soothing gesture.  “How do you suppose I’d go about explaining that to your model mother?”  He puts on a breathy voice and does a spot-on impression of himself.  “I’m sorry ma’am,” he titters, fanning himself.  “I tried to warn him but he just kept telling me to fuck him and what’s a sweet little Georgia peach to do?  I’ll have him wear a mouthguard next time?  How about that? Gotta keep that cover page smile intact.”

“Stop it,” Jack says, blushing again.  

“Oh sure,” Eric teases, “you can take praise during sex like it’s going out of style but heaven forbid I tell you how pretty you are outside the bedroom.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Jack asks, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t you dare, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric says, playfully swatting at him.  “No fishing for compliments.  Not when I just spent the better part of twenty minutes worshiping your ass.”

“I suppose you did,” Jack says, smiling to himself again.  

“Now let me get you cleaned up before someone—”

“—must be around here somewhere,” Mama’s voice echoes off the closed bathroom door.  “Those boys take more showers than an umbrella in London, I swear.”

“Fuck,” Eric sighs, letting his head fall forward into the tile with a thunk.  “Let’s hope your daddy found her a place to live or I might break a few more commandments before the day is through.”

Jack laughs freely, rinsing them both with the shower head once more before killing the water.

Chapter Text

Later that night when they’ve had dinner and done the washing up, Suzanne finally heads to bed.  They’re snuggled up on the couch watching some show Bitty insisted he needed to re-watch before seeing the new episodes when there’s a soft knock at the door.  

“Boys?” Maman’s voice calls from behind them.  “Are you decent?”

“You try to have kitchen sex one time and it’s like the whole world hears about it,” Eric sighs, burying his face in Jack’s neck.

“It’s open,” Jack calls softly over his head.  

“You should really lock this,” Papa says as he closes the door behind them.  “All it takes is one crazed fan and you’ll have to move.”

“We have a doorman,” Jack says, shrugging.

“Leonard is a hundred years old, mon ange,” Maman says, shaking her head.  “You have to help him out a little.”

“Eric makes him cookies all the time,” Jack insists.  

“His wife said she’d be my new assistant once I get my vlog up and running again,” Eric says, eyes still on the TV.  “She knows how to do all these little Russian tea cakes.  I think we’re going to do an episode on petit fours.”

“Will you make macarons?” Maman asks immediately.  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to make macarons.”

“Well,” Bitty says, sitting up with a smile.  “Why don’t we do a little tutorial on them, then?  I’m sure that my viewers would love to see you.”

“I think they’d like to see Jack more,” Maman counters.

“You know I’m a disaster in the kitchen, Maman.  I’m not gentle enough.  My hands are too big.”

“Oh hush,” Bitty says, patting him on the arm.  “You do just fine.  You’re great at following directions.”

Jack fights back a blush by changing the topic.  “You’re going to need some equipment for that, right?  A camera and a laptop?  We could go shopping tomorrow—”

“I can do it with my phone just fine,” Bitty insists, but Maman cuts him off.

“—Don’t even try, Eric,” she says, frowning.  “We all know you need editing software and a tripod.  Don’t you want your new premiere episode to be perfect?”

“I suppose I could use a few things…” he agrees reluctantly.  “But nothing too expensive.”

“We can go tomorrow after we pick out a new car,” Jack offers, a smile on his face.

“You are not buying me a car, sweetpea.  We’ve been over this.”

“I’m not buying you a new car,” Jack says, remembering what Tater told him earlier that day.  “I’ve decided I need a new car.  It’s for me,” he says plainly, shooting for nonchalance.  “You like the truck better anyway, don’t you?  Isn’t that what you drove back in Georgia?”

“Well, that’s true but—”

“—Then you take the truck and I’ll get something for myself.  Something that’s better for the environment.  Maybe one of those little Prius things?”

“Bob, please,” Bitty says, a pleading look on his face.  “Please tell your son he cannot drive a Prius.  He won’t even fit in one.”

“We’ll get him a Tesla,” Bob says knowingly.  “I’ve been wanting to test drive one anyway.”

“Perfect,” Bitty says.

“I don’t need anything fancy,” Jack groans.  “Everyone is going to see me coming a mile away.  What if I just get a Camry or something?”

“Tell me you’re not serious,” Bitty says, lips pursed.  

“How are Tater and Snowy and Marty and the rest of the guys supposed to fit in a Tesla thing with me?  We’re all over 6 feet,” Jack says.

“You’d probably fit better in a minivan, eh?” Papa teases, laughing lightly.  

“Then I’ll just get one of those.”

“You will not drive a dad van,” Bitty says, smacking him on the shoulder.  “Promise me!”

“It’s either that or I keep the truck and you let me buy you a new car.”

“Good one,” Papa mutters.

“That’s blackmail,” Bitty huffs.

“Not blackmail.  Negotiation,” Jack shoots back, eyebrows raised.  They stare at each other for a long moment, Maman and Papa snickering the entire time.  

Bitty breaks first.  “I’ll take the truck,” he says, arms folded across his chest.  “I wouldn’t trust myself with something new anyway.  Not with the weather y’all get up here.  We can pick out something for you that doesn’t make me cringe tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Jack says, holding out his hand for Eric to shake.

Papa is laughing freely now, wiping tears from under his eyes.  

Bitty shoots daggers at him and then turns his eyes back to Jack.  They’re dark and fierce.  It’s the kind of look that Jack gets right before Bitty smacks his ass.  They might have only had sex a few hours ago, but Jack knows that look.  Jack loves that look.  He’s proven right when Eric turns back to his parents and asks, “Not that we don’t love having y’all here twice in one day, but did you have a reason for dropping by again?”

“We did, yes,” Papa says, standing up and heading back to the front door.  When he returns, he’s carrying something heavy, a large black canvas bag that looks a little worse for the wear.

“Oh my God,” Bitty says, a shocked hand flying up to cover his mouth.  “Is that what I think it is?”

“The police called today so I swung by to pick them up for you,” Papa says, setting the bag down gently in Eric’s lap.  

Ever so carefully, Bitty lowers his hand and his fingers go for the zip.  It takes him a slow, agonizing minute, but eventually, he has the bag open and can pull out one of his skates.  Removing the blade cover from it, Bitty inspects the boot and then the blade with shaking hands, in utter disbelief.  “How?” is all he can muster.

“It’s not important,” Maman says softly, laying a hand on Bitty’s knee.  “If it’s going to upset you, we don’t have to talk about it.  They’re in custody and they won’t be getting out for a very long time.”

“How long?” Jack asks before he can stop himself.  He needs to know how long the fear of retaliation will be hanging over their heads.  

“It’s looking like fifteen to twenty,” Papa says, voice firm and sharp, leaving no room for question.  “Your statement and the photographs of your injuries are proof enough.  You won’t have to testify.  I’ll make sure of that.”

“I can’t believe I—”

“You’ve got everything you need now, eh?” Jack says, pulling Eric into a hug when his eyes well up with tears.  “Going to take that Providence skate club by storm as soon as Katya gets here.  You’re going to light the world on fire in these, bud,” he whispers into Eric’s hair.   

“I—” Bitty tries again as soon as his breathing has evened out.  “Could I have a minute alone?” he asks.

“Of course,” Jack says, standing up and pressing a kiss to Eric’s forehead before shepherding his parents out of the room.  “I’ll go get everyone a slice of that pie you made, okay?”

“Thank you, sugar,” Bitty says and then drops his eyes back down to his lap where his skates are sitting.  

“Is he going to be okay?” Maman asks quietly as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“I think so,” Jack says, opening a cabinet to find some dessert plates.  “He’s a fighter.”

“That man is stronger than the rest of us put together,” Papa says, smiling fondly.  “To live like he did?  Leave home like he did?  Leave his family?  I couldn’t have done it.  None of us could have.”

“Maybe so,” Maman says, helping Jack find the pie server, “but he still needs support.  It’s got to be hard to put on a brave face all the time.  Everyone deserves the chance to fall apart every once in a while.  You’re good at doing that… making it okay for him to grieve.”

“I think I should…” Jack says, motioning toward the living room.

“Let me,” Papa says, squeezing Jack’s shoulder before exiting the kitchen.  

“I don’t know what Papa did to get the police to agree to those terms, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know,” Jack says, shaking his head as he heads back to the fridge for a gallon of milk.  

“He can be scary when he has to be,” Maman agrees with a chuckle.  “They called him Bad Bob for a reason.”

“I heard he got the lawsuit with West thrown out as well,” Jack says, grateful for once that his dad seems to have such influence over the general public, can afford the best lawyers.

“That suit was frivolous and they never should have involved you in it,” Maman says, shaking her head.  “You could counter sue him for all the trouble he’s caused you if you really wanted.”

“No, thank you,” Jack says quickly.  “I’ll make sure to tell George to add that into my talking points for when it comes up.  I don’t want anything to do with that man ever again.  I’m so glad all that is over with.”

“It won’t be the last time someone harasses you, sweetheart,” Mama says with a sad smile.  “You’ve got to protect yourself and that beautiful boy in there.  He’s more fragile than he looks.”

“I know,” Jack says, looking to the doorway and wondering when it might be time to step in.

After a moment, the room falls into silence and Jack figures it’s time to eat.  He stacks two of the plates up his arm and then lifts the last two about to head back to the living room when Maman catches his arm.  

“Give them a minute,” she says, gesturing for Jack to put down his burden.  “I think…” she trails off, stepping lightly toward the entrance to the living room with a finger to her lips.

Jack narrows his eyes, not understanding what she’s playing at.  

She waves him over, pointing to the floor beside her and shushing him again.  “Listen,” she says into his ear once he’s close.

“—I know I can’t re—” Papa stumbles over his words and then tries again.  “I know you’re a grown man and you don’t need anyone looking out for you anymore,” he says, tone hushed.  “You don’t need to be told how to live your life, and you know how to love and treat someone right.  I’ve seen that already.”

Bitty makes a soft noise at that, but Papa cuts him off to speak again.  

“No, really.  How you care for Jack—you’re more than Alicia and I could ever have hoped for.  But that’s not the point.  What I’m trying to say is… if you ever need—if there’s ever something that you wish your father would have helped you with, advice you would have asked for, support you would have needed, I just hope you’ll feel like you can come to me.”

Jack strains to hear, but Bitty’s voice is too low for him to make out the words.  Still, Maman’s hand is clenched tight around his wrist and they share a nameless look.

“Well, that’s all I wanted you to know, I guess.  Whatever you need me for, I’m here for you.  For you and for Jack.  I can’t replace your father, and I wouldn’t want to bring up any bad memories for you, but if there’s anything I can do, I want to do it.”

Jack holds his breath, praying he’ll be able to hear Bitty’s response.  Papa isn’t one for emotional displays, and this is already more than Jack could have expected from him.  It feels right, for Papa to welcome Eric into the family like this, fully and completely, before there’s even a ring on his finger.  

Just as he’s about to ask Maman if it’s time to rejoin them, Eric’s small voice calls out.  “Papa?” he asks, causing the man’s footsteps to halt and then turn around.  “There is one thing I could use help with…”

“Anything, mon petit fils,” Papa replies, voice audibly shaking.  

“I’d like to learn how to speak French.  To surprise Jack.  Do you think you could teach me?”

“That accent is going to be trouble, mon fils,” Papa chuckles, letting out a sigh.  

 “I know, it’s awful.”

 “It’s not awful,” Papa says, reassuringly.  “It’s you.”

Chapter Text

In the end, Jack ends up with a Range Rover because Bitty loves the sunroof and the stereo is the loudest.  It has a third row that Jack tests himself by climbing in the back and making Bitty drive him around the parking lot.  He also gets Eric a sleek little laptop with editing software and a whole recording setup complete with camera, microphone, and several different light kits.  

They spend Jack’s day off setting everything up and recording an introduction to Jack’s kitchen.  Bitty goes through the drawers and finds that Jack is missing some essentials including home decor, which prompts a second shopping trip to Home Goods and Pottery Barn.  By the time they get home, Jack has a foolproof plan for getting Bitty to pick things out for their home.

It turns out that all Jack has to do is say something like, “I think we should get one of those round stool things that you can put your stuff in?  Like blankets for when you get cold?”

“Are you talking about an ottoman?” Bitty would ask, a look of mild shock on his face.

“What’s an ottoman?” Jack would ask, expressionless.

“Do not play dumb with me, Mister Zimmermann.  I don’t buy your ‘Help, I’m Canadian,’ routine.”

“But did you like the blue one or the brown one?  The brown one was kind of furry? I don’t know how I feel about that,” Jack would say, and then repeat for every item that he thinks might bring a little bit of Bitty’s lightness into their living space.

By the time their day is over, Jack can look at any corner of any room of the house and know in his soul that Bitty lives here, that he isn’t just a guest.  Eric has touched every single inch of the condo and made it a home.

It’s not until they’re lying on the couch later that evening, watching yet another episode of Gilmore Girls, that Bitty voices his opinion.  “Jack?” he asks, pulling his head off of Jack’s chest so he can look at him. “Are you sure you’re okay with your condo looking so…”

“So… what?” Jack asks, looking around.  He doesn’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe he could ask Lardo for a few more pieces to adorn the blank spaces on the walls, but other than that, it looks perfect.

“Gay?”

“Um,” Jack says, tilting his head as he comes up with more words.  “I’m…” he begins but struggles with the terminology. “We’re… you’re—we’re gay,” he says finally.

“Well, yeah,” Eric says, waving his hand around the room.  “But that doesn’t mean you need to cover your walls in sequins and signs with puns about jam on them.”

“I like puns,” Jack says dully.  

“I just think maybe you let me go a little overboard.  There’s a Beyoncé poster up in your bathroom.”

“Is it like sacrilegious for her to watch me pee or something?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Eric says, a bemused look on his face.  

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I just kind of feel like I took over,” Bitty says, biting his lower lip.  “I know I fit a lot of stereotypes and I can tone it down a little bit.”

“What did we say about that?” Jack says, sitting up straight to look Bitty in the eye.  “No more hiding. Don’t tone it down. Dial it up.”

“I know, but—”

“—No buts,” Jack says, shaking his head and reaching for the remote to pause the TV.  “I know I’ve said this before but I don’t mind saying it again. I am not ashamed of you.  I never have been.”

Jack catches Bitty’s hand away from where he’s biting his nails and brings it to his chest.  “This is not just my condo anymore. It’s your home, too. And I like how we decorated it. I think there’s just one thing missing and then it’ll be perfect.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Eric asks, letting out a dark laugh of disbelief.

“There aren’t any photos of us.”

“Have you—” Bitty hesitates, eyes questioning.  “Do you have any good ones?”

“A few, but I think we could take more,” Jack says, taking his phone off the new ottoman and scrolling through it to find his favorites folder.  “I’d like to take some of you skating with my good camera.”

“Jack,” Eric sighs fondly.  

“You know how when you go to a married couple’s house and they have all these photos up of when they were younger and family vacations and special events through the years and they always look so happy and you can tell as soon as you walk in whose house you are in and how much they love each other?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I want our place to feel like that,” Jack says simply, smiling up at Eric.  “I know we haven’t been together that long, but we have to start somewhere. So I’m going to order a few nice frames and then you can help me pick out your favorite photos and decide where to hang them.”

“You really want that?” Bitty asks, eyes wide.

“Of course I do,” Jack says, taking Eric’s hand again to kiss his knuckles.  “I have a few already of the Haus and the Samwell crew, even my parents and me as a kid in my dad’s Habs jersey, but you are so important to me and yet you aren’t represented here.  I want you up on the wall with all the other things that I love. Okay?”

Eric stares at him, licking his lips.  He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes briefly and then opens them again on the exhale before saying, “Okay.”

“You can’t be serious,” Bitty howls as soon as Jack comes in the door.  

“What?” he asks, squinting at Eric.  He hasn’t seen him in three days. A roadie took him to the Midwest, but he only has one more string of away games before the regular season is over.  If they can keep up their winning streak, they’ll get a week off before he’s due back for the playoffs.

“What are those?” Bitty squawks, pointing at Jack’s feet.

“Oh, they’re new.  Do you like them?” Jack asks, twisting his ankle in the air so Bitty can get a good look at his new neon yellow Crocs.  

“They’re an affront to humanity,” Eric says, face contorted in disgust.  “I’m going blind just looking at them,” he adds, shielding his eyes. “You can probably see those things from space.”

“That was kind of the point,” Jack says, picking up his laundry bag and heading to the washer.  “I was sick of losing my bus shoes, so I got the brightest color I could find. Now if Thirdy steals them from the locker room, everyone will know whose they are.”

“They’re wretched,” Bitty says, crossing his arms over his chest when Jack goes in for a kiss.  “Tell me that’s the only pair.”

“Well, they were buy one get one free,” Jack says, blinking stupidly up at Eric and frowning at the rejection.  “So I got some green ones as well. For the shower, you know?”

“Take them off,” Bitty says, poking Jack in the chest with one finger.  “Take them off right now before I gouge my eyes out! Put on some real shoes.  We’re going shopping.”

“Really?” Jack asks, trying to play it cool.  “Let me just put on my running gear and we can head down to the water.”

“Do not put on those yellow sneakers!  So help me God I will start putting sugar in your smoothies!” Bitty shouts after him.  

A few hours later, Jack hums to himself as he takes Bitty’s new sweater off a store hanger and folds it carefully.  Maman taught him early on how to care for his clothes and avoid the dreaded shoulder dimples in knit items. He’s always found the repetition of laundry comforting.  It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t hired anyone to clean his place or help with household chores.

Eric’s music filters through the hall toward the bedroom as Jack shakes out each new piece of clothing and finds places for them among their things.  He smiles when he finds a tight pair of rainbow athletic leggings in a shopping bag and rolls them up to fit them in the drawer next to Bitty’s shorts collection.  

As he reaches into the bottom of the closet for the hamper, Jack’s happy to see tiny, brightly colored briefs mixed in with his tee shirts and sweatpants.  Holding the basket to his hip, Jack heads back to the living room to find Eric studying a figure skating routine on YouTube while Katy Perry blares from the stereo.  

He’s not sure what Maman expected his future to be when she’d taught him how to pre-treat stains and separate colors when he was back in pee-wee hockey, but as he measures out detergent, Eric bobbing his head to the beat in his periphery, he thinks it probably looked something a little like this.

A few days before Easter, Jack finally has a free day and spends the majority of it doing laundry and watching tape while Eric writes scripts for his next few vlog episodes.  He’s seated at the table tapping a pencil against a notepad and humming along to the radio when there’s a knock at the door.

Jack springs up, eager to leave his seat on the couch before a permanent dent forms and looks through the peephole to find an older woman with her brown hair pulled back into a severe-looking bun.

“Hello?” Jack asks, peering through the partially opened door.  “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Eric Bittle,” she says, words precise but heavily accented.  “The man at the door told me I could come up.”

Immediately, Jack’s face splits into a smile.  “You must be Katya. I’m Jack,” he adds, holding out a hand.  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time now.  Please come in.”

“Thank you,” she says, pulling a rolling suitcase in behind her.  As soon as she catches a glimpse of Eric, she straightens her back and calls, “Zvyozdochka!”   

Eric startles so violently, Jack has to laugh.  In a flash, he’s up out of his seat and standing in front of Katya, shoulders back and eyes twinkling.  

“You’re too skinny,” she says, narrowing her eyes.  She gives another command and Eric quickly raises his arms out to his sides for inspection.  “What happened to your muscles, zaichik? You forget how to use arms since I last see you? Eat only pie and chocolate.”

“I’ve been pushing for protein,” Jack says, fighting back a smile.  “But unless it comes in a pie crust, good luck getting him to eat it.”

“You listen to boyfriend, Eric.  He,” she says, gesturing to Jack, “look like athlete.  You,” she frowns, circling him. “You lost your quads somewhere and finding them again is going to hurt.”

“I’ve been doing all the doctors said I was allowed to do,” Eric protests, dropping his arms and shooing Katya away from her inspection of his ass.  

“I your doctor now,” Katya says, crossing her arms.  “Now show me what happened.”

With a huff of exasperation, Eric removes his shirt and looks down.  There’s no need to point out his injuries. They’re still red on his skin, even though he applies scar cream religiously.

“Show me your double tours,” she says, clapping her hands together.

“I don’t even have my shoes on,” Eric says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

“Do I look like I care?”

Jack stifles a laugh.  Eric definitely has his work cut out for him.  He’s dying to see how fast Katya manages to whip him into shape.  

With another sigh, Eric straightens himself into a ballet position and propels himself into the air, spinning with his arms circled out in front of him.  He does it three times, panting as he lands.

“Again,” Katya says, stepping forward to adjust his posture.  “Five this time.”

“Kill me,” Bitty mutters under his breath.

“You left without saying goodbye,” Katya snaps back.  “This is punishment.”

Properly chastised, Bitty nods and straightens his back, starting to spin again.  When he’s completed five double turns, he ends in a bow and then slides to one knee on the ground.

“Needs work,” Katya says, arms crossed over her chest.  But after a beat, her face softens and she steps closer to Eric, petting a hand through his hair and then cupping his chin.  She tilts his face up to look at him and her lips twitch into a smile. “You grew up handsome, zvyozdochka. Strong. I’ve missed you.”

“Me too,” Eric all but whispers, tears welling up in his eyes.  

“This will be hard work for you,” Katya says, face serious once more.  “But you are serious about the Olympics, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Eric says, rising to his feet.

“And you will not interfere?” she asks Jack.

“He’ll probably be there himself, Katya.  Jack is a professional athlete. He knows how much work this will be and he’s going to support me every step of the way, right sugar?”

“Definitely,” Jack says.  There’s nothing that would stop him from helping Eric reach his dreams.  “I can’t wait to watch Eric compete. Watching him skate is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Good,” Katya says with a sharp nod and then goes to the door to pull some papers out of her briefcase.  “You sign these. You train at the Pawtucket club and the season starts July 1st. Philadelphia summer international on the 30th.  You think you’ll be ready?”

“He’ll be ready,” Jack says, handing Eric his shirt and heading to the table to look over the paperwork.  “Just let me know how early you need to be there and I’ll take care of everything.”

“I like this one, zvyozdochka,” Katya says with an approving look.  “You keep him.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t know, Jack,” Bitty says exasperatedly, pulling his bow tie free with one hand.  “I think maybe you had the right idea about praying to Señor Bun. That was just awful.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Jack says, holding the door open for Mama to enter behind him.

“They were looking at you like you were the goose that laid the golden egg,” Mama agrees with a sigh.

Bitty kicks off his shoes without bothering to untie them.  They make sad, muffled thuds against the wall and then land haphazardly several feet from the shoe rack.  “And the last place was even worse!  Who takes photos of someone putting money in the donation basket?  They were just after your fame and your money, sweetpea.”

“I heard the preacher sayin’ they could put your name in the bulletin to drum up their attendance numbers.”

“That’s just disgusting,” Bitty agrees readily.  “Religion is not a spectator sport.”

“I really don’t mind,” Jack tries, hoping to ease the tension.  The last thing he wants is to be the thing that stands between Eric and his reconciliation with God.  

“I mind,” Eric says sharply.  “It’s Easter Sunday and all they can think about is how they can use us in their next advertising campaign.  I’m sick of it, and I’m not going to let it happen again.”

“Did you want to try that United Church of whatever?  It was over by Brown.”

Eric shakes his head, a sour expression on his face.  “I don’t think so, sweetpea.  I think maybe it’s time to give up on finding a place.  At least for now.”

“You can’t mean that,” Suzanne says, removing her floral Easter bonnet.  “Just because the last few places have been less than ideal—”

“Less than ideal?” Bitty repeats incredulously.  “Mama, they were on him like grease on a pig.  That just ain’t what Jesus would have wanted.”

“I really didn’t mind,” Jack tries to insist, even if it isn’t exactly true.  “We can try a few other places.”

“No, Jack,” Bitty says, sliding his arms out of his blazer and tossing it to the couch.  “I’ve had it.  I give up.  If these are the people that are calling themselves Christians these days, I want nothing to do with them.”

“So you’re just going to quit your whole faith?  Just because it’s hard?” Suzanne argues, hands on her hips.  

In her Easter dress, clutching her hat and scowling, Suzanne’s anger startles Jack.  He’s never seen this side of her before—finds himself having trouble wrapping his head around the situation as she and Eric continue to disagree.

“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.  It’s not like I’m gonna become an atheist overnight.  I just need a break from looking over my shoulder during the sermon to see if someone has a camera on us.”

“Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” Suzanne recites easily.

“I don’t think that’s quite what Jesus meant, Mama.  And Jack and I have been persecuted enough for the next ten people.”

“And how exactly would you know what Jesus meant?  It’s not like you’ve been to bible study recently.”

“When exactly did you expect me to go, Mama?  I didn’t have much time between begging for food and sleeping on park benches.  Maybe I should have asked one of the men who took me home if they had a bible in the nightstand drawer instead of condoms!”  Eric is fuming, chest heaving, nostrils flaring.

Jack isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so angry.  Usually Bitty keeps the details of his homeless years close to the vest.  Jack never expected him to fling them at his mother like daggers to the heart, though he must admit the confession was probably worth it.  Suzanne looks like she’s trying to swallow glass.

“That’s—I didn’t mean—Dicky…”

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” Eric recites, eyes shining with angry tears.

Jack is so confused.  He looks between Bitty and Suzanne like he’s watching a game of ping pong.  

“Dicky, please—”

“—Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” he cuts her off, voice breaking over the words.  

There’s more to it than that.  Jack knows there is.  He longs to step in and finish the line, but his family has never been that religious.  He’s been to church more in the last month than he has in the last ten years combined.

The silence goes on for ages.  Suzanne seems to have lost her steam.  She too is fighting back tears, chewing on her lower lip like Eric often does when he’s searching for words.  

Eventually, Bitty takes a deep breath and finishes his thought.  

“Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall have their fill.  I know the beatitudes, Mama.  I know each and every one because I’ve lived them.  You think I haven’t been persecuted?  You think I haven’t been hungry or thirsty or poor?  You think I haven’t been alone and scared and just fucking waiting for someone to intervene, because surely Christians wouldn’t leave one of their own out in the cold?  Excuse me for thinking God should have taken better care of me than that—for thinking you should have taken better care of me than that.”

Jack can see Suzanne flinch as the words hit their mark.

Bitty’s voice grows weary as he says, “Maybe I’ll get to heaven one day and maybe I’ll be shown mercy and maybe I’ll even see God, but today is not that day.  Right now I’m tired and I’m fed up and I need a break.”

“I think you’ve made your point,” Suzanne says, tossing her hat on the couch and slumping her shoulders.

“I don’t think I have,” Eric says, stepping forward, hands on his hips.  “I want to be very clear about this.”  He takes a breath, straightening his back and closing his eyes.  When he opens them, his face is clear of the tight-lipped grimace of a few minutes ago.  “Religion is supposed to be a comfort.  It’s somewhere to go when you need help, somewhere you should feel accepted and loved.  If it doesn’t feel like that, there’s something wrong with the religion, not with me.  There is nothing wrong with me—nothing wrong with Jack and nothing wrong with our relationship.  We’re not something to be gawked at or manipulated and we’re definitely not something dirty and evil to curse and scream about.”

“I know you’re not,” Suzanne says, voice small and conciliatory.

“I’m not saying I’ll never go back, but right now, church is just a source of stress that we don’t need.  I know it’s Jesus’ day and all that, and I’m still gonna make a rack of lamb and dye some eggs, but as for the rest of it?  I think Jesus’ll understand that we need a break.  I just need a little bit of a break,” he finishes weakly, huffing out a heavy exhale.  “Now, why don’t you change into something else and we’ll get started on some jam. ”

Suzanne nods, swallowing down any further argument before heading toward the guest room.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks, reaching out to place a steadying hand on the small of Eric’s back.  

“Nothing says love like fighting over the gospel,” Bitty says with a dark laugh.  

“I have to admit, I didn’t really follow any of that.”

“It’s okay, sugar,” Eric says, turning in Jack’s arms and locking his fingers around the back of his neck.  It’s a stretch, but Eric lifts onto his tiptoes easily, a movement born out of habit.  “I’m just going to slip out of this shirt and into an apron and then we can get to the jam making.”

“Are you going to have anything under that apron, or…”

“Was your mind in the gutter the whole time we were at church?” Eric asks, running the tip of his nose up the side of Jack’s neck, breathing against his pulse point.  

“I’d rather not say,” Jack breathes.  It doesn’t take much for Jack’s mind to wander these days.  If it’s not hockey, it’s Eric.

“Afraid you’re going to incriminate yourself, Mister Zimmermann?”

“Afraid your mother is going to walk in on us in a compromising situation again, is more like it.”

“Her lease starts in three days.  Then we’ll have this place all to ourselves,” Eric says, taking Jack by the hand and leading him through the apartment to their bedroom.  

“I’m on the road in two days and we’re supposed to be at Thirdy’s for the team barbeque all day tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll just have to learn how to make this work long-distance,” Eric says, a devious smile crossing his face.

“I’ve been on trips before,” Jack says.

“True, but this is the first time we’ll be able to talk as much as we want.  No parents in the way, no flu keeping me in bed. If anything is going to be keeping me in bed, it better be you.”

“I don’t think I’m following.”

“How’s your phone sex?” Bitty asks, laughing at Jack’s dumbfounded expression.  “Because something tells me we might need to practice.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t think it will be enough,” Bitty says, wringing his hands as they pack up the car.  

“You don’t think 37 pies is enough pies?” Jack asks, fighting back a laugh.  “How many would have been enough?”

“I could have made it a round 40, I suppose.”

“You made a pie for each of the guys and still made seven pies for them to eat today.  How would three more have helped?”

“I don’t know!  It would have just evened things out!  Apple is always a favorite and I only made one of those for this afternoon.  What if someone has a nut allergy?  Or gluten!?  And I didn’t even think to make a vegan pie!”

“Eric,” Jack says, taking his hands and pulling them to his sides.  “You asked about allergies weeks ago.  And I promise you, no one has turned vegan since you’ve spoken to them last.”

“I could have brought jam!” Eric says, shaking his head.  “We made two cases of jam yesterday and I just left it all in the pantry!  We’re jam hoarders!”

“You are under no obligation to share the jam,” Jack says calmly.  “You don’t even have to tell anyone you made it if you don’t want to.”

“We live streamed it on Twitter, Jack!  Everyone is going to know I’m a dirty jam hoarder who never learned to share!  Gabby is going to eat me.  She’s been looking forward to the tutorial for so long and I didn’t even bring her any.  I didn’t even get the step by step video up on YouTube for her.  I meant to, but I fell asleep editing it last night!”

“That’s because you spent the last 18 hours making 37 pies.  Do you really think they’re going to be upset once you give them each a pie to take home?”

Eric sighs and steps into Jack’s embrace, burying his face into Jack’s chest.  “I just want to make a good impression,” he mumbles against the soft, worn fabric of Jack’s Falconers tee.

“They’ve already met you and they adore you,” Jack insists.  “They would love you even if you showed up empty handed.  I promise you.”

“No self-respecting southerner would ever show up to a cookout empty handed.  That’s a cardinal sin where I come from.”

“I think we’ve done enough sinning,” Jack says with a wry smile as he opens Bitty’s car door.  “Good thing you made so many pies.  Otherwise we’d really be going to hell.”

“You bite your tongue, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric chides as he boosts himself into the Range Rover with some difficulty.  “I heard enough about hell and damnation back in Georgia.  We’re in Yankee territory now where anything goes.”

“Just wait till I bring you to Montréal,” Jack says, pulling out of the garage and heading toward Thirdy’s house.  “It’s a whole other world.”

“I can’t wait to see where you grew up.  I bet it’s like something out of picture book.”

“I’d love to photograph you out on our ice.  It’s outdoors so there’s all this natural light.  You’ll look amazing like that.”

“You sure do know how to make somebody blush, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty says, turning away to smile out the window, fingers flying over his phone like he’s not already telling Twitter exactly how sweet of a boyfriend Jack is.

“It’s just the truth,” Jack insists.  He describes his parents’ house at Eric’s insistence in great detail all the way to Thirdy’s sprawling property on the outskirts of town.  By the time they’re pulling into his winding drive, Eric’s nerves have disappeared entirely, replaced by teasing laughs as he asks Jack increasingly ridiculous questions about his childhood.

“And how many nannies did you have?  Were they allowed to use the indoor pool and the sauna, too?  Or was that a family-only privilege?”

“I only had a nanny when Maman was out of town shooting a film or doing something for a magazine.  And we didn’t have an indoor pool.”

“I didn’t hear you deny everything,” Bitty says, eyes going wide.  “Are you telling me you had a sauna in your house?”

“It was a steam shower and it really helped Papa after his knee replacement.  They put it in the master bathroom.  I’ve never even used it.”

“I guess I’ll let that one slide then,” Eric says, pursing his lips.  

“We’re here anyway,” Jack says, pulling up behind the last car in the circular drive.

“Jack.”

“Yes, Eric?”

“This is not a house.”

“It’s Thirdy’s house.  I told you that’s where we were going.  That’s why you made 37 pies… remember?”

“This is not a house.  It’s an estate.”

“Thirdy has been playing in the NHL for nearly twelve years.  That’s a lot of contract negotiation.  Plus, he has three kids.”

“You could fit a dozen kids in a house like this,” Eric insists, throwing his door open and sliding out the car.

“So you’d want something smaller?” Jack asks, keeping his voice as even and unassuming as possible.  

“You are not buying us a house, Jack.  And even if you do buy a house, when the time comes… it definitely doesn’t need to be this big.  Unless you plan to have a whole bunch of other people living in it with us.”

“Well, that all depends, doesn’t it?” Jack asks, pulling open the hatch so he can start unloading Bitty’s precious cargo from the trunk.  

“On what?”

“On how many kids you might want,” Jack replies, stacking up three pie boxes and reaching for them.

“What?  Jack!  Be careful!” Bitty yelps, lunging forward to unstack the boxes.  “If you smushed even one of those pies I will spank you.”

“You promise?” Jack asks, lips twitching.

“Don’t you dare tempt me,” Bitty says, swatting at Jack’s backside.  “And I know what you’re up to, playing all cool and casual.  You don’t fool me for one second.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jack says, resigning himself to making twenty trips to and from the car.  

“You don’t just ask a man how many children he wants and then pretend you didn’t say anything.  Who raised you?”

“Two overbearing yet socially inept celebrities?” Jack jokes, hoping for a laugh.

“I’m serious.”

“I was being serious, too!” Jack insists.  “Every time I try to ask you about the future you tell me to slow down or to stay in the moment, but I can’t help it,” he says, tone softening.  “I can’t help it if every time I look at you I see forever.”

“Well, I can’t blame you for that, can I?” Eric says, stepping between Jack’s pie-laden arms and lifting up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.  

“No?”

“No.  There’s nothing funny about that,” Bitty says, looking up at Jack, face dipped low to hide his nervous flush.  

“So what do you think?” Jack offers, almost too afraid to ask.

“I’m not committing to a number or anything like that,” Bitty says, the blush coming up as bright red blotches on his cheeks.  

“But…”

“But I think I quite like the idea,” Bitty says, picking up two pies himself and heading toward the front walk.  He looks back at Jack over his shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyebrows raised, a teasing smirk on his face.  “Now, I’m too young to even think about it… but it makes a pretty picture.”

“Having a family with me?”

“We’re already a family, sugar,” Bitty insists, stepping aside so Jack can be the one to ring the bell.  “But I bet you look damn good holding a baby.”

Thirdy pulls the door open before Jack has the chance to announce their arrival.  He looks between them for a few moments, eyes narrowed.

Jack can feel how his mouth is still hanging open and clamps it closed quickly.  When he looks over at Eric, he’s hiding a smug expression with an overly cheery smile.

“Am I interrupting something?” Thirdy asks.  “Because I can close the door and give you two some privacy.  Niadah wanted my help carrying the cooler anyway.”

“No need,” Bitty squeaks, holding out the two pies for Thirdy to take.  “You have these. I’ll go back and grab some more.”  He’s off like a shot down the steps and back to the car before Jack can stop him.  

“What did you say to him?” Thirdy asks, head tilted to the side as he considers Jack.

“You don’t want to know.”

“How many pies did he make?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

It’s a warm day and Jack spends most of it in the yard playing games with some of the kids.  If he finds himself looking for Bitty’s blond head among the guests more than he does seeking the kids who have been hiding, there aren’t any other adults around to comment on it.

Tater joins him after a while and helps organize some Russian variation of red rover.  When the kids tire of it, he tries to teach them a some of his other favorites, but Jack has to step in when it turns out Tater’s favorite childhood pastime consists of throwing knives into makeshift targets.

“Is good to teach young ones this game,” Tater insists even as Jack is directing him back to the grill for a second helping of dinner.  “They learn healthy fear of weapons.”

“I am not giving those kids a pocket knife, Alexei,” Jack says firmly, filing a plate with salad before drizzling it with balsamic dressing.  “I don’t care what you used to do back in Russia.”

“Americans don’t know how to have good time,” Tater grumbles.  After a cursory look around the general vicinity, he sticks his beer in his mouth and pops the top of the bottle off with his teeth.

“When you’re asked to babysit, it’s usually a good idea to keep the kids away from knives,” Bitty says, sidling up to Jack to get a plate of his own.  “And fire. And oncoming traffic,” he adds quickly when Tater opens his mouth to argue.

“I never babysit before.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Jack says, taking a seat next to Marty at a nearby picnic table.

“Yeah, who knows Tater,” Marty says, winking at Jack.  “Before you know it Jack and Eric will be asking you to look after their little one.”

“You have baby without telling me?” Tater crows, punching Jack so hard in the arm that he drops his fork.

“Ow!” Jack growls, attempting to punch Tater back but missing as he dodges out of the way.  “We are not having a baby.  Men don’t just have babies.  That’s not how it works.”

“But you make such cute babies, you and tiny baker!”

“A little birdy tells me you’ve been thinking about it,” Marty teases, voice light.

“Who have you been gossiping with Mister St. Martin?” Bitty asks, tutting his tongue at them.  

“Thirdy heard you guys talking outside the house,” Marty says with a shrug.  “Niadah and the rest of the ladies have been going on and on about it.  I think they want to throw you a baby shower already.”

“I’m going to murder that man,” Bitty says, jaw set in aggravation.  

“No killing before dessert!” Tater insists, banging his fists down on the table.  “When is time for pie?”

“I can start slicing them up whenever everyone is done eating.  But only if I see you boys help Mrs. Robinson clean up dinner first.”

“Yes, sir,” Marty says with a laugh, picking up a few plates as he stands from the table, Tater trotting along after him.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jack says as soon as they’re alone.  “I didn’t realize they would overhear.”

“Your boys are worse than a pack of church ladies, I swear.”

“They’re just happy that we’re happy,” Jack insists.  “They know how hard it is to be on the road all the time.  I’m sure Marty and Thirdy are just excited that you seem to be willing to stick with me through the playoffs.”

“I imagine getting dumped could throw somebody off their game,” Bitty agrees.

“I’d rather not find out.”

“It would take a lot more than idle gossip to put me off you, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Good, because the next few games are going to be rough.”

“You’re going to do great, sweetpea,” Bitty says, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles.  “And just think.  It’s only ten more days of hockey and then we’ll be on a plane, heading to paradise.”

“It can’t come soon enough,” Jack says, pulling Eric in close to his side and pressing a kiss to his temple.  “I can’t wait to be alone with you.  No press, no parents.  Just us.”

“Then when we get back I’ll be ready to practice my jumps again.  Katya thinks I’m ready.”

“That’s great, bud,” Jack says, squeezing Eric tight.  “I’m so happy for you.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I think I might take your credit card and do some shopping,” Bitty says slowly, like he’s afraid of Jack’s reaction.

“I told you, Bits.  It’s your credit card.  It has your name on it and everything.  You can buy whatever you want.”

“I just need a few things for our trip.  I can’t get away with wearing those little hot pants in public.”

“What about in private?” Jack asks, leaning in to nip at Bitty’s throat.  

“I suppose I could bring them with me… if you feel that strongly about it.”

“Oh, I feel very strongly,” Jack says, letting his hand trail down Eric’s body to slide into his lap.  “And I think you do, too.”

“What has gotten into you, Mister Zimmermann?  There are children present!”

“Maybe I’m just thinking about starting our vacation early.”

“Keep it in your pants, darlin’,” Eric says, pulling Jack’s hand away from his crotch.  “You have pie to eat.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Tater interrupts, carrying two plates overladen with pie.  “You lose pie negotiation this time, yes?” he asks, sliding onto the bench opposite Jack.

“What is he talking about?” Eric asks, side-eyeing Jack.

“No comment,” he says, hiding his blush in the crook of Eric’s neck.

Chapter Text

Jack’s phone chimes and he runs in from the bathroom to answer it before it stops playing Love On Top.  He still isn’t sure how Bitty managed to change the ringtone, but he can’t exactly complain.  It always makes him smile whenever he hears the upbeat tune.

“Hello?” he asks, diving onto the bed like a giddy child.  

“Hey there, sugar,” Bitty’s syrupy slow voice answers.  

Jack feels like his smile must be audible.  “Hey, yourself.”

“Do you have a tie handy?”

“Why do you ask?” Jack says, already jumping up to rifle through his suitcase.  He’s not sure he’s coordinated enough to tie himself up, but he can’t say he’s not interested in what it would feel like.

“Tater told me you’re supposed to put it on the door if we’re going to be getting frisky on roadies.”

“And is that what we’re doing?”

“I was hoping so,” Bitty says, accent thick and sultry.  “If you’re interested.”

Jack can almost picture him trailing his finger down his chest in a slow tease.  “I’m interested.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, sugar,” Eric says.  

A soft rustling tells Jack he must already be in bed.  It’s not hard to picture him there, lying back against their sheets, nipples peaked and chest flushed with arousal.  

“So tell me,” Eric begins, “how are you feeling after that last win, Mister Zimmermann?”

“Pretty good,” Jack admits.  It had been a hard game, but he’d scored two goals himself and they’d managed to eke out a win.  “I’d be better if you were here.  It’s always better when I know you’re watching.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Jack asks, his voice already going low and husky, the way he knows Bitty likes.

“And what would I be doing if I were there?”

Jack’s breath hitches.  This is it.  He’s supposed to say something dirty.  That’s what Eric is expecting.  That’s what men in relationships are supposed to do when they’re away from their partners.  It shouldn’t be this difficult.

“Umm…” he trails off, mind drawing a blank.  

Thankfully, Eric knows him well enough to take the pressure off.

“Did you take a shower when you got home from press?” he asks, and it’s a leading question.  It must be, because Eric knows Jack always takes a second shower after getting home from away games.  It’s part of his well-crafted routine.  If Eric is asking rhetorical questions, it must be part of the game.  Jack should play along.

“Yes.  Of course I did,” Jack replies, wishing he didn’t sound quite so robotic.  This is Eric.  Just Eric.  He has nothing to be nervous about.  Eric loves him.  There’s no way he could fuck this up.

Except of course there is.  

Jack is the king of fucking up.  He’s already terrible at this.  They should quit while they’re ahead.  He should tell Eric that before he gets his hopes up.

“You look so good in the shower, honey,” Eric says, continuing the charade.  “I just can’t keep my hands off you when you’re dripping wet like that.  We’ve had some good times in showers, as far as I can recall.  Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Jack answers dumbly, dry throat clicking audibly.  He reaches for the nightstand where a bottle of water sits and chugs down half of it in one go.  

“That last time was particularly memorable.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“What was your favorite part, sugar?” Eric asks.

Jack freezes, chest seizing up like he’s been plunged into icy water.    

“Come on honey, you can tell me.  Do you remember what we did?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Licking his lips, Jack struggles to find words—any words at all.  He’ll take anything that doesn’t sound completely idiotic.  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, thinking back to the last time they made love in their bathroom at the condo.  It was hot and steamy and literally took his breath away.  Should he say that?

“It was hot,” he manages, throwing a hand over his eyes in embarrassment.  

“Sure was, baby.  What else?” Eric asks, clearly trying to torture him.

“I, uh,” he tries again, desperate to prove that he isn’t completely horrible at this.  “I didn’t think you’d be able to fuck me in there—because you’re so—”

“—excuse me?”

“—I mean, because I’m so tall.  But you surprised me.”

“That’s better, sugar.  Tell me more.  What did you like about it?”

“Can’t you tell me?” Jack asks, more than ready to let Eric take the lead.

“Tell me one thing—your favorite thing about that day—and then I’ll take it from there.  Does that sound fair?”

It does sound fair, which is infuriating, but Jack does his best.  “I um… I liked it when you held me down… and told me not to move.”

“And you listened?  Didn’t you, baby?”

“Yeah.”

“I was so proud of you.  You’re so good at following direction, sweetheart.  So good at doing exactly what I tell you, and then you get everything you want.  Don’t you?” Bitty says, breathy and slow.

“Yes,” Jack manages.

“Didn’t I give you everything you wanted that day?  Because you were such a good boy for me?  Don’t I always give you what you want?  In time, of course.  Sometimes I need to make you wait for it, because that just makes it feel so much better when you finally get it.”

Fuck, Bitty is good at this.  It’s not fair.  How can Eric be so good in bed and so good at dirty talk over the phone?  Jack is trying his hardest and he can barely give one-word answers.  He really needs to learn how to step up his game.  Would it be cheating to google phone sex tips right now?

“Now tell me, what do you like about being held down?”

“I, uh…” Jack tries, but everything he comes up with sounds so stupid.  He doesn’t know how to describe it.  It’s just a feeling that he gets that probably doesn’t make sense to anyone else.  

“It’s okay, you can tell me anything, Jack.”

It’s true.  Jack has always been able to tell Bitty anything—no judgment, no laughter, no shame.  Eric is trying so hard to make this good for him, the least he could do is give a little something back, no matter how embarrassed he might feel.  

“It makes me feel… safe?” he says, though he’s not quite sure it’s a proper description.

“That’s good, baby.  That’s so good,” Eric says, shifting on the sheets.  “What else?”

“I, um…” Jack closes his eyes tight, trying to imagine what it feels like when Bitty is holding him down, to pretend he can feel it on his skin.  “I think I need the struggle sometimes,” he says finally, picturing Eric’s biceps flexing as he pushes and pulls Jack however he wants him.  “It’s like with hockey.  If it doesn’t hurt—if it isn’t hard, then it’s like it’s not worth it.  I guess…”

“I know exactly what you mean, Jack,” Eric says, voice calm and soothing.  “You really need something to pull against.”

“Yeah, but it’s also that it’s you,” Jack says, wanting to make it clear that Eric is the one who makes him feel good.  “Sometimes I need you to hold me down and make me take it, because otherwise, I would give up.  You get me out of my head and make me feel good.  You kind of… force me to focus on how good it feels.”

“I like holding you down, sugar.  You have no idea how good I feel when you’re thrashing against me.  Or when I tell you to stay and you do.  I’ve never had someone listen to me like that before.  No one has ever wanted to let me do what I want—whatever I want.  It’s such a rush, Jack, you have no idea,” Eric says quickly, all in one breath.

“Are you—” Jack wants to ask, but then thinks better of it.

“I’m so hard for you right now, baby.  So hard thinking about all the things I could do to that perfect body of yours.  How I could make it move for me, make it sing.”

“That’s good,” Jack says, happy he seems to be doing something right after all.

“Are you touching yourself, Jack?”

“No,” he replies.  He hadn’t even thought about it.  He’s not hard—not even close.

“Would you touch yourself for me, honey?  Please—” he breaks off.  A rustling of fabric betrays his actions.  “My pants are off.  Take yours off too, okay?”

“Okay,” Jack agrees, though he doesn’t see what use it’s going to do.  He eyes the door warily.  There’s a tie on the knob, but if someone decided to take it off as a joke, or if Tater didn’t notice it… he might get walked in on.  Jack doesn’t think he’d be able to survive the shame if someone—Tater, the housekeeper, anyone—were to walk in on him jerking off.

“Are you touching yourself, baby?”   

“Yes,” Jack says, reaching for his dick and just holding it in his hand.  

“How does it feel?  Tell me how good it feels.”

“Uhh…” Jack hedges.  Should he lie?  Is that part of how phone sex works?  Does anyone really like it?  Or are they all just pretending for someone else’s benefit—going through the motions because it’s what you’re expected to do?

“That’s okay, honey.  We can do this,” Eric says, cutting off a moan.  “Can you finger yourself for me?  Have any got lube with you?”

“No,” Jack admits.  He wasn’t exactly planning to have sex with anyone on this roadie, and he can’t remember the last time he tried to masturbate.  

“That’s alright sugar,” Bitty breathes.  “I’ll make sure you pack some next time.”

So this is going to be a regular thing, Jack gathers.  He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Just lick your fingers or maybe take one of those little lotion bottles out of the bathroom.  Can you do that for me?”

“Sure,” Jack says, getting off the bed.  He goes to the bathroom and looks at the complimentary toiletries but doesn’t find any lotion, just shampoo, body wash, and conditioner.

“Find it?”

“Yeah,” Jack lies.  “Got it.”  So what if he’s not hard.  Just because he’s not going to get off doesn’t mean that Eric shouldn’t.  

“Now put your heels up on the bed and rub around that sweet little hole for me,” Bitty breathes steadily, slowly, like he’s trying to make himself last.

“Okay,” Jack answers, doing no such thing.  

“Are you alright, honey?  You didn’t tweak your shoulder too bad earlier, did you?  Can you reach okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jack says, because he is fine.  There’s nothing wrong with this scenario.  If he were in the mood for sex, he’d be doing exactly what Eric asked him to right now.  Instead, he’s playing along until his boyfriend can get himself off.  There’s nothing wrong with that.

Right?

“Tell me how it feels, sugar.  Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Can you tell me?” Jack asks, not wanting to outright lie.  “I need to hear your voice—please?”

“Of course, baby,” Eric answers immediately.  “I’m sorry, I know this must be hard for you.  I’ll just tell you what I’m doing and you can do whatever makes you feel good, okay?”

“Okay,” Jack replies.  He can do that.  Lying here, listening to Eric is making him feel very good—even if he’s not aroused.

“I’m thinking about your fingers.  They’re so big—so much broader than mine.  God, they felt so amazing when you got them inside me.  I think about that a lot.  Do you?”

“Yeah,” Jack says easily, pitching his voice low, letting out a long breath.

“God, Jack.  That day after we skated together, when you stretched me open and then let me ride you… I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.  Your dick inside me, it was like a religious experience.  Do you think you’d want to do that again sometime?”

“Sure,” Jack says.  It was a harrowing experience for him, one that ended in tears, if he recalls correctly, but Eric had looked wonderful bouncing in his lap.  It wouldn’t be a hardship to make his boyfriend feel good like that again.

“We could get you a plug.  Maybe something big.  You liked when I had my whole fist in you.  Imagine having something that big filling you up while I ride you as hard as I can.  It would feel so good, baby.”

Jack actually feels his dick twitch slightly at the thought.  “I—” he tries, wanting to participate a little bit, “I think I’d like that.”

“You were so hard that day, baby.  Harder than I’d ever seen you,” Eric says, a slick sliding noise accompanying his words.  “I thought you would break me with that giant cock, but you didn’t.  Do you remember what you did?”

“I used my mouth,” Jack says easily.  He doesn’t even need to fake his enthusiasm about it.  “You were shivering all over.”

“Fuck yes, I was,” Eric agrees through clenched teeth, trying to hold on a little while longer.  “Remember what you told me afterward?”

“That I’d do it again sometime,” Jack replies.  “That the next time I’d do it as long as it took for you to come.”

“I think about that all the time, sugar.  I’d never done that before and you made me feel so good.  It was incredible, honey.”

“I’d do it again right now if you were here,” Jack admits, and it seems to be the right thing to say, because Eric starts moaning in agreement.

“Fuck, Jack.  You were so good at that, and then your big cock splitting me open.  I could have died right then.  I thought life would never get better than that.”

“Mmm,” Jack hums, not knowing how to reply.

“When you get home I’m going to take you to bed right away.  I think maybe I should stretch myself out before you get home.  That’s how rough I want it.  I think the dining room table is just the right height.  You could carry me there and lay me out and fuck me right there in the middle of the house, right in front of the window.  You’d look so fucking good like that, baby, towering over me,” Bitty spouts out in a rush, words almost tripping over themselves on the way out of his mouth.

Jack is impressed.  He knew Eric was vocal in bed, but this is taking dirty talk to a whole new level.  

Moaning between words, Bitty continues before Jack has the chance to say anything.  “I could lie back and relax and that big cock of yours would stretch me so wide.  I bet I’d come so fast.  And then you could pull out and come all over my chest, until it’s dripping down my stomach, all mixed together with mine.  I’m going to be drenched in it, baby.  It’ll spread everywhere, all over that table.  And then I’d get hard again just from watching you come.  And I bet you could make me come again.”

“Fuck,” is all Jack can manage to say.  He’s rendered speechless by Bitty’s performance.

“God baby, I’m so close.  Are you close?”

“Mmm,” Jack moans again, hoping it’s convincing.  He’s not sure how much longer he can listen to this.  Bitty’s sounds are getting louder and more exaggerated.  They almost sound fake to Jack’s ears and it’s starting to grate on him.  

“When I’m done the second time I’m going to pound into your hole with my hand so hard you see stars.  You’re going to come all over yourself until it’s dripping off you onto the floor.  Your legs are going to buckle and you’ll fall to your knees in that slick puddle.  It’s going to be filthy.  We both know how much you can come, how hot and thick it is.  God, it feels so good, holding you in my hand, feeling you go over the edge.  It’s the sexiest thing in the world, the way you tense and then explode all over me—all over yourself.  Fuck, Jack.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’s nearly screaming now, and it sounds so ridiculous, Jack feels uncomfortable.  If he didn’t know any better Jack would say it sounds like he’s walking in on a show already in progress, like it’s something well-rehearsed.   

Suddenly, it hits Jack like a ton of bricks.  It sounds like an act because it probably is.  It sounds like Bitty’s done this before because he probably has.  Fuck.  Bitty’s probably done this dozens of times for men he barely knew.  He said it himself… sometimes he went home with men just for a hot shower and a place to lay his head for the night…

Jack feels like vomiting.  He wants to throw the phone across the room.  

It’s okay, Jack tells himself.  Eric has a past.  Jack knows this.  They’ve talked about it.  Jack doesn’t judge Bitty for it, he just hadn’t prepared himself for what it might feel like to talk to a professional phone sex operator.  

He knows it’s totally different.  Eric and Jack are in a relationship.  They’re in love.  Eric is just trying to keep their intimacy intact when they have to spend time apart.  This is a totally normal way to express intimacy. 

Then why does it feel so weird to have Eric panting in his ear?

“God, Jack.  I’m so close.  I’m going to come.  Will you come for me?”

“Not tonight,” Jack says, voice going cold and dark without his permission.  “It’s okay though,” he tries again.  He loves Eric.  Eric should get to orgasm.  He wants Eric to feel good.  “You can come for me.  It’s okay.  Please, come for me,” Jack says, throat catching on a breath as he tries to calm down.

“Fuck, okay.  Okay,” Bitty repeats, exhaling loudly as he nears the edge.  “Fuck, I’m coming.  Oh God, Jack.  Fuck, baby,” he moans, stuttering off into a sigh.  

Silence stretches out between them for a few moments before Jack hears, “I love you,” said quietly—earnestly.  “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Jack replies, mind racing.

“I know that must have been hard for you, but I’m so proud of you for trying for me.”

“Was it, uh… good for you?”

“Of course, Jack,” Eric says, breathing slowly returning to normal.  “It’s you and me—of course, it’s going to be good.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says immediately, not knowing what else to say.  The guilt is already creeping in.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get hard for you,” he says instead of what he’s really thinking.  

“That’s alright, baby.  I know it’s hard for you without something inside.  I’ll think on it for a little bit and we’ll figure something out, alright?”

“Okay.”

“You did so well for me, sugar.  Really,” Bitty says again, reassuring him.

Now Jack feels even more awful.  He wants to apologize but isn’t sure how to say it.  Is it weird to apologize for your own insecurities?  Does he need to apologize for something that Eric never even has to know about?  

He wants to ask.  If he doesn’t, he knows it will just fester into something dark and ugly inside of him.  It will grow for days, for weeks on end until it manifests into a panic attack—

“—Are you okay, baby?  Your breathing sounds funny,” Eric says, voice trembling with concern.

Jack laughs.  This man loves him, knows him so well he can tell when anxiety is creeping in even from 800 miles away.  It’s more than Jack feels he will ever deserve.

“I was just thinking—” he stops himself.  There is no good way to say this.  He’s going to sound like a jealous crazy person.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” Bitty assures him.

“I was just freaking out because it um… it didn’t feel real,” he settles on.  It’s not the truth, but it’s not a lie either.

“Because we’re not really together?  I know you have trouble masturbating.  I should have known it would have been difficult for you to feel good just touching yourself.  I do really wish I was there with you, honey.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” Jack is struggling.  He can’t get his thoughts in order.  “I know you like to talk in bed,” he says, talking around the subject.  Maybe if he sneaks up on it, he’ll be able to get the words out.  “And I like it.  Usually, it helps me, to know you’re enjoying yourself, to know what you want me to do… but—”

“It’s okay, take your time.”

“I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe you’ve been… exaggerating a little, for my benefit?” Jack asks, eyes squeezed shut tightly against his own voice.  

“I mean, doesn’t everyone play it up a little on the phone?  You can’t see my face so I have to say everything I want you to know—spell it out a little.  I promise you, I meant every word of it,” Eric says, words shortening, tone serious.  “What’s really going on here, Jack?”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, because he knows it’s wrong, “I’m so, so sorry, but I can’t stop thinking of all the other people you might have slept with—who you might have faked it with.  I keep imagining how you learned to do all this stuff… how you’re so good at it.  And that’s my issue,” Jack says firmly.  “I know it’s my issue.  Your past is not your fault and I don’t blame you at all, but it’s hard for me to hear you like that and feel like I had nothing to do with it.  That maybe you could have been with anyone just then.  That maybe you’ve done exactly that before—faked it because you didn’t have any other choice.  And that… it breaks my heart.”

There’s silence on the other end of the call and Jack’s heart rushes into his throat.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“—No, it’s okay,” Eric says, though it’s unconvincingly followed by several sniffles.  “I guess I should have seen this coming… we just never really talked about it and I thought it wouldn’t affect us, but clearly, I was wrong.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t—”

“—Clearly we do,” Bitty says firmly, “because the last thing I want you thinking about while we’re making love is my brief stint in transactional sex.”

“It’s not your fault that I’m insecure,” Jack says.  He’s talked to Blaire enough to know what his shortcomings are.  “I’m jealous, I’m possessive, and I’m a big enough headcase that I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Those are my issues.  Not yours.”

“Of course they’re my issues, Jack,” Eric says with a sigh.  “I love you.  I’m with you.  Your issues are my issues, and if I can help to put them to rest, I’m going to do it.  So let’s talk about this.”

“Okay,” Jack says.  He honestly didn’t expect it to be a conversation.  He’s always had to deal with these things on his own.  It never occurred to him to try to explain them to Eric.  Not while they were still spinning around in his head.

“I was not faking it.  I do not think about anyone but you when we’re in bed together.  If I could wipe those years on the street and those men from my memory, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

“I’m sorry I talked to you like that,” Jack says, now that he’s had a minute to think over what happened.  “I have no right to bring it up, especially since I know the memories upset you.”

“I’m not proud of it, but it happened and I can’t change that now,” Bitty says, quite reasonably, as far as Jack’s concerned.  “But I also can’t deny that those years took their toll on me.  And maybe you’re right.  I might go into sex like I have something to prove, and maybe that’s my issue to deal with.”

“I like how you have sex.  I don’t mind that you’re aggressive about it.  I like it that way, actually,” Jack says.  “It kind of takes some of the pressure off me.  We both know I can’t… perform all the time.  Not like you can.”

“And I do like bossing you around a bit,” Eric admits sheepishly.  “I always had to be the passive one and it’s been real nice not having to pretend to be some waif—to pretend to like everything because I’m looking to get something else out of it.”

“So you do like it?  What we do together?  What we just did?”

“Of course I like it, sweetpea.  Did you not just hear me come like a firehose?”

“That’s an image I’m never going to get out of my mind,” Jack says, laughing.

“You know what I mean,” Eric says, joining him in laughter.  “I like it because it’s you.  Because it’s us.  I think we’re kind of incredible together and that you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, let alone gotten to touch.  You drive me absolutely crazy and maybe sometimes I go a little overboard.  I can tone it down if it’s making you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Jack says immediately.  “Don’t tone it down.  Never tone it down.”

Bitty laughs.  It’s high and bright and exactly what Jack needs to hear.

“I love everything you do.  I’m sorry I had a temporary freak-out.  It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t say that, honey,” Eric says, voice softening into something warm and gentle.  “You can’t promise me that.  It might happen again and that’s okay.  You can’t help how you feel and I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie to me in the future if something isn’t working for you.  Please, just be honest with me and we’ll work it out together.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Jack agrees easily.  This conversation is going much better than he had feared.  

“And I think maybe it’s time to call some of those numbers that Miss Blaire gave me,” Eric says, sighing into the speaker.  “I try to shove it all down and pretend everything is fine, but maybe these things are affecting me worse than I’d care to admit.”

“It’s okay to ask for help,” Jack agrees.  “And if you want to talk to me about it, I’m here to listen.  I know I get jealous and lash out sometimes, but if you want to tell me, I’ll try my best to keep an open mind.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Bitty says, a smile creeping into his voice.  “And it’s not like I’m the only one with a past.  If you want to talk about something, you just let me know.”

“Okay,” Jack says, though he’s not quite sure what Bitty is hinting at.  

“Okay,” Eric says.  “Now why don’t I get cleaned up real quick and then I can tell you all about my skate with Katya this morning.”

“I’d like that,” Jack says, getting up to remove the tie from the doorknob and then settling down against his pillows.

Chapter Text

After a few days at home during which Jack trains harder than he ever has in his life, he’s back on the road.  Another game, another hotel room, but this time, there’s something to look forward to at the end of the tunnel.

One more game.  

Jack only has to play one more game and then tomorrow he’ll be on a plane back to Providence and starting a week-long vacation with Eric.  No players, no press, no hockey, no parents.  Just him and Eric and a little cabin on a secluded stretch of the Pacific.  He rented a place that boasted its own private beach access, the perfect place to be blissfully alone with Eric.

The last team standing between him and his vacation is, of course, the Blues.  They are none too happy about losing their star goalie and three of their defensemen, but have still managed to pull it together enough to be vying for a playoff slot.  The new D men they brought up from their farm team are giants, even by NHL standards. 

Jack spends more time flat on the ice than he does in possession of the puck.  The other team is so aggressive that Tater and Thirdy get thrown in the sin bin for fighting while trying to protect him.  There aren’t any slurs said out loud—management must have given their remaining players an ultimatum—but Jack can tell still hear them every time someone rams him into the boards.  

This team isn’t just angry.  They’re angry with Jack.  It’s his fault they’re crawling their way out of a PR nightmare, his fault the Blues are all expecting to be traded at the end of the season, him and his gayness.  It’s a tough pill to swallow and Jack finds himself trying to channel Bitty’s self-confidence.

There is nothing wrong with him.  Nothing wrong with their relationship.  If the Blues don’t like it, they can kindly get the fuck out of his way.  He has a Stanley Cup to win.

In the end, it’s the new goalie that hands the Falconers the game.  Marty manages to sink the puck in exactly once, but that’s all it takes.  The Blues spend so much time trying to murder Jack that they never manage to get the puck in the net.  Snowy does a fantastic job, as always, and by the end of the night Marty’s goal is the only one on the board.

He showers and makes a quick stop to the trainers’ office to let them check his hip where it hit the ice the last time and then Jack is changing into his suit and following Thirdy and Marty into the press room.  Jack’s hair is dripping and he runs a hand through it, hoping it won’t wet his collar on camera.  The last thing he needs is for the press to ask him to share the details of his shower in the St. Louis locker room.

“You ready, Captain?” Tater asks, patting him on the back so hard he stumbles.  

“As I’ll ever be,” Jack says, shaking it off.  

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Marty says, squeezing his forearm, a much more comforting touch than Tater’s.  “They’ll be tough, but it’s just a few questions and then we’re done till the playoffs, alright?”

“Right,” Jack repeats.  

“I heard you’re taking a trip with Eric,” Thirdy says, nudging him in the shoulder.  “Where are you two lovebirds headed?”

“Hawaiʻi.  Oahu and then Kauai,” Jack says, already picturing the sun shining down on Eric, making his skin freckle and tan.

“Big spender,” Marty jokes.  “Taking your boy to paradise?  Sounds like someone is planning to pop the question.”

“I’m not,” Jack says.  “I mean, I’m probably not.  I didn’t even buy a ring yet.”

“No ring?” Tater says, shocked.  “No worry, we go shopping after press.  Find Itty Bitty something nice.”

“That’s not—”

“—Imagine this, Captain… you walking on beach, you kiss watching sunset, and you think huh, maybe this being good time for popping big question.  And then,” he pats his pockets, looking distraught.  “Oh no,” he cries, grasping Jack’s shoulders, “you don’t have ring.  Perfect moment pass and you not engaged to tiny baker.”

“The man has a point, Jack,” Marty says, fighting back a laugh.

“We passed a Tiffany’s while we were out to lunch earlier.  I bet they’d stay open late if I called and asked,” Thirdy says, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Jack stares at him for a few seconds before sighing.  “Make the call,” he says, shaking his head as the other three hoot and cheer behind him.  

A couple of minutes later, when Jack takes his seat at the press table, he feels lighter than air.  A few questions, all he has to do is get through a handful of routine questions and then he’ll be picking out a ring for the love of his life.

The lights burn his eyes as Jack looks through the sea of reporters for a non-threatening face to call on.  He chooses someone at random, hoping they’re not too aggressive.  He’s getting excited, eager to escape this room and head out to the jewelry store with Tater.  Jack didn’t think it would appeal to him so much—shopping has never been his strong suit—but the more he thinks about, the more interested he is in putting a ring on it, so to speak.

Feeling his face heat, Jack realizes he just mentally quoted Beyoncé, Patron Saint of the Bootylicious.  Crisse, Bitty really is starting to rub off on him.   

“How does it feel to be first in the league?” the reporter asks.

The panel lets out a collective sigh of relief.  Maybe they’re going easy on them after all. 

“We worked very hard to get here and our record is a testament to our work ethic and dedication to this game and to our city,” Marty says, stepping into the fire easily.  “Tonight was a tough one, but we were able to pull out a win and we’ll be riding that high into our bye week.”

“You took a lot of rough hits out there tonight, Jack,” someone else says, “do you think that aggression was retaliatory?  After all, the Blues are missing some of their best players due to the scandal involving you and their former goalie at the All-Stars game.”

“The Blues played how they thought they had to play to win, but it just wasn’t enough today,” Thirdy says, stepping in.

“The lawsuits against me and against the league were dismissed.  West and his teammates were terminated with cause and are no longer welcome to play in the NHL.  I decided not to pursue any legal action in regard to defamation of character so the whole situation can be put to rest,” Jack says.  It’s exactly what Georgia made him practice saying.  He just hopes there aren’t any follow up questions because he will have no idea how to answer them.

“Who want to hear about how Captain want to propose to cute baker?” Tater cuts in.  “He being very romantic.”

Jack buries his head in his hands as the room erupts with noise.  He’s torn between being irritated and grateful.  On the one hand, no one is going to ask him about West or the lawsuit again tonight, on the other hand, he’s never going to be able to go to a jewelry store without a herd of photographers following him.  Tater just made ring shopping nearly impossible.

Their flight to Hawaiʻi can’t come soon enough.

 “Captain!” Tater stage whispers, shaking him.  “Is time to leave now.”

Opening one eye, Jack peers at the alarm clock.  “Alexei, it’s past midnight!  What do you want?”  He’d talked to Bitty for a bit after press, dodging chirps about Tater’s big announcement and his resultant denial, and then fallen into a deep sleep.  Jack didn’t even hear Tater unlock their door or stumble in, clearly intoxicated.  “Don’t you want to sleep?”

“We sleep on plane, now we shop!  Others wait in car.  Would have chucked up in elevator, I think.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We talk to store, get them to open again.  They have back entrance.  No one will see.  Come now,” he hollers, pulling Jack’s comforter back

“I am not getting up until you tell me what you’re talking about,” Jack says again, still bleary from sleep.

“You get up, we go to ring store, then we come back to sleep.  No shower, just hat.  Come now, bystreye!” he yells, yanking on Jack’s arm until he moves.

Objectively, Jack knows this is a nice thing Alexei and the guys have done for him, and he should take advantage of it while he can.  Even so, as his hip protests on his walk to the bathroom, he visualizes punching Tater in the face for making him get out of bed in the middle of the night.

The more he wakes up, the clearer it becomes that Tater has probably been out drinking with the team and this shopping trip may turn out to have more of a bachelor party vibe than he’s prepared for.

“Are the rest of the guys sober at least?” he calls back to Tater as he relieves himself and sets to wash his face and brush his teeth.  

“Snowy having good time.  Thirdy having very good time.  Marty sleeping off in limo downstairs.  Old men can’t hold vodka in this country.  Embarrassing.”

Jack dresses quickly and makes sure he has his wallet and room key before following Tater out the door.  He pulls a cap down low over his eyes and hopes no one will see them sneaking out in the middle of the night and follow them to their destination.

“No worry, Zimmboni.  They promise not to even turn store lights on.  We do secret shopping.”

It’s sweet, really, so Jack claps him on the shoulder and lets him slide into the limo first.  When Jack settles down against the leather he finds that Marty is in fact passed out, and Thirdy and Snowy look rougher than Jack has seen them in some time.

“You guys have a little too much fun tonight?” he asks, glancing between Marty’s greasy hair and the bags under Thirdy’s eyes.

“We just made the playoffs, Cap.  Don’t you think that deserves a bit of celebration?” Snowy booms with no regard for Marty, still asleep next to him.  

“We made it to the playoffs a few weeks ago based on our record, but sure.  Celebrate away.”

“Don’t worry,” Tater cuts in.  “Jack do plenty of celebrating with Itty Bitty last trip.  There was tie on door at midnight!”

“You lucky bastard,” Thirdy says.  “Niadah never does it with me on Skype anymore.”

“We weren’t doing anything,” Jack starts to protest, but Tater just cuts him off with a slow, high whistle.

“No need deny, Captain.  Is healthy.  Is good for you.  Much less robot voice now than when we first meet.”

“He’s got a point there, Cap,” Snowy says, a knowing smile on his face.  “You really are better with him—happy.  We’re much less worried about you now.  You used to spend so much time alone.  Before Tater made the team, you even used to room by yourself and sit alone on the bus.”

“I just like to read,” Jack mumbles.  

“Yeah, boring non-fiction books on tape and historical biographies.  Have you even read Harry Potter?”

“Of course I’ve read Harry Potter.”

“Could have fooled me,” Thirdy agrees.  “You were walking around the locker room like you had a broom handle up your ass.”

“I think there something else there now,” Tater muses, a wide grin on his face.

“Cut it out guys,” Jack says, hiding his blush while simultaneously punching Tater in the arm.

“Captain is blushing!  No need for being embarrass!  We all just very happy for you and Itty Bitty.  You make him very nice husband.”

“Thanks, Alexei,” Jack says, lips twitching upward in appreciation.

“I don’t know,” Snowy says, shaking Marty awake as the limo comes to a stop.  “I think Jack has the better end of that deal.  Eric is probably going to be the better husband.”

“If you think Jack doesn’t worship the ground that boy walks on, you’re crazy,” Marty chimes in, yawning and stretching until his arms hit the roof of the limo.  “That kind of devotion?  There’s no contest.”

“You do have laser focus, Cap,” Snowy agrees.  “It’s almost scary sometimes.”

“Heh, yeah,” Jack says, shrugging.  

He knows he can be intense—how much of a struggle it was to slow down and let Eric catch up to how strongly he felt about him.  He’s always been all or nothing.  Why bother with something if you’re not going to give it 110% of your energy? 

Jack has never been good at setting limits or knowing when to quit, especially with Eric.  As far as he’s concerned, being married to Eric will be the greatest joy of his life and they might as well start living their best lives as soon as possible.

They pile out of the limo and find themselves in a back alley, shielded from the street by a collection of dumpsters.  Jack tries to ignore the shiver that runs through his body at the sight, refuses to be brought back to the chilling fear of finding Eric bleeding out on that dirty pavement, not on what is meant to be a happy occasion.  

He follows Tater to a back door where they knock and are brought inside.  The manager has set up a makeshift viewing station in the employee lounge so they don’t have to go into the storefront where anyone could see them through the windows.  

As soon as Jack sits down at the computer chair and is presented with several dozen choices, he begins to panic.  There are so many options, bands with stones, feminine looking engagement rings, simple bands, elegant twists of metal… way too many to choose from.

The manager is kind and knowledgeable but some of the words he’s using are entirely foreign to Jack.  He knows the names of a few cuts and what a carat is, but has no idea what some of the metals are called or if he should care about pavé versus channel settings.  There are a few that look so old fashioned Jack can dismiss them quickly, but beyond that, he’s lost.

“What about going non-traditional?” a saleswoman asks, coming at him with a tray of jewels in a dazzling array of colors.  “It’s not just diamonds anymore.  Sapphires and rubies are popular, as well as colored diamonds.”

A delicate ring with a small pearl in it catches his eye, but he can’t bring himself to reach for it.  There must be a middle ground between the classic female engagement ring and the heavy masculine bands.  Jack pictures Eric’s hand, how the slim fingers always manage to slip right into his.  Some of these are just too bulky.  They would look ridiculous.

He sets tray after tray aside, listening to the slurred commentary from Marty and Thirdy, who seem to know much more about jewelry than Jack thought a bunch of drunk athletes would.  Eventually, he’s left with just a few trays, mostly thin bands in a variety of silver and gold hues. 

It might be a bit much, but Jack keeps coming back to one of the more ostentatious rings.  It’s platinum with a large center stone in a round cut.  Something about it calls to him. 

“Would it be weird if I got him a women’s ring?” Jack asks at a whisper.  “Because his fingers are so small?”

“Not at all,” the saleswoman assures him, bringing back a tray of traditional engagement rings.  “It’s becoming more and more popular for men to get stones in their rings.  Which one were you thinking of?  We can always swap out the stone to something bigger if you like a particular setting.”

With a shaking hand and breath caught in his chest, Jack points to an oddly-shaped diamond ring with two thin gold bands.  It has a few other stones around it, making it look almost like a crown.

“Ah, the marquis cut,” the manager says, removing it from the foam block and holding it out to Jack.  “It’s an older style, but it’s coming back.”

“This one is lovely,” the saleswoman agrees, moving a light so it shines down on the gems.  “With the smaller pear and cushion cuts on either side, it makes for a unique piece.  That’s four carats plus the side stones makes a total weight of 4.8.”

“Is that a lot?” Jack asks, looking up to Snowy and the rest of them.  At least they’re married.  He really has no idea what he’s doing and could use some advice.  

“I think for most people anything over a karat is a lot,” Marty says knowingly.  “I was just a kid when I proposed to Gabby.  I got the ring from her grandmother.  Things are a little different now that we have multi-million dollar contracts.”

“The price on this is $46,000,” the manager says promptly.  

Thirdy whistles.  “If that doesn’t say commitment, I don’t know what does.”

“Do you think he would like it?” Jack asks Tater.  “Or should I go with the one that was like Beyoncé’s?”

“No one wants copy ring,” Tater says like he knows what he’s talking about.  “Bitty is like snowflake, yes?  No one else like Itty Bitty.”

He considers this for a minute, twisting the ring around in his fingers to watch it sparkle under the jeweler’s lamp.  As he takes the ring and slips it halfway down his pinky, admiring it as he shifts his hand from side to side, a small smile graces his lips.  

“I think I’d like this one,” Jack says, glancing down at it once more before removing it from his finger and handing it back to the saleswoman.

“It’s a size seven.  Does that sound about right?” she asks, handing it off to a technician to be cleaned.  

“I think so,” Jack says, looking down at the spot where it fit on his pinky.

“It’s no trouble to get it resized later if you need to.  Resizings and cleanings are included in the purchase, so you can come back any time to get it cleaned up if you really need it to shine for a special event.”

“Thanks,” Jack says as he pulls out his wallet and hands over his credit card.  

“As long as it’s not damaged or altered in any way, all our merchandise can be returned for a full refund.”

“I don’t think Captain has to worry about him saying no,” Tater says, pulling him into a one-armed hug.  

“When are you going to pop the question?” Marty asks.  “On your trip?”

“Maybe,” Jack says, signing the receipt and taking a small Tiffany blue box when it’s offered to him.  “I haven’t decided yet.”

“There’s no rush, Jack,” Snowy assures him as they thank the staff and file back out into the alley.  “You’ll know when the time is right.”

“Right,” Jack says, mind reeling as the box burns a hole in the front pocket of his sweatshirt.  “Right.”

“Now we go back to bar and celebrate!” Tater crows, squeezing Jack’s shoulders so hard he can feel it deep in his deltoids.

“I think I’m good, actually,” Jack says, shaking his head and shrugging Tater off before he does permanent damage.  “I want to get some more sleep.  Our flight is early tomorrow.”

“We’ll drop you off at the hotel first,” Thirdy assures him as they climb back into the limo.

“What about you?” Jack asks Marty who is massaging his temples as Snowy and Tater pull a water bottle and disposable shot glasses out of who knows where.

“J’deviens trop vieux pour c’te marde,” Marty mumbles under his breath before shaking his head.

“Could be our last year in the playoffs, Father Time,” Thirdy says, holding out a glass of clear liquid.  “Got to enjoy the glory days before we retire, otherwise it’s just sad.”

“What mean ‘Father Time?’” Tater asks, already pouring himself another.

“It means Marty’s wife is going to have to start blending his dinners soon.  Tell me,” Thirdy says, turning to Marty, “what was it like having to wait your turn for the payphone on roadies?”

“Don’t worry,” Snowy chimes in, “everyone on Twitter is still calling you a DILF.”

“What’s a DILF?” Jack asks, pulling his feet back as Tater starts sloshing what he thinks is vodka on the carpet.

“Is meaning dad I’d like for fucking,” Tater says sagely, taking another shot.  “Marty is dad I’d like for fucking.  Everyone know this.”

“I’m not fucking you, Tater.”

“Is okay,” Alexei shrugs.  “I could find younger man for fucking if I need one.  Someone who not break hip.”

Jack can’t help but laugh right along with Snowy and Thirdy.  He may not know as much slang as Tater, but he can appreciate a good chirp when he hears one.

Marty rolls his eyes but finally takes the shot, wincing as he swallows.  “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point.  I think I’ve got a few more hours left in me,” he says, eliciting cheers from the rest of the group.

“I’m still going to bed,” Jack reminds them, peering out the window to make sure they’re heading back to the hotel.

“Killjoy,” Snowy says, smiling fondly at him.

“Captain is not killing joy.  Is just wanting to go back to room to Skype Itty Bitty.”

Jack wasn’t planning on it, actually, but he finds himself checking his watch.  It’s just past one.  Eric is usually up at least this late.  He could call… just to say hi.

“I’d stay in too if I was going to get laid,” Thirdy muses.

“I’m not getting laid,” Jack insists, sighing.

“You could be, though,” Snowy points out.  “Just sayin’.”

“If there tie on the door again I just go sleep with Marty.”

“I’m still not fucking you, Tater!”

“I didn’t say for fucking!  Sleeping not just mean fucking!” Alexei shouts back.  “Why no one ever wanting to cuddle Tater?  Just bang bang and then empty bed in morning!”

“Does Bitty have any cousins?” Thiry asks, nodding toward a now-pouting Tater.

“I’d have to ask.”

“Is pie baking family trait?” Tater asks, perking up.  “Or is Bitty special?”

“I think it is, actually,” Jack says, laughing freely as they pull up to the hotel, one hand clenched around the small box in his pocket.  “But Eric is definitely special.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe Mama’s going to take over for Miss Natasha,” Bitty tells Jack over Skype just as soon as Jack’s hidden the ring box in his bag.  “She’s been cooking at that shelter for ten years. I thought she might have herself buried in that kitchen.”

“Your mom just wants to help,” Jack says lightly.  “I think it could be good for her.”

He’s trying not to give himself away, but his eyes keep flicking over to his suitcase of their own accord.  Now that he’s made the purchase—the first step on the journey to making Bitty his husband—he’s panicking.  Luckily, he had a rough game and it’s the middle of the night.  He tells himself that any oddity in his behavior can be easily explained away.  The check he took in the second period really did a number on him and he’s icing his hip again to cover his emotional discomfort.  

“I know it could be good for her, but I’m still a little nervous about it.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t it all seem a little too much?  Like she’s trying too hard?” Bitty asks, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his neck.  “I wouldn’t put it past her to go on a hunger strike until she’s fed every needy mouth in Rhode Island.”

“I think it’s better than hanging around our place and going to church three times a day.  There’s only so many times someone can ask forgiveness for the same thing. You think God might be getting a little bored up there on his cloud throne?”

“Oh hush you,” Bitty says.  “I’m just worried about her.  She’ll end up working herself to death in that place.”

“I know you want her to be happy,” Jack says with a sigh.  It’s always so difficult to reassure Eric about his mother.  “But maybe this is how she makes herself happy, by helping others.”

“She just keeps on punishing herself and I don’t know how to get her to stop.”

“Maybe you can’t,” Jack says.  He knows it’s harsh, but there are some problems that you just can’t fix for someone until they make the decision to change things themselves.  Jack’s been to enough therapy to know that much.  “You’ve given her the resources to live a good life.  She has a nice apartment and a job that she finds rewarding and a therapist to talk things out with.  She even has that knitting circle at the library. Maybe it’s time to let go and wait for her to come to peace with her demons herself.”

Bitty sighs, shaking his head.  “I know you’re right. But it’s just so hard to watch her suffer.”

“If she insists on suffering maybe it’s just time to just… stop watching,” Jack offers.  Eric opens his mouth to protest, but Jack cuts him off. “No, really,” he says, “you gave it a try and decided that church wasn’t the right place for you anymore.  She’s going to have to respect that and come to terms with it.  Not everything can be fixed with penance and prayers.  But if that’s what she wants to do, maybe it’s best to just let her do it.”

“I’m not going to let her guilt me into going back, if that’s what has you worried.”

“I’m not worried, just looking out for you,” Jack insists.  “I’m not sure you realize how much her opinion matters to you.  But you’re grown up now. You get to make your own decisions and if staying away from the church is what you’ve decided to do, she’s going to have to respect that and give you your space, even if that means changing some of her behaviors that make you uncomfortable.”

“Maybe…”

“The language she uses sometimes,” Jack says, shaking his head.  “I can see how you—how you flinch at certain words.  I think she’ll figure it out eventually, but that doesn’t mean you have to listen to her retell you sermons every Sunday over dinner in the meantime.”

“I hear you,” Bitty says, biting his lip.  “I really do.  Thank you for taking my side.”

“I’ll always be on your side, bud,” Jack says, hand itching to reach through the screen and offer Bitty some type of physical reassurance.  “I’ve never not been on your side.  All I want is for you to be happy.”

“Sometimes I wonder if things will ever change,” Bitty laments, resting his chin on his fist.

Jack thinks back to when he first met Suzanne, how scared she had been, how conciliatory.  He’d done his best to facilitate her reunion with Eric because he’d thought that’s what they both wanted, but seeing them hurt each other like this, he can’t help thinking that maybe he made a mistake.  

“Back when you were in the hospital,” Jack begins, afraid of what the answer might be, “did I push you together?  Did I… force things that I shouldn’t have?”

“Honey, no,” Bitty says quickly, leaning closer to the screen.  “You were doing what you thought was right.  That was a really hard time for all of us.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Jack says, getting frustrated with himself.  “What I thought was right.  I didn’t wait to ask you what you wanted.  I just brought her home and let her into our lives.”

“Jack,” Bitty says clearly, pulling him out of his fog.  “Listen to me.  You did ask me.  You came to the hospital and you asked me if I wanted to see her, if I wanted to forgive her and I said yes.  This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. You’ve done nothing but support me and her.  It’s none of our faults that our relationship isn’t perfect.”

“I just—”

“—No, Jack,” Bitty insists.  “She abandoned me and she lost my trust, and the way she’s working to get it back… well it’s not so much for my benefit as it is for her and Jesus, and it’s really my forgiveness she should be working toward, not His.  It’s not your fault she’s going about it wrong.  It’s just all she knows how to do. Pray. Pray hard, and pray often, and things will turn out alright.”

“I’m sorry.  I’ve never had a fight like this with my mother.”

“No,” Eric agrees, “but it’s not like your relationship with your daddy has always been a walk in the park.  It’s different with me and Mama, a little on the extreme side, but it’s still hard with parents, no matter who they are or what they do.”

“I just want you to be alright,” Jack says quietly.

“We will be,” Bitty assures him.  “These things just take time. Just stop trying to take the blame for the things Mama does wrong.  She would have gotten back into my life with or without you.  If she’s upsetting me, it’s on her, not you. Alright?”

“Alright,” Jack says, but he still can’t help feeling guilty about the entire thing.  

“Good,” Bitty says, sitting up straight and rolling his shoulders.

Jack knows that look.  There’s an impish smile playing at the corners of Bitty’s mouth, the expression is familiar even through his computer screen.  He’s in for something.

“Did the bread make it in your bag alright?  Or do I need to pad it better next time?”

“It was great, bud.  I’ve been putting the PB&Js together just like you showed me every morning.  Why?” Somehow Jack knows this conversation isn’t about his pregame sandwiches.  

“Did you happen to find anything else tucked away in your suitcase?”

Jack’s eyebrows creep up toward his hair.  “No. Why?”

“Why don’t you take a look in the inner pocket, sweetpea?” Bitty says with a shifty little smile.  

As soon as Jack steps away, music starts playing, a little distorted through his computer speakers, but unmistakable even a thousand miles away.  It’s Beyoncé, clearly, but one of her dirtier songs, one that Bitty doesn’t play if his mother is in the room.  The sound puts Jack at attention and he hastens his movements, pawing through his bag to find what Bitty’s hidden.

“You told me I should start using that credit card you gave me,” Bitty drawls through his speakers, “so I bought you a few things.”

“I meant you should use it to buy yourself things,” Jack protests, popping his head back up to frown at his boyfriend.

“Oh trust me, sugar.  I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Now you’ve got me nervous,” Jack says, finally finding a velvet bag and a few packets of lube in a small pocket.  “Really, Eric?” he asks, rolling his eyes.  

“Well, I couldn’t send you along with a whole bottle or you would have gotten caught by security,” he says quickly.  “Hopefully that’s enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“Take a look,” Bitty says, an expectant look on his face.  He’s relocated to their bedroom and Jack relaxes a bit seeing him in the familiar setting.  As soon as he’s settled in bed, Bitty removes his shirt, lying back against their pillows.  Setting Señor Bun aside, Bitty looks at him expectantly.  

With nervous fingers, Jack unties the string and turns the bag over in his palm.

It’s a toy.  A sleek, smooth, black toy that fits right into the palm of his hand.  It’s not a familiar shape though, and while Jack is pretty sure he still knows where it goes, it has a long curvy arm that looks a bit intimidating.  

“You might want to put that tie back on the door now, sugar.”

Jack gulps.  They’d talked about this—set Jack’s fears aside as well as they could.  Jack talked and Eric listened and he’d even sent him on his way with something that could make this fun for the both of them.  The least Jack could do is try.

Snapping back to reality, Jack grabs his tie off the armchair and slips it over the outer door handle with the do not disturb sign before padding back toward his laptop.  

“That one said it was for beginners, so if you like it, we can always get you a bigger one.”

Jack swallows convulsively again.  

“I… uh…” Jack trails off, looking back at the toy that’s not lying next to him on the mattress.  

“If you don’t like it, that’s totally fine.  I just thought it might help,” Bitty says, starting to ramble a bit.  “It’s the shape,  you see… it’s supposed to just tuck up right next to your prostate and press on it just like I do when we’re together.  But now I’m seeing your face and I can tell that you’re really not into this so maybe we should just forget this ever happened.”

“No, it’s not that,” Jack says quickly before Eric spirals into anxiety.  “I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never really used anything like this before.  And I’m embarrassed.”

“Oh,” Eric says, eyes brightening.  “Well you don’t have to be embarrassed, sweetpea.  I bought it for you.  I want to watch you use it and enjoy yourself.  There’s no one here to see you but me. I promise.”

“It’s not that I think you’re recording me or anything, I just feel… awkward,” Jack finishes lamely.  

“Trust me, honey.  You have nothing to be shy about,” Eric says, voice lowering to a rasp.  His nipples are peaked, pink and inviting on his chest, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.  

Jack hesitates.  He leans in further, utterly transfixed by the way Eric’s chest rises and falls as he breathes, slowly at first, but getting quicker the longer he watches.  

“What if I do it with you?” Eric offers, running his thin fingers through his hair, arching his neck so Jack can get a good look at his throat.  “I could tell you what I want you to do, and you could just follow my lead.”

“That sounds good,” Jack admits, though he’s still not entirely sold on the idea.  What if this weird thing doesn’t help him get an erection?  What if he slips and loses it up there and has to call Tater to take him to the hospital?  What if the press finds out he had to get a sex toy surgically removed from his ass?  His face flushes.

“I know it’s scary, but I promise we can stop any time you want.”

“Okay…” Jack says, steeling his resolve.  “What do I do?”

“Why don’t you get your clothes off and get back on the bed for me.  Up on your knees so you can reach everywhere. Whatever is comfortable for you, okay?”

Jack complies readily.  It’s always so much easier when he doesn’t have to improvise.  He strips down quickly, efficiently, like he’s done a thousand times in locker rooms all over the country and sets his ice pack aside. 

Bitty tsks him, leaning forward to tap at his keyboard.  The music changes into something with a soothing synth background.  “You have something to learn about stripping for an audience, Mister Zimmermann.”

He’s about to say something witty back, but loses all sense of time the moment Bitty gets up from the bed and spins the camera so he’s still in frame.  

The way Eric touches himself is riveting.  He drags his palms over his head, down his chest, all the way to his hips, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his borrowed sleep pants.  In a smooth, sweeping motion, Eric arches his back and looks over his shoulder, dragging the waistband down just a fraction of an inch.  

Jack’s eyes lock onto his Venusian dimples.  The light catching the soft dusting of blond hair on Eric’s back makes them look all the more enticing.  If he were home, Jack would be down on his knees already, mouthing at the little divots, mapping them out with his tongue.  From several hundred miles away, Jack can do nothing but stare.

Of course, Eric isn’t having it.  

“You can’t just sit there watching, baby,” he says, just a touch out of breath.  “Get that lube open and start rubbing it into your hole for me.  But keep your eyes on me. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

“Ouais,” Jack replies immediately, hopping back onto the bed and using his teeth to rip open a stubborn packet of lube.  

Once he’s sure Jack is following orders, Eric gets back to work.  He spins until he’s in profile, gives the camera a wink, and then proceeds to roll his hips in such a way that Jack’s swears he can feel Bitty’s dick hitting the back of his throat.  

Eric’s bulge looks thick and heavy, and Jack’s mouth waters at the sight of it.  He imagines himself back on his knees, mouthing at the fabric, desperate for a taste of what he didn’t realize he’d been missing for the past three days.

“Does that feel good?” Eric asks, and Jack hurries to slide a finger into himself before Eric has the chance to notice that he’s gotten distracted again.  

“Ahh… it’s weird when it’s not you,” he admits, face heating with embarrassment.  

“But it is me, honey,” Bitty says, dropping down to his knees so his face is closer to the camera.  “Whenever you do what I tell you, it’s like I’m touching you myself, because it’s exactly what I want you to feel.  Does that help?”

“Maybe,” Jack says, removing his finger so he can slick up a second one.  “I’ll try.”

“Want me to show you what I want you to do?  I can show you all my favorite parts of you, baby.”

“Please,” Jack whines before he even has his fingers back inside.  He’s not excited, not yet, but the way Eric is moving has him thinking that maybe he could be soon.  Heating the lube up between his fingers, he arches his back and inches them back toward his hole, struggling with the posture when it pulls at his hip.

“Why don’t you lie down if that’s hurting you?” Eric asks, quite sensibly, and then gets back to his strip tease.  The music changes again, to something with a serious beat, and Eric starts rolling his hips in figure eights, hands clasped above his head.  It does wonders for his triceps, and Jack loses a bit more time staring at the way his stomach ripples with each movement.

He turns around again, back to the camera and starts shaking his ass to the beat, pushing it out whenever there’s a sustained note.  It’s clear that Eric knows this particular piece of music rather well and is using that to his advantage.

Jack can’t help but be impressed with the way his body moves.  Katya has been pushing him to learn new choreography in addition to all of his workouts, and the long, lean lines of a dancer are emerging on Eric’s body.

“When you’re ready, I think you should slick up that toy,” he says, not even looking at the camera as he strikes pose after enticing pose.  Eric’s borrowed pants are sitting very low on his hips.  If they slip any further, Jack will be able to see his ass.

Eager to comply, Jack removes his fingers and rips open another packet of lube, liberally pouring it over the toy in his palm.  He turns it over in his hand a few times, wishing it came with a diagram.

“The tip should point to your belly button, sweetheart.  The other nub should end up right under your balls. Okay?”

“Right,” Jack says, looking at the thing with trepidation.  He can do this. It’s just a piece of hard silicone or something.  People use toys all the time… and he does like being full, so this should be good for him.  Eric picked it out with him in mind, so it should be perfect.

Jack gets back on his knees and reaches around himself, slowly lowering his body until the tip of the toy breaches his opening.  When he opens his eyes, Eric is pulling his sleep pants even lower until the top of his ass is visible.  He spins around and Jack gets to see his pubic hair and the top of his dick, but no more. 

“C’est pas juste,” he mutters, catching Eric’s attention.

“Is that Quebecois I’m hearing, Mister Zimmermann?  Are you losing your English already?”

Jack’s face flushes.  

“Don’t stop on my account.  As soon as you get that toy inside you I’ll show you the goods.  That’s a promise,” he winks, pulling the pants back up onto his hips.

Sighing, Jack closes his eyes and tries to concentrate, tuning into the lyrics of whatever sex playlist Bitty is dancing to.  It takes a few minutes, but with a bit of encouragement from Eric, he finally settles the toy into his body and sits down on his heels, intensifying the intrusion.

“How does that feel?” Bitty asks, eyes alight.

“Okay,” Jack says.  “Not bad, at least.”

“Well, the directions tell you to kind of squeeze and rock around until you get the right sensation.  So you just squeeze down hard for me and I’ll finish up over here.  A promise is a promise, after all.”

Jack does as he’s told, but he’s not sure it’s working for him.  The intrusion feels cold and foreign. It has a weird give to it, smooth but still hard, nothing at all like Eric’s cock.  These thoughts are quickly dashed by Eric’s continued dancing.  

It would be an exaggeration to say that Eric has a good singing voice, but what he lacks in talent he makes up in enthusiasm and he always knows all the lyrics.  He’s kind of Jack’s opposite in that respect. This time, when he gets to the end of the song, he slips the waistband of his pants over his cock and lets them fall to the floor.  

Eric looks painfully hard, like he often does these days.  It’s not lost on Jack that Eric’s sex drive runs at about five times the speed of his own.  The time apart takes a much harsher toll on him than it does on Jack. He can always wait until he gets home.  Eric can’t and Jack doesn’t want him to have to control his libido on his account. It’s for that reason that Jack continues to squeeze down on his toy and try to prompt a reaction from his body.

The truth of the matter is, Jack is tired.  He played a rough game tonight, spending quite a lot of time getting knocked off his feet and onto solid ice.  He’s not saying that Eric didn’t work hard at the rink today, too, but Katya probably didn’t pummel him to the ground every time he tried to do a jump.

“God, Jack,” Eric’s sultry voice hits his ears, pulling him out of his thoughts.  “Your chest, your arms… you look incredible. Do you feel okay?”

It’s not like he can hide the fact that he’s not exactly erect.  

“It’s um…” Jack begins, trying to find some words that sound complimentary.  “It’s okay.”

What’s he supposed to say?  I’m not hard and I don’t think I can get hard because this piece of silicone isn’t you?  This thing is kind of pinching my balls and I’d like to take it out now?  Nothing feels right without you here with me? Touching my dick when it’s soft makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable?

Maybe he just has to focus and let Eric turn him on properly.

“What would make it better?”

“I’m not sure it really… reaches,” Jack says eventually.  “Maybe it’s not big enough?”

When he raises his gaze to his computer screen he sees that Bitty is stifling a laugh.  

“What’s so funny?” Jack asks, a little put out.  Bitty had promised he wouldn’t laugh.

“It’s not—I’m sorry honey—I’m not laughing at you.  I’m not. It’s just that I guess I failed to take certain parts of your anatomy into account when I bought that,” Bitty says, hand over his mouth as he chuckles.

“What?  That I’m too loose for it?”

“No, no, no,” Eric says quickly.  “It’s not that at all, Jack.  Trust me, your ass is perfectly tight.  It’s just probably not getting deep enough because your um—bottom—is quite a bit larger than average.”

“So is yours!” Jack protests.  “It’s the ice skating! Everyone in the NHL has a big butt!”

“No one has a butt like yours, Mister Zimmermann.  If there were world records for such a thing, you would win.  In the dictionary next to callipygian, there’s a picture of your butt.  Your ass is one of the modern wonders of the world.”

“It is kind of pinching me, with that other arm bit,” Jack admits, now sure he won’t be getting hard tonight.  “Maybe my ass is a little large.”

“It’s not just large, Jack.  It’s—someone more eloquent than me should write a song about it.  In fact, I bet you someone out there on the internet has done that already.  Want me to check?”

“No!” Jack yelps, the toy shifting inside him as he lurches toward his computer.

“I’m just teasing, sweetpea.  I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, I am not sharing that ass with anyone.  You are all mine. Every single perfect inch of you,” Eric says, words slowing down, accent thickening with arousal.

“I like it when you talk like that,” Jack admits, ducking his head.  

“I like watching you blush.”

Jack swallows, basking in the praise.  He only wishes Bitty were closer. He’s never any good on his own and the small toy is doing nothing to sate his urge to be close with Eric, to feel him everywhere.

“If that toy is hurting you, how about we get rid of it, okay sugar?”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says automatically, but he’s already reaching behind him to find the end of the toy and remove it.  He gets a tiny bit of pleasure as it leaves him, but that’s it.  He’s still soft.

“Do not apologize, sweetheart.  Just go get yourself cleaned up and then we can talk.”

“Don’t you want to,” he gestures vaguely at his limp cock.

“Not tonight, baby.  I’ll see you tomorrow and we can touch and hug all we want.”

“And pack.  We have to pack,” Jack reminds him.

“Of course,” Eric says, rolling his eyes.

“Did you set anything aside yet?  Our flight leaves tomorrow afternoon.”

“I set plenty aside.  Too much probably.”

“It’s a disaster in there, isn’t it?  Like the closet exploded?”

Eric blushes.  One of the things Jack has had to get used to since they’ve started living together is Bitty’s housekeeping, or lack thereof.  He’d done plenty of laundry and dishes when they just started dating, but the mess and general clutter is new to Jack.  He does his best to straighten up, usually in a frenzy while Jack is on his way up in the elevator, but it always looks like a tornado went through whenever Jack gets back from a trip.

He kind of likes it, truth be told.  The mess is comforting in a way.  It tells Jack that Eric doesn’t feel like a guest in their home anymore.  The fact that he feels comfortable enough to leave his things all over the place is really a step in the right direction.  As much as it irks him, Jack tries to see it as personal growth.

“It’s not!” Bitty complains, yelling through the speakers as Jack nips to the bathroom to clean up with a washcloth.  “I laid everything out on the guest bed.”

“Everything?” Jack asks, peeking back into the room with a smirk on his face.

“You change like three times a day!  That’s a lot of outfits! I know how much you like to exercise—even on vacation, that’s one outfit for jogging or hiking, one for brunch, one for swimming, one for dinner, and all the shoes!  Do you know how many shoes you bought me over the last six months? And don’t even think about bringing those Crocs. In fact, I should probably burn them before you get back.”

Jack chuckles lightly as Bitty rattles off every pair he plans to bring.  He doesn’t mention that he plans on keeping Eric naked at least half the time.

Chapter Text

Jack wants to fall into bed with Bitty as soon as he gets home, but they really don’t have the time.  His flight from St. Louis was delayed and they’re supposed to be back at the airport in three hours.  With lots of packing still to be done, Jack doesn’t see how he could possibly be expected to relax and get off in that amount of time.  Instead, he drops to his knees for Eric the moment he locks the door behind him.  

He spends a few minutes kissing up and down his stomach before unbuttoning his pants and taking Eric into his mouth.  It’s over quickly, but the sweet, breathy noises Bitty makes coupled with the slight muscle spasms Jack can feel under his hands more than make up for his lack of stamina.

“You next,” Eric says between kisses as they lean against the back of the front door.  

“Later,” Jack says, pressing a full-lipped kiss to Eric’s mouth before pulling away.  “We have bags to pack. I’m ready to get out of here and into some sunshine.”

Jack steps into the guest room and suddenly realizes that three hours may not be enough time.  “What is all this?” he asks, pawing through pile after pile of rumpled fabric.  

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want to bring so I just pulled the things out of your closet that I thought you look hot in… and then I guess I went a little overboard.”

It looks like Jack’s entire closet exploded and the contents have been strewn all over the room like wartime casualties, the arms of shirts all tangled up in heaps of fabric. 

“Are you telling me,” Jack asks, turning to appraise Eric, “that this mess is the manifestation of your sexual frustration?”

“I didn’t mean it!” Bitty yelps, rushing to shake out some of the garments.  “But like, see this suit?  That’s the one you wore on our date at Hemingway’s… and this pair of underwear?  Theses are the tightest ones you own and they make your butt look so—”

Jack bursts out laughing.  “Okay, I get it.  But I don’t need to pack everything you’ve ever had a dirty thought about me wearing,” he says reasonably.  “Let me sort through this stuff and we can get ourselves organized.”

“Are you one of those people that has a special way of folding things?”

“I might be,” Jack replies, shaking out a pair of running shorts that’s seen better days.  

“Lord help me.”

A few hours later, Jack is leading Eric by the hand as they board their flight.  He’s looking forward to getting a decent night’s sleep on their redeye, which shouldn’t be a problem as it will take 11 hours in the air for them to get to Honolulu.  

As soon as they take their seats in first class, they are each handed a glass of champagne.  Bitty opens his mouth to refuse, but Jack takes both glasses and thanks the flight attendant with a smile.  

“We’re on vacation.  It’s okay to celebrate,” he says, handing one glass to a gobsmacked Bitty and clinking them together lightly.  

“Are you sure?” he asks, brow furrowed together in concern.  

“Yeah,” Jack says, taking a small sip.  It’s cold and refreshing and just bitter enough to suit Jack’s tastes.  

“I haven’t been having any mental health issues lately and we’re supposed to be relaxing.  I think I’m old enough now to know my limits and I know you’ll keep an eye out for me anyway.  So I think a glass of champagne every once in a while for special occasions should be alright.  Do you agree?”

“Well,” Bitty hedges, thinking it over.  “Yes, I suppose I do,” he says after a moment, clinking their glasses together again before taking a sip of his own drink.  “It’s not every day that I get the royal treatment.  Might as well enjoy it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jack says, leaning back in his seat and adjusting the headrest.  “I want you to relax and have a good time on this trip, not constantly worry about everything back home.  Remember that just because I might not be getting drunk doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to.  I can handle myself.”

“You’re right, sweetpea,” Bitty says, squeezing his forearm.  “Maybe I was being a little uptight back at home keeping the condo dry like that.  But this is our time to enjoy ourselves and each other and I plan to take full advantage of it.”

“Good,” Jack says, taking another sip.  He makes a deal with himself right then and there.  Champagne only, no hard liquor, no beer that goes down as easy as water.  Champagne means the occasion is special.  No one will judge him for indulging every once in a while.  

It’s what they’ll pour in the Stanley Cup after the Falconers win. 

It’s the drink of champions.

That’s the thought that carries Jack through to the bottom of his glass.  This is just practice.  In a few months he’ll be drinking out of the cup and he needs to normalize alcohol for himself and his friends before that happens.  He’s not going to be the one to tell the guys they’re having a dry cup party.  Jack will just have to get comfortable with the slight buzz that’s going around his head and the looseness in his limbs and remember where his limits are.

As long as things don’t get out of hand, he’ll be fine.  After all, the drinking was only ever a side effect of his depression.  His real problem had always been the pills.  As long as he takes his medication as directed, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to treat himself to a toast with his boyfriend on their first official vacation together.

No press, no parents, no hockey—just him and Eric and the soothing sound of the ocean.  

He finishes his glass and declines another but smiles at Bitty when he gladly accepts a refill.  Hours go by and Jack contents himself with snuggling up to Bitty in their reclined seats.  He listens to an audiobook about Pearl Harbor while Eric catches up on last year’s blockbusters.  

After his fourth glass of champagne, Bitty is snoring in his arms and Jack shuts their overhead lights off, covers him in a blanket, and falls asleep watching his chest rise and fall.  Somehow, he sleeps soundly through their entire stopover in Chicago even though Jack has to raise his seat and buckle his seatbelt for landing and the boarding of new passengers.  

During the next drink service, Jack declines another glass of champagne, asking for water instead.  He passes the flight attendant Bitty’s empty glass with a contemplative look back at Eric’s face, smoothed out in sleep.  

Bitty indulges him and they spend several hours touring Mighty Mo and the Arizona Memorial as soon as they land.  Jack had been worried that their flight might be delayed and they would miss their ticket time for the tour, but all went according to plan and they even end up having enough time to hike up a nearby crater before returning to the airport for their connecting flight to Kauai.  

As they wait for the shuttle, Jack clicks through the photos on his camera with a smug smile on his face.  Every single shot is gorgeous.  It’s only their first day away from Providence and already Eric glows with the promise of adventure.  He looks like a dream against the backdrop of Oahu and its coastline from 800 feet up.  Jack reminds himself to back up his camera at the end of every day so he doesn’t risk losing a second of their time together.

He’d wanted to rent them a convertible to make the trip truly memorable but quickly realizes that he doesn’t fit in any of the flashier options, so Jack and Bitty find themselves in a pickup again, driving around the coast of the island at a leisurely pace, luggage thrown haphazardly into the bed of the truck.

“This is unreal,” Eric says, staring out the window in undisguised wonder.  From the vibrant green cliffs to the bright blue sea, the island is miraculous.  

“You know what the best part is?” Jack asks, looking away from the road to smile at his boyfriend.

“What?”

“There are only 100 people per square mile here and I bet you none of them have ever heard of me.”

“That is something, isn’t it?” Eric agrees, still grinning.  He snaps photos with his phone whenever they stop at a red light, amazed by the shapes of the clouds and the vast emptiness of the ocean.  “I think this might be my happy place.”

As Jack takes in the view and Eric’s unbridled joy he thinks that wherever they are when his boyfriend smiles like that is absolutely his happy place as well.  “Me too, bud.  Me too.”

It takes them an hour, but they finally arrive at their rental house, checking in with the neighbors to grab their key.  The couple is friendly and greets them with matching alohas.  They’re given a quick tour of the little cabin and told where the nearest shops are and then they are blessedly, beautifully alone.   

The silence is startling.

Jack goes to the back of the living room and opens the sliding doors to let the sound of the ocean make its way inside.  The cabin is small but modern and beautifully decorated.  It’s not a five-star resort, but Jack is trying to capitalize on privacy over luxury.

The back wall is entirely made of glass and every window shows sand and surf with lush green mountains in the background.  The trunks of several towering palm trees and a vibrant green hedge hide the cabin from view.

“Do you like it?” Jack asks, looking from the gauzy white curtains to crisp linen sheets.  Out front is a small table with two chairs and a hammock that looks big enough for the both of them.  

“It’s amazing, Jack,” Bitty says, and then they’re kissing, deep and achingly slow.  But as soon as the kiss begins, it’s over.  Eric is screaming, “Race me!” and rushing toward the water.  

Following as quickly as his legs will carry him, Jack barely makes it to Bitty before they reach the shore.  Instead of diving in himself, he scoops Eric up and swings him around a few times before tossing him into the ocean fully clothed.  

“Oh, you are in for it, Mister,” Bitty says as soon as he breaks the surface, shaking the water from his hair.  The sun is setting, but the orange glow is enough to let Jack make out every curve of Eric’s face, every line of his body.  

“I’m a good swimmer.  I think I can take it,” Jack says, letting out a full-bodied laugh when Bitty rushes him and takes him out at the knees.  They fall together in the rough sand, water lapping at their legs as Bitty climbs up Jack’s body and settles in his lap for a kiss.

“I can’t believe I’m here—with you,” Eric says, squeezing him tight around the shoulders.

“There’s no place I’d rather be,” Jack agrees.  

They sit together for a while until the sun has completely set, content to feel the warm breeze and the cool water seep into their clothes.  Eventually, Jack’s stomach rumbles and they have to head back to their cabin to change and search for food.

“What?” Bitty asks, mouth hanging open.  “What is that supposed to mean?” he says, pointing at the sign out his open window.

“I think it means the bridge is flooded,” Jack says, deadpan.  “It says right there, ‘bridge flooded.’”

“Isn’t that the way to the restaurant?”

“Yes, but there must be something back the other way,” he offers, pulling to the side to make a U-turn.  “That’s the conundrum of the garden island.  It’s beautiful and secluded because it rains half the time.”

“Half the time?” Bitty asks, shocked.  

“Well, half the days of every month.  But it’s usually just a sprinkle here or there.  And you know the best part about that?”

“I won’t have to bother doing my hair for the rest of the week?”

“No,” Jack chuckles, reaching over to ruffle Eric’s hair anyway.  “It means you’ll probably see a rainbow every day.”

“I can’t wait to have the gayest vacation photo album of all time.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jack replies, reaching out his hand to Eric can link their fingers together.  

They end up at what Jack thinks must be the smallest supermarket on the planet and hunt around for some necessities.  Jack chooses a variety of tropical fruit, local coffee, and sushi-grade fish while Eric fills the basket with whatever catches his eye, meaning they end up with a veritable smorgasbord of alcohol, snack items, and energy drinks.  Luckily, there’s a poke stand outside the store and they’re able to have a real dinner before the jet lag catches up to them.

“Why don’t we eat this at home?” Jack asks, scarfing down a second helping of tuna with wasabi dressing.

“Because I’m not a sushi chef?” Bitty replies, a little punch drunk.  

“I think I could eat this every day we’re here.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe?”

“Good, because I think I want to drink out of a pineapple every day.  You think we can manage that?”

“Do coconuts count?  Or other fruits?  Or does it have to be pineapples?”

“I think any fruit will do,” Bitty hums, finishing off his ono and salmon with his chopsticks.  

“I did buy a pineapple,” Jack offers, shoveling the last few bites of his meal into his mouth before tossing the container in the trash.  “Want to make something back at the cabin?  I think they have a blender.”

“Jack honey, they had a six-burner range and a bread machine in there, I’m sure there’s a blender.”

“Let’s go then,” Jack says, holding out his hand.

“I have a pie to make.”

“A pie?  Now?  Really?” Jack asks.  It’s 8 p.m. and they haven’t slept in a real bed in over 30 hours.  He feels just about ready to drop.

“You bought a whole bag of lychee.  I’ve never even seen one before but if you think I’m not even going to try to make a tart out of them, you’re crazy.”

“We better get going if you expect me to be awake by the time that pie is done.”

They unload their canvas shopping bags and Jack does his best to hollow out a pineapple while Bitty goes through his flaky pie dough recipe from memory.  Eric puts on a Hawai’i themed playlist and sways his hips to the beat of The Beach Boys while Jack watches with sleepy interest.

“What do you want me to put in this now?” Jack asks, pointing to the blender full of pineapple chunks.  

“Here, let me!” Bitty says, sashaying over to the opposite counter.  “I’m thinking coconut,” he begins, opening a carton of coconut milk, then, just as Jack has finished mentally adding up the calories of the smoothie, he's passed a bottle of dark rum.  “Open this for me, sugar?  My hands are all buttery.”

Jack laughs but does as he’s told, passing the open bottle back to Eric who pours a healthy amount into the blender.  

“I think that should do it.”

“I think you’re going to pass out if you try to drink all that.”

“Well, I thought you might like to try a bit.  But if not it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

Jack shrugs his shoulders and flicks the blender on as Bitty slips his pie into the waiting oven.  

When it’s all combined, he pops the top off the pineapple and pours the drink inside, finishing it off with a straw from the pantry.  “Here you are,” he says, offering it to Bitty.

Taking the fruit with two hands, Eric slips the straw into his red lips and drinks.  “You know what this could use?” he says, looking around the kitchen.  “Here we go!” pulling out a jar of maraschino cherries, Bitty scoops a few out with a fork and drops them into his pineapple.  “Much better,” he says, drinking some more. “Want to try some?  It’s perfection in a pineapple!”

Jack smiles at his enthusiasm and thinks for a moment.  It’s not champagne, but that’s kind of an arbitrary rule, isn’t it?  They’re on vacation, they’re alone—why shouldn’t he enjoy himself?  He’s only going to take a little taste anyway.  Leaning in, Jack wraps his lips around the straw and sucks.  

“What do you think?” Bitty asks eagerly, a pink flush rising to his cheeks.

Jack winces as he swallows.  “I think it’s disgustingly sweet and I’m not surprised you like it.”

“You heathen,” Eric says, swatting him on the chest.  “Just because there’s not protein powder in it doesn’t mean it’s not delicious.”

“Not everything needs protein powder but I tend to like dryer drinks, that’s all.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get something like that tomorrow.  Can we make reservations at that tapas place we saw in town?  It looked fancy. I’m sure they have something dry and boring for you to drink.”

“That sounds nice.  I’ll call them now,” Jack says, stepping away from the music to pull out his phone.  He makes the call all the while watching Bitty sip from his pineapple and bounce around the kitchen to the beat of Surfin USA .  He looks so beautiful—carefree and young, 

Jack finishes the call as quickly as possible and rushes in to sweep him off his feet.  “I love you,” he says, running his nose up Eric’s warm cheek.

“I love you, too baby,” Eric says, leaning in to whisper in Jack’s ear.  “Want me to show you how much?”

“Absolutely,” Jack replies, bending at the knees to scoop Eric off the floor and carry him to the bedroom.  

It’s not until later when they’re lying in a sticky embrace that Jack’s nose twitches.  “What’s that smell?” he asks.

Eric smacks him.  “Mister Zimmermann, that is not something you ask when you’re naked in bed with someone.  You know I haven’t showered in 5,000 miles.”

“You smell fine, bud, that’s not what I meant,” Jack says, rubbing the bottom of his nose.  “Does it smell like something is burning to you?”

“My tarts!” Bitty screams, leaping out of the bed.  He gets tangled in the sheets and slips, face-planting on the floor before recovering.  “Stop laughing!” he screeches as he runs, completely nude, back into the kitchen.

Jack smiles and sinks back into his pillow. 

Chapter Text

Jack slips out of bed as quietly as possible and pads to the kitchen to make some coffee.  He can find it by scent alone, the rich aroma of the Kauai beans permeating the bag that he’d picked up at the store last night.  Out of all of his purchases, this is the one he’s most looking forward to.

He leans against the counter and begins his morning stretching routine as the coffee brews.  His hip is a little tight from all the travel after their last game, but it’s not too bad, nothing a little morning run can’t fix.  Pouring two cups, Jack mixes one with cream and sugar the way Bitty likes and heads back to the bedroom.  

Eric is dead to the world, sprawled out across Jack’s pillows, nearly diagonal across the bed.  He looks peaceful and achingly beautiful in the soft sunlight.  It’s barely dawn and Jack knows he won’t be up for a while so he leaves the cup of coffee that will probably go cold on Eric’s bedside table and turns to leave.  

Then he remembers the little blue box in his suitcase.

Jack has no idea how he’s going to do it, but maybe the boys are right and this trip is the perfect opportunity to ask Bitty to marry him.  He ruffles through his bag for a few moments until he finds the ring and thinks that maybe it could be romantic to just leave it open for Eric next to the coffee.  

Is that cheating?

Jack doesn’t know what to do.  On the one hand, it would save him the chest-clenching anxiety that he feels whenever he imagines getting down on one knee and asking the question.  On the other hand, he wants to do this properly.  

And isn’t it too soon?  How long ago was it that Eric said it was too soon?  A few weeks?  A month?  How much time did he need to leave between “too soon” and proposing?  Panicking at the thought of Eric saying no, Jack clenches the little box in his hand and flees the bedroom.  

Sitting at the little table on the deck, Jack ponders his situation.  The sun is just barely rising over the cloudline and he slides his camera out of its bag to get in a few shots.  After exhausting the current landscape, Jack waits for the sun to rise a bit more so he can catch it between the fronds of the palm trees.  In the meantime, he opens the ring box and props it up against his coffee cup.  Staring at it, Jack lines up his camera and takes a photo.  

He’ll need to delete it before Bitty looks at the files, but the diamonds look brilliant in the morning sun and Jack just has to capture it on film.  He sips his coffee and stares at the ring, turning the box in his hands so it can catch the light.  

The longer he stares at it, the more ridiculous it looks.  

Four carats of diamonds on Bitty’s finger?  He’ll have a heart attack as soon as he sees it.  What was Jack thinking?  There’s no way Eric is going to accept a gift like that, let alone wear it out in public.  He’ll probably panic about losing it and make Jack trade it in for something more suitable.  

Jack can’t propose to Eric with this ring.  

But if the perfect moment comes along, Jack will need to have some token to give Eric.  Therefore, he must buy a new ring.  It’s the only solution.

Downing the rest of his coffee, Jack stows his camera and hides the ring in his camera bag before throwing on some running gear and heading out.  Jack sets his phone to the new mix Bitty made him for the playoffs, pops in his earbuds, and tries to zone out.  He has no idea where he’s going, but his mind is racing and he just needs to burn off some nervous energy.

The answer to his problem comes in his third mile.  Jack slows to a jog as he nears a small shopping complex near where they bought their groceries.  The smell coming from one storefront in particular is heavenly so he stops inside and buys a variety of sweet breads and doughnuts for Eric to evaluate.  

He’s about to turn around and speed walk the rest of the way back to the cabin when a wooden sign catches his eye.  It’s for a jewelry store.  Staring at the door, Jack can tell the store isn’t open yet, but someone sees him peering inside and flips the lights on.  

“Can I help you with something?” an elderly woman asks, sticking her head out the door.  “You have that look about you.”

“What look?” Jack asks, dumbstruck.

“You look like someone who’s in love.”

Jack flounders but can’t bring himself to argue with the assessment.  

“I have the thing for you,” the woman says, taking the box of pastries from Jack’s hand and heading back inside.  If Jack wants his doughnuts back, he’s going to have to follow her.

With a deep exhale, Jack enters the shop and follows the woman toward a glass case.  One look inside tells Jack that she’s just made a pretty big assumption about him.

“Why do you think I’m looking for a men’s ring?” he asks, eyes flicking from the shiny thick bands to the old woman’s face.

She helps herself to one of the doughnuts before answering.  “Oh child, an ass like that would be wasted on a woman.”

Jack wants to be offended but he can’t.  He laughs instead, long and loud.  “Occupational hazard,” he says, coughing to clear his throat when he sees the stern expression on the woman’s face.

“Lumberjack?” she asks, picking a piece of candied pineapple off the top of her doughnut.  

“Hockey player.”

“My next guess,” she says, finishing the pastry off in two bites before cleaning her hands on her skirt.  “So… what does your fella look like then?”

Not sure why it matters, Jack answers truthfully.  “5’6”, blond, freckles.  Thin but muscular.  Brown eyes.”

“Not a hockey player then, huh?  Model slash actor?”

“Figure skater.”

“My next guess.”

Jack laughs.  He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself growing fond of this woman.  

“One of these would probably look nice on him,” she says, reaching for a tray holding a series of unique rings.  They’re silver metal on the outside edges but the middle is a stripe of glossy brown wood.  It shines like a freshly polished piano.  

Jack reaches for one and slips it onto his finger.  It’s wide and looks a little silly against his pale skin.  Looking back to the tray, he selects a thinner one with more wood and less metal and slips it onto his pinky.  

“What do you think?”

“What kind of wood is this?” Jack asks, thinking it must be significant.

“It’s koa,” she answers with a smile.  “It’s a type of acacia native to the islands.  Historically it was reserved for royalty.  They used to make statues and canoes out of it, but also musical instruments and jewelry.”

“What does the word mean?” Jack asks, turning the ring round and round on his finger.  

“Brave—fearless.  A koa is a warrior.  That appeals to you, does it?” she asks when she catches Jack smiling.

“It’s perfect.”

“You want that one?  Or do you want to keep browsing?”

“This one, I think,” Jack decides.  

“How about one for yourself?” 

“Isn’t that a little presumptuous?” Jack asks.  He really doesn’t know.  Are you supposed to buy wedding rings in pairs?  Or is your partner supposed to buy one for you?

“Not if you’re sure he’s going to say yes.”

Jack bites his lip.  How sure is he?

“That feels like tempting fate,” he decides.  After all, hockey players are known to be superstitious and while Jack doesn’t subscribe to as many rituals as his teammates, he knows a curse when it’s staring him in the face.

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” the woman says, reaching under the counter for a box.  “That’ll be $206.96.”

Jack hands over his card wordlessly, still staring at the ring, imagining it on Eric’s finger instead of his own.  

She bags up his purchase and then takes a business card from a conch shell and slips it in with his receipt.  “If you decide you’d like another one, give me a call.  We can ship it to the mainland for you.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, taking the bag and retrieving his box of pastries.  

“Good luck,” the woman says as he turns to leave.  “But for the record, I don’t think you’ll need it.”

With a smile and a wave, Jack replaces his sunglasses and heads back to the cabin. 

“The hiking trail is still closed because of the rain, but do you want to go exploring?” Jack asks.  “I think we can rent bicycles up the street.  Want to maybe ride to the beach?”

“Can we snorkel?” Eric asks, already shoving suntan lotion and Jack’s paperback into a small backpack.  

“I think there are supposed to be sea turtles.  We can ask where the best spot is.”

“I want to see the turtles!” Bitty exclaims, grabbing a few bottles of water and towels before dragging Jack out the door.  

Patting his pockets to make sure he has his wallet and keys, Jack follows Eric out into the gorgeous sunshine and leads them toward town.  When they make it to the rental shop, Hanalei is just waking up.  Jack greets the salesman with an aloha and quickly realizes there may be some kind of problem.

“How tall are you?” the man asks, looking him up and down.  

“6’1”, maybe 6’2,”” Jack replies, narrowing his eyes.  “Why?”

“We’re out of bikes with adjustable seats and I’m not sure you’ll fit on any of the ones I have left.”

“That’s okay, Jack,” Bitty says absently, busy editing several selfies he took on the way here.  “We can just walk to the beach. How far is it?”

“About six miles,” Jack answers.  

Bitty’s face falls.  

“Hold on,” the salesman says, ducking into the back of the shop.  “I might have something that’ll work for you two.”

Jack pats Eric on the arm.  “It’ll be fine.  We can always head back to the cabin and get the truck.  Parking won’t be great, but we’ll probably find a spot eventually.”

“Sounds a little less fun, but sure,” Eric replies.

“How about this?” the salesman asks, wheeling a mint green tandem bicycle toward them.  

Jack’s eyebrows rise so high Eric laughs.  “Oh honey, can we?” 

“You’re serious?”

“What could be better than riding the gayest bicycle I’ve ever seen while I take photos of rainbows on our sex vacation?” Eric whispers to him.  

“We’ll take it,” Jack tells the salesman.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Jack mumbles as he rides them toward a breakfast cafe.  

“It’s quite nice, actually,” Eric says, leaning forward on his feet to peck Jack on the back of the neck.  “I can just sit back and relax and let you do all the peddling.”

“Katya is going to kill you with conditioning when we get back if you don’t help at all.”

“I’m on vacation, Jack.  That means no cardio.”

“I think we did plenty of cardio last night,” Jack quips as he stops the bike and lets Eric get off.  

“That’s horizontal cardio,” Bitty says, leaning up on his tiptoes to kiss Jack on the mouth.  “Doesn’t count.”

They have breakfast, a Belgian waffle covered in Nutella and macadamia nuts for Bitty and Spam, rice, and eggs for Jack.  He eats a bite of waffle off Bitty’s fork when it’s offered to him, but Eric declines Jack’s offer of reciprocation.

“I cannot believe you’re eating that,” he says, nose scrunched up in distaste.

“It’s pretty good actually,” Jack says, munching happily.  “More protein than what you’re eating at least… a bit salty though.”

“We’re on vacation, Jack.  I can’t say this enough.”

“When we get back I’m going to be in playoffs mode.  Do you know how many calories I’ll need to eat a day?”

“4,000?” Bitty asks around a bite of waffle.

“More like 6,000.  I can burn 3,000 during the game alone.”

“And you plan to eat 6,000 calories of Spam today?”

“Not exactly,” Jack says with a smile.  “I was hoping to get some more of that fish later.”

“We’ll get you double poke after we get back from the beach.  How about that?”

“Sounds good, bud.”

Their bicycle ride takes much longer than Jack anticipates because every few minutes they stop on the side of the road to take photos.  Jack can’t find it in himself to be mad about this, because Eric insists that there aren’t enough photos of them kissing on Instagram and sets about remedying this with singular intensity.  

It’s not a bad way to spend a day, Jack thinks, kissing Bitty over and over again until his lips tingle.  Eric posts a photo of them but doesn’t tag their location. He giggles all day long watching his fans guess where they might be by the color of the ocean and the angle of the sun.  It’s not as if any of them would fly across the ocean to find them anyway.

When they finally make it to the beach, Jack points to a food truck in the parking lot.  “It’s your lucky day,” he says, smiling as Bitty reads the sign.

“Fresh coconuts?”

“Go ahead, get me one too,” he says, parking their bicycle and locking it to a rack.  

They sip on their drinks taking an alarming amount of selfies and then head toward the water.  Jack has never seen so many fish in his life.  They paddle around for an hour before Jack decides to dry off and read for a while.  

“You coming?” he asks Eric as he shakes the water out of his hair.

“I’m waiting for a sea turtle.”

“Okay, bud,” Jack says, pulling him in for one last kiss before returning to their towels.  He means to get back to his book, but it’s nearly impossible with the way Eric looks.  Even from far away, he shines.  Jack takes out his camera and zooms in, taking hundreds of shots of Eric splashing around in the water and looking at the cliffs. 

It starts to drizzle and Jack thinks about putting his camera away, but then a rainbow appears over Eric’s head and he has to keep shooting.  He’s just about to lower the camera to take a look at what he has so far when Eric whisper shouts his name.  

There aren’t many people around, the rain scaring off most of the families and kids.  Only a few locals seem to be left on the beach. 

“Baby! Come quick!” Eric calls lightly, waving him over.  

When Jack gets close, Bitty holds out his arms and says, “Slow down.  You’ll spook them!” He points down at the water while looking at Jack, a dazzling smile on his freckled face.  

Jack raises his sunglasses to his hair and squints at the water.  Mouth dropped open in shock, he focuses his camera.  There’s a massive sea turtle floating in the water surrounding Bitty drifting nearly close enough to touch.

He looks like a Disney prince and Jack can’t help but gasp and laugh along with him as they watch the turtle munch on seaweed and wave with its fins.

“This is definitely my happy place,” Bitty says, squealing when the turtle bumps him.  

It’s like a dream, the sun shining down, glinting off the clear blue water, the rare marine life making waves around them, the cloudless sky behind the bright green mountains.  Jack never wants this vacation to end.

When the sun starts to set, Jack and Bitty take a walk along the sand holding hands the whole way.  The park closes at dusk, so Jack unchains their bicycle and they head back to town for dinner.  

There’s still a bit of a wait despite their reservations and since no one knows Jack in this state, they decide to get a drink at the bar.  Bitty sips on a mai tai while Jack downs a full glass of ice water.  Getting too much sun always makes him feel woozy.  There’s a reason he’s as pale as Canadian snow.

The light is dim, but Jack can already make out the dark freckles on Bitty’s nose and cheeks.  His arms are bare and darkening already, the blond hair there lightened enough that it’s almost white.

“You’re staring, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty says, straw pushed against his plush bottom lip.

“You’re beautiful, Mister Bittle.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, sugar,” Eric says, smiling and fluttering his eyelashes.  

“What are you smiling about?” Jack asks, staring at the divot in Eric’s lower lip.  If they weren’t in public he’d be in the man’s lap nibbling on it already.

“I’m just thinking about what I’m going to do to you later,” Eric replies, licking the pineapple juice off a cherry before pulling it from its stem.

“What’s that?” Jack asks, swallowing.  He feels a slight twitch in his pants and is already imagining a reprisal of what they did last night, maybe with Jack on top this time.

“I think you can use your imagination.”

“I do have a very good imagination,” Jack agrees, leaning forward until they’re just a breath away from kissing.

“Mister Zimmermann?” the hostess calls, breaking Jack’s trance.  They are led to their table, a small candle-lit alcove on the patio, and take their seats.

“Can I get you something to drink, gentleman?” their waitress asks.

“Champagne?” Jack asks, despite himself.  He hurriedly looks down the wine list and selects something that he’s fairly sure he’s heard his father order before.

“Planning a memorable evening?” Bitty asks with a smirk.

Jack stiffens—would now be a good time?  He has a ring in his pocket and another stuffed into the bottom of his camera bag which is currently sitting on the floor between his feet.

“I was just teasing,” Eric says, patting him on the hand.  “You can relax, honey. I don’t expect anything.  If you can’t do it tonight, you can’t do it tonight.  You know I’ll never be upset about that.”

Jack squints.  He’s pretty sure they’re having two separate conversations—the one Bitty is having out loud and the one Jack is having with himself inside his own head.

“Heh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Right.”

“I did bring along something I think you might like,” Eric continues, setting his menu aside, “but we can always wait on that until you’re feeling up for it.”

Swallowing hard, Jack chugs his glass of water.  “Okay,” he says when he realizes Eric is still looking at him expectantly.

“It’s quite a bit bigger than the other thing I put in your suitcase… might take some working up to,” Bitty says, twirling his straw around in the melting ice of his cocktail.

Jack tries not to imagine what Bitty is planning on putting up his ass later as the waitress returns and shows Jack their bottle before popping the cork.  She fills their glasses and then asks if they’d like to order.

“I can’t decide,” Eric titters, staring at the menu.  “Everything sounds amazing.”

“Are you hungry?” Jack asks, ravenous himself.

“Definitely.”

“Can we have one of everything?” he asks, picking up his and Eric’s menus and handing them back to the waitress.

“In any particular order?”

“Whatever the chef recommends.”

“Temperatures?”

“Chef’s choice,” Jack says, dismissively, staring at Eric’s throat as he swallows a mouthful of champagne.  

The waitress raises her eyebrows but takes her leave quickly and soon they’re alone again.

“You sound so sexy when you do that.”

“Do what?” Jack asks, licking his lips.

“Talk to people like you’re about to curse at them in French any second.”

“I do not do that,” Jack protests, taking his first sip of champagne.  It’s delicious and he drinks some more before putting his glass down.

“Pretty much whenever someone asks you something personal during press.”

“They’re asking for it.”

“I don’t disagree,” Eric says lightly, “still sexy though.”

Jack laughs and tips his glass toward Eric’s in a private toast.  

Eric is halfway through eating a slice of apple with goat cheese and honeycomb when he says, “Is it just me or is this the best meal you’ve ever had?”

“It’s not just you,” Jack agrees, swiping his finger through the sauce that accompanied his lamb.  He’s cleaned every plate he’s tried so far.

“Would it be totally crazy if I reordered some of my favorites?” Eric asks, biting his lip.  

“I don’t see why they would care,” Jack says, waving the waitress back over.  

Eric rattles off a list of what he enjoyed the most and Jack adds on another plate of scallops and one of braised short rib before asking for another bottle of champagne.  He pours the last of the bottle out into Eric’s empty glass and then hands it back to the waitress before she leaves.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were trying to take advantage of me, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve been flirting with me like you’re a sure thing.”

Eric gasps in mock surprise, a hand to his chest.  “I am truly offended.  How dare you make such an assumption.”

“We had sex the very first time you came over to my place.  I think that ship sailed a while ago,” Jack says, raising his eyebrows.  Then the waitress comes back over and refills his glass, shoving the bottle into their ice bucket before scurrying away with her head bowed.  

“Where have you been hiding that sass?” Eric laughs, his whole body shaking with it.  “It’s like I just met your drag queen persona.”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say it was at the bottom of the first champagne bottle,” Jack quips.

Eric laughs mid-sip and snorts champagne out of his nose.

“It burns,” he cries, still laughing as he waves his hands in front of his face.

“Blow,” Jack says, holding out his napkin.

“Ever the gentleman.”

Jack feels like he’s blushing but he’s also pretty sure his entire face is already red, so he really can’t say for sure.  If this is what he’s been missing staying sober, maybe it’s not all so bad.  He and Eric are having a great time.  Food tastes better, everything is funnier than it has any right to be, and he feels relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in over a decade.

“Here we are,” their waitress says, placing a few plates in front of them.  

This time, they trade, Jack passing Eric bites of his favorites while Eric feeds him bites of creamy burrata and tender flank steak.  By the time the waitress asks them if they’d care for dessert, they’re at the bottom of their second bottle of champagne.

“Jack.”

“Yes, Eric?” he asks, swallowing the affogato that’s in his mouth and setting down his spoon.

“I’m sorry it has to come to this but I think I need to leave you for this cheesecake.”

Jack bursts out laughing.

“I’m serious.  It’s the best thing that’s ever been in my mouth—including your porn star dick.”

Jack laughs even harder because when he looks up he sees their waitress backing away from their table with a hand over her mouth.

“If that’s the case, don’t you think I should get a bite?”

“I’m only doing this because I love you.  I want you to know that,” Eric says, carefully scooping up a piece of cheesecake, making sure to get a bite with enough crust and tart lychee sauce.

“I understand,” Jack says, hand over his heart like he’s taking an oath.  He opens his mouth and lets Eric slide the spoon in, licking every last crumb he can get his tongue on.  His eyes slide closed of their own volition and he makes what can only be described as an orgasmic noise.

“Well?” Eric asks, eyebrows raised.

“Eric.”

“Yes?”

“I’d also like to leave you for that cheesecake.”

They laugh together, finishing off their desserts and the last of the champagne until their waitress drops off the check.  Jack’s eyes are a little bleary, but he makes out the numbers alright and signs the bill before setting it aside.

“Did you just give her a three hundred dollar tip?” Bitty asks as they wobble down the porch steps and back to their bike.  

“We traumatized her, Eric,” Jack insists, fumbling with the bike lock.  “I think she deserves it.”

“Let’s get home,” Eric says, bumping up against Jack’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist.  “I have plans for you.”

“Do they involve your dick in my mouth?” Jack asks, all sense of propriety lost back with that last glass of champagne.  “Because that was pretty much the entirety of my plan.”

“Get on the gay bicycle, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack laughs and steadies the bike so Eric can get on.  It takes him three tries, but eventually, he manages it.  

Unfortunately, that’s not the last of their troubles.  Jack can only make it a few feet before he steers into a flowering bush, sprinkling petals everywhere.  Every time he gets going again, Bitty loses his balance and knocks them over.  

“I think we’re going to have to walk home,” Jack says, stumbling as he starts to push the bike down the road.

“Carry me?” Bitty asks, collapsing into Jack’s side like a dead weight.

“I can’t wheel the bike and carry you at the same time, bud.”

Eric makes a high-pitched whining sound and head butts him like a cat.

Which is how Jack ends up with Eric hanging off his back while he walks the bike the last few blocks back to their cabin.  Eric picks flower petals out of his hair with one hand on the way.

“Have I told you lately that you’re the best boyfriend in the world?” Eric slurs into his ear as they round the corner of their rental.  

Jack laughs as he leans the bike against their deck and locks it to a post.  “You can tell me again.”

“You’re the best boyfriend in the world,” Eric repeats.  “Now take me to bed.”

“Gladly,” Jack replies, lifting Eric higher on his back and carrying him toward the door.  

Bitty wraps his legs around Jack’s waist and hangs on, clinging to him like a spider monkey.  He manages to unlock the door, but just barely.  Eric’s hands are tight around his throat and his dick gets worryingly hard at the restriction.

“Naked now,” he says, throwing Bitty unceremoniously to the bed.  “Strip.”

“Someone’s getting feisty.  Aren’t I usually the one giving orders?”

“Less talking, more stripping,” Jack says, already kicking his swim trunks off.

Eric’s eyes go wide as he stares, gaze trailing down Jack’s throat, over his chest, and down to his erection.  “Oh my God.  Jack.  You’re hard already.”

“Which is why I asked you to strip,” Jack says, rolling his eyes and fighting back a smile.  “I’d like to get my mouth on you before I die of old age.”

“Good lord you are sassy when you’re drunk.  Who knew there was a top deep down in there,” Bitty mumbles to himself as he wriggles out of his trunks.  

“Eric?” Jack asks, crawling up the bed and hovering between Bitty’s legs.  

“Yeah, baby?”

“Shut up,” he says, before lowering his head and taking Eric into his mouth.

“God, you’re a handful,” he muses, tangling one hand in Jack’s salt-stiff hair.  “I have an idea,” he says, pulling Jack off after a few minutes.  

Jack huffs out an inpatient noise but shrugs his shoulders and gets back to business as soon as he realizes that Eric is only flipping around so he can return the favor.  

It’s near perfection for a while.  Bitty’s mouth is hot and tight around his dick, a wet finger inching between his cheeks to press against his hole.  Jack’s only complaint is that he’s at the wrong angle to lick under Bitty’s balls and get at his ass.  He continues bobbing and sucking, moaning around Eric’s cock as he feels himself inch slowly toward the edge.

It’s then that he notices Eric starting to soften in his mouth.  He redoubles his efforts, but none of his tricks seem to work.  Soon Eric loses it entirely and slips from his lips.  

Eric drops down hard, taking Jack all the way into his throat as he slips two fingers inside him.  

His head is a little floaty and the room seems to be spinning, but Jack does his best to focus on the sensations.  Somehow, it’s easier than usual and when Eric pulls off to lick around Jack’s fingers, pressing down hard on his prostate, Jack’s orgasm takes him by surprise.  

When he comes back to himself and looks down, Bitty’s cheek is resting against his thigh, covered in come.  It’s everywhere, darkening his blond hair and clinging to the side of his nose.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Jack says quickly, reaching down to wipe the come off Eric’s eyelid.

His lashes flutter open and then squeeze shut tightly.  “It’s okay, I feel like I’m the one that should be apologizing.”

“No, everything’s fine,” Jack insists.  “One second.” He jumps up and heads to the bathroom to wet a washcloth with warm water, returning to clean up Eric’s face.  “Sorry, I know that burns when it gets in your eyes.”

“It’s really fine,” Bitty says, covering his face with his hands.

“Does it hurt?  Do you want me to run the shower?  You could rinse it out.”

“No, honey.  I’m just embarrassed.”

“Why?  I’m the one that got come all over your hair.”

“Because I couldn’t stay hard for you,” Bitty says eventually, revealing blushing cheeks.  “I think I’m finally realizing how you feel about this.”

“It’s not a big deal to me,” Jack says, rubbing a soothing circle into his thigh.  “I know it sucks, but it happens.  It’s not something you can control, and you tell me that all the time—that it’s not something I should feel bad about.

“Honey, your ED comes from your meds.  This is just whiskey dick.”

Jack can’t help it, he starts to laugh, and once he starts, he can’t make it stop.  “It’s what?” he asks in between gasps for breath.

“God, I’m so embarrassed,” Bitty says, shaking his head and crossing his arms.  “I talk all this talk about how I’m going to fuck you so well when we get home and there you are, doing some of your best work on my dick, and I can’t keep it up for you?  That is just ridiculous.  I’m 22 years old!”

“Bits,  you drank a whole bottle of champagne!  That’s your problem, not anything else.  I promise.  It happens all the time.”

“Then how come you managed to come buckets all over my face?”

“It was not buckets!” Jack says, embarrassed, though he has no idea why.  “And I don’t know… maybe I just managed to get out of my head for a little bit.”

“I guess…” Bitty says, pouting.

“It’s really okay,” Jack says again.  “You can make it up to me tomorrow.  I seem to recall something about a toy the size of your first…  Unless you’d like me to try again now,” he offers, thumbs sliding up Eric’s inner thighs.

“Alright, sweetpea.  You’ve made your point,” he says, swatting Jack’s hands away.  “Just get over here and spoon me until I forget how bruised my ego is.”

“I love you,” Jack says, hitting the lights before covering them with the sheet and nuzzling into Eric’s throat. 

“I love you, too, baby.  I’m going to show you just how much tomorrow.  Right after I sleep off this hangover.”

Chapter Text

“Eric?” Jack whispers sometime around noon.  He’s already gone for a run and taken a shower and is planning to make them a very late breakfast, if he can be sure Eric will be awake and well enough to eat it.  “Want me to make you some eggs?”

“Mmm?” Eric groans, barely even lifting his head.  One arched eyebrow is visible above the sheets, but that’s it.

“Are you feeling up to eating some breakfast?”

“Toast,” is the only reply.

“You want eggs on toast?  I could maybe do a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich?” Jack offers.

“Just toast,” Eric groans.

“Okay then,” Jack says, slipping back out of the bedroom.  

As quietly as he can, Jack sets about making breakfast—eggs and turkey bacon for himself and multigrain toast for Bitty.  He hesitates when plating it up and decides on some buttered, some with jam, and some with honey. Balancing the plates on his forearms, he grabs two cups of coffee and heads back inside.

“Breakfast is ready,” he says softly, laying Bitty’s plate down on his bedside table.  When he gets no response, he settles back into bed and eats by himself, slowly sipping his rich Kauai coffee black.

“Hnggh,” a pile of pillows grumbles ten minutes later.

“Your toast is getting cold.”

Pulling the sheets down to expose his face, Eric looks at him through one half-open eye.  “How are you so chipper? I feel like death.”

“I have a hundred pounds on you?”

“I’ve never hated your muscle mass until precisely this instant, you big moose.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You should be,” Eric huffs, flopping back down to the mattress on his side, facing the door.  

“Want me to get you some Advil?” Jack offers.  “Or run you a bath?”

“A bath sounds good, actually.”

“I’ll get it ready.  Just eat your toast.”

Jack heads back to the kitchen and cleans up breakfast before grabbing Eric one of his sports drinks, cracking it open, and handing it to him.

“You’re too good to me,” Bitty groans.  

“Nah, I’d just like to do something today besides lie around.  So it’s in my best interest to get you moving.”

“I love you, too,” Eric teases before sipping gratefully at his drink.

With a smile and a peck to Bitty’s forehead, Jack heads to the bathroom and finds some bubble bath to dump into the hot running water.  He strips down and dips his foot in, thinking it’s just on the right side of too hot.

Eventually, Eric joins him, sliding easily in between Jack’s legs to rest against his chest.

“Feeling alright?”

“Good as new,” he says, twisting to kiss Jack on the mouth.  “There’s nothing carbohydrates can’t fix.”

“So… less champagne next time,” Jack says, squeezing him tight around the shoulders.

“That’s probably for the best.  I had so many plans for you last night.”

“Well,” Jack says, licking a bead of sweat off Eric’s throat.  “I don’t have anywhere to be right now.”

“That is a very good point, Mister Zimmermann.  Whatever shall we do?”

“It’s supposed to rain this afternoon.  So maybe we should stay in.”

“I think that’s an excellent plan.”

They lie together in silence for a while, soaking in the relaxing heat until the water starts to go cold.  

“How about a shower?” Jack asks.  “Your hair could probably use a wash.”

“What about you?”

“I took one after my run this morning.”

“Oh lord, you ran already?”

“Just seven miles.”

“‘Just seven miles,’ he says,” Bitty sighs, shaking his head.  “We are on vacation.”

“When we get back it’s the playoffs.   I can’t afford to go off the rails completely.”

“You work harder than God, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty says, kissing him soundly before standing up.  “But I love you for it. Now, why don’t you pull that toy out of my suitcase and start working on it, all right?  It might take a while.”

“Okay,” Jack says, curious.  

“Lube is in the toiletry kit.  Some gloves, too, if you need one.”

“Okay,” he repeats, psyching himself up more than anything.

“I won’t be long,” Eric tells him with a small smile, turning on the shower and stepping in once it’s warm.

Drying off quickly, Jack wraps a towel around his waist and finds the lube under the sink.  It takes a few minutes, but eventually he feels velvet in the bottom of Eric’s suitcase and pulls out a drawstring bag.  It’s larger than the last one and much, much heavier. Turning it over into his palm, Jack lays his eyes on a massive glass plug.  

It looks like a piece of modern art, colorful swirls blown into it.  He gulps, squeezing it. There’s no give at all. Suddenly he can’t wait to know what it will feel like inside him.  

Removing his towel and laying it out on the bed, Jack pops open the lube and starts fingering himself.  He’s eager and already a little turned on, so it’s easy to get up to three. He’s never had the right angle to do more than that, so he wipes one hand clean and goes about drizzling lube on the toy.  

It’s slightly tapered at the tip, but beyond that, Jack has a hard time pressing it inside.  It just seems impossibly wide and unrelenting.  

“Need a hand?” Bitty asks, appearing behind him, leaning against the doorframe.  

“It’s really big.  I don’t know if I can get it in.”

“How about I hold it for you and you can move yourself however you want?” he suggests, taking the base from Jack’s hand and holding it still.  Without a second thought, his other hand comes up to stroke Jack’s rising erection.

“It’s no bigger than my hand, so I think you’ll get it eventually,” Bitty says, pressing light little kisses to the base of Jack’s neck and down his spine.  “Just relax and breathe.”

Jack does his best, but the toy really is unbelievably large.  Bearing down, he huffs out a breath when the toy slides in a little bit further and starts brushing his prostate.  “Fuck.”

“Good?” Bitty asks, a small smile gracing his lips.  

“Ouais,” Jack says, already feeling sweat beading at his brow.

“Just take it slow.  We have all day,” Eric reminds him, mouthing at his shoulder.

He rocks up and down, but it’s just not happening.  Pulling off he reaches for the bottle. “More lube, I think.”

“Oh gosh honey, of course.  I’m sorry, I just got a little wrapped up looking at you stretching like that.”

Jack dumps lube into his cupped palm and pushes as much of it into his hole as he can.  

Bitty holds out the toy for him and he squeezes even more lube all over it, making sure every inch is slick.  When he tries again, lowering himself slowly, it goes much smoother.  

He can feel the lube dripping down his thighs, clinging to his hair, but he can’t bring himself to care.  All of Jack’s attention has narrowed down to that place deep inside that’s finally making room for the intrusion.  

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Eric says, soothing him with his lips just barely brushing Jack’s bare back.  

“For the record, this doesn’t feel anything like your hand,” Jack says, lowering himself further.  The toy is so hard, he has to force himself to relax to let it inside. It was cool to the touch in his hand, but now it’s warm and wet and almost nearing the widest part.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.  But it will feel so good once it’s all the way inside.  Just a little bit more and you’re there.”

Jack nods, swallowing hard, throat dry.  This has to be the biggest thing he’s ever tried to fit inside himself, and he’s getting a little lightheaded just thinking about it.  The stretch is intense, but he breathes deep and tries to sink down lower on every exhale.  

He feels Eric’s fingers brush against his hole and shivers.  

“Just checking how much is left, honey.  You’re almost there.”

“Can you—” he can’t say it.  If his face and chest weren’t already flushed with exertion, he’d be blushing.

“—Anything, sweetpea.  Just tell me what you want.”

Licking his lips, Jack tries again.  “Could you keep rubbing there? It was helping, I think.”

“Of course, darling,” Bitty says, voice low and slow, accent dripping like syrup.  “Anything for you.”

He squeezes down hard just under the head of Jack’s dick while he rubs around Jack’s rim.  

The sensation sizzles down Jack’s spine and makes his gut clench.  “Fuck,” he breathes, gulping in air like he’s drowning. “It’s so much.”

“You’re right there, baby.  I could push just a little bit and it would slip right in.  You want me to?”

“God,” Jack says, almost laughing.  It’s usually Bitty who’s invoking the Lord’s name while they’re in bed together.  His throat clicks as he forms his answer. “Yeah, that would be good.”

“Breathe in deep and—”

Jack gasps and shouts as the plug pushes in and settles, hard and heavy against his prostate.  The neck of it is slimmer than the stretch of the middle, but it’s still wide enough to feel.  

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Jack says, tears in his eyes.  “It’s just a lot.”

“Fuck, Jack.  You look so good like this,” Eric says, fingers still circling Jack’s hole around the base of the plug.  He presses on it and Jack jolts, his dick smacking his stomach, leaving a trail of precome.

“Merde,” he says, eyes fluttering shut as Eric taps out a rhythm on the base of the plug.  He can feel the vibrations all the way up his spine. It rocks the toy against his prostate hard enough to make more precome jerk out of his dick.

“Look at me, baby,” Eric orders, squeezing the base of his cock.  “Open your eyes.”

Jack does as he’s told, eyes sliding into focus on Eric’s sweet honey brown.

“Are you okay?”

“Ouais.”

“You look incredible.  I wish you could see yourself like I see you.  I want to come just looking at you.”

Jack bites his lip as Eric gets on the bed on his knees.  When he’s tall enough to reach Jack’s mouth, Eric kisses him, deep and searching.  

“Would you—” Eric catches himself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head.  “I can’t ask.”

“Tell me what you want, Eric.  You know I’ll do it.”

“That’s why I shouldn’t ask.”

“Please?” Jack pleads.  Whatever it is that makes Eric kiss him like that is something that deserves to be explored, or at least discussed.

“I really shouldn't.  It’s not safe.”

“You mean you want a condom?  Aren’t we kind of past that by now?  Or do we need to get tested again?”

“Of course not, sweetpea.  That’s not what I meant. I meant it wouldn’t be safe for you to do.”

“I skated the day after I had your fist up my ass, I’m pretty sure I can take whatever it is.  Do you want to hit me?” Jack asks.  

He’s not outright opposed but he’s also not sure how much pain he’d really be into.  But Eric has spanked him before and he came so hard he screamed loud enough for Thirdy to hear from several hotel rooms away, so even though it scares him, maybe the idea has its merits.

“Oh my God, no honey.  No. I only do that when I think it will help you.  I don’t want to hurt you unless it’s something you want.”

“Then what is it?”

“I feel silly now.”

“Please, tell me.”

“I… I was thinking about photographing you, is all.”

“Oh,” Jack says, blinking.

“That’s why I said it wasn’t safe,” Bitty says, gearing up to ramble.  “You just looked so good, and I guess I was thinking about looking at the photos the next time we’re apart and maybe you weren’t in the mood for sex.  So I wouldn’t have to hound you all the time. But it’s completely inappropriate, and I mean clouds get hacked all the time, so it just wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“You can do it,” Jack says, not even needing to think about it.  “I don’t mind. As long as I can take some of you. I could just load the files on your laptop.  They wouldn’t need to be in the cloud at all. I um… wouldn’t mind you looking at me. If you wanted.”

“Really?” Eric asks, dick twitching visibly at the thought.  “You’d be okay with that?”

“Yeah.  I think so.  I don’t really know what to like, do with myself, but you can move me how you want,” Jack says, flapping his arms around in demonstration of his awkwardness.

“Hold on one second,” Eric says, hopping off the bed to grab Jack’s camera bag.  

Thankfully, he brings the whole thing to Jack so he can get the camera out himself, take off the lense cover, turn it on, and show Bitty how to use it.  Jack carefully closes the bag and sets it on his bedside table, forcing himself to forget about the ring that’s hiding in one of the inner pockets.  

“It’s pretty easy,” he says, turning it around so Eric can hold it.  “Just point and shoot.”

“Fuck,” Eric says as soon as he looks through the viewfinder.  “You have no idea how you look. Posing is completely unnecessary.”

Jack huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his hair and ducking his face.  

“Just keep doing that,” Bitty says, snapping away.  “Your arms look incredible.”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous.  Just um… stretch up on your knees and touch yourself for me.  Feel how hard you are.”

It’s difficult, but Jack does as he’s asked, hissing as the plug shifts inside him every time he moves.  He bites down hard on his lip, inhaling through his nose as the toy presses hard against his prostate. Reaching down to adjust his balls, the tips of Jack’s fingers brush the base of the plug, and he shivers all over again.

He closes his eyes and sinks into the feeling, rolling his hips.  Wrapping a hand around his erection, he just holds himself, relaxing into his new role as a nude model.  

Jack has done photo shoots before, but they were nothing like this.  He can hear Eric’s labored breathing, feel his eyes and the camera on him like a touch on his skin.  “Is this okay?” he asks, opening his eyes just as Eric takes another photo.  

“It’s more than okay, baby.  It’s amazing,” Eric says, smiling at him as he lowers the camera.  “Could you turn around for me?”

“You just want to see my butt,” Jack says, but does as he’s asked.  

“You also have incredible shoulders, for the record.”

Jack laughs, but arches his back so his ass sticks out.  If Bitty is going to look at these while he touches himself, he might as well get the full experience.  Before he can talk himself out of it, Jack leans forward and puts his hands on the headboard, widening his stance so Eric can get a good shot of the toy tucked up inside him.

The new angle makes Jack moan out loud.  

A whispered but emphatic, “ Fuck ,” comes from behind the camera.

Smirking to himself, Jack decides to see if he can get Eric to do it again.  Stretching up to his full height, Jack clasps his arms behind his back and bows his head.  He can hear Eric licking his lips and swallowing in between camera clicks, but it’s not quite enough.

In what must be a moment of insanity, Jack grabs both of his ass cheeks and pulls them apart, looking behind himself to catch Bitty’s eye.  

“Oh my God,” Eric says quietly, not lowering the camera for a second.  “You like to play innocent, but this is just pure evil, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Yeah?” Jack breathes, turning to the side and grasping his cock again.  “How about this?” he asks, tossing his head back to expose his throat.

“Are you for real right now?” Bitty asks, lowering the camera just a little to get a better angle.  “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I think it might be my turn,” Jack says, noticing that Bitty is also hard as a rock and leaking.  “Camera, please,” he adds, holding his hand out.

Eric points the camera at his face and takes a few more before handing it over.  “You’re a tough act to follow, sweetheart. No one on the planet looks as good as you do.”

“I beg to differ,” Jack says, shaking his head as he raises his camera.  “I could look at you forever. Now come here and lie down for me. The light is better.”

“Such a perfectionist,” Eric mutters before flopping down on the sheets.

He looks like heaven, all tan skin and dark freckles against the crisp white bedclothes.  Jack zooms in and focuses on each limb, the way the shadows of the blinds play over Eric’s skin, the hollow of his throat.  

Eric reaches for the lube and slicks both of his hands before starting to stroke himself.  “Like what you see?” he asks, coy and coquettish.  

“You’re beautiful,” Jack says simply, earnestly, hoping Eric takes him at his word.  “I love you. The way you move, the way you breathe,” he says, punctuating each phrase with a snap from his camera.  “You tan like a dream—just how I thought you would.”

“You are unreal,” Bitty mumbles, closing his eyes as he twists his wrist on the upstroke.

“Don’t make yourself come yet, I want to do that.”

“Okay,” Eric breathes, releasing his dick and wiping his hands on the towel.  Once they’re clean, he runs his fingers through his golden hair, trailing them down the curve of his throat and over his pecs.

Jack zooms out so he can catch his expression, that open-mouthed exhale, the way his tongue darts out to wet the divot on his lower lip.

“Are you going to take photos all day or are you going to fuck me?” he asks, honey brown eyes flashing open to challenge Jack.

“Can’t I do both?” Jack teases, smirking.

“I don’t think so,” Eric says, shaking his head.  “You won’t be able to hold the camera if I hold your arms down.”

“Not yet,” Jack says, putting the camera down anyway.  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to do first.”

Before Eric can ask, Jack lays down on the bed and motions for Eric to straddle him.  They kiss for a few minutes, all tongue and teeth until Eric pulls back for a breath, and Jack turns his pointer finger in a circle.  “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” Jack says, eyebrows raised.

Eric narrows his eyes but gets off Jack so he can reposition himself. 

As soon as he can reach, Jack grabs Bitty’s ass with both hands and pulls his cheeks apart before ducking his head and running his tongue over him.

Eric’s head snaps back to look at him.  “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jack quips.  “I’m getting you ready. Isn’t that what you asked for?  When we were on the phone last week?”

“I suppose I did,” Eric says, eyes still wide in shock.

“Then turn around and let me do this,” Jack insists, squeezing his ass and propping his shoulders up on his pillow until he has the right angle.  “Sit down if you want to. I can take it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Eric whispers, but he lowers his hips anyway.

Jack has always liked this part.  He drives his tongue into Eric’s hole like a man possessed, sucking at the rim and licking him over and over again until he’s dripping wet.  

Moaning above him, Eric pulls away for a second to grab the bottle of lube, but Jack pulls him back.  

“No touching.  I can make you come just like this.”

“Okay,” Eric breathes, voice shaking.  

Jack gets back to it, pulling Eric apart with his thumbs until he can bury himself there.  

Eventually, Eric gets with the program, rocking and moving above Jack in a rhythm that makes his entire body shiver.  

Jack’s jaw starts to ache, but he just redoubles his efforts, thrusting his tongue out as far as it will go until he’s flicking it deep inside Eric’s body.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eric mutters above him, hips still undulating, rim clenching down around Jack’s tongue as he barrels toward orgasm.

Squeezing tight around Eric’s hips, Jack pulls him down onto his face hard, diving in as far as he can go and flicking his tongue in quick little flutters until Eric is moaning and thrashing above him.  

When he’s close, Bitty drives himself down even further on Jack’s tongue, breathy little noises, escaping his throat in rapid succession.  “I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Jack moans beneath him, digging his fingers into Eric’s skin and suffocating himself with his body.  Everything seems to tighten and without meaning to, Jack’s body squeezes down on the plug, lighting up his prostate.  His dick twitches as he loses his breath and has to go without oxygen, but it’s worth it when Eric starts to scream and jerk uncontrollably on his tongue, coming untouched.  

“Ahhh, fuck!” he moans, hips twitching, still riding Jack’s face as his orgasm subsides.  

A coiling heat in Jack’s belly signals his own orgasm, but as soon as he starts to feel the telltale tightening in his gut, Eric is lifting his hips and getting off him.  Jack gulps in air automatically, even though he was enjoying going without it. He’s quite sure he would die a happy man if Eric were the one to take his last breath from him.

“Are you okay?” Bitty asks, eyes wide as he spins around to look at Jack.

Jack licks around his mouth, tongue sloppy and uncoordinated, lips numb.  “I’m great,” Jack rasps, blinking his eyes open.  

“God, you’re a mess,” Eric says, reaching for the towel and wiping Jack’s face with a clean corner.

“It’s okay.  I like it messy,” Jack mumbles, before he realizes what he’s saying.

“I can see that,” Bitty agrees, gesturing at their stomachs and his own chest, which is now covered in come.  “That was intense. I’ve never come so hard in my life.”

“It was good, then?” 

“Fuck, baby.  You have no idea,” Eric says, running his hands through Jack’s hair and his thumbs over his cheeks.  “It was incredible, the way you were moaning down there. I could feel it all the way inside me. I didn’t know it could be like that.  It’s like… it’s better because I know how much you like it. You do like it, right sugar?” he asks, head tilted to the side.

“Very much,” Jack says, licking his lips again.  “I like making you feel good—and I like when I can’t breathe,” he adds, face heating at the admission.

“You do, don’t you?” Eric smiles, leaning over him for a quick kiss.  “That gives me all sorts of ideas,” he says, trailing a finger over Jack’s throat, teasing his Adam’s apple.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Jack says without thinking.   It may sound a little crazy, but he trusts Eric. Even when he’s been surprised in bed, he’s always come out of it with a new appreciation for his own body’s reactions to things Eric can do to him.

“Maybe tomorrow, honey.  Right now, I have some unfinished business,” he says, grasping Jack’s erection.

Jack thrashes like he’s been electrocuted.  It’s been nearly twenty minutes since he’s been touched there, and his body arches like a live wire.  

Reaching for the lube, Eric pours some out onto Jack’s cock and spreads it out with his palm.  

“You’re so hard for me, baby.  This is going to feel so good inside me,” he says, lifting up to straddle Jack’s hips again.  

This time, Eric’s weight changes the angle of the toy and Jack sees stars.  “Tabarnak,” he breathes, hissing through his teeth.  

“Not yet, darling,” Eric says, hovering over his dick, holding it at the right angle with one hand.  “I’m going to take my time with you.”

“Câlisse,” Jack curses, eyes fluttering shut as Eric lowers himself, swallowing Jack’s cock into that tight heat.  “Sacrament.”  

It’s been so long since they’ve done this, and it’s nothing like the last time.  That night, Jack had been overwhelmed by his first lasting erection, eager to get Eric off before he lost it completely.  This time, with the toy pressing hard against his prostate, Jack has no trouble believing Eric will be able to take things as slow as he likes.

“God, you’re huge,” Eric says, face scrunched up in discomfort as he adjusts to the stretch.  “I swear you feel even bigger than the last time.”

“I think I stopped growing when I was thirteen,” Jack comments, lips twitching in amusement.

“Get that smug look off your face this instant, Mister Zimmermann.  I’m the one in charge here.”

“Ouais,” Jack breathes as Eric bottoms out, ass pressed to Jack’s hips.  

“Good boy,” Eric says, running his hands through Jack’s sweaty hair.  

Groaning in appreciation, Jack’s hands fly up to squeeze Eric’s sides, giving an experimental thrust upward as he pulls down.

“Fuck.  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

“Good,” Jack says, rocking upward again.  “I hear it’s good to keep sex fresh. The guys were all jealous that you wanted to have Skype sex with me.”

“Were they?” Eric teases, his laugh breaking into a moan when Jack pulls him down to meet his thrust.  “Maybe I’ll buy a special outfit for next time. Send you away with this plug and see if that will work for you.”

“I don’t think I could get it in without you.”

“God, you do know how to flatter a boy, Jack,” Bitty says, leaning down to kiss him.  

They rock like that for a few minutes, Jack pulling Eric down into his lap, Eric’s tongue trailing all over Jack’s throat, leaving marks where anyone could see.  

“I love you so much,” Eric breathes into his skin, pressing kisses to his chest.  

“I’ll never love anyone like I love you,” Jack agrees readily, reaching up to get his hands around Eric’s shoulders and pulling him down, down, down repeatedly onto his cock.  

“Fuck Jack, I’m getting close,” he mutters into Jack’s mouth, kissing him breathless before leaning back and taking Jack’s hands.  He twines their fingers together and pins Jack’s arms to the mattress. “So we’re just going to slow this down. We have all day, don’t we?”

“You want to do this all day?” 

“What?  Don’t think you can take it?”

“I think it might be worrisome to have an erection for that long.”

“I’ll let you come eventually, I promise,” Eric says, kissing him again and again, rocking so slowly in his lap it’s like they’re barely moving at all.

But eventually, the tension starts to build.  The toy rocks inside Jack and he squeezes down on it hard whenever Bitty bites at his throat or steals his breath.  Still pinned down, Jack has little control, but he can get his feet up under himself and change the angle until Eric is gasping.

“You’re cheating, Mister Zimmermann.”

“I’m not using my hands.  Wasn’t that the only rule?”

“I distinctly remember telling you I was in charge.”

“Maybe you should tie me down if you don’t want me to move at all.”

“Maybe next time I will,” Eric says, eyes shining with promise.  “But right now, I just want to fuck you until you fill me up so much it’s leaking out of me for the rest of the night.”

“Tabarnak,” Jack groans, unable to help himself.  He’s powerless against Bitty’s dirty talk. “You said that on the phone,” he breathes, eyes clenched shut against the onslaught of  sensation. Eric is squeezing down tight around him, making him clench down on the toy, sending sparks through his prostate.  

“And I meant it,” Bitty says, releasing Jack’s hands to grab onto the headboard.  With better leverage, he can drop down hard on Jack’s dick, taking him as deep as possible with every stroke.  

Jack longs to wrap his hands around Eric’s cock and make him come, but he hasn’t been given permission to move and some part of him desperately wants to obey the unspoken command.  If he can please Eric by following his orders without being asked, he wants to.  

“When you come—” Bitty breaks off into a moan when Jack hits the right spot inside him.  “—It’s incredible. I can’t wait to feel it inside me, coating my insides, making me yours.”

It should sound ridiculous, but it doesn’t.  Jack didn’t manage to come inside Eric the last time they did this, but now he’s more determined than ever.  Biting down on his lower lip, Jack thrusts up hard, meeting Eric’s downstroke. He’s rewarded with a yelp from Bitty and fingers clenched around his shoulder.  

“Fuck.  Warn me when you’re going to do that.”

“More fun this way,” Jack says between labored breaths.  

Sensing how close Jack is getting, Eric seals his mouth over Jack’s and rocks down hard, picking up the pace.  

Jack wants to meet him, but his head starts to swim and his legs become uncoordinated.  The pressure against his prostate is so strong he has to straighten out and let Eric take over completely.  

The kiss is wet and messy and Jack has to suck in air through his nose to breathe while his stomach heats and his balls tighten.  He thinks he’s going to come—Eric is tight around him, and the toy is doing its job, keeping him hard and on edge—but he just can’t get there.

Tears gather in his eyes and leak out as he gives into the frustration.  Jack squeezes down hard, hoping to force his body into orgasm, but nothing happens.  Even Eric’s practiced movements aren’t enough.  

“I’ve got you, baby,” Eric says against his lips before kissing him one more time and replacing his mouth with his hand.  He pinches Jack’s nose with his thumb and forefinger and pushes his palm down tight over his lips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, rocking down hard in Jack’s lap a few more times, driving the plug deeper into him with every thrust.

Jack’s back arches and his eyes flash open just in time to see Eric toss his head back and come between them, tightening around Jack like a vise.  It’s only when Jack tries to take a breath and can’t that his body reacts appropriately. Tensing so tight Jack is afraid he might break the toy inside him, Jack screams into Eric’s palm and comes, jerking uncontrollably.

Pulling his hand back, Eric clings to the headboard and continues rocking in Jack’s lap muttering “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” over and over again as Jack pumps pulses of come into him.  “I can feel you, baby. You’re so hot. Oh my God.”

Jack squeezes his eyes shut tight as his hole flutters around the glass, prolonging his orgasm.  He gulps in breath, but still he’s not done.  

“Holy shit,” Eric says, running a thumb over Jack’s lower lip.  “You’re still coming. Fuck.”

Taking Eric’s thumb into his mouth, he sucks hard, overwhelmed by the tremors that wrack his body.  His chest heaves and still, little frissions of electricity run through him, making his hips twitch.  Little pulses of come still escape him with every jerk, coming slower and slower until finally, they subside.

“Baby,” Eric breathes, pressing kisses to his cheeks and forehead.  “Baby, baby, baby, can you hear me?”

“Ouais?” Jack mutters, still not opening his eyes.  If he concentrates hard enough on squeezing the toy, he can still feel the waves of his orgasm cresting over him, making him shiver and shake.  

“Are you okay?”

“Je-je peux encore sentir.  J’te sens toujours. C'est incroyable.  Tu es incroyable. Quand ça a commencé, ça s'est juste plus arrêté.  J'arrive pas y croire.”

“In English, baby.  Please.”

“You’re incredible,” Jack says, translating in his head.  “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Jack.  I’m just going to have to get used to the fact that you look like you might be dying every time you orgasm.”

“Just a little death.”

“Don’t get cute with me, mister,” Eric says, leaning down to kiss him.  “I’m just looking after your wellbeing. You can’t win a Stanley Cup if you’re dead.”

Jack wants to say that he wouldn’t mind if he died in bed with Eric—if Eric were the one to kill him.  But he doesn’t think that information would be well-received.  

“I’m really okay,” he says instead, smiling up at the love of his life.  Would this be a good time? He has two rings now, and they’re within reach, right there on the bedside table.  Is it okay to propose after earth-shattering sex? While he’s still buried deep inside Eric? Or would that be frowned upon.  It should probably be a story they’d be able to tell their parents… right?

“Good,” Eric says, kissing him again.  “Now how about we shower again? And maybe wash the sheets.”

“Does that mean I have to move?  I don’t think my legs are working right now.”

“Nuh uh, don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Why?  Don’t people take naps on vacation?”

“I don’t think you should fall asleep with that thing in you.”

“Feels nice,” Jack mutters, already slipping into unconsciousness.  

“I’ll get it out for you,” Bitty says, gently rolling him onto his side.  

“Merci, mon lapin.”

“Good lord, you are adorable when you’re sleepy.  It’s just not fair.”

“J’taime,” Jack manages to say before he’s out cold.

Chapter Text

Morning breaks with blazing sunshine, and Jack takes a golden opportunity to skip exercise in exchange of relaxing in the hammock with a book while Eric sleeps.  By 8 a.m., he’s finished his book and shaking Eric awake.  

“It’s a beautiful day,” he tells the top of Eric’s hair.  “And all the mud has dried out from yesterday so the trail is open.  Want to go see a waterfall with me?”

“Now?” the blanket asks, shifting slightly.

“It’s four hours there and four hours back, so yeah, now would be good so we can get back before dark.”

“Eight hours?”

“It’s the best view of the island.”

“Can’t we just take a helicopter ride?”

“Don’t you want to try out your new hiking outfit?” Jack asks, trying to tempt him.

“I guess…”

“Did you break in those hiking boots I got you?”

“I stomped around in the apartment and did Single Ladies like a dozen times.  Does that count?”

“I’ll throw your sneakers in my backpack just in case.”

Jack leaves the bedroom and busies himself with packing lunches and snacks and filling their Camelbacks with ice water.  He throws in some sunscreen, their swim trunks, and towels before heading back to the bedroom to change.

Shucking off his pajamas, Jack digs in his suitcase for his athletic leggings when he hears, “Well, that’s a view to wake up to.”

Looking over his bare shoulder, Jack finds Eric peeking out from under the covers, golden hair mussed.

“Have you seen my leggings?”

“No, but I want to.  You look so hot in those.”

“Not right now,” Jack tells him, continuing his search.  “Save the pillow talk for later.  We need to get moving.”

“What about breakfast?”

“We’ll grab something on the way.”

“What about that place with the big burritos?”

“If you want to hike for hours with that weighing you down, sure, we’ll get you a giant burrito.”

“Eggs are energy, isn’t that what you’re always telling me?” Eric says, pulling himself out of bed and stretching.

Jack watches the way his stomach flexes for a few moments before ducking into the bathroom to brush his teeth.  When he comes back out Bitty is dressed in the tiniest little athletic shorts and an Ivy Park crop top.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to wear?” Jack asks, gulping at the sight.  

“It’s 80 degrees outside, Jack.  Are you sure that’s what you want to wear?” he asks, gesturing to Jack’s shorts and leggings combination.  

“I don’t like when my thighs chafe.”

“Fair enough, but I don’t like getting that sweaty.  Thigh sweat is a way of life in Georgia, one that I am happy to leave behind.  That’s why God invented shorts.”

“Those aren’t shorts.  Those are a felony.”

“Is that so?” Bitty asks, stalking forward.  “What are you going to do about it, Mister Zimmermann?  Arrest me?”

“I’m going to let you go ahead of me on the trail so I can ogle your butt like you ogle mine.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Bitty says, grabbing a bottle of suntan spray and heading outside to use it.  

Jack watches him through the sliding door, licking his lips as Eric drenches himself in the sticky liquid.  It shines in the sunlight, glinting off his stomach and his tan, freckled shoulders.  

“All set?” he asks as soon as Eric returns.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Handing Eric his own bags, he wraps an arm around his waist and steers him outside, pressing a kiss to the top of his golden head.

When they get to the base of the trail, Eric stops short, turning to Jack with his hand on his hips.  “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Jack asks, raising his camera to take a few shots of Eric next to the sign.

“That is not a trail.  That’s a cliff!”

“So?”

“So I am not climbing up a wall of rock for four hours.”

“Afraid your quads can’t take it?” Jack asks, pushing past him and heading upward.  

“You know I can skate circles around you.  That’s not my point.”

“Just think of the view when you get to the top.”

“How high are we talking?”

“It’s just 2,300 feet.  We already did 800 on Oahu.  Come on,” Jack says, pressing on.  

The trail isn’t so much a trail as a collection of muddy rocks.  He has to steady himself with his hand against the wall of the cliff and choose where to step before he moves.  People are already heading down from the first lookout, so they often have to step to the side and let others pass.

“That is three times as high, Jack.  This is not just a walk in the park.”

“No, but it’ll be worth it.  I promise.”

Besides a few spots that have makeshift stairs made out of tree roots and bits of wood, the first 500 feet of elevation is rocky and unpredictable.  Several times, Jack slips and has to catch himself on his hands. Bitty, with his shorter legs, often has to get down on all fours to reach the same footholds as Jack.

“If I’d known how dirty we were going to get, I might not have worn my new shorts,” he says, hurrying along after Jack.  His stomach is already caked in mud from where he’d wiped the dirt off his hands ten minutes back. It makes him look primitive and wild in a way Jack has never seen before.

“That’s the thing about Kauai.  It stays with you forever because the red mud never gets out of your clothes.”

“I saw that shop in town selling that dirt-colored shirt, but I thought it was just a joke,” Bitty says, shaking his head.

“You look great, bud,” he says, letting Eric pass him.  “You go on ahead. Your legs are shorter, so you can set the pace.”

“You just want to stare at my butt.”

“I’m mostly focusing on not falling over, but the view is an added bonus.”

“Oh my God, Jack!” Eric says from a few feet ahead of him.  “Oh my God.”

“Are you okay?” Jack calls, rounding the corner as quickly as he can.

“No, I am not okay.  Look at this!”

When he comes into view, Eric is standing at the first overlook, arms outstretched, a huge grin on his face.  The sun ducks behind a cloud and Jack can see it, the huge expanse of ocean behind him, outlined by the jagged edges of green cliffs.  The waves roll and churn out in the distance, but the white foam splashing into volcanic rock is what catches Jack’s attention.  

In an instant, his camera is out and he’s snapping photos.  Every angle is magnificent and he spends a full five minutes lining up a dozen perfect shots of Eric against the water.  

“Lord, it’s hot,” he says, poking into his backpack for a bandana which he wipes his brow with before folding it into a strip and tying it around his head.

“Make sure you drink the water.  You’re carrying it for a reason,” Jack reminds him, sipping on his own.

“How much further is it?”

“Another mile and a half to the beach.  Then two more to the waterfall.”

“That was only half a mile?”

“Yeah, but it was straight up, basically.”

“Let’s rest here a while then,” Eric suggests, seating himself on a large rock and holding his arms out for Jack to fold himself into.  

They’re both sweaty, but Jack doesn’t mind.  Eric’s warm skin feels perfect, and they can enjoy the ocean breeze as it cools them.  

“Come on, selfie time,” Eric says eventually, standing up to get the best angle in his phone camera.  “You can’t be behind the camera all day.  I need some photos of you, too.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but agrees, ducking down so they’re similar heights before taking the phone from Eric and snapping a few photos.  

Eric kisses his cheek and then turns his head to kiss him full on the mouth.  

“Would you like me to take one for you?” a woman asks from a few feet away.  She’s holding the same camera model as Jack.

“That would be great,” Eric says, waiting for Jack to hand the camera over.  “Then he can take some of you,” he adds, gesturing to the woman’s family behind her.

“Wow, you’re tall,” she comments, lining up the shot.  “Do you play basketball or something?”

“Or something,” Jack says with a lopsided smile.

“You two look really familiar.”

“He’s just got one of those faces, you know?  So handsome,” Eric says, kissing Jack’s cheek again, and then jumping on his back so they can take a few of them wrapped around each other.

“Thanks,” Jack says, switching cameras with her.  

He takes a dozen photos, telling them to move until they’re all in frame, and then he and Eric escape up the trail before any of the kids can figure out who they are.

“You think they really recognized you?” Eric asks as they all but sprint up the steps of the trail.

“If anyone would be recognizable outside of hockey, it would be you, not me.”

“I don’t think so.  Why would anyone in Hawai’i know who I am?”

“How many Instagram followers do you have?”

“About 70 million,” Bitty says, shrugging his shoulders.

“And you don’t think any of those 70 million people are on this island right now?”

“I try not to think about it too hard or I start to second guess every little thing I say.  I mean, Beyoncé has like 120 million, so I guess I’m half a Beyoncé?”

“Do you always compare yourself to Beyoncé?”

“Only when I do her dances in the mirror,” Bitty quips, trotting off ahead of Jack.

They hike in silence for a while because the trail is so tough neither of them can spare the breath.  About an hour and a half in they stop to eat a snack and have some water.

“It shouldn’t be much further,” Jack assures a red-cheeked Eric.

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

“So we really should be almost to the beach.”

“This better be the best beach I’ve ever seen,” Bitty huffs, shoving the wrappers of their granola bars in his backpack.  

Rolling his eyes, Jack steps off the trail toward the cliff face and pushes back the foliage to reveal the view.  “Come here,” he says, pointing to where he’s standing.

“Holy shit,” Eric says as soon as he sees the view.  It’s white foam and clear teal water lapping against a sandy beach and green covered mountains.  The leaves around it frame the photo in such a way that it looks like a wild jungle being pulled back to reveal paradise.  

“Jack.  Holy shit,” he says again, reaching for his phone and snapping a few photos.  

“It’s not that far,” Jack muses, looking down at the beach.  

“Can we stay here forever?  I think this, this exact spot is my happy place.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the water yet.  Don’t you want to wait until you see it?  Maybe the beach is your happy place.”

“I don’t know… this is going to be pretty hard to top.”

Jack pulls out his camera to document the view, making sure to get a few of Eric’s expression as he takes it all in.  He really does look as happy as Jack has ever seen him.  Maybe the first time he landed a quad, but this is a very close second.

“Let’s go,” he says as soon as his camera is safely back in its bag.  Jack can’t be sure, but he thinks maybe the beach is the place.  Maybe that is where he’ll finally find the courage to ask Eric to marry him.

Bitty runs off ahead of him and down a frightening decline.  There are steps carved into the earth, but they’re steep and covered in mud, so they have to cling to the wall and take each one slowly to make it.  When they reach the bottom, Eric stops short.

It’s a river.  There are a few muddy boulders making a treacherous looking path across it, but that’s all that separates them from brown churning water.

“You ready for this?” Jack asks, taking Eric’s hand.  

“Ready to fall into a bunch of dirty river water and die?  Oh, sure.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“But you think I’m going to fall in, don’t you?”

“It’s possible…”

“Hold my hand,” Bitty demands. “If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Jack assures him before taking a large step up onto a boulder.

Eric follows as close behind him as he can, but they have to separate part way through because Eric’s legs aren’t long enough to get him across.   

“If you jump, I think you’ll make it.”

“Oh, lord,” Bitty mutters, looking to the sky.  “Here we go.”  

He leaps and his foot lands on the rock, but then he slips and lands hard on his ass.

“Fuck.”  Jack lunges forward, but he’s two rocks away and can’t possibly catch him.  “Are you okay?”

“Like my ass wasn’t already sore,” Eric groans as he struggles to stand.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s mud all over me, isn’t there?” he asks, turning around.

“Just a bit.”

He’s covered in red mud, all the way from his thighs to his crop top.  

“The beach is right here,” Jack says, pointing behind him.  “You can wash off if you want.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.  If there’s another river I’m making you carry me, is all I’m saying,” Eric mutters as he hops the last few rocks and lands on the shore next to Jack.  

“What do you think?”  

They stand at the top of an incline made entirely of smooth stones.  A small path of trees leads down to a clear, blue beach.  

“I’m jumping in,” Eric decides, stripping down to his underwear and leaving Jack with his shoes before dashing off to the water.

“Be careful!” Jack calls after him.  He read enough warnings about the surf to know how dangerous it can be.  But he doesn’t need to worry, Eric only goes in up to his calves and drops down to sit in the sand and clean up.  A man to his left is going through a round of sun salutations and once Bitty is clean, he joins in, stretching and arching right there in the shallow water.

Jack breaks out his camera and zooms in, smiling when he gets an amazing shot of Eric in a warrior pose, and then another of him in half moon.  If he lingers behind his camera while Bitty folds himself into down dog, no one is around to judge him for it.

A few minutes later, Eric is back to his first position.  He stretches a few more times with his arms over his head before jogging back to Jack and throwing himself into his arms.

“It’s so amazing here,” he gushes, grabbing his phone from his discarded shorts and snapping a few shots of him and Jack.

“New happy place?”

“New happy place,” he agrees easily.  “You want to try the water? It’s beautiful.”

“I’m happy to watch you,” Jack says, stacking up a pile of loose stones as he speaks.  “I don’t want to get wet until we get to the end and change clothes.”

“That’s why I’m going to take my underwear off when I’m done here.”

Jack gulps and watches Bitty jog away, water dripping down his thighs.  He walks closer to the water, stacking stones as he goes, and by the time he’s done, Bitty is up to his chest in the ocean, floating and enjoying himself.

Trekking back up the path, Jack focuses his camera on the rocks and takes a few more photos with Eric splashing around in the background.  Packing up his camera, Jack rubs his finger over the ring box, silently panicking.

This might be the right time—the perfect time, even, but Jack can’t bring himself to grab the box and walk to Eric.  He doesn’t have the words.  Maybe later.  Maybe once they reach the waterfall he’ll find some inspiration.  

Maybe.

“Ready to go?” Eric asks him a few minutes later, dripping wet.  

Jack wants to chase the water with his tongue, to run back up the trail and take Eric in the bed of their rental truck, but now is not the time.  Instead, he swallows roughly and says, “Sure. Let’s go.”

Then Bitty drops his tiny briefs and steps out of them, drying himself quickly with his towel before stepping back into his tiny shorts.  He pulls them up, winks at Jack, and then tucks himself in before tilting his head and smiling.  

“Ready,” he says simply and then sits down on a rock to pull his socks and shoes on.  

At a loss for words, Jack just shoulders his backpack and follows Eric to the next part of the trail.  

They find themselves in a bamboo forest, something Jack has never seen before, and he marvels at it as they walk for another half hour, hand in hand.  The trail has evened out and is wide enough for them to hike side by side, smiling at each other and chatting about what they’d like to do for dinner.  Eric suggests sushi and Jack agrees readily, always interested in somewhere that specializes in fish.

“We haven’t gotten you a drink in a piece of fruit yet today.”  

“Maybe not, but I did hollow out a mango for myself yesterday while you were sleeping.”

“Really?”

“You were dead to the world, honey.  I pulled that toy out and you barely flinched.  The blender didn’t bother you at all.”

Jack blushes furiously.  “Sorry. I was so tired.”

“Jack, you came for like a minute straight yesterday.  If I’d done that I would have passed out, too.”

A couple passes them on the trail and Jack coughs, trying to act casual.  “Keep your voice down. There are kids around here.”

“I’m sorry my boyfriend is a bonafide sex God and I just love teasing him about it.  Want to skinny dip with me when we get to the waterfall?”

“Only if there’s no one else around,” Jack says.  He’s shy and doesn’t want to end up in a grainy photo on a gossip site, but he also doesn’t want to miss out on wrapping his naked body around Eric’s in what is now his literal paradise.

“If there are, how about we just fuck in the ocean when we get back to the cabin?  That’s private.”

“I think that requires a level of coordination that we’re not really capable of.”

“Spoilsport.”

After another twenty minutes, they finally make it and Jack stops short.  It’s taller than he imagined, but the noise is what’s most shocking.  The water is so loud Eric has to lean in to say, “Holy shit, Jack.  Welcome to our happy place.  It only took four hours to get to.”

Jack smiles and starts to laugh.  Soon Eric joins him, and the two of them just cling to each other, basking in the glory of one of nature’s natural wonders.  

“Want to swim with me?” 

“You go first,” Jack says, pulling out his camera one more time.  “I want to get a few shots of you in the water.”

There are a few other families around, so Eric ducks behind a tree to change into his swim trunks and peel off his sweaty crop.  He runs and jumps off a rock, barreling down through several feet of empty space before landing in the water with a splash.

Jack catches it all on film, including the moment he emerges from the water, shining in the sun like an angel.  

Eric shakes the water out of his hair and wipes his face before calling, “Come on!”

Packing up his camera, Jack looks one more time at the bag before deciding to leave the ring where it is.  This is something he wants to experience with Eric. He doesn’t want his anxiety taking over and ruining the moment.  There will be other moments—other places just as perfect as this one. Jack will just have to find his courage someplace else.

He changes quickly and steps into the cool, fresh water, swimming over to wrap himself around Eric.  

“I love you,” he says into Eric’s throat.

“What?” Eric calls over the roaring water.

“Marry me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They swim until the sun starts to descend.  If they want to make it back before dark, they’ll have to leave soon.  Drying off, they eat their lunches sitting together on a towel, their feet still dangling in the cold water.

Eric looks up, squinting at the sun as it ducks behind a tree.  “You know what?”

“What?”

“This would be a really nice place to get married.  Don’t you think?”

Jack’s breath catches in his throat.  Had Eric heard him?  Were they playing some sort of game?  He tries to school his face into something casual before responding.

“You don’t want to get married in a church?  Would your mother be upset about that?”

“I don’t think so,” Eric says, laying his head on Jack’s shoulder.  “I think I want to get married right here.  In our happy place.  You know, if one of these people was ordained, we could do it right now.” 

“I think we’d need a permit,” Jack says, always the rational thinker.  

“We could get one and come back tomorrow.”

“You want to elope?  Are you sure?”

“I could be,” Eric says, smiling at him.  “What do you think?”

“I think Shitty would murder me.  I think Maman would murder me twice.”

Bitty laughs.  “You think my mom could make this hike?”

“Are we really considering this?” Jack asks, turning to look at Eric.

“Why not?” he asks, taking Jack’s hands.  “It’s not like we couldn’t afford to fly our families here.  And we’d want it to be small anyway. Just some of the boys from Samwell and the Falconers.  Our parents. That’s all we need, isn’t it?”

Jack grins.  Eric just said we.  We could afford it.  He’s finally seeing himself as Jack’s partner, and it’s thrilling to Jack, who has fought for this for so long.  “There’s a helicopter landing zone not too far from here.  It’d still be a bit of a trek, but not as far.”

“Are you telling me we could have flown up here?” 

“Don’t you think the journey made it more satisfying?” Jack chides.  “Finding your wedding location is worth a bit of a hike, don’t you think?”

“You want to?” Bitty asks, leaning in close.  “You want to get married here?  In our happy place?”

“I think so,” Jack says, taking a kiss when it’s offered.  “I haven’t proposed yet, though,” he points out, biting on his lip.  He could do it now.  Wouldn’t that make sense? He could— 

“You’ll do it when you’re ready and not a minute before,” Eric says, curling into his side.  “I’m not in any rush.”

“Not this year, then?  You want to wait?” Jack asks, trying to feel out the situation.

“Propose when you’re ready, and I’ll see where I am in my competition schedule, and then we’ll decide.  I’m going to the Olympics.  If we have to wait to get married, that’s fine with me.”

“Okay,” Jack says, feeling like he can finally exhale.  There are no expectations here.  Eric wants to focus on his career.  Jack can take his time.  They’re in no rush.

“Okay,” Eric repeats, kissing him.  “I love you.”

“I love you so much.”

“Good,” he says, squeezing Jack tight.  “Now let’s get changed and get back on the trail.  We have four more miles until we can get to the car and get some sushi.”

Jack nods, standing up to change.  He looks at the camera bag and sighs.  

It doesn't have to be now.  It doesn’t have to be today.  Just because he has two rings doesn’t mean he has to propose.  He can pick his moment.  

If only he knew when that moment would be.

Chapter Text

After dinner, they sit in the hammock for an hour and just kiss.  It’s not until Eric tries to straddle him that things take a turn for the upside-down and Jack finds himself sprawled in the grass with Eric’s elbow jabbing him in the liver.

“I think that’s our cue to take this to the bedroom,” Eric says, laughing freely.  

“Come here,” Jack replies, scooping him up off the ground as Bitty cackles with glee.  

“You’re passing the bed!” Eric says when Jack takes them straight to the bathroom.

“I think we could both do with a good wash.”

“You’re the one who fell asleep covered in come yesterday.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go skinny dipping in water full of Leptospirosis.”

“What?”

“It’s a virus.”

“I know what it is, Jack.  Just get in the damn shower.”

They wash quickly but kiss slowly.  Eric crowds him into the corner of the shower stall and presses him against the tile, sucking hard on his throat.  Before long, Eric’s erection is rocking into his thigh and Jack is struggling to find oxygen in the humid air.

“This is reminding me of the last time we showered together,” Bitty says between kisses, trailing his mouth down Jack’s neck.

“I remember,” Jack gasps as Bitty bites down hard, worrying Jack’s skin between his teeth.  He does it over and over again until Jack is shaking and gasping for breath.

“You remember what you said yesterday?”

“About what?”

“About how I could tie you down if I didn’t want you to move?”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, feeling much hotter than the temperature of the shower.

“Want to try that now?” Eric asks, nibbling on his bottom lip in such a way that has blood rushing to Jack’s dick.

“Okay,” Jack says, swallowing nervously.  

What was an electric, supercharged atmosphere just seconds ago quickly turns soft and sweet.  Bitty pulls him back under the direct spray of the water and pushes up on his tiptoes for a kiss.  His mouth is hot and insistent, and before long, Eric’s fingers are wrapping around his wrists, holding them tight by his sides.  

Jack moans into his mouth, loving the sensation of Bitty restricting him.  It brings him back to their time in bed yesterday—Eric’s fingers twined with his, pinning him to the mattress.  It always helps him focus on what Bitty is doing when he has something to tense and tug  against.

Eric’s tongue pushes against his, soft and slick and Jack chases it with the tip of his own, biting down on his bottom lip when he pulls back for a breath.  

“I want you,” Bitty moans, surging forward again.  “God, darlin’, you drive me crazy.  I’m dying to be inside you.  It’s been too long.”

“Please,” Jack whines.  It turns into a yelp of surprise as the water abruptly turns frigid.

The shower shuts off with a click and Bitty’s hands are gone.  Jack blinks, wiping his wet hair off his forehead now that his hands are free.  When he gets a good look at Eric, he’s floored by the intensity he finds.

Bitty’s eyes are dark, nearly all pupil, and Jack swallows hard looking at them.  In a flash, he’s out of the shower, tossing Jack his towel.  “Follow me,” Bitty says, an air of mischief in his stride as he disappears into the bedroom.  

Jack needs a minute to collect himself.  He dries with the towel and fills a glass of water at the sink, chugging it down.  The cool water dribbles out around his mouth and down his chin, joining the droplets still clinging to his chest.  He wraps the towel around his waist and stares at himself in the mirror, leaning over the counter to get a good look.  

The heat of the water colored his skin, bright red patches covering his cheeks and pecs, but beyond that, Bitty’s mouth has already done a lot of damage.  Purple and red marks litter his throat and shoulders, some old, some new, blooming slowly with the passing of time.  Jack’s fingers hover over them, and when he presses down gently, pain shoots through him, spiking arousal deep in his gut.

“Okay, baby?” Bitty calls from the bedroom.  

Jack isn’t sure what he’s doing in there, but he can’t wait to find out.  

“Fine,” Jack calls back, smiling into the mirror.  And the thing is, he is fine.  He’s wonderful, actually.  Bitty loves him, wants him enough to leave his marks where anyone can see.  

Smiling to himself smugly, Jack straightens up and strides into the bedroom.  

“I wanted to give you a bit to think about it,” Bitty’s saying, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized bed.  He’s fiddling with something in his lap, and when Jack gets closer, he sees that it’s the ties from the fluffy bathrobes that were hanging in the bedroom closet.  

Jack doesn’t answer for a while.  He feels like his mouth is dry again, even though he just hydrated.  

“Well?” Bitty asks, licking his lips.  His eyes are wide with concern and a little fear.  

It strikes Jack that Bitty is unsure of his answer, whereas Jack doesn’t even need to think about it to know what he wants.  He’s just too caught up in his own X-rated thoughts to form words.

“Yes,” he says finally.  “Yes, please.”

Jack’s never thought of himself as a kinky person.  He’s never wanted to experiment, never watched pornography, never wanted much more than simple affection.  The fact that he’s so on board with Bitty’s suggestion is frankly startling to him.  It’s only with Eric that he allows himself to let go, knowing that Bitty will take care of him.

“Are you sure? You can tell me no any time.  I don’t want to hurt you.  I just…” Bitty trails off, looking down at his hands where they’re twisting the terricloth ties.   

“What?” Jack asks, not wanting there to be any reluctance or confusion between the two of them.  

“I think you’d like it?” Bitty says, though it’s more of a question than a statement.  “It feels like maybe something that could work for you.  If you want to, that is.”

“I want to,” Jack says, and there’s not a shadow of a doubt in his mind.  He likes when Bitty’s in charge.  He likes forgetting about everything and letting Eric take control.  He loves when Bitty’s aggressive with him during sex—when he holds Jack down and makes him take whatever he’s given.  More than anything, he loves the sense of ownership he feels, knowing he belongs to Bitty body and soul.  

“Do you want to?” he asks quickly afterward.  

The last thing he wants to do is have Bitty focus on him again and not take anything for himself.  Things have been one-sided for so long, Jack doesn’t want to move backward when they should be moving forward together.  Keeping careful control over his body and watching out for all of Jack’s cues—including those of his creeping anxiety—must be exhausting for Eric.  Jack doesn’t know that he’d be able to perform like that if the situation were reversed.  

“Of course I want to, Jack,” Bitty says, just barely catching himself before rolling his eyes.  “Do I want to tie up my hot celebrity boyfriend and have my way with him?  Absolutely.  That’s not even a question.”

“Okay,” Jack says with a simple shrug of the shoulders.

“That’s it?” Bitty asks, honey brown eyes going wide yet again.  “Just okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says with a small smile.  “Okay.  Where do you want me?”

“Drop the towel and get on the bed, you ridiculous moose,” Bitty says, swatting Jack’s arm with the back of his hand.  

Jack licks his lips and does just that.  When he looks down, he’s barely hard, but the hunger he sees on Bitty’s face helps things along quickly.  By the time he’s splayed out on his back, he’s filled out almost halfway.  

“Hands above your head, baby,” Bitty says softly, not quite sure of himself yet.  

It’s a striking difference from the way they began this encounter, the way Eric touches his wrists softly, with reverence.  He wraps the terrycloth around them tightly and makes a few complicated looking knots, smiling smugly when he surveys his handiwork.  Ever so gently, Bitty slips one of his fingers under the cloth to check the tension and then sits back, satisfied.

“There we go,” he says smugly, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss on Jack’s waiting lips.  “Just together for now.  If you like it this time, maybe next time we can tie you to the headboard… buy some nice scarves or rope or whatever tickles your fancy,” he babbles, eyes alight as he lists Jack’s future options.  “Just give that a little tug and let me know if it’s too tight,” Eric says, sitting back on his heels to give him room.

Jack is halfway through rolling his eyes—is just about to say how he wouldn’t mind if it were tighter, that he likes being held—when it hits him like a ton of bricks.  With just the slightest twist of his wrists, he’s choking on air.  It happens so fast Jack isn’t even sure what triggers it, but as soon as the rough fabric drags across his skin, he’s panicking.  

Suddenly, he can’t breathe, can’t think about anything besides how frantically he needs to get free.  He tugs his arms apart violently, twisting and thrashing like a wild animal.  In a flash of panic, acting purely on instinct, Jack brings his hands to his mouth and starts pulling at the knots with his teeth, gnashing and gasping against the fabric as he struggles for breath.  

“Jack?  Jack, stop!  Let me help!” he hears Eric yell, but it’s no use to him, he’s already slipping, sliding away into a fog.

The room is bright, sun shining cheerily through open blinds.  His mouth is dry, painfully so.  He blinks several times, allowing his environment to come into focus, but even as it clears, it’s still foreign to him.  Everything hurts.  His limbs feel heavy, and there’s a horrifying pressure in his bladder that he promptly ignores in favor of self-preservation.  

He’s clearly in some sort of hospital room, but it’s been modified.  There’s a rocking chair in the corner and an antique looking bedside table to his left with a pitcher of water and an empty plastic cup.  His thirst is something he can address even if nothing else makes sense, so Jack turns to his side and reaches for the cup, except his arm never makes it.

Horrified, Jack jerks his wrist from side to side in shock.  He’s covered by a knit blanket, but even though he can’t see his arms, Jack comes to the startling realization that he’s been restrained.  He can’t free himself, he can’t reach for a glass of water or a call button, he can’t even catch a breath before he’s screaming, crying out for someone—Maman, Papa—anyone who will help him understand what’s happening.  

“Help!” he screams, though his throat is raw and painful.  “Please, HELP!”

“Jack?  Jack!” a voice calls, slow to reach him like it’s caught behind glass.  “Baby, look at me, please!  Open your eyes, honey!  Come back to me.  I’m begging you.”

“Bits?” he answers, eyes still clenched shut tight enough to make his head throb.  

“It’s okay, I’m right here.  I’m right here,” Eric’s voice repeats, clearer this time.  

“I’m sorry, I—” 

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Bitty says immediately, his face swimming into focus as Jack blinks the fog out of his vision.  “I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jack slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth.  He’s parched, just like he was when he woke up at Shady Grove after his overdose, cuffed to the metal railing of a hospital bed.  The cuffs may have been padded, but they weren’t soft.  Jack still managed to rub his skin raw and bloody by the time someone had come to sedate him. 

“It’s my fault,” Eric says sternly, cupping Jack’s cheek with one shivering hand.  “We should talk more about these things before we do them.  I know that’s what you’re supposed to do, but I just got a little carried away,” he says, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“It’s not your fault.  I should have realized,” Jack mumbles, wiping his thumb under Eric’s eye to keep the tears from reaching his flushed cheek.  “I should have known.”

“It is not your fault, honey.  I should have told you how to get out of the knot before I even tied it.  You pull on the end tab and it comes apart just like that.  Pulling from the middle tightens it.  I’m so sorry,” he says again, closing his eyes against the emotion that overwhelms him.

“I didn’t realize it would be a problem.  It is not your fault.  But going forward—no cuffs.  No restraints.  No ropes or ties or anything.  Just you and your body, all right?”

“Are you sure me holding you down is okay?  I don’t want to bring up any bad memories.”

“I like it when it’s you—when I can feel that it’s you,” Jack says confidently.  He’s not willing to give up that aspect of their relationship.  

“If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen,” Bitty says.  “I want to understand—if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll tell you but, this story…” Jack begins, squeezing his eyes shut tight, “it’s not easy.”

“You listened to me in the hospital,” Eric reminds him.   “I want to be there for you like you were for me.”

“I umm…” Jack tries, rubbing at his temple.  “You know how I went to rehab after the overdose?” he asks, watching Bitty nod encouragingly to buy himself some time.  “Well, they didn’t take me there right away.  First, I was in a private hospital emergency room where I was revived and stabilized, but then I was taken directly to a psychiatric hospital.

“I woke up alone and they had—”  he chokes down the sob that’s built up in his throat unbeknownst to him.  “They had me restrained.  I didn’t know what was happening or where I was.  I had been on so many painkillers and sedatives at the hospital that I didn’t even realize it was a different room at first, but it was a completely different facility.  They had moved me, had me committed before I was fully conscious.

“I screamed,” Jack admits with a dark laugh.  “I screamed until my throat bled and thrashed so hard I broke the arm off the hospital bed, and all that got me was another round of sedatives until they could get my parents in to calm me down.”

“That must have been so scary for you,” Bitty says softly, reaching out to comb his fingers through Jack’s damp hair.  He doesn’t say anything else—doesn’t push—just keeps touching him in a soothing rhythm until Jack can continue.

“For the entire first week, they kept me cuffed to my wheelchair whenever they let me out of my room.  They were afraid I’d try to grab something off one of the medical carts and hurt myself.  It took me eight days to detox, but once I stopped sweating and shaking and throwing up, I looked a little less deranged and was able to convince them I didn’t need to be there.”

“They kept you restrained for a whole week?” Bitty asks, muscles going rigid under Jack’s hand where it lay on his thigh.  “Who thought that was okay?  You were just a teenager and you were sick.”

“Papa,” Jack says simply, tears escaping his eyes.  “They didn’t know what else to do.  It looked like a suicide attempt.  A serious one,” he adds with a shake of the head.  “I actually managed to stop my heart.  It didn’t look like a cry for help, it looked like I had intent.  And maybe I did.  Honestly… I’m still not sure.”

“Your relationship with your father suddenly makes a lot more sense,” Eric says with a sigh, still running his thin fingers through Jack’s hair.  

“It’s not his fault.  Maman agreed with him.  The doctors agreed.  It was protocol for someone with a history of mental illness and a documented suicide attempt.  They didn’t even know about the drinking and  long-term drug abuse until later when I convinced them I needed rehab.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Bitty says, voice soft as a dove in Jack’s ear.  “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“Worse happened to you,” Jack counters, squeezing down tight on Bitty’s wrist.  “I’m so glad you’re safe now.”

“It’s not a competition.  It’s a partnership,” Eric says, cupping Jack’s face and pressing a kiss to his forehead.  “Isn’t that what you’re always saying?” he asks, accent slow and thick like honey.  “I’m happy to take a little bit of your pain, Jack.  Lord knows you’ve shouldered enough of mine.”

“I love you,” Jack says softly, allowing Bitty to arrange their bodies until they’re curled up together on the bed, Jack’s head on Bitty’s shoulder, Bitty’s hand still running through Jack’s hair in a soothing rhythm.  “You’ve been so brave.”

“You’re stronger than you know, Jack Zimmermann,” Eric whispers against his skin.  “I love you, too.”

They start kissing, and Jack doesn’t know how they manage to go from a tearful confession to devouring each other, but he’s not upset by it.  It feels like a weight has been lifted and now he’s free to enjoy his night with Eric the way they intended.

“Is this okay?” Eric asks against his lips.

“Don’t stop,” Jack mutters as Eric licks down his throat and starts dragging his teeth along his collar bone.  “Please, don’t stop.”

“Fuck, Jack,” Eric moans when Jack takes his ass in both hands and ruts against him.  “You’re so hard already.”

“I want you.  I need you.  Please.”

“Anything, baby.  Tell me what you want.”

“This is good,” he whines, loving the sticky rough drag of Eric against him.  The friction is intense enough to make his eyes water.

Leaning up to wrap his fingers in Jack’s hair, Eric pulls his head to the side, exposing his neck.  He fixes his mouth on Jack’s pulse point and sucks so hard Jack can feel the blood pooling beneath his skin.  It stings—sharp like he’s been sliced with a knife, but then it bleeds into a dull ache when Eric moves his mouth and starts all over again on another spot.  

All the while, Jack is rocking his hips up into Eric, making sure their cocks are lined up just right, dragging over one another.  

“Ah,” he calls, shocked by the way Eric’s teeth dig into him like he means to take a piece of Jack with him as he pulls away.  “Lube, I think.  Or we’re going to rub each other raw.” He gasps, head tilted back to give Eric room.

“One second.  I’m not ready yet,” Bitty mutters against his ear, taking his time kissing down his chest and over to one nipple.  He takes it between his teeth and pulls, the sharp sensation making Jack’s dick twitch and spurt precome.  

“Tabarnak,” Jack curses, gripping Eric’s hips tight when he gives the same treatment to the other side of his chest.  “You’re killing me.”

“You like that?” he asks between soothing licks to Jack’s nipple.  “You like it when it hurts?”

“Ouais,” Jack mutters, completely beside himself.  He doesn’t know why, but the bite, the piercing tug of Eric’s teeth shoots through him like lightning, soothed into pleasure by his tongue.  “Ouais, ouais, ouais.  Plus, s'il vous plaît.  Je veux plus.”

“In English, baby.  I need you to tell me in English.”

“More,” Jack says, eyes flashing open to meet Eric’s.  “I want more.  Please give it to me.”

“Shit,” Eric groans as Jack takes him in hand, testing his erection.  “Okay.  Tell me how you want it.”

“Slow and deep,” Jack whispers against his lips.  “Like you never want to leave me.”

“God,” Eric breathes.  “Okay, okay, okay.”  

He fumbles in Jack’s bedside drawer for the lube, and Jack has a second to be grateful he decided to move the rings before Eric is rubbing the pads of slick fingers over his hole.

It feels exquisite, but Jack doesn’t need prep.  He doesn’t want to wait.

“Just get inside me,” he says, dark and hungry.  “Right now.”

Meeting his eyes for half a beat, Eric pulls his hand away and strokes his cock twice before lining himself up and easing into Jack.  When he looks up again, his eyes are dark with intent.  He licks his bottom lip and then thrusts in slow—so slow Jack’s eyes water as he feels every inch slide into him, stretching him wide.  

Eric stops when he bottoms out, completely still, just to look at Jack.  “I don’t ever want to leave you,” he whispers, eyes wide, expression open.  “This is exactly where I want to be.  Right here.”

There’s still wetness in Jack’s eyes, but now it’s for a completely different reason.  He’s tearing up and he can’t make it stop.  Soon, his eyes are full and he has to close them, but the tears spill out anyway, trailing down his cheeks.  His chest heaves and suddenly he’s fighting back a sob.  

“Please,” Jack cries, unwilling to open his eyes and see Eric’s expression.

He knows he’s embarrassing himself—that men don’t usually cry during sex, that most people don’t have panic attack-inducing flashbacks when their boyfriends try a little playful bondage.  Jack knows he’s never been normal, but he also knows that Eric isn’t like most boyfriends.

Eric, who has endured so much, who has always understood him, always accepted all of Jack’s weaknesses.  

Eric, who never wants to leave him.  

The thought is overwhelming.  It occurs to Jack that he’s never thanked Bitty, never said how grateful he is that Eric loves the worst of him—all the broken pieces that make Jack the man he is today.  Now, when he’s here, holding Eric inside his body, all he wants to do is tell him.  

He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.  All he can do is cry, tears continuing to stream down his face.

“Shhh,” Eric soothes him, wiping his cheeks with his thumbs.  “It’s all right.  I’m right here.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“I just—”

“—Shhh,” Eric says again, leaning in for a kiss.  “I know.”

“You are—”

“Baby,” Eric says, kissing him softly again, full on the mouth, sucking on his bottom lip.  When he pulls away he says, “Whatever it is you want to tell me.  Trust me.  I already know.”

“I can’t believe you love me,” Jack manages to say before Eric is kissing him again.  The salt of his tears hits Jack’s tongue but it’s gone quickly, chased away by Bitty’s lips.

“No more of that,” he says before licking into Jack’s mouth and teasing his tongue.  “Not another word.”  Eric rocks his hips out and pushes back into Jack, deeper this time.

Jack’s mouth falls open in a surprised exhale.  His eyes are open wide, shocked by the sensation.  “I can feel your heartbeat,” he says before he can stop himself.

Eric takes both of his hands in his, intertwining their fingers, and pins him to the bed.  “Stay right here.”

“Ouais,” Jack mutters automatically.

“No talking.  I can’t handle your accent right now,” he groans as he slides out and back in once more.  

Jack wants to curse, but he stops himself, letting his mouth open on a soft moan instead.  

“Just let me do this.  Let me give this to you.”

Tears threaten to fall from his eyes again, but Jack just nods.  Eric’s hands tighten around his, and then he’s moving again, rocking his hips slowly, but not gently.  He bottoms out every time, hitting Jack so deep he can feel it in his throat.

All the while, Eric’s mouth never leaves his.  They kiss and kiss and kiss until Jack’s lips go numb and all he can feel is Eric surrounding him, holding him fast against the mattress.  His rhythm never falters, it just ebbs and flows like a wave, pulling Jack along with the tide.  

With Eric’s mouth on his, biting into him, sucking on his lips, he loses time.  It’s hard enough to get breath in through his runny nose that Jack starts to get dizzy.  His head swims as Bitty continues to slowly rock into him, setting his prostate alight with every pass.

It builds up slowly, but before long, Jack is whimpering into Eric’s mouth, nostrils flaring as he desperately seeks oxygen.  His dick strains against his stomach, so hard it hurts.  He’s leaking a puddle of precome in the divots between his abs, making a sticky mess of himself.  It makes him squirm with pleasure.  Bent almost in half, Jack’s eyes roll back into his head as Eric thrusts in particularly deep, so much that his balls get pinned between them.  

Jack wants to shout, but the noise gets swallowed by Eric, who devours his mouth, stealing his breath.  He wants to take Bitty by the ass and pull him in, to force him even deeper into his body, but his hands are pinned.  Eric is in control, owning him, holding him so tight a sort of weightlessness comes over him.

There’s nothing left for Jack to do but feel—nothing for him to do here but take what Eric gives.  Most importantly, there’s nothing for Jack to do wrong.  All he has to do is let Eric love him.  It’s a relief, to finally let himself go and let Eric enjoy his body.

Jack focuses on this, the rising crest of Bitty inside him, how intense his strokes are, how deep the stretch goes.  Soon, his head is spinning, his breath coming in shallow gasps as Bitty steals his oxygen.  Quick as a flash Eric’s fingers squeeze his so tight Jack feels his bones creak in his grip.  The pain courses through him like electricity, making him bite down hard on Eric’s lower lip.

Eric releases his hands and pulls back from his mouth long enough to say, “Stay right there.  Don’t you move a muscle.”  His hips slowly begin to gain speed, Eric’s cock pounding into him like a tidal wave.  

Tensing around nothing, Jack’s hands clench into fists as he struggles to keep them still.  All he wants to do is yank Bitty in closer, to make him rut into him in tiny little thrusts until he’s spent.  All Jack wants to do is make Bitty come.

But this isn’t about what Jack wants, it’s about what Eric wants to give him—what he wants to show him with his body.  

Hands twine in Jack’s hair and pull, sharp pinpoints of pain tingling along his scalp, making his neck arch.  Eric groans in disapproval, clenching down on Jack’s lower lip with his teeth and pulling him back in.  He kisses deeper now, fiercer and more intense, like he has something to prove.  

Jack moans, enjoying the hot slip and slide of Eric’s tongue against his, the tingle of his overstimulated lips.  

In response, Eric thrusts in hard, but instead of retreating, he grinds his hips in, twisting them in a circle.  Digging his fingers in deep, he yanks Jack’s hair, sending sparks of pleasure down his spine.

Jack gasps, but there’s no air left to breathe.  It’s just Eric, Eric, Eric.  His vision starts to blur and his hands shake, muscles straining as he forces himself to stay still.  

Slipping one hand out of his hair, Eric trails his fingers down Jack’s throat and feels for his pulse.  It thunders against his skin like an animal struggling in a trap.  Pulling away from Jack’s mouth, Eric follows the path of his fingers with his tongue and bites down hard.

Eric’s teeth dig in deeper and Jack can feel his pulse beating against Eric’s tongue, filling his mouth.  He tries to swallow, but there’s no room.  Every breath comes in a quick little gasp as he starts to black out, but just as his vision starts to dim, Eric lets up.

The relief is immediate.  Jack gulps sweet oxygen into his lungs as Bitty’s hips slide home with such force his head knocks into the headboard.  

Jack’s throat feels fresh air but his orgasm is retreating, slipping away before he finds any relief.  He groans, tossing his head to the side, searching for Eric’s mouth, telling Bitty what he needs.

“Okay, okay,” Eric whispers, teeth scraping against Jack’s pulse once more.  “I’ve got you.  You can let go, baby,” he says before biting down hard.

Jack didn’t realize he was waiting for permission, but as soon as the words hit his ears, he’s coming, shaking apart so violently Eric’s teeth are wrenched from his neck leaving bright lines of pain in their wake.

He screams, but it comes out as more of choked garble that Eric quickly swallows with his mouth and tastes with his tongue.  

The moan that escapes Eric’s lips is the most beautiful thing Jack has ever heard—entering his mouth and vibrating his throat.  It’s accompanied by a scorching heat deep inside him and Bitty jerking uncontrollably in his arms.  

They’re too uncoordinated to kiss, so they just lie there, shaking, breathing each other’s air, lips chapped and raw.

Eventually, Eric makes a soft umpf sound and rolls to the side, collapsing into the pillows.  Jack follows after his heat, tucking himself into Eric’s side and mouthing wet kisses to his neck.  

“Let me check you out,” Eric says, pulling himself from the pillows and gently turning Jack’s head from side to side to examine his throat.  “Baby… you’re bleeding.”

“It’s okay.  I feel good.”

“You’re bruising already.  I don’t know how you’re going to explain that at practice.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t know what came over me.  I just wanted you to feel it.”

“I felt everything.  I can still feel you,” Jack says, trailing one finger over his throat.  “It was perfect.”

“I could feel your heart beating in my mouth.”

“So could I.  It was so intense,” Jack says, leaning forward to kiss Eric slowly. 

“Ow,” Eric whimpers, pulling away.  “My lips are sore.”

“I’m pretty sure mine are bleeding.”

“I’m pretty sure you liked it.”

“I absolutely did.  Thank you.  For everything.”

“It was my pleasure, baby.  I love making you feel good.  I love watching you come.  One day… I’m going to watch you come so many times you run dry.”

“I think I’d like that.” 

Eric hums, nuzzling into his cheek.  

Even though their lips are cracked and bleeding, Jack can feel his smile against his skin. 

They lie in silence for a few minutes, but it’s just long enough for a lingering thought to burrow itself into Jack’s brain.  He tries to fight it but knows it will be impossible to ignore unless he asks.

“Eric,” Jack says seriously, leaning up on one arm to get a better look at his face.  “Where did you learn to tie knots like that?”

He huffs out a laugh but it’s dark and humorless.  “If I said sleep away camp, would you believe me?”

“No,” Jack says, the pieces of Bitty’s sexual history slotting themselves into place.  

“Peach picking?” Bitty asks, fidgeting with his fingers as he turns his face away from Jack in shame.

“Definitely not,” Jack says, frowning.

“Bakery twine?”

“Eric,” Jack says again, swallowing his fear.  “It’s alright.  I’m not mad.  You can tell me.”

“I don’t want you to think less of me,” Bitty says, slowly raising his eyes.

“I wouldn’t.  I couldn’t.”  Jack knows there are things about Eric’s past that he still hasn’t shared, that there are painful parts Bitty needs to keep hidden so they don’t overwhelm him, but there’s nothing he could say that would make Jack change his mind about loving him.  “I don’t want you to hide yourself from me.  Whatever it is—I won’t judge you.”

Eric takes a deep inhale, eyes closed as he steels himself.  When he opens them, his gaze is hard and cold, detached as it focuses on a blank span of wall over Jack’s shoulder.  “Brett taught me how,” he says eventually, swallowing hard.  “He used to—we—” 

He can’t finish the sentence.

Jack reaches out a hand but doesn’t touch.  He just leaves it there, palm up, available if Bitty wants to take it.  

He does.  Immediately, Eric has Jack’s hand in his and is fiddling with his fingers, tracing between them with a touch so light it tickles.  

“It’s okay.  You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”

“I’m just so—” Bitty falters again, voice rising.  “I get so angry when I think about it and I don’t want to be angry anymore.  Not with you, and especially not when we’re in bed together.  It’s over and done with and getting upset about it now doesn’t help anything.”

“Sometimes it does help,” Jack says, choosing his words carefully.  “Sometimes talking about it… letting someone else who cares about you know why you’re hurting… it can lift a little bit of the burden.”

Eric’s eyes flick up to his, clear brown, open and searching.

“It doesn’t have to be me,” Jack continues, holding his gaze.  “It can be someone else you trust.  A friend, or a therapist even—but sharing the hard things, it can kind of… lighten you.  If you want me to know, you can tell me anything, and that’s two of us against him.  It’s two of us against the bad memories.  Two of us against the world.  We carry the weight together, and it’s half as heavy.  Do you know what I mean?” he asks, not sure he’s going about any of this right.

“I think—” Bitty starts, squeezing down on the tip of one of Jack’s fingers.  “I think I’d like you to know,” he says with a sad little smile.  

“Take your time.  Whenever you’re ready.”

He breathes for several minutes, centering himself, and then he begins to speak.

“He called it playing,” Eric says, eyes rising to the wall again, fierce and yet still somehow unfocused.  “I thought it was fun, wild and progressive.  Look at us, two gay kids that were so adult we could get kinky like it was nothing—no big deal.  I watched him do the ropes, let him do whatever he wanted.  If I squirmed a bit, he just kept going, harder and worse.  There was no such thing as too much or needing a break or wanting to stop."

Choking down the curses that play at his lips, Jack just squeezes Bitty’s hand and lets him speak.  

“He taught me how to do everything without using my hands, without talking, without even thinking.  Drilled it into me until it was second nature and all the while I thought how lucky I was to have such an adventurous sex life.  To a closeted little gay boy from Georgia, it was a dream come true.  No supervision, no rules, no holding back.

“Thinking about it now I can see how wrong it was.  How I shouldn’t have let him do whatever he wanted.  How unhappy I was, how scared.  I was terrified that if I didn’t do what he wanted when he wanted it, I’d be asked to leave, thrown out on the street with nowhere to go.  It was only him—controlling every part of me—my body, my pleasure, my life, my future.  That’s not love.”

“No,” Jack says, finally finding his voice.  “It’s not.”

“I liked the reverse though,” Bitty says, shaking his head.  “A few times over the years I’d end up with someone who would want to hold me down, tie me up.  I wouldn’t do it again, but I knew how to work my angles.  I’d offer something else, something better, or I’d convince them they wanted me to do the tying, that I’d worked on a ranch in nowheresville Texas and could rock their world if they gave me the rope instead.  That lie only worked once or twice, though, me looking like I do.

“I know how to make you feel good, Jack.  And I would have enjoyed whatever we did with you tied up, I promise you that.  Being the one to hold a big guy like you down, knowing you’ll stay if I tell you to.  It’s a rush.  I like the control, and I like knowing that you trust me, but I’d never want to really hurt you, not ever, not like he hurt me,” Bitty says gravely, reaching out to squeeze Jack’s shoulder.  

Jack sags into the touch, letting his head drop down to the pillows again, his cheek brushing over Bitty’s knuckles.  

“If you tell me no, I’ll always stop.  I want to make you feel good because I love you, honey.  If you told me now that you didn’t want me to order you around anymore, or tease you, I’d stop.  There are other ways to love somebody.”

“I like giving you control,” Jack says quickly, not wanting Bitty to get the wrong idea.  “I love when you order me or push me.  I like when you punish me or tease me.  I love when you talk me through it and tell me what to do.  I have loved every single thing we’ve done together until earlier tonight, I promise you.”  

“You’re sure?  It’s not too much?” Bitty asks, eyes wide with fear that he’s been abusing Jack the same way he’d been abused in the past.  

“It’s perfect.  Every time with you is perfect.  You always do exactly what I want even if I don’t know what it is.  Getting out of my head like that, even for a little while,” Jack says, laying it all out, “that’s the best part for me.”

“And I love that I can do that for you, honey,” Eric says, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  “I love that I can be that safe place for you to let go.  It makes me so happy to see you enjoy yourself.”

“That’s good.  It’s good for me to hear that you like it too, that I’m not a burden to you.”

“You’ll never be a burden to me, Jack.  Not ever.”

“Even when I need you to choke me, or hurt me?  Or fuck me so hard you think you might pass out?”

“Even then, sugar.”

“It’s not too much… what I need to get off?  I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“It’s not too much.  And it’s good exercise,” he jokes, pressing a kiss to the tip of Jack’s nose.  “I am wondering one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“How would you feel about me wrapping something around your throat?  Would that be too much?”

“I’m not sure.  I guess it depends on what it’s made out of.  We could try it.”

“Just think of what I could do with my hands if I freed them up.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop thinking about it,” Jack says, leaning in for a kiss.

The last day of their trip is bittersweet.  Jack has to spend a lot of time on the phone with Georgia making sure his schedule is laid out properly and that there will be airline tickets for Eric for any away games they might end up traveling to.  He even gets a haircut and a professional shave, knowing he won’t have the opportunity again for a few weeks at least.

They keep things low key, snorkeling at a different beach and checking out the local landmarks.  Jack even agrees to play a round of mini-golf provided they take a long walk in the botanic garden so he can take as many photos as he pleases.  

“You are utterly ridiculous, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty says.  His arms are folded, head tilted to one side as he watches Jack line up his shot.

“What?” He knows he has bite marks all over his neck, but that doesn’t seem to be what Eric is staring at this time.  

“You are holding that golf club like it’s a hockey stick.”

“Isn’t that how you’re supposed to do it?  It’s the same concept, isn’t it?” Jack asks.  Sure, his stance is low to the ground and he has his right hand so low it’s off the grip, but he’s winning by 8 strokes.

“Don’t most NHL players take up golf when they retire?”

“I’m not retired.  Ask Papa.”

“What is it you plan to do when you retire then?” Bitty asks, phone raised as he takes a few snaps of Jack golfing.

“I hadn’t thought about it too much.  I’ll probably play till my hips or knees give out.  And even then maybe I could make it through a replacement surgery.  If someone still wanted to sign me, that is.”

“After that, sweetpea.  What do you want to do after hockey?”

“You?” Jack says, lifting his head to smile at Eric.  He has to squint through the sunlight, but it just makes Bitty look ethereal, surrounded by an angelic glow.

“You don’t say?” Eric teases, pocketing his phone so he can take his own shot.

“Maybe raise some kids.  If you want.”

“We are not having this discussion right now.  Ask me again when I’m thirty.”

“Fine.  I will,” Jack says, smiling.  He’ll only be 35 by then.  That’s a perfectly reasonable time to start a family.  It’s not like they have to worry about childbirth anyway.

They spend hours in the garden, lying in the sunshine.  Jack finds that the mahogany grove is his favorite place to take photos of Bitty.  The sun filters between the trees in such a way that Eric seems to radiate light.  He even lets Bitty take custody of the camera for a few minutes while Jack inspects some wildflowers and picks fruit off a lime tree.  

“I’m going to have to cover these for you when we get home,” Eric says a while later, fingertips fluttering over the red marks on Jack’s neck.  

“I don’t mind.”

“You cannot go to work like that,” Eric insists, pressing a kiss to Jack’s cheek.  “The boys will never let you live it down.”

Jack smiles.  He doesn’t need the teasing, but he does like how it makes him feel.  Not only do the marks remind him that he belongs to Eric, but they go a long way to making him feel normal.  Jack spent so many years confused about his sexuality—about why he didn’t want to hook up on roadies.  He spent years feeling like a hockey robot in the locker room.  Now that he’s finally in a sexual relationship, part of him likes feeling like one of the guys.

“You can cover them.  But you can also put them back whenever you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eric says smoothly, trailing a hand over his shoulder and down his arm before striding away.

Jack follows.

A few miles into their walk they find a lagoon complete with a man-made waterfall.  The sound of the rushing water reminds Jack of the rings buried in the bottom of his camera bag, but it still doesn’t seem like the right time.  Maybe he should stop thinking about when to pop the question and start thinking about how.  

A grand gesture might be in order.

He resolves himself to searching for unique proposal ideas on the Internet and allows himself to relax for a little while.  There is no reason to stress himself out on their last day in paradise.  

On the way back to their cabin, Jack pulls over at a fruit stand and watches as the old man inside carves a mango into a flower for him to eat while he punctures a coconut for Bitty.  They chat amicably about the fruit crop and the weather for a while and Jack starts to think that he could see them living here one day, in their old age maybe.  

“Anything else you want to do today?” he asks as they head toward home.  

“I just want to be with you.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They lie in the hammock until the sun sets, napping on and off, but mostly chatting about the future.  Jack will have his first playoff game against the Bruins in two days and Eric will have to start thinking about his music choices for competition so he and Katya can really get serious about choreography.

“I think this is the longest I’ve gone without skating since I got out of rehab,” Jack says into Eric’s hair.

“Has it been okay?”

“It’s been more than okay.  It’s been everything.”

“I can’t believe we have to go home tomorrow.”

“We can come back.”

“To get married?”

“Maybe even before then.  If we decide to wait a while,” Jack says, trying not to psych himself out.  The timeline is on him, Eric said so—that he should propose when he was ready and not a moment before.  But wasn’t Jack ready now?

He thinks maybe he is, but he’s so comfortable in Eric’s arms and the rings are so far away.  Plus he has no idea which one he should choose.  Maybe neither of them are right.  Maybe he needs more options.  Nothing will ever be perfect enough for Eric.  

“I’d like that,” Eric says, answering something Jack feels like he said ages ago.  

“Are you ready for dinner?” Jack asks, instead of worrying about it.

“I could eat,” Eric says, turning into Jack’s throat and pretending to gnaw on him.  “Omnomnom.  Delicious.”

“Come on,” Jack says, scooping him out of the hammock as he stands.  “I could use some protein.”

“I’m pretty sure protein is your favorite word.  It’s definitely the one you say most often.”

Jack disagrees.  

Eric’s name is his favorite.

They choose a little place in view of the lighthouse and enjoy a meal of lamb and risotto complete with a bottle of champagne.  Jack is sure it will be his last before he drinks out of the cup.  He promises himself that much.

“To our last night in paradise,” he says, tipping his glass against Eric’s.  

“May we always be exactly this happy,” Bitty says, linking their pinkies together as he takes a sip of champagne.  

“You don’t think we could be happier?”

“I think you’re asking for trouble, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Really?  There’s nothing that could make you happier than you are right now?”

“Maybe if you went skinny dipping with me when we get back to the cabin.  That would make me pretty damn happy.”

“I think that could be arranged.”

They linger over dessert and finish off their champagne and Jack drives them home, a warm buzz vibrating in his chest.  As soon as they’re out of the truck, Bitty undresses him and leads him by the hand until they’re floating in the warm water under the glow of the moon.  

“Okay, now I’m as happy as humanly possible,” he says, wrapping his legs around Jack’s hips.  “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

Jack thinks about the rings in his camera bag, about the Stanley Cup, about a wedding under a waterfall and decides, maybe Eric is right.  Maybe he’s been worrying himself sick over nothing.  Everything he needs is right here.

Chapter Text

“Don’t hold back now, I really want to know what you think,” Bitty says, skating toward Jack.  

“Like you’re going to be anything but amazing,” Jack says with a smile.  He has his camera out, but Bitty has asked him to focus for his first run through.

“Be critical.  This is for my first competition, and it’s only two months away.  I need to be at the top of my game.”

“You know I don’t know anything about figure skating, right?”

“I made you watch the last five Olympics.  You know more about figure skating than you think you do.”

“Okay,” Jack says, shaking his head with a smile.  “Show me what you’ve got.”

Jack leans forward, setting his palms on the sideboard and twists his back until he winces.  It’s supposed to be a rest day in their series with the Sabres, but Jack can’t find a comfortable position.  His only hope is that they win their next game and finish the series as a shutout.  He’s not sure he can take another week of this without getting some more rest.

Thankfully, Eric is in much better shape.  His surgical scar is all healed up, and he has no trouble making any of his extensions.  He’s mastered the quadruple toe loop, but the lutz still eludes him during practice.  Katya has assured him that only one quad is necessary for the early stages of the competitive circuit, but he’s still determined to nail more.

Bitty’s music comes on, and Jack recognizes it immediately.  Eric has been playing it on repeat in the condo for the last week, practicing his routine.  Not only that, but it was one of the first songs Jack ever saw Bitty skate to, and he’ll never forget the way it felt to see him come alive like that for the first time.

Jack had almost forgotten how fast Eric is on the ice.  The way he sets up his jumps is nothing short of spectacular, and he finds himself applauding spontaneously throughout the program.  

The spins are flawless.  Bitty moves so fast his face blurs, but Jack can still tell he’s mouthing the words.

I hope you’re somewhere praying

I hope your soul is changing

There’s not a doubt in his mind who Eric is really singing to, even if they haven’t talked about it in a while.  Suzanne makes sure she never brings him up, so Jack isn’t even sure if she’s in contact with Richard or not.  Still, it’s clear that his father’s betrayal is still weighing heavily on Eric’s mind.

When I’m finished, they won’t even know your name.

Those words hit Jack like a ton of bricks.  Does Eric think of his father every time he sees his own name?  Is that why he protests every time Jack jokes about hyphenating their last names?  Maybe Eric wants to erase any connection he might still have to the man that tossed him out of his home and all but fed him to the wolves.  

Maybe Jack should let him.

I hope you find your peace

Falling on your knees

Praying

The song ends and Jack stands, clapping as enthusiastically as he can, pushing all thoughts of Richard Bittle from his mind.

“Well?” Bitty asks, breaking out of his final pose to skate over to Jack.

“You’re incredible and you’re going to win.”

“You are ridiculous,” Eric says, chest heaving as he catches his breath.  

“You landed the quad,” Jack gushes, reaching out his hand to pull Eric into a hug.

“It was just a toe loop,” Eric murmurs, squirming when Jack’s facial hair scratches his flushed cheeks.

“It wasn’t just anything.  You do realize you almost died a few months ago, right?”

“I’m fine,” Eric insists.

“Thanks to a team of surgeons, yes, you are.”

“Don’t get all sappy on me.  That was just the short program.  You want to see the free skate?”

“Of course I do, bud.”

“Look for mistakes this time.”

Jack tries to focus on Eric’s movement during the six-minute Kelly Clarkson medley, but it’s difficult to find any faults.  As an acoustic version of Piece by Piece flows into an Invincible remix, it dawns on Jack what he’s witnessing.  

Bitty’s entire competition showing is a giant middle finger to his father.  

His attitude can be seen in every flick of his hair, every turn of his wrist.  Every single inch of his body tells his bigot of a father to fuck off.  Eric’s follow-through is fantastic: he lands every jump and nails every spin with a fierce look of determination on his face.  

Jack has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“Well?” Bitty asks as soon as the music ends.

“You’re perfect.”

“Jack Zimmermann, if you don’t find something negative to say I’m going to smack you,” Eric says, hands on his hips.

“There is one thing, I guess,” Jack says, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“I’m listening.”

“Your pants could be a bit tighter.”

Jack barely manages to duck out of the way before Eric clips him on the ear.

By game seven of the second round, Jack feels every step in his bones.  On his days off he watches Eric perfect his already perfect routines, but he can barely keep his eyes open.  

The Aces are also tied with the Kings, and Jack can’t stop himself from staying up late to watch the games.  Does he want Kent to win?  He’s honestly not sure.  He’s not sure if it would be better to be the one to keep Kenny from a Stanley Cup or if he’d rather someone else knock him out of the running first.

There’s always the possibility that Jack will meet Kent in the finals and lose, but he doesn’t let himself think about that too much.

Thankfully, Shitty and Lardo come to watch his last game against the Caps, and he has a distraction.  Shitty loses his mind when they spend the afternoon before his game watching Eric practice.  He makes so much noise that Katya asks them to leave.

“Did you see that thing he did with his skate behind his head?” Shitty crows on their way back to Jack’s car.  

“Dude,” Lardo cuts in, elbowing him, “Jack has been sleeping with him for months.  You think he doesn’t know how that man stretches?”

Jack blushes and ducks into the driver’s seat, thankful his beard has come in thick enough to hide his flush.  “You want to order in for lunch?” he asks, changing the subject as quickly as he can.  

He needs some protein and some carbs if he’s going to make it without his afternoon nap.  Jack’s back aches, and he has a few steri-strips holding his left cheek together, but he doesn’t want any of that to keep him from spending quality time with his best friends.

“When are you going to marry him, Jacques?” Shitty asks, completely ignoring Jack’s segue.

“I’m trying, but I just haven’t found the right time yet.”

“You have a ring already?” Lardo asks.  “What am I saying, of course you have a ring.  Do you have it with you?  Can we see it?”

“Do I need to give you a lecture about capitalism and why diamond rings are a classist and heteronormative marketing scam?” Shitty interjects.

“No!” Jack and Lardo say together.

“Come on, Jack.  Can I see?”

Wordlessly, Jack reaches in the back seat for his camera bag and pulls out five ring boxes.  He opens each and sets them on the dashboard in a neat little row.

“Holy fuck,” Shitty whispers.

“Shit.  Oh my fucking God, Jack.  Are you serious right now?”

“How many of these do you think he’s going to be able to wear at once?”

“I don’t know.  None of them are right.  I think I should return them all and start over,” Jack groans, head in his hands.  “Why didn’t I just ask him without one?  You don’t wear a ring and still everyone knows you’re getting married,” he adds, gesturing toward Lardo.  “I could have done that!”

“She actually has something to put on when we have to see my parents, but that’s not the point.  You don’t need to propose, Jack.  You can just decide together.  It doesn’t have to be some big production.”

“Where did you even get them all?” Lardo asks.

“Tiffany’s with the Falcs, a shop in Kauai, Cartier with Papa, Harry Winston with Maman,” Jack rattles off, pointing at them each in turn.  “I don’t even know about this one.  I think I must have bought it online while I was half asleep because it just showed up at the door one night and the receipt was in my email.”

“You are so fucked,” Lardo says simply.

“I know,” Jack whines, pulling on his messy mop of hair.

“This is overkill, even for you,” Shitty says, reaching from the backseat for the first box.  “This thing is massive.  Bitty’s hand is going to drag on the ground if he has to lug this around.”

“What do I do?” Jack says, looking at Lardo searchingly.  “Help me.”

“We can fix this,” Lardo says, patting Jack’s arm.  “We’ll just go pick out something nice and sensible and inexpensive and then you can return the rest of these when you get the chance.”

“Where do we go for that?” Jack asks.  He knows nothing about jewelry and is pretty sure he passed “sensible” a few rings back.

“I know a place,” Lardo says.  “Just drive.”

Twenty minutes later Jack parks in front of a second-hand shop and lets Lardo enter ahead of him.  

“I come here whenever we visit to see if they have anything I can use in an art installation.  They set stuff aside for me sometimes if they find something they think I might like.”

Jack looks skeptically between her and Shitty.

“I promise not to say anything about blood diamonds or the Fowler Report,” Shitty says solemnly, holding up one hand while placing the other over his heart.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Jack follows them into the shop and looks around, nose crinkling at the smell of mold.  It’s a mess.  Books, records, and suitcases are stacked everywhere with smaller items piled on top in some semblance of display.  There are bins of every conceivable type of item, and as Jack looks around he starts to feel like he’s about to be buried alive by a cave-in.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jack mutters, ducking out of the door just as the shopkeeper greets Lardo like an old friend.  He stays there on the sidewalk for a few moments, hands on his knees as he regulates his breathing.  Straightening up when his back begins to protest, Jack looks up and down the street for something to occupy himself.

He’s just about to sit in the car and wait for his friends to finish up when he sees it.  Across the street is a vintage jewelry store.  The display in the window looks bright and clean—nothing like the disaster he just left, so he heads inside, wincing at the bright tinkle of bells as he enters.

“Hi there,” a young girl with several piercings asks him.  “Can I help you with something?”

“I, um…” Jack panics.  Wasn’t he trying to avoid being spotted buying jewelry in Providence?  What if this girl decides to take a photo of him and put it up on Twitter?

“Do you maybe want some water first?” she asks, and Jack realizes that this woman probably doesn’t watch hockey and she’s just trying to do her job.

“Please,” he says, taking the cold bottle when it’s offered to him.  After taking several large gulps, Jack closes the bottle and runs the condensation across the back of his neck trying to ease the anxious prickle building in his temples.

“Bad day?”

“Long week,” Jack answers.  His hip is screaming at him, and he has a bruise the size of Texas on his stomach.

“Let’s make this easy then.  What are you looking for?”

“Something special.  A ring,” he adds when the girl waits for him to elaborate.

“Okay,” she says softly.  “I think we can figure something out.”

She ducks behind a curtain and returns with a felt tray.  

Jack is familiar with this part.  It’s what comes next that usually gets him in trouble.  That’s why he has five ring boxes taking up space in his camera bag.

“How about you close your eyes and think about who you’re shopping for.  And then just… pick whatever calls to you.”

He thinks it’s stupid, but Jack tries it.  It’s not like he’s had a lot of luck doing this his way, he might as well try something new.

When he opens his eyes he sees a wide variety of things.  There are a dozen different kinds of stones, some cameos, some rocks.  Yellow and rose gold are dotted through along with tarnished metal and white gold.  Some things are big and bulky like class rings, but others are delicate and spindly, looking like they’re made of thin wire and pebbles.

“See anything you like?” the girl asks, head tilted to the side.  She’s patient with him, not asking again when Jack doesn’t answer right away.  Instead, she just adjusts her beanie and checks her email on the store computer while he makes some sort of decision.

Jack tries not to think so hard.  She asked him if anything called to him, and there’s really only one ring in the bunch that has held his attention.  He reaches for it, marveling at how light it is, how delicate the metal feels.  It’s something he could crush in his hand if wanted to.

It’s small, thin little swoops of gold making a bit of a shield shape.  There are tiny little diamond-looking stones set into it with a green one in the middle.  It’s definitely something different.  It doesn’t look anything like any of the other rings Jack has picked out.  

“What’s their birthday?” she asks.

“May,” Jack says, smiling because she’s using gender-neutral pronouns.  Maybe this was the right shop after all.  “The 5th.”

“That’s perfect then,” she says, smiling.  “Emerald is May’s birthstone.”

Jack has no idea what that means but is willing to say it’s fate.  “I think I’ll take it,” he tells her, placing the ring in her open palm for her to box up.

“That’ll be $30.”

“What?”

“The stones aren’t real.”

Jack just laughs.  It’s exactly what Lardo said.  Inexpensive.  Sensible.  Nice.

“Is that okay?” she asks when Jack doesn’t respond.

“It’s perfect,” he says, handing her a twenty and a ten and smiling to himself as he walks out the door.

Chapter Text

It’s an absolutely brutal game, but as Jack’s overtime goal sails through the empty space above Jones’ glove, he finally exhales.  All the pulled muscles and bruises are worth it.  They’re going to the Stanley Cup finals.  

The entire team floods a single bar, and Eric’s Instagram story gets so many views the servers can’t handle the traffic.  Jack’s head hits the ceiling at one point when Tater lifts him onto his shoulders, and he spends most of the night wrapped tightly around Eric on the dance floor, enjoying their victory.  

Shitty and Lardo stay the night but Jack doesn’t see them in the morning because he sleeps straight through to noon.  He wakes up groggy and disoriented and stiff as a board.  Everything hurts.  Jack’s not entirely sure his bones haven’t been replaced with lead.  

He pulls himself out of bed with a groan so loud that Eric peeks his head into the bedroom to check on him.  

“Are you feeling okay, sugar?”

“I think I might be dying,” Jack says, completely serious.

“You can’t die yet,” Eric argues. “You still have four more games to play.”

“I appreciate the optimism, but I don’t see how we could possibly win in less than six.”

“Do you even know who you’re playing?”

“It’s the Aces, isn’t it?” Jack asks blearily.  He doesn’t know how he managed to get through the entire night without catching Sports Center.

“They lost.  You’re playing the Kings.”

“I have to call Kent,” Jack groans, rubbing his eyes.

“If you want to,” Eric says lightly.  “Come have some breakfast first.”

“It’s lunch, isn’t it?”

“It’s breakfast if I say it is, Mister Zimmermann.  Plus, I made you about a dozen perfectly poached eggs, so you bet your hockey ass it’s still breakfast.  I even made that abomination you Canadians call bacon.  So hop to.”

“I don’t think I can move,” Jack groans again, clutching his lower back.  At this rate, he won’t even make it to face off against the Kings.

“I can bring the food in here if you want, but you’re going to have to shower.  Coach Tingle is sending that new trainer and a massage therapist over in an hour.”

Jack nods, but he’s not sure a massage is going to fix him.  He can feel the strain in his bones whenever he moves.  Wincing, Jack manages to make it to his feet and limps to the kitchen.  He sits down at the table and lets Eric bring him an entire platter of eggs benedict.

“This smells so good, bud,” he says, kissing Eric on the cheek before digging in.  “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, sugar.  You need to keep your strength up.”

“We have five days off before the finals start.”

“True, but tomorrow is my birthday, and I have plans for you.”

“I have plans, too,” Jack says, sliding the side of his fork into a perfectly poached egg.  Just as soon as he can move his limbs again he’s going to rock Bitty’s world.

He’d like to, but he doesn’t get the chance.  As soon as he’s out of the shower the doorbell is ringing and Scott walks in with another man Jack doesn’t recognize.  He winces when they look around the living room and see that Jack and Bitty haven’t bothered to unpack since their trip, but there’s nothing to be done for it now.  

Scott has him take off his shirt and Jack sits patiently in a dining room chair as he looks over all of Jack’s bumps and bruises.  He’s walked through a few stretches as Scott takes notes and instructs the massage therapist, Matteo, on where to focus his time.  

By the time they have him lying down on a portable massage table, Jack feels like crawling back into bed.  Everything hurts, especially his hip where it rests against the padded table.  He’d really like to ask Matteo to get out and leave him to die, but the man is a professional and soon has Jack’s back feeling a little less terrible.  

Before Jack knows it, two hours have gone by, and he’s a long way toward feeling more human.  The pulled muscle in his quad is nearly gone entirely, and his hip socket is feeling a lot looser.  He thanks Matteo profusely and smiles when Bitty offers the man a Tupperware of cookies on his way out as a thank you.

“Feeling better?” Eric asks him as soon as they’re alone.  “Because I was thinking maybe we could have a little fun this afternoon.”

“What did you have in mind?” Jack asks, his interest piqued.  

“I did some more online shopping with your credit card.”

“It’s your credit card, bud,” Jack insists for what must be the tenth time.  “You can use it to buy whatever you want.”

“Oh, I definitely got something I wanted.  A few things, actually,” he says, a small smirk growing on his face.  “I can’t wait to try them out on you.”

“That sounds great,” Jack says, biting down on his lower lip and catching a few scraggly hairs with his teeth.  Fuck, he hates playoff beard season.  “I just need to make a few phone calls first.  I’ll be outside.”

“All right,” Bitty says, frowning slightly, though he recovers quickly.  “I’ll just go set a few things up.  Meet me in the bedroom when you’re done.”

“Okay,” Jack says, kissing Eric’s forehead on his way out.  

He pulls his phone from his pocket.  He wants to call Kent and see how he’s feeling, but it’s been a week since he’s talked to his parents, and he knows they worry.  He dials Papa’s number first.  His father picks up on the first ring.

“Jack,” Papa says on an exhale.  “We’ve been waiting to hear from you.  We’ve left you so many messages.”

“I know.  I’m sorry, Papa.  I’ve just been so tired.”

“You say that like I’ve never been in the Stanley Cup playoffs before.  How’s your face?  Your mother has been worried it’s going to scar.”

“It’s fine.  I’ve had worse,” Jack tells him, running a light finger over the steri-strips on his cheek.  “They’ll come off later this week.  Maman doesn’t have to worry.”

“She still thinks you might model one day,” Papa laughs.  “Like you’ll retire and suddenly become comfortable in front of a camera.”

“I interview like cold oatmeal.  And I don’t photograph much better.  If anything, Eric should be the one to model.”

“Speaking of Eric,” Papa starts.

Jack sighs, rubbing his knuckles along his scratchy chin.  He knew this was coming, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

“When are you going to pop the question and bring that boy to Montréal as your fiancé?”

“I’m a little busy at the moment,” Jack groans.  “I kind of have a lot on my mind.”

“His birthday is tomorrow.  That would be a good time, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know…”

“What did you buy him?”

“A rolling pin.”

“Really, Jack?  A rolling pin?  You couldn’t think of anything a little more… special?  Romantic?”

“It’s a marble one,” Jack says, growing more nervous about it than before.  “He said he’s always wanted one.  And I ordered him a crate of these special peaches from China.  They’re supposed to be the sweetest peaches on earth.  They get delivered tomorrow.”

“That’s more like it,” Papa says.

Jack can hear him smiling through the phone.

“But you know, tomorrow might be a good time to give him that ring we picked out.”

“Isn’t it a little cheap to propose on someone’s birthday?”  At least that’s what Jack’s been telling himself because whenever he starts to think about proposing, he breaks out in a cold sweat.

“Not if they say yes,” Papa says slyly.  “Any time is a good time if they say yes.”

“I think maybe I should wait until after the finals,” Jack says quickly, desperate to be done with this line of questioning.  “I’m really trying to focus on hockey right now, and I think worrying about his answer would just be a distraction.”

“Your mother wants the phone,” Papa says, voice pulling away.  “But being happy is never a distraction, Jack.  Remember that!”

Maman asks after his injuries and tries to ease his proposal anxiety, but it doesn’t help.  By the time Jack ends the call, he’s keyed up.  When he searches through his contacts for Kenny’s name, his hand is shaking.

“Hello?” Kent mumbles.

“Are you hungover?” Jack asks immediately.  “I can call back later.”

“No,” Kent says, grogginess gone.  “It’s good to hear from you.”

“I wanted to see how you were… say I’m sorry about the Kings.”

“It’s not your fault we played like shit,” Kent grumbles.  “Our goalie was out with a concussion and our defense completely fell apart.  There was nothing more I could have done.”

“I’m still sorry,” Jack says.  “I know how it feels to lose.”

“Yeah, well I know how it feels to win, and I’m hoping you get the chance to experience it this time.  Kick their asses for me, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” Jack says, a small smile growing on his face.  

“I saw your boy’s Instagram when you were on vacation.  Did you have a good time?”

“The best time,” Jack says, hoping it won’t be too awkward for Kenny to hear about it.  All the same, he feels like he wants to tell someone, and stilted as their relationship is now, Kent knows him better than anyone else but Bitty.  “I bought a ring,” Jack says, squeezing his hand into a fist while he waits for Kent’s reaction.

“Isn’t it a little early to be thinking of getting married?”  There’s a beat of silence then Kent laughs.  “Are you completely freaking out?”

Jack lets out a sigh of relief.  Finally, someone who gets it.  “I’m not sure.  Maybe?  And yes, I’m completely freaking out.  What do you think?”

“I think you’ve been together six months, Zimms.  Most people would call that rushing.”

“I’m sure I want to be with him.  That’s not the question.  It’s just the asking that has me worried.”

“If you’re anxious about it, maybe you should wait.  You don’t need any extra stress right now.”

“Maman and Papa really want me to ask.  They helped me pick out rings, and now they won’t stop hounding me.”

“Rings?  As in plural?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re completely fucked, aren’t you?”

“Completely.  100-percent-in-over-my-head, fucked.”

“Why don’t you just wait then?” Kenny asks.  “If you’re twisted up about it, maybe you need to take a step back and think.  The rings will still be there after you win the Cup, you know?  Why rush?”

Jack lets out a relieved breath.  “I think you’re right.  I’m getting overwhelmed by the idea of it.  Every time I think about how to do it, I start to panic.  I have all these crazy ideas and none of them are good.”

“Oh, I have got to hear this.”

Jack sighs, shaking his head.  “I made a playlist of songs with titles all about marriage.  Like Marry Me and Marry You and Will You Marry Me and stuff.”

Kent is already laughing at him and Jack can’t help but join him.  “You’ve got it bad, Zimms.  That’s just embarrassing.”

“And the thing is?  They’re all terrible songs!  I hate them.  They’re bad, and I just added them to a list because they had the right words, but they’re horrible, and I just want to stop thinking about this.”

“That sounds fucking terrible.  Please don’t propose to him with a playlist of crappy music, I’m begging you.”

“I don’t have any better ideas!”

“So just take a break for a little bit,” Kent suggests, quite reasonably.  “It’s not like Eric is going to leave you if you don’t give him a stupid piece of metal.  You’re fine the way you are.  There’s no need to complicate things.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

They both go silent for a moment until Jack is compelled to ask, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know… it just sounds like maybe you’re getting good at this.”

“I can tell you with absolute certainty that I am not at all good at this.  If I was good at this I’d have a boyfriend.”

“Are you still thinking about coming out?”

“I think I might do it soon, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Kent says slowly, working himself up to it.  “We’re done for the season.  Everyone will be talking about you for the next few weeks.  It would probably get pushed down the news feed.  Maybe if I do it after you win the Cup people won’t even notice.”

“They’ll notice.  Trust me, they’ll notice.”

“Well, maybe I want people to notice.  It’d be easier to get a boyfriend if people actually knew I was bi.”

“So that’s what you’re going to tell them?  That you’re bi?”

“It’s the truth.  I might be swinging a little toward men these days, but bisexual is my label.  I chose it back when I was a kid and I’m sticking with it.”

“That sounds good,” Jack says.  “Don’t be me and change your mind a hundred times.  Even if it was the truth that I was still figuring things out, the press didn’t get it.  I still barely get it.”

“Everything worked out all right for you in the end though, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, eyes flicking back toward his bedroom where Bitty is waiting for him.  “It did.”

“So you won’t mind if I mention you?  Talk about us?  People are going to ask anyway.”

“It’s fine,” Jack says.  He decided as much a long time ago.  He already discussed it with Bitty.  It should be fine.  “Say whatever you need to say.  I’m already out, and Eric and I are happy.  I’m not afraid.  Not anymore.”

“That’s good,” Kent says, voice trailing off.

“I think I should go,” Jack says, figuring their conversation is winding down.  “Tomorrow is Bitty’s birthday and we have plans.”

“Have a good one, Zimms.”

“Call me if you want to talk again before you make your announcement, okay?  I’ll be here for you, no matter what happens.”

“Thanks, Jack.  That means a lot.  And thanks for calling.  It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You too,” Jack says, smiling when he realizes that he means it.  “Talk to you soon.”

“You know I’m going to come watch you win, right?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“I’ll see you next week.  All right?”

“All right.”

“Bye, Jack.”

He hangs up and slips his phone back in the pocket of his sweatpants.  It’s warm inside, and he shivers as the heat hits him.  Bitty must have turned up the thermostat again even though it’s a beautiful spring day.

“Eric?” he calls as he walks down the hallway.  “Can I come in?”  

He’s not sure what sort of things Eric bought for them, but it’s possible he has some elaborate set-up planned.

“Of course you can, sugar,” Eric’s soft voice calls back to him.  

When Jack pushes the door open, he’s met by a warm orange glow.  There are candles everywhere, and the lights are off, making their bedroom look like a haven.  Eric is still dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his laptop.  He taps at the keyboard and music fills the room. 

It’s not a song Jack recognizes, but he likes the beat and the way Eric is leaning back on the mattress, a growing erection already filling his pants.  He licks his lips and motions for Jack to stand between his thighs.

With a deep breath, Jack steps closer until Eric’s hands find his hips.  “I thought maybe we could try something a little different tonight,” he says, eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

“Okay,” Jack says, interested in hearing about what he might be in for.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what works for you and what doesn’t.  And we know breath restriction and prostate stimulation are important for you, but we also know that sometimes a bit of pain can help things along.  With me so far?”

“Yes,” Jack gulps.  It sounds so clinical all laid out like that, but nothing Eric has said so far has been inaccurate.   

“Okay.  I’m going to help you get something inside you now, and then we’ll go from there.  If you want to stop or talk about anything, just let me know, all right?”

“All right,” Jack says, nodding dumbly.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes then,” Bitty says, slipping his hands under the hem of Jack’s tee.  He stands, pulling the shirt with him and kissing along Jack’s neck.  “Just listen to the music and relax.  We’re going to take our time tonight.  I’m going to take my time with you.”

Jack swallows again and allows Bitty to slip the waistband of his sweatpants down his thighs until they fall to the floor.  He steps out of them and lets Eric knead his skin, arching his neck to let him continue kissing and sucking marks on both sides.  

“You’re so gorgeous, baby.  So beautiful,” Eric murmurs into his skin, setting Jack’s nerve endings alight.  “You’re going to be so good for me tonight, aren’t you?”

“Ouais,” he says, tossing his head back so Bitty can continue his ministrations.  “I want to be good for you.”

“Then get on the bed, sweetheart.  On your stomach, so I can stretch you open.”

Jack complies quickly, letting Eric settle between his legs and start running his hands through his hair.  “Usually I pull your hair or bite you when you need a little pain, but I’m going to try something different tonight.”

“Okay,” Jack mutters into the pillow.  It smells like Eric.

“If it hurts too much, all you have to do is say so.  But I think you’re going to like it,” Eric says, hands trailing to Jack’s shoulders.  “I think you’re going to come a few times tonight, Jack.  I think everything is going to feel so good that you’re going to soak this bed, over and over again until your body is empty.  Does that sound good, baby?”

Jack just hums his approval because as soon as Eric is done talking, warm liquid drips onto his back, smoothed out by Eric’s palms.  

“Just listen to the music and breathe,” Eric instructs.

It’s easy after that.  Eric’s hands are firm and sure as they gently massage oil into Jack’s skin.  It’s warm and smells like vanilla, something he always associates with Eric.  The hands sweep back and forth, lulling Jack into a relaxed state.  Slowly, they drift down, and by the time the song changes, Eric’s hands are kneading his ass, his thumbs just barely brushing over Jack’s hole.

The Beatles drift into Jack’s ears and he smiles into his pillow, knowing Eric must have picked the long, repetitive track just for him.  He lets the lyrics sink into him like Eric’s fingers press into his muscles, readying him for what’s to come.

I want you

I want you so bad, baby

Before he knows it, Eric is slicking up a toy and sliding it into him.  It’s small and goes easily, tucking into him so smoothly it’s like nothing’s there at all.  Until Eric does something and the toy starts to expand inside him.

“Can you roll over for me, baby?” Eric asks.

Jack does so, keeping his eyes shut tight to keep himself in the moment.

“I thought it might be fun for you to have something that can get big but doesn’t take an hour to get in.  Does it feel okay?”

“Ouais.  Très bien,” Jack mumbles as Eric does whatever it is he’s doing a few more times until Jack can really start to feel the stretch.  

“Let me know when you want me to stop, baby.  This thing can get pretty big but it’s really strong.  I tested it earlier.”

“Okay,” Jack says, letting out a deep exhale and feeling himself sink even further into the music, into the mattress and the fullness inside him.

Eric pumps up the toy several more times before checking in with him again.  “I can keep going if you want me to.”

Jack nods, rolling his head on his neck and settling in deeper.  He’s really starting to feel it now, but more is always better.

“I think that’s about it, sweetheart,” Eric says softly a few minutes later.  His hands are slick with oil again as they rub up and down his thighs, loosening the muscles there.  “Just keep breathing for me.”

It’s so soothing, Jack almost feels like he could fall asleep.  Eric deftly rubs his chest and arms, warming him inside and out.  He feels soft and relaxed, letting the music wash over him, over and over again.

Eric slips off the bed then, but when he returns, Jack gets to feel his bare skin.  Eric settles down onto him, straddling his chest.  “Open your eyes, baby,”  he calls, cupping Jack’s cheek.  

Jack’s playoff beard is thick and coarse, but Eric rubs his oil-slick hands over it until it smoothes out.  When Jack opens his eyes, he has to blink several times before he adjusts to the light.  

“There you are,” Eric says, his voice low and slow.  “Now I’m going to turn this on for you.  Let me know if it’s too much.”  

Before Eric is even done talking, Jack is arching off the bed, the toy vibrating in a pulsing rhythm inside him.  

“Is that good?”

“So good,” Jack says, words catching in his throat as Eric turns up the intensity.  

“That’s good, honey,” Eric says, smiling down at him.  “Now I’d really like to sit on your face again, but I think that beard might be a bit much for me.”

“Please.  Can I—” Jack starts to plead, but Eric cuts him off.

“—I have another idea.”  He inches forward until his hard cock is mere inches from Jack’s mouth, and then taps his cheek saying, “Open up.”

Jack obediently lets his mouth drop open, eagerly sucking on Eric’s thumb when he rubs it against his bottom lip.  

“I’m going to go deep this time, baby.  If you need me to let up, just tap my wrist and I’ll pull off, okay?”

Jack nods, still sucking on Eric’s finger, but Eric removes it quickly saying, “No honey.  I need you to say it.  I’m going to keep your mouth full for a while, so I’d like you to use your words now.”

“I’ll let you know if I need to stop.”

“Good.  That’s perfect, baby,” Eric says, taking Jack’s hands in his and twining their fingers together.

Immediately, Jack is taken back to their last time in Hawai’i when Eric had bitten him until he bled and kept him from breathing.  He can feel himself grow hard at the memory.

Adjusting his grip, Eric takes Jack by the hands until they’re grasping each other’s forearms, Jack’s fingers hovering just over Eric’s wrists.  “If you need to stop, you tap me here, okay?” he says, tapping Jack several times on his inner wrist.

“Okay,” Jack repeats, ready to get his mouth on Bitty.

“Okay,” Eric says as the song changes again.  It’s the same singer as before, but it’s slower this time.  Jack likes it already, the soft background sounds allowing him to slip back into that relaxed place he was before.

Baby I done enough talking

Need to know that you're mine

Letting his mouth fall open again, Jack closes his eyes and waits for Eric to push into him.  

“You look so fucking amazing, Jack,” Eric whispers before the head of his cock slips past Jack’s lips.

It’s easy at first, but then Bitty keeps going, more, more, more until Jack’s mouth is full and Eric’s fat cock is pushing into the back of his throat.  He hasn’t done it this way before, hasn’t let Eric fuck his mouth as deep as he cared to.  Taking in a quick breath through his nose, Jack tries to adjust to the stretch, but all that does is remind him of the buzzing inside him.

It feels sharper now, somehow more acute.  Jack takes a breath each time Eric retreats, exhaling as he pushes in, sinking into the stretch.  

Bitty keeps up a good rhythm, steady enough that Jack thinks he might be timing it to the beat of the music.  The words repeat and Jack hums, letting them clear his mind.

I want you to hold me down, down, down, down, down, down

Down forever

He squeezes Eric’s wrists hard, but makes sure to keep his fingers still.  He doesn’t want to tap out of this feeling.  Bitty squeezes back and pushes in even deeper, cutting off Jack’s breath.  

His dick twitches, eager.  Jack’s body squeezes down on the plug, intensifying the vibrations.  Soon, he can feel it buzzing all over his body, just under his skin.  

Eric slows down his pace as the song changes, but he deepens his strokes, each one hitting the back of Jack’s throat.

Swallowing around Bitty’s cock, Jack tries to remind himself to breathe through his nose, but the thought gets lost in transit.  The faint buzzing in his body spreads, trailing out to his limbs and up his neck.  His brain starts to get fuzzy around the edges, blurring until the stretch of his body, the push and pull of Eric inside him, is all-consuming.

Pink like the lips around your, maybe

Pink like the skin that's under, baby

The music flows around him like a wave, like the beat of Eric’s pulse under his fingertips.  It’s soothing still, even as the tension ratchets up.  He can feel Bitty’s breaths coming quicker, can hear the barely-suppressed moans under the lyrics.  Eric’s hands begin to quake as he struggles to control himself but Jack just holds on tighter, feeling his delicate bones shift with every movement.

“God, you’re so fucking good for me, baby,” he says, breaking into a gasp as he presses in fast and hard.  “So perfect.”

Jack’s back arches as the praise washes over him.  He feels wonderful, lightheaded and airy.  Eric’s grip is strong around his arms, warm and soft from the massage oil.  The slip and slide of it feels like heaven.

Bitty’s speed picks up, and Jack feels the pressure in every inch of him.  He hardens in Jack’s mouth, getting closer and closer to the edge as Jack remembers to work his tongue over his ridge as it passes.  

The movement has Jack tilting his head back even further into the pillows, his ass pressing hard into the mattress.  The plug’s vibrations increase in intensity as he clenches around it, working his ass until he can feel himself leaking.  

“Do you want to come for me, Jack?” Eric asks, breathy and hoarse.  

He sounds wrecked, all from Jack swallowing around the head of his cock.  The thought makes Jack moan an affirmative sound.  He squeezes down on the plug, jerking as a jolt of electricity shoots up his spine.  

Eric pushes in deep, choking him.  Then he does it again and again, picking up the pace as he pushes further and further into Jack’s throat, making room for himself in Jack’s body by force.

“Come for me, baby.  I know you can,” Eric chokes out between thrusts.  “I don’t even need to touch you.  You can come for me.  Now, Jack,” he says, breathless.

He can feel it in his gut, the way Eric’s muscles tense above him, ready to fall over the edge.  Bitty thrusts in deep and Jack’s head goes fuzzy at the lack of oxygen.  As he swallows, the dam breaks and heat is filling his throat, choking him.  

It’s so much Jack feels like he might pass out, but at the same time, it’s comforting, the light, floating feeling he gets when he’s made Eric come.  Before he can think too hard about it, before it slips away, Jack clenches down tight and lets his climax wash over him in a blissful wave.

“Good boy.  That’s it.  That’s so good baby, fuck,” Bitty says, easing back a smidge so Jack can swallow and clear his throat, but then he’s back again, pressing forward, cutting off Jack’s breath.

The restriction makes Jack jerk and shake, the vibration against his prostate prolonging his orgasm until he’s pulsing over and over again, giving Eric all that he has.

“You can keep going, baby,” Eric tells him, releasing his arms and tilting his chin up until the head of his cock is just resting on Jack’s lower lip.  “You’re so good, coming for me untouched like that.”

Jerking again, Jack feels the last of his orgasm shudder out of his body before he relaxes back into the mattress.  The vibe is still pulsing inside him, and he feels overstimulated, but also good, like maybe he could come again if Bitty left it on long enough.

“Are you okay?” Bitty asks, cupping Jack’s face and rubbing his thumbs over his lips.

“Good,” Jack says softly, voice hoarse.  “Really good.  Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, sugar,” Bitty says, leaning down to kiss him.  “I’m having a great time.”

The song changes again, and Jack recognizes it.  He’s always liked this one, always found it easy to connect to the lyrics.  Eric must have made this playlist for him specifically.

Let’s get out of this town

Drive out of the city, away from the crowd

“Ready for something else?” Eric asks him, running a hand through Jack’s messy hair, patiently waiting for him to open his eyes.

“Yes, please,” Jack finds himself saying.  He’s never had more than one orgasm in a night, but the way Eric is working up to it slowly makes him think that it might be possible after all.

“Turn over then,” Eric instructs him.  “I need to get that toy out of you for this next bit.”  

He picks up the remote and slowly turns the dial down until the toy goes still.  As Jack settles back on his stomach, Eric picks up the pump and releases the valve.  

The sensation is so strange Jack finds himself saying, “Oh, wow.”  

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking a deep breath and letting it out as Eric takes the base in his hand and wriggles it free.  “It just felt better blown up.  Like I didn’t notice how big it had gotten until it was gone, you know?”

“I have something else I think you’ll like later, but I don’t want anything in you for this.”

“What’s ‘this’?” Jack asks, tilting his head to the side to see if Eric is doing anything.

“If you’re not sure, we don’t have to try it, but I think a little pain might work for you,” he says, reaching into the bedside table for something.  “It should be duller than me biting you, at least.  And a little easier on my hands than spanking.  What do you think?”

Jack turns around, leaning up on one elbow to take a look at what Eric is holding.  His eyes go wide.

It’s a whip.

Maybe whip isn’t the right word.  It’s not a crop or something Indiana Jones would carry.  It’s a black braided leather handle with a dozen thick bands of leather attached to one end.  Gently, Bitty trails it over the skin on Jack’s thighs, letting him feel the material.

His nerve endings light up and he gasps.  It’s a completely foreign sensation, but something in Jack responds to it immediately.  

“Is this okay?” Bitty says, trailing the straps upward to ghost over his ass.  “I practiced on a pillow but I want to make sure I don’t do it too hard.  So make sure to tell me if it’s too much, all right?”

Jack gulps and nods several times, licking his lips as the leather slips over his skin.  

“Up on your knees, baby,” Eric tells him.  “Hands on the headboard.”

The angle must be better this way, Jack thinks, because Eric trails a hand over his upper back and pushes until he’s sticking his butt out a little.  

“There you go,” he says when Jack is positioned to his liking.  “Now, tell me to stop and I’ll stop, okay?  At any time, I promise.  Even if it’s just because the position is uncomfortable.  I don’t want to aggravate anything that’s already sore.”

“Okay,” Jack says, knowing now that it’s important to give a verbal answer when Bitty can’t see his face.  “I will.”

“Good,” Eric says, and then he’s back to trailing the leather over Jack’s skin.  

Jack is just starting to wonder if this is all Bitty is going to do when the leather hits him.  It bites into the skin of his ass, sharp enough to take his breath away.  “Ah,” he says, the surprised sound pulled out of him.  But as soon as the pain hits him, it’s gone, bleeding into a dull warmth that strikes him deep, spreading across his skin.

It happens again, but it’s somehow softer this time, with less bite to it.  Eric slows it down and finds some sort of rhythm.  Jack gets lost in it, the way he can hear Eric breathing alongside the slapping sound of the whip.

The sensation warms him, spreading over his skin until Jack can feel it deep, like a bruise designed for pleasure, not pain.  It sinks into him more with every stroke.  The rhythmic thud of the leather mixes with the music, still playing softly not a foot from Jack’s head.  He breathes and focuses on the familiar lyrics, letting everything else fade into heat.

Baby, I know places we won’t be found

I know places we can hide

I know places

It feels like hours, though Jack is sure it hasn’t been more than a few minutes because the same song is still playing.  The strokes fit perfectly into the beat, and Jack’s head sags as Eric starts to make some sort of pattern on his skin.  

After a little while, Jack can sense where the next blow will fall, and the anticipation excites him more than he thought it would.  He can feel himself getting hard, balls hanging low and heavy between his legs, swinging slightly with every rock of his body.

Just grab my hand and don’t ever drop it

My love

Jack feels hot all over—can swear there’s sweat running down his back and dripping onto Bitty’s leather, but all he can feel is warmth and satisfaction.  It’s soft, the way the sensation has spread out like a blanket across his skin.  Even the biting strokes don’t feel like pain anymore; instead, they blur together and slip into soothing heat.

Just as Jack finds he’s getting used to the rhythmic impacts across his skin, Eric pushes a little harder, making the leather bite into him, stinging the curve of his ass.  The sharpness of it makes Jack moan and bite down on his lips to keep from repeatedly crying out.  It hurts, but in a good way; the sharp pain is fleeting, but the burn lingers deep within him.  

When he thinks more about how his body feels, he realizes that all the pain and stiffness he was struggling with when he woke up has left him completely, replaced by something much better.

“Are you hard, baby?” Eric asks, never breaking his rhythm, even as the song changes again.  

“Ouais,” Jack chokes out, head still hanging limp between his shoulders.  “I—” he doesn’t know what he was trying to say when he loses his train of thought, the heat is so intense.   Tears start to prickle his eyes, and his dick feels so heavy between his legs it’s hard to tear his attention away.

You've got a hold of me

Don't even know your power

I stand a hundred feet

But I fall when I'm around you

“Would you touch yourself for me, baby?” Eric asks, voice sweet even though he’s obviously getting winded.  “Keep one hand on the bed, but you can use the other one.”

“Ouais,” Jack agrees, lowering his right hand to reach for his painfully hard erection.  He hisses when his calloused hand touches the over sensitive skin.  It’s so much Jack doesn’t think he can stroke at all without coming.  

Please have mercy on me

Take it easy on my heart

The blows come faster now, building up into a cacophony of sensation that overwhelms him.  Just the rocking of his body with each of Eric’s swings is enough to let his cock slide through his lightly held fist.  

“Oh, tabarnak,” he gasps as Eric brings the leather down over the back of his thighs.  “Plus fort, plus fort.”

“Okay, okay baby,” Eric mutters behind him, cracking the leather harder against Jack’s sensitive skin.  “You going to come for me?”

Consuming all the air inside my lungs

Ripping all the skin from off my bones

I'm prepared to sacrifice my life

I would gladly do it twice

“Ouais,” Jack mutters, tightening his fist ever so slightly until he’s seeing stars and pulsing over his knuckles.  “Je viens,” he groans.  “Sacrament.  Tellement bon.”

“Is that good?” Eric asks, giving him one hard stroke right across the center of his ass as Jack comes down from his orgasm.  

“Ouais,” Jack gasps, marveling at the feeling of the come still dripping down his fist.  “Ouais.”

“That’s so good, baby,” Eric says, letting the leather trail over Jack’s ass as a cool down.  “You did so good for me.”

The music changes to something soft, and Eric follows suit, dropping the whip to the mattress as he leans forward to massage Jack’s tender skin.  His touch is soft, but still, Jack is hissing at the contact, dropping his dick and arching his back.

“You look incredible, baby,” Eric says, running his fingers over the welts on Jack’s ass.  “Did you like that?”

“More than I thought I would,” Jack breathes, still choking on his breath whenever Eric rubs over a particularly sore spot.  “It felt so good.  Like liquid heat.”  

“Good, because that was one hell of a workout,” Eric laughs, leaning in to kiss the back of Jack’s neck where his hair is grown out.

“Is your arm okay?” Jack asks.  He hadn’t realized how difficult that must have been for Eric, to keep that much control over the whip.  He must have practiced for hours just to give this experience to Jack.

“It’s great,” Eric assures him.  “Absolutely worth it to see you like that.  I’m going to be thinking about these marks on your ass for a long time.” He grabs another handful of warm oil and rubs it smoothly over Jack’s skin.  “Does it hurt?  Me doing this?” 

“It’s good.  It’s really good.”

“Okay,” he says, working his thumbs into Jack’s ass.  “Just relax for a little bit while I check you over.”

“Okay,” Jack agrees, sliding down the bed until he’s lying on his stomach again.  

Eric touches him like he’s something precious, long, sweeping strokes that make his nerve endings sing followed by deep, kneading gropes that work the soreness out of his muscles.  

“Might be a bit painful to sit down tomorrow,” he hums, mouth hovering just a few inches above Jack’s skin.  “But at least they’ll be easy to hide.”

“Maybe not in the shower,” Jack muses, letting himself relax and drift along with the lyrics of the song.  He feels good, like he’s floating above the pillows.

When you say you love me

Know I love you more

And when you say you need me

Know I need you more

Boy I adore, you

I adore, you

He understands it more than he ever thought possible.  This is what it feels like to be loved.  This is what it feels like to be adored by someone.  

Even as Eric hurts him, he’s giving Jack exactly what his body needs.  His anxiety slips away and his mind drifts to this fuzzy place where all he has to do is follow Eric’s lead.  Jack never knew it was possible to feel so relaxed and so worked up at the same time.  He never expected to be able to come once without a touch to his dick, let alone orgasm twice in one night.

Every single time with Eric is transcendent.  

Jack didn’t know sex could be like this.  It’s one of the many reasons he knows Eric is the one.  No one has ever made him feel so loved.  Jack is flying.  Being with Eric feels like fresh ice beneath his skates.  

The music bleeds into Eric’s touch, like every note was composed exactly for this.  It’s just another layer of Eric’s devotion.  Knowing that he painstakingly picked out these songs for tonight, to help Jack relax and let go, it makes Jack smile into the pillows.  

“How does that feel, sweetheart?” he asks, voice soft and syrupy slow.  

“Amazing,” Jack replies easily.

“All good and relaxed?”

“Yes.”

“Are you up for something else?” Eric asks, trailing his fingers over Jack’s ass toward his center.  

“Please,” he says, arching into the touch.  Three orgasms sounds too good to be true, but he’s not so out of it that he’s forgotten that Eric hasn’t come in a while.  It’s definitely his turn to get something that he wants.

“Can you get back up on your knees, baby?  I want to get back inside you.”

Pushing up on wobbly arms, Jack rolls his shoulders as he kneels, ignoring the dried come that’s crusted all over his stomach.  With any luck, he’ll just be adding to it soon anyway.

“There you go.  Good boy,” Eric says, guiding his hands back to the headboard.  “Hold on tight and don’t let go until I tell you to.  Okay?”

“Yes,” Jack whispers, arching his back and rolling his head on his neck to relieve the last bit of tension from his body.  He feels loose and light in a way he’s never experienced before.  It feels even better when Eric starts rubbing slick fingers over his hole.

Bitty pushes into him and finds his prostate immediately, coating it with lube and massaging it gently.  “Just getting the angle right so I can do this,” he says, sliding something long and wide into Jack to replace his fingers.  

It’s not firm like the glass he used last time, but it’s also not rubbery like the inflatable plug.  This is something else entirely.

“It bends,” Bitty explains as he curves the end of it around to tuck under Jack’s balls.  “So I can press it in just right,” he adds, putting pressure on it so it bumps up against his prostate. 

“Fuck,” Jack breathes.  He thought he’d gotten enough stimulation with the last toy, but this one is pressing on just the right spot; he’s already gasping even before Eric turns the vibrator on.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, fingers clenching down hard on the headboard. 

“Good?”

“So good.”

“Okay,” Eric says, digging his fingers into Jack’s shoulders as he breathes against the back of his ear.  “Now what if I do this?” he asks, one hand leaving Jack’s shoulder to guide his dick in above the toy.  

The stretch is immediate and intense.  Jack gasps loudly before letting out a string of curses dirty enough to make himself blush.

“Too much?” Eric says, easing out just a little bit.

“Non,” Jack says quickly, dropping down to get Eric in deeper.  “It’s good.”

“Oh thank God,” Eric breathes, pushing all the way in.  “I’ve been thinking about this for the past hour.”

“Yeah?” Jack asks, tilting his head back to try to entice Eric’s mouth to find his neck.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning close to breathe into Jack’s ear.  “Your mouth is fantastic, but your ass is a gift.  I could do this forever, baby,” he says, stroking in and out slowly.

Jack realizes quickly that it’s in rhythm with the music again.  He lets it wash over him, tries to get his breathing to match up with Eric’s movements.  The vibrator inside him ramps up a notch, and Eric twitches with the change.  

“It’s sensitive to the movement,” he says, licking a stripe up the side of Jack’s neck.  “If I go fast like this—”

Taken by surprise by the speed of the vibration, Jack screams out loud.  

“—It goes faster,” Eric says.  “And if I go slow,” he gentles his movements, just rocking into Jack with short, smooth little thrusts.  “It follows.”

The vibrations taper off into a low rumble that strangely feels even better than the faster movement that had Jack screaming.  

“Sacrament,” he curses, tightening his grip on the headboard to keep himself from reaching out to stroke his cock.  

“That’s good, baby.  Just feel it.”

You’re good for me, my baby

So good for me, my love

The lyrics repeat, over and over again.  Coupled with Eric’s steady movement, Jack feels himself slipping into that fuzzy, warm place that builds like a fire inside him.  The background music is light, like a harp being plucked, and Jack sinks even deeper, letting the vibrator soothe his growing hunger for release.

“That’s it, honey,” Bitty says, one of his hands coming up to Jack’s throat to feel his pulse.  He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t try to choke Jack, just holds him there, his touch hot like a brand on Jack’s skin.  

Jack finds himself humming, though he can’t be sure it’s to the music or just a rumble of pleasure.  Sweat drips from his brow, but he doesn’t care.  He licks his lips and finds his tongue dry from his open-mouth panting.  It feels like hours since he’s had a drink of water.  

The song goes on, repeating, and repeating, and Jack loses time.  All he can think about, all he can feel, is the growing heat and pressure inside his body.  He drops his head back on his shoulders and just lets Eric rock him forward and back, never leaving him.  Nothing has ever felt so good—so natural as the way Eric is stroking into him right now, carving out a space for himself and filling him up.   

To be with you is easy

I know you're good for me

This feeling inside me

Oh it sends me sky high

An instrumental section begins, and Jack can feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head as Eric picks up his pace.  The vibrator speeds up, shaking him to the core.  It’s so intense Jack thinks he might come again, but he’s not sure his body can take it.  He feels limp and slow, like everything is being relayed to him through molasses.

“You think you can come for me again, baby?” Eric asks, kissing the curve of his shoulder with fire on his lips.  

Everything feels so hot, so overwhelming, like it’s burning Jack from the inside out, and soon there will be nothing left of him.  

“Non,” Jack says, arms starting to shake with the effort of holding himself still.  “Je’peux pas mais tu peux.  Je te veux.”

“I know you can, baby.  This is what we talked about, remember?” Eric is saying, but the words don’t make any sense to Jack in his current state.  It’s everything he can do to keep himself upright as Eric and the vibrator assault his insides.

“We said you were going to come so many times you’d be spent, remember?  I can do that for you.  We can do it together.”

Jack wants to protest, but he doesn’t have the strength.  He’s moaning, low in his throat at the way Eric’s speeding up and hitting him deep on every stroke.  

You’re good for me, my baby

So good for me, my love

The words keep repeating, and Jack feels them in his blood, in his bones—how good Eric has been for him, how much he is loved.  They soak into him like the oil Eric rubbed into his leather-beaten skin, soothing and warm.  He could listen to those words forever, especially if they were in Eric’s voice.

“I think you can come for me,” he whispers, biting down gently on Jack’s deltoid.  “Just one more, and then we can rest, okay baby?”

“I’ll try,” Jack says, inhaling deeply and focusing on the sensations inside him.  

“Suck,” Eric says, pressing down on Jack’s lower lip with three fingers.  His other hand grips around Jack’s hip tight, letting him know without words just how hard he’s going to get it in a moment.

Jack lets the fingers into his mouth and clamps down on them with parched lips.  

“That’s better,  huh?” Bitty asks, not really looking for an answer.  Instead, he hitches his hips into Jack quick and deep, pounding into him so that the toy presses hard against Jack’s prostate.

He moans around Eric’s fingers, sounding pornographic even to his own ears.

“There we go,” he says, pressing his hips against the welts on Jack’s ass.  “Let me hear you.”

Jack doesn’t need to fake a scream at the sensation.  The hair on Eric’s legs rubs up against his raw skin, setting him alight.  He clenches down hard around everything—his hands around the headboard, his mouth around Eric’s fingers, his ass around Eric’s dick and the toy—squeezing like a vise.

It sets off fireworks inside Jack, tearing an animalistic noise out of his throat as his orgasm rips through him, spilling out over the filthy sheets.

“Fuck, Jack,” Eric groans, hips stuttering when Jack clenches down.  “Fuck you feel so good, baby.  Coming untouched like that.  You’re so hot.  So perfect.”

Preening at the praise, Jack moans around Bitty’s fingers again, panting through his nose.  He thinks it’s about to be over, with the way Eric is hitching his hips, but it just keeps going, long after his dick is done jerking dribbles of come.  

“I think I can make you do that again,” Eric says, words heavy like gravel in his mouth.    

There’s no way.  Jack is spent, completely and utterly done.  His body is lax, flopping like a rag doll as Eric continues to stroke into him.  He tries to say as much, but Eric just pushes his fingers deeper into Jack’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue, inching back to his throat.  

“I think you’re going to come again, baby.”

Jack’s fingers twitch with the urge to stroke himself, but Bitty didn’t say he could, so he digs his nails into the wood and holds on.  His last orgasm still lingers around the edges of his mind, taken so high that he hasn’t quite come down yet.

“Come on, Jack,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Jack’s shoulder blade.  “You can do this.  Just let go.”

Right as Jack is about to spit out Eric’s finger and tell him it’s impossible, the vibrator amps up to keep pace with Eric’s hard, rapid thrusts.  And just like that, Jack is screaming around Eric’s fingers, vocal cords straining as the noise is ripped out of him in one long continuous sound he can’t control.  But still, he can’t make it happen.  Jack has nothing left to give.

Or at least he thinks so until Eric’s right hand leaves his hip and grips his dick hard, right under the head.  He jerks it quick and rough, like he will not be ignored.  

Jack is helpless to the sensations.  His arms strain as his neck snaps back.  Eric’s fingers leave his mouth to tangle in his wild hair, yanking his body into an arch.  Teeth come down on his shoulder and coupled with the sting in his hair and the smack of Eric’s hips against his raw ass, Jack is jerking, shaking apart with a near-painful orgasm.

One little dribble of come burns as it escapes him, and then he’s just jerking and shaking, body completely dry.

Eric is panting around his skin, moaning into it.  Jack can feel the vibrations shooting down his shoulder as Eric drives in hard and deep one last time, burying himself into Jack as he comes.  

It feels incredible, like an explosion of heat.  Eric pulses over and over again, hardening as he continues to come.  He releases Jack’s shoulder and tilts his head to the side, his sweaty cheek pressing against Jack’s skin as he pants and moans.  “Fuck, fuck, oh my God, baby.”

“It’s so much,” Jack says, still twitching every once in a while as Eric keeps coming.  The vibrator must be lengthening his orgasm, because it feels like it goes on forever, filling Jack until he feels it leaking out of him.

“I know, fuck,” Eric says, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist and resting his head on his shoulder as he continues to shake.

“I love you,” Jack says.  

“God, honey,” Eric says, voice completely wrecked.  “I love you so much.  This was incredible.”

Jack hums his agreement, turning his head so he can kiss the top of Eric’s golden head.

Slowly, Eric begins to still, his breath evening out.  He slumps into Jack’s back, kissing every inch of him that he can reach.  

“I’m going to shut this off now, okay?” he says, pulling away briefly to shut the vibrator off.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Jack relaxes as Eric pulls out and removes the toy.  

“How about a shower, baby?” he asks, touching Jack’s side gently.

“Umm…” he doesn’t know how to say it—how to ask, but his hands are still clutching the headboard right where Eric told him.

“Oh, Lord,” Eric mutters, sliding his hands up Jack’s forearms to settle over the back of his hands.  “You can let go now, sweetheart.  I’m so sorry.  I always forget how good you are at listening when you slip deep like that.”

“What?”

“When you get into that headspace you really do follow all my directions.  It always surprises me.”

Jack tilts his head to the side.  He doesn’t understand what Eric is talking about.  “What?”

“You know… like when I hit you, or keep up the same rhythm for a while, or choke you… you kind of drift away, don’t you?”

“I umm… yeah.  I guess I do.”

“It’s okay, Jack.  That’s exactly what’s supposed to happen.  I thought the music might help, and it did.  You slipped in so deep sometimes I had to tell you something three times before you heard me.”

“Really?” Jack asks, befuddled.

“You really didn’t notice?” Eric asks, cupping Jack’s face and leaning in for a quick kiss.  “You came four times, Jack.  That doesn’t just happen.  Not on a normal day, anyway.”

“I guess I never thought about it.  But it does feel kind of floaty sometimes.  Like when you used the—” Jack still doesn’t know what it’s called but he waves his hand over to the other side of the mattress where the toy is lying innocently among the sheets like it didn’t just completely change Jack’s life.    

“Flogger,” Eric supplies.  “What did that feel like to you?”

“Like this really nice heat.  It burned deep, like a bruise.”

“That’s because you like pain sometimes, sugar.  It puts you in a little bit of a daze and makes you feel differently than other people might.  But that’s okay, because I’m always careful with you.  I’m always watching.”

“That must take so much effort,” Jack says, ducking his head, embarrassed all of the sudden.  He’s not sure he deserves such attention and care.

“I like being in control, baby.  It’s good for me.  I’d never want to do the reverse, for example.  We’re just wired a little differently, and that’s okay.  It works for us.”

“So you don’t mind when I… float away?”

“Of course not, sweetheart.  I love that I can do that for you,” Eric whispers, kissing Jack’s cheek ever so gently.  “You work so hard, and you keep such a tight hold on your body and your anxiety.  It’s nice to be able to give you time to let go.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure, baby.  I love that I can be what you need.  I’d never do something I didn’t want to do, I promise you.”

“You had a good time, too?” Jack asks, eyes searching for any shred of doubt on Eric’s face.

“I just came for like a minute straight, Jack,” he says, cupping Jack’s cheeks again.  “And I got to see this gorgeous blush bloom on your perfect ass.  I had a great time.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Eric assures him, kissing his lips gently.  “Now let’s get in the shower.  We’re filthy.”

Jack moves to follow, but his gaze lingers on the flogger as he comes to terms with what just happened.  He just got his ass spanked for what could have been an hour he was so lost in the beauty of it, and he loved it.  He loved every minute of it.

It’s like Bitty said.  It’s not bad, just different.

He licks his parched lips and starts formulating a plan.  There’s something Eric has been wanting that Jack hasn’t been able to give him yet.  But maybe tomorrow, if he plans things right, he’ll be able to make it work.

The music is still playing and Jack stops to listen for a second.  He turns the volume up.

We've had our share of mistakes

But all your flaws and scars are mine

Still falling for you

Still falling for you

Humming along, Jack makes his way to the bathroom.  The shower is running, and Jack feels it with his hand, happy to find that Eric has made the temperature on the cooler side.  Stepping in, he wraps himself around Eric’s back and kisses his neck, humming softly.

He can still hear the lyrics of the chorus repeating, but he doesn’t voice them.  

And just like that

All I breathe

All I feel

You are all for me

Somehow Jack is sure that Bitty hears them anyway.

Chapter Text

They stay in bed all morning wrapped around each other, Eric consumed by his Instagram mentions and Jack catching up on work emails about media appearances and plans for his off-season training regimen.  Every time Bitty leans over to him to steal a quick, coffee-flavored kiss, Jack thinks about how good it will feel to have the summer off.  No more long roadies that keep him and Eric apart for days on end, no more locker room interviews or post-game press conferences.  Jack and Bitty will be able to learn what it’s like to be together outside of the NHL season.  They’ll be able to find a new rhythm. 

It’s the first time in Jack’s life that he has something to look forward to off the ice—someone to come home to.  He thinks about how different it will feel, to not have everything be an unrelenting push toward a trophy.  Some days could just be quiet—restful.  Some days could just be fun and sexy and romantic for the sheer joy of it, like he hopes today will be.  

But first Jack has a final series to play.  They could win in four like Bitty said, but the more likely scenario is that they’ll go to six or seven games.  They could lose in LA.  If that happened, maybe his parents would miss it.  Flights get canceled all the time.  Maybe it would just be a phone call and not a disappointed head-shake that Jack has to see in the flesh.  Or he could lose at home in game seven.  He could lose in front of an arena packed with white and blue jerseys—with everyone he loves in the family box.  

That would be the ultimate failure.

This is wrong.  He’s going about this all wrong.  Jack needs to get back to basics.

He should be thinking about the first game of the series—just the first one—the rest of them don’t matter yet.  It’s always going to be one point at a time, one shift at a time, one pass at a time.  That’s exactly what he tells the reporters when they corner him in the locker room after every game.

Jack should be re-watching tape of the last series, analyzing plays and studying up on the King’s goalie and backup goalie, and third-string goalie—but Eric is breathing soft and even, phone propped up on his bare chest and that just makes a whole different part of him twitch.  

He fights to keep still.  

In this bed, with Bitty’s knee draped over his thigh, and his head nestled under Jack’s chin, he wills the anxious prickling under his skin away, but it buzzes like an incessant gnat, disturbing the calm of their bedroom.  This is Eric’s day.  He should be content to do whatever it is Eric wants to do.  If that’s snuggle in bed all morning, Jack should do that.  

He tries.  He really tries to breathe and count, but it’s not long before Eric notices his discomfort and yawns, stretching his neck up to nuzzle into Jack’s throat.  It’s meant to be soothing, but all Jack can feel is the scratch of his overgrown beard bleeding down his neck.

Sighing heavily, Jack shelves this line of thinking and gets started on his plans for the day.  He should only focus on one thing at a time and today is Eric’s birthday, so Eric is going to get 110% of his attention.  The Cup can wait one more day.

“I think I’m going to go for a run,” he says, twisting out from under Bitty’s embrace.  

“Ugh, really, Jack?  I was so comfortable, even with all that stubble scratching me.”

“I’m sorry, bud.  If you want me to stay, I can—”

“No.” Bitty sighs, but it’s tempered with a smile.  “Go run off that twitch.  You’re no use to me like this.”  He waves his hand, gesturing at Jack’s adrenalin-riddled body.  “I’m going back to sleep, but I’m using your pillow!”  

He laughs, throwing his flat, lumpy pillow at Jack’s head and wrapping himself around Jack’s instead, burying his nose in the fabric.

Jack catches the pillow and fluffs it until it better resembles his own.  He shakes it out and hands it back to Eric, apologetic.  “I just—I need to clear my head.  I won’t be gone long,” Jack assures him, ducking back down to press a kiss to Bitty’s temple.  

Eric nods, smushing the pillows to his liking and flopping back down on the bed.  He’s naked—all tan skin and warm freckles.  

Jack’s heart aches at the sight, but he can’t stay.  He’s buzzing all over like a live wire, and he still doesn’t have Eric’s birthday present sorted out yet.

“When’s dinner?” Bitty asks.

“We have reservations at six,” Jack says, pulling some running gear out of the closet.  “Wear your suit.”

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going but I have to wear a suit?”

“Yes,” Jack says, shrugging.  “If you really stopped to think about it, you could probably work it out.”

“I’ll just let myself be surprised,” Eric says with a yawn, pulling the comforter back up over his exposed body.  “Wake me when you get back.”

“I’ll get lunch, and then I’ll bring it to you.  How about that?”

“Lunch in bed?  Now we’re talking.”

Jack laughs and kisses Eric’s forehead before leaving the room.  He wants to burn off some anxiety before dinner, but he also has some work to do.  Grabbing his laptop bag and his camera, Jack starts a light jog to a local coffee shop.  

He gets himself a decaf latte and finds a table near the back that will hide his computer from view.  Looking side to side, Jack hooks his camera up to his laptop and starts sifting through their vacation photos.

Wriggling nervously in his seat, he finds that his ass is a little sore, but pleasantly so.  Maybe Jack really is wired differently.  The memory of how he got the welts is enough to keep them from being too painful.  He jiggles his leg, which makes his ass twinge, and wonders how he’d been so cavalier with his own body at such a crucial time in the playoffs.  This is the second time in less than 24 hours that Jack has been reckless.  

Eric really does know how to make him let go.

While he doesn’t think anyone is watching, it still makes his heart race to edit the photos in public.  When he’s sure he’s satisfied with a half dozen selections, Jack saves them to a thumb drive and packs up.  

If editing the photos made him nervous, printing them out nearly gives Jack a heart attack.  Thankfully, no one seems to be around and he can quickly take his prints, tuck them into a little folder, and head to a nearby handmade shop for a frame.

Now that he’s doing it, it seems a little ridiculous to frame nude photos of him and Eric, but he can’t help but be proud of them.  Eric had taken some great shots and Jack had zoomed into a few of them and adjusted the lighting so they looked less pornographic and more like art.  In the end, he has a multi-photo frame he’d be proud to hang in their bedroom gift wrapped and ready to give to his boyfriend.

Picking up sandwiches on the way, Jack returns to the condo feeling quite proud of himself.  His smile brightens by several degrees when he sees a beautiful basket of peaches on Leonard’s desk.  

“It’s a special day for Mr. Eric, I take it?” Leonard asks, a twinkle in his eye.

“It’s his birthday,” Jack says, putting his bags in one hand so he can scoop up the basket and hold it against his hip.  “I was hoping these would get here okay.”

“They look great,” Leonard agrees.  “Make sure he records a video of whatever he makes with those.  My wife has been watching his channel like it’s the news.”

“I will, Leonard.  Thanks,” he says with a smile and a wave and heads for the elevator.

“Oh.  My.  God,” Eric exclaims as soon as he’s through the door.  “What in the world?  It’s not peach season, Mister Zimmermann.”

“It is in certain remote parts of China,” Jack says, setting the basket down on the table.  “These are for now,” he says, pushing the basket toward Eric.  “And this is for later,” he says, setting the gift bag down on the dining room table.  He unloads the rest of his bags and sets lunch out for them.  “Eat first, then you can bake.”

“We should make a pie.  Or a crumble!  Or maybe mini pies!  My mini pies are amazing.”

“Whatever you make, you have to tape it.  Leonard’s wife wants to see.”

“Do you think you’d be in one of my videos?” Eric asks around a bite of turkey.

“You don’t think I’d ruin it?  You know I’m not very good with pie.”

“That’s the point, though.  You’ll get better if you practice, and my fans will find your struggle adorable.  Please?”

“Only because it’s your birthday,” Jack says, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

“Oooh, I’m going to set up right now!” Eric says.  He takes a quick bite before running off to grab his filming equipment.

“If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your sandwich.”

“It’s all yours, sugar,” Eric calls from the bedroom.

“You shouldn’t let me do this,” Jack says, holding up a mangled piece of pie dough.  “I’m ruining it.”

“You’re doing just fine, sweetpea.  You just have to be a bit more gentle.”

“Couldn’t we make a real-sized pie?  My hands are too big for these tiny pie cups.”

“They’re called pie pans.  Or pie tins.  Don’t make me slap you, Mister Zimmermann.”

“They’re little!  They’re cup-sized,” Jack insists, holding one up to the camera.  “I could drink this much coffee in one sip!”

“You will not eat one of my mini pies in one bite, so help me God.”

“I can’t help it.  I’m big.”

“Now you’re just bragging, honey.”

“Keep your mind out of the gutter, Bits.  You see what I have to put up with?” he asks the camera.  

“See if I ever have you as a guest again with that attitude.  It is my birthday.   You’re supposed to play the doting boyfriend and make me a mini pie.”

“I bought the peaches and the rolling pin so you could bake with them.  Not me.  You know how badly I did with the apples.  I’m not to be trusted with fruit.”

“I could make such a terrible joke right now, but this is supposed to be a PG production.”

“We don’t want your videos getting taken down by YouTube, do we?” Jack jokes.  He’s having more fun than he expected.  Bitty is great at getting a rise out of him, and it probably makes for good TV.

“Right.  Back to baking!” Bitty says, throwing a bit of flour into Jack’s face.

“Oh, you better run,” Jack says, voice pitched low and menacing.  He grabs a handful of flour and raises his eyebrows in Eric’s direction.  

Making an aborted movement toward him, he startles Eric, who yelps and darts away.

“I think it’s been well established that you can’t catch me, Mister Zimmermann!”

“Bits!  The camera is still running.  Come back here!” Jack calls, making a little shushing motion at the camera.

Bitty creeps back into view, and Jack waits with his hand behind his back.  “All right.  Back to business.  We need to get these crusts rolled out in the pie pans.” He waxes rhapsodic about his new marble rolling pin for several minutes before clapping his hands together with a puff of flour.  “There!  Now we can put our filling in.” 

“Can you show me again?” Jack asks, leaning in to get a better look at what Eric’s hands are doing.  

“You have to be gentle, honey.  If you overwork the dough, it just comes out tough and crumbly.  We’re looking for light and—”

Jack dumps a handful of flour on his head and Eric screeches.

“Oh no, you did not!”

“Like you weren’t going to shower before our date.”

“That is not the point, Mister Zimmermann!  Do you know how long it takes me to get this hair camera-ready?”

“Isn’t that what your hair always looks like?  It always looks shiny and soft like that,” he adds, leaning in to press his nose to Eric’s temple.   

“Cut it out, sweetpea.  We have an audience.”

“You can edit this bit out,” Jack mutters and ducks his head for a kiss that Bitty returns with just as much enthusiasm.

“You are going to be the death of me.  We have to get these pies out of the oven before we need to get ready for dinner.”

“Okay, show me again.  I’ll pay attention this time.”

Jack manages to butcher at least half a dozen mini pies, but by the time he gets to the second batch he has a much better handle on working the dough and even has a mostly straight lattice top to show for it.

“You did really well, honey.  I think we’ll make a baker out of you yet.”

“I think maybe I should stick to hockey.  You can be the baker in this relationship.”

“You’re more than hockey to me, baby,” Eric says, reaching a flour-crusted hand down to grab Jack’s ass.

“The camera is still running, bud.”

“I don’t care,” he says, reaching up on his tiptoes for a kiss.  

It lasts for a while and definitely gets hot enough that Eric will have to edit it out, but after a few minutes they’re pulling apart and Eric is turning back to camera, cheeks flushed pink.  

“So, now it’s time to get these babies into the oven!  350 for at least 40 minutes.  I know they’re tiny, but they’re still pies.  That crust takes time.  Don’t rush it!”

Jack can’t help but laugh as he wraps his arms around Eric’s waist and hooks his chin over one shoulder.  “Good things come in small packages, eh Bits?”

“Good lord, you are a menace, Jack Zimmermann.”

After grooming his beard carefully and taming his hair as best as he can, Jack exits the bathroom in his towel and stops dead.  

Eric is slipping his arms through the sleeves of a navy blue suit jacket.  It’s one Jack hasn’t seen before, but the color suits him.  His shirt is a crisp white, and he’s already wearing a pastel plaid bow tie.  

“You look great, bud,” Jack says, finding himself extremely taken with the ensemble.  It’s clearly something that Eric has taken the time to pick out for himself.  The cut is slimmer than the one Maman chose, and it makes his legs look longer than usual.

“Done with the mirror in there?  I have to do my hair.”

“It’s all yours,” Jack says, but all he can think of is the first time Eric came out of his bathroom with wet hair.  Jack had felt the fresh haircut with his tongue before they’d fallen into bed together.  He watches Eric go, smirking as he catches a glimpse of how the tight suit pants frame his ass.  

Jack has an extensive collection of suits and decides to go with a pinstriped one that might compliment Bitty’s outfit.  He ties a simple light blue tie around his neck and wonders if he should also ask Eric to pick out his cufflinks when he comes out of the bathroom with his hands cupped in front of him.

“Squat for me,” he says, nodding toward the floor in front of him.

“In these pants?” Jack scoffs.  “I’d like to keep them in one piece.”

“Fair,” Eric laughs.  “Just duck a little so I can reach your head.”

He does, and then Eric’s fingers are running through his overgrown hair, pulling and massaging until it’s styled to his satisfaction.  “Is it okay?”

“Don’t go fishing for compliments now, sugar.  We both know you’re gorgeous.”

“Only because I actually smile when you’re around.”

“If that’s what you like to tell yourself, sure,” Eric says, grinning.  “Let me just wash my hands, and then we’re ready.”

When they step out of the lobby hand in hand, several flashes go off.

“Bits?  What’s going on?”

“I might have told Twitter we were going on a special date.  Maybe the press got wind of it?”

“You wanted this?”

“If we’re going to look this hot, someone might as well get a photo of us.”

Jack laughs, and doesn’t argue, even though he feels sweat collect under his arms.  He leads Eric to their hired car with a steady hand on his lower back.  

Bitty gives a little wave and a smile as he gets in and Jack follows him.

“You are ridiculous,” Jack says, smiling at him.  “I can’t believe you wanted the press to follow us to dinner.”  

His heart is racing, but in a good way.  At least, he thinks it’s a good way.  Eric has a way of taking his mind off of hockey and putting his focus somewhere… productive.  Lost in the swoop of Eric’s hair and the way his bow tie just grazes his Adam’s apple, Jack wipes his palms on his slacks and licks his lips.  

“It’s my birthday, and I’m going out with my gorgeous boyfriend to a fabulous dinner,” Eric says with a shrug.  “Someone might as well document it.”

“I love you.  I love that you’re okay with this.  It makes it so much easier for me.”

“I realized pretty quickly that if I handled the press, you got to relax a little bit.  And I’m good at it, so I don’t mind.  It’s kind of fun to think that I can get them to do whatever I want with just a little tweet.”

They pull up to the restaurant and Jack holds the door open for Eric.

“You are such a romantic, sweetpea.”

“I knew you liked the food,” Jack says, leading him by the hand into Hemingway’s.  “And we had a good night here last time, all things considered.  It was a good memory for me.”

“Me too, Jack.  It was one of the first nights I knew I was falling for you.”

“Really?”

“Honey, you wanted to punch every homeless man in Providence when you saw me come in with that black eye.”

“I still want to,” Jack grumbles.  “I have a list, actually.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Eric teases.  “I know you don’t drop your gloves often, but the mental image is still kind of hot.  Now, how about we give the cameras something to report, huh?”  

Then he leans in and kisses Jack full on the mouth.  

It’s not chaste, but it’s not dirty either.  It has intent, like Eric is staking a claim on him, showing the world they’re a real couple, and Jack can’t find it in himself to be bothered by the display, even if Shitty will tease him mercilessly for it later.

“I think that’s plenty,” Jack says, pulling him inside.  

A waiter greets them and leads them to their table, where Jack pulls out Eric’s chair and orders a bottle of very expensive champagne.

“Ooh, fancy,” Eric teases when the waiter brings over a silver stand to chill their bottle.

“It’s a special occasion.  You only turn 23 once.”

“I’ll have to get you back for your birthday… plan something great.”

“Maybe we could spend it in Montréal,” Jack suggests as the waiter comes back over to take their order.

“That sounds nice, honey,” Bitty says, smiling up at him with an expression so fond it makes Jack’s heart clench.  He asks for two different types of tartare and Jack smiles, glad he’s relaxed and enjoying himself, not fretting over the expense.

The champagne tickles the back of Jack’s throat and he relaxes as well, taking bites from Eric’s fork whenever they’re offered.  If flashes go off every time they do something remotely coupley, Eric just giggles and plays it off like it’s part of the fun.  Jack starts to think that maybe it is.  Maybe the trick is to act like you’re in control of the situation as Eric seems to do so effortlessly.  

It might be the champagne talking, but Jack starts to think maybe he could do it.  Maybe he could propose right here and right now and all of the Internet would know in an instant.  His parents could FaceTime them, gushing about how happy they are to get Eric as a son, and Jack would be able to go into his next game knowing that at least if he loses he’s still done something right.  

A proposal doesn’t rely on skill or a bad call or a dirty hit or a thousand other things that are out of his control.  There are countless things that can and probably will go wrong in their series against the Kings.  A proposal would only take guts—a confidence that Jack just can’t muster right now with his pockets empty and his tongue fat and numb in his mouth.  

He’d like to figure out how to do just one thing to make Bad Bob proud, but the idea slips away as easily as the first bottle of Krug Brut.  

Dinner passes pleasantly as they discuss Eric’s coming competition schedule and how Jack thinks he’ll be able to come along for most of his summer travel as long as he clears it with management first and sticks to his conditioning and diet plan.  Everything seems to be coming together, and after the second bottle of champagne, Jack finds himself forgetting all about his game even though it’s only three days away.

“Mister Zimmermann, are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Bitty asks when he sees Jack’s fork reach toward his plate.

“Maybe?” Jack says, giggling.  “It looks good.”

“Are you really about to eat a bite of butter-basted ribeye?”

“It smells like sage,” Jack protests, scooping up a bite of mashed potatoes and demi-glace along with the meat.

“That is so fucking sexy,” Eric mutters as he watches Jack take his bite and chew.  “Do it again.”

Jack laughs, long and loud.  It’s amazing how he actually feels comfortable out here in public sharing a romantic dinner with his boyfriend with several photographers documenting their every move.  He’s not holding back.  For once in his life, Jack is okay with sharing the most intimate parts of himself.  After all, they’re the happiest, and the carefree display makes something in Bitty’s face glow with contentment.

He takes another bite and makes a show of moaning as he chews it.  “Here,” he says when he’s finished.  “Have some of mine.”  Slicing a scallop into pieces, Jack scoops up some risotto and feeds it to Eric.

“Oh my God.  We have to make seafood more often.”

“If you teach me how to cook it.”

“We can do another segment.  Twitter is already tripping over itself commenting on our last video.  They love you,” Eric says, reaching for Jack’s hand.

“They love how in love with you I am.  You’re the draw.”

“Not true, but it’s cute how you think it is.”

They share a giant baked alaska for dessert and Jack even sings while Eric laughs, illuminated by the soft glow of the birthday candle.  

“How did I not know you could sing?”

“I can?” Jack asks, surprised.

“You’re serious,” Bitty says, deadpan.  “You actually don’t know when you’re good at something.”

“I’ve kind of always had this perfectionist thing…” Jack trails off, ducking his head.  

“We are going to have to work on your self-esteem, Mister Zimmermann.  This just won’t stand.”

“My self-esteem is fine, Bits.”

“I can’t believe you don’t see how wonderful you are.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say to that, so he pays the bill and leads Bitty to the door.  Surprisingly, the reporters are still there, flashing away.  He blinks the light out of his eyes and asks, “They really waited for us?  Why?”

“We’re the hot new couple.  I’m adorable and you’re about to play in the Stanley Cup finals.  Maybe they want to get a look at how you celebrate.”  Bitty raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t want anyone else seeing me celebrate like that but you.  Let’s get home,” Jack says into Eric’s ear.  He puts a proprietary hand on his waist and leads him back to the car that’s been waiting for them.  

“I like the sound of that,” Eric replies and ducks into the backseat.

“Give me a couple of minutes, and then meet me inside, okay?”

“Okay, baby,” Eric says, already slipping into his bedroom voice.

“Oh, and bring your video camera.”

“Seriously?” Eric asks, eyebrows arched.

“Seriously,” Jack replies, ducking into the bathroom.  He strips quickly and takes a minute to do some deep breathing and psych himself up.  Then he reaches under the sink and finds a bottle of lube and a velvet bag.  It’s the big glass plug Eric had bought for their vacation.

It takes some time, but eventually Jack works it into himself and slowly walks back into the bedroom to find Eric holding his camera and looking confused.

“God, you look good,” he says, quickly standing.

“I thought of something I could do for your birthday,” Jack says, stepping forward to cup Eric’s cheek and kiss him.

“You’ve already done enough today, Jack.  Seriously.”

“This isn’t just for today though.  This is for the future.  Go over there and start recording.”

Bitty looks hesitant but he does as he’s told, walking across the room to turn the camera on Jack.  

With a steadying breath, Jack kneels on the bed and turns toward Eric.  “I wanted to get more comfortable with being watched… and um… being alone.  And I thought maybe you could tell me what you wanted me to do and then if I’m having a bad night on Skype or just don’t feel like it, you can watch this instead.”

“Wow,” Eric says, struck momentarily speechless.  “That’s really sweet, baby.  That you’d want to do that for me.”

“I’d do anything for you, Bits.”

Without missing a beat, Eric says, “Get the lube from the drawer and stroke yourself for me.”

When Jack turns around, Eric takes in an audible breath. “What?” he asks, turning around with the bottle in his hand.

“You put a toy in.”

“Yeah… You know I need… help sometimes.”

“It’s perfect, baby.  Tell me how it feels.”

“It’s um…” he starts stroking himself before he drips lube everywhere.  “It’s heavy inside me.  And hard.  I like that it’s glass, I think.  It gives me something to squeeze.”

“What else?”

“And I like how big it is.  It’s easier to pretend it’s your hand stretching me out.”

“Fuck,” Eric whispers.  “That’s good.  Get yourself nice and wet for me.”

Jack makes sure the lube is spread out and then grips himself tight.  He lets out a long exhale, trying to relax into it.  He hasn’t gotten himself off like this in years.

“That’s so good, baby.  Now show me more.”

Dutifully, Jack turns to the side and arches his back, sticking his ass out and throwing his head back.  The motion makes the toy shift inside him, pressing in just the right way.  He squeezes down and lets out a breath, trying to work his ass on the plug.

“Let me hear you, honey.  Don’t hold back.”

He thinks it sounds ridiculous, but Jack tries to relax and let the little noises that build in his throat come out of his mouth.  Jack doesn’t necessarily want to put on a show, but he does want this to be good for Eric.  It’s about him, after all. “It feels good, but I wish it was you.  I’ll always wish it was you.  I hate not touching you.”

“Fuck, Jack.  I miss you so much when you’re away.”

“I made you prints, too,” Jack says, licking his lips.  “Of the photos we took in Hawai’i.  They look so good.”

“I can’t believe you got those printed somewhere people could see.  Who are you and what have you done with Jack Zimmermann?”

“I’m branching out,” Jack says, gasping when he looks up to find Eric’s eyes on him, dark and hungry.

“I could make a really terrible joke right now about the size of your dick, but I’m going to let it go.”

“Big of you.”

“Big of you, ” Bitty mutters to himself, snickering.  “Sorry, honey.  Sorry.  You just really do have the most gorgeous cock.”

He rarely thinks too hard about it, but the comment has Jack arching his back and looking down.  His foreskin is pulled back, the pink head exposed, shiny with precome and lube.  Maybe it does look good.  At least it’s nice to know Eric thinks so.

“Tighten your fist,” Eric says, cutting through the silence like he just remembered he was supposed to be directing this film.  “Right under the head.  There you go.  Good boy.”

It does feel better, and Jack moans a bit as his gut tightens.  Those words coming from Eric always have an effect on him.

“How about you sit back on your heels a little bit.  I think the angle might feel good.”

“Tabarnak,” Jack curses when the toy shifts just right, pressing down as he squats.  His thighs protest slightly at the motion, but he ignores them.  It feels too good to stop.

“God, baby.  I love when you talk like that… even though I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Je parle habituellement de vous ... comme tu me fais sentir bien.”

“Fuck, I swear I’m working on it but all I got out of that was ‘I talk… something something good.’”

“You make me feel good,” Jack fills in with a smirk.  “Like right now.”

“Squeeze down hard, baby,” Eric tells him with renewed authority.  “And go harder with your hand.  As hard as you can take it.”

“Câlisse,” he curses again as he obeys.  His chest flushes and he finds himself rocking up and down, riding the toy as he would Eric.  

“God, you look good like that.  So fucking hot for me.”

Jack bites down on his lip and speeds up his hand.  His hand is starting to tingle, but he feels like he might be getting close.  He just has to get himself off before his arm gives out.

“Are you close, Jack?” Eric asks.

The sound of his name pulls Jack out of his focus.  His arm stutters and he tries to regain his rhythm while Eric continues talking.

“It’s okay.  I can make you come without laying a finger on you.  Just do exactly what I say and you’ll get there.  I promise, honey.”

Jack moans out a frustrated noise but shakes out his arm and shoulders before nodding and going back to his task.

“Close your eyes,” Eric says, voice pitched low.  “Now tilt your head back like I’m pulling your hair.  There you go, just like that.”

“Tabarnak,” Jack curses again.  He doesn’t know how Bitty does it, but just that tone of voice is enough to pull Jack out of his head.  

“Now take your other hand and cover your mouth.  Is that better, baby?”

Jack inclines his head slightly by way of an answer.  It’s not like when Eric does it, but the restriction does help.  He hardens slightly in his fist.  

“If that’s not enough, you can squeeze your nose, too.  Just be careful.”

Jack does.  He feels something in his stomach clench, which presses the plug harder against his prostate.  Moaning behind his palm, Jack’s arms start to shake as he struggles to keep his position while jerking himself off roughly.

“It’s okay, baby.  Just keep going until you need to breathe.”

Eric’s voice feels like a balm to Jack’s ears.  But he can’t help it.  All he wants is for Eric’s hands to be on him, taking this responsibility from him, forcing his traitorous body to cooperate.  Pulling his hand away, Jack lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Eric mutters, audibly flustered.  “It’s all right.  We just need a different approach here.”

A high-pitched, almost desperate moan escapes Jack as he relaxes his arm.

“Hey, listen to me.  It’s okay,” Eric tells him.  “I have another idea.”

Jack licks his lips and tries to work his ass around the plug, keeping his arousal up until Eric can tell him something that will work.  

“Take your first two fingers and press them against the front of your throat.  Not too hard, just so you can feel it.  That’s me, baby.  That’s me pressing my hard dick into your mouth.  It’s all the way back, choking you.”

Finally, Jack feels it—that urgency—the edge of danger that he needs to start losing his breath.  His fingers push down hard, probably harder than Eric meant, but he can’t help it.  Jack has never been good at knowing his limits.  

“God, you feel so good baby, swallowing around me like that.  I’m so deep in you, so hard.  I think I’m going to come, baby.  I think—” Eric breaks off on a moan that Jack can feel in his chest.  

He has no idea if it’s genuine or not, but it really doesn’t seem to matter because Jack’s throat is convulsing, trying to suck in a breath while his ass clenches down tight around the hard plug and his dick twitches in his hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m coming.  God, it’s so much.  Right down your throat, baby.  Fuck.  Come for me, Jack.  Come for me.”

And he does.  

Jack’s eyes are closed but he can still feel his vision growing dim around the edges as he slips down, down, down, away from reality.  He can feel Bitty flooding his mouth, cutting off his air, and it’s so good he can’t help himself.  He comes with such force his ass clenches down painfully around the glass and he feels faint.

“Oh my god, baby.  Are you okay?”

He barely hears Eric’s voice over his own breath, harsh and rattling in his chest.  Coughing, Jack goes limp, both arms dropping to his sides in exhaustion.

“It’s okay, fuck—I’ve got you.”

Something heavy drops to the mattress, and then Eric is kneeling next to him, reaching up to cup his face.  

“Mmm?” Jack asks, trying to make his mouth work properly.  His arms feel like lead and he’s swaying slightly on his knees.

“Can you look at me?  I know it’s bright, but I need you to open your eyes for me, honey.”

Blinking, Jack tries to get Eric’s face to come into focus, but it’s still a little fuzzy around the edges.

“God, your pupils are huge.  Want to lie down?”

“Was it good?” Jack asks, trying to catch up to the conversation that seems to be passing him by.

“Don’t even worry about that right now.  I just want to hold you until you stop shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Jack says, though his tongue feels huge and clumsy in his mouth.  “Are you fine?”

“Just let me take care of you, please,” Eric says, bustling him into a lying position.  He makes sure Jack’s limbs are properly arranged before pushing his knees up toward his chest.  “I’m going to get this out of you and clean you up.”

Careful fingers probe around his ass and Jack flinches, too sensitive.  

“I’m sorry, I just don’t want you getting overstimulated.  You need some real rest.”

Eric eases the toy out of him and he hears the sink turn on as he cleans it and gets a wet cloth.  It’s warm when it touches his skin, and Jack sighs when another cloth dries him off.  

“Thank you,” he manages to say.

“I should be thanking you, baby.  You basically just knocked yourself unconscious trying to give me a birthday present.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, sugar.”

“I passed out on your birthday video?  That can’t have been very sexy.”

“Jack,” Eric says, letting out a fond sigh that sounds just short of exasperated.  “Give me your hand,” he says, climbing into his side of the bed.

Reaching out, Jack lets Eric lead his hand to the crotch of his suit pants.  They’re cold and sticky.  “When did you—”

“—While you were busy choking yourself and moaning like a porn star.  God, I barely touched myself.”

“So… I didn’t ruin your birthday, then?”

“Baby,” Eric sighs.  “Do you know what I was doing last year on my birthday?”

Jack shakes his head, letting Eric turn away to pull off his ruined pants.  He undresses slowly, taking his time, turning his back to Jack and dropping his head.

“I was in a bunk bed at the shelter trying to sleep while two other guys shot up across the room.  And that was after I’d spent the whole day pounding the pavement looking for temp work.  I wore those loafers through on the bottom traipsing all over this damn town and no one looked twice at me until you did.”

Jack puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls until Eric looks at him.  He wants to say something, but the words don’t come.  

Pressing his lips to Jack’s knuckles, Bitty says, “You reminded me I was worth something.  You changed my life, Jack.  You changed my whole fucking life.”

“You changed mine, too,” Jack manages to say.  He cups Eric’s face and rubs a thumb over his cheekbone, massaging the smooth skin until Eric closes his eyes and sighs.  

After a minute, Eric presses a kiss to his palm and moves away.  He closes the camera and sets it aside before hitting the lights and slipping under the sheets, making sure to pull them up over Jack’s exposed body.  

“This was literally one of the best days of my life, and it’s because I spent it with you.”

“I love you.”

“And I love that you did all this for me,” he says, waving an arm around the room.

“You didn’t even open your present yet.”

Reaching down to the floor on his side of the bed, Bitty pulls up the gift bag.  “Oh, you mean this?” he says with a smirk.  “I can’t wait to see it.”

He’s careful when he unwraps it, like he plans to save the paper, and it dawns on Jack that maybe he does.  This is the first real birthday gift Bitty has gotten in at least five years.   

“Wow,” he says, running his finger over one of the prints.  Jack had them done in black and white.  The shadow Eric is tracing looks particularly nice.  “I took these?”

“You’ve got a good eye,” Jack says, smiling up at him.  “I barely had to edit them at all.”

“And this is me?” he asks, pointing to a line of freckles.

“I love that one.  Remember the first night you stayed over… you cut your hair, and I just had to touch you?”

“I remember.”

“I loved the way it looked there, in Hawai’i.  It shines in the sun everywhere you go, but the light there… it was perfect.”

“Thank you, Jack.  I love it,” Eric says, leaning over to kiss him before going right back to staring at the photos.

“Are you going to sleep?”

“In a minute,” Bitty says, tilting the frame so he can see every detail in the few slanted inches of light coming from outside their window.

Chapter Text

“Allô?” Jack answers just to stop his phone from vibrating and waking Eric.  He blinks at his alarm clock and sees that it’s barely six a.m.

“Did he say yes?”

“Did who say what?  Who is this?” 

“It’s your mother.  Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you have a sore throat.”

“None of your business, Maman.”  She can’t possibly know that Jack choked himself with an imaginary dick last night.  “What are you calling about?”

“We want to know how it went,” Papa’s voice chimes in a little further away.  “There were pictures all over the Internet.  We couldn’t see his hand, but I was sure if we could’ve there would have been a ring on his fing—”

“—Which one did you choose?” Maman asks, cutting in.

“We kind of have a bet going.”

“Of course you do,” Jack grumbles, thankful Eric is sleeping through this conversation.

“Tell me you went with the Harry Winston.”

“I didn’t ask him,” Jack sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  

“Why not?  Taking him back to that restaurant on his birthday?  It was the perfect time!”

“So romantic, mon ange.”

“I just—I’m not ready, Maman.”  It doesn’t feel right to say, but Jack says it anyway.  Hasn’t he been ready for months?  Isn’t that the crux of his problem?  Or is it this, right here?  The way his parents are pushing him, yet again, to do more than he’s capable of… to be something different from what he is—to do more.

“He’s going to say yes, Jack,” Papa says, tone serious.  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t have a plan.  I don’t know what to say.  I just can’t think about it right now.  Every time I think about it, I feel myself working up to a panic attack.”

“Maybe you don’t have to ask—”

“—Thank you!” Jack hisses, happy his father finally seems to be understanding him.  

“—You could just leave the ring somewhere for him to find and the question will ask itself.”

“I’m not doing that.  Now is just—it’s not the right time.”

“I still think—”

“—Please stop,” Jack sighs, desperate to change the subject.  “I can’t do this right now.  I need to focus on hockey.  You guys are coming to my home games, right?”

“We’re coming to all of your games, Jack, don’t be ridiculous.”

“We wouldn’t miss them for the world,” Maman coos, trying to soothe his anxiety but doing the exact opposite.

Jack swallows, fighting down the pressure around his shrinking lungs.

“You’re going to do great, Jack,” Papa assures him.  “You’re at the top of your game.  Nothing can stop you now.”     

Before his wrist even hits the ice, Jack knows it’s going to be devastating.  He looks over his shoulder to the way his arm is careening toward the shiny, unforgiving surface and can see how bad the angle is, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it.  

There’s nothing any of them could have done.

What kills him is that there’s nothing particularly rough about the check he takes from Travers.  It’s just extremely well placed and sends him flying before he can catch his balance.  They’re at the highest level of their profession.  Each and every person out on the ice is playing spectacular hockey.  He should have expected it, really.

Jack sees it before it happens, but what he’s not prepared for is what it will feel like for his bones to crack and chip into pieces.  It’s nothing like the time he snapped his tibia skiing when he was seven.  It’s nothing like the blissful heat of Eric’s palm coming down on his ass.  

It’s heartbreaking because Jack knows exactly what it means.

It means his hope of winning a Stanley Cup is flying out the window.  It means his father will never see him hoist that silver trophy above his head.  It means he isn’t the man he always thought he might be.

It means he isn’t quite worthy.  

Maybe he shouldn't have bothered trying for all these years if it was all going to end with one stupid, completely avoidable hip check.

Maybe it would have been better if that handful of Ativan had finished the job ten years ago.

Objectively, Jack knows he’s being dramatic, that it’s not the end of the world that he misses out on this year.  There will be other years, other chances, other seasons.  

But none of that matters right now, because Jack is crying from the pain and slamming his other hand into the unmovable ice in frustration.  He does it repeatedly until his left hand goes numb even through his padded glove.  He’s still doing it, clenching his hand into a fist and banging it down hard enough to fracture additional bones even as the medic skates onto the ice and pulls his right glove off.

Jack looks up and of all people, it’s Kent that he sees first.  Kent, who’s wearing his Aces hoodie but a Falconers hat, is sitting front row in the family section.  There are tears in his eyes as he places his palms against the glass, like all he wants to do is reach out and grab Jack, to comfort him.

He can’t take it—can’t handle anyone’s pity right now, let alone his Stanley Cup champion ex-boyfriend’s.  

Jack looks away, instead focusing on the medic who is now helping him to his feet.  It’s always better to leave the ice under your own steam and there’s nothing wrong with Jack’s legs even though they feel like jelly.  His hip protests the change in angle—it’s always harder to start moving again once you stop—but he makes it to the boards and is led through the tunnel to the infirmary where the coaching staff meets him.   

They undress him gingerly, pulling off his jersey and sweat-soaked pads so they can get a good look at his entire arm.  He gets sent to x-ray immediately.  Jack doesn’t even get a minute to look at the score before he’s being led, none too gently, to the machine.

The few seconds it takes for the scan to come up is horrific.  Jack holds his breath as he waits for the screen to load.  He can’t look down—can’t bear to see how swollen and bruised his wrist looks.  The pain is enough.  It tells him everything he needs to know.  

His run in the playoffs is over. 

“Tabarnak de câlisse de sacrament!” Jack screams when Scott tests his wrist.  

“Multiple displaced fractures,” he hums, checking over the x-ray.  

“It’s broken?” Jack whines.  The pain is already excruciating, and he hasn’t even tried to wrap it yet.  

He tells himself it’s fine.  No matter how badly it hurts, he’s just going to have to suck it up.  His boys need him—he needs himself.  He needs to be all right.  Jack doesn’t think his psyche can take another blow right now. 

“It’s not just broken, it’s really fucking broken,” Scott says, frowning as he inspects it from every angle.

“They’re about to tie it up.  I need to get back out there.  Can you just… wrap it up or something?” Jack pleads, shouting another string of curses as he tries to wiggle his fingers.  

“I can give you some pills for the pain and make sure you’re loaded up on cortisone for the next game, but you are not going back in tonight.”

The coaching staff had said as much as soon as they glanced at Jack’s arm, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it.

“I need to play, Scott,” Jack begs the trainer.  

“It’s not happening, kid.  Not a fucking chance,” he says, digging in his med kit for a brace and a bottle of pills.

“We can’t lose,” Jack grinds out through clenched teeth as Scott wraps his wrist and hands him the brace for later.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not the only guy on the team capable of scoring a fucking goal.”

“They need me,” Jack argues.

“You need to heal and let that swelling go down.  Rest up and you’ll be able to play in the final.”

“We have to make it to the final first.  That’s why I have to get back out there.  Now,” he adds, voice stern.  He straightens his back, tries to make himself look more imposing, but the gesture is lost when he winces at the twist of his hips.

“Two of these every four hours and ice it as much as possible.  That’s your best bet,” Scott says, checking over the wrapping one more time before packing up his kit.  “I’ll text to check on you in the morning.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving Jack alone in the locker room with a full bottle of Dilaudid.  He stares at it for a long moment and then looks away.  

Jack cannot take those pills.  

It’s not just that he shouldn’t.  He can’t.  He mustn’t.  It’s imperative that he not take the pills.  He knows this, Eric knows this, his parents and Kenny know this—everyone should know this. 

Scott should know better.  He must have seen Jack’s chart at some point.  He should know that you can’t just give an addict a bottle of one of the strongest painkillers available.  Or maybe he does know Jack’s history and still thinks the pills are necessary.  Maybe this is a signal for Jack to medicate himself so Scott doesn’t have to take the blame for it.

If he can’t play through the pain, then he can’t win his team a Stanley Cup.  And if he can’t win a Stanley Cup when he’s the closest he’s ever been, what good is he?  

Jack knows his boys.  They’re talented, but even with the lead he secured them before his fall, it’s still going to be a miracle for them to win this game and take them to seven.  

He looks up to the locker room monitor and sees Marty miss a clear opening.  Openings like that don’t just happen in game six of the Stanley Cup finals.  When they do, you have to take advantage of them.  You have to be better.  Jack would be better.  He has to get back in the game.

Biting down on his lower lip, Jack’s eyes flick back over to the pill bottle.  

He’ll be careful—won’t take more than necessary.  He drank plenty in Hawai’i without an issue.  This will be just like that.  It will be fine.

It’s been years since a bottle of pills had this kind of pull on him, but as he watches Thirdy get thrown in the penalty box, he loses that finely tuned argument with himself.

With a shaking left hand, Jack swipes the bottle off the bench and shoves it in his duffel bag.  Bitty can’t know about this.  If he did, he’d worry and Jack just can’t handle that conversation right now.  He needs to focus.  He needs to get his head back in the game.

“Jack?” a small voice asks as the door to the locker room is tentatively pushed open.  “They said I could come back here.”

“Bits,” Jack breathes, and before he’s done exhaling, Eric is in front of him, removing his mittens so he can comb shaking fingers through Jack’s sweaty hair.

“God, you look miserable.  What did the doctor say?”

“Multiple fractures,” Jack groans, tipping his head forward until it’s resting on Eric’s chest.  

“It’s going to be okay, baby,” Bitty says, still soothing him with soft pats.  “Your boys are going to finish strong, and you can play again at home in a few days.”

“My wrist is broken, Eric.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold a stick.  I can’t score a goal like this.”

“You can and you will.  If I can win gold at junior regionals with three broken toes and a sprained ankle, you can win a Stanley Cup with that,” he says, pointing to Jack’s bandaged hand.

“It hurts,” Jack whines, rubbing his cheek on Eric’s breastbone.

“I know, baby,” Eric breathes.  “But you can play through it.  You can use it.  I know you know how to play through pain.  You can thrive on pain, even.  I’ve seen you do it.”

“My dad must have gone mental when I took that hit.”

“He used a lot of colorful language,” Eric says slowly, “but your mama managed to calm him down a bit.”

“Are they coming back here?”

“I think they wanted to save face by not disappearing from the crowd until the game was over.”

“And you?”

“I didn’t care so much about that.  I just wanted to see you.  I had to make sure you were okay.”

“I am so far from okay I can’t even articulate how not okay I am.”

“Why don’t we get you back to the hotel before you get surrounded by the press?”

“I have to see the end,” Jack says, pulling his head away from Eric to look at the screen over his shoulder.  They’re still leading by one point, but there’s six minutes left and anything can happen in that amount of time.

“Ten minutes, and then I am driving you home,” Eric tells him, sitting down on the bench in front of Jack so he can press his back to Jack’s chest.

Wrapping his arm around his boyfriend, Jack hooks his chin over Bitty’s shoulder and stares at the screen.  It’s the longest six minutes of his life.  His jaw is clenched so tight his ears start to ring, but not even the pain in his wrist can drag his attention away from the action.  

Eric gasps every time someone takes a shot, and when the Kings pull their goalie for the final two minutes, they both lean forward like children pressing their noses to the screen.

Just when Jack thinks the Kings are about to tie it up, Marty snags the puck and gets a breakaway.  He shoots, and it sails into the open net.  Even though there are ten seconds left on the clock, the Falcs are already celebrating at center ice.  Jack can hear it through the locker room door.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Jack breathes.  He should be itching to get out there and celebrate with his team, but he’s so tired he doesn’t think he can stand.  

“You’re going to get your chance, baby,” Eric says, pressing kisses to his damp cheeks.  “You’re going to rest for the next two days, and then you’re going to get back out there and win it.  I know you are.”  

“It just hurts so much,” Jack gasps again, tears falling freely now.  

His relief from seeing his team win is now overshadowed by the soul-crushing fear that he won’t be able to perform with his dominant hand.  A forward that can’t shoot isn’t worth a damn to anyone.  He might as well throw in the towel now.

“I know it hurts, honey.  But you can’t think like that.”

Jack groans into his chest even as he hears the march of his teammates coming toward the locker room door.  They’re ecstatic, but Jack can hardly bring a smile to his worn face.  

“All the good things in life hurt, Jack,” Eric whispers to him just before Tater bursts through the door.  “Just because they hurt doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

Lifting his head for a kiss, Jack accepts a brief touch from Eric’s lips before he’s being lifted bodily off the bench.  Soon, Eric is lifted up by Thirdy and tossed into the air only to be caught by Snowy.

“We did it!  We’re still in it, boys!” Marty screams.

Tater shakes Jack with such force he swears he can feel his bones grind together.  “One more, one more, one more!” he screams into Jack’s ears.  

“Put him down, Tater.  Cap looks like he’s gonna vom,” Poots says, elbowing Tater.

Jack is set back down on the bench, stomach tied in knots.  He’s just glad to be back on solid ground.

“How bad is it, kid?” Marty asks, sliding onto the bench in front of him.  His voice is pitched low, like this is a private conversation even though it’s going to be public knowledge any second.

“Multiple fractures,” Jack says over the din.  “Hurts like hell.”

“Let Eric take you home,” Marty tells him, patting him on his uninjured arm.  “You need to sleep it off.  Did Doc Scott give you anything for the pain?”

“No,” Jack says, the lie coming to his lips all too easily.  It’s always been second nature to lie about these things.  As much as Jack thought he had left this part of his life behind, old habits die hard and he slips back into the pattern like it’s nothing.  “You know I can’t take anything.”

“Make sure you do Tylenol at least,” Marty says, shaking his head fondly.  “And Advil for the swelling.  Did he give you any cortisone?”

“Not yet.  For the next game.”

“Practice on Tuesday back home,” Marty tells him, ruffling his hair.  “Make sure you come even if you’re still resting it.  Let the boys see your face, all right?”

Jack doesn’t answer.  He’s sick just thinking about it—about watching his team prepare for the biggest night of their lives while he sits on the sidelines wrapped in bubble wrap.

“All right?” Marty repeats, louder this time.

“Yeah,” Jack says, nodding absently.  “I’ll see you on the plane back tomorrow.”

“Tater!” Marty calls over his shoulder.  “Put Eric down.  He needs to drive Jack back to the hotel.”

“No victory party?” Tater asks, pouting.  He still has Eric lifted above his head.

“How about y’all come over to our place when you win the Cup.  I’ll bake special victory pies.  Sound good?”

“Da!” Tater shouts.  The rest of the team joins him, loudly.  

With a yelp, Eric gets tossed in the air one more time before he’s set down on the floor.  “Easy with the goods, gentlemen.  I need to live long enough to see you win next week.”

“You see that last goal, Cap?” Thirdy asks as half the team heads off to the showers, shouting and laughing.  “Just perfect.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, forcing a smile.  

“You know Marty was just channeling you, right?  That was all for you.”

“Thanks.  Really,” he says, clasping Thirdy on the shoulder.

“Feel better, Jack.  We’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you,” Jack mumbles as Eric bundles him into his coat and out the door.  

Jack feels disgusting, and it’s only partly because he’s still wearing half his gear and hasn’t showered.  

The other source of his self-loathing becomes apparent as soon as Eric hefts his duffel onto his shoulder.  It doesn’t rattle with the telltale sound of pills against plastic, but Jack hears it ringing like a death toll anyway.

To say Jack is morose would be an understatement.  Everything from the slump of his shoulders to the angle of his jaw tells the world to leave him the fuck alone.  

Eric babies him, and Jack tries not to cringe whenever he’s handed a dose of Tylenol or a plate of toast, but he can’t help it.  He hates feeling like this—hates being pitied.  

“You slept hard on the plane,” Eric says as soon as they’re back in the elevator of their building.  “I’m glad you got some rest.  It’s usually impossible for you to fall asleep in those seats.”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters.  

What he doesn’t say is that he took a double dose of Dilaudid and swiped a nip of vodka off the drink cart as soon as they got to cruising altitude.  He hates himself, but he couldn’t bear to sit next to a cheerful and supportive Eric for six hours.  It was all too easy to knock himself unconscious.

“Well,” Eric says, unlocking their door and dumping their bags near the washer.  “I’m due at the rink in a few minutes.  Is there anything you need while I’m out?  Maybe some hot cocoa or one of those yummy paninis from the place on the corner?”

“I’m not a child, Eric,” Jack snaps.

“I never said you were, sweetpea.  But you look miserable, and I don’t know how to fix it.  You know feeding someone is kind of my go-to.”

“It’s not your fault, I just—” Jack groans, clenching his hair with his good hand.  His beard is itchy and his brace is bothering him.  All he wants to do is scratch off his skin until there’s nothing left.  He feels hungover and angry, not a good combination when your boyfriend is just trying to be helpful.

“I’m going to the rink,” Eric says, walking past him to the bedroom to pack up his skate bag.  “When I get back, maybe you’ll have slept off that bad attitude.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack tries, following Eric to their closet.  It’s almost painful to look at, the way their clothes have intermingled, all sense of organization gone.  

“I know you’re hurting, Jack, but that doesn’t give you a right to treat me like crap.”

“Fuck,” Jack mutters, collapsing onto the edge of the bed.  “I know.  I’m awful.”

“You’re not awful, you’re in pain.  You just seem to have forgotten that I’m also a competitive athlete,” Eric says, angrily shoving a leotard and a pair of leggings into his bag.  

“You think this hasn’t happened to me before?  That I haven’t gotten benched before competition?  I’ve dislocated my shoulder six times, Jack,” he says, moving to the dresser to dig through the drawers for gloves and leg warmers.  

“I’ve fractured my feet and ankles more times than I can count, and let’s not even get into bursitis or tendonitis.  But you wouldn’t know about any of that because you only see the result, not the work that went into it.  Now,” he says, zipping his bag without looking at Jack.  “If you’ll excuse me, I have a national competition in a few weeks and that quad lutz isn’t going to land itself.”

The door doesn’t exactly slam in Jack’s face, but it’s a close thing.  After he hears the slide of the deadbolt, the condo falls quiet.  This, Jack thinks, is exactly what it used to be like when he lived alone.  When they lost in the playoffs last year, there was no one for him to come home to, no one to care if Jack needed a day or two to wallow.

How quickly things had changed.  Was it really just six months ago that Eric walked into his life?  Six months ago, Jack was about to pick up a rotisserie chicken at the supermarket.  That was his idea of a big Thanksgiving splurge before he’d ever heard of Eric Bittle or his sweet Southern accent.

He used to be able to handle this—being alone without feeling alone.  Now, in the brightest hour of May sunshine, Jack feels like he’s locked in a tomb.  Stomping into the living room, Jack kicks at his duffle bag, wishing it would throw itself into the washing machine.

With one hand, Jack struggles to pull open the zipper.  Eventually he manages to grab a handful of dirty clothing and toss it in the direction of the washer.  He plunges his hand into the bag and feels around, but he hid the bottle too well.  Jack has to empty the entire thing into the wash before he can find the rolled up pair of socks that hide his meds.

Pulling the bottle free, Jack clutches it in his hand as he heads to the kitchen for a glass of water.  He fills it at the sink, and then places it on the counter next to the bottle.  There are only about ten pills missing, but already the sight makes Jack itch.  He’ll need to ask Scott for a refill tomorrow.  What he has left won’t be enough to make it through the final game.

Staring at the bottle, Jack considers.  He doesn’t have to take them.  Yes, his wrist burns so much he wants to scream, but he could just take the edge off with some Tylenol and lie down.  He could talk to Shitty.  He could Skype Blaire, who he’s only now realizing that he hasn’t spoken to since they’ve gotten back from Hawai’i.  

Jack could do so many things to help himself, but he doesn’t.  

He pops the bottle open with his thumb and shakes four pills onto the counter, ignoring the collection of sweet little sticky notes from Eric that adorn the fridge door.  It’s the same amount he’d taken on the plane, but there’s no alcohol in the house so it’s not as bad, right?  Okay, maybe it’s still bad, but it’s a step in the right direction.  

Picking them up individually with shaking fingers, Jack tosses the pills back.  He considers chewing them, wondering if it will make any difference, but before he can decide if it’s a good idea, he takes a swig of water and sets the glass back down, clutching the edge of the counter with his good hand.  

Fuck.

With his clothes in the laundry and his game day duffel empty, Jack doesn’t know where to hide the bottle.  The medicine cabinet is impossible.  He glances around, but nowhere in the kitchen would be suitable.  Jack never knows when Eric will get the urge to bake, and he has a stepstool so he can reach the highest cabinets.  

Beginning to panic, Jack wonders if maybe he should leave the bottle out—if he should give it to Eric before things get out of hand.  But then he thinks about how much it’s going to hurt to shove his broken wrist into a glove and grip his stick.  They have practice tomorrow, and Jack would at least like to get on the ice and see what he has to do to adjust his gameplay.  

That means he’s going to need the pills.

So he needs to find a good hiding place.  

Though it pains him to admit it, Jack’s first thought is his camera bag.  There’s already six engagement rings tucked into various pockets of the bag.  What’s one more shameful item?

Heading to the bedroom, Jack takes the bag down from the top of the closet and slips the pill bottle into the inner pocket next to the Cartier before returning it to its shelf.  He sits down on the bed and buries his head in his hands.  

Eric would be so ashamed of him.  He’ll never forgive him for this.  Jack has just ruined any chance he ever had at a happy ending with him.  Maybe if he stops now, Eric will never find out.  But he can’t stop now.  He’s already been over this.

He’s arguing with himself now.  It’s crazy.  Jack knows it’s crazy but he can’t stop doing it.  The thoughts go round and round in his head so fast he feels dizzy.

Or maybe he feels dizzy because he’s actually dizzy… and nauseated.  Now he’s definitely dizzy and nauseated and needs to sit down.  

He’s already sitting down.  Maybe he needs to sit down somewhere else.  The bathroom floor sounds like a good spot.  That way, if he needs to throw up, he won’t make a mess.  The last thing he wants to do is let Eric come home to a mess.  That would be a dead giveaway.  Jack never gets sick.  He has an iron stomach—just not today. 

Actually, throwing up might be the answer.  If he’s feeling sick because of the drugs he could just throw up now and Eric would never have to know.  How much of the Dilaudid is still in his system?  What’s the half-life of opioids?  Should he check?  Where is his phone?  No, he definitely doesn’t need to check.  He’s already feeling sick and looking at his phone screen will just make it worse.

Sliding to the tile in the master bath, Jack rests his head against the porcelain and tries to breathe.  His arm doesn’t hurt, but that’s probably only because he’s focused on not hyperventilating.  

How is this his life?  How could he have done this to himself again?  How could he do this to Maman and Papa?  They did so much to help him recover, to set him on the right path—the path that led here, to game seven of the Stanley Cup finals—and this is how he repays them?

As Jack’s breaths start to come closer and closer together and his chest starts to seize, his mind drifts back to Bitty.  Isn’t it funny that running out of air is arousing in a different context?  How many times has Jack been choked or suffocated for fun, and yet now when he can’t manage to catch a deep breath, it’s terrifying.

It’s so funny Jack wants to laugh, but he doesn’t have the air.  Wouldn’t it be ironic to die from oxygen deprivation when there’s no one even holding his nose or covering his mouth?  How many times has Jack asked for his airway to be restricted—literally begged for Eric to choke him until he blacked out—but now that he’s alone with a weight on his chest, his dick is limp in his pants.

Maybe Jack really is wired differently—broken in some way.  Maybe God put him together wrong and he wasn’t meant to be like this.  He died once.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try it again.  It didn’t hurt the last time.  Maybe it would be even easier this time since he knows what it feels like—or doesn’t feel like.  

Jack knows it doesn’t feel like anything at all.  

Suddenly, he has an aching desire to talk to Señor Bun.

Stumbling to his feet, Jack makes his way back to the bedroom and looks around frantically.  Did Eric take him to the rink?  No.  But he did bring him to L.A.  They slept with him in their hotel room last night.  Jack catches himself on the bedroom door frame and slides to his knees, pawing through Bitty’s carry on, finally catching one rough ear between his fingers.

He pulls Señor Bun free and presses the rabbit to his face, inhaling the comforting scent.  It coils in his nose, musty and chemical with an underlying current of Eric.  Taking a deep breath, Jack gags.  His stomach lurches and his chest seizes.

Now he really is going to be sick.

Jack all but runs to the hall bath and falls to his knees.  He presses down on his right hand without thinking about it and just barely catches himself before he can let out a true scream.  The last thing he needs is one of his neighbors sending Leonard up here right now to find him some combination of high and hysterical.

Lifting the lid of the toilet, Jack’s entire body convulses.  He spews bile into the bowl for several minutes, choking himself, before collapsing on the floor.  Unable to catch a breath, Jack gasps until he slips into unconsciousness, still clinging to one of Señor Bun’s tiny arms.

Chapter Text

“Jack?”

“Jack!  Honey, can you hear me?”

“Jack?”

Someone is hovering over him, feeling for his pulse, but his eyelids are too heavy to open.  The voice, however frantic, is familiar, and Jack’s lips turn up ever so slightly when he places it.

It’s Eric.

“You came back,” is all he manages to say before he’s heaving again, retching spittle onto the tile floor.

“What happened, baby?  Are you sick?” Eric asks, rubbing circles on his back as he fights to swallow and clear his airway.  

“No.”  It’s a lie, but it’s a kind one—one Jack has no trouble telling.

“What happened?  You’re sweating.  Is the pain that bad?”

“No,” Jack lies again.  “Panic attack.”  And that much, at least, is the truth.  That wasn’t the result of a few painkillers.  That was a physical manifestation of Jack’s crippling anxiety.  

He reminds himself to take an extra Cymbalta the next morning.  That’s what Blaire would tell him anyway.  The last time they spoke she reminded him he could always go back up to a higher dose during the playoffs and then wean back down afterward.

“I’m sorry, honey.  You could have taken some of your Hydroxyzine.”

“Forgot,” Jack mutters.  Fuck.  Of course he could have taken some Hydroxyzine.  That would have been a better idea than taking extra painkillers.  The combination probably would have put him right to sleep.  “I always forget.”

“Can you walk?  Let’s get you to bed.”

Jack can in fact walk, though his limbs feel slow and heavy.  As he settles back against the pillows, eyes roving over Eric’s concerned face, all Jack can do is echo the same sentiment as earlier.  “You came back.”

“Of course I came back, Jack.  I was always coming back.”

“I… wasn’t sure.”

“Baby,” Eric says, scooting closer to cup his cheek.  “I was always coming back.  I just got mad.  And for the record, anger is not a good skating motivator.  I flubbed every single one of my jumps.  It was so bad Katya sent me home early to ice my behind.”

“I thought maybe you wanted to leave,” Jack admits quietly.  “I wouldn’t blame you, you know.  I was terrible—I’ve been horrible to you the last few days.”

“So what if you have, sweetpea?  Just because we get in a fight every once in a while doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you.  Couples fight.  That doesn’t mean they break up every time someone has a bad day.”

“You were right though, I’ve been selfish.  I haven’t thought about your career at all.”

“You’re in the Stanley Cup finals, Jack.  It’s okay for it to be about you right now.  Over the summer when we travel to my competitions, it’ll be about me.  Right?”

“You still want me to come with you?”

“Jesus Christ on a cracker, Jack.  Yes.  Do you hear me?” he asks, turning Jack’s head until they’re making direct eye contact.  “Yes.  I want you to come with me,” he says slowly, enunciating every word separately.  “I always want you with me.”

“I always want you with me, too,” Jack says, trying to fight the tears back.  “I’m so sorry.”

“What is this really about?” Eric asks, twining their fingers together.  “Is this just how you act when you lose?  Because I’ve seen you lose a game before and it’s never been like this.”

“We didn’t lose,” Jack points out.

“Exactly.  So why are you acting like your daddy just went out back and shot your dog?”

This would be the right moment.  Jack could tell Eric where to find the pills.  He could admit that he’s struggling.  He could ask for help.  

He should ask for help.

He could do all of those things, but then Eric would also find a camera bag full of a half-dozen engagement rings and fuck, Jack cannot handle the thought of that right now.  It’s too embarrassing.  He is such a fucking mess.  Jack’s in no condition to be asking someone to marry him.  

There’s no way Eric could say yes to a lifetime of this.

“I’m just feeling overwhelmed, I guess.”

“You’ve been here before, honey.  You’ve lost here before, even.  You know what it feels like to lose in the playoffs, and you also know it’s not the end of the world.  You’re here again, in the finals, game seven.  You clawed your way through this whole season—through homophobia and prejudice—and you made it.  And guess what?”

“What?” Jack asks morosely.  

“We’re alive.  You and me.  And that wasn’t a given a few months ago.  But we’re still here, still fighting, and I know that you can do this.  You’re so strong and you’ve been playing so well.  There’s nothing holding you back.  It’s just a little pain.  You know how to handle pain.”

“I’m scared.”

“That’s okay.  We can be scared together,” Eric says with a small smile.  “I nearly had a heart attack when you went flying last night.  But you got back up and you skated off the ice by yourself and you’re going to get back in your skates tomorrow at practice because I know you can’t sit and rest.  I know you can’t help yourself.”

“I need to practice—maybe change my grip.”

“I know you do, baby.  It’s exactly what I would do if I were in your shoes.  Which is why I’m not going to lecture you on taking it easy.  I can be a bit of a diva myself, just ask Katya what happened after regionals in 2004,” he laughs.  “This is your shot and you’re going to take it and you’re going to win.”

“What if I don’t?  What if I can’t?”

“You can and you will.  I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Jack shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut.  “If only it were that easy.”

“What else is on your mind, honey?  There’s something you’re not telling me.”

There’s a whole host of things Jack isn’t telling Eric, namely 15 or so small white somethings in a bottle in the closet.  The secret is dirty and shameful and it makes a lump rise in Jack’s throat just thinking about it.  

There is, however, one thing that’s bothering him that he can tell Eric about, so he does.

“I’ve been trying—” he can’t find the words.  It feels wrong to lie about this.  But is it a lie?  It’s certainly true, but it’s just not the truth he should be telling at this exact moment.  Jack decides to say it anyway.  If nothing else, it’s a good cover story.

“You can tell me anything, sugar.  Just take your time.”

Jack takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.  Looking down at their intertwined hands.  Swallowing down the lingering taste of bile in his throat, he says, “I’ve been trying for a while to ask you to marry me.”

Eric inhales quickly, eyes wide.  He’s holding his breath.

“But I don’t know how or when or what to do.  And the pressure… it’s getting to me.”

“I don’t need anything fancy, sweetheart,” Eric assures him, letting out his breath.

“But I wanted it to be special for you.  And everyone knows I’ve been working on something big—the Falcs, Shitty and Lardo, my parents.  Fuck, even Kenny knows I’ve been trying and they just keep asking about it.  My parents have been stalking us on the Internet trying to figure out what I’m planning, and it’s just—it’s too much.  They’re pushing and pushing and I can’t handle it.”

“So don’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t?’”

“Don’t handle it.  I’ll handle it.  You just focus on hockey.  You don’t need to think about it right now,” Eric says, bringing Jack’s knuckles to his lips.  “I can’t believe you’ve been worrying about this.  It doesn’t matter.  You don’t even have to ask.”

“I can’t just not ask.  I had a whole plan.  Well,” Jack amends, “I have like 30 plans and none of them are good but I swear I’m going to come up with a good one eventually and then I’ll ask and it’ll be romantic and special and a good story we can tell Twitter and my parents.”  Jack isn’t sure what he’s more afraid of, the humiliation of bungling a proposal when the entire world is waiting for the photos or the disappointment of his parents if he loses Eric due to his own emotional ineptitude and general idiocy.  

Eric is a celebrity.  People watch his every move—but more than that—after all that he’s been through, Eric deserves it.  He deserves something special.  He deserves everything Jack is capable of giving and more.  It’s shameful that Jack can’t get his shit together long enough to do this properly.

Bitty deserves more than someone who would lie to him like this.  The fact that he’s using his proposal woes as a cover for his drug use is reprehensible.  It makes Jack sick, but he just keeps digging himself a deeper hole.

“I know you like being the new ‘it’ couple.  I want to… live up to the hype.”

“Jack,” Eric says with a sigh.  “You have one more game and your whole season is riding on it.  The trajectory of your whole career, all hinged on just one more game.  You need this.  I know you need to focus.  No flashy proposal story could ever be more important to me than you.  We just need to get you through this.”  

Even sweaty and disheveled from skating practice and the panic Jack just put him through, Eric is beautiful, all cowlicks and pilled spandex.  He’s shaking his head fondly as he twines their fingers together, squeezing Jack’s left hand as tight as he dares.  

Jack has to bite down a sob because he’s a liar.

Bitty is telling him exactly what he wants to hear.  There is no reason for Eric to be comforting him about this right now—not when Jack is committing a much larger crime against their relationship.  The guilt eats at him, but Jack won’t come clean.  Instead, he puts a bland smile on his face and listens to his boyfriend clean up his emotional mess all the while he’s the one that’s wrecking their relationship.   

Heart beating a cruel rhythm in his chest, Jack listens to Bitty’s kind words as his lie breaks them.

“Please don’t add to the pressure.  You don’t need to think about us right now.  Please, please forget about it.  For now, at least.  There will be plenty of time to think about me later.”

Again, Jack speaks, not knowing whether his words are injury or kindness.  They’re undoubtedly true, but they’re all wrong, bitter and flat like bits of apple peel in his mouth.  

“I can’t just stop thinking about you, bud.  You’re literally all I think about besides hockey.  I’ve been wanting to marry you since—well, probably since we met, if I’m being honest.  It shouldn’t be so hard to do the thing that should make me the happiest I’ve ever been.  All I’ve ever wanted is to be with you.”

“You’re sweet, but you’re also ridiculous.  You have a game to win.  You do not need to think about our relationship right now.  I’m not going anywhere.  You’re hyper-fixating on something trivial just because it’s easier than thinking about everything else, but you don’t have to.  It’s going to be alright.  We are going to be alright.  I don’t need a big proposal to promise you that.  I love you.  I’m not going anywhere ,” he says again, just so Jack can hear it twice.

“But—” But Jack has six rings and a bottle of pills in his camera bag and he needs to do something with them.  They’re not just going to cease to exist because his boyfriend tells him not to worry about it.  His parents are making bets about their future and Jack is just using it as a smokescreen to get away with something much more heinous.  

“But nothing,” Eric cuts in.  “I swear,  sometimes you are thicker than a slice of Smith Island cake.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just—I’ll make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal.”

“Pipe down for one minute and I’ll tell you,” Eric says, shaking his head.  “I’m going to fix this.  Are you ready?” 

It shouldn’t be this easy.  

It’s entirely too easy to let Eric think the best of him as he’s doing his worst.  

Jack’s lies just keep piling up and soon there won’t be a camera bag in the universe big enough to hide them all.  There’s no coming back from this.  If Jack had any sense at all he would stop right now—he would come clean—but instead, he answers Eric’s playful question with a forced smile.  

It only takes one simple word to completely devastate them.    

“Yes,” Jack chokes.  

“I’m going to make you a bet.”

“What kind of bet?” Jack asks warily.  

He’s had these types of conversations with Kent before and they usually ended up with one of them naked and doing something indecent, like sprinting through the halls of a hotel or stealing booze off a housekeeping cart.  

“If you win the Stanley Cup on Tuesday, I’ll propose to you.”

“What?”

“I’m taking the pressure off.  It’s officially out of your hands.”

Jack’s brain lurches to a stop.  

“I don’t understand.”

“If you win the Cup,” Eric repeats, slowly, like Jack is a child, “I’ll propose to you.”

Jack stares at him.

“God, it’s like staring at the blue screen when Windows is rebooting,” Bitty mutters.  “Are you okay?  Did you hear me?”

His brain comes back online.  He tilts his head.  

“When?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bitty says, waving his hand dismissively.  “That’s the beauty of it.  It’s my choice.  Not yours.  You’re completely off the hook.  I get to do it.  You know what?  Screw that.  I want to do it.”

“So you just want me to—”

“Play hockey,” Eric finishes.  “Get the little biscuit in the net, sugar.  Just like you always say… easy as pie.”

“You can’t be serious.”

It’s not that simple.  It’s—he can’t—it’s the Stanley Cup final, and his wrist is broken in multiple places.  There’s a brace covering half his arm.  He can’t just get the biscuit in the net.  It’s impossible.  

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Eric asks, narrowing his eyes.  “It’s not fair you should have all the fun anyway.  If you win, I get to propose to you, and you don’t get to say a damn word about it.  I could do it with a parade and a million rainbow balloons if I want to.  If you lose—which I know you won’t because you’re amazing—you can propose to me.  I’ll be your consolation prize.”

“You’re not a consolation prize,” Jack protests.  “I don’t think of you that way.  I’ve never thought of you that way.”  

Eric isn’t a trophy.  Eric is everything.

“I know you don’t, sweetpea.  That’s not the point.  The point is that even if everything goes wrong on Tuesday, one thing will go right.”

“You and me?”

“Engaged either way,” Eric says with a bright smile.

“What about Maman and Papa?”

“What about them, Jack?”

“They’re going to be disappointed in me.  They had such plans.”

“You think they’re going to be upset that you didn’t beat me to the punch, so to speak?”

“ Yes .”

“Well, think about it this way,” Eric says, squeezing his hand.  “If you lose in game seven, at least they’ll be getting a son-in-law out of the deal.  And you’ll have asked me.  You can do it however you want, whenever you want.  I can spin anything into Internet drama.  It’s like my super power.”

“But—”

“—Or you can do nothing at all.  Just tell me when it’s time and I promise I’ll tell the entire world you asked me with a hot air balloon or a skywriter or something.  The most outlandish thing I can think of—whatever that is—I’ll tell them you did that, and it was the most romantic thing in the world and I swooned and we’re engaged now.  I’ll make it fantastic and make sure the whole Twitterverse knows about it.  They can’t possibly argue with that.”

It sounds like a good deal, if Jack is being honest with himself.  It sounds like something he shouldn’t pass up, even as guilt creeps into his belly.  

“You promise?”  

“I promise.”

“I thought you weren’t ready,” Jack says.  It was only two months ago that they stood in the kitchen arguing about prenups and shared bank accounts.  Had Bitty’s heart really caught up to Jack’s while he wasn’t looking?

“I’ve decided that being engaged at 23 isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“I’m 28,” Jack points out.

“Well then,” Eric says, letting out an exasperated laugh.  “We better get moving before you turn into a spinster and adopt a dozen cats.”

“You’re really sure you want to do this?”

“Do I want to spend the rest of my life with you?  Yes.”

Jack’s breath hitches.  He’s never heard Eric lay it out so plainly before.  

“Do I want you to forget about me for two days and bring me home a Stanley Cup?  Absolutely.”

“I think I can do that,” Jack says.  He wiggles his fingers and only feels a twinge in his wrist.  Experimentally, Jack curls his fingers into a fist.  It hurts, but it’s bearable.  Four pills seems to be the sweet spot—maybe six—just to be safe.  “I can do it,” he repeats, starting to believe it himself.

“I know you can, sweetpea,” Eric says, leaning in for a kiss.  “You’re going to be amazing.”

Monday’s practice is brutal.  Scott gives him a shot of cortisone first, but even the needle entering his wrist is enough to have tears welling in his eyes.  He doesn’t have any trouble getting another bottle of pills out of him with that look of utter anguish on his face.  Scott practically forces them into his hand, telling him to remember to keep icing it even if it isn’t hurting.

As practice goes on, it becomes clear to Jack that a simple change in grip isn’t going to cut it.  His wrist is wrapped and stabilized under his glove, but he still gets a sharp jab of pain every time he wraps his fingers around his stick.  When the puck hits his tape, Jack gasps.  The guys don’t go easy on him and the Kings definitely won’t, so Jack doesn’t say anything, he just breathes through his nose and tries his best to keep a straight face whenever he takes a shot.  

He works with Poots until he’s sure the kid can handle a few faceoffs and save Jack’s wrist from utter disaster.  Marty whispers reassurances to him in Quebecois and rubs his shoulders, and in return, Jack puts on a brave face and shows Poots exactly what he’ll have to do against the King’s forward.  

The kid is too nervous.  He’s a walking, talking faceoff violation, but he’s trying.  What they end up with—it’s not great, but Jack hopes it’ll work.  If Poots is unsuccessful at the first puck drop, Jack will step back into the circle.  He’ll try to be careful, but it’s likely his wrist will pay the price.

Even as they finish up for the day and Jack gets a pat on the back and a pep talk from each of the coaches, Jack knows the level he’s playing at right now will never be enough.  When everyone else has gone back to the locker room for a shower, Jack grabs a five-pound weight from the gym and slides it onto the ice.  Turning his stick around, he moves the weight back and forth, rolling his wrist with every change in direction.  

It’s excruciating, but Jack thinks it will help.  He can’t rely on his core strength and the shift in his hips to keep control of the puck.  His hips are bruised and aching as it is and they won’t be able to take the strain if he continues on the way the Coach Tingle directed.  With every move of the weight, Jack grits his teeth and digs deep.  

Use the pain, he keeps reminding himself.  That’s what Eric suggested.  Push through and use it.  Tell yourself it’s working and it will.  Fight your way through it.  It’s what Papa would do.

He does drills for another ten minutes, takes shots at an open goal until his fingers start to tingle and burn, and then he goes back to the weight, sliding it back and forth, back and forth, and then switching hands and trying it that way.  It feels better, but even Jack isn’t good enough to play left-handed.  His aim will be off and he can’t afford that in the seventh game of the series.  He’ll have to play normally and just suck it up.

“Hey, Zimmboni!” Tater calls from the hallway.  “Practice over.”

“Five more minutes,” Jack yells, setting his jaw as he grips his stick even tighter.

“No.  No more minutes.  You need rest now.”

“Fuck,” Jack mutters.  

Tater is already heading toward him.  It doesn’t matter that he’s not in skates anymore, Alexei would have no problem throwing Jack over his shoulder and carrying him to the shower.

“You’re playing very good for wrist hurting so much.  Everyone saying this.  Not needing more practice.  I drag you if you don’t stop now.”

“I’m coming,” Jack calls back, leaning down to retrieve the weight and skating back with his shoulders slumped low.

“This not good for you, Zimmboni,” he says, patting Jack on the shoulder as gently as he can.

It’s so soft in fact, that Jack has to look up to make sure it’s really Alexei.  But it’s him—all six foot, five inches of him—looking down at Jack with a frown, his expression so thoughtful it makes Jack’s eyes water again.

“Why you do this to yourself?” he asks, shaking his head.  “You push hard, you break wrist, you push harder?  This not good.”

“I know, I just—”

“No,” Tater says, voice cold.  “Tiny baker waiting for you in locker room.  You go let him wrap you in blankets and kiss face, yes?”

“Alright, Alexei.  You win.”

“You say like it is so hard to let Itty Bitty love you.  Should be easiest thing in the world.”

“I know.”

They walk in thoughtful silence for a minute before Tater speaks again.

“You know what hardest part of hockey?”

“Goaltending?” Jack asks, because he honestly believes Snowy to be the most important player on their team.  He knows he wouldn’t be able to block even half the shots that Snowy does.  They’re lucky to have him and Jack doesn’t say so nearly enough.

“The ice,” Tater says, laughing so hard he doubles over.  “The ice is hardest part!”

“It should be,” Jack breathes, following Tater back into the locker room to change.  “It really should be.”

But it never is. 

Chapter Text

It’s worse than Jack expects.  

The first period is brutal, fighting through every shift, hearing his bones creak every time he moves.  They’d shot up his wrist with cortisone before the game, but it wasn’t enough.  His whole arm feels like it’s on fire and if it gets any worse, he’s not even going to be able to hold his stick, let alone make a shot.  The painkillers aren’t doing enough to dull the sharpness that makes his breath catch in his throat.  A double dose that morning had barely put a dent in it, and the extra few he’d taken before the game only served to make him feel heavy and groggy.  He has to skate twice as hard to get half as far.  

Just before they head out for the last period, Jack makes his move.  Ducking into his cubby, he quickly reaches into the bottom of his gym bag and discreetly opens the pill bottle.  It’s a practiced movement.  Jack can get the safety caps open with one hand, he’s done it so many times.  Without looking, he tilts the bottle into his empty hand and snaps the lid shut.  He doesn’t even check to see how many tablets have made it into his palm before he’s tossing them back and swallowing them dry.  

He raises his head and glances around, relieved to see that no one is looking at him.  Reaching into his cubby for another towel to wipe his nose with, Jack’s hand brushes the plastic wrap that held his pre-game sandwich.  His fingers catch the edge of Bitty’s sticky note and he flinches at the sensation.  Jack doesn’t need to look at it again to remember what it said.

You inspire me!

Love, B.

Digging deep, Jack rolls his shoulders, tightens his core to force himself to his feet, and drags himself back toward the ice.

When he makes it to the bench, he grabs his water bottle and drains half of it in one go, washing away the bitter aftertaste of the pills.  Snowy sits to his right, head ducked low, a damp towel over his head to help him cool off.  Tater has a bandage on his forehead covering the stitches he got during the last break.  It’s been a long road to get here.  Everyone is nursing injuries.  Just because Jack can feel the bones grinding together in his wrist doesn’t mean he’s special.  

It’s nothing he hasn’t played through before when the occasion called for it.  It’s nothing his father or Uncle Mario or Uncle Wayne haven’t done a hundred times.  It’s what everyone has done since the inception of the NHL.  You play through the pain.  You keep your head down and you push and push until you feel like you’re about to collapse and then you push some more. 

Professional sports are about endurance and grit, and this is the pinnacle of that long-standing tradition.  You only get to the Stanley Cup final if you’re at the top of your game, the best of the best, the elite.  Of course, Jack is going to grin and bear it.  It’s what any professional would do.  It’s what any captain would do in his position.  

It’s what his father did four fucking times.

There’s just 20 minutes left—then it will all be over.  No matter what happens, win or lose, in 20 minutes he’ll be able to ice his wrist and get a hug and a kiss from Bitty.  Jack’s back aches and his hips scream with every stride, but he only has to make it twenty more minutes and then he can rest.  

This is everything he’s worked toward his entire life.  His team is fighting tooth and nail, taking hits and penalties for him at every turn.  Thirdy has been in the box more than he’s been out of it, just to keep the D men off Jack’s back.  

He’s had so many chances, but every time he takes a shot, hot pain zings up his arm and he has to grit his teeth to keep from dropping his stick.  They’re tired and broken, but they’re hungry.  They’re not beaten yet.  All it would take is one good shot, one solid wrister, and then the rest of his men could step in and do their job protecting their lead.  

As Jack takes the ice, he forgets to lead with his left hand.  When he presses down on the boards to vault himself over, he gasps in pain as his weight comes down on his right wrist.  Immediately he’s doing math, deciding how many minutes it will take before the painkillers kick in and he’ll be able to push through the burn that radiates from his glove.  

Every shift is harder than the last.  As soon as he gets the puck, he needs to pass it.  Jack can’t afford to get checked right now.  One wrong move and his fracture will turn into an open break that even Bad Bob wouldn’t be able to play through.  The clock ticks down and Jack starts to worry that they’ll be heading into overtime.  

Snowy has played an amazing game—blocked a truly alarming number of shots.  Jack saw him drop into a split for one save like it didn’t hurt at all even though he knows Snowy pulled his groin three games ago.  Every stretch must be agonizing for him, but if he can do it, so can Jack.  He takes comfort in the fact that the rest of his team are probably in just as much pain as he is and no one has thrown in the towel yet.

Finally, with three minutes to go, Thirdy is out of the box and pulling one of the Kings’ goons off his back with a smooth but brutal hip check.  Poots passes to Marty, who slips it behind to Jack easy as pie and miraculously, he sees his shot.  One deke, a quick spin around number 43, and then a little flick of a wrister into the net.  

As he lines it up, he knows for a fact that it will go in.  There’s no one blocking him.  The Kings’ defense is crumbling now that Thirdy is back defending with Tater.  There’s no way Anderson will ever see it coming, no way he’ll be able to stop it in time.

In the moments before the puck leaves his tape, Jack can see it clear as day.  Bitty meeting him on the ice, Jack spinning him around in the air and indulging in a public kiss.  Bitty getting down on one knee, revealing a ring.  What makes him smile—what makes his entire body vibrate with joy is that not once during the entire game did Jack worry that Bitty might not follow through on his promise.  

As Jack watches the puck sail across the ice, he realizes what Bitty must have known all along.

Even if he loses, Bitty will propose to him anyway.  

Of course Bitty would propose to him anyway.  He’d do anything for Jack, anything to make him happy.  The moment Jack said he was getting proposal anxiety, he should have known that Bitty would take the lead.  It’s what he’s done every time Jack hasn’t been able to follow through.  

He should have known that it would end like this, with Eric taking the reins and leading him exactly where he wants to be.  All he has ever had to do was ask. 

The biscuit glides past the line into the net, easy as pie.  Immediately, Jack is surrounded by his teammates, being hugged and slapped, congratulated from all angles.  The crowd screeching in his ears is loud enough to make his stomach queasy, the vibrations of it forcing him to swallow down roiling nausea.

The last minute ticks down and the Kings pull their goalie.  This is it.  All they have to do is hold on to their lead and the Cup is theirs.  Tater slams Smith into the boards right as Marty whips the puck to him.  The pain—the shock of it is so acute Jack freezes for a second before remembering there’s still hockey to be played.  

He races down the ice, dekes past the defender, and sails the puck into the empty net.  When the klaxon sounds, Jack doubles over, panting into his knees.  Raising his head, he spins in a circle, face split into a wild grin.  Before Jack can locate his family in the crowd, he’s airborne.  His stomach lurches as Tater all but tosses him into the air, only to catch him around the knees.  For a moment, Jack is convinced he’s going to land on his face, but then Marty and Thirdy are by his sides, stabilizing him.  

After a few moments he’s put down and in a startling display of organization, the crowd parts and Jack finally lays eyes on Bitty.  As graceful as ever, Eric runs forward, barely slipping at all until Jack gets his arms around him, lifting him and spinning in a circle, powered by sheer joy.  Their lips meet, and Jack can taste the peppermint on Eric’s breath.  It brings a smile to his face, knowing that somehow, Bitty knew this was coming and had prepared for its inevitability.  

Bitty had done everything in his power to make this moment perfect for Jack.

They kiss for long moments, smiling and laughing into each other’s mouths as teammates and coaches skate by to pat him on the back.  Jack can feel the cameras on them, but refuses to be cowed.  Who cares who’s watching?  This is Jack’s moment, what he’s been working his entire life to achieve, and this is how he wants to celebrate it—buried in the embrace of his partner.  

Eventually, the crowd pressing in on them becomes intrusive and Jack has to pull away, setting Bitty down gently on the ice.  The cameras spin, pointing Jack toward his parents, who he embraces with tears in his eyes.  

“Brilliant job, mon fils,” Papa says, cupping his face in his hands.  “A hat trick in the Stanley Cup final?  Game 7?  With a broken wrist?  That’s just showing off, don’t you think?”

“I learned from the best,” Jack says with a lopsided smile.  

Papa pushes up on his tiptoes to offer Jack a kiss on the forehead.  It’s a benediction—a blessing, one Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever experience.  As soon as he’s released, Maman is in his arms, kissing his cheeks and forehead, beaming.  She smells like lavender and home, and Jack takes a moment to breathe it in, to bask in all the ways this belongs to him and no one else.

“We’re so proud of you, mon ange,” Maman says, squeezing him tightly before releasing him.  “There’s a few more people here that want a hug,” she adds, stepping aside to reveal Mama and his Samwell crew.  

He takes a few minutes to hug them all, accepting their praise and congratulations.  Shitty goes in for a kiss, but Jack dodges it, letting Shitty’s moustache buss his cheek instead.  He’s not deterred though—merely grips Jack by the elbows and lifts himself up to mimic Papa and kiss him on the forehead.  

It becomes a thing after that, Lardo follows suit on her tiptoes and then Tater joins in and soon a line forms, each of his teammates offering a quick line of thanks or praise before pecking him on the forehead.  Georgia does so with tears in her eyes, overcome with pride and joy.  With cameras shooting from every angle, Jack has to wonder how soon the entire thing is going to become a meme.  Bitty has probably already tweeted about it.

As soon as he’s gotten firm handshakes and hugs from the coaching staff, it’s time for the Conn Smythe to be awarded.  Apparently, no one in the world is surprised to hear Jack’s name being called but him.  He stands there asking, “What?  What did they say?” until someone pushes him forward and it all becomes clear.

The trophy is bigger than he imagined.  He was too small to remember the last time his father got this honor.  When the official hands it over, Jack marvels at the large maple leaf and shiny wooden steps of the base.  Hoisting it over his head, Jack’s wrist twinges painfully, but he ignores it in favor of bowing and listening to the applause.  

Coach Tingle skates forward and Jack passes it off.  It’s amazing, a huge honor, but there’s a different trophy Jack has his eye on and it’s coming through the tunnel right now.  

He smells the pyrotechnics before the Cup even makes it to the red carpet.  Sparks flash and fire explodes as the Cup is brought to the same podium.  He doesn’t even hear any of what’s being said.  All Jack can do is stare at the shiny metal and imagine what it will feel like to hold it in his hands.

When the Hall of Fame representative calls his name, Jack swears time stands still.  All the noise is sucked out of the stadium like a vacuum and there’s nothing but him, sweaty and shaking, passing his gloves off to his father and accepting all 34.5 pounds of silver into his bare hands.  He can’t even feel his wrist as he hoists the Cup, all pain has left him.  If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d say he’d left his body behind completely.  

He’s transcended.

It takes him a minute to regroup, but eventually, he pushes off, taking a slow lap around the rink with the trophy over his head.  His vision is blurry, but as he tries to blink the fuzziness away, he realizes that he’s crying.  

As long as he lives, Jack will never forget what it feels like, the heft of it, the weight of his success.  Even as he carries it, he knows that as soon as he passes it off, the weight of a million expectations, thousands of missed shots, hundreds of murmured insults, will all lift from him.  

He’s finally done it.

Without hesitation, Jack skates back to his team and offers the Cup to Marty.  Snowy will understand.  Marty, Jack’s captain, his confidant, his father figure on and off the ice, has been waiting for this moment since the Falconers were first franchised.  Within seconds, Bitty is by his side, cold, slim fingers slipping into his, and the two of them fall silent, taking it all in.  

Once everyone has had a turn with the Cup, they pass it back to Jack who whispers conspiratorially to Tater.  As quickly as they can, they each grab one of Papa’s arms and launch him into the air.  When it becomes glaringly apparent that they cannot lift him high enough to hover over the Cup, Jack takes matters into his own hands, ducking down to slip an arm under his father’s legs and hoist him skyward.

“I guess I had this coming,” Papa laughs as the cameras flash all around them.  

“I think you’ll have to endure it at least once more, Papa,” Jack says, grinning widely.  “I’m not done.  I don’t think I’ll ever be done with feeling like this.”  He looks over to Bitty, who is filming the whole thing on his phone, and waits for a thumbs up before setting his father back down on the ice.

“This is only the beginning,” Papa says, clapping Jack on the back.  He pushes Jack forward toward Bitty and takes the phone from Eric’s hand when it’s offered.

Jack isn’t sure he’s ever seen Eric willingly give up his phone.  It’s been glued to his hand since he started his recovery in the hospital.  Tilting his head, Jack narrows his eyes.  

“What’s going on?” he asks, and his question is quickly answered.

Right there, at center ice, right next to the Stanley Cup, Eric drops to one knee.  

Jack’s eyes go wide.  He knew this was coming.  He knew it.  Eric said he would do it, but he didn’t say when or how.  Jack should have known it would have been here and now.  He’s been thinking about proposing for months, buying ring after ring, fretting over the spectacle of it all, of who would be watching and what they would think if he bungled it, but none of it matters because Eric is down on the ice looking at Jack like he’s Olympic gold.  

He should feel guilty about this, but he doesn’t.  It’s selfish and wrong to make Eric do this, but he doesn’t care.  It may have been Jack’s lie that brought about this moment, but the how and why cease to matter when Jack realizes he’s about to get everything he ever wanted all in one day.

There’s no room in Jack’s heart for regret or self-loathing, not when the love of his life is kneeling on the ice next to his Stanley Cup—his first Stanley Cup.  

His smile is wide and honest because the heart-wrenching anxiety has vanished.  All the pills Jack took and all the lies he told disappear from his conscience.  He can’t feel guilty when everything is turning out exactly as it should.  

Eric is about to lay his heart at Jack’s feet and all he has to do is accept it.  Jack gets to be a spectator in this.  He won the bet, fair and square.  He won the Cup, so it’s not Jack that has to do the asking, it’s Eric—tender, devoted, luminous Eric. 

In this moment, with sweat drying his hair salty and crisp and Dilaudid swimming through his veins, Jack is positive that there is no partner in the world more perfect for him than Eric Richard Bittle.  

Eric keeps his promises.  He said he would take the burden off Jack so he could focus on hockey, and he did.  Eric’s selflessness is always astounding.  

He said it himself. 

Forget about me for two days and bring me home a Stanley Cup.   

And Jack did.  

He forgot all about Eric.  

But Eric didn’t forget about him.  Eric will never forget about him.  Whatever Jack does, whatever mistakes he makes or sins he commits, Eric is always right there with his sweet words and soothing drawl to help him put the pieces back in place.  

Bitty is about to take Jack’s mess and turn it into something beautiful, and Jack is going to let him.  

It’s such a relief he could sing. 

“I had this whole speech prepared,” Eric says in a rush.  “I even tried to learn it in French, but I couldn’t get the pronunciation right and it sounded better in English anyway.  It was sappy and romantic as all get out and probably would have made you cry, but seeing as how I’m already in tears and you’ve been crying for the last twenty minutes, maybe we should just skip all that and cut to the chase.”

Jack laughs.  It’s loud and bright and so full of joy he feels like there’s a balloon filling his chest.  But Eric looks so distraught, he catches himself.  If it were him, he wouldn’t want to do this part alone.  Ignoring the cameras that have circled them, Jack gives Eric a reassuring smile and slides to his knees to meet him.

“Oh Lord, I was supposed to be the only one down here,” Eric says, quickly wiping his palms under his eyes.  “I was subverting gay stereotypes!”

“I’m with you,” Jack says easily, reaching out to touch Eric’s arm.  “In this and in everything.  You’ll never be alone again.  I promise you.”

“I—you—” Eric mutters, face reddening as the tears finally overwhelm him.  “You’re not making this easy, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Would it be better if I stood back up?” Jack offers, a smile still playing around his lips.  

“Just sit there quietly and let me do this,” Eric says, taking a deep breath and shaking his hands out.  He exhales and raises his eyes, licking his lips before trying again.  “I know you’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, and I’ve been putting you off.  But I just—I just need you to know how much it means to me—how you were so sure.  Right from the beginning, even when I was lying through my teeth—you knew we would get here.  Before you even knew the real me, you were so sure that one day we’d be here, so in love, promising ourselves to each other.”

Biting down on his lip, Bitty shoves his hand in his pocket and comes back with a ring.  It’s silver, classic, unadorned.  It’s simple, old-fashioned, something Jack would be proud to wear.  His mind comes to a halt staring at it, imagining it on his finger, a solid representation of how much Jack is loved.  

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Bitty says, sniffling.  “I’ve been loving you a long time, and you’ve been so patient waiting for me to be ready to show you just how much.  So please, take this ring and say you’ll be my husband.”

“I love you, too,” Jack says, eyes itching with tears.  “I can’t wait to be your husband.”

With shaking hands, Eric reaches for Jack’s hand and slips the ring onto his finger.  His left hand, even if it’s just an engagement ring, his right is too banged up.  He smiles looking at it and then brings Jack’s hand to his mouth to press a kiss to the metal.

“There’s just one problem with this,” Bitty says, smirking.

“What?” Jack asks, ready to do whatever is necessary to make the moment perfect for Eric.

“You’re not kissing me.”

Without any hesitation, Jack wraps his arms around Eric’s neck and captures his mouth.  He can hear whistles and shouting, but doesn’t pay the crowd any attention.  Jack has one singular purpose, and that’s making sure Eric knows exactly how happy he is.  

Bitty melts against him, accepting his tongue and sucking on his lips.  It’s wet and probably looks obscene, but Jack can’t bring himself to care.  They kiss and kiss until Eric has a fist clenched in his jersey and pulls him in to lean their foreheads together.

“You’re making me indecent, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty whispers against his lips.  

“I’m not sure I care.”

“Everyone is watching.”

“Good,” Jack replies, surging forward to capture Bitty’s lips again.  He takes his time, sinking into the experience, cataloguing every detail.  By the time he’s done mapping out Eric’s mouth, he’s memorized the feel of Eric’s skin on his palm, the indescribable scent of the ice mixed with Jack’s sweat-drenched jersey, and the taste of mint on Eric’s tongue.  It all melds together into one perfect moment in time that Jack knows he’ll never forget.

He can’t hear anything besides Bitty panting into his mouth, the soft sound of fabric bunching in Bitty’s hand.  They might as well be the only two people in the world, but as the minutes tick by, Jack realizes that the sudden hush was short-lived.  Now there are excited mutters peppered with wolf whistles and reporters shouting over each other, eager to get the first quote.  

They won’t be able to stay like this forever.  Bitty is in jeans and he’s probably freezing, dampness from the ice seeping through the fabric to his skin.  He knows it can’t last, but Jack still breaks away slowly, giving Eric a few more lingering kisses, making sure they’re just as memorable as the first one they shared in the kitchen just after Jack wiped the chocolate from Eric’s skin.

With one more press of the lips, Jack pulls back to find that Eric still has his eyes closed, chin tipped to up accept whatever else Jack wants to give.  He can’t help himself, Jack has to duck down and press a kiss to that cute little upturned nose and one last one to his forehead.  Jack takes a minute there to breathe, inhaling the sweet smell of Bitty’s skin, pressing in close for one last embrace before they have to face the press.  

“They’ve been watching for a while.  You think they learned something?” Jack jokes into Eric’s ear, eliciting a happy giggle.  

They’re peppered with questions so loud that Jack can’t pick one out to answer.  Thankfully Eric is there, holding his hand, providing a unified front and a media-ready smile.  “Of course he said yes!” Jack hears him reply, though he didn’t even catch the question. 

“There was no way I would have ever turned him down,” Jack adds, happy to find some words that don’t sound too idiotic.

“Did you ask Bad Bob’s permission?” someone calls.

“I’m a good Southern gentleman, of course I asked permission,” Bitty says with a smile.  “Both Papa and Maman approve, don’t they, sugar?”

“I asked his mother first,” Jack points out, wanting to set the record straight.

“He’s right,” Eric agrees, eyeing him with mirth in his smile.  “This boy has been itching to marry me for six months.”

“Longer than that,” Jack mutters, mostly to Eric, but if the laugh he gets is any indication, the microphones have picked him up.  

“You don’t just spring a proposal on a man after two months, Mister Zimmermann.”

“You do if you’re sure.”

“Well,” Bitty says, fondly exasperated, “I can’t argue with that, sweetpea.”

“When do you plan to have the wedding?  Where will it be?” someone asks, and Jack smiles.  This is something he not only knows the answer to, but is determined not to share.  

“I have somewhere in mind,” Jack says slyly, not giving too much away.

“Oh you do, do you?” Bitty teases, squeezing his hand, even though he must know exactly what Jack is thinking of.  

Their happy place.

“Absolutely,” Jack insists.  “It’ll take some planning though, so probably not this year.  Maybe after the playoffs next year.”

Bitty eyes him suspiciously, but agrees for the sake of the press at least.  “Sounds good to me.  That’ll give me plenty of time to plan the menu.  I’m thinking tropical.  Lots of citrus.”

“Now,” Jack says, a hand pressed gently to Bitty’s back, turning them toward the exit.  “If you don’t mind, I think it’s time we got to celebrating.”

Chapter Text

Giving the Samwell boys his keys and letting them set up the party ahead of them was a fantastic idea because Jack can already hear the bass thumping from the lobby.  Things are in full swing in the hallway before he even gets to their door—couples pressed up against walls, groups of people escaping the noise inside to talk and drink their beers.  When he finally makes it inside with the Cup, all hell breaks loose.  Before he’s fully aware of what’s happening, a crowd of people push in behind him and multiple bottles of champagne are being poured into his prize.

“Jack Motherfucking Zimmermann!” Shitty crows, fists full of novelty straws.  He drops them into the waiting Cup and Jack stares for a moment, fascinated by the way they bob and float in the fizzy liquid.  “Your day has come, my great Canadian Adonis!”

Smiling broadly, Jack ducks his head and takes one of the straws into his mouth before sucking.  He tries to pretend the straws in his peripheral vision don’t have penis-shaped mouth pieces while he chugs, delighting in the sensation as cool liquid rushes into his empty stomach.  It bubbles and churns inside him, but isn’t unpleasant.  It’s dry, not the cheap stuff that was sprayed all over him earlier, and to Jack, it feels like a culmination of everything he’s ever worked for.  

Today, the alcohol tastes like victory.

He chugs some more, allowing Shitty and Holster to raise his hands in triumphant fists over his head while they chant.  Bitty giggles just to his side, but then he’s led to the Cup as well, and soon his face swims in front of Jack’s as he joins him for a drink.  Several flashes blind them as photos are taken, but Jack can’t keep the grin off his face.  When they break for breath, he pulls Bitty in by the collar of his Zimmermann jersey and ravages him.  

This is it.  This is what he’s been waiting for his entire life.  He’s out.  He’s a Stanley Cup champion.  He’s engaged to the love of his life.  Everyone is in their home, watching him show his affection for this beautiful, caring, amazing person who loves him.  There’s a ring on his finger, the weight unfamiliar, but comforting.  It rubs against his skin in just the right way.  

It’s everything Jack could have hoped for.  

To his left  he hears Kenny whoop and Tater scream over the din, “See!  I been saying tiny baker is good looking kisser!  You have kiss for Tater, Itty Bitty?”

“No!” Jack breaks away to yell.  His head is already spinning.  He can barely tell what direction the voices of his friends are coming from.  

Eric buries his face in Jack’s throat and laughs, his whole body shaking with it.  “These lips are spoken for, Mashkov!” he calls when he’s done hiding his blush.  With a triumphant smile, Eric takes Jack's left hand and raises it into the air, palm facing in so everyone in the immediate vicinity can see his engagement ring.  

Now it’s Jack’s turn to blush.  He’s never been shown off before in quite this way.  Sure,  he’s been groped and prodded and used as arm candy a thousand times over the years, but it’s nothing compared to the look of sheer pride on Eric’s face.  This man chose him, loves him, decided he was the one he was going to show off for the rest of his life.  It’s too good to be true.  

It’s everything.  

He’s dragged into the kitchen and squirms as Ransom and Holster hold him down on the counter.  Everyone takes a turn doing body shots off of him, the liquor dripping, sticky and sweet down his stomach and into his waistband.  Then Bitty’s there, plunging his tongue into Jack’s mouth, chasing a lime wedge, tasting him.  They’re pulled apart and Jack gets a shower, a combination of tequila and vodka making it into his mouth, open wide with shock.

Jack drags a damp kitchen towel over his beard and down his chest as soon as he’s free, vision blurring as he makes his way to standing.  He’s about to wipe the alcohol from the hollow of his throat, but before he manages it, Eric is there, tracing the syrupy lines with his tongue.  It’s two more rounds of shots before he’s free to leave the kitchen for the living room.

One of the SMH boys gets a hold of the stereo, and then it’s a ten-minute salute to Bitty’s love of Beyoncé.  Ransom and Tater end up lifting Eric up in the air and acting as his backup dancers for a particularly memorable rendition of Single Ladies .  Jack tries to take a video, but his fingers fumble on his phone, clumsy and loose.  By the time they’re finished, Jack has a beer in his hand and has only managed to take several blurry selfies.  

Time goes by in a blissful whirlwind of back slaps, selfies, and keg stands.  Bitty disappears and before Jack knows it he’s being handed a plate of piping hot apple maple pie complete with what he knows to be freshly whipped vanilla cream.  A hush falls over the entire apartment for a few minutes as everyone enjoys Eric’s baking only to be broken by Shitty getting hold of a megaphone and announcing Bitty the “Sexiest Peach Ever to Roll Out of Georgia” amid raucous cheers.  

Jack feels hazy and light.  His wrist barely hurts at all.  Actually, it’s safe to say he has completely forgotten he has hands at all by the time 2 a.m. rolls around.  Everything has settled into a pleasant hum in the back of his mind, mellow and warm.

Barely anyone has left.  Their condo is still packed to the gills with hockey players and friends and dozens of people Jack barely recognizes.  There’s a giant inflatable duck that keeps bouncing around the living room and everywhere Jack looks there are shirtless men eating pie.  The sheer ridiculousness of it all makes him smile and keep on smiling as someone offers him the Cup again only to find that it’s been filled with a revolting concoction of Bitty’s cherry pie and what might be vodka.  There’s definitely grenadine involved because the entire mess is an unnatural shade of cherry red.

Someone hands him a spoon and he goes to town while Bitty shrieks beside him.  “Y’all!  You can’t just do that to a perfectly good pie!  It’s felonious!  I should kick y’all out of here right now for sullying the Cup like that!”

“Bitty Bits!” Shitty crows from the kitchen where he’s holding a tub of ice cream with a penis straw sticking out.  “Think of it this way… I bet yours is the only pie to have ever been eaten out of the Stanley Cup!  It’s momentous!  Historic, even!  Martha Stewart would die for this honor!”

“I suppose,” Bitty allows, arms crossed and frowning.  

Jack wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and swallows down one last mouthful of the syrupy sweet alcohol.  If he thinks too long about how chunky it was going down he knows it’ll come right back up, so instead, he does the only thing he has any desire to do in that moment and pulls Eric in for a kiss.

“Lord, but you taste disgusting,” Bitty comments, but doesn’t pull away.  “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Still want to marry me?” Jack says, dropping his voice low in Bitty’s ear.  He swallows down a wave of nausea.

“You bet your sweet hockey ass, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric says against his sticky lips.  

“I think you mean Bittle-Zimmermann,” Jack says, and his voice sounds odd even to his own ears, slow and stilted, like he’s struggling with the pronunciation of his own name.

“That is a mouthful.  I’m still not sure I like it,” Bitty says, swaying into Jack’s body.  “Let’s save this conversation for when we’re both sober,” he laughs, pulling Jack in even closer.  

They kiss for a few minutes, basking in the novelty of it all.  Jack has never had this many people in his home, has definitely never kissed someone in front of as many people as he did at center ice after Bitty’s proposal.  What used to be their little secret has exploded into a public display for millions of people.  It should be overwhelming, but it isn’t.  All Jack cares about is the feel of Eric in his arms, against his skin.  

Minutes go by, but it could be hours.  Jack’s head is spinning and every time he sees the Cup out of the corner of his eye, it looks more and more like a great vomit receptacle.  What’s worse?  Pooping in the Cup, or vomiting in it?  He ponders this for what feels like forever, swallowing down the nausea that threatens to overtake him.

A familiar, mellow song comes on and Jack wraps himself around Eric, swaying to the beat.  Resting his scruffy cheek on the top of Eric’s blond head, he hums the tune under his breath, letting it move him.  The strings swell and repeat so often that Jack finds he’s losing time, his mind spinning over and over the same few words.  

To be with you is easy

I know you're good for me

This feeling inside me

Oh it sends me sky high

Jack lets the lyrics wash over him, easing him into slow, syrupy contentment.  It's like the space he slips into when they make love, all warmth and praise.  He could stay here all night, Bitty snuggled against him, exactly where he wants to be.  Running the pad of his thumb over his engagement ring, Jack floats, swimming through the music like it’s visible liquid, the current rippling around him. 

When the chorus comes around, he mouths the words against Bitty’s hair, a small smile gracing his lips.  “You’re good for me, my baby.  So good for me, my love,” he chants, low and clear.  His voice is an octave or two lower than the track, but it feels good rumbling out of his throat.  Taking deep breaths, Jack inhales the scent of Bitty’s shampoo, already looking forward to shaving his playoff beard so he can feel everything properly against his skin.  

He opens his eyes and sees Kent watching him, forehead pinched, mouth set in a frown.  Without thinking, Jack keeps mouthing the words, not for Kenny specifically, but for himself, for Eric.  “You’re good for me, my baby,” he sings, voice cracking when Bitty shifts to smile up at him.  

Jack’s eyes flick between Kent and Eric, marveling at their contrasting expressions.  He’s never noticed before, but they don’t look dissimilar.  The eyes, however, are so different it’s startling.  When Jack looks at Eric, he sees honey brown adoration and comfort.  Eric looks at him, and Jack feels warm.  He feels loved.  

When his eyes flick back to Kent as the song winds down, he sees something sharp there, the grey-green hurt and accusatory, but somehow also predatory.  It’s hunger disguised by indifference, and it makes a chill run through Jack.  

Eager to break the connection, Jack turns, spinning Bitty in his arms so he can face the opposite direction.  He can’t see the man, but somehow he can still feel Kent’s eyes on him.  It’s unsettling, but Jack doesn’t know why.  The pleasant trance he had sunken into has shattered and he wants to get it back.  Looking down, Jack sees Bitty, feels his fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt to cool his overheated skin.  Jack drowns in the sensation, focusing on it, letting it overwhelm him.

The music changes yet again and with Bitty pressed against his front, it’s easy to let Eric rock him to the beat.  He’s never been much of a dancer, but Bitty more than makes up for his lack of rhythm.  The song changes and the entire room starts jumping and singing along.  

It’s easy for Jack to lose himself like this, to let Eric move him and turn him and shout lyrics into his ear.  Suddenly, the volume is turned up and the crowd is just as riotous as when they first arrived.  Everyone is acting like they haven’t been drinking and partying for hours, like their muscles aren’t screaming in protest, like their heads aren’t fuzzy, their tongues aren’t dry.  

Songs keep playing, familiar ones that have the blood thrumming in Jack’s body, the sweat building at his lower back.  His limbs feel loose and heavy, like they’re dragging him down to the floor.  He thinks maybe the fatigue from the game is finally catching up to him.

Eric plasters himself to Jack’s back and before long a familiar hardness starts rubbing against his ass.  Hands creep around his waist and separate, settling high on his thighs, pulling him back into Eric’s body.  

Hot breath hits Jack’s ear followed quickly by Bitty’s tongue flicking that sensitive spot on his neck.  “I never trust a playboy, but they love me,” he recites, low and breathy in Jack’s ear.  It sounds out of sync with the music, like it’s being relayed to him from outer space.

It’s at that exact moment that Jack realizes why the music is so familiar, why he knows every song.  Someone is using Bitty’s laptop and they’ve put on his Night Mix.  That night mix.  The one Bitty plays when he’s planning something special in the bedroom.  

Jack swallows thickly, throat convulsing.  Suddenly, he feels lightheaded, and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the blood rushing south as Eric palms the front of his pants.  

His eyes search the room, but every time he manages to focus on something—Ransom and Holster grinding, Kenny talking animatedly with Tater, Shitty parading around in nothing but a pair of Jack’s underwear—it all blurs again.  He’s hot, too hot.  There’s sweat dripping down his face, pooling in the hollows of his chest.  His palms feel wet, so much so that he leans down to wipe them on his knees.  The motion only serves to push his ass back into Eric’s now-full erection.  Jack’s blushing, but at the same time, he feels himself get hard in response.  

“They say I did something bad, but why’s it feel so good?” Bitty sings in his ear, oblivious to Jack’s growing distress.  “Fuck baby,” he coos, pressing his cheek to Jack’s shoulder.  “You feel amazing.  I could come in my pants right now, you’re so hot.”

Jack nods and mumbles an affirmative noise before turning in his arms.  If he can feel himself getting hard, he’s pretty sure it has to be obvious to everyone else in the room too.

“It just felt so good, good,” Bitty echoes in his ear as Jack pulls him in close.  “Oh my God, Jack,” he says brightly as soon as their bodies come into contact.  “You feel huge.  Is that for me, honey?”

“Ouais,” Jack mutters, hiding his blushing face in Eric’s neck.  “Pour toi, mon lapin.”  It’s comfortable.  His head feels heavy, like it could sink into Eric’s shoulder and he wouldn’t be able to lift it again. 

“Oh fuck,” Eric replies, hands sliding down Jack’s back to his ass.  “I swear I’m going to really learn French soon so I can make you feel like I do right now, sugar.”

“I already feel pretty good,” Jack admits, letting his head loll to the beat of the music for a few breaths.  “Floaty and good.”

“How’s your hand feeling, sweetpea?” Eric asks, ducking down so he can speak directly into Jack’s ear.

“Fine,” he replies, a slow smile spreading across his face.  “Good even.”

“That’s good,” Eric purrs, “because I have some plans for you later.”

“Oh?” Jack teases, running his nose up Eric’s throat.  It’s a little sloppy and uncoordinated, but Eric doesn’t seem to mind.

“Something that might have you gripping the headboard and cursing in French.”

“Merde,” Jack groans as Bitty bites down on his throat while taking a shameless grab of Jack’s ass with both hands and grinding forward.  When Jack’s eyes flutter back open, they lock on Kenny’s face.  A flash of something like anger bleeds into a disapproving frown.

“Yeah, just like that baby.  I bet I could make you come right here,” Eric says, low and menacing in Jack’s ear.  

A shiver runs down Jack’s spine as he’s gripped tight by his left wrist and turned around, all thoughts of Kent forgotten.  There it is again, an insistent pressure at the swell of his ass—just a few layers of fabric draw the line between propriety and pornography.  For want of a pair of jeans and athletic shorts, Eric could be rubbing against his hole right now, breaching him, owning him.  

If he had any sense of self-preservation, Jack would take him by the hand and lead Eric to their bedroom.  Instead, he’s frozen, caught between Bitty’s erection and his tight grip, strung up like a piece of artwork on display—and he knows exactly who’s looking. 

It feels incredible, but filthy.  There’s a mouth on his neck, teeth sharp and bright against his skin, hands achingly close to his trapped erection, and Bitty’s own length, hot and hard, thrusting against him relentlessly.  Between bites and licks, Eric whispers lyrics into his ear, sultry and slow.

“You can touch me with slow hands, speed it up, baby, make me sweat.”  Eric’s teeth cut through the fog in his brain, bringing him back to the present.

Jack’s eyelids flutter as he takes it all in, the heat, the hardness of Bitty’s chest against his back, how the room seems to spin even though they’re barely moving.  When he looks up, he can see Tater shouting over the music at Kenny, who looks murderous, eyes locked just over Jack’s shoulder.

“And if I had it my way, I would take you deep,” Eric sings, barely a whisper in his ear.  It’s accompanied by a hard, jack rabbit thrust of his hips, one Jack can feel in his bones.  The action is deliberate, like Eric’s trying to make a point, but Jack’s mind is so hazy he has no idea what it could be.

The heat coils in his stomach.  This is it.  He’s going to come in his pants with barely a touch—make a complete idiot out of himself in front of all these people.  It’ll be too obvious to hide.  There will be nothing he can do about it.  Jack’s head swims with the shame of it all, the heat that floods his chest and rushes up his throat.  He might be sick.

Before he can get any words out, Eric is spinning him again, pressing their erections together, grinding into him.  It feels too good.  It feels incredible, like balancing on the edge of a blade, primed to fall into oblivion.  Too far one way, and Jack thinks he might throw up on his shoes, but too far the other way and he’ll be making a different kind of mess.

“Fuck,” Bitty mutters.  “You’re really worked up, aren’t you?”

Jack squeezes his eyes closed even tighter.  This can’t be happening.  He’s going to open his eyes and their living room will be empty.   It’ll just be him and Eric and the music, and they’ll be free to fuck on the floor and be as loud as they want.  They’ll be able to celebrate properly—alone.

“I know I’ve said I’d never want to share you,” Eric is saying, “but I have to say there’s something amazing about bringing you to the edge like this where anyone could see.  You’re just so eager for it, aren’t you?”

“Eric,” Jack groans, biting down hard on his lip.  “Don’t—”

“—of course not, sweetheart,” he says, soothing him with pets up and down his bare forearms.  “I just like knowing how close you are, how needy I can make you.”  He grinds hard, pulling Jack in by his ass, squeezing so tight it’s just shy of painful.

“Fuck, Eric,” he grinds out, taking a deep breath through his nose, trying desperately to hold on.  “I can’t—”

“—I’m sorry, honey,” Eric says, pulling away slightly.  His tone is off, just shy of sincere.  “I’m getting a little carried away, aren’t I?  We should cool off a bit.  Lord, but there’s so many people watching, I didn’t realize…”   

Jack’s eyes fly open to confirm Eric’s words and the first thing he sees is Kenny, those unreadable grey-green eyes wide and questioning—hurt.  And just like that, Jack is transported back, back, back . 

He’s sixteen and a lightweight.  The room is spinning, but there’s a steadying hand on his waist, slipping into his sweats, grabbing hold of his soft cock.  The party is full, and the lights are dim, but anyone could see.  “Come on, Zimms,” Jack hears in his ear, sharp and just on the wrong side of teasing, “get hard for me.”

He’s home for holiday break and Kenny has come to stay with the Zimmermanns.  They’re sharing Jack’s room, but the inflatable mattress on the floor has gone unused, cold and deflated like Jack feels.  The red wine his parents served with Christmas dinner has gone to his head and he can’t find the words to protest when Kent’s dick bumps against his closed lips, sticky and insistent.  “Fuck but you look good with a dick in your mouth,” he’s whispering, hand balanced on the wall above the bed so Jack’s parents won’t hear the bed squeak.  “Take it, Jack.  Take it.”

He’s seventeen and should know better.  He’s had a hard day—takes the emergency pills he swore he wouldn’t take until he got a new bottle, shares a liter of vodka with Kenny in their hotel room after the game and blacks out in the middle again.  He comes to with Kenny inside him, face down, panting and shaking into a stale pillow.  This can’t keep happening.  He can’t do this.  It can’t happen again.  It won’t.

He’s chasing Kent through a hotel, giddy and giggling, high off their Memorial Cup win.  They stumble down the hall, stopping every few feet to kiss against the wall or share a swig from the bottle of whiskey that’s hanging loosely from Jack’s fingers.  When they make it to their room, all but slamming into the door, it takes Kenny three tries to unlock it.  The lights are dimmed, and when Jack’s eyes adjust, he sees there are already two girls inside, stripped down to their underwear, waiting in his bed.

He’s balls deep in someone he couldn’t name if his life depended on it.  To his left, Kenny is getting a blow job from an overenthusiastic blonde.  Kent is in heaven, eyes rolled up in the back of his head, hands yanking the girl down by the hair.  Jack feels like he’s going to be sick.  The girl chokes as Kenny bottoms out and Jack swears he can feel it in his throat, the breath knocked out of him, stomach clenching.  He pulls out, to his partner’s protest, and runs to the bathroom to retch in the sink, not even making it to the toilet.  The room spins and he’s lost again.

When Jack comes to, he’s on his back on the ground, familiar faces swimming in and out of focus in front of him.  His stomach lurches, so he closes his eyes and tries to focus on what he can hear instead.  It’s a jumble of sounds, but one thing is clear.  

Everyone is angry.

“I swear to God, Parson, if you don’t get your hands off him right this min—”

“—this has happened before!  I know what to do!  Just let me—I’m trying to feel his—Quit jostling him arou—”

“Hands off!” 

“Tater, get everybody out.”

“—Shit, man!  Turn the music off, yeah?”

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?  Or his doctor, at least?  Georgia?  His parents?  Someone?”

“No, don’t you dare,” someone says.  “The last thing he needs is this getting out to the press.”  It’s Bitty.  That must be Bitty.  Bitty knows him.  That’s exactly what Jack would say if he could open his lips.

As soon as he thinks the words, his stomach tenses and sour liquid fills his mouth.  

“On his side!  On his side!” someone shouts as Jack empties his stomach onto his living room rug.

“It’s okay honey,” Eric says, rubbing circles into his back.  “Just let it all out and then we’ll get you some water.”

“Why is he so sweaty?”

“How much has he had?”       

“He’s a grown man at his first Cup Party, Parson.  Lay off.”

“A lot, but not that much, I don’t think.  I know he doesn’t usually drink, but this is a little extreme, isn’t it?” Jack thinks that must be Snowy.  It’s hard to tell, though.  Everyone’s voice sounds distorted, like they’re on a platform while his train whizzes by.

“Is that all he’s had?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did the team doctor give him anything for his hand?”

“He wouldn’t have taken anything.  He said he wouldn’t take anything.  He promised me—”

“—if it meant a Stanley Cup, he would have,” that’s Kent again.  Even through the fog, it’s easy to pick out his voice—Kent’s anger is a familiar sound.  As much as Jack hates to admit it to himself, it’s the sound of past experience and it’s almost reassuring given the circumstances.  At least he doesn’t have to admit what he’s done to Eric now.  Kenny has done that for him.

“Jack, honey,” Eric’s voice is back, close to his ear, soft accent clear as a bell.  “Did you take any pills today?  You’re shaking like a leaf and you’re pale and sweating and I’m thinking maybe you do need a doctor.  Sweetheart?  Can you hear me?”

“He needs to go to the hospital.  I’m not letting you wait it out.  Move,” Kenny says, and then there are hands moving him, an arm sliding under his head.  Jack tries to squirm away, curls into a ball away from the familiar touch, but his stomach spasms and he swallows down more bile.  

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Bitty growls, slapping Kent away.  Jack can’t help but sigh in relief and arch into his warmth.  All he wants right now is his bed and Eric.  

“Jesus Bitty, lay off.  I’ve seen this before.  I know him.  I know what happened.  I know what to do now .”  

“I don’t care how much you think you know him, Kent Parson,” Eric says, brokering no room for argument.  “He is my fiancé and this is our home and if you touch him one more time, I will break your fucking arm, I swear to God.”

“Don’t test him, brah.  He’ll do it,” Jack’s eyes flutter open for a second to see Shitty hovering over him protectively, an arm outstretched to block Kent.  “It’s Eric’s house and he asked you to go.  So I think it’s time for you to go.  Rans?  Holtzy?”

“Get your fucking hands off me!  I’m not letting him die again.  I can’t!  You can’t do this!  Please!”

“He’s not going to die.  I’m going to take care of him.”

“Please!  You don’t understand!  He needs a doctor.  I can help—”

“—you’ve helped enough.”

“Come now, kotik.  This not place for you anymore.  Is Bitty’s job.  Bitty’s right.”

“Fuck off, Mashkov!  I just want to—”

“—this isn’t about what you want.  You lost any right you had to him a long time ago.  Now GET OUT!”

“If he—If he dies… I will fucking kill you.”

“Eric says out—you out.”

“Get your fucking hands off me!  I’m going.  I’m out.  I’m out!”  

The room goes silent for a few moments and then Jack hears rustling fabric and the clear sound of the front slamming shut.  

“I help, yes?” Tater asks, and Jack can hear Bitty mutter “please,” before he’s lifted from the ground.  

Jack’s stomach churns and he squeezes his eyes closed as tightly as he can, trying to hold off the nausea.  It’s only a few seconds before he’s being set down on his cool sheets.  They feel like heaven against his skin, but they quickly warm and become damp and clammy.

“You good?” Tater asks, putting a gentle hand on Jack’s wrist and squeezing once before releasing it.  “I clear out hall.  Check for people,” he says before striding off, already yelling that the party is over.

“Shitty?  I need supplies,” Bitty says before rattling off a list.

Shitty is also gone in a flash leaving Jack alone with Eric.  Jack’s vision is swimming, fading in and out with every blink, but the look on Bitty’s face says it all.  There’s worry there, of course—Eric loves him—but there’s also disappointment and resignation.  

“I’m sorry,” Jack manages to say before the tears start to fall.  

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Jack says, like it makes a difference.  A lie of omission is still a lie.  “I should have.”

“Yes.  You should have.”

“I’m sorry.”

The silence stretches out so long Jack thinks this may be it.  This is when Bitty leaves him.  

“Please,” he sobs, voice cracking.  “Please say something.”

“I could fucking kill you,” Eric says, voice like iron.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you lied to me or sorry you took the drugs, Jack?” he snaps.

“Both.  Both!  God, I’m so fucking sorry.  You trusted me and I lied to you.  I hate myself for that.”

“You could have talked to me.  You could have talked to anyone, and instead you took pills…” 

“Yes.  I needed something to play.  It was hurting so much I thought I wouldn’t be able to shoot, so I took some before practice and before the game and even more during our breaks.  By the time we got home, my head was already floating.  It was like swimming underwater.”

“And then you decided it would be a great idea to wash all that down with copious amounts of alcohol?  You said champagne was okay.  Just a little bit on special occasions!  I trusted you!  I trusted you to know your limits, and you hid this from me!  I thought maybe you were having more than you should, but it’s your Cup party and I didn’t want to stop you from having a good time.”

“It’s not your fault—”

“I should have seen this!  I should have seen this coming,” Bitty says, ignoring him.  “I can’t believe I trusted you.”  He falls quiet, resigned.

“I’m sorry,” Jack tries again.  

“Sorry isn’t good enough, Jack.  Not today.  Not for this,” Eric says, shaking his head.  

Jack’s blood turns cold.  Eric can’t be breaking up with him.  He just said they were a team.  He just proposed!  Jack didn’t even get to be his fiancé for twelve hours before he wrecked it.

Shitty returns then, carrying a trash can which he unloads onto the bedside table.  There’s water and Gatorade, clean towels, and an unopened box of crackers.  He pauses to put the empty can near Jack’s head and then ducks back out of the room saying, “One more thing.”

A few seconds later, he’s back, kicking the door open wide with his sneaker and depositing the Stanley Cup in the corner of the room where Jack can have a good view of it, clean and smelling strongly of disinfectant.  

In a few steps, he’s near the bed, clutching Jack’s ankle and squeezing tight.  “You’re gonna be okay, Jack.  We got the crowd out as soon as you went down.  No one got photos and I don’t think anyone will say anything.  We’ll take care of the mess out there.  Just get some rest.”

“Thanks, Shits,” Jack mutters, not feeling okay at all.  As soon as he’s out the door, Jack is retching into the trash can.  Eric reaches for him, but he flinches away.  He doesn’t deserve Bitty’s comforting touch—not anymore. 

“Are we even now?  Is that what this is?  I lie to you and almost die, so you lie to me and nearly kill yourself?  Is this a game or something—because I’d really like to stop playing.” His voice breaks.  He’s fighting back tears.  “Tell me we’re fucking even, Jack.  Please.  Tell me we’re fucking even so we can stop doing this to each other.”  Eric is barely whispering when he asks again, “Are we even?”

Jack has the good sense not to answer.  There’s no right answer to that question.  Silence stretches out between them.  Jack’s stomach roils with shame.

“I’m going to call Blaire,” Bitty says, not looking back as he heads for the door.  

This is it, Jack thinks.  He’s finally found the line—the point at which he isn’t worth the trouble anymore.   

Eric is leaving him.  He’s really doing it.  Eric is calling Blaire and she’ll tell him to drop Jack off at the hospital and then Eric is going to leave.  Jack vomits into the trash can again, shaking all over.

When he thinks his stomach is empty, Jack rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling, willing it to stop spinning.  How could he have fucked up so badly?  How could he have ruined what should have been one of the best days of his life?  

He just hadn't wanted to make a fuss.  If he had told anyone how badly it hurt, they could have taken him out of the game.  They could have lost.  Jack might have missed it, his one shot at redeeming himself.  

If he had sat on the bench and they had lost, he would have never forgiven himself.  If he had sat on the bench and they had won, it wouldn’t have felt like he earned it.  It would have been a hollow victory, just another thing for the media to harp on.  All he was thinking about was himself and his career, not about Eric—nothing about Eric.   

“Jack?” his voice calls from the doorway.  

“Bitty?  You’re still here?”

“I told you, I just had to call Blaire.  How do you feel?”

“Horrible,” Jack admits, though it’s more emotional than physical at this point.  “You can leave now if you want.  Just leave me here.  I deserve it.”  He starts to cry.

“Shh, shh, baby, it’s okay,” Eric says, closing the door behind him and reaching for Jack’s hand.  “Your pulse and your breathing are fine and you threw up most of your alcohol, so you’ll be feeling better in no time.  Blaire told me what to watch out for.  I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m such an idiot.  How could I fuck up this day for us?  We were so happy.  I was so happy and I just ruined everything.”

“This was just one thing that happened today, Jack,” Eric says, rubbing soothing circles on his back.  “I know it seems like it’s the only thing you’re going to remember, but it was just one thing.  Today you played some of the best hockey I’ve ever seen.  You won your first Stanley Cup and you said you would marry me.  Those are all incredible things.  They don’t disappear just because you made a mistake.”

Jack can’t look up—he doesn’t deserve the concern that’s probably written all over Eric’s face.  “I’m so sorry,” he sobs.

Eric makes a shushing noise and comes closer.  

Jack turns his face away, hiding in the damp sheets.

“Lord, I know, baby.  I know you are,” Eric says, sitting down by Jack’s hip and brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead.  “Why didn’t you tell me?  I could have helped you.  I could have… watched better.  I could have stopped you.  God, I gave you your fucking hydroxyzine this morning.  I handed you the fucking pills, Jack.  I should have known better!  I should have known something was wrong.”

“I didn’t want you to have to do that.  You’re not my mother.”  Fuck.  His mother.  Maman and Papa.  They’ll be so disappointed.

“No,” Eric says, squeezing Jack’s hand until Jack finally meets his gaze.  “I’m the man you’re going to marry.  I’m your partner.  We are in this together.  100 percent of the time.  If you need me to help you, I will.  If you need me to keep alcohol out of this house, I will.  If you need me to get on Skype with Blaire and count your pills, I will.  If you need me to go out there and clean your puke up off the floor, I fucking will, because I love you.  And nothing you do is ever going to change that.”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Jack muses, eyes falling shut in shame.  “I liked it better the other way around.”

“Well, that’s just too damn bad, Mister Zimmermann.  If you didn’t want a lecture, you shouldn’t have lied to me.”

“I know.  You’re right.”

“Why did you do it?”

Jack can’t answer that.  It’s not that he doesn’t know the answer, but that he’s ashamed of it.  How can he tell Eric, sweet, beautiful, patient Eric, that he was willing to trade his sobriety for a Stanley Cup?  It’s horrible, but it’s the truth.  He thought he couldn’t win without the pills.  It’s a different decade, but the same argument, the same fear and self-doubt.

“I thought I could handle it,” Jack settles on.  It’s not a lie, but it’s not everything.  “I thought I could push through.”

“You let them prescribe you pain killers when you knew how they would affect you.  You talked to that new trainer, didn’t you?  Scott.  I thought—I can’t believe I gave that man a plate of Moomaw’s snickerdoodles!” Eric shouts to the ceiling.

He huffs out a breath and composes himself.  “You—you didn’t tell him about your history.  You just let him give you the pills.”

“Yes,” Jack admits.  Once an addict, always an addict.  It’s always been far too easy to lie his way into a fix.  “I did.”

“And then you took more than you were supposed to,” Eric says.  It’s not a question.  He already knows the answer.  “And then you took more Cymbalta and more hydroxyzine, too.  I can’t believe I didn’t notice.  You were passed out on the floor two days ago, Jack.  You said you had a panic attack and I believed you!  I believed you,” he says again, quietly, to himself.

Jack wants to say he’s sorry again but isn’t sure how many times he can say the words before they lose all meaning.  

“Were you—” he starts, but can’t find the words.  Dragging Jack’s knuckles up to his lips, Eric whispers, “Were you trying to kill yourself, Jack?”

“No,” Jack assures him quickly, eyes flashing open.  “No.  I wasn’t.  I was just scared.  I’m still scared.”

“Scared of what, baby?”

“Losing?  Losing the game—losing you—”

“You won the game, Jack.”

“But I didn’t think I would.  I didn’t think I could without the pills.  My hand hurt so much and I thought I needed something to play.”

“You’ve been hurt before and you didn’t take pills then.  What made it different this time?”

“The stakes were too high,” Jack sighs.  “I couldn’t lose in the playoffs.  Not again.  The boys deserved a Cup.  I couldn’t disappoint them—or my father. ”  He rubs his eyes with his free hand.

“You’ve been working up to this for a while, haven’t you?  With the champagne and the stress… I should have noticed earlier.”

“This is not your fault, bud.  It’s all mine.”

“I just let you do this to yourself.  I watched it happen.”

“No you didn’t,” Jack says, voice firm.  “I didn’t let you see what I was doing.  You didn’t know the worst of it.  I hid it from you and I’m so, so sorry.  If you couldn’t trust me anymore—I’d understand.  If you don’t want to marry me—”

“For fuck’s sake, Jack.  I’m.  Not.  Leaving.  You.  Don’t even think about it.”

“It’s all I could think about, when I woke up on the bathroom floor—that I’d ruined everything.  As soon as I swallowed the pills… I knew I’d lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me and you’re not going to lose me.  I promise you.  We can do this together.  We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?”    

“Have we?” Jack asks honestly.  This certainly feels like rock-bottom to him.

“My homelessness, my accident, my father, fuck, my mother even,” Bitty lists off easily, “you stood by me every second of it all.  I’m not going anywhere.  We can do this.  I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good.  That’s settled.  How do you feel now?” Eric asks, biting his bottom lip.

“Miserable… I scared you,” Jack says, honing in on the quaver in Eric’s voice.  “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are, and we can talk about how you’re going to work on fixing it with Blaire in the morning, but let’s get one thing clear, you did not ruin this day.  Today you made me the happiest man in the world.  I am so proud of you.”

“Really?”

“Of course I am,” Eric says, shaking his head.  “You worked so hard and you fought like crazy and you earned that big ‘ol hunk of silver over there.  And I know you’re going to do it again and again until you break your daddy’s record, because you’re just that good.”

“That’s four more Stanley Cups, Bits.  I’m already too old for this.  I’m not sure my hips can take that kind of abuse.”

“They can and they will,” Eric says with a smile and a kiss to Jack’s knuckles.  “You’ve just got to promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Next time you get one of these,” he says, gesturing to the Cup in the corner, “there’s only going to be apple cider in it.  I’m talking to Georgia and putting it in your contract.  No more champagne baths for you, Mister.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Jack wakes up to find Bitty sitting in bed next to him, wide awake, eyes sunken and bloodshot.  “Did you sleep at all?”

“I had to watch your breathing,” Eric says with a yawn.  “Blaire said the most common overdose deaths are due to respiratory failure and your breathing got so slow when you fell asleep I had to keep a hand on your chest just to make sure you were alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says again, though he’s becoming more and more sure that it will never be enough.

“I know you are, sweetpea.  And I’m not that mad anymore.  I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“You’re allowed to be mad, bud.”

“You weren’t mad when I lied about being homeless.  You slept by my bedside and held my hand and you prayed for me.  So that’s what I did for you.”

“You prayed?”

“Of course I fucking prayed, Jack.  Just because I haven’t been going to church lately doesn’t mean I don’t think God owes me a few favors.”

Jack chuckles darkly.  He looks down at his hand and finds that his ring is gone, but as he raises his eyes, he sees that Eric is already holding it out for him.

“Your fingers swelled up a little bit and I didn’t want it to get stuck,” he offers, sliding it back onto Jack’s finger.

“It’s beautiful,” is all Jack can think to say.  After all the trouble he went through choosing rings, it’s now clear that Eric would have loved anything.  Jack knows he would’ve taken a pretzel last night if it’s what Eric decided to slip on his finger.

“I’m glad you like it.  Your daddy helped me pick it out.”

“He helped me, too.  I can’t believe he was playing both sides.”

“So you have a ring for me then?” Bitty asks, trying to play it cool.  

“I have six,” Jack laughs.  It sounds so ridiculous he can’t help himself.

“Six?” Bitty asks, mouth hanging open.

“Do you want to pick one?”

“I don’t know… why don’t I just wear all of them?” Eric suggests, rolling his eyes.

“If that’s what you want, you’re welcome to, but I think you might want to get a look at them first,” Jack says, hoisting himself off the bed and steadying his wobbly legs on the bedside table before reaching into the top of their closet with his good arm.

He retrieves his camera bag and pulls out each of the six boxes, laying them in a row atop the bed.  “I couldn’t decide,” Jack tells him, smiling when he sees how wide Eric’s eyes have grown.  “I’d buy one and it wouldn’t seem good enough, or I’d look at one and think it looked ridiculous and then I’d buy another and another and it just kept happening.”

Eric looks like he wants to take one, but is holding himself back, so Jack reaches for the first box and opens it himself, turning it toward him.  It’s the first one he bought from Tiffany’s, the four carat marquise cut.  

“Oh my God,” Eric gasps as soon as he sees it.  “Jack.  This must have cost you a fortune.”

“It was… fairly expensive,” Jack admits warily.  “But not the most expensive one.”

“Which one is the most expensive one?” Bitty asks before he can stop himself.  

Jack reaches for the Harry Winston box and opens it.  “Papa and I went shopping for this one.”

“Holy shit,” Eric says, taking the box from his hand.  “This is gigantic!”

“It’s like 8 or 10 carats or something, I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember?” Eric squeals.  “Oh my God!  You are so ridiculous.  We are definitely returning that one.”

“If you want,” Jack says carefully.  It’s not his favorite, but he thought it was quite nice.  The cluster of large diamonds would look nice on Eric.  He thinks they’re princess cut, or maybe radiant.  They all started to blur together after a while.  

“What about this one?” Eric asks, pointing at the fourth box at random.

“Maman took me to Cartier.”

“Of course she did.”

“She was much more restrained than Papa, at least,” Jack says, opening the box to show Eric a gigantic pear shaped solitaire surrounded by a halo.  He conveniently fails to mention that the main stone is probably the biggest of them all.  Jack’s favorite part is the series of tiny micropáve stones around the thin band.  It sparkles like crazy.

“It’s gorgeous,” Eric breathes, taking this one out of the box and sliding it onto his finger.  “But I couldn’t possibly,” he says, tugging it back off after he’s taken a second to admire it.

“You can have them all if you want, I don’t mind.  Switch them out every once in a while, whatever makes you happy.”

“I can’t keep six engagement rings, Jack.  There’s probably a million dollars sitting here,” he says, waving his hand toward the ring boxes.

“Not really,” Jack says.  He hasn’t been keeping track, but if it’s half a million, he’d be surprised.  “How about this one?” he asks, opening the box from Kauai.  “There aren’t even any stones on this one.”

“Where did you get this?” Eric asks, bringing the wooden band up to inspect it.  “It’s so shiny!”

“Our first morning in Kauai,” Jack says with a smile.  “I was staring at this one,” he adds, knocking one knuckle into the Tiffany’s box, “and thought maybe it was too much.”

“It’s not too much,” Eric protests and then thinks better of it.  “Well, it is a lot.  But they’re all so beautiful.  It’s hard to choose.”

“There’s two more,” Jack points out.  “How about this one?” 

It’s the one he ordered online, a men’s band this time, one that looks like it’s cut from stone with a rift down the middle exposing small chunks of geode.

“Wow,” Eric says, taking it from him.  “That’s so awesome.  I’ve never seen a ring like this before.  Where did you get it?”

“I don’t even know,” Jack admits.  “Some website called Ebby?”

“Etsy?  You looked through Etsy for this?”

“I don’t even remember doing it.  I think I was just in an engagement haze at that point.”

“What about the last one?”

“Lardo told me I should get back to basics—find something simple.  So I got this,” he says, giving Eric the vintage ring with the green glass surrounded by fake diamonds.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Jack says.  “Even if you don’t want it as your engagement ring, keep it anyway as a birthday present.  It only cost like $20.”

“I think I will, then,” Eric says with a smile, slipping it onto his right hand.  It’s actually too small for his ring finger, but it looks quite nice on his pointer, so that’s where it stays.  “Now about the rest of these… how am I going to choose?  Which one is your favorite?”

“Oh no, I am not picking.  It was your idea to take the pressure off me.  You get to decide.  I don’t care.  Take a poll on Twitter if you have to, just leave me out of it.”

That’s exactly what Eric does.  He takes a photo of each ring and puts them together with the caption “Only the best fiancé in the world buys you five rings and lets you decide.  Help a boy choose? ”

His mentions explode and he spends the better part of the morning taking photos of each ring on his finger from a variety of angles to appease his fans.  Mama calls and lectures him about accepting extravagant gifts, but Jack is glad to see how giddy the whole process has made Eric.  After what Jack pulled yesterday, he’s lucky Eric hasn’t kicked him out of the condo.  

Maman and Papa call as well, but Jack doesn’t pick up.  He’s still feeling achy and sick to his stomach and doesn’t know if he’ll be able to admit to his parents what he did.  His wrist burns almost as bad as his shame.  Every time Jack looks at it, he starts to itch.  He has several missed calls and texts from Kent and Tater, but he ignores those as well.  The only person he thinks could possibly understand besides Eric is Shitty, and Jack knows that if he’s going to make that call, there’s one he should really make first.

“Jack?” Blaire’s voice says, echoing in his ear after the first ring.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine now,” he says, voice cracking.  “I’m sorry.”  Jack is so glad he called instead of Skyping.  He’s not sure he’d be able to face Blaire’s non-judgmental expression right now.

“Don’t apologize to me.  Relapses happen.  What’s really important is how we proceed from here,” she says, matter-of-factly.  “Do you feel like you want to drink or abuse drugs right now?”

“No,” Jack says.  His wrist hurts is excruciating, but it’s nothing compared to how sick and out of control he felt yesterday.  He never wants to feel that way again—and he definitely doesn’t want to disappoint Bitty or his parents again.  “I feel gross,” he says, scratching his beard and frowning when it feels crusty, “but not like I want to use.”

“Good.  Have you learned your lesson from this slip?  You want to commit to being sober again?”

“Yes,” Jack says firmly.  “Yes.  Absolutely.  I never want this to happen again.”

“Okay then,” Blaire says, voice softening, but still serious.  “First things first: I want you to go back up to the 60mg of Cymbalta tomorrow.  Three of the 20mg pills.  Eric told me you were already taking two.”

Jack groans internally.

“I know the sexual side effects are a problem for you and Eric, and once we get you stable again we’ll look into different options, but the weaning process is clearly dangerous for you and we can’t take that chance right away.  These drugs take six to eight weeks to build up in your body so it could take a year for us to test you on multiple things and find the right one for you.  The summer break is a good time for us to try, but if we don’t hit the right one first, the process could run into your next season.  What do you want to do?”

“I’ll take more of the Cymbalta for now,” Jack says, heaving a heavy sigh.  “I’m not sure sex with Eric is going to be on the table for a while anyway.  I really messed up and he might not want more intimacy until he can trust me again.”

“I understand.  This will take time to heal, but it will heal, Jack,” she says firmly.  “In addition to the Cymbalta and Buspar I’m also thinking it might be good to try you on a beta-blocker for acute performance anxiety.”

Jack coughs.  “I don’t think anxiety is the—uh—problem with my—uh—performance?  It’s the Cymbalta, isn’t it?”

“Not sexual performance.  I meant your games and dealing with the press.  The things that tend to trigger you.  They’re not habit-forming and generally have mild side effects.  Probably just some nausea, if anything.  I know you don’t want to risk having a panic attack during an interview, and I’m sure there’s going to be a lot of interviews about this.  The beta-blocker slows your heart rate down.  So it should help you from getting worked up, but let me know if you feel faint or dizzy.”

“I’ll try it,” Jack agrees, even though four active prescriptions seems like a bit much.  “How do I take it?”

“An hour before you have an interview.  We’ll try the lowest dose first.  This will be in place of the hydroxyzine, okay?  I noticed using that as a rescue med wasn’t working for you.  If you need help remembering to take this, I’ll go over it with Eric as well.  Think of it like preparing.  If you’re going over cue cards or memorizing a statement before an interview, take one then.”

“Okay.  That sounds good.”    

“Good.  Next—we’re going to have to make some changes in your treatment plan.  I don’t like that this happened when we hadn’t spoken in weeks.  You’ve been avoiding my calls.  I don’t think that was a coincidence.  Do you?”

“Maybe not,” Jack admits.  Even if he hadn’t wanted to admit his struggles to Bitty, he should have at least called Blaire.  It’s her job to support him. 

“I think it’s a good idea for us to make a standing appointment.  Make it a habit.  Don’t only call me when you’re having a problem.  That makes it a lot easier for you to put it off and let things build up.  Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Jack says warily.  It sounds like a punishment, but he’s trying not to see it that way.  It’s preventative care.  Surely he could do a bit of emotional maintenance—make his sobriety a priority—for him and for Eric.  

“I don’t want you to have to call me before and after every game, that will get a little too cumbersome, but I think making a weekly appointment is a good idea, if not twice weekly.  And if you don’t call me, I’m coming after you.  Literally.”

“How about Friday mornings?  After my run?”

“Does 7 a.m. work?  I can make you the first appointment of my day.  And the same on Monday morning as well, at least at first.  That way you get a good start to the week and we can check in before the weekend.”

“That would be great, thank you.”

“I’ll block off an hour, but I’ll try not to schedule anyone else at 8, just in case.  How about that?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Jack,” Blaire cuts in, voice firm, “you’re worth it.  Your sobriety is worth it.  To me and to you and to everyone that cares about you.  We can make sure this never happens again, but we need to be diligent about it.  Okay?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Jack says, letting out a breath.  Routine has always been good for him.  It had been an oversight on his part to not make a standing appointment with Blaire in the first place.  Relying on himself to decide when it was necessary to call her was a mistake.

“I need to monitor your medications closely as well, so twice a week is best.  Now, there’s something else I want you to consider.”

“What’s that?” Jack asks when she falls silent.

“I think you might want to do some joint sessions with Eric, but I also think it might be a good idea to join a support group.  Either for you and him separately, or for the both of you.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” Jack says, immediately feeling tension in his chest.  “The press will be all over it.  Someone could have already leaked something about the party last night.  I don’t even know who was there—who saw what.”  He should really have called Georgia first.  This whole thing is going to spiral out of control before he gets the chance to sort out his feelings about it.

“I want you to stop right there and think about what you’re saying,” Blaire says, voice softening.  “A few months ago you were telling me that you wanted to go public with your history, and now you’re sweeping it all under the rug?”

“That was before I—”

“A relapse isn’t a failure, Jack.  You won a Stanley Cup last night, and yes, you weren’t sober when you did it, but you still did it.  You had your reasons, and they weren’t necessarily good ones, but you’re making an even bigger mistake now if you keep carrying on like this.  Do you know what I’m hearing?”

Jack can’t answer.  He doesn’t want to.  He’s too ashamed to even think about it.

“You think you should be embarrassed—that this setback is something to be ashamed of.  But I’ve got news for you… it isn’t.”

“Then why does it feel like it is?”

“Because you’ve never been honest with yourself or the world about this.  Nearly 60% of addicts relapse at least once, but they get up, they dust themselves off, and they try again.  That’s where your true strength lies.  You’re one of the most determined people I’ve ever met in my life.  I know you’re not going to let this beat you.”

“I don’t want to.  I didn’t want the pills.  I didn’t ask for them.  I just didn’t know how else to cope with the pain and they were right there.  I couldn’t handle the thought of losing if there was something I could do to stop it.”

“And that’s why I know you’re going to be alright, Jack.  You weren’t craving the high or chasing a fix—you weren’t trying to end it—you were trying to treat a genuine medical problem.  Yes,  you overmedicated yourself and abused alcohol, and we can work on those things—eliminating your triggers and limiting your exposure, and getting the right people on your team, but the thing you have to remember is how far you’ve come.  You are not the man you were ten years ago, and I feel very strongly that you will not let this happen again.”

“I’m going to flush the pills,” Jack says without thinking.  “I don’t have them here—I left them at the rink.  But I don’t think I need them.  I can handle the pain. I can do physical therapy and get a new trainer.  I can do better.”

“Good,” Blaire says, taking a deep breath.  “But I do still want you to think about going to a meeting.  It can be AA or NA or whatever they have locally, but I really think it could help you accept the reality of your disease.  I’m not going to suggest inpatient rehab again because I don’t think the isolation was good for you last time, but you shouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with other addicts, Jack.  They’re normal, everyday people.  They’re fathers and mothers and daughters and sons.  They’re husbands and wives.  You don’t need to put yourself above them or hide from the optics of addiction.  The press already thinks you were doing cocaine, but this kind of prescription drug abuse can be even more insidious.  It can affect anyone at any time and coming to accept that and talk about it publicly could be really good for you and for others coming up behind you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jack says.  “But I think I need to talk to Georgia and make a statement first.  I’m not even sure if there will be any repercussions from the league about this.  I wasn’t on anything performance enhancing, but I definitely wasn’t sober on the ice.”

“To be perfectly honest, Jack, I think they’re going to want to cover their asses, not make this public knowledge.  You were given those pills by a team employee who should have known your history.  Last time you were injured at a game, your coaching staff called me and we discussed medication options.  That should have been the protocol this time.  That should be the protocol every time.”

“I still took the pills, Blaire.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have been handed them in the first place.  They’re a controlled substance for a reason.  They didn’t write you a prescription.  They didn’t keep records.  That’s illegal, and that’s on them.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m the one that took more than I should have.  I’m the one that got drunk last night.  I want to take responsibility for this.”

“That’s a great first step, Jack, and I’m really proud of you for owning up to your mistakes, but I’m also going to speak to Georgia and the Falconers staff.  They know your history.  They should be on the lookout for this kind of thing.  I don’t want you getting medical treatment again without an advocate present.  I want someone in the room and I want to be on the phone.  Every single time.”

“Thank you,” Jack says.  “That really would take a load off my mind.  I clearly can’t trust myself just yet.  At least not when a Cup is on the line.”

“It’s my job, Jack.  And I’m happy to do it.  You just need to utilize the resources you have.  George and Eric and Shitty and your parents and Tater and I have all been right here the whole time.”

“Right,” Jack manages to say.  His throat feels tight.  He knows where this is going.

“Now is the part where I lecture you about not reaching out for help,” Blaire says, voice turning stern.  “You didn’t call me.  You didn’t talk to your friends, and you sure as hell didn’t talk to Eric.  He told me on the phone last night that he specifically asked you if there was something going on the night before your game.  You lied to him.”

“Yes,” Jack admits.  “I did.  I was ashamed.  I thought he would leave me if he knew the truth and I needed the pills to win the Cup.  Or at least I thought I did..”

“Why is it that you never seem to think you’re worth it, Jack?” Blaire asks.  “We’ve talked about this several times, I know Eric has spoken to you about it as well.  Your self-esteem and self-loathing has always been a problem and we are going to work on combating those thoughts, because you are worth it, Jack.  You’re not a burden.  You’re not too much work.  You’re worthy of love, even if you make mistakes, even as you’re making them.  Everyone screws up.  Eric screwed up a hell of a lot last year and you still love him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Jack says, feeling his temper begin to rise.  “We’re getting married.”

“I know you are,” Blaire laughs despite the tension.  “I saw the proposal on the news.  I’m very happy for the both of you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you.  Eric’s love and the Stanley Cup can’t be the only reasons you value yourself.  The way you feel about yourself is tied to your addiction.  I’m going to give you some steps to work on and you are going to do them, no arguments.”

“Alright,” Jack says.  He doesn’t like the sound of that, but he also knows he doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on.

“I know your job comes with a lot of criticism, but we have to figure out how to let you ignore that criticism and love and respect yourself.  We have to go back to basics.  When in doubt, think of yourself the way Eric thinks of you, the way your mother does.  The way the people that love you see you, that’s how I want you to see yourself.  Ask yourself if you would say or think any of those horrible things about Eric or Shitty or Tater every time they creep into your mind.”

Jack groans.

“I know it’s not going to be easy, but remember, this is not a setback.  This is not a failure.  It’s a learning opportunity and a stepping stone for future growth.  Your path to recovery just took a bit of a detour, but that doesn’t mean it’s an excuse to throw in the towel.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jack says, licking his lips and pushing back his shoulders.  He has to face this head-on if he wants to succeed.  There’s going to be no more hiding, no more shame.  If Eric can love and accept him for who he is with all his faults, he can’t be all bad.

“Good.  Now tell me what was going through your mind the first time you took a drink.”

When Jack finally finds the nerve to call Georgia, she’s furious.  As far as she’s concerned, Scott is as good as fired and possibly arrested.  She apologizes to him profusely even as he protests.  Every time Jack tries to accept the blame, Georgia refuses to hear it.  

Letting the professionalism slip for a moment, she says, “I can’t believe you were on that much Dilaudid, Jack.  The way you played last night?  You’re an even better hockey player than anyone thought.  Not only did you have a broken wrist, but you had taken enough narcotics to knock out a tiger?  I think people should be impressed more than anything, not that I’m condoning it, but Jesus, how did you even stay up on your skates?”

To that, all Jack can say is, “Sheer determination.  But I’m sure Bad Bob’s genes helped too.”

By the time their phone call has ended, they’ve decided to keep Jack’s relapse quiet at least until the middle of the summer.  She doesn’t want anything to take attention away from Jack and the Falconers’ victory and would like more time to develop a narrative that puts the whole situation in the best light.  Beyond that, Georgia promises to call Blaire and set up a system for Jack’s healthcare that will be followed to the letter so long as he plays for the Falconers.  

It’s a positive end to the call, but Jack still walks away from it feeling like he swallowed glass.  He has a Stanley Cup now and a fiancé who loves him, and yet he still feels like he’s disappointing someone at every turn.  It’s that fear that stops him from calling his parents.

He’ll have to say something at some point.  He can’t keep this a secret from them forever, can he?  

Taking a deep breath, Jack turns his phone off and goes over the affirmations Blaire made him write down.

His handwriting is atrocious, and the ink is smudged from where a few tears fell on it, but Jack unfolds the paper and lays it out.  Dutifully, he reads them to himself out loud.

He doesn’t make it to the end without crying again, but after a few minutes, Eric joins him in the bedroom.  They don’t talk, but Bitty wraps himself around Jack’s back and holds him until he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

When Jack wakes, Bitty is already standing, flicking through the closet.  “You have press in an hour,” he says with a sad little smile.  “Is there something in particular you’d like to wear?”

“Anything is fine,” Jack says, stretching his arms above his head.  He’s feeling better, still a little groggy, but better.  “Would you like to join me in the shower?”

“Not today, sugar.  I’ve got bacon in the oven.”

Jack’s shoulders fall, but he nods.  It feels like a dismissal because it is.  Jack has broken something between them that will need to be rebuilt.  It isn’t that he’s worried about their sex life—but the intimacy—the chirping and casual flirtation seem to be gone.  

As he turns on the shower, the air feels cold.

He knows he hurt Eric, knows that whatever conflict there is between them is his fault, but he still feels bereft without Eric’s hand in his.  Jack didn’t get a kiss good morning, and it’s clear why.  Eric is angry.  He has every right to be, and Jack wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know what else there is to say.

Stepping out of the shower, Jack dries quickly and takes his time trimming his beard short and then shaving his face smooth.  When he looks in the mirror, he finds a worn, haggard face, but also that Eric has made a copy of his affirmations list in his own handwriting, each one on a different Post-it, and stuck them to the tile.  It’s not absolution, but it’s support, and Jack smiles as he reads each one over.

Two take up prominent residence on the bathroom mirror.  They read, “I respect my body and my loved ones,” and “I am loved.”  Jack likes that these are the two Eric picked out for him to focus on today.  

He doesn’t always respect his body, often pushing it so hard and so far past its limits that he does damage to himself.  Jack promises himself that he will work on that over the summer.  He will listen to his doctors and let his wrist heal before he trains too hard. He will be patient with himself and his recovery. He will only put good things into his body, he will give himself a break when he needs it, and he will indulge in Eric’s cooking without feeling guilty about it.  Those are all things he can do.  Those are all things he will do.

Dressing quickly, Jack straightens his suit and foregoes a tie.  He checks his phone and sees another five missed calls from Kent, three from his father, and two each from Tater and Shitty, but he ignores them all.  There’s no way he has the energy to talk to Kent right now.  He texts Shitty to let him know he’s okay and slips his phone back into his pocket.

Jack tries to lift the Cup and bring it into the dining room, but his right wrist refuses to support its weight.  Squatting so deep his quads scream in protest, Jack wraps his left arm around the Cup and hugs it to his side, lifting with his legs.  He sets it on the dining room table just as Eric is plating up french toast and bacon.  There’s a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him.

Jack sits down and looks up to thank Eric, but he’s already washing the dishes.  When he finishes them and can’t find another reason to stall, Eric sits down with his cup of creamy coffee.  He’s not eating.

“You didn’t make any for yourself,” Jack says dully, staring at his fork.

“I ate already.”

“Why won’t you look at me?” Jack asks, head tilted to the side.  He waits, but nothing happens.

“I don’t know,” Eric says, sighing.  He puts his head in his hands.  “I’m upset and I don’t know why.”

“Because you’re angry with me.  I lied to you.  It’s okay to be angry.  I’m furious with myself.”

“I’m not angry, Jack.  I’m sad,” Eric says, removing his hands to reveal tear-streaked cheeks.  “I’m frustrated.  I’m confused.  I’m a lot of things.”

“I can do better,” Jack says, voice shaking.  “I’m going to do better.  I will not hurt you like this again.”

“I think I need to talk about this with someone.  Maybe with a lot of people.”

Jack gulps.  Blaire had suggested this, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.  Jack knows she and Bitty spoke on the phone, but not what they discussed.  The realization that Jack is not Eric’s first choice of confidant is another blow to what Jack feels is already a fragile reconciliation.  The fact that Jack is something that Bitty needs help dealing with—an issue that needs attention—is heartbreaking.  

“I think maybe we should go to a meeting together.”

Staring at his french toast, Jack swallows hard.  “I don’t know if I can—”

“You don’t have to say anything.  We can just listen.  I just—I think it might be helpful to hear how other people are coping.  Normal people… other couples, not just therapists.  I don’t know how to deal with any of this… but I want to try and you know I’m better with people.  I’m not going to ask Twitter or post a vlog.  I know I can’t do that.  But I don’t want to feel alone anymore.”

“Okay,” Jack says.  He can give Eric this.  If it will make him feel better, Jack will try anything.  “I’ll find one and we’ll go.”  He does a quick search on his phone and finds that there’s a meeting for recovering couples at a local church that afternoon.  

“Eat your breakfast.”

“Share it with me?” Jack asks, slicing up a piece of toast with his left hand and holding it out on his fork.

Eric smiles, though his eyes still look sad.  He leaves his chair carrying his coffee, walks around the table, and pushes Jack’s chair back.  Perching himself on Jack’s knee, he opens his mouth and waits for Jack to carefully guide the fork with his non-dominant hand.

“It’s pretty good,” Eric says, covering his mouth as he chews.  “Maybe more cinnamon next time.”

“Why didn’t you make any for yourself?”

“French toast is your comfort breakfast food.  I made it—”

“When I had a panic attack.  I remember,” Jack finishes, his lips curving up at the corner.  “Thank you, bud.  That was really thoughtful of you.”  He takes a bite himself, wrapping his right arm around Eric’s waist.  “I want us to be okay,” he says when he’s finished swallowing his bite.

“We will be,” Eric says, laying his head on Jack’s shoulder.  “I know we will be.”

“But first,” Jack says with a sigh, “I’ve got to get the Cup back to the arena for press.”

“No, sweetpea,” Bitty says, shaking his head, a smile growing against Jack’s skin.  “First, we need to trim that mop on your head.  You look ridiculous.”

Press goes about as well as can be expected, though some of the guys look like they’re nursing the second day of a hangover.  It surprises Jack to see that he’s one of the most put together of the bunch.  

Eric stays away from the cameras, still feeling a little raw, but Jack sees him show off the ring he chose to Georgia during their interviews.  He’s wearing the pear-shaped solitaire, at least until they’re married.  Jack insisted on him keeping the koa wood band and ordering himself a matching one for the wedding, and Eric had readily agreed.  The rest will be auctioned off for charity.

The officials take the Cup as soon as they’re done being photographed around it and Jack swallows hard as he sees it carried out of the building.  He knows he’ll have his own day with it over the summer, but it’s nerve wracking to see it walk out the door when he fought so hard for it and sacrificed so much.  Even though the victory is fresh, Jack is already determined to get it back again next year.  He needs to prove to himself and everyone else that he can do it sober.

As Eric leads him to the car, Jack pauses for a moment and holds out his hand.  “There’s a meeting around the corner.  It starts in 20 minutes… if you want to go.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks.  When he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed and sad.  

Jack wants nothing more than to erase that look from Eric’s emotional playbook.  “I’m sure,” he says, letting out a relieved breath when Eric does in fact take his hand.  “It’s like Blaire was saying… if I want to accept my faults, it’s time to stop holding myself above everyone else with the same problem.  If these are my people—I should probably meet them.”

“Okay,” Eric says simply, bringing Jack’s hand to his mouth and kissing his knuckles.  “Let’s go meet your people.”

They’re early, but the church basement is already bustling.  People are clustered around a coffee dispenser in the corner and chatting in small groups.  Others are helping the organizers set out chairs in a circle.  The routine of it, the efficient, practiced movement of the taller people lifting chairs off stacks and passing them down the line to be placed in a familiar pattern speaks to Jack.  It’s a quiet sort of reverence, like the unspoken social contract that keeps people from shouting in a library.

Jack almost doesn’t want to disturb the enlightened air.   It’s not only his celebrity—these people don’t deserve to get outed because of him—but his emotions feel too big for this.   He doesn’t know if he belongs here.  

This place—the support and respect of these people—Jack doesn’t know if this is something he’s allowed to have. 

“Ready?” Eric asks him when he pauses in the doorway.  

“I think I have to be,” Jack mumbles.  He’s terrified, but he made Eric a promise and he intends to keep it.  If Blaire thinks this will be good for the both of them, he has to trust that she’s right.  He doesn’t have any other ideas.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eric reminds him.  They already went over all of this in the car, but it’s good to hear again.  “We can just sit and listen.  We don’t have to dive right in on our first go.  Okay?”

“Right,” Jack agrees.  He looks at Eric and hears all the things he’s left unsaid.  If Jack asked him to, he’d pretend it was him with the drug problem, not Jack.  Bitty would do that for him, Jack knows he would.  So Jack has to do this for him.  Jack has to accept his mistakes and be his own hero.  Jack has to be Bitty’s hero.

When it seems like the meeting is going to start, he finally gets his feet to move and chooses a seat for himself.  Eric sits right down beside him and never lets go of his hand.

There’s an introduction by the moderator, but then the floor is open for anyone who wants to share.  Jack likes that the focus isn’t just on the addicts, but on their partners and how they have restored trust and communication.  People tell stories about their low days, or show off their newest chips, some describe their most recent fight with their spouse and how they worked it out, but Jack still finds he can’t look anyone in the eye.  He stares at the floor or at Eric’s fingers where they lay twined with his in his lap.  

Twenty minutes go by and Jack still hasn’t moved a muscle.  He wants to be present, to at least introduce himself, but it’s too hard to make his mouth open and his phone keeps buzzing in his pocket.  Every time there’s a lull, he flicks his eyes up, but someone is always looking at him, trying to place his face.  Jack knows these groups are anonymous for a reason, hopes none of these people would expose him, but he still can’t find the courage.

The meeting seems to be winding down.  It takes longer and longer for someone to get up and introduce themselves and their partner.  Jack is starting to think that he might have to work up to it next time when Eric squeezes his hand and then stands up.

“Hi,” he says, voice squeaking nervously.  “My name is Eric and my fiancé is an addict.”

Jack lets out a slow breath.  He’s never heard Eric call him that before, and it stings.

No one is looking at him, they all have their attention on Eric.  He knows they’re not the only same-sex couple in the room, but they must be the only celebrity couple.  Eric very carefully did not introduce Jack or call attention to him, but everyone saw them holding hands.  It wouldn’t be hard for someone to put it together and call the press.  He won the Stanley Cup two days ago—was holding it in his hands less than two hours ago.  Eric proposed to him on center ice.  Their faces are on every newspaper in town.  

This was a huge mistake.

He breathes again.  That isn’t the point.  Jack plans to come clean about his history over the summer.  This is supposed to be a safe place for him and Eric to restore their relationship.  It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.  Chewing on his bottom lip, Jack brings his eyes up to Eric’s and nods, giving him an encouraging half-smile.  They’re supposed to be in this together, but as always, Eric is the one being brave for him.

“We had a setback recently and came here for help,” Eric says, smiling shyly at the moderator.  “I think maybe the crux of the problem is… I lied a lot in the past.  About really big things.  Unforgivable things.  But my partner did forgive me, and I promised not to lie anymore.  And I haven’t.  But I guess I never thought I needed to get that promise back from him, and maybe I should have.”

Jack holds his breath.  He remembers.  He remembers the exact moment Eric is talking about.  That night in the hospital when Bitty had refused his pain medication.  Jack had asked him not to lie, and as far as he knows, Eric hasn’ t lied to him since.  He had tried to return the favor, but as soon as he saw that bottle of painkillers he fell right back into the same old habits.  

It dawns on him again how stupid he’s been.  Once an addict, always an addict.  He’s heard those words—said them to himself time and time again, but he never really thought they were true until now.  It had only taken one glance at a bottle of pills for him to slip back into the mindset that had gotten him killed.  He bargained with himself, rationalized it away as necessary.  It was all too easy to take a drink and once he had done that, it was even easier to convince himself the pills would be okay, too.

Jack should have seen it coming.  

He had never recovered.  

He’s still recovering.  

There’s a difference.  It’s an ongoing battle, and at some point Jack decided it was okay to lay down his sword.  He’ll always be recovering, and the sooner he comes to terms with that, the sooner he can set himself down the right path.   

“The thing is…” Eric begins again, twirling his engagement ring with his thumb.  “He’s not much of a talker in the first place.  I can prattle on and on about any old thing, but he always thinks real hard before saying anything out loud.  I’ve always liked that—that he didn’t need a lot of words to tell me what he was feeling, but I realized something recently… 

“He talks to himself a lot more than he talks to me.”  

Eric sighs and then shakes his head before continuing.  “The love of my life talks to himself more than he talks to me.  He keeps a lot on the inside and lets it tear him up.  And maybe that’s the way it’s always been—when he was young and hurt and lost faith in the people that he was supposed to be able to trust to care for him.

“But it can’t be that way anymore.  

“That can’t happen anymore.  Because if he keeps his thoughts to himself, the little demons inside his mind are the only ones listening and they’re the only ones talking back, and those little voices, well—they’re not the best when it comes to advice.”  

Jack bites down hard on his lip.  He wants to protest, to tell Eric that he’s never been as open and honest with anyone as he has been with him—but he can’t do that.  Deep down he knows Eric is right, and maybe by finally hearing the words out loud they’ll sink in.

“See, I love this man, but if he doesn’t talk to me, I can’t remind him how much he means to me, or how important it is that he stays sober, or how proud I am of him every day.  He doesn’t hear those things because he’s too busy listening to those little demon voices in his head.  Those are the ones that tell him it’s okay to drink if he wants to.  That it’s okay for him to take a pill and then a few more because he thinks he needs to—because he has to win—because he needs to win.  That it’s okay for him to take a whole handful and forget why he shouldn’t—”

Eric has tears in his eyes now, and Jack feels answering ones running down his cheeks.  He chokes them back and keeps his eyes up because he knows he has to hear this, and more than that, he knows Eric needs to see him hear it.  It’s never been more important for him to listen, so as much as it pains him to do it, Jack listens.

“And maybe he has a few more of those voices than the rest of us.  And maybe they’re louder than they should be because he suffers from mental illness.  And maybe I don’t know what that’s like, and maybe I’ll never know what that’s like…”

“But those little voices are the ones who tell him it’s a good idea to accept pills when he shouldn’t or have a drink when he knows it’s a bad idea.  And I really, really hope they’re the only ones that tell him to take so many pills he passes out because I’ve found him unconscious on the floor twice now and I don’t think I can handle it a third time—”

Jack can’t stop himself.  He stands up and takes Eric’s hand.  There are some things that you just shouldn’t have to go through alone, and this is one of them.  Even if it’s all Jack’s fault, he still wants Eric to know that they’re in this mess together.

Squeezing down hard on Jack’s fingers, Eric continues to speak.  “So I guess I just want to remind everyone, including myself, that we can’t keep it all inside.  Even if we’re ashamed of it, even if we think it’s embarrassing or too hard for someone else to hear, we have to say it out loud.  Because our inner demons aren’t good listeners.  They might be part of us, but they don’t love us.  They’ll never love us.

“But we love each other,” he says, squeezing Jack’s hand once more and glancing at him with a small smile.  “We love each other and if we say it out loud every day, we can be louder than our inner demons.”

The room breaks out into scattered applause and little murmurs of encouragement.  Jack swallows down his tears, gives a watery smile to Bitty and then turns to the group.  

“My name is Jack and—and I’m an addict,” he says.  

It’s a little quiet, a little stilted, but he says it.  He says it out loud.  He finally admits it to himself and God and Eric and every tired face in the dingy church basement.  And this time it isn’t a joke to get Eric’s attention and be laughed off.  This time it’s real.  

For the very first time in Jack’s life—he means it.

“Thank you for helping us today.  I’m really glad we came,” he finishes with a small nod to the moderator before he and Eric retake their seats.

“Keep coming back,” the moderator says to everyone as the group breaks up.  “It gets easier every time.”

Jack nods to himself at the words.  He recognizes them as truth now.  Someday, it will get easier.

Listening to Bitty call him an addict in front of strangers may have been the hardest thing he’s ever experienced, but now that it’s happened, a tiny twinge of relief threads itself through a keyhole in his chest.  Maybe this is what Blaire has been leading him toward, this glimmer of acceptance, not just from others but from himself.  

It’s unsteady, but as he and Eric help put the chairs away, it solidifies—this sense of recognition.  The ritual of it is practiced and deliberate. Something in these people affirms something in him.  There’s an awareness in this place that Jack doesn’t understand yet, but thinks he will with time.   

They’ve been to a lot of churches in the last six months, but something about this one feels different.  Even though they’re in a moldy basement, it feels like a sacred place.  When Jack looks at the faces of the group members as they hug and say their goodbyes, he realizes that he’s standing on holy ground. 

They’re just about to head out when the moderator catches them.  

“Hi, I’m Alex,” she says, holding out a hand.  They shake and then she slips her hand into her pocket.  “This isn’t an official NA meeting,” she says, “because a lot of those are closed to family members and around here we think a group setting is more effective.  But I wanted to give you this—if you think you’ve earned it.”

Jack looks down into her outstretched palm and finds that she’s holding a 24 hour chip.  

He takes it carefully and slips it into his pocket without a word.

“It’s kind of a self-moderated system.  But if you want this to be your home meeting, we’d be lucky to have you both,” she adds, smiling at Eric.

“Thank you,” Jack says, still holding tight to Eric’s hand.  “I thought this would be much worse.  No offense.”

“None taken,” she says.  “My wife didn’t speak here for over a year when we first joined.”

“Oh,” Eric says, looking around the room.  “Which one is she?”

“She, um, passed away a few years back,” Alex says with a sad little smile.  “Liver failure.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric says quickly, laying a comforting hand on her arm.  

“Thanks,” she says, nodding.  “I’m really glad you came.  We’re here at the same time every week.  I hope you’ll be back.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, shaking her hand again.  The simple connection satisfies something deep within him. “Really.  Thank you.”

Alex waves goodbye from the door, and Eric unlocks the car, leading Jack back through the parking lot.  

They’re quiet on the way home, letting the radio do the talking for them.  It’s only when they’re stopped at a red light a few blocks from the condo that Eric lays a hand on Jack’s thigh and says, “I think we found our new church.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, laying his hand over top of Eric’s and twining their fingers together.  “I think we did.”

Chapter Text

“I’ll kill him.  I swear to God I’ll kill him,” Eric growls, pacing around the room.  

He has training with Katya in an hour and Jack planned to go with him, not interested in being alone just yet, but the look on Eric’s face has him reconsidering.

“Who are we killing?” Jack asks, setting down his coffee.

“Who do you think?”

“I really don’t know,” Jack says honestly.  “Do you have a skating rival I don’t know about?”

“Of course not,” Bitty snaps.  “Adam and Nathan are both sweethearts.  It’s not their fault they’ve been training and competing the whole time I was homeless.  I’m allowed to hate them a little, but I’d never say so out loud.”

“Then who are you talking about?”

“That home-wrecker, Kent Parson.”

“What?” Jack asks.  “Did he sleep with someone’s wife?”  He wouldn’t put it past him to get in the middle of some nasty tabloid scandal, but Jack doesn’t understand why that would upset Eric so much.

“Just read it,” Eric says, thrusting his phone into Jack’s left hand.  “Read it and then tell me where he lives so I can murder him.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, confused, but Eric is already stomping toward the bedroom to drown his sorrows in the shower, Beyoncé blaring.  He taps the top of the phone to bring the webpage back to the beginning and sees the headline: Parson Gets Down and Dirty: Single at 29, Parson talks sexuality, past relationships, and his affair with newly engaged Jack Zimmermann.

“Oh fuck,” Jack mutters, scrolling down quickly to see what horrors await him.

Kent Parson grew up without a father, but that didn’t keep him down for long.  By the time he was 15 he was already playing alongside wunderkind Jack Zimmermann in the QMJHL, taking home the Memorial Cup at 17.  At 18 he went first in the draft to the Las Vegas Aces and took home the Calder Memorial Trophy after his first year in the league.  Since then he has been promoted to captain of the Aces and led them to victory in last year’s Stanley Cup finals.  After being knocked out in round three this season, Parson sits down with us to discuss hockey, and more surprisingly, his personal life.

How was it starting out as a young hockey player in upstate New York?

My mom worked three jobs to keep me in equipment.  It was a miracle when I got picked up by a team that would cover my expenses.  She could finally focus on my little sister and get herself a decent night’s sleep that wasn’t in a trailer park.  Hockey was hard on all of us.

That sounds different from a lot of the other origin stories we hear.

It put me at odds with a lot of the other guys.  I didn’t grow up with money.  I didn’t go to a fancy school or get good grades.  I didn’t think I would make it to college or qualify for a scholarship.  I had a lot to prove, and maybe I had an attitude because of that.  I think it might have made me a bit of an asshole, especially at first.  Especially with Jack.

You made quite the duo in the Q.  Are you saying it wasn’t always as easy as it looked?

He hated me at first.  I really knew how to push his buttons.  But I wore him down after a while.  Jack doesn’t open up easily, but he’s worth the effort.  There’s only a handful of people that know what it’s like to break into the inner sanctum, and two of them are his parents.  Honestly, he even makes Bad Bob work for it.

Did you see Bob Zimmermann as a father figure?

Bob has always been very supportive of me, even when I didn’t deserve it.  I took Jack’s spot in the draft and he still called that very night to congratulate me.  We remain close and I know I can call him if I ever need advice.  That was always hard on Jack, that his father was fond of me.

What do you mean by that?  That you didn’t deserve it?

I didn’t exactly deserve that first spot in the draft.  Jack was the better player.  He couldn’t play my first season, and that was due, in large part, to my own actions.

Can you elaborate on that?

I think to get the whole picture I’m going to have to tell you something else first.

And what’s that?

That I’m bisexual.  Back in the Q, Jack and I were dating, for lack of a better term.  I kind of fucked around a bit.  I wasn’t a very good boyfriend.

I’m not sure what to say to that.

Did I shock you?

A bit.  Does that surprise you?  That I didn’t know?

I’m kind of a wild flirt, if you haven’t noticed.  It’s not really restricted to gender.  I thought someone would have picked that up by now.  I’m on Tinder.  I’m on Grinder.  I haven’t exactly been hiding it.

You have a picture of your face up on Grinder?

It’s not my face.  

Going back to your relationship with Jack Zimmermann, he came out publicly on Twitter saying he has only been in two serious relationships and they’ve both been with men.  Were you the other man, so to speak?

We were together for our last two years in the Q, so yes.  But again, I made a lot of mistakes.  If I’d been a bit smarter, maybe we’d still be together right now.

What kind of mistakes?

I didn’t understand it at the time, but Jack suffered from depression and severe anxiety when we were young.  He still does.  I think I added to the burden instead of relieving it.  We were rivals for a little while, but then we were named a power duo and that came with a lot of heavy expectations.  Jack had it much worse than me, with his father’s legacy to contend with.  Heavy is the fucking head and all that.

Is that something he’d want you sharing with us?

He wanted to discuss his mental health when he came out but felt like it would be one too many things to reveal at once.  Didn’t want everyone thinking he was a fucking nutcase—those are the tabloids' words, not mine—on top of everything.  When I told him I was thinking about coming out, I asked him if it was alright for me to discuss and he said yes.  It’s important that people know why he really missed out on the draft and not continue to make assumptions.  His anxiety was crippling.

That must have been very difficult for you both, being so young.

I didn’t listen to him.  I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just keep skating.  You twist your ankle?  You keep skating.  You have a wicked hangover?  You keep fucking skating even if you blow chunks all over the damn ice.  I pushed him, his parents pushed him, the media pushed him, our coaches pushed him—none of us got it.  We do fuck-all for people with mental health issues in hockey.  There’s no support, no education, no guidance.  It’s all macho bullshit and rampant homophobia.  People can do coke all damn day—fuck, they can get a bunch of hookers and throw a goddamn coke party if they want to and no one will call them on it, but you need someone to talk to about your anxiety and suddenly it’s every man for himself and maybe you’re queer and shouldn’t be in the locker room.  Maybe you’re not fit to play the game.  If there had been anyone to help—if I had known how to be more supportive, maybe things would have turned out differently for Jack.

You mean with his drug addiction and overdose?

Jack didn’t do recreational drugs.  I want to make that very clear.  He took prescriptions for his anxiety and depression.  I was the one who pressured him to drink while taking those medications.  We were teenagers without supervision, and we went a little wild.  And I know I added to the pressure—the feeling that he had to take more pills to be better than me and go first in the draft.  I was partially at fault for his overdose.  He couldn’t cope with the pressure and he took too much too fast, drank every shot I handed him no matter what.  I was the one that found him.

It sounds like you still feel a lot of guilt about this.

It’s hard not to.  He was sick.  He was hurting, and I thought it was all fun and fucking games.  If you found out that it wasn’t just a bit of pre-game nerves, that it was a serious fucking anxiety disorder that had your boyfriend hyperventilating all the time… If you found that the person you love had been suffering and you did nothing to help—if you found that person without a heartbeat—you’d feel guilty too.

You’re saying you found Jack Zimmermann dead the night before the 2009 NHL draft?

Yes.  That’s what I’m fucking saying.  He’s lying there and I’m fucking paralyzed.  I was 18.  I didn’t know what to do.  The only thing I could do to help was hold him and call 911 and pray they could wake him up again.  Then I had to call Bob and Alicia and tell them their son might be dead.  It’s not something you get over quick—that helpless feeling. 

I think that’s going to surprise a lot of people.  Most news outlets reported that he overdosed on cocaine.

And most news outlets are a bunch of ill-informed, judgmental dickbags.  No offense.

None taken.  I guess my next question has to be… why now?

Why come out now?  Why not?  I’m single, it’s the summer… there must be someone out there that wants me as their kept boy on a private island somewhere.

Doing this now—after the Falconers won the Cup—makes it sound like you might be looking to take Zimmermann down a peg.

That’s not my intention.  In fact, I’m trying to do the opposite.  I want everyone to know what a strong competitor Jack is.  He’s been battling mental health issues and addiction for the last ten years and he’s been thriving in a sport that would kill lesser men.  He scored a hat trick in game seven with a broken wrist.  Normal people can’t do things like that.  Jack is—Jack has always been special.

The way you’re talking about him… it makes it sound like maybe your feelings for him haven’t changed.  You do know he’s recently engaged, right?

Bitty is a great guy.  He might even be the better guy.  But he’s not me.

Have you met Eric Bittle?  You know him personally?

A couple of times.  I let him pet my kitten.

Excuse me?

I met him in Florida a few months ago.  We watched Jack play together.  We’ve seen each other several times since then.

And what do you think of him?  What does he think of you?

It’s always hard to meet the ex, isn’t it?  Especially if you take a look in the mirror and realize you’re a cheap imitation of the real thing.  It must be especially hard realizing that you’re never going to be someone’s first anything.

There is a certain resemblance, yes.  Do you think Zimmermann has a type?

He’s always liked blonds, that’s not really surprising.  But I do think it’s a little suspicious that Jack fell in love with someone quite a bit younger than himself that just happened to be a poor, homeless gay kid in hiding.  It’s kind of a wild story, don’t you think?

You think Eric Bittle is using him?  That proposal sure looked genuine?  Didn’t you see it in person?

I saw two people who barely know each other rushing into a public display after only dating a few months.  Not exactly the stuff lasting relationships are made of.  I think we all know how often celebrity marriages crash and burn right out of the gate.

Most people thought it was romantic.

Most people are fucking idiots.  I hope he had the good sense to get a prenup or Bad Bob’s estate is in for a world of hurt, is all I’m saying.  Jack deserves more than someone who’s after his money.  He deserves a hell of a lot more than someone who would lie to him like Eric Bittle did.

So this interview isn’t just about coming out.  It’s a love confession?  Or maybe it’s a challenge?

I didn’t say that.  I didn’t say any of that.

But you can see how it might read that way, don’t you?

Jack is and will always be one of my closest friends.  He supported my decision to come out and continues to support me to this day.  I’ve been wanting to come out for years and seeing Jack do it successfully really inspired me.

And the first step to starting a lasting relationship is telling the truth, is that it?

It’s definitely easier to get a date if people know what you’re looking for.

And what are you looking for, Kent?

Someone who never gives up.  Someone who loves with their whole heart.  Someone who will support me throughout my career—and if they’re good looking and great at hockey, that would be an added bonus.

That sounds like someone I know.

It sounds like someone I know, too.  I’ve always been an ass man, if you know what I mean.

Would you ever want to play with Jack again?  Your partnership was the most successful in QMJHL history.

I’d love to.  I tried to get him to accept a spot with the Aces when he graduated college, but I was unsuccessful.  There was a little too much hurt between us back then.

And there isn’t now?

We’re on much better terms now.  I think it would be nice to be closer.  I’m not sure the Falconers could afford me, though.

Maybe not.  And you’d also have Eric Bittle to contend with.

I think I could take him.

This has been a frank and honest conversation between David Lenwick of Esquire and Kent Parson, Captain of the Las Vegas Aces, accurate as of its printing date, June 7th, 2019.

Jack puts the phone down and closes his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose with his uninjured hand.  He needs to call Kent.  When he said Kenny could discuss their relationship, this wasn’t exactly what he meant.  

He’s just reaching for his own cell to make the call when the bedroom door slams open and Eric comes stomping back into the hall.  He has his duffel over one shoulder and a murderous look on his face.  

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.  Even in a leotard, leg warmers, and an oversized sweatshirt, he’s terrifying.

“I…” Jack is at a complete loss for words.  “I’m sorry?”

“You better be a lot more than fucking sorry, Jack Laurent Zimmermann.  You told me you weren’t in love with him anymore.  You told me I had nothing to worry about.  You fucking told me we could all be friends!  What kind of friend does something like that?  He called me a gold digging whore and then challenged me to a duel in a national magazine.  I am not a poor man’s Kent Parson! ”

“I’m going to talk to him.  I’ll fix it,” he says, getting up from his seat and attempting to pull Eric into a hug.

“You better,” Eric says, striding to the door and slipping on his shoes before pulling his car keys off a hook by the door.  “Call me when you’ve broken up with your side-piece.”

“He’s not my—” Jack doesn’t even get a chance to defend himself before the front door is slamming in his face.  “Fuck!” he groans, collapsing to the couch with his head in his hands.  “Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck!”

Hands shaking, Jack reaches for his phone and goes to the contacts.  Passing Kent’s name, he dials a different number.

“Jack, my man.  To what do I owe the pleasure?  Are you doing okay in your sessions with Blaire?”  The moment Shitty’s voice hits his ears, Jack feels a modicum of tension leave his shoulders. 

“This isn’t about Blaire, Shits.  This is much more serious.”

“There’s nothing more serious than your recovery, my brah.  If anyone’s been telling you different, you let me know and I’ll knock their fucking heads together.”

“It’s Kent.  He just threw down with Bitty in a fucking national magazine and now Bits is gone.”

“Oh fuck,” Shitty says.  Jack imagines he’s letting his hair down and shaking it out.  “That is serious.”

Jack lets out a frustrated groan.

“Lay it on me,” Shitty insists, listening patiently as Jack directs him to the article and explains what happened.   

“And now I don’t know what to do.  I have to call Kent and then I have to go after Bits, but what am I going to say?”

“You know he didn’t actually leave you, right?” Shitty asks.  “We’ve been here before.  He just went to the rink to get some space.  He’s coming back.  As long as he didn’t throw a ring in your face, he’s always going to come back.”

“He didn’t throw anything, but I still need to talk to him.”

“Alright, let’s start with the biggest fire.  We figure out what to say to Kent, and then you’ll have something to tell Bitty when you see him.  And you’ll have to call Georgia.  But you better talk to Bitty first, lest he think your career trumps him.”

“Why are you so good at this?”

“I’m a lawyer, Jackie.  I put out fires for a living.  Talk to me when you commit a felony.  Then we’ll really be in trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack groans.  “Just help me figure out what to say to Kent.  He can’t keep doing shit like this.  Bitty deserves better.”

“Now I’m just spit balling here, but how about something like, ‘You’re a manipulative little shit if you think you can get me back by revealing my medical history to the whole fucking universe?  That was a dick move and you know it.  I’m marrying Eric and you need to move on and stop pining for my magnificent ass.’”

“I’m not saying that, Shitty.”

“You can put it nicer than that, but Jack,” Shitty says, letting out a heavy breath, “I think the time for letting him down easy has passed.  I’ve been wanting to kick that guy’s ass for years, but I haven’t because I know he still means something to you.  But enough is enough.”

“Why do I have to let him down at all?  We’re not together!  We haven’t been together in a really, really long time.  Do people think we’re still dating?  Because Eric said—”

“—I don’t think you’ve been cheating on Eric.  I don’t even think your sexuality would accommodate feelings like that.  I know you’re a one man, long-term kind of dude.  But maybe Kent doesn’t get that.  It sounds like he’s been hung up on you this whole time, and it’s gotten out of hand.  You need to make sure he knows it’s never going to happen.”

“I did!” Jack says, volume rising.  “I told him back at the All-Stars game.  We had a whole fight about it.  He said he understood!”

“There’s understanding and there’s letting go, my friend,” Shitty says.  “You’re a hard one to get over.”

“It’s been ten years, Shits.  How is he still waiting?  I just don’t understand why.”

“Why don’t you ask him that.  Dude probably has a lot he needs to get off his chest.”

“So I just call him up and ask him why he’s still in love with me?”

“I wouldn’t lead with that, but yeah.  Make sure there’s real closure this time.  Don’t let him hang up until you’re on the same page.”

“This is going to be terrible,” Jack sighs, squeezing his eyes shut against the cheery spring sunlight.  

“Terrible, but necessary, brah.  Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better afterward.  And then you can go after Bitty with a clear conscience.”

“I didn’t do—” Jack catches himself.  Maybe he did.  Without realizing it, maybe he did something to make Kenny think there was a chance for them.  “Did I lead him on?  Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t know, man.  Maybe you should ask him that.”

Taking a deep breath, Jack tries to steady himself.  He doesn’t want to have this discussion.  All he wants to do is move forward with Bitty—to get himself on the right track and prove that he won’t make the same mistakes twice.  But maybe history is already repeating itself, and he’s just doing the same thing to Eric that he did to Kent.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt him, Jack.  But addiction affects everyone involved, and part of getting healthy again is accepting that you might have made mistakes in the past.  Let him tell you his side.  It might be different than you’re remembering.”

“Fuck,” Jack mutters, Shitty’s words hitting him right in the chest.  “Shits, I—”

“I know, Jack.”

“I was taking so many meds… I was barely ever sober.  I don’t even know what I could have done.”

“I know, but right now he’s the one trying to manipulate you.  Don’t forget that.”

“Okay, okay,” Jack mutters to himself.  “I’ll try.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger.  Call me later if you need me to go piss in his Nattie Light.”

“I will.  Thanks, Shitty.”

Jack hangs up and then stares at the screen of his phone until it goes dark.  

“Okay, okay, okay, okay,” he breathes, shaking his shoulders out.  “I’m the one that gets to be mad right now.  I think.  Just call him.”  Scrolling through his contacts, Jack’s finger hovers over the screen for a beat before finally pressing down on Kent’s name.

“Yo, Zimms!  Didja see the interview?”

“Kenny,” Jack sighs, pressing the speakerphone button and setting the phone down on the coffee table.  “What the fuck?  Why did you do that?”

“I’ve been calling you for a week, Jack.  Why didn’t you answer any of my messages?”

“Oh, so this is my fault?  I don’t call you back and you decide to out me to the whole fucking universe?”

“You were already out!  And now we’re both out!  We’re out together!”

“I said you could tell them we dated.  I didn’t say you could tell them about my overdose.  You had no right to do that.”

“Really, Jack?  I don’t have the right to talk about your overdose?  It happened to me too!  I was right there!”

“So you talk to me, or you talk to a therapist.  You don’t talk to the fucking press!  Bitty and I are still trying to figure things out and decide how we were going to tell people.  Now everything’s a mess because he thinks we’ve been talking behind his back.  I could kill you for that.”

“You cut me out, Jack.  You cut me out, and I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone because we were still in the closet.  I thought things would be different now that we’re both out, but you’re just doing it all over again.”

“Doing what?  I’m not doing anything.  We’re not together, Kenny.”

“I watched you die, and you just cut me out!  I didn’t see you again for three years!  I loved you and you just left me.  Did you even care at all what happened to me?  I still have nightmares about it—you lying dead in my arms.  And I’m supposed to just go off to the draft with a fucking smile on my face like I didn’t just kill my boyfriend?”

Jack inhales sharply.  

“Is that what you think happened?  You didn’t kill me, Kenny.  I killed myself.  I did that.  It wasn’t about you.  I was sick and confused and I needed help.  You didn’t kill me,” he says again, because as angry as he is at Kent right now, no one deserves to live their life with that kind of guilt.  

“You could have fucking fooled me!” Kent yells through the phone, voice wet and edging toward hysterical.  “They wouldn’t let me see you!  You were dead, and I didn’t see you alive with my own eyes for years.  I never got a fucking therapy apology letter or email or even a text while you were in rehab.  All I got was your dad telling me you didn’t put me on the visitors list and I should just keep my head down and focus on hockey.  Do you know how that felt?  You died and it was my fault and I knew it was my fault because you couldn’t even bother to tell me that it wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, knowing the words are too little far, far too late.  “It really wasn’t about you.  I needed time.  I needed to get better and I couldn’t do that while I was competing with you.  I needed to get better outside of hockey and outside of sex and all my feelings for you.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Then why did you do it again?” Kent breathes, audibly crying.

“I didn’t—”

“—Yes you fucking did, Jack.  Don’t even try.  You did it at Samwell and you did it at the All-Stars game and you keep fucking doing it.  You shut me out every fucking time.  You never asked me if I was okay.  It’s all about you and your fucking problems and who cares if Kenny can’t sleep or if he drinks too much or if he has no one to talk to because if he tells anyone else he’s bi he’ll lose his fucking job?!”

“I’m sorry, okay?  I’m sorry you lost your friend and your boyfriend and you didn’t get therapy, but I had to do what was best for me.  I was barely holding it together and there was no way I could help you if I didn’t help myself first.  I couldn’t love you and I’m sorry, but that’s just the truth.”

“And you couldn’t have called and fucking told me that?  You couldn’t have taken two minutes to write me an email saying you didn’t blame me but we couldn’t be together right now?”

“We couldn’t be together ever, Kenny!  We were not good for each other.  Look at what we’re doing right now!  This isn’t a healthy relationship!  This isn’t okay!”

“Oh and you know how to have a healthy relationship now?” Kent rages.  “You’re doing the same fucking thing all over again.”

“Eric and I are different and I don’t have to prove that to you,” Jack says as calmly as he can.  This isn’t about Eric and he isn’t going to let Kent turn it into a competition.  

“Jesus, Jack.  I’m not talking about fucking Eric!  I’m talking about me!”

“What about you?”

“Exactly!” Kent screams.  “What about me?  You take too many pills and who gets left behind?  Me!  And now here we are, ten fucking years later, and you do it all over again!  You take too many pills and I see it fucking happen this time!  I saw you drink at that party.  I saw Bitty let you do shot after shot and not stop you.  I saw how glassy your eyes were and then you fell to the floor and it’s like we’re 18 again.  I’m a fucking child pounding on your goddamn chest while your lips turn blue.”

Jack inhales again, holding his breath this time.  Tears prickle at his eyes as Kent lays it all out for him.  

The worst part is he knows what it feels like now.  He was the one to find Eric alone—cold and still in that alleyway.  He was the one to search desperately for breath against his skin.  He was the one to press his hands to Eric’s side to staunch the blood.  Jack knows now what it feels like to hyperventilate while you call 911 trying to save the only person who makes anything matter.  

He knows now.  And he still took the pills.  

Jack hates himself.

“You did it again except this time you’re in someone else’s arms and he doesn’t even want to take you to the hospital!  I watched it happen.  I fucking begged him.”  

Kent’s words come in ragged sobs and Jack can’t take it anymore.  He cries, too.  

Exhaling deeply, ten years of guilt flood out of Kent in harsh gasps.  They hit Jack’s ears like cymbals clanging. 

Jack needs to apologize, but he can’t make a sound.  The words don’t come, so he does the only thing he can do.  He keeps listening.

“I—begged—him—Jack,” Kenny says, words coming out in jagged breaths.  “I couldn’t watch it happen again.  I begged them to let me help you like I should have done the first time.  And they told me to leave.  Mashkov practically threw me out the door.  And Eric—” he stops short, clearing his throat.  “Your fucking fiancé told me he’d break my arm if I touched you.  But I had to at least feel your heart beating.  I had to…” 

“Kenny, I—”

“I had to feel your pulse—”

“I’m sorry,” Jack finally manages.  “I didn’t know.  I just—I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Kent says with a dark, humorless laugh.

“You need to talk to someone about this, Kenny.  It’s too much to keep to yourself.  And I’m not equipped to help you with it.”

“Why not?  We’re talking right now, aren’t we?  Why do I need to talk to someone else?”

“Because I think I gave you post-traumatic stress disorder and I don’t know how to fix it.  That’s why.”

“I don’t have—”

“—You might,” Jack says, as earnestly as he can.  

He needs Kent to understand how serious this is.  “I’m sorry that I did this to you.  I’m sorry that you needed help too, and I left you alone.  I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.  But you can’t rely on me to fix it for you now.  And you definitely can’t tell all my secrets to a magazine and belittle my relationship and expect me to be happy about it.”

“I just—I needed to get your attention,” Kent says, desperate.  “You wouldn’t answer my calls.  But I piss you off enough and you call me.  It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

“You called Bitty a gold-digger.”

“I know.”

“You said you wanted to fight him for me.   You talked about my fucking ass like you had any right.”

“I know.”

“I’m not leaving him for you.  I’m not leaving him for anyone.  Ever.”

“I—I guess I know that,” Kent stutters, exhaling.  “Somewhere deep down I know that but I just can’t stop myself from trying to get you back.  But nothing I do will get you back, will it?”

“No,” Jack whispers, knowing it hurts.  “It won’t.  And drinking or hurting yourself won’t fix anything either.”

“I fucked it all up again.  Everything I do makes it worse.  Fucking up—it’s all I know how to do, I guess.”

“Are you sorry?” Jack asks, because he can never be sure.  Kent is prone to speaking without thinking, and he almost never owns up to it.  But he needs someone—he needs Jack.  If they’re ever going to be friends after this, Jack needs to hear him say it.

For a while, Kent doesn’t say anything at all, but Jack can hear him breathing.  He waits and eventually Kent gives him a response.  “I’m not sorry that I love you.”

Jack sighs.  That isn’t what he wanted to hear.  “Kenny—”

“—No, just let me finish.  I’m not sorry that I love you.  And I’m not sure I’m ever going to see Eric and not want to punch him in the face.  But I guess I could try to like him.”

“You don’t have to like him.  You just have to respect him.  And me.  You have to respect me and my choices.  You can’t bully someone into a relationship.”

“I need to learn to let you go, huh?” Kent says, clearing his throat to cover the emotion that bleeds through.

“I’m sorry, Kent.  I thought you let me go a long time ago.  After you came to Samwell… I thought that was enough.  We didn’t talk for years.  And then at the All-Stars… I was very clear.  I thought you understood.”

“I guess I thought that eventually I’d wear you down and get what I wanted.  I usually do.”

“You can’t make someone love you, Kenny.  It doesn’t work like that.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, letting out a humorless laugh, “you can’t make someone stop loving you either.”

“Maybe you just think you love me,” Jack muses, shaking his head when Kent laughs more.  “No, I’m serious.  We went through something really traumatic together and we never talked about it.  I think maybe your heart just got stuck there.  Like it froze in time when I overdosed.  But if you talk to someone about it, I think you’ll see that there’s so much more out there for you.  There’s so much more than me and what happened before the draft.”

“Yeah, right,” Kent snorts.  “Just because you found your fairytale romance with your flashy public proposal doesn’t mean everyone will.  The real world doesn’t work like that, Jack.”

“What Eric and I have is real,” Jack protests.  He’s getting sick of Kent talking about his relationship like it’s a joke.  “It’s not always easy, and it’s not always pretty, but every time I think we’ve fucked it up beyond repair, we fix it.  We talk about it and we fix it, but it takes time and a lot of effort.  Love isn’t easy, Kent.  When you find someone that loves you back the way you love them—someone who loves you enough to work for it and not let you go like I did—you’ll understand.”

“Do you have any idea how patronizing you sound right now?  You’re giving me a ‘there’s plenty of fish in the sea’ lecture right now.”

“Tabarnak, Kenny, I’m trying to be serious.  What you feel for me is intense and what I feel for you… it’s not enough.  I’m not giving you anything back.  I don’t love you like that anymore.  But someone else will, I swear.  There’s someone that’s going to love you right.”

“Fuck, Zimms.  If I swear I’ll go to therapy will you stop talking?”

“At least you’re out now,” Jack says, trying to lighten the mood.  “You can date a man if you want to.  You can marry whoever you want.”

“Slow down with the marriage talk, Mister Family Man.  I’d settle for a good fuck at this point.”

“Well, you can do that now too.  Nothing’s stopping you.  I’m definitely not stopping you, right?”

“Alright, Zimmermann.  I’ll fuck you out of my system if that’ll make you happy.  Get over yourself.”

“I really am sorry, Kenny.”

“I’m sorry too, Jack,” he says, and Jack finally exhales.  But of course,  Kent can’t leave it on a serious note.  “I’m sorry your boy is jealous of me.  I just can’t help that I’m rich, talented, and attractive.  It’s a curse, really.”

“Goodbye, Kenny.”

“I mean, I guess he’s cute in that country twink, I-learned-how-to-fuck-with-a-corn-cob kind of way, but if you’re ever looking for a bit of a stronger hand—”

Jack nearly chokes.  If only Kent knew.

“—Goodbye, Kenny.”

“I’m just saying.  He’s got my number if he needs any pointers—”

“—Goodbye, Kenny,” Jack says once more before hanging up.

Chapter Text

Jack takes a deep breath before pushing the door open and stepping into the rink.  He knows what he has to do—beg for forgiveness—but he has zero idea how to do it without getting stabbed with a toepick.

There’s classical music playing over the speakers.  Bitty explained a few weeks ago how there were certain rules regarding program music and how each competition was different, but Jack hadn’t been paying enough attention to remember the specifics.  He was wrapped up in the playoffs—thinking about himself again—forgetting that his partner had professional demands as well.     

Eric was right to be mad at him.   

He’d promised that after the Cup things would be about Bitty’s dreams for a while, but Jack is quickly realizing that he hasn’t been keeping up his end of the bargain.  Relapsing wasn’t something that just happened to Jack—Kenny had been all too clear about that.  Eric has been dealing with it, too, on top of his training schedule and ice time.  Even the drive to the rink takes time out of Bitty’s day.  Kent’s vendetta against their relationship and the slew of bad press that’s bound to follow is just the cherry on top of a shit sundae that Bitty doesn’t need right now.

Stopping before he reaches the back of the bleachers, Jack steps behind a wall so he’s out of sight and watches his fiancé work.  Jack isn’t hiding from confrontation, he’s just taking a moment to appreciate his situation and Bitty’s skating prowess while he strategizes.

Katya stands just off the ice, shouting over the music as Eric whips around, following her instructions.

“Davay igrat'!  Ina Bauer.  Layback.  Into a double.”

Bitty flies across the ice, legs splayed, leaning so far backward that Jack is sure he’ll fall over.  It’s gorgeous, like he’s being dipped by a ballroom dancer, hair nearly skimming the surface of the ice before he lifts and turns into a jump.

“Shomo,” Katya shouts.

Jack is pretty sure that’s not English, but Bitty seems to understand, and on his next pass across the ice he’s crossing his legs and squatting so low three of his gloved fingers sweep the surface.  He’s not smiling, but his cheeks are tinged pink and his eyes are alight with satisfaction.

“Saymon govorit Biellman.  One hand.”

This move Jack has seen before.  

Eric pulls his skate behind his back and raises it level with his head in a graceful spin.  That alone would pull Jack’s hip out of its socket, but then Katya says, “Hyperextension,” and Jack’s eyes widen in shock as Erick pulls harder and stretches further than should be physically possible.  

“Slutskaya,” Katya shouts next, and Eric’s face becomes a blur as he gains speed and then lowers his leg and does the spin and stretch all over again without stopping.  

It’s incredible.  The things Bitty is doing with his body should be illegal.  There’s no way a man should be able to stretch like that, yet Eric is doing it right before his eyes.  The more he thinks about it, the less Jack understands what he’s seeing.  Agility of this scale takes serious work and daily training, hours upon hours for months on end.  Bitty hasn’t missed a single one of Jack’s home games and has come on a good deal of his roadies as well.

All the while Jack has been wallowing in a pit of self-loathing and practically killing himself to make it to the Stanley Cup final—all the while Bitty has been holding his hand and calming his nerves and watching his games and cooking his meals—he’s also been doing this.  

Jack feels like the world’s most colossal idiot.

“Charlotte.  Backward.  Into a double,” Katya barks, and Eric complies.

He takes a loop around the rink and then bends forward in a split so far that both of his hands are touching his skate while the other leg sticks straight up above his head.  Jack is sure he’s about to crash into the boards, but he pulls upward into a jump and lands in a spray of ice mere inches from the wall.

“Needs work,” Katya says.  “This time we do spin, not spiral.  More impressive.”

Eric nods his head as he flies around the rink, doing the move again.  The split is even deeper this time, and Jack’s groin hurts just looking at it.  He has no idea how Eric has been able to keep up their usual antics in bed when he’s been doing this for six hours a day, six days a week.  There’s only so much abuse a person’s body can take before it starts to break.  Jack knows that from experience.

“Better.  Now, Saymon govorit Kwan.”

As Eric falls into what Jack knows is Michelle Kwan’s signature spiral, he understands what’s happening.  Katya is testing him.  She shouts a command and Eric has to do it.  The thing Jack doesn’t understand is how all of them look flawless.  Surely it isn’t possible for one skater to be able to do everything.  One of these requests will trip him up eventually.  Won’t it?

“Sakoto.”

Bitty arches into a layback spin that goes so fast, Jack can’t even see him anymore.  There’s just a blur of pastel leggings and black gloves where his fiancé used to be.  

“Very nice,” Katya allows this time, finally satisfied with something.  This woman is harder to please than Bad Bob.  “Beautiful arms.  Lucinda.”

Eric takes off again and this spin, with his arms straight and hands clasped over his head, might make Jack vomit.  He’s moving impossibly fast.  Is this what Bitty does all day?  It’s a wonder he can keep any food down at all.

“Good.  Now,” Katya says, folding her arms.  “Jumps.  Tano.  Make it a triple.”

It’s clearly a buildup to something serious, with the way Eric’s skates dig deep into the ice and his thighs tense.  Before Jack can determine which edge is doing what, Bitty is throwing himself into the air, one hand waving above his head.  He stumbles a bit on the landing, but Katya just pushes harder.  

“I see helicopter arms.  No helicopter arms,” she says, posture tight as usual.  “Again.  If you want that GOE up, you need the Midori and you need it clean.”

Eric does it.  Again and again.  And then three more times with both arms up once he’s gotten it right with one.  

“Still needs work.  Pads,” Katya says next, holding out an armful of items.  

Jack’s eyes go wide as he watches his fiancé wrap himself in knee pads and Velcro a head guard over his hair.  No.  What is he going to need that padded headband for?  He’s not going to crack his head open on the ice.  He can’t.  

Jack’s mouth falls open, but words escape him.  It would be beyond rude to interrupt Eric’s training, especially if the only thing he can think to say is, “Please don’t kill yourself.” That would be laughable coming from him.

Katya checks him over and then shoos him back onto the ice.  “Lipinzki,” she says, and Jack is relieved when Eric lands the combination cleanly.  Maybe the pads are just a precaution.  Maybe they aren’t really necessary.

“Again,” Katya repeats, and has Eric do the combination twice more, making infinitesimal changes until she’s satisfied.  “Now your quad.  Show me.”

This, Jack thinks, is going to be good.  He takes a few steps forward, needing a closer look at the jump Eric has been working to perfect for months.  

Bitty’s landing foot wobbles on the first attempt, but the second one is clean.

Jack lets out a breath of relief, but then Eric’s in the air again, and this time his rotation is off.  He goes skidding to the ground with a horrifying noise, ice clinging to his tights and gloves, but it’s only a few seconds before he’s back up, brushing himself clean.  

“Once more,” Katya says.  The music has stopped and there’s nothing left in the building but the snick and swish of Eric’s skates cutting into the ice.  

Jack tracks the jump closely this time and tries to count, but Bitty’s spinning too fast.  He’s useless at this without a commentator explaining what he’s looking at and wonders if Eric is the same with hockey or if he’s just been paying better attention to Jack’s games than he has to Eric’s training.  

The shame spreads hot in his gut again, thinking about how absent he’s been in all this, how selfish.  Just a few months ago they had been standing in the kitchen discussing how hard this would be—how much time, money, travel, and effort would be involved in getting Bitty to the Olympics and Jack had just nodded and promised him the world without once thinking about the toll it would take on Eric’s mind and body.  

Jack is used to putting himself in harm’s way.  It’s part of the job.  What he isn’t used to is seeing Bitty fling himself into the air thirty times in a row.  

His surgery and brush with death, that had been an accident, a once in a lifetime fluke that would, God-willing, never happen again.  This—the feat of strength that’s happening before his eyes—this is Eric’s reality.  Stress injuries, pulls, tears, microfractures, breaks, inflammation… Jack’s heard Eric say the words, but they didn’t mean anything until now.  

Now, as Katya calls, “Back counter triple A,” across the ice, and Bitty takes another dive, it all becomes clear.  “Again. Deeper on the clockwise curve.”

Eric skates to the boards first and takes a long drink out of his water bottle before letting out a deep breath and starting over.  He’s sweating profusely, dark patches visible under both arms, around his neck, and at the small of his back.  This time, he sinks lower when he switches direction and launches forward cleanly, landing the triple axel.  

Jack wants to applaud, but he holds himself back.  He knows how difficult it can be to stay in the zone, and with dangerous elements like this, the last thing Eric needs is a distraction.  Instead, he takes a step back into the shadows and watches Bitty practice the same jump another four times.  

Surely, they must be done soon.  Jack feels like he’s been watching for an hour.  Eric’s legs must be burning like fire right now, but he keeps pushing, complying with a short nod when Katya asks him to try a quadruple flip.

It looks absurd.  Jumps like this just shouldn’t be allowed.  Bitty flings himself into the air with no fear, but Jack’s heart is in his throat until he’s back down on the ground in one piece.  

“It’s coming along.”  Katya praises him in Russian and then asks him to do it again before saying, “Saymon govorit quad toe, triple A.”

This, Jack thinks, is really going too far.  How is Eric supposed to do an axel after a quad?  His tank must be empty by now.  At the very least, it must be time for lunch.  Jack glances at his phone and sees another three missed calls from his parents and two from George.  When he looks up again, Eric has already stuck the landing of his combination.  He missed it.  

“Reverse it,” Katya suggests, tone softening like it’s optional this time.  “Triple A, quad toe.”

Eric narrows his eyes at her and bites his bottom lip, teeth digging into the divot left by his accident.  Jack’s eyes are drawn down to his mouth and then back up to his face as Eric skates to the bench again, removes his helmet and grabs a sweatband instead.  Once his hair is pushed back, the scar that cuts through his forehead is much more prominent, the white line shining beneath his dark brow.  

Was it really only four months ago that Eric was in the hospital?  So much has happened since then that a part of him forgot Bitty had been injured at all.  He bounced back so fast and so far that in not even six months he can already land jumps that others would take a lifetime to master.  While Jack was busy thinking about the playoffs, Eric was waging his own war and he hadn’t noticed any of it.  

It takes Bitty a full minute to mentally prepare for this jump.  He makes several laps of the rink, shaking his arms out before beginning his approach.  The triple axel is clean.  Jack has already seen him do a handful of them in the last half hour, so it’s nothing less than he expects.  

It’s the second jump of the combination that has Jack rushing forward, acid churning in his stomach as his yellow sneakers squeak on the stadium floor.  Once Eric has changed directions, there’s not nearly enough air for him to do the full four rotations Katya asked for.  He only has enough momentum to make it around twice before he’s crashing into the ice  

Jack reaches the rink just in time to see his fiancé’s shoulder bounce off the ground.  

“Shit, Jack?” he asks, already pushing himself back to his feet.  “What are you doing here?”

“No boyfriends,” Katya says curtly with barely a glance in his direction.  “Twenty more minutes until lunch.  Then you can talk to boyfriend.”

“He’s hurt!” Jack insists, gesturing at the ice.  But Eric is already across the rink setting up to try it again.  

“He’s fine.  No boyfriends,” she repeats.

“I’m not his boyfriend, I’m his fiancé.”

“New rule.  No fiancés,” Katya says, not missing a beat.  “You make him fall.”

Jack opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t, not when Eric is crashing to the ground again, skidding a few feet and rubbing his ass as he picks himself back up.  

“What I tell you?” 

“I didn’t make him fa—” Jack starts, but doesn’t finish because Eric is busy flutzing his way to his knees.  

“You get in fight, it take me hours to clean jumps.  So no fiancés.  Distraction,” she insists, zipping her jacket a little higher up her neck.  “You fight, he falls.  You have good sex, he thinks he can throw a quad axel in competition.  Big ego in very small package—not safe for jumping.  Too close to competition.” 

“I don’t see what our sex life has to do with—”

Katya gives him a glare so cold he worries after his manhood.  

“Christ on a cracker, Jack.  Just sit your ass down and I’ll be with you in twenty minutes,” Eric says.  He then promptly turns his back on Jack and heads to the bench to put on more music, cranking up the volume this time.  

It’s harsh and way too loud.  It might be Nicki Minaj.  Jack can barely even think over the noise, but the lyrics are definitely explicit, so it’s probably Nicki.

Jack takes a seat in the bleachers and Katya puts herself firmly in front of him, blocking a direct view of the ice.  He figures he deserves it, so he doesn’t try to move around her.  Eric is all over the rink anyway, pinging around like a pinball as he builds up speed for his spins.  

He transitions into an I spin and Jack’s mouth goes dry when he sees Eric’s hyperextended leg pass behind his head and practically over to the other side.  From there, he does several split jumps in a row and then it’s back to the big guns.  This time, Jack ducks his head and covers his eyes with his hands so he won’t be accused of making his fiancé fall to the ice hard enough to cause brain damage.  

“Yes!” Bitty screams a few minutes later.

When Jack raises his head, he’s fist pumping and flying around in an exuberant spread eagle.

“You can look, Jack.  It’s fine,” Bitty says on his next pass.  “I can do it again.  I’ve got this.”

A small smile passes across Jack’s face as BO$$ starts to play and Eric dances across the ice, snapping his fingers and clapping his hands.  Jack holds his breath this time as Eric nails the combination and then several other jumps in a row until the music runs out and the track changes into something that has less cursing, but somehow is even more explicit.  Jack feels dirty just listening to it and watching Eric’s body move.  

There are spins and body rolls and moves so obscene that within a minute Katya is yelling over the din, “ENOUGH.  Have lunch.  Come back without fiancé for lifting and ballet.”

Smug, Eric flits back to the bench and shuts off the music before skating over to Jack and sitting down to slip on his blade soakers and start unlacing.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.  

Jack stares.  His eyes move from the pink tip of Eric’s running nose to his sweat-drenched clavicle to the scars on his face and then back up to the deep brown eyes of the man he loves.

“You’re incredible,” he says softly, feeling his eyes water.  “What you were doing out there…”

“Trying to come up with a signature move for me,” Eric fills in.  “Nothing great so far.”

“You—you think that—was nothing great?” Jack huffs.  “That was amazing and exhilarating and fucking terrifying,” he admits.  “I didn’t know you had to wear a helmet to figure skate.”

“You don’t,” Bitty says, pulling the band from around his head and fussing with his sweaty hair.  “It’s precautionary.  You don’t wear pads in competition, and you spend a lot of time learning how to fall properly when you’re young.  Sometimes the quads can get out of hand, so you just try to minimize catastrophe.  But we can talk about that later.  You didn’t drive all the way over here to talk about my skating, so just tell me what you came here to say.”

“I made you a sandwich,” he says, reaching for the lunchbox he’d carried in.  He took his time writing a love note to stick on top, hoping it might help Eric understand if he couldn't get the words out.  “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Try again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Better.  Keep talking…”

Jack takes a deep, sobering breath and makes a list.  

“I’m sorry about the interview Kent gave and all the awful things he said about you and me.  I’m sorry he keeps doing this and messing things up for us.  I’m sorry he was at the Cup party and made you angry.  I’m sorry but… I think my overdose gave Kenny PTSD, and I didn’t realize.  I think that’s why he’s been so hung up on me.”

Eric’s hand reaches out to take his.  He shouldn’t accept it.  It shouldn’t be Eric that needs to comfort him right now.  Eric deserves to be mad at him.  But Jack takes it anyway, twining their fingers together.  

“Most of all,” Jack says, pressing his lips to Bitty’s gloved knuckles, “I’m sorry that I was so focused on myself and my goals that I relapsed and took your time and attention away from you reaching yours.  I’m sorry that I haven’t asked about your training, or supported you as much as you’ve supported me.  I’m sorry I didn’t realize how hard you were working and how much pressure you’ve been under, especially since all I did was add to your burden.”

“We have talked about this,” Eric cuts him off.  “You are not a burden.  Not to me and not to Shitty or your parents or Tater or to anyone else.  Your recovery is important.  It’s more important to me than a skating competition.  There will be other skating competitions.  If I’m not ready for Nationals this year, I’ll make it next year.”

“You’ll be ready.  I’ll make sure you’re ready.”

“You can’t make me ready for anything, sweetpea.  I don’t need you to baby me.  Whatever happens, we’ll make it work.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, because it’s all there’s left to say.  What else can he say when Eric continues to be too good for him in every way imaginable?  “Thank you for giving me more chances than I deserve.  I know it’s not easy loving me.”

“It’s the easiest thing in the world to love you, Jack.  It’s not so easy to be mad at you,” he breathes, and leans in for a kiss.

“That’s good,” Jack says when they break apart.  “But you’re right to be mad.  Kent just made a really big problem for us and now we have to decide what to do going forward and work something out with Georgia.”

“Lunch first,” Bitty says, slipping his skates into his bag and pulling ballet shoes on instead.  Hefting his duffel over his shoulder, Eric then grabs the lunchbox with a pleased look, his face softening.   “Then we can talk PR.”  He holds out his free hand, and Jack has never been so happy to take it.

Within five minutes of discussing their situation with Georgia, it becomes clear that there is a conversation Jack really needs to have before they even think about making a statement or doing an interview.  

“Bits,” Jack asks, with George still on speakerphone in their kitchen.  “What does your training schedule look like for tomorrow?”

“It’s actually a rest day, why?”

“Because I think I need to go to Montreal,” he says, eyes wide and pleading, “and I’d really like you to come with me.”

“I can get us there on a private plane in an hour if we leave soon,” George says, clacking away on her keyboard.  

Jack catches Bitty’s gaze and he nods once, already out of the room and throwing things in a suitcase before he’s even given George their answer.  Within the hour they’re climbing the steps of a Cessna and settling down in the large, leather seats.

“I can’t believe this is a thing actual human people do,” Bitty says as he buckles up for takeoff.

“It’s not as expensive as you think it is.”

Eric just glares at him as he slips his new passport back into its case.  “Please never use that phrase ever again.  A year ago I couldn’t scrounge together enough nickels to buy myself a Coke from the gas station.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says again.  It feels like he’s been saying it all day, but he knows he deserves it.  “I’ll shut up now.”

Five minutes later, Georgia boards the plane and knowingly slips her earbuds in so they can have some privacy.  Once they’re in the air, Jack unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to the seat opposite Eric, sliding forward until he can get Eric’s feet in his lap.  

“I know you’re only doing this because you think I’m still mad at you, but I don’t care,” Bitty sighs as Jack’s thumb digs into his left arch.  “And I am still mad at you, for the record.”

“I understand.”  Jack does understand.  There’s so much baggage here, not only between the two of them but between them and their parents and also Jack and Kenny.  That’s far too much to expect someone to deal with on top of work pressure, celebrity nonsense, and the all-encompassing, relentless exhaustion that comes from competing in professional sports.  

For a few minutes, they’re quiet.  Jack goes over his affirmations in his head as he works the tension out of Eric’s feet and calves with his good hand.  Blaire had explained that when other stressors come into your life it’s not the time to let your mindfulness practices slip, it’s the time to dig deep and really focus on the basics.  Easier said than done, but he tries.  Every time his mind flits back to how he’s going to explain his relapse to his parents, he pulls it back to his list and focuses on the ones he needs right now.  

I forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made.

All of my problems have solutions.

Eric’s voice, just barely loud enough to be heard over the engines, pulls him out of his head.  “Do you really think Kent has PTSD?”

Thinking for a moment, Jack nods.  “Yeah.  I really think he does.  We spoke for a while,” he says, hoping Bitty won’t be upset with him about it.  He doesn’t want to relay this information.  There’s a chance it could hurt Eric more than it will help him understand.  But Jack is done with keeping secrets.  He wants everything laid out on the table.  Then, at least, he’ll know he’s done right by everyone involved.  

“He told me I left him.  When I ODed.  I left him alone.  He—” this part is hard, and Jack swallows down emotion as he finds the words.  “He said he pounded on my chest as my lips turned blue and called 911 and held me until they got there.  And then I just—I just did it to him again.  Because I did.  I fucking did do that, Bits.”  Once he gets going, the words fall out of him in a rush of air that he can’t control.  

“I did it to you, I know that,” Jack squeezes down on Eric’s instep a little too hard and pulls his hand back like he’s been scalded when Eric hisses, “but I did it to him, too.”

Moving away from Eric, he sits back in his seat.  Jack closes his eyes and tips his head up to the ceiling, trying to breathe through the utter disgust he feels.  The tears fall anyway.

“I took too much again, and I was on the floor and Kenny said you wouldn’t let him touch me, and I understand that, I do, but he said he was just trying to feel my heartbeat because he couldn’t watch me die again without bringing me to the hospital and I—I’m so upset and sorry because I think he’s right.  I think I broke him and I’m afraid that maybe I broke you, too.  I broke all of us.”

When he looks up, Eric is crying as well.  

Jack has to move seats to sit back down next to him and fold him up in his arms.  He rocks the two of them, hopes the rumble of the engines will drown out the beating of his own heart.  Shaking, he pets Eric’s hair and says the same words all over again like a broken record.  “I’m so, so sorry, Bits.  I did it to him and I just did it to you and I’m the one that keeps ruining everyone’s lives and I don’t want to be the man that ruins your life.  I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

“You’re not the man that ruined my life.”

“Bits…”

Eric pulls away and dries his eyes with the hem of his shirt.  “No, listen to me.  You are not the man that ruined my life.  My father did that years before I ever met you.  You are the man I love.  The one who saved my life.  You don’t get to be both.  You’re not—I couldn’t handle you being both.  There is no way in hell I am going to let you walk into your parents’ house thinking you’re the Richard fucking Bittle here.  You are not a life-ruiner.”

Jack looks at him long and hard and searches his face for truth.  In Bitty’s soft brown eyes and the divot of his lower lip, he’s pretty sure he finds it, but there’s still more he needs to say.

“I don’t want you to regret being with me.”  

It’s the thing that’s been weighing on Jack’s mind for the past two weeks, the mystifying thought that only came into sharper focus after speaking with Kent.  If Jack had never overdosed as a kid, if he had never fallen into bed with Kenny, maybe none of this would have ever happened.  Maybe he wouldn’t have ruined two beautiful people by loving them.  “I don’t want you to look back on your life and hate yourself for letting me make you feel small and insignificant.  I don’t want to do that to you anymore.  I don’t want to keep hurting people.  Not Kent, but especially not you.”  

“We choose who hurts us,” Eric says softly.  “I didn’t have to love you.  I chose to love you and I choose to love you every single day when I get up in the morning.  That’s my choice—my right.”

Jack shakes his head.  Eric is, and will always be, too good for him.  

“I don’t want to be the thing that keeps you from becoming the person you were meant to be or reaching your goals.  I don’t want you to be just another person I ran over—someone that drowned in my mess.” Jack breathes out heavily and takes in another big gulp of air.  “I can’t be the one that ruins your life.  I just can’t.  You don’t deserve any of this.  No one does.” 

“You didn’t ruin my life and you didn’t ruin Kent Parson’s life either, no matter what you think or what he says.  You are a good person.  It’s not your fault he loved—loves you,” he corrects with a deliberate exhale.  “He loves you because of the good things you did, not the bad ones, and maybe they’re all mixed up for him right now, but that doesn’t mean that his life is ruined.”

“But I—”

“—No, Jack.  You didn’t ruin him.  He can get therapy and fall in love and marry whoever the hell he wants, and you and I can do the same.  You’ve made mistakes, but you learn from them and you keep pushing forward with me.  Every time we fuck up, we lean on each other and we learn and we get better and we move forward and we will always keep moving forward together.  Kent will find someone to lean on, too.  Once he gets his head out of his annoyingly pert ass.”

Jack laughs.  He wipes the tears from his eyes and sniffs, then laughs some more.  “It’s not a competition.  But you have the better ass.”

“Oh honey, we’re professional athletes.  Everything’s a competition.  This,” he says, twirling his engagement ring around his finger, “is just the one I’m most proud of winning.”

At those words, something clicks together in Jack’s mind.  

I don’t even think your sexuality would accommodate feelings like that.  

“Bits,” he starts with no idea how to finish the thought.

“Yeah, baby?”

“There’s something Shitty said to me earlier… about my sexuality.”

“What about it?” Eric asks, sitting up so he can look Jack in the eye.  “I know you’re going back up on your meds and things are going to be different but that’s okay.  We can work it out.  We’ll always work it out.  Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine I just—I think I need to explain something to you.”

“I’m listening,” he says, taking Jack’s hand in his and kissing his knuckles.

“I don’t know how to say it.”

“Just take your time.  Talk around it.  I’ll follow you.”

“You always do,” Jack says softly, “but this is different.  I’m different.”

He has to pause for a moment to gather his thoughts.  Bitty is always so patient with him, and that simple fact makes Jack all the more determined to do this properly.

“I spent so many years being confused about myself—about my body and how it works and doesn’t work—how it’s different from other people’s.  I just… I don’t think I feel things the same way… the way everyone else does—the way you do.  It’s always been a weird jumble in here,” he gestures to his chest with their joined hands, “of hormones and medications and anxiety ever since I was young.  It’s overwhelming on a bad day, but on a good day—it’s so, so clear.  And I want you to know.”

Taking a deep breath, Jack does his best to explain.

“What I feel for you.  It’s huge.”  He sighs.  Just saying it out loud makes Jack breathless.  “It’s bigger than me.  It’s bigger than anything has ever been in my whole life besides hockey.  There’s how it feels to have ice under my skates and a stick in my hand and there’s how it feels to be with you and they’re both so big.  But it’s not just that the feelings are big and messy, because they are, but it’s that they’re the only ones… do you know what I’m saying?”

“No,” Bitty admits, “but keep going.”

“I think I put a lot of pressure on this,” he squeezes their joined hands again, “because it’s the only thing like it.”

Eric looks at him, head tilted to the side, a soft, open expression on his face.  His eyes are wide and searching Jack’s face, desperate to understand. 

In this moment, Jack loves him.  Not for all the usual reasons that come from days and weeks and months spent with flour-covered countertops and sweat-drenched sheets, but for the perseverance.  Eric is willing to accept Jack for what he is right now, not the pipe-dream of what he could be one day, not for the awards and the goals and the promise of sex and a perfect, tuxedo-clad future in the spotlight, but the messy, snot-streaked reality of his addiction and recovery.  After everything they’ve been through, Eric is still ready to put in the work.  He shows up for Jack every damn day, and Jack wants to start doing the same for him.  

If this is going to be their clean slate, Jack needs to start with all of his cards on the table.  Bitty needs to know his whole heart, not just what it looks like from the outside.

He decides to try a different approach.

“I told Shitty once that I’ve only ever been attracted to two people in my entire life.  Not porn, not anyone I meet on the street, not actors or people who hit on me at bars—just two people.  There was Kent, and then there was nothing for so long I thought that part of me died when I overdosed, and then there was you.  I understand now—that it’s not because I’m broken—it’s because I’m different.  For me, attraction is so rare that when it happens, it’s because it’s really, really special.  And I realize now what that must look like to you.”

“Honey, I’m not—I don’t think—”

“You think he’s competition.  You think he’s the only one that can ever be competition.  But that’s just not how this works.  That’s not how I work.”

“I don’t think he’s competition,” Bitty stammers.  He pinches his lips shut, knowing it’s a lie before it even comes out of his mouth.

“You do,” Jack says, licking his lips.  “You do, but you don’t have to.  Let me explain.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, sweetpea.”

“I really do.  Just give me a minute.  I need you to hear this.”

“Okay.”  Bitty squeezes his hand again.  He’s confused, but he’s trying.

“Kent was a big part of my life.  He probably will continue to be a big part of my life because of the connection we had and what happened to me—to us.  It’s not something I can change or undo and clearly it’s something that’s going to need more resolution, especially on his part, to get over and move past, but I need you to know that I’m not in love with him and I’m not attracted to him anymore.”

Eric lets out a slow, heavy breath and bites his lower lip.  It’s clear that he’s listening, but Jack isn’t sure he’s understanding.  He’ll just have to try harder.  

“I can’t explain why or how, but I’m just—not.  I don’t work that way.  There’s only you for me.  And I know that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense and I know that’s not how it usually works, but there’s only you.  Everyone else is just family or friends.  There’s affection, and it’s strong, like for Shitty and Tater and Maman and Papa, but it’s not like you.  There’s only one thing—one person that makes my body work like everyone else’s, and it’s you.”

Shivering, Jack releases Eric’s hands to wipe his palms on his jeans.  

“But it’s more than that,” he continues, heart stuttering in his chest when Eric reaches for his hand again, not prepared to let go just yet.  “This,” Jack says, squeezing him again.  It’s clammy, but it’s solid.  The soft pads of Bitty’s fingertips flit over his palm, soothing him.  His breath catches, but he keeps going.  “It’s not just physical—though the physical is admittedly, mind blowing and important—it’s intangible.  There’s only one feeling and I feel it in my chest and in my gut and tingling in my entire body and it’s only you.  You’re the only person and the last person that’s ever going to make me feel like that.”

“Jack,” he breathes, tears welling in his eyes again.  

“I don’t know how to show you the difference, because it’s all I’ve ever known so I can’t compare it to anything, but to me it’s like—what makes me alive—what makes me come alive is how I feel for you.  For you and for hockey.  So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I see how that sounds crazy and how it’s hard for you sometimes.  To think that I was a hockey robot before I met you and now I’m—really real—like how I imagine everyone else is all the time.”

“Jack, I—”  

“I know it’s hard because you see how much I rely on you and this feeling and you get scared and I get scared that it’s all going to fall apart and I cling and you cling and it’s so big and overwhelming it feels like it’s all about to come crashing down at any moment.  I see that.

“I see that and I’m going to try to do better, to not only have two pillars holding me up, to build a new one that’s just me, so if hockey takes a hit or if we get into a fight, I won’t completely crumble to dust.  I know I need to take more of the weight so it doesn’t crush you, and I’m going to do that.  I’m already working on coping strategies with Blaire, and I’m prepared to put in as much time as it takes.  But I just wanted you to know that it’s not a competition between you and Kent.  What we had—it was heavy—but it’s a different kind of weight now.  What makes me come alive… it’s loving you.  The way my heart works—there can only ever be one at a time—and it’s going to be you for the rest of my life.”

“I—” Eric falls quiet for a long moment.  Tears stream down his cheeks and he doesn’t wipe them away.  His eyes squeeze shut and his lips are pressed so hard together they turn white.  “I’m—” he tries again, but can’t get any words out.  Jack watches his throat convulse as he tries to fight back emotion and say what he needs to say.

Petting his hair, Jack shushes him.  “It’s okay.  We’re going to be okay.”

“I know we are,” Bitty says, smacking Jack’s chest with the back of his hand playfully.  “I just—”

“Talk to me,” Jack says, his adolescent longing audible in his rasp.  “I want to listen.”

“About Kent—”

“—I really am sorry about what he said about you.  I set him straight.  Well, not straight.  You know…” he trails off into a laugh.

“He’s bi, right?”

“Yeah.  But I think he’s leaning in the male direction since… you know…”

“I know,” Bitty says, sniffing and carefully wiping under his eyes while he searches for the right words.  “As much as I hate him—and I do—he just doesn’t know when to quit, and I really may snap and stab him with my toepick one day—I do understand him.”

“Well, yeah, I guess you do have a bit in common.  The skating and the trouble with your parents and money and—”

“—and you, honey.  We’re the only two people on the planet who know what it’s like to love and be loved by you.”

“But you get that it’s not a competition, right?  I’m never going to be like that with him again.”

“I hear that, Jack, I do, but it’s a little hard to wrap your head around from the outside.”

Sighing heavily, Jack nods.  “I’m sorry I’m weird.”

“I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.  I’m just trying to help you understand my side a little bit.”

“Okay.”

“I… I don’t know if you realize how much of a rush it is being with you.  I know we’ve talked about this before—how I like to have control in the bedroom and why—but I’m not sure you really get how it feels outside of sex.”

“How does it feel?” Jack asks.  He has no idea where this is going but Bitty has been on the back foot for the past half hour and now it’s Jack’s turn to be patient.

“You—you’re larger than life—and not just because you’re a literal moose in hockey pads.  The focus, the drive, the intensity that’s all wrapped up in that gorgeous package,” he says, waving a small, shaking hand around to encompass Jack’s entire body.  “That would be enough for me, for anyone really, to feel special—how sweet and lovely you are and how fiercely you care for me.  But then you add in what you just told me about how there’s only one person for you and you can kind of see how that might give somebody a bit of an… ego?”

“You don’t have an ego.”

Eric laughs in his face.  “Oh honey, I’m a very obviously gay figure skater with a thick Southern accent and a carefully curated social media presence.  I wear leotards and booty shorts on a daily basis.  I’m Johnny Weir and Elton John rolled up in a pile of Lady Gaga like rainbow sprinkles on a sugar cookie.  You’re sweet for thinking I’m still that shy little country boy, but I’m out of my shell now and you can’t tweet selfies and vlog like I do without a big head and you definitely can’t skate like I skate without a chip on your shoulder.  And lastly… I don’t mean to toot my own horn or anything… but you’ve seen my penis.  That’s got ego written all over it.”

“I’m lost.  What are you saying?” Jack admits.  He knows who Elton John is, but the rest of Eric’s references go right over his head.  Except the bit about Eric’s penis.  That he knows intimately.

“I’m saying that knowing you’re the only one who can bring Stanley Cup winner Jack Laurent Zimmermann to his knees is a big fucking deal, and it can mess with your head a little bit.  I love what we have and that it’s a partnership with give and take, but when it comes to sex, you let me have control and that’s not something that’s easy to walk away from.  So when you tell me that I’m the only one who’s ever going to make you feel that way—that I’m the only person who makes you feel alive—that’s so much more than anyone could ever expect to get out of this life.  That’s everything.”

“I—” Jack stops and considers this.  “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bitty laughs.  “Oh.”

“So… that’s a good thing?  Because to me it feels like a bad thing.  That I’ve put all my eggs in your basket and put it on you not to break them.”

“Sometimes it feels like that, but mostly, it’s the best thing, sugar.  The very best thing,” he says, enunciating every word.  His eyes go dark with heat.  

“I see,” Jack says, watching Eric’s tongue as it flicks out to wet his lips.

“Yes.  So,” he continues, sitting back with a smirk playing across his face, “you can see why Kent might be feeling at a loss.”

“I—what?”

“Kent,” Bitty repeats.  “I understand why he’s lashing out because I know that if I were a control freak like him, which I sort of am in certain situations, and I lost my control over you and your body and your heart, I’d be a hot mess too.”

Jack stares past Eric’s left shoulder at the wall as thoughts tumble around his head.  “You,” he starts, still staring off into space, “you think Kent… wants—uh—needs me because I’m… what?  Asexual?  Um… grey?”

“I think Kent’s been stewing for a decade because he lost the one thing he thought was always going to be just his and no one else’s.  You were his perfect dirty little secret before you came out.  Just him and you and no one else knowing what you had.  And now you’re with me publicly and say you’ll never be with him again, and his whole identity just went right out the fucking window.”

“Um… wow.”

“Yeah,” Eric says, letting out a slow whistle.  “I still hate him, but I can sympathize just a smidge.  He lost you and now I have you, and this,” he says, twirling his engagement ring once again, “I have your whole future and he has nothing but a decade of guilt and hoping.  He spent all that time thinking maybe he was still the only one that could ever make you feel anything.  That’s not saying I condone what he did, because I absolutely do not and I might have to throw an elbow or two next time I see him, but I also pity him.  He has to start over and watch me get everything he ever wanted.”

“Fuck,” Jack says.  He slumps forward, head falling into his hands.  “I really did fuck him up, didn’t I?”

“You did nothing but be yourself, sweetpea.  It’s him who didn’t know how to handle you.”   There’s a lightness to his words, a humor that Jack clings to and uses as a rope to pull him out of the pit of guilt that builds in his stomach.

“And you know how to handle me, huh?” he asks, lifting his eyes and looking at Eric from beneath his lashes.

“Don’t use those bedroom eyes on me, Mister Zimmermann.  There is a lady present,” Eric titters, nodding his head behind him to where Georgia is still focused on her laptop with her earbuds in.

“I—with me up on my meds and everything.  I—I don’t know if I’m going to want sex later,” he admits.  “Especially after we talk to my parents.”

“I understand,” Eric says, taking his hand and kissing his palm.  “I don’t need anything right now.  Let’s just get through this next part and then we’ll think about your ED later.” 

Jack sighs.  “Why is nothing ever easy?”

“Because we’re masochists that mentally and physically torture ourselves for a living?” Bitty quips.

“Speaking of which, how’s your butt?  It looked like you hit the ice pretty hard earlier.”

“My butt will be just fine, thank you for asking.  It’s had worse done to it—by you, even.”

A bark of a laugh breaks out of Jack’s throat, and George actually pulls her headphones out to ask what she missed.

“Nothing,” Jack yelps, smacking Eric in the side when he cracks up at his expense.  “We’re fine.”

Once she’s engrossed in her work again, Jack asks, “We are fine, right?”

“We’re good, baby.  We’re going to be just fine.”

Jack nods, relaxing into his seat slightly.  “Thank you for giving me the time—the opportunity to try again.  I understand now.  I understand myself and what I have to do to… be the man that you need.  I’m going to be the husband you deserve.”

“You already are,” Eric says, leaning forward to catch Jack’s chin and tilt it upward.  “You already are the man I need, you just don’t believe me yet.  This,” he says, laying a palm over Jack’s chest, “having your heart—this big, beautiful heart—it’s everything I need.  Jack I—I’m scared to be the one that holds this—the one that looks after it—looks after you.”  His other hand leaves Jack’s chin to brush across his mouth.  “But I’m also humbled.  I’m going to be careful with it, because I know you’re going to be careful with mine.  We’re a little fragile.  But I know we’re going to heal up just fine.  What’s one more scar?” he asks, laughing sarcastically.

“I don’t want to be another scar for you.  You carry too many already,” Jack says, rubbing one thumb across Eric’s forehead, pushing his hair back.  His other hand falls to Bitty’s waist, grazing over his side where the knife went in.

Eric inhales sharply, tilting his face up to arch into Jack’s touch.  “A broken bone, then.  They heal stronger than they were before.”  

His eyes fall closed and Jack breathes him in.  “That’s a fallacy.  It’s just a calcium deposit.  It goes away.”

“Work with me here, Mister Zimmermann.  I’m trying to be romantic.”   

Jack cups his cheeks and leans in, breathing together with their foreheads touching.  “I can’t wait to marry you.”

“After Worlds,” Bitty says, capturing his lips.  “We can take a break after I make it to Worlds.  Next one is in Montréal, actually.”

“That sounds great, mon lapin,” Jack moans, only to press in again, kissing Eric deeper this time.

Panting, Bitty breaks the kiss to say, “I just have to place this year.  Then if I can keep my momentum going and keep winning, I’ll be able to do it.  They’ll have to pick me for the Olympic team, even if I’m ancient.”

“You’re not ancient.  I’m ancient.  I’ll be 30 before we make it to Beijing—if I’m even allowed to play in Beijing.”

“I wanna be Evgeny Plushenko when I grow up,” Eric says, smiling and raising his eyebrows.  “He won a gold medal when he was 31 in Sochi.”

“I’m not letting you go to Russia alone.  Let’s just agree to that right now.”

“You go where you get assigned, Jack.  The grand prix has six preliminaries, and they’re all over the place.  We’re going to see the world together.”

“I don’t need to see the world.  But I do want to be there with you.  I want to be there for everything.”

Bitty slips his hand into Jack’s and squeezes hard.  

“We’re going to do it.  You’re going to win five Stanley Cups and I’m going to win—well, probably not five Olympic medals, but I’m shooting for at least one gold and a few world titles—and we’re going to do it together.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Jack says, kissing Eric’s knuckles.

They sink down in their seats, still wrapped around each other and don’t budge until it’s time to land.

“You ready for this?  For your parents to know?” Bitty asks, biting down on his lower lip.

“No.  Not in the slightest.”

“I’ll hold your hand the whole time.  We’ll do it together.”

“Together,” Jack agrees.  He closes his eyes and goes through his list as they start their descent.

I am in charge of my life story.

Chapter Text

Standing on the front steps of his parents’ house, Jack is struck with an eerie sense of deja vu.  It’s not the same.  He knows it’s not the same as confronting Richard Bittle back in Georgia, but as he squeezes Bitty’s small hand and faces the monolith of Bob and Alicia Zimmermann’s front door, it feels like another showdown.  

He’s not at all emotionally prepared for this.  

Georgia stands behind them, eyes on her phone, attempting to give them a modicum of privacy.  He knows that she’ll go to another room.  Georgia is not only a professional, she’s a good friend.  She’ll give them the time they need to talk to his parents, even as Jack longs for the buffer of her presence.  

He’d take a puck to the face right now if it would save him from this conversation.

“Do you still have keys?” Bitty asks, voice quiet as he shivers in his sweatpants and coat.  It’s June, but it’s 10 p.m. in Montréal and Eric still has Southern blood.  

“There’s a camera at the gate,” Jack explains, shaking his head.  “They already know we’re here.”  

Taking a deep breath, Jack turns the knob, knowing it’s been unlocked while they were still on their way up the long drive through the woods.  If his parents are expecting him, the door is left unlocked.  It’s always the same, even when he’s been away for a long time, playing hockey on the other side of the planet.  Maman and Papa’s door will always be open to him.  He clings to the thought now, the same way he clings to Eric’s hand as he leads them through the entryway and toward the back of the house.  

This is his home.  He’ll always be welcome here.  The Zimmermanns are not the Bittles.  

He should be safe here.

“Hello?” he calls, his voice already shaking.  “Maman?  Papa?”

“In here,” the answer comes the same as always.  “We made coffee.  It’s decaf!”  It’s something of an unspoken rule now that Jack isn’t to be ambushed at the front door.  His parents let him come to them in his own time.  He’s never appreciated the gesture more.

Jack huffs out a small breath.  “I know,” he says.  Ever since rehab, his parents have always understood that he needs something to do with his hands while he speaks to them.  Now, he wonders if Bitty will forego their offer of a warm beverage and let Jack hold his hand instead.

They enter the kitchen with its large swaths of countertop and imposing high ceiling that holds pots and other equipment so high over Eric’s head he won’t be able to reach without a stool.  Jack takes a moment to enjoy the small gasp of breath to his left as Bitty’s eyes take in the space.  

“They’ll let you tape an episode of your show here tomorrow,” he assures him just before he meets his mother’s eyes.

“Jack,” she sighs, arms outstretched for a hug.  “What are you doing here?  You never called back.  We were starting to worry.”

“Maman,” he says, not leaving Eric’s side to accept her touch.  “J'avais besoin de te parler et Papa.”

“Is this about that interview Kent gave?” Papa asks, already filling two cups from the full pot.  “Did you get my voicemail?  I already gave him a piece of my mind.  That boy needs to quit using me against you.  I’ll always protect him, but you are my only child,” he says.  His expression is fond, but his tone gives him away.  He’s already angry before Jack even opens his mouth.

“There’s no competition, mon ange,” Maman translates the way she always does.  “You—and now Eric,” she says, sliding a cup of black coffee over to Jack while she fixes a second with milk and sugar for Bitty, “you will always be our priority.”

Before Jack can even contemplate a response, Eric is bursting into tears beside him.  

“Shh, shh,” Jack murmurs, pulling Bitty into his chest.  “It’s okay.”

“Quit it, honey.”  Eric pushes against his chest, but he doesn’t budge.  He will never budge.  “I’m supposed to be here for you.”

“We’re here for each other.  It’s okay,” Jack repeats, rubbing his hands up and down the length of Bitty’s back.  “It’s okay to be upset.”

“I—I shouldn’t be, though.  I’m happy for you,” Bitty says, sniffling.  “I’m happy that you have this even if I never did.” 

Tears well in Jack’s eyes as Eric’s words hit him.  “You do now,” he says, voice thick.  “You have them now, too.”

“What’s going on?”  Maman’s voice slices through their whispered discussion.  “Eric?  Is everything okay?  Jack?”

“Tell them, honey,” Eric says, wiping the tears from under Jack’s eyes with his free hand.  “It’ll be alright.  They’ll understand.”

“What are you telling us?” Papa asks.  

He puts his mug down on the counter with both hands, and Jack can tell he’s steadying himself.  Papa straightens his back, rising to his full height and rolling his shoulders.  Jack recognizes the stance.  He’s watched enough tape of his father to last several lifetimes.  This is Bad Bob Zimmermann at the ready.  This is what he looks like right before he lowers himself for a face-off.   

“Papa.”  Jack hasn’t even taken the cup of coffee, but he’s still swallowing down acid.  “Maman.  I—”

Eric squeezes his hand, but it’s not enough.  It’s not enough to calm him.  His vision blurs as he fights down panic.  Jack can feel his nostrils flaring as they suck in air.  He took one of his new pills in the car on the way here, but he’s not sure if it’s working—maybe nothing could ever save him from this feeling.

“Sweetpea,” Eric says, pulling Jack’s face down to his with both hands.  “They’re not leaving you.  They’re never going to stop loving you, and neither am I.  Trust me.  I know what that looks like, and—” his voice cracks, but he swallows and pushes through  “—this isn’t that.  Alright?”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Jack nods, convincing himself it’s the truth.  It’s not that Jack thinks his parents are going to disown him or leave him to fend for himself like Eric’s did.  Jack just can’t bear to disappoint them again.  They’re going to cry and tell him it’s okay and that they’ll do everything they can to help him.  They’ll do that, but Jack knows they’ll also die a little bit inside.  They’ll die a little bit more—he’s done this to them once before.  He’s about to age his parents another ten years and he just can’t bear it.

He doesn’t want to break his mother’s heart—doesn’t want to admit to his father that he couldn’t do it sober.  He wants to stop breaking things.  

He wants to stop breaking people.

“Jack,” Eric calls him again when he can’t get his attention.  “Think about your list.”

He does.  

With the weight of his parents’ eyes on him, Jack takes the time to breathe and go through his list in his head.  He can hear them shifting on their feet and whispering in Quebecois to each other, but Jack tunes it out and perseveres.  This is what he needs to do.  Every time he thinks he isn’t worth it, every time he thinks he isn’t good enough or wants to die, this is what he needs to do.  Jack owes it to himself and Eric to take the time and do it, so he does.

Every day in every way, I’m getting better.  

“I relapsed.”

The words are so quiet, Jack isn’t even sure they’re audible, but now that he’s said them out loud once, he can say them again.  Opening his eyes and blinking the tears out of his lashes, Jack looks at his parents and says it again.  

“I relapsed.”

“Oh, Jack,” Papa says, and before Jack can even decipher the words and discern their tone, there are arms wrapping around his waist.

It’s awkward because Jack still hasn’t let go of Eric’s hand and he’s honestly not sure that he can without completely falling apart, so he doesn’t.  Jack just hooks his chin over his father’s shoulder and uses his free hand to hang on for dear life.  

“You’re okay,” his father whispers into his ears.  “You’re okay.”  He says it several more times.  The first time it was a question, but with every repetition it becomes a firmer statement.  Jack cries because now he recognizes the tone for what it is.  Relief.  

“Baby,” Maman says, slipping into her native tongue.  Sometimes Jack forgets she’s American—forgets all that this woman sacrificed to give him a home in Montréal—how much she gave up for her husband’s career—for him.  She hovers behind Papa with both hands around her elbows until he releases Jack and she can step in to take his place.  

“It’s okay.  You’re okay.”  That’s Eric squeezing his hand, telling Jack he can finally let go.  

With both arms free, he can wrap his mother up and pull her tight to his chest, resting his chin on her head.  “I’m so sorry.  I fucked up.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she cries, voice muffled against his coat.  “You just have to be here.”

Jack opens his eyes to find Eric being hugged by Papa—squeezed so tightly he’s just a tuft of blond hair above Bad Bob’s forearms—but Bitty doesn’t seem to be complaining.  In fact, he’s burrowing into Papa’s ancient Habs shirt with abandon, taking comfort where it’s given.

“All you have to do is be alive, baby,” Maman whispers.  “All you ever have to do is live.  We don’t need anything else from you.  I promise.”

“You know that, don’t you, Jack?” Papa asks, one arm still draped around Eric.  His deep brown eyes are wet and pleading.  “Please tell me you know we don’t expect anything.  We just want you alive and happy.  Everything else is icing on top.”

“Whatever happened,” Maman says, pulling back to look Jack in the eye, “we’ll deal with it.  Together.  There’s nothing you can do that can’t be fixed, eventually.  I know it takes time, but we’ll help you.”

Jack hears what she’s not saying—what they’re both not saying.  They can handle anything as long as Jack doesn’t actually manage to kill himself again.   He can’t decide whether that’s comforting or horrifying.  No parent should have to bury their child, Jack has heard that at a few funerals over the years, but the words have never meant as much as they do right now.  

“See, honey?” Eric says, snapping Jack out of his thoughts.  There’s a watery smile on his face, but Jack can tell he’s really in pain.  “A Stanley Cup is just icing on the cake when your parents love you right.”

“I—” he begins and can’t make the words come out of his mouth.  He’s so sorry, but he doesn’t know how to apologize to his fiancé for the sins of his parents.  None of this is fair.  Eric deserves more. 

“Hush, sugar.  It’s alright.  You don’t have to say it.”

“When did this happen?” his father asks, trying to take a bit of the pressure off, but Jack still can’t find his words.  “What happened, exactly?”

He looks up to Bitty, once more pleading for help that he knows he shouldn’t ask for.  Eric has already done enough for him.  Jack should be able to do this himself.

His voice is barely more than a whisper when he finally answers for Jack.  “It was on our vacation that I first saw it happen.  But I think it was probably coming on for a while before that.”  Eric turns to Maman and pleads with her.  “I’m so sorry.  I should have seen this coming.  I just—”

“No, Bits—”

“This isn’t your—”

“Don’t you dare apologize—”

“I know, okay?  I know, but I can know it wasn’t my fault and still wish I had figured it out earlier—before it got so bad.”         

“How bad did it get?” Papa asks, turning away from Eric toward Jack.  

Jack knows he needs to at least say this part himself.  His father is looking for him to take some responsibility for his actions—to be the man he always thought Jack could be—so he needs to try.  Jack can do this much, at least.  He can get better and be better and turn it all around if he accepts responsibility and stops looking to Bitty to interpret his emotions for him.

“I uh—game seven.  I wasn’t sober.”  

That’s all he can manage for now.  He looks at his shoes and swallows hard, bracing himself for his parents’ reactions.

“Oh, Jack.  Baby.  What happened?”

“You—what did you—how did you—?”  His father can’t even form a complete thought he’s so shocked.

“Umm… my wrist…” Jack breathes in slowly through his nose and closes his eyes against the sight of his parents’ faces.  His chest seizes abruptly, but before he has the chance to work into a real panic, Bitty’s small, cold hand slips into his and he finds his footing.  “They gave me Dilaudid for my wrist… and I took… a lot of it.”

“They gave you—who gave you the pills Jack?  I’ll have their jobs—”

“Georgia already took care of it,” Jack says quickly.  The last thing he needs is Bad Bob making a scene at his place of work.  “Please don’t make it worse than I already have.  I know I fucked up.  I took the pills and I drank too much and…”  He can’t finish the sentence—isn’t sure he can admit that he passed out and Tater had to lift him off the floor while Bitty and Kent and his friends watched.  “And I hurt Eric and both of you, and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, mon ange.  We know you.  We know you’re already feeling sorry enough.  Please don’t hurt yourself more over this.”  

The endearment makes Jack’s heart stutter in his chest.  He struggles for a moment to remember if she’s always used it or if he only became an angel in his mother’s eyes after he died at eighteen.  Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he tries to focus on the present.

“I—I’m not going to hurt myself,” Jack assures her.  “I had a slip—a bad one—but I don’t want to use anymore.  I was feeling good, so thought I could ease up on my recovery a bit and drink and lower the dosage of my meds.  I was wrong.  I was so wrong.”  Squeezing Eric’s hand, he lets out another slow breath.  “It’s not going to happen again, though.  I promise you.”

“You can’t promise that, mon fils.”  Papa is shaking his head.  Nothing makes Jack’s heart race quite like that disappointed head shake.

Jack opens his mouth to defend himself but stops short.  A minute goes by and Jack just stares at his shoes again, turning it all over in his head.

“Yes, he can,” Bitty says, after what feels like an age.  

“Bits, you don’t have to—”

“Yes.  I do.”  This time, when Jack looks at his face, Eric’s eyes are dry.  “Please let me.”

“I can’t let you do everything for me,” Jack whispers into his ear.  

“This isn’t everything.  This is one very important thing that I can do if you’ll let me.”

Jack nods dully, numb.  His chest aches and he wants to go to his old room and close the door on this entire situation, but he can’t.  Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes as Bitty defends him once again.

“He can promise you because he’s doing it differently this time.”  Eric slips his hand into Jack’s and faces down Bad Bob Zimmermann, back straight and more confident than Jack could ever be in his place.  “Jack isn’t going to put his head down and focus on hockey and deny that he has a problem.  He has me and you both and Georgia and the Falcs behind him and he has Blaire and a support group and his friends.  Jack can promise you whatever he wants because he’s asking for help and we’re going to give it to him.  What the two of you need to do is believe him—believe that he can do this and he will—because this man has never, ever stopped trying and he’s not about to start now.”

The room goes quiet.  

“You’re right,” Papa says, voice hard.  When Jack finally looks up, he finds his father rubbing his temples while his mother runs a soothing hand down his back.  “Of course, you’re right, Eric.”

Jack feels bile rise up in his throat.  Why does Papa believe him and not Jack?  Will they ever trust him to not be a complete fuck-up?  Are his parents going to spend the rest of their lives waiting for the other shoe to drop?

The more he thinks about it, the more Jack has to say it out loud.  “I’m not a child anymore, Papa,” he begins, floundering for the right words.  “I will probably always feel like one next to you and all you’ve done, for hockey and for me, but I’m my own man now and I’m going to start acting like it.  I’ll take responsibility and be a good husband to Eric.  I’m going to be a strong leader for my team and set a better example, and I’m going to get the Cup back next year without relapsing.”  His eyes fall to Eric’s face where a proud smile is forming.  “I can do better without breaking apart.  I know I can.  And I’m going to start now.”   

With one last squeeze to Eric’s hand, he drops it and leaves the room to go find Georgia in the living room.  

They’re an hour into their strategy discussion with PR when Bitty finds him again.  He puts another cup of decaf and a slice of apple pie in front of Jack, handing him a fork before knocking their shoulders together and tucking himself into Jack’s side on the couch.  “I’m so proud of you, honey,” he mutters into Jack’s ear.

“Did you just make this?” he asks, even though he knows the answer as soon as he burns his tongue with his first bite.

“I just—had to do something.  And it was easier to talk to them about what happened with flour on my hands.”

“I understand.  Thank you.  For everything.  You didn’t have to do that.”  Jack hesitates and then adds, “I’m sorry I left you in there with them.  I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.  I would have done worse in your position.”  Bitty links their fingers together and Jack’s body relaxes immediately at the contact.  “I know you’re upset with them.  But they did a pretty good job of understanding, all things considered.  They didn’t see what happened with their own eyes, but I did.  It’s harder to hear from you, I think.”

“I don’t see why.”

“They’re always going to feel like they failed you.  And seeing that disappointment in your eyes… it’s hard for them.”

“Papa’s disappointment is worse,” Jack argues, shaking his head.  “I don’t think they need you to defend them.”

“You don’t have to worry, baby.  I’ll always be on your side.  Family can be tricky,” he whispers, mostly to himself, as Jack’s parents enter the room.    

Maman takes in a deep breath and lets it out to center herself.  “So, what do we have planned?” she asks.  

“We’re deciding between a pre-recorded video or written statement,” Georgia answers.  “I’m not putting him in front of reporters for this.”

“Bits?  What do you think?”

Eric’s eyes widen at the question.  “You want my opinion?”

“Of course I want your opinion, bud.  And I want you to be there with me, so I need to know your schedule so we can work around it.”

“I’ll make time for whatever you need.  And I agree that a live audience probably isn’t the best format for you.  You don’t want to answer any follow-up questions, especially considering Kent’s interview probably raised more questions than it answered.  Something pre-recorded would be good, though.  It would sound best coming from you, in your own words.  Maybe with Georgia or some of the guys there behind you, too?”

“We can be there,” Papa cuts in.  “We should—”

“No, Papa.  Not this time,” Jack says.  “I can do this myself.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“Papa,” Jack pleads, rubbing his temples.  “If you step in it’s going to look like I just cart my famous father out to clean up my messes.  I’m an adult and I’m the captain of my team.  I’m more than capable of doing this myself.”

Maman and Papa share an indecipherable look.  Jack wonders if he and Bitty have similar non-verbal conversations when other people are looking, or if it’s something that comes with time.

“You can’t blame us for wanting to protect you.   We should have done more to shield you from this as a child.  It’s not just your fault, what’s happened here.  There’s too much pressure on you, and I know that all started with me.”  Papa rubs his stubbled jaw thoughtfully.  “I’d like to help carry some of this burden for you, if you’ll let me.”

“You can give an interview later about systemic issues in men’s professional hockey,” Eric says.  “You can do your part to help fix the culture, but Jack’s right.  It’s his team, his fans—they all need to see him do this himself.  If the press tries to take him down, you can defend your child and condemn the system that contributed to his issues, but only after he’s said his piece.  It’s important for his recovery for him to do this his way.”

“You sure you don’t want my job, kid?” George laughs, breaking the tension.  

“She’s right, Eric,” Maman chimes in, a timid smile on her face.  The slight raise of her cheeks says she’s not sure she’s allowed to praise Bitty while her son is struggling to put full sentences together.  “You’re really good at this.”

“My vlog is already turning a profit and I’ve only done half a dozen episodes since I’ve been training so much,” Bitty admits, shrugging.

“Really?  That’s amazing!  Why didn’t you say?” Jack asks.  He’s grinning, and it feels wonderful to smile after the day they’ve had.  Jack hopes his reaction gives the rest of the room permission to stop walking on eggshells.

“I wanted to pay for that myself,” Eric says, tapping the ring on Jack’s finger.

Joy spreads in Jack’s chest.  “I’m so proud of you,” he says, wrapping his fiancé up in a tight hug and kissing his temples.  “You’re incredible.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he jokes, tilting his head back and dramatically flipping his bangs while looking to the side with fake nonchalance.  “But we’re talking about your career right now.  Mine is going to be just fine.”

“He’s right, Jack,” Georgia says, agreeing with Eric again.  “I’ve already spoken with the owners on your behalf, but it would be best if the team could hear it from you.  They’ll have your back, and so does the coaching staff and management.  Your contract has a few years left on it and no one wants you going anywhere.  Not if you’re going to bring the Cup back to Providence next year, and we have every reason to expect you will.  Your stats this season were unbelievable, and this will only make you a stronger captain and player, in my opinion.” 

“I—I’m going to start focusing on the team as a whole instead of my individual play.  I’m going to be a better captain for my guys.  This franchise, Providence, my fiancé… you—they all deserve more from me.  I’m turning over a new leaf and that means taking responsibility for my actions.  I’m prepared to do that.”  

“That’s wonderful,” George says, rapidly tapping on her phone.  “You can say it just like that.”  

“See, sugar?  You’re going to be fine.”

“So we can do a pre-recorded video statement.  I’ve already been working on some language that you can change or add to.  Or just use it as a jumping off point if you’d like to write your own words and I’ll get it signed off on by legal.  They want to keep you, but they also want to cover their asses.  There’s a lot of liability to go around,” she says, shaking her head.

“As for your first interview, you can basically get whoever you want.  This is a big story and every network is going to want it, not just the sports outlets.  I was thinking someone LGBTQ+ could be a good idea.  How do you feel about Anderson Cooper?  Or Robin Roberts?”

“Neutral?” Jack says, looking to Eric for his opinion.

“Bob Costas is about to retire but this could be a good last piece for him if you’d like me to reach out.  He started in hockey, so he might like to use your story as a bookend.”

“Oooh!” Bitty exclaims, nearly bouncing up and down in his seat.  “Can we do James Cordon after?  We need to do carpool karaoke!  Jack can actually sing!”

“No, I can’t.”

“You’re so cute!  Tater could come and you could do an 80s duet!  Or you could do your old man music.  Like Journey or REO Speedwagon!  He does a great Faithfully!  I heard him in the shower the other day,” Eric adds conspiratorially to Georgia.

“I really don’t.”

“Let’s stick with the reputable news outlets first, Eric.  Then you can get into late night,” George says.  “Give him a chance to get his skates back under his feet before you make him blush like that for all the world to see,” she tells Eric.

“Oh, fine.  But I’m tweeting Cordon after we’re done with the serious stuff.”

“Now, about location.  We can schedule something at a Falconers facility or even in your home?”

“Here,” Jack says.  “How about here?  Tomorrow.  I’d like to get this over with and I’m comfortable here.  We can go back to Providence after and I can speak to the team before it airs.  Or at least whoever’s left in town.  Some might need to video call.”

“That’s perfect, Jack,” Georgia assures him.  

Papa moves to Jack’s side and lays a hand on his shoulder.  “You can use the trophy room.  It makes a nice backdrop”  

Jack looks up at him, considering.  

Papa isn’t in shape like he was when Jack was a child.  He’s a little soft around the middle and Jack probably has fifty pounds of muscle on him, but his father has always been taller, and now, sitting down on the couch while Bad Bob Zimmermann towers over him, Jack feels incredibly small.  He doesn’t want to feel small anymore.

“No,” he says quietly, then clears his throat.  “I mean—no, thank you.  I think outside would be best.  Maybe on the deck with the trees behind?  Or on the ice, if you prefer.  Can you get the sound out there?”

“I’ll call in our local talent.  The Montréal guys are good.  It should be fine.”  Georgia shoots off a quick email on her phone while Papa seats himself across from Jack and looks at him warily.  His eyes rove over Jack’s hunched form, taking in his tapping foot and his sunken eyes.

“Are you sure, mon fils?  Your mother and I can help you if—”

“You’ve done enough, Papa.”  He doesn’t mean to be harsh, but Jack can see Maman wince from across the room.  Softening his voice, he tries again.  “Please… there are some things I need to do for myself.  You can’t—I can’t let you make this about you and your four Stanley Cups.  This isn’t about the curse of sports dynasties and how I don’t measure up.  This is about my life.  Mine and Eric’s.  This is about mistakes I’ve made and battles that I’ve fought alone.  If you need penance—find it on your own time.”

“Jack…”

“That came out wrong,” he says, rubbing his temples.  “I—I forgive you—I’ve forgiven you.”

“You don’t need to forgive me, Jack.  I failed you and I know I’m partially to blame for all of this, and that I made some truly inexcusable mistakes with you—but you’re right.  This shouldn’t be about you forgiving me.”

Jack takes a deep breath and sits forward, laying one heavy hand on Papa’s knee.  It’s the one that’s been replaced.  The scar is visible underneath his father’s lounge shorts.  He stares at it for a long moment and then tilts his head upward until Papa meets his gaze.  

“It’s not about you and Maman forgiving me either.  It’s about me forgiving myself,” Jack says.  “Not all scars are visible.  I know that.  Eric certainly knows that.  And it’s time everyone else does, too.”

Maman sits down to Jack’s left and burrows under his arm, pressing a kiss to his temple.  “You’re so brave, baby.  We’re proud of you.”

Jack lets his eyes fall closed and nuzzles into her hair.  She still smells like home and the comfort he received after his first overdose.

“This isn’t like last time at all.  You’re right,” she says, taking a moment to kiss both of his cheeks and his forehead.  “You’re all grown up and you’re handling this yourself.  I want you to know we’ll be here for you no matter what you decide to say or how it goes.  And no matter how old you are or how many Stanley Cups you win, even if you’re married with your own kids and think you don’t need our help anymore, you’ll always have a place here with us.  This place—your father and I—this will always be your home.”

Papa lays his hand atop Jack’s on his knee and leans into his right shoulder.  “You make me proud every day, Jack,” he says, and for once, Jack isn’t internally rolling his eyes.  Finally, when he needs to hear the words the most, he believes them.  “It’s our privilege to be your parents.  You’re strong and driven and you play beautiful hockey, but you’re also full of love and you never stop growing.  I may be your father, but I never stop learning from you.  In a lot of ways, you wear the C in this family.”

Jack laughs.  “I think you have me confused with Eric.”

“He really is something, isn’t he?” Maman says, picking up Jack’s discarded fork and slipping a bite of apple pie into her mouth.

“You have no idea,” Jack replies.

They slip into silence, just sitting in each other’s presence.  Jack lets himself lean into his parents’ bodies, taking comfort and strength until George says, “I hope you don’t mind, but I wrote some of that down.”  

Relieved laughter escapes Jack’s chest.  He feels Maman shake with it.  Papa’s bark of a laugh rasps too close to his ears.  

“Sorry, occupational hazard.  That was good stuff,” Georgia says, joining them with a chuckle.  “Would you like to take a shot at a draft of your statement now?”

Jack nods and braces himself to stand.  It’s only then that he realizes Bitty is gone.

As soon as he can reasonably slip away, Jack goes off in search of Eric.  The first floor is dark and deserted apart from the party he just left in the living room, and he’s just about to climb the stairs and see if Eric has laid down when he hears shouting from the back deck.

Pacing back and forth with his phone to his ear, Eric’s shadow moves behind the glass french doors.  The light of the citronella lantern on the table shines off the fresh tears that have fallen to his cheeks.  As he speaks, they fly off the point of his chin and Jack stands there, transfixed, listening to only one half of the conversation.

“No—just let me—listen to me!  For once in your life, listen to me, not whatever Jesus is whispering into your ear.  I’m talking now!  Me!”

Jack lifts his hand and reaches for the door handle, but he’s not sure it would best to interrupt.  Clearly there’s a lot Eric needs to say and Jack wants to give him time to say it.  Bitty shouldn’t have to censor himself, and Jack knows he will if Eric sees he has an audience.

“You’re not—I don’t care what the bible said or what you learned from pastor whoever at prayer circle.  Right now I only care about you and me.”  

Eric’s breathing kicks up a notch and his body becomes more animated, his limbs swinging wildly as he speaks.  Scared to throw him off his game, Jack takes a step back into the dark kitchen and busies himself with fetching a glass of water and downing it while Eric continues his conversation.

“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry, I want you to tell me why!  Why did you do it?  You made me feel like I was the problem, not you!  You ripped the rug right out from under my feet and made me question what it was to have a family.  I couldn’t trust or rely on anyone for years!  You made me feel like love was conditional.”

Jack stares hard at the kitchen counter, trying to block out Eric’s words, but he can’t.  His hands shake as he fills his glass again and downs it in one go, desperate to extinguish the fire burning his throat.  It’s not fair.  Bitty shouldn’t have to do this alone.  Not again.

“Why did you let me go?  What was so wrong with me that you could let me walk out the door with nothing and then not look for me?”

Nothing, Jack longs to fill in.  There has never been anything wrong with Eric.  Surely he must know that.

“Make me understand it, Mama, because I just watched my beautiful, fearless fucking fiancé tell his parents something he did wrong and they didn’t toss him out like he was garbage.  And don’t try to tell me that it’s different because I know it is and I’ll tell you why!  He made a choice.  It was a horrible mistake, but it was still a choice to hurt them and me and himself.  And say what you want about who I am, but I didn’t choose anything.  God made me just the way I am and he doesn’t make mistakes.  So tell me why you couldn’t love your son!”  Eric’s voice breaks off into a sob and Jack can’t take it.  Clutching his water glass with white knuckles, Jack turns his back on the deck—on Bitty—so he doesn’t have to see the pain written all over his fiancé’s face.  

Jack tells himself it’s a kindness, that Eric would want privacy, but he knows it’s a lie.  It’s quiet for a moment, presumably while Suzanne answers and Jack so longs to hear what she could possibly say to defend herself—or if she even tries.  It goes on for so long that Jack thinks maybe Eric has lost steam or the guilt of yelling at his mother is catching up to him, but then he’s speaking again, faster this time, the words tumbling out of him like the dam has finally burst.  

“I just saw Jack come out with this big, embarrassing, painful secret, and he didn’t have to run away and hide and go through literal hell alone because his parents didn’t just leave him.  Instead, they chose to love him like any decent set of parents would.  And they love me, too, and I didn’t have to do a damn thing to get them to do it, Mama!  Not one damn thing.

“I didn’t have to go to church or play football or date girls or stop figure skating or change my hair or my clothes or the way I talk or nothin’.  I didn’t have to change for them to love me.  All they ever cared about was what was in my heart—what I felt for their son.  And Jack—”

Bitty nearly chokes on his name, so overcome with emotion.  Jack can hear the way he sniffs and wipes his free hand under his nose without even looking.  They’ve both cried enough in the last week to last a lifetime.  Jack is all too familiar with the frantic, hand-flapping gestures that accompany Eric’s emotional breakdowns. 

“Jack—God—he never once made me feel like a burden or something that had to be hidden away.  He loved me 100 percent of the time right away even though I was so obviously gay and feminine and soft and everything Coach always tried to beat out of me in practice with tackle drills and wind sprints.  The way I look—how obvious I am—my history—I could have ruined him.  I could have tanked his entire career and he would have let me.  That beautiful idiot would have let me ruin him, Mama.  The same way you and Coach wouldn’t let me ruin you and your reputations at fucking church and all around that damn town.  

“The Zimmermanns love every gay, broken inch of me.  And Jack never once cared if I was dirty or battered or torn up by you and Daddy and everyone else who ever laid a hand on me.  He just… loved me.  That’s all you ever had to do, and you couldn’t even get that right!”

Jack can’t take any more of this.  Incensed, he puts his glass down hard enough on the marble counter to break.  He’s not bleeding, but he takes a minute to collect the sharp pieces and sweep them into the garbage, eyes flicking up to Eric’s shadow every few seconds as he longs to hurry to his side.  In the time it takes him to wash his hands and the counter, Jack second-guesses himself.  He hesitates again at the door, hand hovering over the handle.  Maybe Eric wants to be alone right now.  Is Jack going to be able to help him?  Is Eric waiting for his support?

“There was hatred in your heart, Mama,” Eric growls, low but still audible.  “I saw the way you looked at me, like I was dirty—like I was something you scraped off your shoe.  You looked at me like I wasn’t your baby anymore when all I ever did was try to make you and Daddy happy.  Would you have loved me better if I was a liar?  Because I could have lied, Mama.  I could have dated a girl and married her and ugh, even had babies with her, and I bet you would have been happier than you are now.  You would have been happy to see me live a lie.” 

Eric’s hand clenches into a fist at his side and he strides to the corner of the deck, arm poised to strike a blow against the brick.  

In an instant, Jack is pulling open the door and grasping Eric by the arm, pulling him away from certain injury.  He runs his hand down Eric’s shirt sleeve and holds his wrist between his thumb and forefinger.  There isn’t anything to say.  Jack knows Eric needs to do this, so he just hangs on, rubbing three fingers into soft circles on the inside of Bitty’s wrist. 

“Coach would have been so proud to finally have something in common with me, rolling his eyes and elbowing me like we were just two husbands humoring our silly wives over Lord knows what.  And God forbid if I had a son that he would make me force into cleats and it would have happened all over again, this circle of misogyny and homophobia would have looped on and on until someone finally decided to get their head out of their ass and leave Georgia.”    

Eric pulls his hand out of Jack’s grasp and continues pacing, barely sparing Jack a second glance.  

“No, it’s not just about Georgia.  You know better’n that.  You think you’re such a simple woman and that you could never understand the world, but that’s just another lie Coach told you.  You’re capable of critical thought, Mama.  You got to finish high school!  You got to go to fucking college and meet new people.  That’s why you’re going to tell me how you let me walk out that door and into the arms of some pimp to get abused and spend the next five years fighting just to keep myself warm and fed and alive.”

Breath caught in his chest, Jack lowers himself to the bench swing and clings to the metal chain, counting in and out by fives until he can hear more without feeling like his lungs are about to explode.    

Bitty’s face goes dark and spit flies out of his mouth as he shouts his next sentence.  “Yeah, well, at least I was free!  That’s more than I ever would have been under your roof.  I was suffocating there, Mama.  I was ready to throw it all away just for the chance to escape you and Coach and that damn look on your face that said there was something wrong with me that could be fixed.  I don’t need fixing!  I never did!”

There’s another pause while Suzanne answers.  At this point, Jack doesn’t even want to know what she’s saying.  With the way Eric is reacting, it can’t be anything good.

“They love him,” Bitty sobs, and Jack catches his hand again as he walks past the bench.  “They love him even when he’s wrong.  I just—we’re the same, me and him.  All we’ve ever wanted to do is bring home trophies and make our parents proud.  Jack’s been literally killing himself to make his Papa proud, and he doesn’t even need to try.  It’s written all over his daddy’s face, how little the hockey matters, how stupid and insignificant it is in the face of everything else.  All Jack ever had to do was be himself—even if he’s made of broken parts.  So am I.”

Frowning, Bitty’s hand tightens around his phone as he listens to his mother’s response.  He bites down on his lower lip hard enough for it to turn white.

“Well if that’s how it is, maybe you should just go on back to Georgia and get on with the rest of your life!”

Eric doesn’t wait to hear his mother’s response this time.  Pulling the phone away from his ear, he taps his pointer finger repeatedly on the red circle like he can hang up on her more than once.

“Bits—I—”

“It’s okay, Jack.  She didn’t say anything I didn’t already know.”  He stands there, shaking, shoulders up to his ears, rubbing his bicep and frowning.  “I don’t know why I even called her.  I was—I shouldn’t have been, but after seeing you with your parents, I just—got so angry.  I wanted her to hurt.  I want them all to hurt but she’s the only one left.”

Nodding, Jack stands and rubs Eric’s shoulders until he’s shrugged off.  Sighing, he steps past Bitty to build a pile of logs in the wood stove.  “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a moment to light a long match and ignite the kindling.  “I wish there was more I could do for you.  My parents aren’t perfect either, but they try.  Sometimes they try a little bit too hard, but—they’re always there.  I know they’re not a replacement for yours, even if they try to be.  I’m sorry if they bring up bad memories for you.”

“They’re wonderful, and so are you, honey.  And knowing they care does make it easier sometimes.  It’s just that it can also be harder… to look at them and think about what I missed out on.  If the world wasn’t stacked against people like us.  If the South wasn’t so intolerant.  If Coach hadn’t been so hateful.  If he hadn’t poisoned Mama’s heart for so long—maybe I could have had it all, too.”

“Maybe.”

Eric lets out a slow, deliberate breath.  His shoulders sag.  “But then I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“I know how you feel,” Jack says.  He adjusts the logs until they’re sure to light, then pulls a blanket out of a basket and settles down on the bench swing with it.  Eric gives him a small smile and sits down with his back to Jack’s chest, pushing them lengthwise so they can get comfortable.  “If I hadn’t overdosed, I wouldn’t have gone to Samwell and I wouldn’t have met Shitty or Lardo or the team.  I wouldn’t have remembered how good it felt to play hockey—how much I loved it, like really loved it—and I probably never would have made it to Providence to find you.”

“It could be worse,” Bitty says, relaxing into Jack’s body with a sigh.  “I know exactly how bad it could be.”

It never fails to humble Jack when Eric alludes to his homelessness.  He’s had his struggles, but Bitty suffered so acutely for so long, Jack can’t help but want to do more.  “Bits, I’ve been wondering…”

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, yawning.

“Is there—are there people that helped you then—people who are still out there that we should be thinking about?”  The elderly woman who helped Jack know where to search for Bitty comes to sharp relief in Jack’s mind.

It takes a long time for Eric to respond.  So long that Jack wonders if he’s fallen asleep.  When the words do come, they’re quiet.

“Would you think I was a horrible person if I said no?”

“I’m never going to think you’re a horrible person.  You can tell me if you want to.  I’m not judging.”

“It’s just—I don’t want to think about it anymore.  I know there’s people in the tent town still and I could go down there and talk to them and help them, but I just… I can’t.  Is it awful that I want to pretend it never happened?  Pretend they don’t exist?”

Eric curls into Jack further, pressing his cheek against Jack’s chest and breathing there, hot and damp.

“No,” Jack says, though he isn’t sure it’s the truth.  He isn’t sure how he feels about any of this.  “It’s not awful.”

“It’s selfish.  I know I’m being selfish,” Eric babbles, fresh tears welling in his eyes.  “I have you now, and a nice home and all this money and rink time and every opportunity I’d always dreamed of having, and I just—I want to stop thinking about it.  It almost makes me angry sometimes.  Why should I have to feel guilty when I’m the one who spent all that time starving and freezing?  There are plenty of people who never suffered like I did that could fix world hunger.  Why is it on me to devote my life to charity?”

“It’s not.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.  You’re allowed to want to live your own life.  You deserve to.”

“We—well, you—have millions of dollars and I know you give to charities and honestly… that feels like enough.  Let homelessness be someone else’s problem.  We can give them money and resources, but the day-to-day realities of it?  I can’t do it.  I need to protect myself.”

“You’re too tender-hearted,” Jack says.  “It would eat you up inside.  You’re allowed to put yourself first.  I know I do.”

“That new therapist says compartmentalizing is better than dissociating.”

“Yeah, that sounds bad.  Let’s try not to do that.”  

Eric laughs, which was Jack’s desired effect, so he smiles and kisses the top of Bitty’s head, satisfied.

“She also says that it’s good for me to have a strong sense of self and that my skating is movement therapy.”

“Sounds like a smart lady.  I think I’d like her.”

“You would, actually.  She’s a retired gymnast that got her PhD.  She could like, crush a watermelon with her thighs while talking your ear off about the psychological ramifications of World War I.”

“Noted.”  He waits a beat.  “You’re going to be okay, though?  With your… sense of self?  It seems pretty strong to me.  I like who you are.  I love it, even.”

“I know you do,” Eric laughs.  “You always have.”

“I really fell for you hard, didn’t I?”

“You did, and so did I, but really, Jack…” he tilts his head up so Jack can see his face.  “I don’t think you know how much you did for me.  As soon as you met me, you wanted me for me.  You didn’t want me to change.  You just—wanted me.  Me.  In every way.  Every second of every day, in your life, in your space, in your bed, on your arm, with your team, with your family and friends, out in public, you always wanted me there.  You wanted to go public with me right away.”  He smiles and reaches up to touch Jack’s lower lip.  “You never wanted to hide, and to me—that was everything.”

“You’re everything I ever wanted and the fact that you still want this after everything I’ve put you through, well… that’s more than enough.  That’s enough for a lifetime.”  Jack kisses his forehead and exhales, staring into the fire as it dies down.

“So…” Eric says around a contented sigh.  “Do you know what you’re going to say for your statement tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Jack says.  “I think I do.”

Chapter Text

Hello.  I’d like to read a brief statement.  

The sounds have always been Jack’s favorite.  

Hockey can be loud, but as Jack skates alone, his blades cutting into smooth ice with a soft snick, snick, snick , he marvels at how subtle it can be.  The pull of laces through leather, the rattle of a stick being dragged across the ice, the clatter of fifty pucks being dumped from a bucket—these are the quiet signs that Jack is in the place he was born to be.  

Hockey is rough.  It’s a war fought on knife points.  Players throw insults as easily as they throw punches.  You never know when you’re going to get an elbow to the gut or a puck to the jaw.  It’s violent in a way Eric’s skating isn’t.  The bite of his toepick is only part of the picture.  The rest is all smooth turns and shifting edges.  Jack closes his eyes and listens, letting the creak of his boots and the scrape of his blades wash over him as his mind drifts.

It’s been a long time since he’s been out here alone.  

The rink was never off-limits to him, not when he was five and Papa was busy running drills with his trainer, and definitely not when he was twelve and he was just passing the puck around with Uncle Wayne and Uncle Mario after dinner.  He had been half their size, round-faced and soft in all the ways he shouldn’t have been, but they had always encouraged Jack to join them.  Now, even though Eric needs the practice time more than he does, Jack reacquaints himself with the first love of his life—the ice.  

They seem impossibly linked—Bitty and hockey.  Would Jack have ever met him if not for his role as captain of the Falconers?  If not for Eric’s chirps about his skating prowess, would Jack have found the courage to flirt?  Could he have ever had one without the other?  

They’re polar opposites and yet somehow they slotted together perfectly like a hand in a glove.  Strength and gentility, power and tenderness, resilience and surrender—Eric made Jack soft in all the ways hockey had hardened him.  It’s no wonder that Jack would love both—need both together to feel whole.  

Jack is the coiled muscle, the pent up potential energy, and Bitty is the kinetic release of the spring.  

In light of recent events, both the Providence Falconer’s recent Stanley Cup win and statements made by Kent Parson about my personal and medical history, there are some important things I’d like to say and several points I’d like to clarify.

He does long, slow laps around the rink.  They’re relaxed, but no one could ever call Jack’s skating lazy.  He’s spent more time in skates than out of them since before he could walk, and Eric frequently tells him that it shows.  

He has none of Bitty’s grace, but there’s an ease to his skating that even Jack notices when he watches their tape.  In a lot of ways, hockey had always been the easy part.  Playing was as natural as breathing to Jack.  It was everything else that piled up on top like a stack of bricks on his chest, weighing his game down.

I have suffered from anxiety and depression since I was a small child and my overdose before the 2009 NHL draft was due to an abuse of prescription anti-anxiety medication and alcohol.  My boyfriend at the time, Kent Parson, found me unresponsive and was able to call the paramedics that later revived me.  He was very brave, and his care and instinct to check on a player in crisis ended up saving my life.  While we have had our differences in the past and I did not plan to ever divulge this information publicly as he did, I am grateful for his continued friendship and support.  

Picking up a stick from where it leans against the boards, Jack fishes a puck out of the back of the net and plays around, practicing his tricks.  He’s never had anything flashy to show off—not until Eric taught him how to do a waltz jump.  Jack thinks back to the last time he did one in Florida and his conversation with Kenny afterward.  It’s obvious now that while Jack thought there was closure, there was still only confusion, grief, and guilt for Kent.  Jack had been so happy to have Bitty by his side, he never stopped to think about how it would cause Kent to suffer.  

The line they often touted to the press was true.  They did owe each other a lot of apologies. 

There are many reasons I planned to keep the details of my overdose to myself, the least of which being that it was more palatable to let the media believe I had a cocaine problem than to admit to my ongoing mental health issues.  That statement alone better articulates the toxic masculinity of professional hockey than anything else I could say today.  My unwillingness to be honest about my background led me to live in fear of exposure in more ways than one.  It was easier to hide and gloss over the truth than to let people in.  Keeping my personal life private always trumped my desire to own up to my mistakes.  It was hard enough to rebuild my credibility as an athlete and prove to the hockey community that I was reliable without additional complications.

“Mind if I join you?”  The Quebecois rolls off his father’s tongue and after so many months of just Marty’s chirps, it’s music to Jack’s ears.

“Think you can keep up?” Jack quips, a smile playing on the corner of his mouth.

“I know I can’t.  But isn’t that half the fun for you?  I’m well past due for a dressing down.  Keeps me humble, you see.”  He grabs another stick and slips onto the ice.

Jack laughs.  “Humble is not the word I would use.  Just because you’re retired doesn’t mean you couldn’t still skate circles around my rookies, and you know it.”

“I’m an old man, mon fils,” Papa says.  He makes a play for the puck, but Jack is too quick for him.  “I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

Jack can’t let that comment lie.  He feels an overwhelming desire to open up, to be honest.  Maybe the statement he recorded that morning had loosened the emotional floodgates.  “To me, you’ll always be a legend—your presence on the ice, your game, your talent—you’ve always been larger than life to me.”

“I never wanted to be, Jack.  Please understand…”

Jack passes him the puck and he cradles it carefully.  It’s easy now, to lay his cards on the table.  Coming clean about his addiction is already changing his perspective, and the segment hasn’t even aired yet.  Letting his last secret go feels even better than he thought it would.  Jack almost wonders why he waited—why he fought so hard against Blaire’s suggestions for his recovery for so long.  The relief is staggering.  

“I’m trying, Papa.  I know you are, too.  As long as we’re trying—to understand and love each other—that’s enough.”  Jack’s thoughts flick from Bitty’s conversation with his mother to Richard Bittle’s parting words.  They run through him with a shiver.  Eric was right in his email all those months ago.  All Jack ever had to do was let his father try—to not shut him down because he was too busy anticipating how much it would hurt. 

“I never wanted to be a legend with you.  I just wanted to be your father.”

“I understand now,” Jack says, shaking his head when he opens his mouth to protest.  “No, really.  I do.  The fame, the pressure, everything else that comes with it… it’s all just the price we pay…”

“For hockey,” Papa finishes the thought.  “Sometimes I wonder if the price was too high for you.  If I should have encouraged a different path.  If that would have saved you the heartache—”

“You couldn’t have kept me off the ice if you tried, Papa.  I was meant to do this,” Jack says, stealing the puck.  

I spent the next two years receiving psychiatric care through both talk therapy and careful management of prescription medication.  The frequency of my panic attacks decreased and I was able to move through a major depressive episode.  I took the time I needed to reconnect with myself and my family in Montréal.  I coached mites and developed a deeper appreciation for the game while recovering from my overdose.  

“You’ve always had the softest hands,” Papa says, his low voice warm with childish wonder.  “I didn’t start playing as early as you did.  You were practically born on blades, and it’s amazing to watch.  That natural, effortless talent—that’s something I never had—will never have.  It’s beautiful, mon fils.”

“I was just copying you.”

“Don’t say that.  Please never say that.  You’re selling yourself short,” Papa argues, skating backward, following Jack’s push toward the goal.  “We’re very different players.  You do things on the ice that I could never dream of doing.”

“Yeah,” Jack says darkly as he sinks the puck into the net with more force than necessary.  It dings off the base, and the goal pushes back a foot, sliding out of place.  “Like relapsing in game seven for the whole world to see.”

“Like picking yourself back up and trying again.  Like having the courage to stand up and say ‘that Stanley Cup wasn’t good enough, I’m going to do it again, clean and sober.’  There is literally no one else in the world that would have done what you just did, Jack.  Surely you must know… your strength—your focus—your drive… it’s formidable.  When you decide to point yourself toward a goal… you’re unstoppable.  I will never, ever stop being impressed by you, mon fils.” 

I would like to thank my parents for their unwavering support through that difficult time in my life.  I learned a lot about myself and how to play hockey without letting the fear of failure cloud the sheer love of the game that would one day become my professional career.  My road to recovery then led me to Samwell University where I captained my team for three years before joining the Falconers.  That time outside the realm of professional hockey allowed me to pursue my academic passions and relearn how to cope with stress and my penchant to carry the weight of an entire team on my shoulders.  I was able to develop my skills and learn how to be a team player and a leader, on and off the ice, and that personal victory caught the attention of the Providence Falconers.  

Jack can feel his face heat at the praise.  It’s been a long time since he felt such warmth from his father.  Bad Bob’s scrutiny has never had this particular timbre.  It hits Jack differently than usual, less grating and more sincere.  Jack finds himself stumbling to keep up with his emotional twists and turns.  He wonders if it’s just his medication levels evening out or if something in their relationship has finally changed.

Everything is so raw now, like an exposed nerve.  He supposes that was inevitable.  All of Jack’s secrets are finally out in the open.  He’s an addict, he’s medicated, he’s in therapy, he’s grey asexual, he’s in love with a man—he’s fragile.  He feels like there’s a sign on his back for all the world to see— this man is broken.  

Jack Zimmermann’s heart is made of glass and he can hear it tinkle against the ice with every misstep, one wrong angle or rough bounce away from shattering against the hard surface like his wrist.  

“Tater told me something recently,” he says, meeting his father’s eyes as he passes the puck directly into the tape without a glance downward.  “I think he meant it as a joke, but it really wasn’t funny, it was almost… profound.”

“He’s smarter in Russian.  Everyone always seems to forget that,” Papa says with a smile, tapping the puck back to Jack.  “You play with enough guys that have English as a second language and you’ll learn to recognize the signs of genius.  Alexei is a savant.”

“Emotionally intelligent, Blaire would say,” Jack says.  “He reads me like a book.”

Papa nods.  “It’s good that someone does.  What was the joke?”

“What’s the hardest part of hockey?”

He waits a beat and then asks, “Keeping pace?  Thinking ahead and being quick enough to create opportunities to produce goals?”

“You’re thinking like a forward.”

“I am a forward.  What did you say?”

“Goaltending.”

Leaning his forearms on his stick, Papa laughs.  It’s loud and long and fills Jack’s chest with warmth.  “You’re thinking like a captain.  But that’s good.  You’re already a better captain than I ever was.  I was more of a battering ram than anything.  You have that…”

“Emotional intelligence?” Jack suggests, laughing.  “Ten years of therapy?”

“I’d call it experience,”  Papa heads toward the goal on the left and Jack shoots the puck to the opposite side, knowing he’ll slide behind the goal and receive it before it hits the boards.  Tapping it in is effortless.  “No one else in current hockey has the amount of ice time you’ve accumulated at your age.  That kind of experience shouldn’t be undervalued.  The amount of hockey you’ve watched over the years—you really see the ice—predict everyone’s play.  It’s even better than what your Uncle Wayne could do.  He was good, but you’re great.  Your team is lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

Jack ducks his head, folding in on himself again.  His emotions tumble together, tossing him about like a tempest in his heart.  Blair would tell him to accept them at face value.  There are no right or wrong feelings.  They just exist, and that’s fine.  He can untangle them with her later if he has to.  Instead of worrying about it, Jack plays with his father for a few minutes, attempting shots while Papa blocks the goal.

“You never told me the answer.  To the joke?  Riddle?  Whatever.”

“Oh,” Jack says, pulling his eyes away from the puck.  “I think I’ll let Tater tell you next time you see him.  He does it better.”

“You’re cruel, mon fils.”

“If you want to see cruel, wait until you do something that makes Eric revoke jam privileges.”

“I would never,” Papa jokes, hand tented over his chest in reproach.  

“You boys talking smack about me?” Bitty’s voice drifts in from outside the rink’s open door.  “If you are, you’re not going to get any of these macarons.”

“See what I mean?” Jack mouths.

Papa laughs silently, schooling his face quickly when Eric appears, a plate of cookies in hand and his skate bag hanging off his shoulder.

“This place is unreal,” he says, sitting down on a bench to lace up.  “I can’t believe you have your own rink.”

“It was my gift to myself after my contract with the Canadiens got extended the first time.”

“Gift to yourself…” Bitty mumbles, shaking his head.  

“Alicia got a gift, too.  We spent three weeks in Seychelles.  Spent most of the time naked, as I recall.”

“Gross, Papa.”

“Actually, you may have been conceive—”

“—gross, Papa,” Eric echoes.

“You didn’t invent young love, you know.”

“Has he always been such a horndog?” Bitty asks Jack, stepping through the passway onto the ice.  

“It’s called romance,” Papa argues.

“Yes,” Jack replies, ignoring his father.  “They’ve been like that as long as I can remember.  Totally smitten with each other.  It was a little much when I was a kid.  Half the guys still want to make out with him.  They insist he must be an excellent kisser.”

“I am an excellent kisser.”

“Yeah, and everyone knows it because you’ve been kissing Maman wherever and whenever you want, no matter the audience, for decades.  I’ve seen things,” he says to Bitty, sotto voce.  “Things no one’s child should ever see.”

“That explains a thing or two,” Eric laughs.  

“Jack learned from the best.”

“Ew,” Bitty and Jack complain simultaneously.

“I didn’t—I meant that he’s a romantic as well,” Papa explains, rolling his eyes.  “Surely you must have noticed, Eric.”

“I notice everything he does,” Bitty says, raising his eyebrows suggestively before flitting off to the far side of the rink.

It was also not my intention to come out with my fiancé and become the first NHL player in a public same-sex relationship in such a traumatic way.  When forced to choose between the man I loved and maintaining deniability, I chose to stand by Eric and not be ashamed of who we are to each other.  No one should be forced out of anonymity before they’re ready, but Eric took it in stride.  He has recovered fully from his injuries and will make his return to competitive figure skating in just a few weeks.  Eric has a commitment to openness that I find admirable and inspiring.  His unwavering support is one of the few reasons I am strong enough to make this next statement.  

Papa’s jaw is on the floor.  “Has he always been able to do that?”

“You mean the I turn?” Jack asks, eyes bouncing back and forth across the ice like he’s watching a tennis match, following Eric.  “Or the layback?”

“I mean the—”  Papa’s eyes widen as Eric lands a quad loop.  “—everything.”

“I saw him do that,” Jack says, pointing as Eric pulls his skate behind his head into a Biellmann spin, “the first time we went to the rink together.  He hadn’t been on skates in nearly six years.”

“No wonder you had so much trouble proposing.  That boy is—”  He loses his train of thought, watching Eric throw the combination that had been tripping him up the day before, landing it perfectly.  “—intimidating.”

“You have no idea,” Jack laughs.  “You have no fucking idea.”

Bitty zooms by, setting himself up for a triple axel, and the look of sheer determination on his face during his takeoff makes heat prickle along the back of Jack’s neck.  

“That’s a—”

“—Yeah,” Jack says dreamily.  “The forward takeoff is an axel.”

“Is there anything he can’t do?” Papa asks.  It sounds incredulous, but Jack knows he’s being serious.  He’s had the same thought on multiple occasions.

“I’m not sure,” Jack admits.  “He was doing this thing with Katya yesterday.  I had to google the translation.  She said it was a game, but it looked more like torture to me.”

“Was she bag skating him?”

“Worse, somehow.  Katya called it Simon Says, but it really wasn’t.  She just called out a move, and he did it.  No excuses.  And they have their own language.  Barely any of it made sense to me.  But he didn’t miss a beat.  It went on for ages and only when she broke out the really big combinations did he even start to sweat.”

“And here I thought we were talented athletes…” Papa trails off.

Bitty’s bright laughter echoes through the rink.  He’s holding his stomach, he’s laughing so hard.  “Y’all got a thing or two to learn about a thing or two,” he jokes, flicking Papa on the ear the next time he passes nearby.             

The weight of fame has always been difficult for me, but it is never as heavy as the pressure I put on myself.  My mental health often takes a backseat to my physical performance, and it was that upset of balance that led me to my recent relapse during the Stanley Cup Finals.  While my mental relapse was well underway, my physical relapse occurred when I was offered opioids for the wrist injury I sustained in game six and again abused prescription drugs and alcohol.  

“He’s going to win, isn’t he?” Papa asks once Eric is done going through his routine twice.  “He’s going to win everything.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies.  “I think he is.”

I’d like to take this moment to apologize to my loved ones, especially my fiancé Eric, my parents, and friends, but also my teammates, coworkers, and fans.  The Providence Falconers placed their trust in me, and while I’m proud to have given them an ultimately successful season, I’m ashamed that I did so at the cost of my sobriety.  I made a grave mistake that hurt many people, least of all myself.  I have re-committed to my recovery.  With the help of Eric and my family and friends, I am setting myself down the right path and will continue to see my therapist, have my medication carefully monitored, and attend regular support group meetings.

“Like this,” Eric says.  He takes Papa’s faltering hands and places them firmly around his waist.  

“I’m not sure I should,” Papa says, pulling away as Jack laughs from behind his phone.  “Isn’t it a bit…”

“Intimate?” Bitty says, winking at Jack.  “Yes, that’s the point.  Shadow skating is supposed to be done close together.”

“It feels inappropriate.”

“I’m about to be your son-in-law.  I’m not lookin’ for a scandal.  One Zimmermann is more than enough for anyone.  Now try it again.”

“Like this?” Papa asks.

Eric adjusts his grip again.  “Don’t get all shy on me now, Mister Bad Bob.  Remember, this is just practice.  You’d be doing this with your wife, not me.”  

“Please tell me you’re not filming this.”

Jack stifles his laugh so as not to shake the camera.  “I can’t do that,” he says.

“You’re doing fine.  But Jack is better,” Bitty says straight to camera, winking again.  “Wanna show him how it’s done, sweetpea?”

“Please,” Jack says, handing the phone to his father.  “That was just painful.”

Eric pulls him in for a quick kiss.  His mouth is scorching, but his nose is cold.  It only lasts a few seconds, but the heat of it makes Jack’s heart race.  “Bragging again, are we, Mister Zimmermann?” he says, chest pressed against Jack’s waist.  He’s taller in skates and so is Jack, but his hockey blades and padding give him an extra inch.

“Not bragging.  Confident,” Jack insists, stealing another kiss.  

“That’s what we call the Zimmermann Charm, Eric,” Papa says from behind the camera.  “Works every time.”

“He’s insufferable,” Bitty says.  He turns away so Jack can fit his palms to his hip bones and pull him close.  

“I thought he was bad when I was single, but this might be worse,” Jack whispers in his ear.  

“What a shameless flirt.”

“Maman has come to terms with it, but it was a struggle.  There’s a reason every man in hockey would go gay for him.  He’s just got that—I don’t even know what.”

“You have it, too.  It’s cute that you think you don’t, though.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You’re extremely cute, but you’re also devastatingly handsome and unbearably sexy.  It’s really a wonder we get out of bed at all.”

“You guys know the camera is rolling, right?”

Eric turns his head and looks back, licking his lips.  “Come on, Jack,” Bitty all but pants into his ear.  “Let’s give Twitter a show.”   

The last three seasons in Providence have been the most rewarding of my life.  I would like to thank Georgia Martin and the rest of the Falconers’ management team and coaching staff, as well as the owners, my teammates, and the fans for allowing me the opportunity to play the game I’ve always loved at the elite level.  Your support has been overwhelmingly positive, and I’m lucky to have every single one of you behind me.

The sun is setting when Maman joins them.  “I think it might snow.”  She pulls a pair of well-loved skates out of a cubby and slips into them quickly, much more casual with her laces than the rest of them would ever dare to be.  Grabbing a remote from where it’s Velcroed to the wall, she clicks a button and the ceiling retracts with a loud screech.

“Y’all have got to be kidding me.”

“It does sort of look like snow, bud,” Jack says.

“First of all, it’s June.  Second of all, why didn’t you tell me the ceiling did that?  Just how much money do y’all have, exactly?”

“I thought you knew,” Jack says.  He skates swiftly to Bitty’s side and starts rubbing his hands up Eric’s arms, warming him.  “Plus, I knew you’d get cold.”

“It’s ice, sweetpea.  I’m always cold.”

“You boys want to play 2 on 2?” Maman asks, handing Eric a spare stick.  “I call Jack.”

“Hey!” Papa calls, but he’s clearly pleased.  “Eric is faster anyway.”

“Hey!”  Jack mimics him.  

“You know he’s right, sugar.  No way you can catch me,” Bitty teases, preparing to face off against Maman.  

It quickly dawns on Jack that while he’s practiced figure skating a few times, Eric has never played hockey.  He has no idea what he’s doing.  Jack tries to think if he’s ever seen Bitty hold a stick, but nothing comes to mind.  

“Your grip is atrocious,” Papa says, coaching him.  “You’ll trip if you hold it like that.”

“He never stops, does he?” Jack says to Maman as they look on.  

She smiles, knocking their shoulders together.  “Hockey is his love language.  You know that.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, watching them fondly.  “I guess I do.”

I am happy to accept the title of captain again next season and am committed to wearing the mantle better than I have in the past.  I plan to focus less on my individual play and more on my teammates—how I can support them and help them become the best players they can be.  I will be a better leader, on and off the ice, and would like to offer a helping hand to any player that may be suffering from mental illness or addiction.  

“Did you try the macarons?  I made the green ones.”

Jack looks down at the tray of cookies Maman is holding and snickers.  “I can tell.”

“Rude, Jack,” she chides, smacking him on the arm.  “But you’re not wrong.  You can watch the episode later if you want.  I was a disaster with the piping bag—the whole kitchen was covered in egg whites.  I bet the ceiling is sticky.”

He takes a cookie, hoping his trepidation isn’t too obvious.  Coughing, Jack chokes down a bite.  “Erm… are they supposed to be mint?”

“They’re pistachio!”

“Maybe you need another lesson, Maman.”

“Eric!” she calls across the rink to where Papa is guiding Bitty through a puck handling drill.  “Jack said he wants to learn how to make souffles!”  

“Oh honey, really?  My viewers would love that!” he says, a blinding smile spreading across his face, rose-tinged cheeks lifting.  “We can start after dinner!”

“You’re a menace,” Jack mutters in Quebecois.  “You know I’ll ruin a souffle.  I’ll probably ruin a dozen souffles.”

Maman just smiles, knocking their shoulders together.  Eric rushes toward them, leaving a disgruntled Papa alone with a pile of pucks to clean up.  “Look how happy you just made him, though.  That kind of joy is priceless.  And,” she adds, a mischievous glint in her eye, “just think of how he’ll look covered in powdered sugar.”

Jack knows exactly how Bitty will look covered in powdered sugar.  

Edible.

“You’re evil.”

“You’re blushing.”

You are not alone.  

“Y’all are in for a treat!  Two episodes in this gorgeous kitchen is just—” Eric sighs, overcome with emotion.  “Well, anyway.  I think you all know my guest, my fiancé, Jack Zimmermann.  Come say hello, sugar.”

“Hello, sugar.” 

Bitty hits him in the face with an oven mitt.

I have spoken before about stigma in professional sports and how unwelcoming it can be for anyone who is different.  While in the past I focused on combating homophobia in the league, I’d now like to extend that call for tolerance to include those, like me, who suffer from mental illness or addiction.  High-pressure careers that thrust young, often unprepared athletes into public scrutiny create a culture that can breed denial of emotional problems and unhealthy coping mechanisms.  Professional sports have a certain level of inherent criticism and can be exceedingly difficult for anyone who internalizes more than they should or hasn’t been taught to cope with the responsibility of a cause that is bigger than themselves.  

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?” Eric asks, hesitating, fingers tapping nervously on the door handle.

“Go to practice, bud.”

“But I could—”

“—You need the ice time,” Jack insists.  “It’s—I’m going to be fine.  I promise.”

“Text me if you need me,” Bitty says.  He leans over the gearshift to kiss Jack hard, once, twice, three times, before throwing himself out of the car.  

“I’ll be back to pick you up at six,” he calls out the window.

Eric retrieves his skate bag from the trunk and ducks down to kiss Jack again.  “I’m so proud of you,” he says fiercely, Jack’s chin in his hand.  

“I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetpea.  Knock ‘em dead.”  

Mental health can and should be at least as important to the NHL and other professional sports leagues as physical health.  Players put 110 percent of themselves into their game and that can be dangerous in any number of ways.  I’d like to ask every franchise to take stock of their players and ask themselves if there is more that they could do to be inclusive and adaptable.  It isn’t just a sprain, tear, or concussion that can take a player out of the game—it can be an invisible injury.  The wounds you can’t see are often the hardest to heal.

Jack’s knee jiggles the entire ride to the front office, but he keeps his breath slow and even.  He’s taken his medication, he’s checked in with Blaire, he’s ready for this.

“Everyone is waiting for you inside,” Georgia says, meeting him at the front door.  She hands him a cup of black coffee and taps it with her own in a good luck toast. 

“You know, you’re really too important to be fetching me coffee.”

“I didn’t fetch you coffee.  I got one for myself and I thought my friend, Jack, might like a cup of decaf to ease his nerves.”

Jack swallows down the lump in his throat.  “Thank you,” he croaks.  “Really, George…”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I do, though,” he says quickly, looking to the floor.  “I know I haven’t always made it easy for you but—I want you to know that I—we couldn’t have done this without you.  Any of it.  Eric and I… with the way we had to come out…” 

He can’t find the right words, but he wants to.  Taking a deep breath, Jack clears his throat and tries again.  “Every single time I came to you with a problem… something that seemed so insurmountable to me… you gave me a clear path.  With West and the lawsuit, with my sexuality, with Bitty and his accident and his parents and now… with this.  You never stumbled.  Nothing was too much.  It—honestly it’s like every time I call you and drop some bomb about my personal life—you’re not surprised.  You never blink.”

“Jack,” Georgia sighs, shaking her head, “you have no idea how brave you are.  You were the first out NHL player.”

“I wasn’t brave.  I was terrified.  Kenny was going to out me and I panicked.”

“That wasn’t panic, Jack.  You stood up and said, ‘I’m queer and I’m a top scorer in the NHL.  What are you going to do about it?’ I don’t think you know what that meant to people—what that meant to me.”

“I didn’t—I’m not even bisexual.  I didn’t even know what I was doing.  I didn’t know who I was.  Some days I still don’t.”

“You still came out, Jack.  You came out first in a homophobic industry that picks apart anyone who shows the slightest bit of weakness, and you did it without a partner, which is arguably even more difficult.  You weren’t coming out because of a relationship, you were doing it for you and for me and for every other queer kid coming up.”

Jack shakes his head.  “You’re giving me too much credit.  I was afraid of being outed, and I did something reckless in the heat of the moment and let you and the guys pick up the pieces.”

“Think what you want about your motivations, but it took courage to do what you did.  You put a target on your back and you’ve been pushing through utter bullshit ever since.  If anyone deserves to play, it’s you.”

“That’s why I want to thank you.  You never made me choose between being myself and being the captain of this team.  You—George—you made me feel like I could do it.   You always push me forward and I just—I need to thank you for that.  For giving me this,” he waves his hands around the office that’s still bustling even though it’s the off season.  “I keep fucking up and you keep talking this franchise into giving me second chances, and that’s a debt I will never be able to repay.  You’re the one that lets me keep playing hockey.”

“Jack,” George says, shaking her head.  “Watching you play hockey—watching you lead this team… I know for a fact that it’s going to be the highlight of my professional career.  It’s as simple as that.”

“George…”

“No, really.  It’s all you.  You and Marty, Third, Snow, Tater, hell, even Poots and the rest of those idiots.”  She laughs.  “This team was good before you got here, but now it’s great.  And to be part of something like this—that’s all I ever wanted.”  

Someone whistles and the conference room explodes with chirps and cheers.  That’s them.  That’s Jack’s team—the one that helped him win his first Stanley Cup.  He worries what he’s about to tell them will be devastating.  He doesn’t want to have to be the one to take something from them.  Jack doesn’t want to steal their joy. 

George smiles, squeezing Jack’s shoulder before he can get too maudlin.  “I just keep passing you the puck.  You’re the one that keeps putting it in the net.  After my hip, well… You know I can’t play anymore—not really—but watching you get to play your best game—putting the right people on your team and getting you what you need—watching you bring the cup to Providence.  Well, that’s the next best thing.”             

“I—” Jack still doesn’t know what to say.  What is there to say?  “Thank you,” he whispers, pulling her into a hug.  “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Jack,” she says, patting him on the top of the head and then ruffling his hair.  “Now go be the captain.  Go be their captain.” 

Drug and alcohol abuse is more common than anyone would like to admit, but it can be treated with diligence and understanding.  Addiction doesn’t always look like partying and having a good time.  It can be quiet and creep up on you when you are at your lowest.  It can come from the treatment of an injury or medical condition with prescription drugs just as easily as at a bar or party.  

Jack’s admission is met with stunned silence.  It goes on for so long that he stops looking for someone to speak and starts wondering if he should just leave the room.

Of all people, Poots is the one to break the silence.  Jack is prepared for him to ask if their title is going to be revoked.  He’s prepared for the typical questions of why and how and for how long.  But what Poots actually says is, “Cap… are you okay?”

He can’t help it.  His lips are pinched shut, but a tear still falls from the corner of his eye.  “Yeah buddy,” he says, forcing his mouth into a shaky smile.  “I’m fine.  I’m going to be okay.”

The next thing Jack hears is the scraping of several chairs against the floor as everyone in the room gets to their feet to fold him into a group hug.  There are several utterances of, “Got your back, Cap,” and “Shit, Jack,” but what catches his attention is Marty’s broken Quebecois saying, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no,” Jack says as soon as the group hug breaks up and he can see Marty’s face.  “You don’t have to be sorry about anything.  I did this.”

“Jack,” he says, pulling him into his chest.  “I’m sorry I didn’t know.  I’m sorry you were suffering, and we didn’t notice.”

“I hid it, Marty.  It’s not your fault that you didn’t know.  I didn’t want you to know.”

“You’re still my rook, Jack.  I should have—I’m sorry.”

“Is no one’s fault,” Tater booms, spreading his arms so wide he hugs them both simultaneously.  “Is time to skate through.  We look to next season and win Cup again and then no one say Zimmboni bad for team.”

Raising his voice to be heard over the chatter that’s broken out, Jack makes a promise.  “Look, I know we won, but I really wasn’t at my best this season.  I got wrapped up in my head and I know I didn’t do enough.  But I’m going to be a better captain to all of you and we’re going to get the Cup back.  I am going to do everything in my power to make this up to you.”  He looks at Marty and chances a smile.  “All of you.” 

It was almost too late for me once, but by learning how to spot the signs early, we can get players the help they need before serious, debilitating problems develop.  At eighteen, my life was derailed by a catastrophic lapse in judgment, but I got a second chance.  I recently underestimated the strength of my addiction and relapsed, but I’m back on the road to recovery because I have incredible people in my corner and a team that can look beyond my missteps at the bigger picture.  I’d like to do my part to make sure that no one else suffers from a treatable disease or disorder or a mistreated injury.  If you’re in crisis or need help, please reach out to a trusted friend, family member, or professional or use the resources listed on your screen right now.

It’s nearly five when the group disperses and Jack is left alone with Marty and George.

“It’s time to go, isn’t it?” George asks.  “You said you had to get Bitty at six?”

“Yeah, um,” Jack clears his throat, “I’m trying to be more supportive of his skating.  I have a lot of time to make up for.  He gets so tired after training and if I drive he can catch a quick nap or just listen to music and relax on the way home before dinner.”

“I’m sure he really appreciates that,” George says.  

“I’ll walk you out,” Marty offers, holding the door open for him.

It’s a nice evening, warm and breezy, and Jack ponders the dinner he planned to make and how they could eat out on the patio.  They stare at the sun for a moment.  It’s barely starting to set, but the sky is already spread out in pinks and purples.  Marty slows down when they near his car and Jack knows he has something to say so he waits.  

“I know this is the worst possible time…” he says, shoulders up to his ears, “but I wanted you to know that Thirdy and I… we’re not coming back next season.”

“Marty—”

“—No, kid.  Don’t give me the speech.”

“I wasn’t going to give you a speech.”

“Yeah, you were,” Marty chuckles.  “I heard it all from George already.  ‘You’re not that old!  The team is just getting started!  We have to keep momentum!’” he says in an affectation of her voice.

“All of those things are true.”  Jack shrugs.  

“Yeah, but Madeline is starting high school in the fall and Niadah wants to travel before Thirdy’s knee gives out, so we figured we’d just… you know…”

“Slip out the back door while I had everyone distracted?”

“Well, yeah.  Basically.”

“We just won the Cup, Marty.  We—I can’t do it without you.”

Marty smiles, shaking his head.  “Yeah, you can.”

“Well, I don’t want to,” Jack huffs, feeling like a child.

“I know.”  

There’s nothing else to say.  There’s nothing left to say besides, “I’m going to miss you.”

“We still live here, Jack.  We’re not just going to hang you out to dry.  You can call whenever you want and you know we’ll be over all the time trying to scam pies and jam.”

“It’s not going to be the same without you.  No one else speaks Quebecois.  No one else knows the team like you do.”

“It’s going to be okay, kid.  I have faith.  You’re going to do great.”

“Marty…” Jack hedges, wondering if it’s the right thing to say.  “I just—I want you to know… playing with you all these years… it’s the closest thing I could get to playing with my father.  I know that probably sounds crazy, but—”

“—No, Jack.  I—”

“—It’s been… a gift.  Playing with you has been a gift.  I love you,” Jack says, and it doesn’t pain him to do it.  In fact, it feels wonderful.  Jack doesn’t want to let Marty go, but the admission feels like a relief.  “I know I’ve fucked up and I keep fucking up, but I’m going to make you proud.”

“I love you, too, kiddo.”    

“You’ve taught me so much.”

“You taught me more, Jack,” he mutters, pulling Jack into another crushing hug.  “Now,” he straightens, wiping the tears from under his eyes.  “Go get Bitty before his coach beats him to death with a ballet slipper.”

Jack goes.  He’s heartbroken, but he smiles all the way back to the rink.

Thank you for your time.  Any questions you may have can be directed to the Falconer’s PR department.