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Chapter Text

In the wake of his recent divorce, Eric Bittle had made a few rules for himself:

1. Never break down in front of the kids.
2. Never get wine drunk and order takeout and stalk his ex-husband’s new boyfriend on Instagram.
3. Never cry while doing 2.

He always seemed to get tripped up on Rules 2 and 3, which led to the institution of Rules 4: Call Shitty and Lardo so he wouldn’t have to be alone, and 5: Erase all evidence he’d broken Rules 2 and 3 before the kids got home from their other father’s house at the end of every other weekend.

It had only been eight months. Eric was still a work in progress. He didn’t really mean to open Christian the Homewrecker’s Instagram and click on the newest post, a picture of Sam and Lizzie posed next to the fake lighthouse at a nearby mini-golf course.

“Loving these kids is easy, but asking them to accept me as another parental figure in their lives was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” the caption read. “I still remember meeting them for the first time, all four of us nervous, wondering if we could find a way to make it work. There have been growing pains, but I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. Lizzie and Sam, I love you to the moon and back and wouldn’t trade being your father for anything.”

Eric resisted the urge to throw his phone across the room. Their father? That was bold, seeing as how the ink was barely dry on the divorce papers and Jesse had not, as far as Eric knew, proposed to Christian. Besides, being a parent was a lot more than Disney cruises and weekend miniature golf outings, that was for damn sure. Where had Christian been when Lizzie had colic, when Sam went through his biting phase, when Jesse had been out of town and all three of them had gotten sick with a stomach bug, one after another?

Right. He hadn’t been here. He’d been in the apartment Jesse paid for.

Eric told himself not to look at the comments, which were most likely a variation on the usual: “So glad you finally got your happily ever after,” and, “Those kids are so lucky to have you.”

Yes. So lucky. So lucky their father left their other father for a part-time Applebee’s bartender/Zumba instructor. Eric had not built a career on his “Kids in the Kitchen” brand, all about creating opportunities for kids to be creative and confident in the kitchen, only for the inspirations for that video and cookbook series to declare Applebee’s grilled cheese, “Way better than yours, Dad.” Christian was incapable of serving a meal without a side of ranch. Eric was pretty sure his contract forbade it.

Realizing the sun was beginning to set, he sighed and closed Instagram. He could at least clean up the empty takeout boxes and put the wine away. As he set his phone down, an ESPN news alert popped up on the screen and caught his eye: “Zimmermann-Cassidy divorce. Tensions heat up on and off the ice.” 

Eric snorted in disgust but clicked on the headline anyway. He couldn’t help but feel a kinship with Jack Zimmermann, the NHL star whose romance with pop star Ava Cassidy—by some accounts the biggest pop star in the world, though Eric thought her artistry couldn’t hold a candle to Beyoncé’s—had been the stuff of fairytales. They were divorcing after nearly a decade together, and according to the rumors Ava had been spotted cozied up with one of Jack’s teammates after one of her shows. Meanwhile, Jack Zimmermann was rumored to be devastated and supposedly seeking a way out of his contract at the end of the season. 

Celebrities, Eric thought as he downed the last of the wine straight from the bottle. They’re just like us.

It was a little past midnight, and Eric was just getting started when Lardo pulled him away from the very tall, very handsome man he was grinding against, and off the dance floor. “It’s late,” she said, all business, exactly the way she’d been as manager of his college hockey team. “We’re going home. He’s going home!” she called to Eric’s paramour as he stared at them in confusion. “He has to get home to his kids!”

“Larissa,” Eric hissed, “I was having fun. Why are you ruining this for me?” He looked back at Aiden (Braden? Jayden? Something than ended in -den.) and gave an enthusiastic wave. “Call me!” he mouthed, but the guy had already turned away.

“Because I don’t want you to make a decision you’ll regret tomorrow. Trust me, you’re already going to regret most of tonight. You don’t need to add him to the list,” Lardo said pragmatically. She pushed Eric through the crowded club and toward the door, where Shitty was waiting with their coats. 

“Shitty, she’s being mean to me,” Eric whined. “He was into me, and she lied to him and told him I have to get home to my kids. Does that man look like he wants to hook up with a divorced father of two?”

“Better to find that out now than in the morning when you have to tell him he needs to leave before your ex drops off your kids,” Shitty said, helping Eric into his coat like he was a small child. “And you’ll be glad for the chance to sober up before they get home.”

They walked out to the street to wait for the car Lardo had ordered. The chill in the air was just enough to make Eric shiver, even though he’d been a little too warm inside the club. “He had an ass the size of Alaska,” Eric said mournfully.

“And you, my friend, are going to have a hangover the size of Alaska,” Shitty said.

“Ugh,” Lardo groaned, staring at her phone. “Our driver was already here and left? Stupid fucker.” She stabbed the screen a few times. “It’s gonna be ten minutes before another car can get here. It’s only a mile, let’s just walk.”

“Noooo,” Eric groaned, the alcohol finally catching up to him. 

“Yes,” Lardo said, hooking an arm in his. 

They made it five blocks before Eric had to lean against a telephone pole and “take a breather,” and another five before he veered off the sidewalk and threw up into a bush. The fresh air had sobered him up just enough that bits and pieces of the evening were beginning to come back to him: the many rum-based drinks he’d slammed back in quick succession, the lap dance Shitty had paid for, the bartender who had patiently listened as Eric spilled the sordid details of his divorce, Aiden-or-Braden-or-Jayden and his magnificent ass. 

“Aw, Bits,” Lardo said sadly as she patted his back. “I know everything hurts right now, but you really need to stop doing this.”

Eric could feel the tears build up behind his eyes. “Wouldn’t you, if the love of your life left you?” he wailed. He didn’t miss the way Lardo and Shitty looked at each other, the silent communication that passed between them. Lardo and Shitty might be the loves of each other’s lives, but Eric had known them both long enough that he could read them as well as they read each other. They didn’t know what to do with him. Well, that seemed about right. He didn’t know what to do with himself, either.

“Bits, I know this is hard to hear, but I don’t think Jesse is the love of your life. Don’t give him that much credit.” Shitty extended a hand downward to help Eric to his feet. “Come on, we’re almost there.” The three of them linked arms and made their way the remaining few blocks to Eric’s house, Eric doing his best not to cry.

“I’m a hot mess,” Eric groaned as Shitty threw him over his shoulder and carried him up the porch stairs.

“Yes, but you’re our hot mess,” Shitty replied. “Any one of us would do the same if the love of our life dumped us for his… What’s the dude version of mistress?”

“Boy toy?”

“Side piece?” Lardo wondered.

“Side dish!” Eric yelled triumphantly. “Christian is mozzarella sticks.”

“Bruh, I know you’re trying for the analogy, but mozzarella sticks sound fuckin’ great right about now.”

“Mozzarella sticks are basic. They don’t even taste good without sauce. Why does Jesse want mozzarella sticks? Look at me. I’m a whole damn meal!”

“Shh,” Lardo soothed as she unlocked the front door. “You are a whole damn meal, but maybe your neighbors don’t need to know that.”

“I’m going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t I?” Eric asked as Shitty deposited him on the couch and handed him a blanket. He could hear Lardo in the kitchen, pulling cups from the cabinet and filling them with water.

“Probably,” Shitty agreed, accepting two cups from Lardo and handing one—it had Mickey Mouse on one side and the Walt Disney World logo on the other—to Eric.

“Anyway,” Eric said, circling back to one of Shitty’s earlier points that was sticking with him, “Jesse isn’t the love of my life.”

“That’s not what you said ten minutes ago,” Shitty reminded him.

“Jesse is not the love of my life,” Eric repeated, this time more decisively. “The love of my life would never make me feel this bad.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you for months!” Shitty said.

“The love of my life would never give this—” Eric gestured to himself, forgetting he was covered in glitter and wearing a fleece Encanto blanket like a cape—“up for mozzarella sticks.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lardo cheered, deadpan.

Three years of living in a frat house, plus parenthood, meant Eric could pull together a hot breakfast on any amount of sleep, or lack thereof. Shitty and Lardo didn’t even blink when they staggered into the kitchen the next morning, hungover and bleary-eyed, to find Eric manning the pancake griddle.

“Sleep well?” Eric asked.

“Dude, your bed. It’s like sleeping on a cloud wrapped in cotton candy. I almost feel bad for letting you take the couch.”

“Shits.” Lardo punched Shitty in the shoulder, hard. 

“It’s fine, it’s a great mattress,” Eric said. “I promise I’m not being all weird about not wanting to sleep alone. I just didn’t trust myself to make it all the way there. Last time this happened I woke up on the floor in the hall.” Truthfully, Eric was having a hard time remembering the exact sequence of events that had led to him crashing on the couch, but that sounded about right.

“Bits,” Lardo said, disapprovingly.

“I know, okay?” Eric said, flipping another pancake onto the already-tall stack. “I know I need to pull myself together. I just… Christian called them his kids.” That much—the precipitating event, so to speak—Eric did remember.

As the pancake pile grew, and Shitty and Lardo tucked into their breakfasts with enthusiasm Eric hadn’t seen since their hungover college days, he related the story of discovering Christian’s Instagram and all the posts he’d made about Jesse and the kids, as if they were his own.

Eric guessed they were, in a way. That was what happened when you got divorced and your ex found somebody new. 

“And I can’t let the kids see me like this. I have to hold it all together when they’re with me because they’ve already been through so much. Feels safe to just let it all out around y’all,” Eric explained.

Shitty set his fork down and leveled a look at Eric. “You know we’re here for you. And the kids. And we know it’s going to take some time for things to feel normal again, but doing this every other weekend isn’t doing any of us any favors.”

“I know.” Eric turned the griddle off and joined his friends at the table. The dissolution of his marriage was no reason to spend every other weekend partying like he was still a hot, single twenty-something, the age he’d been when he and Jesse had spotted each other from across the room at a club near campus.

Eric had been there with Lardo and a few of the guys who lived with them in the Samwell Men’s Hockey Haus, celebrating the end of finals before everyone headed home for winter break. He’d noticed Jesse right away, awkwardly standing in a corner, beer in hand. When it started to seem like he was noticing Eric back, Eric’s friends Nursey and Chowder pushed him in Jesse’s direction. Eric wasn’t usually bold enough to make the first move, but he was that night. They danced for what felt like hours and even though Eric didn’t normally get the names of guys he met in clubs, something about Jesse felt different. When Eric’s friends left to meet Chowder’s girlfriend Caitlin and her friends at a different bar, Jesse asked him to stay and told Lardo he’d make sure he got home safely.

Eric had always been a sucker for a man who made him feel safe.

Jesse, it turned out, was a senior at Brown and was visiting a friend at Samwell for the weekend before they drove home together for the holidays. The friend he’d come with was also long gone, and neither Jesse nor Eric had a car, so they walked the two miles back to Samwell. At the time, it had felt romantic—whenever he and Jesse told people the story of how they met, this was always the part where Eric interjected, “Our love kept us warm!”—but with age Eric could admit that walking two miles at two a.m. in below-freezing temperatures was a questionable choice.

Eric thought he’d seen the last of Jesse when they kissed (more like heavily made out, but he always amended that part when telling the story in front of his mother) goodbye on the Haus steps, but to his surprise, Jesse texted the next morning as Eric was packing for his flight home to Georgia.

“Is this the Eric I danced with last night? If it is, I think you have my gloves.”

Later, Eric found out Jesse had gone to great lengths to find out the phone number of the short, blond Samwell hockey player named Eric. Given there weren’t many people who fit that description, it probably hadn’t been that hard of a case to crack.

“Oh, gosh!” Eric had apologized, heart beating double-time as he realized he was really glad Jesse had gotten in touch. “I am so sorry. I think you offered them because my hands were cold? I’m so embarrassed. They’re right here in my coat pocket, but I’m on my way home to Georgia for Christmas. Can I send them to you?”

“Keep them. Maybe we can meet up when we both get back to school. Wouldn’t want your hands to get cold in Georgia. ; )”

Remembering it now, Eric couldn’t help but think about all the things that had to happen just right to bring him and Jesse together, about all the things in his life that would be different if his friends had wanted to go to a different club or Jesse had gone home earlier that day instead of spending one last night partying before heading home to his family. 

“It’s just,” Eric said now, splaying his hands out on either side of his plate as if to brace himself, “it’s not fair. He cheated, and now he gets to be the one to be happy with his new lover? Pretending to be a happy family with our kids every other week, like I don’t exist? Why was it so hard to do that when we were together? Why do I have to be the one to pick up the pieces of everything he wrecked?”

Shitty shook his head. “I don’t know, man. But you know you don’t have to do it alone.”

Eric looked at his two friends, their identical expressions simultaneously revealing both how much they cared about Eric and how very coupled they were, so in sync after almost two decades together. Eric had had that, once. And now he didn’t.

Shitty and Lardo eventually left, citing laundry they had to get done before work in the morning, but not before helping Eric clean the kitchen. With two hours left before the kids were due to arrive, he put on some music and tidied up the rest of the house—took the empty wine bottles and takeout containers out to the trash, mopped the floors, made sure the kids’ beds had clean sheets. He finished his chores with just enough time to make a pie for dessert. As far as Eric knew, the kids didn’t get homemade treats at Jesse’s. He turned his music up and sang along when “Texas Hold ’Em” came on. Dancing around the kitchen to Beyoncé’s greatest hits always made Eric feel more like himself, put him in the right mindset for the week to come. It wasn't that different, really, from the pre-game playlist he’d listened to before his college hockey games.

At exactly 5 p.m., he heard Jesse’s car pull up and, a minute later, three doors slam. He was already on the way to the front door to let them in when he heard Jesse’s firm knock. It was still absurd to Eric that after more than a decade together, Jesse no longer just walked in. It was even more absurd that Jesse had never lived with him in this house, had never even stepped beyond its threshold.

Christian never came with Jesse to drop the kids off. That, at least, seemed to be one line he wouldn’t cross.

“Hey, sweetpeas,” Eric said, opening the door and squatting to embrace both kids at once. “I missed you both so much.” He held them a beat too long, trying to make up for a week of missed hugs.

“Come on, Dad, let me go!” Sam said, wiggling out of Eric’s embrace. Lizzie followed suit. They threw their backpacks down in the entryway as they tore upstairs.

Eric stood back up. “Did they have a good week?” Nearly a year into this arrangement, Eric was finally (mostly) comfortable with letting Jesse (and Christian) take care of the parenting-related tasks he’d taken sole responsibility for when they were together, but relinquishing control of what happened during Jesse’s weeks with the kids had been difficult. In part because Eric had been the more available parent during their marriage, and was still the point person for all things kid-related, as far as their teachers and coaches were concerned. 

“You know. The usual.” Something about Jesse’s face was different, but Eric couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Was he … exfoliating? Jesse had always rolled his eyes at Eric’s complicated skincare regimen, but his skin had never looked so vibrant when he was with Eric. 

Eric blinked. “What’s ‘the usual?’” Could Jesse make it more obvious that he just wanted to get this over with with as little conversation as possible?

“If anything major had happened you would know, Eric.” Jesse’s face betrayed nothing. Botox? Had he gotten Botox?

“Right. I won’t keep you, then.”

“Lizzie was complaining her skates are getting tight,” Jesse said, just as Eric was beginning to close the door. “Just buy the new ones and I’ll Venmo you half.”

“She’ll probably fit in one of Sam’s old pairs. Or maybe the Chows have an old pair from the twins. I’ll check before I buy anything new.”

“We can afford to buy her new skates.”

Jesse could. Eric was managing as best as he could. People assumed he was rich because he had a cooking show and a few published cookbooks, but he wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart. His locally-produced show ran after Days of Our Lives and his book advances and royalties were reasonable for a mid-list cookbook author, meaning he needed the freelance work and catering jobs he relied on to supplement his income. He could pay his bills, there was enough left over for the occasional fun outing or treat for the kids, but he wasn’t sitting on mountains of cash. 

“At this age they outgrow them before they wear them out,”  Eric said, speaking from experience. “If we don’t know somebody we can swap with or buy used from, I’ll look at new.”

“Fine.”

“Okay. Have a good week, then.”

“You too,” Jesse said cordially. He was always so cordial. Eric wondered if he ever had moments where he just lost it. Of the two of them, Jesse had always been more even-keeled, a balance to Eric’s more excitable personality. In turn, Eric had softened Jesse’s rougher edges. It was Eric who had remembered Jesse’s parents’ and siblings’ birthdays and charmed his work colleagues at company parties. He wondered if Christian did that now, if he’d been welcomed with open arms into the extended Hunt family the way Eric had been so long ago. He wondered if Jesse’s family even missed him, or if it had been as easy for them to replace Eric with Christian as it had been for Jesse. 

He would ask the kids, but Eric had made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t use them as a go-between when he wanted to go fishing for dirt about his ex. If they wanted to volunteer information, that was one thing, but Eric didn’t want to stoop to the petty lows he’d heard some divorced couples engaged in.

“Dad! We need you!” Sam shrieked from somewhere upstairs. Lizzie joined in with a long, earsplitting scream that ended on a sob.

“Simmer down, y’all, what’s got you so worked up?” Eric asked, jogging upstairs. 

“There’s a spider in my bedroom.” Sam shuddered and pointed to the closet. “It went in there.”

“I think it was a black widow,” Lizzie added, sniffling.

“Honey, black widows don’t live in Rhode Island. Whatever it is, he’s probably just as scared of you as you are of him. Let’s see if we can find him,” Eric reassured them, dropping to the floor and shining his phone’s flashlight into the dark corners of the closet. Immediately, the previous 24 hours—the drinks, Aiden-Brayden-Jaden, the puking in the bushes and waking up hungover—were forgotten. Eric was in Dad Mode now, and Dad Mode meant trapping rogue spiders and drying tears.

Chapter Text

Jack had never liked sleeping alone.

It wasn’t something he would admit to anybody, especially his teammates, but he was eight before he outgrew his habit of climbing into his parents’ bed in the middle of the night. The invisible monsters lurking in the shadows of his room—it was only later that he could properly identify them as anxiety—always seemed to shrink down to a manageable size when he was with his parents. With Papa snoring on one side of him and Maman rubbing gentle circles into his back on the other, he could finally relax enough to fall asleep. With time, he did learn to fall asleep on his own—due to the nature of his job, it was a necessity—but when his anxiety flared it always helped to have somebody by his side.

That was the hardest thing about Ava leaving—Jack couldn’t sleep, and the person he wanted to turn to for comfort was the one responsible for his current sleepless situation.

“Oh, honey,” Maman said during their weekly FaceTime call. “You didn’t fail. Marriage isn’t a game you win or lose. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”

That was easy for her to say. Jack’s parents had a dream marriage, and were still disgustingly in love after more than forty years. They’d weathered everything—a bicoastal romance in the beginning, the years of trying to have a baby, the pressures of having high profile careers and raising a child in the public eye, Jack’s ... troubles. Somehow, they’d managed to survive all that with their relationship not only intact, but stronger than ever.

Jack wished he was still small enough to climb into his parents’ bed and lie between them, secure in the knowledge nothing bad would ever happen to him.

“You’ve lost weight,” Maman said as she assessed Jack’s appearance. Her eyes were sad but her tone was … not quite sympathetic. Jack knew it was because she worried about him, had always worried about him. It was part of being a parent, he assumed, but because of his history her concern loomed over him and tipped into alarm at even the hint of instability.

“A little,” Jack allowed, not wanting to tell her exactly how much weight he’d lost in the past three months. His trainer was already riding him about it, and the locker room chirps, which he usually ignored, were beginning to get to him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to care very much. 

“Jack, are you eating?” Papa asked, unwilling to tiptoe around the issue.

Jack didn’t know how to tell his parents that if he wasn’t at work, or fulfilling obligations for work, he was sleeping. Usually on the couch with the TV on. Sleeping on the couch wasn’t doing his body any favors either, but at least he could sleep that way. 

They wouldn’t want to hear that. Or that when he could stomach food, it was something from his childhood “safe” list: chicken tenders, yogurt cups, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“I still use that meal delivery service,” Jack said truthfully. He didn’t tell them the meals sat in the refrigerator until he gave up and moved them to the freezer, unwilling to waste them. The chest freezer in the garage that usually held the spoils from their annual Alaskan fishing trip was now full of pre-portioned, nutritionally balanced meals Jack would likely never eat.  

“Have you talked to your therapist about adjusting your meds?” 

Jack pretended he didn’t hear Papa’s question.

Papa sighed. “Look, Jack, I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, but it’s better you hear it from me instead of somebody else. There are rumors out there…”

Jack knew rumors. This wasn’t the first time he’d been the topic of hot league gossip.

“You’re becoming a problem.”

Yeah, also not a first for that.

“Everybody agrees Luke and Ava were in the wrong, but the way you’re handling this is not helping your case. You still need to do your job. Get through the season, see what happens with the trades. Hell, take a break. You’re almost forty. You have two Cups. Nobody would blink if you wanted to finish out the season and retire quietly.”

“Would you?” Jack asked.

Papa stared at him through the iPad, gaze steely. “I would do whatever I had to do to stay healthy.”

It’s not like Jack meant to fall in love with the biggest pop star in the world.

When they met at a You Can Play fundraiser, Ava hadn’t been the biggest pop star in the world. Her star had been on the rise but—arguably—Jack was more famous in the hockey world than Ava was in the music industry. 

Jack was representing the Kings at the fundraiser; Ava was there because she had a young, trans cousin who played hockey. Jack noticed her the moment she entered the ballroom—Ava tended to have that effect on people, even when dressed down in jeans and an old hoodie. That night, though, she was wearing an off-the-shoulder gown with a slit up on side that exposed a long, toned leg. She was blonde, and maybe that was part of it, too. She shimmered on the edges of Jack’s peripheral vision all evening and might have remained there if not for a nudge from Jack’s teammate, Danny. “I think you have a fan,” he said, nodding in Ava’s direction. When Jack allowed himself to look at her, he realized she was staring back, not even bothering to feign subtlety. 

“Who is she?” Jack asked. “Model?” For as long as Jack could remember—or at least since he’d hit puberty and “grown into his looks”—he’d been asked if he was going to follow in his dad’s footsteps and marry a model. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly bored with the question, he considered retorting that he might actually follow in his mom’s footsteps and marry a hockey player. But he knew that wouldn’t go over well, so he always held his tongue.

“Model?” Danny asked, incredulous. “Dude, that’s Ava Cassidy.”

“Who?”

“She sings that song ‘Ripple,’ the one Reedsy’s always singing in the locker room?”

Jack thought the song was terrible, but maybe it was just that Reedsy couldn’t carry a tune. He’d never actually heard the real thing.

Danny nudged Jack again. “She’s into you. You should buy her a drink.”

“What if she doesn’t—?”

Later, Jack found out that everyone knew Ava’s signature drink was rosé. In the beginning she found that charming about Jack, that he didn’t pay attention to pop culture or social media trends. It was refreshing, she said.

“Fine,” Danny sighed. “Just go talk to her, then.”

At first, when telling the story of how they met, Ava always rolled her eyes fondly when she recalled how Jack had approached her and asked, “Do you like hockey?” Over the years her tone grew less fond, more exasperated, as if somehow that had been her first clue that he’d turn out to be a disappointment.

But that was near the end. In the beginning, it was good. Jack didn’t date a lot; he wasn’t into casual hookups and his schedule didn’t leave a lot of room for serious dating. At twenty-eight, though, he was beginning to feel the pull toward what his parents had. He was tired of going home to an empty house, and when his teammates brought their wives and kids to family events he’d begun to feel an undefinable sort of longing for something he didn’t even know he’d been missing. Ava was as committed to her career as Jack was to his, had been single-mindedly pursuing it ever since she was a little girl on scholarship at a performing arts school in San Francisco, but she was up-front about the fact that what she really wanted was to be in a relationship. Her love for being in love fueled her songwriting and made her “relatable” to her fans. Her ambition made her relatable to Jack.

Jack never took people home, but he took Ava home that night and she stayed through the weekend. They spent most of it in bed, alternately having sex and bingeing all of Ted Lasso. By Sunday evening he was pretty sure he was going to propose. By Monday evening she’d sent him a home-recorded demo that became the first of many songs about their relationship. It included the line, “Blue eyes, thick thighs, I think you’re my forever guy.”

Who could blame Jack for assuming “forever” didn’t have an expiration date?

In June, Jack found himself on a plane to Providence. The trade everyone predicted had happened, and while Jack could have just ended it all by announcing his retirement, he didn’t want to end his career on the sour note that was his last year with the Kings. With an entire country between himself and Ava and fucking Luke, maybe he would finally find some clarity. If he didn’t have to work with Luke, didn’t have to see his smug face every day, maybe he’d finally be able to move on.

The Falconers seemed happy to have him, at least, and if anybody had reservations about the sad sack of the NHL joining their team, nobody voiced them. Not to Jack’s face, anyway. Georgia Martin, the team’s general manager, seemed positively giddy that Jack was on her roster.

“You might not be aware of this,” she confided to Jack during his first meeting with her, “but I’ve been trying to get you over here for years. I’m sorry about the circumstances that brought you here, but I can’t deny that I’m thrilled to finally have you on my team.”

Jack wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. Still, Georgia—who preferred to be called George—seemed to be a comforting combination of no-nonsense and kind. She reassured him that the “situation” with Luke was in the past, and that his teammates would have his back.

“Is there anything else we should know?” George asked, in what might have been the understatement of the year. There was very little the hockey world—and lately, thanks to his relationship with Ava, the world in general—didn’t know about Jack Zimmermann, up to and including his near-fatal overdose on the eve of the 2008 draft.

“Euh…” A small Pride flag sticking out of a mug on George’s desk caught Jack’s eye. What the hell, he might as well go for broke. “I’m bi.”

George blinked once, but didn’t look taken aback. Maybe hockey players came out to her all the time and she’d perfected the art of looking unfazed. Or maybe she’d been expecting a much juicier revelation.

“A few guys on my old team knew, but I’ve mostly dated women so I’ve never felt the need to come out publicly,” Jack added. “But now that I’m single I might want to, uh, explore— I mean, I’m not ready to start dating, but if I were to date somebody—”

“I get it,” George said, possibly to save Jack from more awkward stammering. “Thank you for letting me know. If you decide you want to come out publicly, we have a team that can help you with some of the logistics and PR coaching. Obviously, it’s not going to be as big a deal as it was when Kent Parson came out, and you’ve supported You Can Play for years so people may think they’ve connected some dots, but it’ll still be news and you’ll want to have a game plan. Although, given your specific set of circumstances…” George paused.

“I’m divorcing the one of the biggest celebrities in the world. Anybody I date in the next few years is going to be a headline,” Jack finished for her. 

“Right.” George’s neutral expression softened. “Look, Jack, I won’t pretend to know anything about your situation, but I’ve been through a rough breakup or two. If you need a friend here in Providence, my door is always open.”

Jack had been around long enough to know when somebody was placating him and when they were genuinely concerned. Everything about George seemed genuine, and he wondered how different his life might be now if he’d signed with the Falcs way back when.

“Jack Zimmermann! Welcome to Providence!”

Chris Chow, the Falconers’ goalie, raised a hand in greeting as Jack exited his meeting with George. Jack knew Chow, though not well. He’d played at Samwell, Jack’s mom’s alma mater, and had been part of the school’s first NCAA championship-winning team. The team had gone on to repeat that feat the following year, making Chow a top NHL prospect coming out of college. He ended up signing with the San Jose Sharks—his hometown team—and quickly earned a reputation as one of the sharpest goalies in the league. In the years since, Jack had faced him on the ice more than a few times, and played with him on the same All-Star team when they’d been in the same conference. Jack had been as surprised as anybody when he was traded to the Falconers a few years back, particularly when he’d heard Chow was the one to request the trade.

“Hey,” Jack said, genuinely happy to see a friendly face. “Glad to be playing with you again, and not against you.”

“Same, man.” Chow fell into step with Jack as he walked toward the exit. “You’ve just made my job a lot easier now that I don’t have to block your shots. My kids can’t believe you’re my teammate. They still have those hats you signed for them at the All-Star game a few years ago. Honestly, I think they like you better than me.”

“I’m pretty sure there were a few years that I liked Gretzky better than my dad, so I wouldn’t take it personally,” Jack reassured him.

“Hey, as long as we’re winning, I don’t care,” Chow said good-naturedly. “The Kings’ loss is our gain.” 

“I could say the same for the Sharks,” Jack said. “What happened there? We all thought you’d be a lifer.”

“Yeah, well.” Chow shrugged. “My wife and I met as athletes at Samwell, right? She planned to be a teacher, got into a master’s program and everything, but then an assistant volleyball coach position at San Jose State opened up and a friend talked her into applying. She’s a great coach. San Jose won its first national championship while she was there. A few years ago the head coaching position at Samwell became available and—” Chow grinned. “I always thought I’d be a Shark for life, but it was time to put her career first.”

Jack nodded, thinking about how in his marriage, neither he nor Ava had made concessions for the other’s career. Maybe that had been part of their problem.

“Plus,” Chow continued, “we were starting to think California might not be the best place to raise the kids. They’re getting into hockey and the East Coast has more of a hockey culture than Silicon Valley. I actually asked for the trade. The Bruins didn’t have a spot for me, but the Falcs are close enough and they were more than willing to take me on. I’m lucky it worked out as seamlessly as it did. We thought we’d have to be long distance for a year or two, which would have been hard with the kids.”

Jack nodded again. It made sense. After Papa’s retirement, his parents had opted to go back to Montreal instead of settling down in California. “Hollywood is no place to raise a child,” Maman always said, but Jack knew that Canada’s hockey culture—and the opportunities that existed for a young prodigy like Jack—had also factored into that move.

“We’re a great team, Jack,” Chris said, as if to quell any second thoughts Jack might be having. “We were just entering a rebuilding phase when I got here and I’ll be honest, we still have a ways to go, but these are some of the greatest guys I’ve ever played with. And I know everyone is thrilled to be playing with you.” Chris cocked his head toward the doorway they were about the exit, where a baby-faced kid who couldn’t have been out of his teens stood awkwardly staring at them. “Griggs, come meet my old friend Jack!”

“Way to make me feel old,” Jack muttered, realizing this kid, who had fresh acne scars, had probably been in diapers during his rookie year. If the kid was starstruck, though, he hid it well. He didn’t ask Jack about Ava, either—Jack wondered if someone in management had already warned his new teammates against that.

“You find a place to live yet?” the kid—Griggs—asked.

The Falcs had put Jack up in a furnished apartment in the heart of downtown, a short drive from the practice arena. It was meant to be temporary; when he was ready, they told him, they’d set him up with a realtor. Jack figured he’d wait to look for a place until his parents could make the trip out to help. He hadn’t had to figure this stuff out in a long time. Ava had been the one to choose and decorate the beachfront home they’d moved into during their engagement, and that had been almost a decade ago. He’d have to buy furniture; he hadn’t bothered to—hadn’t wanted to—bring anything he’d shared with Ava with him. He didn’t want reminders of their life together in this place where he was trying to make a fresh start.

“I’m staying in a place downtown,” Jack said. 

“Probably the same place they send all the new guys,” Chow said.

Griggs nodded in agreement. “There are a few of us living there. You should come around later, a few of us get together to play Mario Kart most nights.”

Jack looked at Griggs, all of nineteen, and decided that as important as it was for him to bond with his new teammates, he was probably fine not joining in that particular activity. “Maybe, yeah,” he said noncommittally. 

Chow seemed to sense Jack’s reluctance because he put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and said, “I remember what it was like living out of boxes. Come to dinner at our place tonight. Cait and I will actually cook for you.”

“Euh, I can’t interrupt your family time,” Jack hedged. He could just barely remember what life was like when his dad was still playing, how they tried to cram as much family time as possible into the off-season before hockey took Papa away for days, sometimes weeks, at a time.

“Of course you can,” Chow insisted. “Alexei Mashkov and his wife did it for us when we got here, so I’ve gotta pay it forward. Plus, if my kids find out I met you and didn’t bring you home, I might never hear the end of it.”

Chow and his family lived in a nice-but-not-ostentatious home in an upscale part of Providence. It was a far cry from Jack’s place in LA, where he’d rubbed shoulders with Hollywood executives and other professional athletes, but Providence wasn’t LA and Jack had never felt very “LA” to begin with. Maman had lived there for years, at the peak of her career before she met and married Papa, but she often told Jack it had been a relief to take a step back and live a quieter life.

Though not beachfront property, Chow’s place was spacious, set far enough apart from his neighbors that he and his family could take advantage of the large yard while still maintaining some amount of privacy. It was, Jack thought, the type of neighborhood he could see himself living in someday.

“Hey, babe!” Chow called as he led Jack inside. “Look who I brought home for dinner.”

“Let me guess, another rookie?” asked a voice from somewhere inside the house. Chow toed off his shoes and arranged them neatly in a corner of the entryway, so Jack did the same. 

“Not quite,” Chow said. “One of the new guys, though.” 

Jack followed Chow into the kitchen, where a tall brunette stood at a large island poking through a box of fresh vegetables. “Just picked up the box,” she said, extracting a zucchini and placing it on the island. “Hey!” she said when she noticed Jack, like they were old friends, and Jack tried to remember if they’d met before. “I thought it might be you. I’m Caitlin, this guy’s better half,” she said as Chow stepped around the island and grabbed a strawberry out of the pile of produce and popped it in his mouth. She nudged him in the ribs. “Please excuse my husband’s terrible manners. Everybody’s so excited to have you here.”

Jack wondered, again, if there had been some sort of directive from the front office to avoid mentioning the reason he was here. It would make sense, given the way everybody seemed to be sidestepping the obvious. 

“Euh, thanks,” he managed. He offered her his hand. “Jack Zimmermann.”

“I know who you are,” Caitlin said, waving off his hand and pulling him into a hug instead. “You’re kind of a big deal in this house. Plus, I know your mom. We’ve met at a few alumni events.”

Right, the Samwell connection. “Chow said you’re coaching there?”

“Volleyball,” Caitlin confirmed. “Our pre-season starts soon, so this time of year is always a little hectic around here.”

“That’ll change in a couple years,” Chow added.

“So he says.” Caitlin rolled her eyes, but her smile belied her exasperation.

“Really,” Chow insisted. “I’m not sure how much longer these knees have left.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Jack said. He didn’t know if Chow knew his contract was only for one season, but it would probably come up eventually.

“I’ll believe it when I’m watching you play your last game,” Caitlin said. 

“Kids back yet?” Chow asked, deftly changing the subject.

“Not yet. Bitty texted to ask if he could take them for ice cream and to play at the park after practice. Sam and Lizzie are with Jesse next week, and then Bitty’s taking them down to see his parents for the Fourth, so it’ll be a while before their next playdate.”

“Oh, right.” Chow turned to Jack, about to say something, when as if on cue they heard the front door open and what sounded like an entire youth hockey team run inside.

Chow snagged one of the kids around the waist as she darted into the kitchen. “What’s the rule about running in the house?” he asked, smiling, as three other kids skidded to a stop in front of them. One of them, a boy of about eight, was obviously the girl’s twin. The other kids—a slightly younger girl with red hair and a dark-haired boy who looked around the same age as the twins and might have been of Indian descent—didn’t look related at all.

Chow’s daughter frowned. “Only when Uncle Shitty is babysitting?” she asked hopefully.

Jack assumed—hoped—Shitty was a hockey nickname.

“Sorry about that!” A harried-looking blond guy trailed the kids into the kitchen. He smiled a little wearily. “I thought between practice and the park they’d have gotten all their wiggles out.”

“It’s okay,” Caitlin said, waving off his concern. “Thanks for taking them. At least they’ll sleep well tonight. Practice go okay?”

“Practice was great! They had passing drills today, and Mia even spent some time between the pipes. She crushed it.”

“Nice!” Chow released Mia and gave her a high five.

“I took some video,” the guy said. “I’ll send it over after we get home.” He looked up and, for the first time, seemed to register Jack’s presence. Jack could tell, by the way the guy’s eyebrows shot up, that he recognized him. The guy played it cool, though, which either meant he’d been friends with Chow long enough that meeting professional athletes no longer fazed him, or that he wasn’t a fan. Maybe both.

“Oh, goodness, I didn’t realize you had company,” he apologized. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

“No need,” Chow reassured him. “Bits, this is Jack Zimmermann, one of my new teammates.”

Jack raised a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

The guy mirrored Jack’s gesture. “Eric Bittle. Or Bitty, as these guys call me. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Bitty and I played together at Samwell,” Chow explained. “He was captain the year we won the championship. Now our kids are teammates.”

“Hockey?” Jack asked, feeling stupid the moment the question left his mouth. Of course it was hockey. 

“Sure was!” Bittle said brightly. “Best years of my life, until my kiddos came along.” 

“What position?” Bittle wasn’t tiny by any means, but he was small for a hockey player, with a compact build that was more typical of a sprinter or gymnast. Jack figured he got that a lot, though, so instead he said, “I bet you were fast.”

Bittle beamed. “Left wing, and yeah, I had to be. I wasn’t real fond of checking. I did get better at it, but mostly I just out-skated everyone to avoid getting hit at all.”

Jack chuckled. “That’s one way to do it.”

“But that was a long time ago,” Bittle said with a little sigh. “Like I said, one of the best times in my life, but my athlete days are behind me. Now I’m just a hockey dad.”

“That’s not a bad goal in life,” Jack said, feeling a little wistful. If things had been different, if Ava hadn’t changed her mind about wanting kids, Jack might be asking Chow and Bittle about the local youth leagues. Of course, if things had been different, he wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.

“Not at all,” Bittle agreed. “There’s nothing like seeing your kids love the sport you love. And hey, I still get to lace up my skates every once in a while and get on the ice with ‘em. Keeps me young. At least until later in the evening when I have to ice my knees and I remember how old I actually am,” he added with a little self-deprecating laugh. 

“If it makes you feel better, we all do that,” Jack said.

“That makes me feel worse!” Bittle yelped. “Y’all are professional athletes, your bodies—no offense—have been through a lot rougher stuff than playing shinny with a couple of kids.”

“Speaking of,” Caitlin broke in, “I think we’ve lost ours to the new toy.” She pointed at the kitchen window that overlooked the Chow’s expansive backyard. Indeed, Jack could see four small figures bouncing up and down on a large trampoline. He hadn’t even noticed them go outside.

“Oh, lord,” Bittle sighed. “Sorry, should have known those four would continue the playdate if I stopped to chat. I’ll go get mine and we’ll get out of your hair.” 

“You’re not ‘in our hair,’ you’re family,” Caitlin said, her tone suggesting they’d had this conversation more than once.

“You don’t want to stay for dinner?” Chow asked. “We’ve got steaks and all this fresh zucchini.”

“You’ve got company,” Bittle said. “And I picked up the same farm share box this afternoon. Have to use most of it before the kids head off to Jesse’s.”

“Right.” Chow and Caitlin turned identical, pitying looks on Bittle. Jack recognized that look. It was the look people couldn’t stop giving him. 

“What’s this box?” Jack quickly asked, desperate to diffuse the tension that had suddenly settled over the room. “Should I get one?” 

Bittle met Jack’s eye and offered a small smile, as if he knew exactly what Jack was doing and why he was doing it. “Oh, they’re from this local farm that puts fresh produce boxes together every week during the summer and fall!” he enthused. Jack had only just met Bittle but he sounded falsely upbeat, less natural than he’d been only moments before when they were talking about hockey. “It’s great because you always have fresh fruits and veggies around, and you can plan your meals around what’s in season.”

“Bitty’s a professional chef,” Chow told Jack. “He used to bake for the team all the time in college.”

“Now I do it on TV,” Bittle added. At Jack’s raised eyebrow he added, “Local TV. I’m not out here threatening to put Paul Hollywood out of a job.”

“Who?” Jack asked.

“From the Great British Baking Show? On Netflix?”

Jack shook his head. 

“You’re a busy man, so I won’t hold that against you,” Bittle said good-naturedly. “But you should look it up the next time you’re looking for something to watch. Anyway, this year’s farm share season’s already started, but we’re friends with the owners so we can probably pull some strings and get you on the list, if you want. And don’t worry about it being too much for one person—um, I mean—,” he stammered, seeming to realize he’d revealed he knew more about Jack’s situation than Jack had volunteered—“there are different sizes, so if it’s just you at home, they can do a half share. Of course, I know how you hockey players eat, so maybe a full share will be just right.”

“Sometimes Bitty comes in and does cooking seminars for us,” Chow said. 

“Usually for the rookies,” Bittle added. “But a few other guys subscribe to the farm share, so I try to go in once a year and demonstrate how to use some of this stuff. It makes for good footage for the team’s socials. Plus, it’s nice to have a few recipes in your back pocket.”

“I want to learn how to cook more,” Jack heard himself say. He’d never been much of a cook, but maybe it was time to learn. Fresh start and all.

“Great!” Bittle’s delighted smile lit up his entire face. “I’ll have Chris and Cait give you the information. Or maybe they can give me your information, so I can get it directly to the farm? We’ll figure it out! I really do need to get my kids home. It was nice meeting you, Jack. Will you be at these guys’ end-of-summer party?” 

“Euh—”

“You should totally come!” Chow said. “A bunch of guys from the team bring their families.”

Families. The word hit Jack between the ribs like a hard check and maybe it showed on his face because Caitlin quickly added, “You don’t have to commit now. We won’t even send invitations out for another few weeks. I think these two are just eager to recruit a new teammate for the adults versus kids Nerf gun battle.”

Bittle leaned in toward Jack. “We’re at the point where the kids are starting to outnumber us, and they are ruthless,” he said, voice lowered as if the kids might somehow hear him all the way from outside. “Last year they cornered our friend Shitty near the pool and he had no choice but to jump in and swim to the other side to escape.” 

“And they got Mashkov to trade his weapon for a blueberry pie,” Chow added.

“That pie wasn’t even theirs to trade!” Bittle yelled. “They stole it from the dessert table!”  

“Who ever would have predicted such appalling behavior from the children of super competitive athletes,” Caitlin said wryly. She side-eyed Jack. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Jack looked from Caitlin to Chow to Bittle, none of whom could suppress their laughter. It was clear the Chows and Bittle had been close for a long time, but Jack didn’t feel left out. It felt like they were intentionally making room for him.

Maybe starting over in Providence wouldn’t be so bad.

The temporary housing Jack had moved into earlier in the week had never felt particularly homey, but after his evening with the Chows the sparsely furnished apartment, with its bare walls and cold, stainless-steel-everything kitchen, felt particularly bleak. The Chows reminded Jack a little of his parents, always happy to entertain friends new and old, even on short notice. It had been a long time since Jack had spent an evening in the company of … well, it might be premature to call them friends, but it seemed promising. Most of Jack’s friends in LA had been teammates, and of those teammates, the ones Jack was closest to ended up siding with Luke and Ava. If Jack hadn’t deliberately and repeatedly checked Luke into the boards at practice the morning after Ava announced to Jack she was in love with Luke, Jack might have remained the more sympathetic party.  

Jack could almost hear Papa telling him that friends who don’t stick by you when you’re at your worst aren’t really friends at all, but it still stung to realize those years-long friendships could be undone so easily. 

Jack was normally in bed by 10 p.m., but he was still having a hard time sleeping alone and he still hadn’t adjusted to the new time zone. After an hour of lying awake in the new, unfamiliar bed, he wandered out to the living room and turned on the TV. What was that show Chow’s friend Bittle had mentioned? Something about baking? He turned on Netflix and found the first season of The Great British Baking Show. If nothing else, it would give him something to talk about if he ever ran into Bittle again. 

Chapter Text

“Dad, can I have a Frappuccino?”

Eric glanced over his shoulder at the airport Starbucks they’d just passed and groaned internally. They’d finally made it through security and the last thing he wanted to do was wait in another line. On the other hand, they had still had an hour before they’d even board their three-hour flight to Atlanta, and he’d been up since five. He was going to need some caffeine to get through the rest of the day. 

“Sure,” he told Sam, reversing course and getting in line. It moved slower than usual, or maybe it just seemed that way because some sort of youth sports team was ahead of them, arranged in a cluster rather than any recognizable order. Eric wasn’t positive, because they were all wearing the same team-issued hoodies and plaid pajama pants, but it seemed like their numbers were multiplying, with more appearing ahead of him in line every time he was about the approach the register.

“Dad.” Lizzie tugged on his arm as he placed their order for one quad shot vanilla latte and two strawberries and cream Frappuccinos. “Can I get a doughnut and chocolate milk instead?”

“Make that one tall strawberries and cream and a tall chocolate milk,” Eric told the cashier, who already looked over it for the day. “And do y’all have doughnuts?”

“Plain or chocolate?”

“Do you want plain or chocolate?” Eric asked Lizzie.

“I don’t like plain or chocolate,” she pouted.

“Okay, well—” Eric’s eyes darted toward the pastry case—“would you like a cake pop instead? Or a slice of banana bread?” 

“Why can’t I have a sprinkle doughnut?”

“Honey, they don’t have sprinkle doughnuts.”

“Dunkin’ does!” Sam said, pointing at the Dunkin’ storefront a little ways away. The line looked twice as long as the one they’d just stood in. “Can we go to Dunkin’?”

Eric smiled wanly at the cashier, who didn’t seem at all fazed by their failure to efficiently place their order. 

“Sweetheart, I’m not sure we’ll have time to go to Dunkin’. Not if you want to have time to eat and go to the bathroom before we board. Let’s choose something here. Or, you can wait and have your snacks on the plane.” Ever prepared, Eric had packed each kid a bento box filled with cheese, fruit, and mini muffins.

“Fine,” Lizzie sighed. “I’ll have a cake pop.”

“Sam?”

“Can I have two cake pops?”

“You can have one cake pop.”

“Fine,” Sam huffed. 

Eric finished placing their order and herded the kids over to the pickup area, which was crowded with teens. He wasn’t expecting their order to arrive anytime soon, but after fifteen minutes the kids were beginning to get antsy. One of them had spotted an errant coffee bean on the floor and they were kicking it back and forth, heedless of the equally oblivious teens every time they sent it skittering in the wrong direction and ran after it.

On the plus side—if it could be called that—he’d gotten an alert from the airline on his phone announcing their flight was delayed by fifteen minutes. At least they wouldn’t miss it.

When Eric’s name was called, he pushed his way through the crowd, only to reach the counter as a friendship bracelet-adorned wrist shot out and grabbed Sam’s Frappuccino.

“Excuse me!” Eric called after the girl. “I think that’s my—”

But the girl was out of sight, swallowed up by the crowd.

“Dad, she took my drink!” Sam looked dangerously close to tears.

“I know, I saw. I’ll ask them to remake it,” Eric soothed as he handed out cake pops and gave Lizzie her chocolate milk. He tried to get a barista’s attention, but they were all avoiding looking in his direction like they knew he was about to make a request that would interrupt their flow.

“Excuse me!” he called. “I think somebody just took my drink. Can we please get a tall strawberries and cream?”

“Excuse me.” A man dressed in business casual bumped into Eric from behind as he shoved his way to the front of the counter, causing Eric to bump into Lizzie, who dropped her cake pop. Before Eric could squat down to retrieve it, the guy took a step back, crushing the cake pop under his pristine loafer.

“My cake pop!” Lizzie wailed.

“I have to pee,” Sam announced.

Eric pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered how early was too early to start drinking.

Eric felt a little queasy as their plane began its descent into Atlanta. For weeks, he’d been avoiding thinking about his first big family event without Jesse in favor of planning the Fourth of July menu with Mama and making sure the kids had everything they needed for the trip. Now, reality hit him: soon, he would have to face his parents’ friends and the large extended Bittle and Phelps families and admit his marriage had failed. It had taken some of them a little while to accept that little Dicky Bittle was married to a man, and while most had come around, divorce was still side-eyed in his parents’ somewhat religious social circle.

Lizzie grabbed his hand as they prepared to land. “It’s okay, Dad, it’s just a little turbulence.” 

It almost undid him. The kids were good travelers; they’d been making the annual trip to Madison their entire lives and Eric and Jesse had taken them to Hawaii and Disney World a couple of times, back when things were good. But Lizzie had never liked take-offs and landings. How many times had Eric told her it was “just a little turbulence?” Now here she was, offering comfort with the same words he used to soothe her.

Eric squeezed Lizzie’s hand. “I know, baby girl. Thank you.”

“Dad, are Grammy and Coach picking us up?” Sam asked without taking his eyes off the scene outside the window. Unlike his sister, Sam loved landings. 

“That’s the plan,” Eric said. Every other summer they’d rented a car, but this time Mama had insisted on picking them up. If he needed a car, she told him, he could always use one of theirs. Eric had protested that they shouldn’t have to drive all the way to Atlanta just to pick them up, especially since they would have to wait for their checked bag and stop for lunch on the way to Madison, but Suzanne Bittle would hear none of it. 

After a 45-minute wait at baggage claim for a suitcase that never showed up, Eric was sure his parents—who were circling the airport because Coach refused to pay the airport parking rate—regretted that offer.

“We’ll have your suitcase sent directly to your address when it arrives,” a customer service agent assured Eric. “Are you staying at a local hotel?”

“We’ll be in Madison, actually.” 

The woman took Eric’s parents’ address and told him it could be “a day or two” before the suitcase was located and delivered. “In the meantime,” she offered, “if it takes us more than twelve hours to locate your bag, be sure to submit an online claim to receive compensation if you have to purchase clothing and other necessary items.”

Mentally, Eric added a Walmart stop to the list of things he’d need to ask him parents for on the way home. 

“At least they didn’t lose the car seats,” Eric said as they got the kids settled into his parents’ Chevy Tahoe. At seven and eight, the kids still used booster seats. Eric didn’t understand how those had made it while the suitcase had not, but if there was something to be grateful for, it was that. 

“That’s why you need to pack two smaller suitcases,” Coach said. “So you aren’t up shit creek without a paddle if they lose one.”

That was why Eric traveled with only his backpack and a carry-on whenever he flew alone, but packing a week’s worth of stuff for one adult and two kids into one large suitcase was more manageable than making the kids schlep their own carry-ons through two airports and on and off the plane. With two adults it had been manageable. With one? Eric had taken what seemed like the easier route.

However, hearing his father pass judgement on his choices—as if he had any idea how challenging it was to fly alone with two little ones—only made Eric more upset. He managed to hold his tongue. His parents had been more than generous to pick them up. No need to start the week off with a fight.

“Well, you certainly had an adventure but now you’re finally here!” Mama said cheerfully. “I’ve got everything all ready to bake your favorite snickerdoodles as soon as we get home, and we’re going to make personal pizzas for dinner tonight. And we have a surprise waiting for you!” 

“Have you ever been on a Slip ’N Slide, kids?” Coach asked.

“Rick, you ruined the surprise!” Mama admonished.

“What’s a Slip ’N Slide?” Lizzie asked.

“I know!” Sam yelled. “It’s like this giant water slide thing. Tyler had one at his birthday party last year. Remember, Dad, I told you? We got to race each other! Thank you, Grammy and Coach!”

“Wow, that sounds like so much fun!” Eric said, trying not to let his annoyance show. Of course his parents had bought the kids a large, impractical toy that would almost certainly result in an injury. Wasn’t that why they’d never allowed Eric to have one? Well, that and the fact that Coach insisted it would ruin the lawn. 

“But we don’t have our swim suits!” Lizzie wailed. “They were in our suitcase.”

“We can pick some up at the Walmart on the way home,” Mama soothed. “We can even get one for your daddy.”

“Oh, I don’t think Slip ’N Slides are made for dads,” Eric demurred. The last time he’d been on a one of those, he’d been in college and drunk. At thirty-four and stone cold sober, the thought of flinging himself head-first down a wet sheet of plastic sounded, frankly, terrifying.

“Come on, Dad!” Sam pleaded. “Tyler’s dad did it.”

“We’ll see,” Eric said, and left the conversation to his parents and the kids for the rest of the drive. He was exhausted, and they had a lot to catch up on.

Eric took a mirror selfie in the floral-print Walmart swim trunks the kids had picked out for him and sent it to the group chat, which included Shitty and Lardo and some of their other college teammates.

“Dad! Are you coming to play with us?!”

Eric muted the chat and joined his family in the backyard, where Coach had set up the Slip ’N Slide on the lawn that was his pride and joy. It was more elaborate than the ones Eric remembered from when he was a kid, with two lanes so the kids could “race” and inflatable boogie boards to provide them with something of a cushion on the way down.

“There you are!” Mama said from her lounge chair on the deck. “We thought you’d be in there all night.”

Eric ignored the slight dig at his punctuality, or lack thereof. Heaven forbid he take a few moments for himself!

Coach raised his beer in a mock toast and winked. “Nice swimsuit, Junior.”

“You think?” It still came as a shock to Eric that his father was comfortable sharing his fashion opinions. Sure, “nice swimsuit” was hardly effusive, but in Coach-speak it was high praise. 

Moreover, it was a subtle sign of his acceptance. Back in Eric’s figure skating days, Coach had always reserved his praise for Eric’s athletic prowess. Cleanly landed jumps got compliments, Eric’s skating costumes did not. Fashion was not something “real men” gave much thought to, was the implication. 

It had taken a little bit of time, but now Coach accepted all of Eric. And he seemed to be trying his best to make up for his previous mistakes, even when it meant complimenting the hideous swim trunks the kids had chosen.

Lizzie ran up to Eric and hugged him. “I like your swimsuit, Daddy. It’s pretty.”

“Well, that’s because you have great taste!” he told her. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Jesse and what he’d think. Probably that his new fitness-instructor boy toy could still wear teeny tiny Speedos. 

That was a dangerous and unproductive train of thought. Hadn’t Eric’s friends all expressed their approval? Sure, there had been chirps involved, but that was how they showed their love. 

“Wait, you’re already wet!” Eric accused as Lizzie pulled away, leaving a wet spot on his leg. “Did you slip and slide without me?” Now that he was paying closer attention, he realized Lizzie’s long red hair was wet and still down. He ran a hand through the tangles. Brushing them out wasn’t going to be fun for either of them. “Let’s fix this hair situation before you go back in the water.”

“Sorry, Dicky!” Mama called from the deck. “I don’t have any hair ties.”

“I do,” Eric said, pulling off the one he’d slipped around his wrist just in case. Lizzie had been refusing to cut her hair for going on two years; he’d learned to always have hair ties on hand. 

“Coach said we could go down once because you were taking so long,” Lizzie said.

“Well, since you’re the expert now, you’re going to have to show me how,” Eric said. “But first, let’s put your hair up.”

“Dad! Lizzie! Come on!” Sam shrieked as Eric wrangled Lizzie’s hair into a messy bun. It would have to do because at her brother’s summons Lizzie was off. 

Eric began to follow, but stopped to watch when the kids got into position at the head of the Slip ’N Slide and prepared to go down. He watched Coach give them each a gentle push to get them started, and smiled as their shrieks turned into joyful laughter. Everybody, even Coach, was laughing. 

“Come on, Dad!” Sam called again as Coach called, “Your turn, Junior,” and this time Eric didn’t hesitate to join them.

For the first time in months, his heart felt light.

It had been a day. It hadn’t occurred to Eric until today just how much easier these trips had always been because of Jesse. Mama and Coach were wonderful with the kids, but they also kind of drove Eric crazy. Sometimes their “help” ended up being more work. After the kids had tired of playing outside, Eric got them bathed and ready for bed by himself because Mama and Coach were “exhausted.” Then Coach offered the kids ice cream bars and of course they’d gotten ice cream on their clean pajamas. And they didn’t have clean ones to change into because their luggage had yet to arrive. They went to bed in a couple of Coach’s old Madison Football T-shirts that fit them like nightgowns. 

That was the other thing. Mama kept asking Eric if he knew when their suitcase would be arriving, as if he hadn’t spent an hour on hold with customer service this afternoon trying to determine its exact location and estimated time of arrival. All he’d learned was that somehow, it was in Texas.

If Jesse were here, he’d run interference with Mama and Coach to give Eric some breathing room and they’d laugh about it in bed later, heads bent close and voices lowered so they wouldn’t wake anybody up. Sex might or might not be on the table, depending on how tired they were and how hot it was. But Eric would fall asleep secure in the knowledge that even if they had the same old arguments the next day, Jesse would have his back. 

Despite his fatigue, it was too early for him to turn in. He knew if he tried to sleep now, he’d just toss and turn and feel more alone than ever. He went outside instead. The air was still sticky-hot, but he preferred the quiet to whatever Mama and Coach were watching on TV. 

“Want a beer?” 

Eric startled at the sound of Coach’s voice.

“Sure.” Eric accepted the bottle and raised an eyebrow when he saw the label. “You into craft beer now?” 

“Bought it for you.” Coach pulled one of the deck chairs toward himself and eased himself down. “New guy at work said it’s what all you kids drink these days.” 

“Thanks.” Eric was more of a wine guy, but he wasn’t about to turn down a cold beer when it was still eighty degrees outside.

He was glad his dad wasn’t much of a talker, because for once he wasn’t in a talkative mood. He didn’t really want to address the elephant in the room. His parents knew the broad strokes of what had happened, knew Jesse had been the one to leave and that he had a new partner, but they didn’t know about the most humiliating parts. That Jesse had cheated. That Eric had begged him to stay, to try to work things out. It probably wasn’t difficult to guess that was the way things had gone down, but Eric’s pride prevented him from admitting to his parents that Jesse found him so … insignificant … that he couldn’t even wait until they were divorced to move on. 

And having to admit to his parents that he was getting a divorce, after fighting so hard to convince them it was perfectly normal to marry a man—well, maybe convince was a little too strong a word. Mama and Coach had been nothing but supportive when Eric came out to them, even if they’d been a little awkward about it at first. But not being able to make his marriage work felt like admitting all the people who thought people like him shouldn’t get married at all—and there were plenty of those people in Eric’s hometown—were right. 

So Eric preferred to let his parents think what they wanted to think, as long as it meant not having to talk about it.

“Those two sure keep you on your toes, don’t they?” Coach finally said.

Eric exhaled, relieved that Coach only wanted to talk about the kids. “Every day.” 

“Remember that time your mother and aunt went to Florida for a week?”

“We had McDonald’s for dinner every night.”

“I didn’t fully appreciate how hard that woman worked, going to work all day and then getting you to all your lessons, getting dinner on the table, making sure you did your homework. I could barely manage it all for a week and she did it for years.”

“Well, Mama probably wouldn’t last a week coaching high school football.”

“You think?”

“Nah. They probably would’ve been state champions,” Eric couldn’t resist chirping.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Coach admitted. “What I’m trying to say is, I know it ain’t easy. You had us running every which way, and there were two of us and only one of you. Had enough energy for three or four,” he added with a chuckle, “but we managed.”

“It’s amazing what an ADHD diagnosis and the right meds will do for a man,” Eric said wryly. He’d only sought a diagnosis a year or so ago, when Lizzie was being evaluated for ADHD and suddenly everything about the way Eric existed in the world made a whole lot more sense. He still had the energy, but on meds it was more focused.

“Your mama and I are real proud of you. We’ve always been, but you’re doing a damn fine job with those kids, even after everything. I know this year has been hard on all of you.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

“I mean it, Junior. A year from now, you’re gonna look around and realize you’re better off without that dead weight of an ex-husband.”

Eric stared up at the sky and absently scratched at the label on his bottle with his thumbnail “You think he was dead weight?” Jesse had always gotten along well with Eric’s parents.

Coach snorted. “Even a blind man could see you did all the work in that relationship. I’m not saying he was all bad. But it never seemed fair to me, that you did so much.”

“Jesse works hard,” Eric said, silently cursing himself for defending him. It was one of the things he was working on in therapy, his tendency to praise Jesse whenever anybody said something negative about him. 

“You worked two jobs so he could get that MBA,” Coach reminded Eric. “Then, as soon as he starts making a little money, he up and leaves. I’ve known men like him. Never satisfied with what they’ve got. Someday he’ll regret it.” 

“Maybe,” Eric allowed. He’d slipped up again and looked at Christian’s latest Instagram post after putting the kids to bed. They’d spent the weekend at the Cape doing impossibly cute coupley things. Interspersed with candids of Jesse picking out produce at the farmers market and drinking his morning coffee on someone’s deck were selfies of Christian in a swimsuit so tiny it was almost scandalous. The worst of the photos, obviously taken with a self-timer, was of them in a hot tub, sunset at their backs. They were gazing into one another’s eyes, and Eric didn’t need to be intimately familiar with all of Jesse’s expressions to know he was smitten. It didn’t look like Jesse was regretting anything.

“You really think that twink is going to last?” Coach asked. 

“Daddy!” Eric gasped, appalled. “You can’t call him that.”

“Why not? Isn’t that what you—?”

“I mean, I can because I’m—” Eric took a pull of his beer, unsure how to explain this one or if he even wanted to.

Coach’s laugh was a low rumble. “I didn’t mean to offend, Junior. I heard you use it once and thought it was okay. Like the way we call your Aunt Judy’s boyfriend a redneck.”

“You can’t call people that, either!” Eric sputtered. “You know what? Just don’t call people things.” Especially in front of the kids, he silently added. Mama and Aunt Judy had only just started talking again after their latest jam disagreement. The last thing he needed was Sam or Lizzie insulting Aunt Judy’s boyfriend. 

“But he is—” Coach started, and Eric wasn’t sure if he was talking about Christian or Aunt Judy’s boyfriend.

“Yeah, he kind of is,” Eric agreed.

Lardo was right. As frustrating as Eric’s parents could be, they adored the kids and the kids adored them right back. He knew that one of the things Mama had worried about, when he first came out to them, was that he’d never “give” them grandchildren. The fact that Sam and Lizzie were adopted, and not biological, had never seemed to faze Mama and Coach. If it had bothered them, well, Eric probably wouldn’t have the relationship with them that he did. But they’d been all in from the moment Eric and Jesse had told them about Sam and when, barely even a year later, the opportunity to adopt Lizzie fell in their laps, Mama had been on the first plane out to Providence to help out. 

Sometimes, Eric felt guilty that he lived so far from his parents, that he was keeping them from their grandkids. He regretted that Sam and Lizzie would never have the type of relationship with Mama and Coach that he’d had with MooMaw. Maybe all of this—the extravagant gifts, the extra desserts, even the surprise playdates—were their way of trying to make up for not being at every hockey game and school performance.

When he thought about it that way, it didn’t seem so bad. 

Eric woke up at five on the morning of the Fourth. He hadn’t been able to sleep in since arriving in Madison, which was kind of annoying since his parents were more than happy to get up with the kids and get them ready for the day. It did, however, afford him the opportunity to get out for his morning run, which he had to skip during his weeks with the kids because he couldn’t leave them home alone. Maybe someday he’d have the money and space for a treadmill, but for now he made do with a set of dumbbells and YouTube yoga videos during his parenting weeks.

He quietly dressed in his running clothes and hit the road. Jesse had always preferred to sleep in when they visited Eric’s parents, and Eric liked the idea in theory, but what he liked more was getting up to run alone, often his only moments to himself during these visits.

As a kid, Eric couldn’t wait to leave this place, but running these familiar streets now was oddly comforting. This was where he’d run his first few slow and shaky miles after sustaining a concussion near the end of his first hockey season at Samwell, and where he’d walked the kids in their double stroller when they were just babies. He’d walked miles with them, sometimes with Jesse, sometimes with Mama, because Lizzie’d had colic and Sam had been in the middle of a no-nap phase, and walking seemed to be the only thing that kept them both calm and contained at once. 

The neighborhood had been a relatively new development when the Bittles moved to Madison. Eric remembered how some people from the city had come around to plant trees in the parking strips not long after they moved in, little saplings that looked like they’d snap in the first strong wind. Now, those trees stood tall and sturdy. Eric supposed he’d grown too, even if those changes weren’t so visible. He was still pretty speedy but he didn’t run these streets quite as fast as he had as a collegiate athlete, and if he ran for too long, his knees and ankles ached afterward. He supposed it was par for the course, given all the stress figure skating and then hockey had put on his body.

Eric ran his usual four-mile loop around the neighborhood, stopping a little early to get coffee and a pastry from the coffee shop one of his high school classmates opened a few years ago. He walked the rest of the way home, sipping at his iced coffee. Not even seven, and it was already a hot one.

“We have coffee here,” Mama said when he found her in the kitchen. She was already dressed, in cropped white jeans and a navy blue blouse with little American flag buttons. 

“Needed something to cool off,” Eric said lightly. “I left a nice tip, since it’s a holiday. Kids up?” It was just past six, but he didn’t put it past them to get up early on vacation. 

“Your daddy took them to McDonald’s for pancakes,” Mama said. She handed Eric a vegetable peeler. “Will you help me with these potatoes? I want to make sure the potato salad has time to set.”

Eric obediently set to work, settling into a rhythm of peeling and passing potatoes to Mama to dice. When they finished the bag, Eric swept the potatoes from the cutting board into the big stock pot and set it in the sink to fill with water.

“I miss having a big sink like this,” he murmured as he turned off the water and transferred the pot to the stove. “And a gas cook top.” The sink at his new place, unlike the big farmhouse sink in the kitchen he’d had designed to his specifications, was a basic drop-in sink that was too narrow to accommodate his biggest pots. And Eric knew all about the backlash against gas cooking, but gas was better than the ancient electric stove that had come with the new place. Sometimes he fantasized about it breaking, just so his landlord would be forced to replace it. 

Mama pursed her lips. “Is the new house not working out?”

Eric sighed internally. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, because now Mama was going to get all riled up. “The new place is great,” he said, willing himself to sound happier about it than he was. “I couldn’t have asked for a better location; we can walk to the kids’ school and the park. I’m just complaining.”

“I still don’t think it’s right, that you had to give up that big house when Jesse is the one who—”

“I couldn’t afford to buy him out,” Eric reminded her. “But it’s better this way. That house had too many memories. Now the kids and I get to make new ones.” Sure, maybe some of those memories were of all the times Eric’s pie crusts got overly browned because the darn oven was off by at least ten degrees, but at least he didn’t have to live with constant reminders of what he’d had and lost, which is what he’d be doing if he’d been able to stay in the old house.

“You know, if your father and I could do any more to help out, we would.” Mama took the cutting board and knife over to the sink and began washing them.

“I know.”

“Can you take all that fruit we got at the farmers market the other day out of the fridge?” Mama asked. “I want to start the fruit salad.”

“All of it?”

“Leave the apples; I’ll cut them later so they don’t brown.” Mama waited until Eric had pitted half the cherries to ask, “Have you given any thought to moving back—”

Eric cut her off. “Mother, you know that’s never going to happen.” Even if Jesse agreed to giving up partial physical custody of the kids, Eric would never consider moving back to Georgia. He’d been on the East Coast for almost half his life. His friends were there, and the kids’ friends, and most of Sam’s biological family, with whom they had a close relationship. And Jesse. Eric might hate him, but he wasn’t so spiteful that he’d take the kids away from him. The most Eric would consider would be a move to Boston, but the cost of living there was higher than in Rhode Island and it would still mean moving the kids away from their school and their hockey team. 

“I know,” Mama said, sounding resigned. “You know I had to ask, though. We miss our grandbabies.”

There was that guilt again. “You know you can come visit whenever you want,” Eric reminded her. “Maybe once the kids’ hockey season starts up? The team has a family night, everyone wears team T-shirts and makes signs for the kids. They’d love it if you came.” He swept the cherries into the big bowl and made a face as a few drops of cherry juice splattered onto his chest. That’s what he got for not wearing an apron. At least it was an inexpensive Old Navy workout shirt.

“It would have to be after football season ends,” Mama said. Coach had “retired” from his full-time high school coaching position a few years ago, but he still helped out with the team.

“Or you could come out by yourself,” Eric reminded her as he began to peel an orange. “We don’t have as much space as we used to, but we don’t mind having you for as long as you want. Mrs. Duan’s been asking when you might come back out.”

Mama and Lardo’s mom had become good friends over the years, and during Mama’s visits they often got together to cook. Mama had taught Mrs. Duan her favorite Southern recipes, and in return Mrs. Duan had schooled Mama in the finer points of Vietnamese cooking. Mrs. Duan was also happy to join Mama on her excursions to museums and the area’s outlet malls, two activities Eric had little patience for with young kids in tow. They truly enjoyed one another’s company, which was great because as much as Eric loved Mama, she could be exhausting. Mrs. Duan could always be counted on to keep her busy during her longer visits.

“Well, maybe I will,” Mama hummed. Then, in a sly tone, asked, “How are Larissa and Byron”— she could never bring herself to call Lardo and Shitty by their nicknames—“doing? Any talk of marriage yet?”

That inevitably led into gossip about all of Eric’s friends—how Chowder was starting to talk retirement, and Dex and Nursey’s farm co-op was thriving beyond everyone’s expectations. 

“Oh, and did I tell you?” Eric asked, realizing he hadn’t yet shared the juiciest gossip he’d had in months with Mama. Not that it even amounted to gossip. It had just been something out of the ordinary in his very ordinary life. “I met Jack Zimmermann. He’s one of Chowder’s new teammates.”

“Who?”

“Jack Zimmermann. He was married to Ava Cassidy.”

“Oh, the hockey player,” Mama said, as if half of Eric’s friends had not, at some point, played hockey. But Mama was noting if not a devoted People magazine reader, and she’d likely followed the former couple’s relationship drama via “exclusive tell-all” cover stories. “Did he talk about his divorce?”

“Oh my lord, why would he even bring that up?” Eric groaned. “Do I walk around telling perfect strangers about my divorce?”

“I was just curious,” Mama said defensively. “What’s he like?”

Eric shrugged. Meeting for a few minutes hadn’t exactly given him insight into Jack Zimmermann’s personality any more than it had his Hollywood headline divorce, other than a vague idea that Jack was still getting his bearings. And that could be attributed to moving across the country and getting to know a new team. It might not have anything to do with suddenly being single after years of marriage. 

But Eric had a feeling that was exactly what was going on with Jack. He’d noticed the way Jack carefully watched Chowder and Caitlin flirting in their kitchen, the way his expression never changed save for his eyes, which gave him away. Jack Zimmermann was as sad as Eric was, he was just a little better at hiding it.

“I don’t know,” Eric finally said. “I didn’t spend that much time with him. He was quiet.”

Mama nodded knowingly. “I remember all the stories used to mention that, when he and Ava were dating. And before that, when he was a little boy. You know his parents were famous, too? That daddy of his was so handsome.”

“Mama, I had no idea you followed hockey way back when!” Eric exclaimed, delighted to learn this new bit of information about his mother. He playfully flicked a bit of orange peel at her. “You always acted like you’d only just found out about it back when I started playing.”

“Well, I didn’t follow the game, but I certainly know a fine man when I see one,” Mama said, catching the orange peel and flinging it back at him. “And you know your daddy always subscribed to Sports Illustrated.”

“Mother, if this is your way of saying you read it for the articles—” Eric began.

“Oh, it’s nothing like that, Dicky! And even if it was, I’m allowed to find other men attractive. Your daddy isn’t the only one who floats my boat.”

The conversation was beginning to veer into uncomfortable TMI territory, so Eric excused himself to take his shower. By the time he rejoined Mama in the kitchen, dressed and ready for the day, Coach had returned with the kids.

“How was breakfast?” he asked.

“Yum!” Lizzie declared. “McDonald’s pancakes are the best!”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah!”

“I ate four-and-a-half pancakes and two hash browns,” Sam announced. “Lizzie didn’t finish hers, so Coach said I could have them.”

“Sounds like someone’s gearing up for a growth spurt,” Eric said, impressed. Sam could be a picky eater, so he wasn’t going to complain about his breakfast consisting solely of carbs. 

“You coming out to the parade?” Coach asked. 

Eric glanced at Mama. There was still so much to do in the kitchen before everybody arrived. 

“Go on,” Mama said. “I’ll take care of the rest of this.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed. “Yes, I’m coming. But first, I need to do my dishes and the two of you need to wash up. Lizzie, is that syrup on your shirt?”

Lizzie nodded. “And ketchup.”

“And ketch—?” Eric glanced at Coach, who just smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “Okay, why don’t you put that shirt in the laundry basket and wear your other Fourth of July shirt to the parade? And y’all need to wash your hands and brush your teeth. You do that while I wash these dishes, and then we can go to the parade.”

“Can it be a race?” Sam asked.

“Sure, it can be a race.” Coach made a show of setting the timer on his phone. “On your marks, get set—”

The kids didn’t even give him a chance to get to “go.” They were already off, determined to win because Coach had turned it into a game.

The Fourth of July had always been one of Eric’s favorite holidays. Every year, the extended Bittle and Phelps families and assorted friends gathered for a celebration that lasted long into the night, at which point everybody piled into whatever cars or trucks were available and caravanned up to a lookout point at the edge of town to watch the annual fireworks show. When Eric was a kid, his great aunt and uncle had hosted, but now that they’d moved to a retirement community in Florida his parents had taken over.

Mama was in her element when she got to play hostess to a house full of people, and as much as Coach grumbled about so many people in his house, Eric knew he loved it, too. Their lawn and deck never looked as good as it did the week of the Fourth.

Most years, Eric looked forward to seeing everyone. A few of his cousins (who were actually a mix of first cousins, second cousins, and people he wasn’t sure were actually Bittles or Phelpses but had been coming to these family parties for as long as he could remember) had managed to get out of Georgia, but none of them lived close enough to Eric that they saw each other regularly. Every year the cousins made big promises to get together more often, then another year would pass and they’d realize they hadn’t followed through. But it was always nice to catch up, and enough of them had kids now that Sam and Lizzie ran around with their own little cousin cohort. 

This year, Eric would have been content to stay in the kitchen. He hadn’t made a big social media announcement heralding his divorce, though he was sure his followers who’d been with him since his college vlogging days had noticed that Jesse no longer appeared in his pictures or stories. For as much as he owed his fans for sticking with him and helping him make his dream career a reality, he didn’t owe them this story. It wasn’t his alone. 

But it was different with family. When it came to people he actually knew, he’d told his parents and close friends and the few relatives he talked to regularly, and assumed word would spread from there. Most of the people here today, he assumed, would have heard the news, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. Mama pushed him out of the kitchen, though. “It’s your family and you only see them once a year,” she reminded him.

So he made the rounds, answering questions about when his new cookbook was coming out and making small talk about the Braves’ odds of making it to the World Series. Watching the kids play on the Slip 'N Slide, he and his step-cousin Becca compared notes on the second grade reading lists in their kids’ respective schools. It all felt completely normal. A few people awkwardly asked Eric if he and the kids had come out alone, but nobody asked invasive questions. 

“Dad, will you come play croissant with us?” Sam appeared by his side, still soaking wet. Lizzie and Becca’s daughter Taylor weren’t far behind.

“Huh?”

“It’s a weird game Aunt Judy brought over! Come play it with us!” 

“Croissant?” Eric mouthed at Becca. That couldn’t be right.

“It’s Judy, who knows what she’s into these days,” Becca said with a roll of her eyes. 

“Can you tell me a little bit more about how you play … croissant?” Eric asked, envisioning something that involved bread. The kids had a card game with a sushi theme, maybe this was something similar? Or maybe they were thinking about cornhole, he thought, glancing at the game that was going on over on the side lawn. He chuckled to himself, imagining the game being played with stale croissants instead of bean bags. It sounded like something Ransom and Holster would have come up with in college.

“It’s like golf,” Lizzie began, “but instead of clubs you have these big hammers and—”

“And the balls are bigger,” Sam added. “You hit them through the tunnel.”

“Are y’all talking about croquet?” Eric asked, stifling his laughter. 

“Yes, that!” Lizzie nodded decisively. “Will you play with us?”

Eric was reasonably certain that the only time he’d played croquet was the time they’d found an old set in Shitty’s family’s vacation home, and nobody had been sober at the time. But he didn’t remember it being particularly difficult. “Sure,” he agreed. “Do you need help setting it up?”

By the time Eric and Becca finished setting it up, enough kids had gathered around that Eric and Becca gave up their mallets so everyone could play. 

“You have to hit it gently,” Eric reminded Lizzie when her first hit sent the ball sailing across the yard. “This isn’t hockey.” 

“Can I try again?”

Eric nodded. “Go get the ball. Sam, why don’t you take your turn so we don’t hold everyone up? Lizzie, you can go again as soon as you get back,” he quickly added. Lizzie ran off and Eric was helping Sam adjust his stance—“Remember, you’re playing croquet, not hockey, you just need to give it a little tap”—when he heard somebody calling his name from the deck.

“Dicky! Over here!” The woman trying to get his attention was Bobbie Lavalee, one of Mama’s college sorority sisters who lived a few towns over. Eric only ever saw her on the Fourth of July, which was fine with him. Her kids had kind of been bullies when they were little.

“Hi, Mrs. Lavalee,” Eric said. “Happy Fourth!” He hoped that would placate her, but she was jogging toward him now, crossing the lawn with an awkward little gait to avoid tripping over her own flip flops.

“It’s been so long,” she said, pulling Eric into a hug. “Those kids of yours just keep getting bigger and bigger.”

Well, yes, Eric thought. That’s generally what kids do. But he knew it would get back to Mama if he was rude, so he just said, “Just finished first and second grade, if you can believe it.”

“I see all the pictures on your mama’s Facebook. They must keep you busy with all that hockey. You know, my grandchildren—” Bobbie launched into a long explanation about her perfect grandchildren and their many accomplishments. From what it sounded like, all of them had been born clutching a Nobel Prize in one hand and a Heisman Trophy in the other.

“Where’s that handsome hubby of yours?” Bobbie asked, looking around, and Eric snapped back to attention. “I haven’t seen him yet.”

Okay, so maybe word hadn’t spread to everyone.

“I’m not sure where he is,” Eric said smoothly. He was getting better at getting through this without awkwardly stammering or—worse—tearing up. “We actually divorced about a year ago.”

“Oh, honey.” Bobbie’s expression instantly turned to one of pity. “He was such a nice young man. And your poor kids, so young. What a shame.”

Eric resisted the temptation to tell her about all of the very not nice things Jesse had done over the past year that would make her reconsider her assessment of his character, but instead said, “It’s okay. Really. It’s been an adjustment for all of us, but the kids have handled it really well.”

Bobbie shook her head. “It must be so hard, though. You were together for so long. Since college, right?”

As if Eric needed a reminder about how long he’d been with Jesse, how he’d wasted what sometimes felt like the best years of his life with him. 

No, that wasn’t true. He couldn’t think like that. Despite recent events, he had a great life. It was too bad that the bad was so intertwined with the good.

He wondered if he’d ever untangle the two, get to a point where things were just good again.

“We were, yes.”

“Such a shame,” Bobbie murmured again. 

“Dad!” Lizzie called. “I need your help!”

“Excuse me,” Eric said, silently thanking Lizzie for her excellent timing. “The kids and I are in the middle of a game. It was nice catching up with you. I think Mama’s inside, if you want to go say hi.”

“You, too!” Bobbie said brightly. “And don’t worry, as handsome as you are, you’ll find somebody new soon.”

Eric gritted his teeth and smiled until she walked away.

“Awful old hag,” Becca muttered under her breath when Bobbie was out of earshot. “Remember how she kept trying to set me up with that one son of hers? The one who looks like Chris Pratt?”

“Oh lord, I do. She was obsessed with that.”

“We hooked up at the fireworks show one year in college,” Becca confessed. 

“Becca!” Eric gasped. “You never told me!”

“He couldn’t find my clitoris and kept calling me ‘baby girl.’”

“Ew.”

Becca shrugged. “It’s probably just as well. A few years after I had Taylor, Bobbie cornered me and acted all concerned that something was wrong because I hadn’t ‘lost the baby weight.’ Can you imagine having somebody like that for a mother-in-law?

“You probably dodged a bullet. Mama has her Christmas card on the fridge. All the boys’ wives look like her clones. I love my mama, but not that much.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Becca said, raising her beer bottle in a mock toast. Eric matched the gesture. “Speaking of, Tom and I are going to the Braves game tomorrow night. You should come with us. Our friends who normally come with us are out of town so we have some extra tickets.”

Eric side-eyed Becca. “Y’all aren’t trying to set me up with anyone, are you?”

Becca laughed. “No! I just figure you could use some time away from your parents and the kids. This is your vacation, too.”

“Now that I really will drink to,” Eric said, grateful for cousins he could fall back in step with no matter how long it had been since they’d last hung out. “What time?”

“You gonna borrow the truck tonight?” Coach asked as the sun began to set. The fireworks show was a few hours away, but people were already starting to head out to claim their favorite lookout spots.

“By myself?” Eric hadn’t watched the fireworks by himself since … well, since ever.  When he was little, Mama and Coach used to take him. Then, in high school, he and all the cousins would pile into a couple of trucks and drive out to the field together. There was that one summer in college that Ransom and Holster road tripped out to visit. But ever since that first time Jesse flew out, the summer before his senior year at Samwell—they’d only been together a few months at that point, and it was the first chance they’d had to spend more than a couple days together—the Fourth of July fireworks show had been their thing. 

Coach inclined his head toward the kids. “With them. They’re more than old enough.”

That was true. For a long time, Eric had looked forward to the day the kids would be able to stay up for the big fireworks show, but that dream was crushed during their first trip to Disney World, when the first colorful explosion had triggered epic meltdowns during the Magic Kingdom fireworks show. Having to push through the crowds, like salmon swimming upstream, had nearly triggered a panic attack in Eric, and Jesse had had to deal with calming all of them down. After that, Jesse convinced Eric they were better off waiting a few more years. “Let it go, babe,” Jesse murmured in Eric’s ear whenever he debated whether or not they should try again. “How’re we gonna get off if they’re with us?”

But that wasn’t remotely a consideration this year, and the kids hadn’t been at all fazed by the fireworks at the PawSox game Eric and Shitty had taken them to last summer. Maybe it was time to try again. Start new traditions. Overwrite those old memories.

In an instant, Eric made a decision. “Hey, kiddos. Hurry and get your pajamas on. We’re going to go watch the fireworks.”

“In our pajamas?” Sam looked skeptical.

“You’ll be more comfortable,” Eric explained. “The show isn’t for another couple hours, so we’re gonna put blankets in the back of the truck and snuggle while we wait.”

Mama helped the kids change while Eric packed a cooler with water bottles and cookies and a backpack with a deck of Uno cards, some books, and the battery-powered lantern Coach took camping. It was more likely the kids would want to play games on his phone, but at least they’d have options.

He couldn’t help but smile when the kids came out dressed in the same old T-shirts they’d worn to bed their first night here. Never mind that they’d washed the new pajamas and their other ones had shown up when the suitcase was finally delivered—Sam and Lizzie were not about to part with their “Coach pajamas.”

“You wanna come with us?” Eric asked his parents.

“You go on ahead,” Coach said. “We’ve got some cleaning up to do before we turn in.” 

Mama nodded in agreement. “You can tell me all about it in the morning,” she told the kids, giving each of them a hug.

So Eric drove the kids out to his favorite lookout spot by himself, trying not to think about all the times he’d made this drive with Jesse’s hand on his thigh. He parked and made a little blanket nest in the bed of the truck and passed cookies around as the kids settled in on either side of him.

Instead of thinking about Jesse, he listened to the kids’ quiet conversation as they reminisced about the best parts of the day. Lizzie’s favorite part was playing with Taylor. Sam had enjoyed the watermelon-eating contest. 

“What?” Eric gasped, shocked. “You don’t even like watermelon!”

“Yeah, but I liked spitting out the seeds!”

The kids dissolved into hysterical giggles, which soothed Eric’s soul. For all he’d worried that this Fourth would be different—and it was, in so many ways—the kids were taking it in stride.

As the first fireworks lit up the sky and Eric took in the looks of sheer wonder on the kids’ faces, he didn’t think about Jesse or how things would be different if he were here. Instead, Eric just felt grateful that he was the one who got to share this moment with Sam and Lizzie.

Chapter Text

By August, Jack was beginning to feel settled in Providence. For the first few weeks, driving around the unfamiliar city had felt like an out of body experience, like nothing about his existence in this place was real. Maybe it was the angle of the sun. Or the lack of palm trees. Or that so many of the buildings here on the East Coast were old, in some cases hundreds of years older than anything Jack ever saw in California, Joshua trees and giant sequoias excluded. Whatever it was, the profound sense of wrongness Jack had felt in those first weeks here had been alarming enough that he’d scheduled an extra session with his therapist, who suggested tinkering with his meds if the feeling persisted. After a few weeks it went away, so maybe it was just anxiety from being in a new place. 

Between preseason conditioning workouts with the team and all of the PR stuff he was asked to do—the photo shoots, interviews, and other parts of the job that were expected of him but didn’t he actually enjoy—he was  almost too busy to meet with the realtor who was supposed to help him find a place to live. Almost. Jack had the time, he was just putting it off. Instead of scheduling the meeting, he got to know his new city. He got a library card, went to museums, dusted off his old film camera and took it out on the local trails. He sent the pictures to his parents as proof of life, a reassurance that he was “getting out there” and “making the most of this opportunity.”

He told himself he was putting off looking for a more permanent residence because he wanted to get to know the area before he made a decision, and that was true, but he also wasn’t ready to face the reality of putting down roots when his future seemed so uncertain.

Jack was almost forty. He’d always assumed he’d have a couple kids by now. Kids, a dog or two, a SUV large enough to accommodate the hockey carpool. That was the plan. Then Ava’s career took off, and she told Jack she wanted to wait. It wasn’t fair to her, she said, that she be the one to put her life on hold to have children, especially if she’d be the one doing most of the work once they arrived. Jack agreed, suggested they hold off until he retired. He didn’t think he would mind being their kids’ primary caregiver. In fact, after two decades as a professional athlete, taking on more responsibilities that would keep him closer to home seemed kind of refreshing. He’d been living out of suitcases since he was nineteen, never spending more than one or two uninterrupted months at home during the off-season. More and more, he felt restless. Not for change, the way a lot of guys his age felt, but for stability. He wanted to be in one place long enough for it to seem mundane.

Having kids was a little out of reach now, but there were other things to look forward to in retirement. He could get a dog, a running companion to keep him from getting too lazy when he no longer had to stick to a strict workout schedule. He could take classes in things that interested him, or even go to college. Lots of people changed careers and went back to school in their forties. 

The question was whether he wanted to do all that here in Providence, or move back to Montreal after he retired. His parents were active and healthy, but they weren’t young anymore. It would be nice to spend more time with them, help out where he was able.

So he continued to dodge the realtor’s calls, made up reasons for for not being available just yet. The apartment still didn’t feel like home, but it was fine for now. 

There’d been a few other hiccups since Jack’s arrival in Providence. One was the local press. Unlike Jack’s new teammates, who were still steering clear of asking directly about his personal life, the reporters had no qualms. It made sense. It was the off-season; there wasn’t a whole lot going on in local sports that was bigger than Jack Zimmermann being picked up by the Falconers. Jack had agreed to a few upcoming interviews with reporters who’d been vetted by his agent and the front office, but that didn’t stop the others from writing wildly speculative articles. A few had even figured out where he lived and tried to catch him as he went in and out of the building, calling out questions about Ava and what he thought about her new relationship.

For the most part, Jack didn’t think about it. 

He knew her new single was climbing the charts, that it was supposedly about how happy she was with her new lover after “losing herself” in her previous relationship, but so far he’d been able to avoid it. He wasn’t exactly ready for a synth-driven, three-and-a-half-minute extended metaphor about his failures that would inevitably include a catchphrase teenage girls would wear on friendship bracelets. 

Jack knew he could play into the paparazzi’s game, make it a point to be spotted at clubs to prove he was moving on as easily as Ava seemed to be. But that felt exhausting on multiple levels. Despite the rumors after his overdose, he’d never been into the nightlife that seduced so many young professional athletes. He had no interest in starting now that he was pushing forty, just to prove he was moving on.

And anyway, he hadn’t moved on. Ava’s absence in his life was beginning to feel more or less normal, but there was still an ache in the space she’d occupied. Hooking up with a stranger at a club wasn’t going to change that.

Chris Chow made a point of inviting Jack to dinner at his place a couple times a month, and Alexei Mashkov, one of the Falcs’ defensemen, had followed suit. Mashkov, a giant Russian bear of a man who went by Tater, had been drafted to the Falcs as a rookie. He and his wife Vanessa, a local on-air reporter who’d covered the Falcs’ first championship run, had two young kids and a third on the way. Over dinner, he’d confessed to Jack that he, too, was starting to think about retirement. “It’s been a good run, but time to let Vanessa be the breadwinner,” he’d said with a wink in his wife’s direction. 

Those casual dinners were more Jack’s speed, and he was genuinely beginning to think of Chow and Mashkov—and their families—as friends. 

At the end of August, just as preseason camp was about to get underway, Jack received the promised invitation to the Chows’ end-of-summer party.

“You will come, yes?” Mashkov asked. “We need new teammates for the Nerf gun war.”

“Right,” Jack said, remembering Chow and his friend Bittle had mentioned that during his first visit to the Chows’ place. He hadn’t run into Bittle again, but the guy often came up in conversations with Chow and Mashkov. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

By the time Jack arrived at the party, the only place to park was halfway down the block. He waited for a blue Subaru Outback to finish parking and pulled in behind it. 

“Mister Zimmermann!” Eric Bittle called as Jack exited his SUV, bottle of wine in hand. Bittle stood in a half-crouch, half of his body in the back seat of the car, but he paused to twist around and acknowledge Jack. “You came!” 

“I heard it was the party of the year.”

Bittle’s brow furrowed into a skeptical little crease, like he knew Jack was a regular attendee at the Vanity Fair Oscars Party and the Met Gala, but all he said was, “Well, it should be. Chowder and Cait had too much experience planning kegsters in college to let it go to waste now. Don’t worry, though,” he added, “we all have much better taste in alcoholic beverages than we did in college.” He ducked his head back into the car and Jack heard a muffled, “Lizzie, hon, can you grab my bag and hand it to me?”

“Do you need help with anything?” Jack asked. Bittle didn’t look as exhausted as he had the first time they’d met, but he was clearly trying to manage a lot.

Bittle poked his head out of the car again. “Could you?” He fully extricated himself and walked around to the back and opened the hatch. “I was gonna get the kids inside and come back out for these pies, but if you’re offering, we might be able to do this in one trip.”

“I’m offering,” Jack said. He stepped around Bittle and peered into the back of the car. “Euh, how many pies are there?”

“Way too many,” Bittle said with a little laugh. “I can’t help it; I always make more than necessary. Never heard anybody complain about having to take leftovers home, though, so I must be doing something right.” 

“I can help,” a small voice said. By now, Bittle’s kids had gotten out of the car and come around to stand by his side. 

“Thank you, Sam. Can you carry this bag?” Bittle asked, handing off the tote bag, which looked to be filled with beach towels and pool toys, to his son. Returning his attention to Jack he said, “Please forgive my horrible manners, but I don’t think you’ve met my kids. We didn’t have time for proper introductions the last time we were all here. Mister Zimmermann, meet Sam and Lizzie. Kids, this is Mister Zimmermann.”

“You can call me Jack,” Jack said, crouching so he was at eye level with both kids. They were both dressed in board shorts and t-shirts, Lizzie’s a hair too large in a way that suggested they might be hand-me-downs. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

The kids beamed. “You play hockey with Alex and Mia’s dad,” Lizzie said. Jack was used to young fans recognizing him, but unlike most, Sam and Lizzie seemed relatively unfazed. 

“He used to play for the Kings,” Sam told his sister. “His dad is Bad Bob.”

Ah, there it was. Jack might only be their friends’ dad’s coworker, but Jack’s dad was a legend. “You know your hockey,” Jack said.

“Who?” Lizzie asked.

“Bad Bob has more Stanley Cups than anybody,” Sam told her. “There’s a story about him in my hockey book.”

“Summer reading,” Bittle explained. “They get to choose what they want to read, and Sam chose a book of hockey player biographies. I have to say, it’s pretty informative. I’m learning a few things, myself.” He handed Jack a large cardboard box filled with several pastry boxes. “If you can take a couple of these,” he said, carefully balancing another box of pies on top of the one he’d just handed to Jack, “I’ll get the other two. Kids, let’s hold hands crossing the street.” He shifted the two boxes he was carrying to one arm so he could have one hand free to take Lizzie’s. Lizzie, in turn, offered her free hand to Sam. 

Jack had a sudden vision of Bittle or one of the kids tripping, and pie ending up all over the street. “Do you want me to carry your boxes, too?” 

“I’m good,” Bittle said. “But if you don’t mind getting the hatch, there? That would help a ton.”

As they carefully made their way down the street to the Chows’ house, Bittle told the kids what to expect in a way that reminded Jack of the way his parents used to set expectations with him before events.

“You can go swimming,” he said, “but first we need to put sunscreen on.”

“Aw, come on! Do we have to?” Sam protested. 

“But not on my face, right?” Lizzie asked worriedly. “I hate sunscreen on my face.” 

“Yes, you have to, and yes, on your face,” Bittle said calmly. “I know you don’t like it, but a sunburn will feel worse.”

“It’s true,” Jack said. “I used to hate it too, but one time when I was a kid I forgot to put it on and I got the worst burn. My face looked just like a tomato.” 

His face, his chest, his back. He’d spent the entire next day in the poolside cabana his parents had rented, eating popsicles and refusing to go back into the resort’s many pools, much to his parents’ dismay. Even now, the pictures from that vacation were almost painful to look at.  

“No way,” Sam giggled. 

“Yes way. I couldn’t even smile, it hurt so much. Now I always wear sunscreen. You wouldn’t play a hockey game without your helmet, would you? It’s kind of like a helmet, except it protects your skin instead of your brain.” 

“But it feels so bad.” Lizzie shuddered, as if merely thinking about it made her skin crawl.

Jack couldn’t argue with that. “I agree. How about we put it on together? And then, if it’s okay with your dad, I’ll send him the link to a sunscreen I use that doesn’t make my face feel bad.” 

“I guess,” Lizzie conceded. 

Bittle shot him a grateful look over the kids’ heads, putting to rest any worries Jack had that he’d overstepped. “That sounds like a great idea.”

They’d reached the edge of the Chows’ property and could hear laughter coming from somewhere behind the house. Jack hesitated for a beat, wondering if he should head to front door or go straight through the side gate to the backyard. Bittle seemed to know what he was doing so Jack followed his lead through the open gate and into the yard, where he recognized several of his teammates milling around. 

“It’s Zimmboni! And B! And Sam and Lizzie!” Tater greeted them and motioned them over to the back deck, where he was in conversation with two people Jack didn’t recognize.

“We’ll catch up in a few, Tater,” Bittle said. “I’m gonna take these pies inside, and put some sunscreen on these two. Are Vanessa and the kids here?” 

“Already in pool,” Tater said. Jack followed his gaze to the above-ground pool, where three kids—too far away to identify but he guessed the Chow twins and Tater’s older son—tipped over the large inflatable unicorn they were riding and fell into the water. Sam and Lizzie squealed and made a break for the pool, only to be blocked by Tater stepping in front of them. “Sunscreen first.” He turned his attention to Jack. “You come with B?”

“Nah, we just happened to get here at the same time and he was kind enough to help me with all these pies,” Bittle explained. “Who am I to say no to big hockey muscles?” 

Tater patted Bittle on the shoulder. “Just say the word and I will leave Vanessa. I have all the muscles you need.” 

“Ha! You mean I have all the pies you need,” Bittle retorted. “No, sir. I’m not gonna be the one to break up a happy marriage.” Was it Jack’s imagination, or did Bittle’s smile falter a little?

“Is okay. Vanessa knows my first love is your pie,” Tater insisted.

“Well, it’s a good thing for your marriage that I’m holding out for more than just a willing taste tester. But since you’re here, would you mind getting the door for us?”

Tater made eye contact with Jack and raised an eyebrow as he followed Bittle and the kids into the house, but Jack didn’t know either of them well enough to even begin to interpret that look. 

“Hey, y’all,” Bittle said as they piled into the kitchen. “Dessert’s here. We’ve got two each of blueberry, cherry, strawberry rhubarb, apple, and peach. And a few chocolate silk for the non-fruit eaters.” 

“Thanks, Bitty.” Caitlin and Chow said together. Like Tater before them, they seemed completely unfazed by the amount of pies Bittle had brought. They stood side-by-side at the island, Cait preparing what looked like a green salad while Chow seasoned a large cut of meat. “You can put them over here on the counter,” Caitlin added. “Or the fridge, for the chocolate? There should be some space, and if there isn’t, just move stuff around. All the kids are out back,” she added for the kids’ benefit. “They’ve been waiting for you to get here.”

Jack handed Caitlin the bottle of wine he’d brought while Bittle set the pies in an out-of-the-way corner of the long counter that spanned one wall of the kitchen. 

“Do you need help with anything?” Bittle asked.

“No, of course not! You already made dessert. Go hang out, we’ve got everything under control,” Chow insisted. 

“I’m just about to head out there anyway,” Caitlin added. “Vanessa’s already in the pool with the kids.”

“I can help supervise,” Bittle offered.

“We’ll be okay,” Caitlin said. “You boys can take second shift.” 

“If that’s the case, then I’ll just get some sunscreen on these two and they’ll be out to join you soon,” Bittle said. 

“Do you still want my help?” Jack asked.

“Yes!” Sam and Lizzie yelled.

Bittle, already rummaging through his bag, met Jack’s eye. “Please don’t feel obligated.” He pulled out a tube of sunscreen. The kids, watching, groaned. “This could get messy.”

“I promised,” Jack said simply. Bittle gave him a look clearly meant to convey Jack might come to regret the offer, but he handed the sunscreen over.

“So this is how I do this,” Jack said, squatting down to the kids’ level and squeezing a blob of sunscreen into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and brought them to his cheeks like Macauley Cullen in Home Alone, hoping the kids would get the reference.

He was rewarded with giggles. “That’s not how Daddy does it,” Lizzie said.

“No? How does your dad do it?” Jack glanced up at Bittle and the Chows, who seemed to be stifling smiles.

“He puts little dots on our faces and rubs it in,” Sam said.

“Well, I can rub it in.” Jack began to massage the lotion into his cheeks. It was thick and tacky; the kids were right about it not feeling good. “Do you want to try?” 

Sam and Lizzie still looked skeptical, but they gamely allowed Jack to dispense sunscreen into their hands. When it had been applied to their father’s satisfaction, they bolted outside to join their friends poolside, Caitlin following in their wake. “You’ve done this before,” Bittle guessed as Jack capped the sunscreen and handed it back to him. 

“Nieces and nephews,” Jack said, hoping that was explanation enough. His heart ached a little when he thought about the kids—they were actually Ava’s nieces and nephews—who’d grown up calling him “Uncle Jack.” The divorce had been so sudden he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye, explain to them that he’d be part their lives for as long as they wanted him to. Jack wasn’t sure if they wanted him to. He’d spoken to Ava’s dad on the phone right after everything happened, and while his ex-father-in-law had made it clear he didn’t blame Jack, the fact that he’d been removed from the family group chat seemed to be a line in the sand.

“Well, they must have been great practice because you’re a natural,” Bittle praised. “You don’t even want to know how many tears have been spilled over sunscreen application in this family.”

“Yours or theirs?” 

“No comment.” Bittle held the back door open for Jack and they returned to the party outside. Given Chow’s popularity with everyone on the team, Jack hadn’t been sure how many people to expect, but the crowd—though bigger than he’d been part of in a long time—was manageable. With Chow still in the kitchen and Caitlin now in the pool with the kids, Bittle took it upon himself to introduce Jack to all of the unfamiliar faces, most of whom turned out to be Chow’s former college teammates. 

Will Poindexter and Derek Nurse, who owned the small farm Jack’s weekly produce box came from, were former Samwell D-men who’d been in the same graduating class as Chow and Caitlin. Jack was telling them how he’d used the kale in the previous week’s box when a guy with a mustache handed him a beer. “Shitty Night.”

“Euh…” Jack glanced around, a bit taken aback. It seemed like an okay evening, a little on the humid side but not unbearable. 

“Dude.” A petite Asian woman who’d arrived with the man elbowed him. “Sorry,” she apologized, “I’ve been telling him for years that he can’t just introduce himself to strangers like that.”

“Oh, you’re—,” Jack said, catching on. Vaguely, he recalled Chow’s kids mentioning an “Uncle” Shitty.

The guy—Shitty—snapped his fingers. “Hockey nickname that stuck. Kind of like my man Bitty over here.”

“The difference,” Bittle said wryly, “is that I do not have my hockey nickname on my business card.” 

The woman rolled her eyes. “Stick around long enough, and you, too, will eventually have the indescribable experience of having to introduce this guy to your loved ones as ‘Shitty.’ I’m Larissa, by the way, but around here I go by Lardo.”

“Hockey?” Jack guessed.

“I was their team manager. Kept these guys on the straight and narrow.”

“Well,” Poindexter said, “not all of us are straight, as it turns out. But she did keep us out of jail.”

“Not in the official job description, but surprisingly relevant,” Larissa said.

“We weren’t that bad,” Nurse protested.

“You and Shitty set the LAX house on fire!” Bittle yelped.

“Hearsay,” Shitty said. “Just because we were there that night—”

“Playing with matches,” Bittle, Larissa, and even Tater said together. It was clear this story had been told dozens of times over the years.

“Jack here will understand,” Shitty said, throwing an arm around Jack’s shoulder and pulling him close, despite having only just met. 

“Will I?” Jack mumbled, mostly to himself. Bittle heard him, though, and flashed a smile in his direction.

“You know how sometimes you find a matchbook and you have to see how long you can hold the match before it burns you?” Shitty asked.

Jack didn’t want to admit to knowing anything about that, but he’d been a stupid kid once, too.

“I see that look in your eyes. You know!” Shitty said, raising a hand for a high five. Larissa yanked it down.

“So you were playing with matches and started a fire?” Jack guessed. “What’s the statute of limitations on arson? Should you be talking about it here?"

“Hearsay,” Shitty said again. “Nursey and I were at the LAX house that night, and we did find a matchbook, but the fire broke out hours after we left.”

“There was an investigation,” Bittle added. “Apparently it was faulty wiring in the basement. Which, honestly, could have happened to any of us. Those houses were not well maintained. Ours might have had a teeny tiny problem with carbon monoxide the year before I got there?”

“Allegedly,” Shitty said.

“Funny how Rans and Holster stopped seeing ghosts in the attic once Dex replaced the carbon monoxide detector,” Larissa said. 

A wink from Bittle. “See what you missed out on by not going to college?” 

“Is okay,” Tater said. “Zimmboni can be like me. Making up for it now.”

“Yeah, you planning on setting something on fire tonight, Tater?” Bittle asked.

“Only hearts,” Tater said, looking across the yard to the pool, where Vanessa and Caitlin were playing Marco Polo with the kids.

“Ugh,” Poindexter groaned. “Tater, knock it off with that romantic shit. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“That’s right, whatever happened with that proposal?” Larissa asked innocently. Jack noticed the look that passed between Poindexter and Nurse, but he didn’t know enough about the situation to join in the gentle chirping that ensued. He didn’t mind, though. It was kind of nice to not be the center of attention.

After dinner, Jack found himself alone on the deck. A handful of the guests had left right after dinner, citing early morning workouts or kids they needed to get to bed. Those who’d remained were on the lawn, playing with an arsenal of Super Soakers Chow had brought out after the Nerf battle, which the kids had won with ease. Jack had opted out of the water gun game, knowing he was reaching his socialization limit, but he didn’t feel suffocated when Bittle joined him. His blue t-shirt, now soaking wet, clung to him.

“They get you to surrender?” Jack guessed.

“I am a victim of my own circumstances,” Bittle said dramatically. “I forgot my kids know all of my weaknesses.”

“That’s why my dad and I can only play on the same team.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Bittle said with a little chuckle. He rummaged through the ice chest until he found a can of cider. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked as he cracked it open. “Beer, right?”

Jack had already had a couple, but he accepted Bittle’s offer. It might make tomorrow morning’s run a little more challenging, but that was a problem for tomorrow morning’s Jack.

“So your friends Will and Derek,” Jack said as Bittle handed him a bottle. “They’re a couple?” Will and Derek had been among the first to leave, with the excuse they had to be up early for farm chores.

Bittle rolled his eyes. “I think the best way to describe them is ‘it’s complicated.’ Back in college, the only time they ever got along was on the ice. But they were both friends with Chris and Cait, so when Chris signed with the Sharks the other three moved out there with him. Dex—that’s Will—got a job with a tech startup and Derek worked at some magazine. Then Dex’s company went public and he made a buttload of money and suddenly he and Derek were moving back out here together so Derek could get his MFA at Brown. Surprised all of us when they bought that farm together.”

“Huh.” 

“There’s a good chance they’re already married and just aren’t telling anybody because they know how annoying we’re all gonna be about it,” Bittle continued. “So I kind of don’t blame them? But I also wish they’d just own up to it. We’re all grownups.”

“And Shitty and Larissa—they’re a couple, right?” They’d acted like a couple, but Shitty had been touchy-feely with everyone, so it was hard to know.

“They are very much a couple,” Bittle confirmed. “Though, they kind of kept things under wraps for a while, too? I have no idea what’s wrong with my friends, if I ever fall in love again I’m gonna want the whole world to know.” He glanced at Jack. “Or, well— I guess maybe you’d feel differently about that,” he said gently.

“You mean because my ex-wife has an entire series of songs her fans refer to as her ‘Jack Era?’”

“I’m sorry,” Bittle said, and unlike the reporters who always prefaced questions with, “I was so sorry to hear about your divorce, but—,” he did sound genuinely sorry. “I didn’t think before I said that.”

“It’s okay,” Jack said, and he was surprised to realize it was. Over the very short course of their acquaintanceship, Bittle had revealed just enough that Jack suspected his “I’m sorry” came from a similar well of personal experience.

“You’ve probably noticed I’m always on my own with my kids,” Bittle said after a moment, more or less confirming Jack’s suspicion. “That wasn’t always the case. I got divorced about a year ago.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling now. You didn’t come here to hear about my divorce.”

Jack let that settle for a moment while he considered how to reply. He hadn’t planned to bring up his divorce either, but it was easier to talk about with somebody who’d been there. 

“I’m in the middle of a divorce, too.” Jack said. Then, “You already know that, though.” 

“I think anybody who follows current events even a little bit knows about it,” Bittle said apologetically. “I mean, my daddy only watches Sports Center and even he knows about it.” At Jack’s quiet little huff of resignation, Bittle added, “But if there’s anything I’ve learned from hanging around this crowd, it’s that the media doesn’t always report the whole story. And that you shouldn’t feel obligated to share anything you don’t want to. Just because you’re a public figure doesn’t meant mean your personal life is public.” 

“It’s not even that interesting a story,” Jack said. “If we weren’t famous, it would probably sound a lot like yours. Not that yours isn’t interesting,” he added, in case he’d offended Bittle by insinuating his divorce was boring because he wasn’t a household name. 

“The only interesting thing about the demise of my marriage is that he left me for a hot young Zumba instructor.” Bittle’s tone was light, but his smile looked forced. “Couldn’t he have picked somebody boring, like a stock broker?”

“Ava left me for my teammate but … I don’t know if it would have been easier if he’d been a stock broker. At the end of the day, she still broke my heart.”

Bittle sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I keep thinking it wouldn’t sting as much if he hadn’t chosen a younger, hotter version of me. But there are probably hot stock brokers, too.” 

Jack huffed out a laugh. He hadn’t laughed much in the past eight months, but Bittle seemed to bring something out in him. “How are you doing now?” he asked after a moment. When Bittle didn’t immediately answer he added, “Only answer that if you want to; I hate it when people ask me that.”

Bittle took a long sip of his cider and swallowed before answering. “It’s easier now than it was a year ago, that’s for sure. And everyone says I’m better off, and I’m sure I am when you consider I’m no longer with a cheater who doesn’t love me. But am I better off? I’m a single dad with shared custody, I have to kiss my kids goodbye every other weekend so they can go spend a week with the man who cheated on me. I had to move away from the house I thought I was gonna raise them in, money’s always tight these days… ask me in a few years when I have the benefit of hindsight. You?”

“Euh—” Jack should have expected Bittle would turn the tables on him. But he’d had been honest with Jack; he deserved an honest answer in return. “It’s easier than it was. I thought the move here would help.”

“Did it?”

“I’m sleeping again.”

“Well, that’s something.” 

“As to the rest of it … ask me again after the season starts. I think this is the calm before the storm.”

“Well, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the Falcs’ll have your back,” Bittle said confidently. “Heck, they’ve got mine and I’m just friends with a couple of their players. But when everything happened last year and we had to move to the new place, Chris and Tater got a bunch of the guys to help out. Got everything moved and set up in one day. And George sent over some posters and pennants to decorate the kids’ new rooms.”

“Your kids—they’re doing okay?” Jack asked. On the other side of the yard Sam and Lizzie were still running around with their friends, looking for all the world like happy, well-adjusted kids, but Jack knew how easy it was to mask the pain.

“They’ve had their ups and downs, but things are easier than they were. But then, is anything ever really easy with kids?” Bittle leaned forward and rested his elbows on the deck’s railing. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. That’s kind of what you sign up for when you have them. And we did sign up for it.”

“They’re … adopted?” At this point Jack felt like he was stating the obvious, given Bittle’s earlier revelation that his ex was a guy. 

“Is that a polite way of telling me my kids look nothing like me?” Bittle asked.

“Or— sorry, I guess maybe you could have used a surrogate? Ava and I planned to have kids at one point but then she decided she didn’t want to be pregnant so I thought maybe a surrogate… but that never…” Jack trailed off, somewhat embarrassed about everything—the assumptions he’d made about Bittle’s kids, the way he’d revealed more details about his personal life that Bittle hadn’t asked to hear…

“I’m just teasing you,” Bittle said gently, bypassing Jack’s awkward comments entirely. “Believe it or not, I get that question all the time. They’re both adopted. Jesse and I talked about using a surrogate, but the opportunity to adopt Sam came up before we got very far down that road. And then with Lizzie, well, after Sam, we became certified to foster because we figured at some point we’d want another, maybe an older child already in the system. But we got the call about Lizzie and we just couldn’t say no. Lord, we were so not ready; Sam was just barely over a year, still a baby himself, and we were exhausted. But then we met Lizzie and we just knew our family was complete.”

Abruptly, Bittle’s smile faded and his eyes seemed to cloud over as he looked away from Jack and stared off into the distance. Jack knew that look, or the feelings underneath that look. Bittle had forgotten, for a moment, that everything had changed. 

Happy shrieks seemed to snap him out of wherever he’d gone in his head. “Y’all look like you’re having so much fun out there, but be careful!” he called. Jack took another pull of his beer and followed Eric’s gaze across the yard. Mashkov, cornered and surrounded by five or six kids, had Super Soakers aimed at him from all directions.

“Okay, kids,” Caitlin called, “time to get ready for dessert! Set the toys down and — oh!”

From the other side of the lawn, Chow had targeted his wife and unleashed a perfect spray of water, soaking her entire right side. “That’s it!” Cait declared, ready to throw down. She grabbed a Super Soaker from the nearest child and stalked off, a hunter in pursuit of her prey. Chow tried, unsuccessfully, to hide behind his daughter, but only ended up with a face full of water. 

“You think I’ll have mercy on you just because you use our kid as a human shield?” Cait asked, laughing. “Mia, go wash up with the other kids. You—,” she beckoned to Chow—“come help me get dessert ready for our guests.”

Chow held his hands up in surrender and made like he was going to follow Cait, but as she turned to head back toward the house he darted after her and snaked an arm out, grabbing her around the waist and spinning her toward him. They kissed, temporarily forgetting their audience. Or maybe they were always like this; Jack didn’t know them well enough to know for sure.

Beside him, Bittle watched the scene unfold a little wistfully. He grimaced when he caught Jack looking at him. “I think that’s what I miss the most,” Bittle said quietly. “Having somebody to hold on to.”

“Being part of a team,” Jack said, thinking about how effortlessly the Chows worked together. Maybe that wasn’t exactly what Bittle was meant, but he nodded anyway. 

“That’s exactly it. I mean, the kids and I are still a team but it feels like we’re down a player. I’m doing everything I can to keep things as normal as possible for them, but I don’t have anybody to do that for me. It’s not just not having a partner to help out during the hard times, like when both kids are sick and I have to work late. It’s all the little things I didn’t appreciate.”

“Like when you’re in the shower and realize you forgot to replace the clean towels and you don’t have anybody to bring one to you?” Jack asked.

“I was gonna say at night, when my feet are sore after a long day of baking and I’d give anything for a massage but yes!” Bittle’s laugh sounded a little broken. “How’d you know?”

“Because I did that right before I came over here,” Jack admitted. 

“I got some good news about work recently,” Bittle said after a moment, “and I didn’t have anybody to celebrate with. I know I can call my parents, and my friends are always supportive, but it’s not the same.”

Jack thought about the upcoming season, about how Ava used to call him after every game—and sometimes before, if Jack was especially anxious about it—to see how he was doing. That had ended about the same time as their marriage, but he hadn’t thought about it in the context up his upcoming season with a new team. His parents were always more than happy to take his calls but Bittle was right, it wasn’t the same.

“What was your good news?” Jack asked. He wasn’t actually sure what Bittle even did for work. Something with food, maybe? And TV?

Bittle’s smile was broader this time, proud. When he smiled with his whole face, Jack could tell just how much of an effort he was making to put on a happy face for everyone else. “Oh! It turns out my newest book is going into a second printing. That’s kind of unheard of for a cookbook aimed at kids and families, but Williams-Sonoma wants it for the upcoming holiday season. They’re putting it in all their stores, and they want me to create a new recipe for the holiday catalog. And maybe curate a wish list for young bakers? I have a meeting about it next week, so I’ll know more then.” 

“Wow. Congratulations. I didn’t realize you’re a writer.” Jack’s agent had recently suggested writing a memoir might be a good retirement project. He didn’t want to rule it out, but writing a whole book about himself seemed daunting. 

“Well, it’s not the only thing I do,” Bittle said. “And I don’t know that I consider myself a real writer; it’s more like I come up with recipes and put words to ‘em. I happened to get really lucky because I had a baking vlog that got seen by the right people at the right time, and that’s how I ended up with the book deal. But I’m not exactly a household name, so I have five or six side gigs at any given time. The work I do for the TV station is actually more lucrative. And I sell my jam, I ghostwrite recipes, the Falcs hire me to do seminars sometimes…”

“Right, Chow mentioned that,” Jack said, remembering the first time they’d met. “Cooking with kids must be a piece of cake after working with hockey players.”

“No comment,” Bittle laughed. “I’ll just say I’ve had plenty of practice with both. Speaking of, I should probably get mine dried off and help get dessert out to everyone, seeing as how I made it. Can I get you some pie?” Before Jack could answer he added, “You do eat pie, right? You’re not one of those guys who sticks to some boring diet plan and acts like ‘dessert’ is a four-letter word, are you?”

Jack chuckled. “I used to be, but I could go for some pie right now.”

Bittle beamed, his second real smile of the night. “Any special order, or should I surprise you?”

“Surprise me.”

“One surprise pie, coming right up,” Bittle said, and he left Jack alone with his thoughts.

Later, as Jack placed two carefully-wrapped slices of the best maple apple pie he’d ever had in the refrigerator, he thought about the evening and how it had been more fun than he’d expected. His new teammates and Chow’s college friends had been welcoming, and he could see himself hanging out with them again. Before they’d left, Larissa had invited him to join some of the Samwell crew for an upcoming exhibition of her artwork. They’d made plans to get dinner afterward, on a night Jack didn’t have a game. More surprising than the invitation from somebody he’d just met was the realization he was looking forward to it. Making plans, looking forward to them, that seemed like progress.

He was looking forward to seeing Bittle again, too, but that wasn’t as surprising. Misery loves company, a little voice in his head said, but that didn’t seem quite right. Bittle wasn’t miserable, he just seemed to be stuck in the same place as Jack, wanting so badly to move on but with one foot stuck in the past. 

Maybe they could help each other get unstuck, he thought as decided against saving the pie for tomorrow. Allowing himself to enjoy something that made him feel good felt like progress, too.

Chapter Text

Eric was out with his film crew, getting some footage at a new Ukrainian bakery for a feature that would air later in the week, when his phone vibrated with a call. He ignored it three times until he received the notification that a voicemail had been left. Eric didn’t like to make a habit of taking calls while at work, but repeated attempts to reach him always pinged his parent senses. He whispered a quick apology to the crew, which was getting some establishing shots of the interior, and excused himself to figure out what was going on.

All of the calls—and the message—were from Jack Zimmermann, which was odd. He and Jack had exchanged texts only once, when Eric had forwarded the information about his weekly produce box. Though he’d enjoyed talking to Jack at the Chows’ party, now more than a month ago, their paths hadn’t crossed since. Eric’s social life always took a hit at the beginning of the new school year. He’d had to cancel plans to go to Lardo’s new art installation with their friends when it conflicted with Back to School Night at the kids’ school, and then he’d missed out on drinks with the SMH crew after the Falcs’ first home game because it had fallen on a school night.

He couldn’t fathom why Jack was calling him repeatedly now. Maybe he had an urgent question about how to prepare the greens in this week’s produce box?

“Euh, Eric?” Jack’s voice faltered, like he hadn’t quite expected to reach voicemail and wasn’t sure how to proceed. “This is Jack. Jack Zimmermann. I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling, but I’m here at the rink with your kids. Not with them, we just happen to be here at the same time. Everything is fine, but they said your, uh, your ex, was supposed to pick them up, and their coach couldn’t reach him or his partner and—”

Oh lord. Eric didn’t even bother to listen to the rest of the message. “Jack!” he gasped, heart racing, when Jack answered on the first ring. “You’re with the kids? What’s going on?”

Eric heard movement, and indistinct whispering, and Jack’s quiet, “I’m talking to your dad right now,” before Jack replied. “Eric. I, uh, guess you got my message?”

“You have my kids?” Eric asked, because how? 

“I was working out at the training rink at the ice complex this afternoon. I stopped to talk to Caitlin Chow for a few minutes on my way out while her kids were finishing up with practice, and after a while we noticed yours were still waiting to be picked up. They were fine; they were having fun with the twins and I don’t think they realized it was so late? Their coach tried calling your ex-husband and his partner a few times and couldn’t get through. I don’t think the coach is supposed to release them to anybody who isn’t authorized to take them home, but I guess the Chows are on the list so he left thinking it was all good and your ex would get there eventually. But Cait had another appointment and had to leave so, euh, I offered to call you and wait with them?”

“Oh, Christ on a cracker,” Eric gritted out, his heart finally settling back into something resembling its normal rhythm. “No, not because she left the kids with you” he quickly added, lest Jack think he was anything but appreciative. “Jesse’s probably on a plane or something and forgot to arrange for somebody to pick them up. I’m so sorry, Jack. I appreciate you calling me but it is not your job to stay with them.”

“It’s fine,” Jack said, sounding like this might be an everyday occurrence for him. And who knew, maybe it was! The man spent enough time in rinks that it wasn’t totally implausible. “We’ve just been shooting the puck around and working on our passes.”

Eric smiled at that. Jack had said “working on our passes” like the kids were teaching him as much as he was surely teaching them.

“I don’t mind staying with them until you can get here.”

“I’ll be there ASAP,” Eric assured him. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

“Will do.”

“Jack,” Eric said before he hung up. “Thank you.”

Somehow, despite rush hour traffic, Eric got to the rink in record time. He parked haphazardly, in a spot up near the entrance reserved for drop-offs and pick-ups, and ran into the building, heart pounding. He wasn’t sure what to expect when he got to there but Stanley Cup winner Jack Zimmermann, sitting on the bleachers with Sam and Lizzie cuddled up on either side of him, was not it.

In the short amount of time since Eric had spoken to Jack, Jack had managed to get the kids in their street shoes and pack up their gear. Now he was reading to them from Sam’s well-worn paperback copy of Matilda. Eric’s heart stuttered for reasons entirely unrelated to his earlier panic.

“Hey, sweetpeas,” he greeted them, trying to sound normal and not anxious or furious or any of the hundred other emotions he’d experienced in the past forty minutes. “Sorry I’m crashing your book club with Mr. Zimmermann, but we should probably get home and get some dinner in you.”

At the sound of his voice, everyone startled. Sam was the first to acknowledge Eric. “Papa was supposed to pick us up today,” he said matter-of-factly. Eric listened for any hint of disappointment or upset in his tone, but he sounded almost cheerful. That was Sam, though. Always looking at the bright side of things, keeping the hurt deep inside. They might not share genetic material, but Sam and Eric weren’t so different.

“Papa was supposed to be here,” Eric agreed. “Fortunately, I was just leaving work when Mr. Zimmermann called. Were you able to reach your father or, uh, Christian?”

“Coach Bradley left voicemails,” Sam said. 

“It really was no trouble,” Jack said as he stood. He handed the book to Sam, who tucked it into his backpack. “We had fun, right?”

Lizzie gazed up at Jack adoringly. “Can you come practice with us next week?”

Desperate not to make the situation any more awkward for Jack than it already was, Eric quickly said, “I think Mr. Zimmermann has a roadie next week. But you’ll be with me, so we can watch his games at home. Or record them, if they’re on past your bedtime.”

“I do,” Jack confirmed. “But I had a lot of fun with you today. Maybe we can skate together another time.” He turned toward Eric. “The kids told me you’re faster than me. I think I need to see that for myself.”

“Oh lord,” Eric muttered. “Lower your expectations now, because I’m not nearly at the level I used to be. We can talk about that another time, though. I have no idea when Jesse will be back but I know these kiddos are usually starving after practice, so I should get some food in them. Can I buy you dinner? I owe you at least that much.” Truthfully, after the past hour’s events, all Eric wanted to do was go home, put up his feet, and pour himself a drink—not spend another hour making small talk with a new acquaintance, no matter how well they got along. But Southern manners dictated he properly thank Jack for his help, and the best way to do that was with food.

“Sure,” Jack said, surprising Eric with how quickly he agreed. “Do you guys like pizza? Or is there another place you like? I’m still not familiar with everything around here.”

Eric glanced from Jack to the kids and back to Jack, all while doing the mental calculations. Before he could make a suggestion, Lizzie piped up with, “Can we get Pizza Hut? They have the best pepperoni!”

Pizza Hut did not have the best pepperoni, or the best anything for that matter, but it did fit Eric’s budget, which was why he always talked it up to the kids. He caught Jack’s eye and smiled apologetically, but Jack just gave him a slight nod of assent.

“How about we order Pizza Hut in and have it at our place?” Eric suggested. “These two always need showers after practice.” Really, Eric didn’t want to put Jack in a position where he might be recognized with a strange man and his kids so soon after Jack’s very public divorce. Jack hadn’t said as much, but he got the feeling that Jack was trying to keep a low profile around town, at least until the season was well underway.

“Ha ha. I remember those days. My mom had a rule that my dad and I had to shower before we even thought about sitting down at the dinner table. Actually, I could use a shower, too.” 

“Oh! Of course, I didn’t even think. Please, go home and relax. You shouldn’t have to sit around in your sweaty workout gear just to have takeout pizza.”

Jack smirked. “Are you saying I stink, Bittle?” The kids giggled at that.

“No, just…” Just trying to give Jack a way to gracefully turn down the invitation, because Eric was sure he had better things to do than eat pizza with a couple of little kids, but he couldn’t say that in front of the kids.

“How about I go home and shower and then meet you at your place,” Jack suggested. “That way, we can all get ready for dinner.” 

He made “get ready for dinner” sound like they were going out to a Michelin Star restaurant.

“Okay,” Eric agreed. He texted Jack their address. “No hard feelings if something comes up and you can’t make it,” he added.

Jack gave him a quizzical look before addressing Sam and Lizzie: “I’ll see you in about an hour, okay?”

Eric called the pizza order in from the car, choosing to pay extra for delivery so he had time to take stock of the house. He was always conscious of how small it was compared to their old place, but he knew his friends—even the ones who were professional athletes—didn’t judge him. Jack Zimmermann, though. Jack hadn’t just grown up with immense wealth, he’d been married to one of the richest women on the planet. What would he think of Eric’s modest condo, which was roughly the size of one of his ex-wife’s walk-in closets? (Or so Eric assumed, based on that one video she’d posted inviting fans to “get ready with me.”)

It would have to be enough that it was clean, so while the kids showered, Eric scrambled to wipe down the kitchen counters and fluff the throw pillows on the couch. He set their small Ikea kitchen table with the good placemats and hoped for the best. Then, once the kids had finished showing and dressed in clean clothes, he hurried to the bathroom to hang the their towels and wipe down the floor, since their bathroom did double duty as the guest bathroom. God forbid Jack Zimmermann slip on a puddle and end up on the IR list.

Then he realized he was still wearing the makeup they’d put him in for the segment he’d been filming, and that maybe that explained some of the strange looks Jack had given him earlier. He ran to his bathroom only to discover, to his horror, that not only was he still obviously wearing makeup, but that the cowlick he’d always despised and had to tame into submission every morning was sticking straight up. No wonder Jack was reluctant to be seen in public with him.

Jack arrived almost exactly an hour after they left the rink. The kids, who’d stationed themselves at the window, shrieked when his car pulled into the driveway and again when he rang the doorbell. They crowded behind Eric as he opened the door to let Jack in.

He’d changed into a Falcs t-shirt that stretched tightly over his chest and (frankly gigantic, not that Eric was noticing) biceps and faded jeans that Eric could tell, simply by the way they seemed tailored to fit his body, were expensive. “I brought dessert,” he said, handing a plastic Stop & Shop bag to Eric. “If that’s okay.” 

Eric took a peek inside the bag, which was filled with ingredients for ice cream sundaes. “We love ice cream,” he said, ushering Jack into the house. “After dinner, of course.”

“Oh. I thought we could have dessert first.”

It took Eric a second to realize Jack was joking. It was the tiniest quirk of his eyebrow that gave him away.

“My children would love that, I’m sure, but I try to not to let them have dessert for dinner more than once a week,” Eric replied with a wink. He was impressed—and a little surprised—by Jack’s purchases. The vanilla ice cream and whipped cream were the store’s brand, but the little jars of hot fudge and salted caramel were from a local company, expensive but well worth the price. He’d even brought two types of sprinkles, chocolate and— Eric took out the container for a closer look.

“Dinosaurs,” Jack said. “Kids like dinosaurs, right?”

“Mine do,” Eric said. “These are great. Kids, can you put these things away while I get our pizza ready? The ice cream goes in the freezer and the whipped cream in the—”

“The fridge, I know,” Sam said.

“Lizzie, can you put the toppings on the counter?” Eric asked, handing her the bag. 

“I’ll need the stool,” she said. Eric pointed to the corner, where the step stools the kids used when they helped him in the kitchen were stored.

“I hope chicken and veggie is okay,” he told Jack. He’d guessed that with the season underway, Jack would appreciate the lean protein. “Or there’s pepperoni with extra cheese,” he said as he plated a slice for Sam. “For the kids.”

“For the kids,” Jack said, a smile playing on his lips.

“Okay, you got me. I like it, too. If there’s any leftover I’ll eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

“Can I have some for lunch tomorrow?” Lizzie asked.

“Your papa’s in charge of lunch tomorrow,” Eric reminded her. If he were in a generous mood, he might send the leftovers with them, but he wasn’t feeling very generous right now. 

“I’ll start with a slice of each. I have it on good authority that this is the best pepperoni pizza in town,” Jack said, winking at Lizzie.

The kids dominated the dinner conversation, too excited about their impromptu pizza party with Providence Falconer Jack Zimmermann to notice Eric wasn’t quite himself. He was still irritated and unsettled. He’d texted Jesse and left two messages, but Jesse’s phone was still set to “do not disturb.” He considered texting Christian, but couldn’t stomach the idea of handing the kids off to him. He didn’t trust himself not to completely lose his shit. Not that it wouldn’t be deserved.

“Mr. Zimmermann, do you want to see my puck collection?” Sam asked in between bites of pizza. There was a dot of sauce on his chin and another on the collar of his shirt. So much for showering. “I have the one from my very first goal, and one from my tournament last winter, and a game puck from Tater! And one that has the Falcs logo but that’s not from a game, that’s from the gift shop.”

“Neat,” Jack replied, and he did look genuinely interested. 

“They’re in my room,” Sam continued. “I can show you after dinner.”

“Do you want to see my room, too?” Lizzie asked. “I have a fox Squishmallow that Uncle Shitty and Aunt Lardo gave me for my birthday. It’s very rare.”

Jack oohed and ahhed with the appropriate amount of reverence, which delighted Lizzie. “What’s in your room?” she asked.

“Oh, euh, I just moved in so I don’t have a lot,” Jack said. “I have a book on my nightstand.”

“Is it the Guinness Book of World Records?” Sam asked.

“That would be fun, but no. It’s The Boys in the Boat. It’s about a rowing team.”

“Oh,” Sam said, unimpressed by Jack’s choice in reading material. “The Guinness Book of World Records is really good. You can borrow it if you want. If my dad says it’s okay. Can he borrow it, Dad?”

“Sure he can,” Eric said, unable to fight a smile. The mental image of Jack reading The Guinness Book of World Records in bed was kind of precious.

“You can borrow one of my books, too!” Lizzie added, not to be outdone. “Do you like the Pigeon books?”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever read those books,” Jack said. 

“They’re really funny,” Sam said. “I used to like them when I was a little kid.”

“You’re still a little kid,” Lizzie said.

“No, you’re a little kid,” Sam retorted.

“You’re only a year older than me!”

“Tell me more about the Pigeon,” Jack said as he prepared to take a bite of pizza. A pepperoni fell off and landed on his chest. “Oops,” he said, plucking it off his shirt and sticking it in his mouth. 

The kids giggled, their argument apparently forgotten. Sam wiggled his slice a little as he took a bite. “Oops,” he parroted when a pepperoni slid off the pizza and onto the table.

Lizzie picked a piece of pepperoni off her own pizza and stuck it to her shirt. “Oops.”

It was going to leave a grease stain, but Eric didn’t care. The kids were laughing and Jack seemed to be enjoying himself, too.

Jack was a big guy, almost too big for the little table and chairs that themselves just barely fit in the small kitchen nook. But as Eric watched him laughing with the kids, occupying the space that usually sat empty, he had the oddest feeling that Jack looked right at home.

Eric was cleaning up after dinner when he heard three short raps on the front door, a particular rhythm Jesse used to announce himself. It figured he hadn’t even called or texted.

Eric took his sweet time putting the dirty plates in the dishwasher before responding. Jesse had kept him waiting for hours. He could wait a few minutes.

Jesse’s next series of knocks was immediately followed by the two-note ring of the doorbell. Eric took a deep breath, counted backwards from ten, and opened the door.

Jesse, finger hovering over the doorbell, immediately stuffed both hands into his pockets.

“I guess you got the messages,” Eric said.

“God, Eric, I’m so sorry.” Jesse looked genuinely apologetic and—Eric was pleased to note—a little horrified.

“Where were you?” Eric demanded.

“In a development meeting. I let the time get away from me.”

Jesse always let “time get away” from him. It was kind of what he was known for, or had been when he and Eric were married. Eric had lost count of all the late nights at the office, all the kids’ hockey games he’d distractedly run into ten minutes before they ended. “Where was Christian?”

“Christian got called in to sub for a boot camp class at work.”

Eric said nothing. It was something he was trying to do more consciously. Instead of immediately responding and putting words in Jesse’s mouth that Jesse could then refute, he’d wait for Jesse to dig his own grave.

“He didn’t think— He expected me to take care of it, and I thought he was taking care of it.” Jesse almost sounded contrite.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Eric asked, trying to keep his tone even while he seethed internally. “You never take care of it because you always expect me—or Christian now, I guess—to take care of it. Well, that’s not fair to me, and it sure as hell isn’t fair to the kids. It’s never been fair, but you and Christian are adults. If you want the four of you to be a family and pretend like I never existed when it’s your week with the kids, you better fucking stop relying on me to bail you out when you screw up.”

“I said I was sorry, Eric.”

“Can you imagine how the kids must have felt, wondering why you weren’t there when you said you’d be there, or if anybody was gonna show up for them? Thank goodness my friend happened to be at the rink and noticed they were still waiting for somebody to pick them up. He had to call me, while I was filming a segment for my job. And he kept an eye on them while they were waiting for me to get over there, because Cait had to get one of the twins to an appointment. She’s not your free babysitter, and neither is Jack.”

“Wha—?” For the first time Jesse seemed to register the presence of another adult in the room. His head swiveled toward the couch, where Jack was reading Don’t Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late to the kids, who were again snuggled up on either side of him. It was adorable and under other circumstances Eric might snap a quick photo, but he was too annoyed. “Oh, hey man,” Jesse said, turning on the charm. “Thanks for looking out for Sam and Lizzie today. Work was nuts. You know how it gets.”

“No problem,” Jack said amicably. “We worked on some hockey drills.”

“Papa, it was so much fun!” Sam said. “Mr. Zimmermann showed me how to—”

“Zimmermann?” Jesse wasn’t much of a hockey fan, but thanks to Eric he’d picked up a few things over the years.

Jack stood and extended a hand toward Jesse. “Jack Zimmermann. Chris Chow is a mutual friend.”

Jesse looked from Jack to Eric, as if he still couldn’t quite believe Eric and Jack Zimmermann were acquainted. “And you and Eric are …”

“Friends. Jesus, Jess, he’s a friend who happened to be there when I needed him. I’m allowed to have my own friends.” Eric wanted to say more about how when Jesse had given him up, he’d also given up any right to information about his personal life, but he didn’t want to fight in front of the kids and Jack. Jack might have taken the whole babysitting his kids and eating dinner with them in stride, but he hadn’t signed up for a front row seat to their family drama.

“Shit, my partner and I love your wife’s new song. He won’t believe it when I tell him you were watching the kids.”

Eric’s eyes immediately darted toward Jack, who seemed to recoil at Jesse’s words. “Sorry,” Eric mouthed. Jack gave a minuscule shrug in response.

“Well, thanks again,” Jesse said, completely oblivious. “Come on, guys. Get your things. We’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.”

“Aw man, do we have to?” Lizzie whined. “Mr. Zimmermann’s reading to us, and then we’re going to have sundaes.”

“It’s your dad’s week,” Eric reminded them. “We’ll have sundaes when you get back on Sunday evening.”

“But Mr. Zimmermann won’t be here on Sunday,” Sam protested.

“Maybe Mr. Zimmermann would like to join us for dinner on Sunday,” Eric said, trying to placate the kids so they’d get moving with minimal hassle. “If he’s not busy getting ready for his roadie,” he added, giving Jack an out.

“I’ll be here,” Jack agreed, surprisingly quickly. Maybe he was eager to get this awkward moment over with as quickly as possible, too. “I’ll need to return the books you’re letting me borrow. Hey, have you guys read The Phantom Tollbooth? That was one of my favorites when I was a kid. I’ll bring it with me.” Jack’s wide smile was absolutely charming, and Eric was struck by how different he was in person than he was in interviews. He never would have imagined that Jack Zimmermann, who was known for awkwardly responding to reporters’ questions with obviously rehearsed statements, would come out of his shell for a couple of kids.

“Cool!” Sam said. Lizzie didn’t say anything, but smiled adoringly up at Jack and hugged him around his legs. All three of them high fived.

“They both did tonight’s homework,” Eric told Jesse as the three left. “Don’t forget to sign Lizzie’s reading log this week.”

“I won’t.”

“If you forget, you can deal with it.”

“Got it.”

“And throw their practice gear into the laundry as soon as you get home. Lord, if I have to open one more hockey bag with overripe clothes—”

“Eric …” 

“Okay, fine. Bye, sweetpeas! Have a great week with your dad and Christian. He knelt down to give each of his kids a hug and then they were following Jesse down the walk to his car.

He watched Jesse and the kids get in the car, watched as Jesse backed out of the driveway and into the street. He watched the car’s tail lights recede until they were only afterimages, and then continued to watch the deserted street until he was sure Jesse wasn’t going to turn around and—what? Come back for Eric? Return the kids for good? 

“It must be hard to say goodbye,” Jack said. Eric startled. He’d forgotten, for a few minutes, that Jack was still there. 

Eric swallowed against the lump in his throat. “You have no idea. It’s not just that I miss them, or that I’m still mad at Jesse. It’s that they have to go through this at all. They didn’t sign up for this, you know? With adopted kids, there’s always some baseline trauma because they’ve been separated from their biological families. Even for Sam, who has a great relationship with both of his biological parents and their extended families, it’s still hard on him sometimes. It just kind of feels like we failed them, you know? We were supposed to be able to give them what their bio parents couldn’t. And I know there are so many single parents who adopt and do it alone from the beginning but … this just wasn’t the plan, you know?”

Jack put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “You didn’t fail them. It looks to me like you’re doing the best you can. It’s okay to be sad. For the kids, and for yourself. You lost something, too.”

“Wise words, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“I’ve been having the same conversation with my therapist,” Jack said wryly. “Obviously, it’s not the same, since Ava and I didn’t have kids. But the feeling that I failed one of the most basic things is hard to shake.” 

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” Eric said. “Marriage isn’t exactly ‘basic.’”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Okay, okay.” Eric sighed. The day had finally caught up to him and he was suddenly very tired, but he also wasn’t ready to be alone. He knew himself well enough to know that he’d only spend the night stewing in anger if he didn’t do something to take his mind off of everything, if only for a little while. “Hey, do you still wanna stay and have those sundaes?” he asked Jack. He half expected Jack to politely decline, and that would have been fine. But part of Eric really really wanted him to stay. He couldn’t explain it. He just felt settled when Jack Zimmermann was around. Like he could breathe a little easier because he didn’t have to pretend everything was all right all the damn time. He wanted that feeling to last a little longer. 

“Aren’t we having those on Sunday night?” 

Eric shrugged. “The kids will never know. I can always buy more ice cream. Besides, it’s been a rough day. In my experience, dessert makes everything better.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Jack asked. 

“In my professional opinion as a parent, and also as somebody who’s still trying to figure out this post-divorce life, yes. For a little while, anyway. Plus, you’d be saving me from eating it all myself. The older I get, the more lactose intolerant I get, and I can’t get up and run five miles tomorrow morning if I eat a whole pint of ice cream by myself tonight.” 

Jack’s lips twitched, just barely, like he was trying not to smile. “Sure,” he finally said after a beat. “I could go for some ice cream.”

Chapter Text

Eric couldn’t stop apologizing for Jesse’s behavior after he left with the kids. He apologized as they went back in the house and again as he pulled the ice cream out of the freezer.

“It’s okay, really,” Jack reassured him. “Here, let me help,” he said, reaching for the ice cream. 

Eric clutched the carton to his chest. “You are a guest in my house!” he scolded, motioning Jack toward the cozy kitchen table they’d sat at during dinner. “Guests don’t do chores.”

“Guests don’t,” Jack agreed. “But…friends?”

Eric looked momentarily stunned. “Friends,” he said contemplatively. 

“All of the friends I’ve made here are yours, too,” Jack pointed out. “And I spent the afternoon hanging out with your kids. I think we’re past the point of mere acquaintances.”

“You make a compelling case, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric said, a smile lighting up his face. It was the first real smile Jack had seen on him all evening. “Okay, then, since we’re friends, would you mind getting a couple of bowls out of that cabinet over there?”

Jack retrieved the bowls for Eric and pointed at the jars hot fudge and salted caramel sauce he’d brought. “We should probably warm these up, right? Or just one?”

“Probably just one,” Eric agreed. “Guest’s choice. Which do you prefer?” 

“Hot fudge?” It had been years since Jack had eaten an ice cream sundae, but as a kid he’d always chosen chocolate over other flavors.

Eric raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because you don’t sound sure. And don’t you dare tell me you can’t afford the extra calories, Mister Professional Hockey Player. We have a rule in this house, food is fuel, not something that has to be earned or worked off.” He frowned a little. “Honestly, sometimes I have a hard time with that myself, but I promised myself I’m not gonna saddle my kids with that baggage.”

“You’re a good dad,” Jack said, and he didn’t miss Eric’s pleased little smile at the compliment. “My parents … well, you’ve probably seen what they look like. And as a kid I didn’t look like them. I was kind of chubby and awkward and people were always asking them when they were going to put me on a diet.”

Eric gasped. “The nerve! I’ll never get over how some people think it’s their place to tell people how to raise their kids.”

“Yeah, well, my parents were famous and people seem to think famous people are asking for it,” Jack muttered. “They never made me feel bad about myself, but they also made sure I knew I could have fruit for dessert instead of cookies. What kid chooses fruit?”

“Not mine,” Eric said.

“Then, when I was a teenager, I had to start getting in shape for hockey and that was a whole different kind of pressure. It kind of messed me up for a while,” Jack admitted. “If we’d met ten years ago, I probably wouldn’t have stayed for dessert tonight. But I’m not as bad about that stuff as I used to be.” As if to prove his point, he dropped a heaping scoop of ice cream into one of the bowls. 

Eric met Jack’s eye and gave him a small smile. “Good.” He plucked the hot fudge off the counter. “Don’t tell any of my professional colleagues,” he said as he uncapped it and stuck it in the microwave, “but with a couple of impatient kids I don’t always have time to do this on the stovetop. I don’t really like don’t unnecessary dishes, either,” he added with a wink.

“My lips are sealed,” Jack said. It never would have occurred to him to heat it in a saucepan when the microwave was right there. 

“So. That was my ex,” Eric said. “Bet you’re wondering what I ever saw in him, huh?” He kept his focus on the rotating jar of hot fudge in the microwave rather than meet Jack’s eye.

“Maybe a little,” Jack admitted, because Jesse really hadn’t made a great first impression, and nothing else Eric had ever said about Jesse painted him in a flattering light. “But I’m not in a position to judge. You’re not the only one with a messy ex. Mine has a number one hit single about how good her new lover is in bed, remember?”

Eric cracked a tiny smile at that. “I’m just…embarrassed, I guess, that you had a front row seat to our family drama. I know I need to stop apologizing for him, but I did it when we were married and I still haven’t figured out how to stop.”

“Do you go to therapy?” Jack asked, hoping he wasn’t overstepping. He’d been in therapy long enough that he was comfortable talking about it with his friends, but he knew it was a taboo topic for a lot of people.

Eric blew out a breath through his nose. “Not since the early days,” he said, looking a little sheepish at the admission, then added, “I wanted to go to couples counseling right when I found out about the affair, but Jesse said no. He was done and therapy wasn’t gonna change that. So I saw someone on my own for a bit. But I’m self-employed and my insurance doesn’t cover therapy.” The microwave beeped, but Eric ignored it. “I figured it’s more important for the kids to go. They have coverage through Jesse’s insurance. As it is, I still have to pay half of what insurance doesn’t cover. It’s worth it, of course, but that’s about all I can afford right now. So no, I’m not in therapy myself at the moment. I check a lot of self-help books out from the library, if that counts?”

Jack chuckled. “Do they help?”

“You know, if I could get through one without falling asleep they might?” Eric huffed out a frustrated little sigh. “I’m so busy all day and when I do have a little bit of time to read before bed I just…” he shrugged. “This is, by the way, the reason I barely graduated from college. I’ve never been much of a reader. I was much more into stress baking than stress-doing-my-homework. Just ask any of the guys. They had to cut the power to my oven so I’d finish my thesis on time.” 

“Did you?” Jack asked.

“By the skin of my teeth! Of course, I was a bit distracted due to winning the Frozen Four and all,” he said with a pointed look at Jack, “but it all worked out. Even got asked to speak at graduation.”

The microwave beeped again, startling Eric out of his reminiscing. Jack couldn’t help but smile at Eric’s high-pitched yelp as he scrambled to grab the sauce, and again when Eric realized the jar was hot and quickly set it on the counter

“Maybe you’re just reading the wrong stuff,” Jack said pragmatically as Eric spooned hot fudge over their ice cream. “My dad wasn’t much of a reader either, but a few years ago he started reading these books he calls cozy mysteries. Now he’s talking about trying to write one.”

“Oh lord,” Eric snickered. “Well, if Bad Bob Zimmermann ever writes a cozy mystery, sign me up. Will it be about murder on the ice?”

“Euh… I think the last one I saw him reading was about chickens, actually. But seriously, maybe self-help books just aren’t right for you. Doesn’t the TV station provide you with insurance for therapy?”

“Not independent contractors. They air my show and have me on for special segments, but I’m not considered an employee. The bulk of my income comes from my business. Even my book contracts don’t bring in that much, all things considered. I’m hardly Martha Stewart.”

Jack mulled that over. A few years ago, a publisher had offered Ava a huge advance to write a cookbook, and she didn’t even cook. She just occasionally posted her nutritionist’s personalized recipes on social media. It didn’t seem fair that somebody like Eric, who was so talented, would be offered a fraction of that. Jack knew how celebrity worked, knew that Ava’s name alone would translate to far more sales than somebody without her huge platform, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Would you want to be?” Jack asked.

“What?” Eric giggled. “I mean, sure, I’d love to cook on TV with Seth Meyers and hang out with Snoop and Martha, but I’m doing just fine considering I got my start as a food vlogger. I know I complain about the way things are sometimes—” he extended an arm, apparently to indicate his small kitchen —“but I also I know I’m lucky that I get to do this at all.”

“If only more professional athletes shared your outlook,” Jack said. Then, to clarify, added, “There’s a lot of entitlement.”

Eric nodded. “I can only imagine. How’d you end up with such a good head on your shoulders?”

“Therapy? Not to keep coming back to that, but it’s a big part of why I’m here today,” Jack said. “But also, my parents were always pretty good about reminding me where we come from. Neither of them grew up with money, they had to work for their success. I knew I had a pretty straight shot to the NHL as long as I didn’t screw anything up, and then I went and did that anyway, so I know better than most how easily everything can fall apart. Nothing is guaranteed.”

“Spoken like a man who’s spent some time in therapy.” Eric shook the container of dinosaur sprinkles in Jack’s direction. “Want some?”

“What the hell,” Jack said. “Give me the dinosaur sprinkles.” 

A few weeks later, the Falcs beat Detroit 4-3 in a tough game that left Jack equal parts exhilarated and exhausted. The locker room was rowdy afterward, everyone high after the team’s fifth win in a row. Jack had been playing long enough to know this streak would eventually come to an end, but it was hard not to feel good. Especially since he’d been responsible for two of the team’s goals.

Griggs threw an arm around Jack’s shoulder as he toweled off from his shower. “We’re going to this club my cousin told me about. You in?” 

“Not tonight,” Jack begged off. “Have to ice my knees.” It was true. He knew tonight’s effort would catch up with him sooner rather than later. He also just really didn’t want to spend the evening at a club.

“Oh, come on,” Stoner, one of rookies, pleaded. “You’re single, right? This is the hottest club in town. I heard it’s where all the sorority girls hang out.”

Jack could feel himself begin to bristle. “I’m not interested in sorority girls.” 

“Right, you’re old,” Griggs snorted. “Better go back to your room and watch PBS, boomer.”

“You kids just need Jack to wingman because you can’t score on own,” Tater said with a conspiratorial wink in Jack’s direction. All the older guys laughed, but Griggs and Stoner were undeterred. 

“Bruh. I know Ava Cassidy is, like Ava Cassidy, but you’ve gotta move on, man. Get back up on that horse.” Stoner leapt onto Griggs’ back and spun his towel around his head like a lasso. “You’re not too old to reel in a college girl. I mean, I don’t swing that way, but if I did? You’re top three material for sure.”

“Dude, get off me!” Griggs grunted, bucking Stoner off.

“I’m flattered,” Jack said dryly. “But you’re not my type. Neither are college girls.”

“Fuuuuuck.” Stoner, on the floor at Jack’s feet, brought a hand to his ass. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.”

“Poor baby,” Tater said. “Maybe sorority girl can kiss it better.”

With the younger guys sufficiently distracted by Stoner’s bruise, Jack quickly finished dressing and took his leave. He shared a car back to the hotel with Tater and Chow. “Want to grab dinner?” he asked, but they both wanted to call home before their kids went to bed so Jack was on his own. Which was kind of a relief, because he really did need to ice his knees. 

He changed into something more comfortable than the suit he’d worn to leave the arena, then ordered a burger and side salad from room service. Some room service menus were better than others, but the burger was usually a safe bet. While he waited for his food to arrive, he went down the hall and filled the ice bucket.

He’d just settled down with his food (he was right: the burger was pretty decent, though the wilted green salad left something to be desired), ice packs strapped to both knees, when his phone lit up with a call from a familiar number.

Ava.

Jack hadn’t spoken to her in months. All communication regarding their divorce was being handled by their lawyers—one of Ava’s demands, to which he’d quickly agreed. They’d signed the divorce papers months ago. The only thing tying them together was the house, which, according to Jack’s lawyer, was ready to go on the market now that Ava had finally moved her things out.

Jack let the phone ring, finally deciding to pick it up just before it went to voicemail. “Ava.”

“Hi,” she said. She sounded a little … uncertain? Jack knew his ex-wife better than anybody, knew that underneath the boundless self-confidence she projected in her interviews was a woman who still cared very much about making a good impression. It was ridiculous they’d become such strangers that she’d feel this way with him, now, but here they were.

“If this is about the house, you can call my lawyer,” Jack said. “She’s handling everything to do with the sale.”

“This isn’t about the house,” Ava said.

“Everything else can also go through my lawyer.” 

“Jack. This isn’t about the house, or us at all. I have something I need to tell you.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t have anything to talk about.” Throwing Ava’s words of so many months ago back at her wasn’t mature, but it was satisfying. It was also inexplicably sad. They used to talk about everything.

“I’m sorry,” Ava said, voice softening. “I’m sorry I said that, and I’m sorry I’m not going through our lawyers, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m making an announcement tomorrow. You’re probably going to get a lot of questions.”

“What, did you finally decide to deny your fans’ theory that I cheated first?” 

“I told you, this isn’t about us,” Ava repeated. She sounded tired. “Look, you deserve to hear this from me. I’m pregnant.”

“You’re—” For a split second, Jack forgot about the past year, allowed himself to feel the joy that accompanied Ava’s announcement. Just as quickly, he did the math. “It’s not mine,” he said flatly. Because there was no way it could be. He and Ava hadn’t had sex in almost a year.

“It’s Luke’s.” 

“Congratulations,” Jack said flatly. 

“Thank you,” Ava said. It sounded like an apology.

“I have to go. I need to finish dinner.” 

“I’m announcing it on The Today Show tomorrow morning,” Ava got in before he could hang up.

Jack closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “I have a game tomorrow night.” The post-game presser was going to be hell. The entire day leading up to the game would be hell.

“I know. We’d wait if we could but I can’t really hide it anymore. I have to get ahead of the rumors.”

That was how far out of the loop Jack was, now. He had no idea there even were rumors. “You must be pretty far along.” Jack actually had no idea how long somebody could hide a pregnancy before it started to show, but he knew people didn’t typically make announcements too early, in case things didn’t work out.

“Five months.”

“Baby’ll come right before playoffs.” And then, unable to stop himself, Jack asked, “Was it planned?” Of course it was planned. Ava planned everything. 

Ava didn’t reply right away, and Jack knew she was doing that thing she did with reporters where she considered the most neutral response possible so her words couldn’t be used against her. “Being with Luke has made me reconsider a lot of things I thought I was sure about,” was what she settled on.

Somehow, that hurt worse than Ava telling Jack she wanted a divorce.

“Why now?” What Jack meant was, Why are you having his baby, when you didn’t want mine?

Ava didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “Oh, Jack. I don’t know how to answer that without hurting you more than I already have.”

“Points for honesty, I guess,” Jack said, not even attempting to sound anything less than bitter. 

“If you only knew how much I’ve been dreading this call. Every day since I found out, I’ve known I’d have to tell you and … look, it’s not easy for me, either.”

“Oh, please. You got everything you wanted out of our divorce. You left me. Let’s not forget how everything went down.”

“I’m sorry,” Ava said again. “Do you have somebody you can talk to?”

Once upon a time, Ava would have been the person Jack talked to. And he’d been her person, but now her person was Luke, and they were having a baby and— 

And Jack was alone.

“—your parents?” Ava was asking. “Or your therapist?”

It was after hours. Jack’s therapist would probably take his call, if it was an emergency, but “I’m having a panic attack because my ex-wife who was vehemently opposed to having a baby is having her new lover’s baby” was probably not the emergency she had in mind when she’d extended the offer. And his parents… well, Jack could call his parents, but they’d only worry.

“I’ve got somebody,” Jack said. Chow? Tater? George, even. By now, they’d probably finished their calls home. He’d need to call George anyway, give her a heads up so she could give the PR team a heads up. Shit. The last thing he wanted to do was sit down for an interview about all of this.

“Good.” Ava, who’d obviously accomplished what she’d wanted with this phone call, sounded happier and not a little victorious. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Jack thought about hanging up on her without saying goodbye, but he realized he had a bit of leverage in this situation. If he couldn’t get what he wanted, he could still get something. “I want you to call off your fans,” he said. “I had to shut off comments on my socials because they kept coming in and accusing me of cheating. They’re posting shit on the team’s official accounts, my parents’ accounts. Post a statement on Instagram, bring it up in your interview tomorrow, I don’t care. Just get them off my ass.”

“Okay,” Ava agreed.

“Okay,” Jack said, and then there really was nothing left to say.

He thought about going down to the hotel gym and running hard on the treadmill for an hour, but that would be at the expense of his recovery before tomorrow’s game. He thought again about calling his parents—and he probably should, because as soon as they heard the news they’d want to talk to him, find out how he was doing—but it was late and he didn’t want to burden them with this right before they went to bed. He even, briefly, thought about going to the hotel bar and getting shitfaced, but that would be even more compromising than running. (The fact that he actually had that thought—not to mention the inciting event that led to that thought—meant he should probably call his therapist in the morning, too.)

Instead, almost without thinking, he opened his text messages and found his most recent conversation with Eric Bittle. Eric’s last text, dated a week ago, had been to tell him he’d checked out a cozy mystery from the library and finished it in two nights.

“Are you still awake? I just got some news and it would be nice to talk to somebody,” Jack typed.

Eric’s reply was almost instantaneous. 

“Just finished packing the kids’ lunches for tomorrow. Great game, by the way!”

“Thanks.”

“What’s up?”

“I just talked to Ava. It wasn’t great.”

Jack saw the three dots that indicated Eric was typing appear, then disappear, then appear again before his phone rang.

“I thought it might be easier to have this conversation over the phone,” Eric explained when Jack answered.

“Okay, but I’m gonna have to put you on speaker so I can change out these ice packs,” Jack said as he stood. 

“That knee still giving you trouble?”

At the bathroom sink, Jack dumped the lukewarm water out of the plastic bags he always traveled with and refilled them with fresh ice. “Both of them, actually. Just one of the hazards of the job.” 

“I’m gonna have to put you in touch with my friend Justin one of these days. He’s the one who’s an orthopedic surgeon.”

“Oluransi, right? The one who did Benson Garcia’s ACL surgery?” Jack asked, recalling how the Red Sox first baseman, who’d been named MVP of last year’s World Series, had credited the doctor with giving him a few more years in the game.

“And a bunch of NBA players and like half of the US Women’s National Soccer team,” Eric said, clearly proud of his friend. “We played hockey together in college.”

“Of course,” Jack said, because it seemed like half of Eric’s friends were people he’d played with in college. Jack envied that.

“But you didn’t call me to talk about your knees. What’s going on with Ava? Did the house finally go on the market?”

“Not yet,” Jack said as he returned to his spot on the couch and settled the ice packs on his knees. “She’s pregnant.” 

“Oh, honey. Are you okay?”

“Shit. I don’t think I was supposed to tell anybody that, yet.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna go online and break that news anonymously. I’m more worried about you. I wish I was with you right now so I could give you a big hug. Or a pie. Where are you gonna be tomorrow, I can probably overnight—”

“You don’t need to send pie,” Jack said with a small laugh.

“Okay, no pie … until you get home, anyway. What can I do right now?” Eric asked.

“I guess I just need somebody to … tell me I’m not stupid for being upset?” Jack said. He could hear the plaintive note in his voice and felt more than a little ridiculous for sounding so needy, but he also knew Eric understood. “I’m over Ava. I’ve accepted that we’re not going to be together. I’m moving on. But I wasn’t expecting this. She knew I wanted kids, and she kept putting it off, and now she having another man’s baby and...”

“And you’re allowed to feel sad about that,” Eric reassured Jack. “Or mad. You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about this, even if you’ve moved on.”

“I’m so stupid. When she told me, there was a split second when I thought it could be mine, and I was so happy.”

“You’re not stupid,” Eric said quietly. “That sounds like a pretty normal reaction to that type of news, especially when it’s something you wanted so much. It’s okay to grieve that loss. Because it is a loss. You had this plan for your future, and now it looks totally different.”

“Hers does, too.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing, her future’s got a lot of sleepless nights in it,” Eric said with a small chuckle. “Do you know how often babies have to be fed? Every two hours. Even in the middle of the night. And just when you think you’re done feeding them and you can go back to bed, they poop and you have to try to change their diaper without waking them and it’s this whole big thing. I was basically a zombie for the first few months of my kids’ lives.”

“I know you’re trying to make it sound like I dodged a bullet,” Jack said, “but it’s still hard to see it that way.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood,” Eric apologized. 

“No, you’re good. And you’re right, I need to feel what I feel. My therapist would tell me the same thing, but it feels better coming from somebody who understands.”

“Oh, you know I’m right there in the trenches with you. I’m not gonna judge. I’m just glad you trust me enough to share this with me.” 

“Well, I thought if I played my cards right I could get a pie out of it,” Jack said, deadpan.

Eric laughed. “I know you’re chirping me, but just you wait. Don’t be surprised when a little something shows up at your door when you get back from this trip. I’m sure I can get Tater to deliver it in exchange for a few jars of jam. It’s surprisingly useful currency.”

“Or you could bring it by,” Jack said, realizing that while he’d been to Eric’s place—and Chow’s and Tater’s—a half dozen times by now, none of his new friends had been to his apartment. He hadn’t been much of an entertainer even when he’d been with Ava, but he and Ava hadn’t really had friends. Just a lot of industry acquaintances and whoever happened to be Ava’s bestie of the month. Eric and the guys on the team, their families—they were actual friends. 

“Maybe I will,” Eric said. He sounded pleased and Jack could picture his smile, the way it lit up his entire face.

“Thank you,” Jack said. “Not just for the pie. Talking to you helped.”

“Any time,” Eric said warmly. “I mean it. I know tomorrow might be rough, so if you need to talk afterward...or if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, too. I’m here, though, if you need someone. You don’t have to worry that you’re bugging me.”

“Thanks. I might actually keep my phone off tomorrow,” Jack said. “I mean, I need to talk to George and my parents for sure before the story breaks, but it’ll probably be better for me if I don’t have to see what everyone’s saying. So if you text and I don’t reply, that’s why.”

“That’s a good idea,” Eric agreed. “There’s nothing going on in the world that can’t wait a few hours. But I mean it, I want you to call, no matter how late it is. I’ll be watching the game, anyway.”

“I will,” Jack promised.

It was a long, hard day.

Jack woke before five to run. He needed the time to clear his head and plan out what he needed to say to his parents and George. He waited until after he showered and had his coffee before having those conversations. His parents were sympathetic and more than a little outraged, just as Jack had suspected they’d be, but they were glad to hear it from him before the news broke. And they did not, to Jack’s relief, insist on flying to Chicago, the site of that evening’s game, to see for themselves that Jack was okay. (They did make him promise to call later, but Jack understood.)

George was stressed, but she and the PR team spent the morning helping him prepare a statement to share on his social media accounts. They also agreed he wouldn’t do any post-game press tonight. He knew he’d have to say something at some point, but he appreciated the extra time they were giving him. He spent the short flight to Chicago focused on getting in the right mindset for the evening’s game, not on the news that was about to break.

Even with his phone turned off, Jack knew as soon as Ava made her announcement because Griggs looked up from his phone and said, “Damn. Did you hear that Ava Cassidy and Luke Phillips are having a baby?”

“I knew it!” Dominic Martinez crowed. “Aimee follows all the Ava Cassidy gossip sites and she kept telling me she had a—what do they call it?—a ‘bump?’ I told her it was just bad angles, but man, she was right.”

“God works hard but Ava Cassidy stans work harder,” Griggs said sagely.

“Is this for real?” Duncan Wilder, a third line defenseman, groaned. “Man, I hope she doesn’t cancel the rest of her tour. Britt and I got tickets and she’s gonna be pissed if it gets called off.”

“Hey, isn’t Ava Cassidy—?” Andy Rouleau, a forward who’d just been called up from the development team, trailed off as everyone turned to look at Jack.

Tater, seated across the aisle from him, glared at Rouleau. “She’s Zimmboni’s ex-wife,” he growled. “And on this team, we mind our own business.” He folded his arms over his chest, as if to imply that anybody who came after Jack would have to go through him first. Next to him, Chow nodded in solidarity.

Rouleau was still staring at Jack. “But you and Luke used to play—” His eyes widened, as if he was just now making the connection. “Oh shiiiiiit. Want me to rough him up for you next time we play them?”

Once again, Tater saved Jack from having to respond. “No violence,” he said. “We are bigger team.”

“Okay, fine. I’m not gonna break his legs.” Rouleau looked a little disappointed. “But is it wrong to hope the kid doesn’t sleep for like, a year?”

Jack finally cracked a smile. It was a relief to know his team had his back. “Yeah, I can support that.” 

They beat the Blackhawks, thanks in part to Jack’s two goals and two assists. He’d always been able to block everything else out when he was on the ice, but tonight he was especially focused. He knew that some people—a lot of people, probably, including people who didn’t follow hockey—would be watching him play and looking for any sign of weakness in the wake of Ava’s announcement. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. His performance tonight was proof that he was focused, in control, still on top of his game despite this new wrinkle in his personal life. 

It wasn’t his life anymore, was the thing. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing she’s having a baby with Luke,” Jack told Eric after the game. As usual, most of the team had gone out, but Jack had stopped by his hotel room just long enough to change into joggers and his puffer jacket. The hotel was only a few blocks away from Lake Shore Drive, and it was a nice night for a walk.

“Yeah?” Eric asked. “Didn’t expect you to have a change of heart this soon.”

“I mean, this is proof she’s moved on, right? She and Luke are having this baby and they’ll probably get married and then nobody will be interested in how her every move affects my game. I can go back to being a nobody.”

“Oh, honey. You’re hardly a nobody,” Eric chided. “How many times have you won the Stanley Cup?”

Three. Jack had been part of three Stanley Cup-winning teams, and he was proud of all of those wins, but they weren’t what had made him a household name. “You only say that because you’re a fan of the game. Outside of hockey, I’m pretty much a nobody,” Jack insisted. “LeBron James and Megan Rapinoe get recognized when they go out in public. I blend in pretty well as long as I’m not with Ava.”

“If you say so,” Eric said dryly.

“Or my parents,” Jack amended. He paused to take in the view of the city’s skyline. He’d always liked Chicago; its people were more down to earth than Southern Californians. At one time he wouldn’t have minded ending up here. But Providence, he was beginning to realize, was the right place for him. The Falconers’ fans had welcomed him wholeheartedly, and after a couple months the local press treated him just like any other athlete. Granted, that was in no small part due to the PR team’s insistence reporters focus on Jack’s game rather than his personal life. Fortunately, Jack’s game had been good—great, even—so the stories that had come out up until this point had all been positive.

“How are the kids?” he asked Eric, ready to focus on something other than himself or Ava. “Ready for their game this weekend?”

“First game of the season always brings out the jitters, but we’re working through them,” Eric said. “And oh my lord, you have to see their new jerseys! The new Little Falcs logo is too cute. There was a minor issue with Lizzie’s being a little too big, but Lardo was able to make some alterations and you’d never know.”

“Game’s at eleven, right? I’m going to try to be there.” The last time they’d all had dinner at the Chows’, Lizzie and Mia Chow had presented him with a homemade card inviting him to the game as their “guest of honor.”

“That’s very kind of you, and I know the kids’ll be thrilled if you can make it, but you don’t get home until late tomorrow night,” Eric reminded Jack. “Won’t you be tired?”

“Probably,” Jack admitted, “but eleven isn’t early. And I told the kids I’d be there.” That, and he doubted anybody looking for dirt on how he felt about Ava’s pregnancy would think to track him down at a PeeWee hockey game. 

“Well, thank you,” Eric said quietly. “They’ll be happy to see you. We’re all looking forward to seeing you. We’ve got your back.”

Chapter Text

Eric’s book publicist called him in November with an exciting proposal: “We want to send you on a nine-day mini-tour of the West Coast,” Mollie explained. “Heather’s mom had a heart attack and she had to pull out of her holiday demo sessions at Williams Sonoma at the last minute.” Heather, a vegan baker with a new holiday cookbook out, was also represented by Mollie. “I know you turned them down when they originally offered, but this is a really great opportunity. Heather was booked for some local media opportunities out there as well, which we can probably transfer to you.”

Fifteen in-store cooking demos, an appearance on local news programs in LA and Seattle, signings at several independent bookstores, and an appearance at a food and wine festival in Northern California. It was a packed schedule that would take Eric away from home right before Christmas. That was why he’d turned it down to begin with. The kids were only little once, and the thought of missing out on this time with them—already in short supply since he had to share that time with Jesse—made his heart ache. But he’d dreamed of doing something like this for a long time; it was the next step in getting his name out there beyond his regional sphere of influence and niche as a “kids” chef (even though his first book was a pie cookbook). 

“I can’t,” he said regretfully. “I have the kids for the majority of that time and they’ll still be in school.”

“They do have another parent,” Mollie reminded him. “You picked up the slack for years while Jesse traveled.”

“That was different. We were still married.”

“As if he isn’t going to come to you someday and ask you if you can take the kids during his week because he has to travel for work, or wants to go on vacation without them,” Mollie said with a derisive snort. “Is this about you or him? I know you don’t trust him to be on his own with them for that long, but maybe that’s what he needs.”

Coming from anybody else it might be overstepping, but Mollie was more than a publicist; she’d been a good friend and confidante to Eric in the seven years they’d worked together. It had become tradition to get after hours drinks when she accompanied him to signings. He knew all about her postpartum depression after having her second baby, and she knew all about his ongoing divorce drama.

“I’ll think about it,” he promised.

“Well, think about it fast. They need to know by tomorrow.”

Eric was still mulling it over during the kids’ hockey practice later that afternoon.“I need your opinion,” Eric said to Jack as they hung over the boards watching the kids work on shooting drills. Eric wasn’t sure if Jack always conveniently had business at this facility on Wednesday afternoons, or if he made it a point to stop by when he knew Eric and the kids would be there, but by now Eric expected to see Jack every other Wednesday. 

“Is it hockey-related?” Jack asked. “I’m not sure how good I am at non-hockey advice.”

Eric bumped Jack gently with his shoulder. “You give great advice,” he said. “I’m seeing a therapist now, aren’t I?”

Technically, Eric only had an appointment for a consultation, but with Jack’s encouragement he’d been able to find a therapist who charged on a sliding scale and could see Eric for a half hour every other week. It was better than nothing, as Jack had told him. He’d also told Eric he was proud of him, which made Eric feel some sort of something he was still trying to process. 

“It’s work-related,” Eric said, and explained his conundrum. “After that practice pick-up debacle, I’m just not sure I can trust Jesse to do anything right—or at all. Will he remember Lizzie’s tutoring, or their therapy? And does it look bad if I’m traveling during my custodial week? I know Jesse travels for work all the time, but he established that schedule before the divorce and he has Christian to take care of stuff at home.” 

“I think you should go for it,” Jack said when Eric finished airing all his concerns. “What’s the worst that could happen? Seriously, the very worst? Is either of your kids going to play hockey professionally?”

“Oh dear lord, I hope not!” Eric gasped. “I mean, no offense to you, it would be wonderful if either of them could get that far, but no. I don’t see either of them doing that.” 

“Right. But even if they were on that track, missing a practice or two isn’t going to determine whether they play in the NHL. Or PWHL, I guess. It won’t even make a difference when they’re trying out for next year’s teams. Same with school. Do you really think Lizzie will blow her shot at college if Jesse forgets to take her to tutoring?”

“No, he’ll just have to pay for the session anyway,” Eric said, secretly relishing the idea of a consequence—any consequence that didn’t hurt the kids—for Jesse’s forgetfulness.

“Right. You should do it. This is for your career. And I know it’s work and not exactly relaxing, but you deserve a little time and space to focus on yourself. This seems like a good opportunity.” 

“I know.” Eric sighed. The networking opportunities alone would be fantastic. Maybe he’d even be able to find some time to squeeze in some meetups with some of his friends from “Food Insta,” writers and influencers on the West Coast he’d kept up with for years but had never met in person. He’d be able to get coffee with Asha, his vegan baker friend in Seattle, and have drinks with the Napa-based duo everybody referred to as the Pauls, a Southern soul food chef and his French sommelier husband.

“And I’ll be on a West Coast stand around then,” Jack added. “If any of our cities overlap, you can come out to a game.”

So Eric texted Mollie to let her know he was in. He texted his parents, too, who told him they’d be more than happy to fly out to watch the kids during Eric’s week if Jesse couldn’t. But Jesse was surprisingly agreeable. “There’s a tree farm out by Christian’s uncle’s house that we’ve been wanting to go to, but Christian only has one weekend off in December and it’s your week,” Jesse said, like that was somehow Eric’s fault. “Now we’ll be able to go as a family.”

Eric held his tongue and tried not to let it bother him that Jesse referred to the unit he and Christian had formed with the kids as his “family.”

It was hard not to think about his last work trip, the one that—with the benefit of hindsight—Eric now realized was the beginning of the end.

He’d noticed that Jesse seemed different, distant, but he chalked it up to both of them being busy, too focused on juggling the demands of their careers and the kids’ needs to really connect. Sometimes they were like two ships passing in the night, but Eric told himself that it would get better as soon as he finished the first draft of his new book, as soon as Jesse’s growing startup hired more staff, as soon as hockey season ended and the kids didn’t have to be at the rink one night a week and most Saturday mornings.

It was the kids who, unintentionally, spilled the beans. Eric had been in New York for meetings with his publisher and his flight home was delayed, causing him to miss Open House at school. He apologized profusely to the kids when he got in.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Lizzie said. “Papa took us to Applebee’s after, and his friend Christian gave us mozzarella sticks.”

“Christian?” Eric didn’t know a Christian. “Is that the new guy at work?” Jesse had mentioned a new hire in passing, but nothing more. 

“Christian’s my Zumba instructor,” Jesse explained. “I told you I started taking that class?”

“Right.” Jesse’s company had given everybody memberships at a high-end athletic club and Jesse, who hadn’t worked out regularly since college, had suddenly and unexpectedly gotten into Zumba. He went on Wednesdays, when Eric was at the rink with the kids. “So you ran into Christian at Applebee’s?” 

Jesse was not, to Eric’s knowledge, a fan of Applebee’s, but it wasn’t for Eric to judge what Jesse did with the kids when he was out of town. Sometimes when Jesse was out of town, Eric let the kids stay up past their bedtime to watch hockey. It wasn’t a secret so much as a tradition Jesse didn’t need to know about. 

“Christian also works at Applebee’s,” Jesse clarified. “He told me to bring the kids in sometime.”

“Oh.” Eric wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Well, I suppose tonight was as good a night as any. Did you guys have fun?”

“Dad, it was so good!” Sam enthused. “Have you ever had mozzarella sticks? They’re cheesy and crispy and—”

“And you dip them in the sauce!” Lizzie interrupted. “Christian gave us pizza sauce and ranch!”

“I’ve had mozzarella sticks,” Eric laughed, relieved that the kids had had a good time and his absence hadn’t been cause for disappointment. Mozzarella sticks. Sometimes Eric forgot how simple things like deep fried cheese could make a kid’s day. “You guys wanna make some this weekend? It could be fun to test a recipe together and try a bunch of different dipping sauces. Or different cheeses! I bet a smoked gouda would taste good. With some of those fresh herbs you’re growing from that kit Grammy and Coach sent?”

“Eric, they were mozzarella sticks,” Jesse said, in the slightly exasperated tone he’d been using more and more often. “You don’t have to reinvent the wheel. You can get them in the freezer section.”

“Right,” Eric said, “I just thought we could—”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Lizzie said sweetly. “We like Christian’s mozzarella sticks.”

“Well, maybe we can go back to Applebee’s as a family sometime,” Eric said. That was, he thought, the end of it.

Except it wasn’t the end of it, not even close. When Eric suggested getting a guest pass so he could join Jesse at Zumba (“I know you remember I used to be a pretty good dancer!”), Jesse made an excuse about how the class was so popular there was a waitlist for non-members. And when he suggested inviting Christian and his partner (“Does he have a partner?”) out on a double date, Jesse spouted some nonsense about how Christian always worked weekend nights because that was when tips were best.

Eric overlooked both of those things because, at the time, Jesse’s explanations didn’t sound unreasonable. Sure, Jesse was taking more overnight trips, often spending entire weeks in Austin or San Jose or wherever the startup was thinking about opening its new office, but that was a good thing, Jesse insisted. It meant his bosses trusted him with the big decisions. And yeah, he was spending more time at the office when he was in town, getting home after the kids were already in bed, but that was easily brushed off as everybody burning the candle at both ends as the company grew. It wasn’t anything new.

And then Eric received an invitation from his publisher to take part in a food and wine festival in New York City. As an author, Eric was pretty small potatoes, but every little public appearance helped and when the event also advertised a modern desserts panel featuring Christina Tosi and Paul Hollywood, well, who could turn that down?

“We can all go, make a weekend of it,” he’d practically pleaded with Jesse, who seemed more and more distant. “I’m gonna be working, of course, but when I’ve got some free time we can take the kids to skate at Rockefeller Center. Or maybe catch a show?”

“Or,” Jesse had said, “you can get some time to yourself for once. You’ve been picking up so much of the slack lately, you deserve a weekend off. And it would be stressful for me to keep track of both of them while you’re working. Playing tourist in New York with kids sounds more stressful than solo parenting all weekend at home.”

And yeah, it had been disappointing but Jesse did have a point. Eric and the kids had accompanied Jesse on several work trips over the years, and it always seemed like a great idea until Eric found himself wearing a backpack stuffed with snacks and water bottles and toys and stuffed animals, holding a small hand in each of his, practically dragging them behind him as they sprinted to catch a bus or train that would take them to a museum they’d enjoy for approximately fifteen minutes before declaring they were bored and hungry. Those trips were the stuff memories were made of, but they were also exhausting, and Eric knew Jesse didn’t have as much patience for them as he did. And that was just fine, because Jesse was a great dad in his own way, and if he’d rather spend a quiet weekend at home with the kids, Eric wouldn’t discourage him. 

In the back of his mind, Eric knew he was making excuses for Jesse. That if any of his friends had complained about a distant partner and presented the same evidence, Eric would have immediately sussed them out as a cheater. But in his own marriage? They were Eric and Jesse, the couple all of their friends envied. If anybody was meant to be together forever, it was them.

So Eric went to New York and got his well-loved copy of Dessert Person signed by Claire Saffitz and tried to keep his cool when Snoop Dogg approached him and asked him to sign a copy of his latest book for his grandkids. And no, it didn’t bother him when Jesse didn’t answer his phone when Eric called to say goodnight to the kids and tell him about meeting Claire and Snoop. Because there was no reason at all to be suspicious. 

As he prepared for this trip, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He hadn’t realized, at the time, how anxious he’d been that entire trip. How the whole time he’d been on edge, like a monster might jump out at him from around the next corner. 

“Are you going to Disneyland?” Sam asked when Eric told them he would be in California for part of his trip.

“I wish!” Eric said. One of his signings was near Disneyland, but the kids didn’t need to know that. Maybe he could save up enough to take them to Disney next summer. “But,” he added, “I’m gonna go to a hockey game in Seattle. The Falcs are playing the Schooners while I’m there.”

The kids both agreed that was “super cool,” though not as cool as Disneyland. 

Eric had to admit, nine days on the West Coast wasn’t exactly a hardship when the alternative involved snow. Jesse had graciously been sending Eric updates every other day or so, which he didn’t normally do during his time with the kids. The kids looked adorable all bundled up during their trip to the Christmas tree lot, but Eric was glad to have avoided that activity. Seattle was gray and drizzly, but it was also a practically balmy forty-eight degrees. 

And, later this evening, Eric was going to see the Falcs play the Schooners. For all the home games he’d been to, he rarely got to go to games in other cities, and he was looking forward to providing some hometown support for his team. Jack had suggested they get a late dinner after the game, and Eric was surprised by how much he was looking forward to that, too. It wasn’t that he’d been bored on this trip—he’d been able to do a little sightseeing and meet up with friends in most of the cities, if only for a quick cup of coffee. It was more that Jack had, in a short time, become one of his best friends. 

He was in a Williams Sonoma in Seattle, in the middle of demonstrating how to make a simple glaze for sugar cookies, when he looked up and saw a familiar face in the audience. Of all the things Jack Zimmermann could be doing with his afternoon he’d … come to Eric’s book signing at a shopping mall?

“You get to see me at work all the time,” Jack explained when Eric grilled him about it after he’d signed his last book and the attendees were beginning to disperse. “I figured it was time to turn the tables.” He held up his newly-signed copy of Eric’s book. “Plus, now I have reading material for the rest of this trip.”

Eric rolled his eyes but couldn’t help his smile. “Shouldn’t you be napping before your game?” 

Jack shrugged. “I took a quick one after our workout this morning.” 

While Eric signed a few more books for the store to sell later, Jack wandered the store. He was standing in front of a Williams Sonoma-exclusive KitchenAid mixer when Eric found him.

“Do you have one of these?” Jack asked, tapping the mixing bowl.

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” Eric said. “Mine is the super-low-end Walmart version. But they’re all the same, when you get down to it. You can even use the attachments from vintage mixers on these new ones. Mine was a wedding gift from my college friends, so I got it in the divorce.”

Jack nodded and tilted his head toward the mixer again. “But this one’s nice, right?”

“She’s gorgeous,” Eric admitted. This particular mixer was a matte forest green with a walnut work bowl. It was also seven-hundred dollars. “Are you thinking of getting one? As a professional, I am obligated to inform you that this one is the price it is because it’s a special edition and you can get one that works just as well for less than half that price.” But Jack was a millionaire, he remembered, and added, “It’ll look great in your kitchen, though.”

Jack nodded again. “I don’t know how much I’d use it.”

“Then maybe just come over and borrow mine if you need to,” Eric suggested. “Unless you want a show piece to impress your parents or … a girlfriend? Then absolutely, go for it.”

The look Jack gave Eric was weird, like his comment had been an overstep or somehow made Jack uncomfortable. He and Jack had talked, a little, about starting to date again and both had agreed that they weren’t quite ready. But Jack was a handsome man, a local celebrity. Everyone knew he was on the market. It was only a matter of time before he found somebody.

“Or,” Eric backtracked, “maybe it can be just for you. You deserve nice things.”

“I shouldn’t buy anything now, anyway,” Jack reasoned. “I’m not going to be in that apartment forever.” He held the door open for Eric and they walked out into the gray, drizzly day. “How did you get here?” 

“Rental car. I have another signing tomorrow at the store in … Bellevue? I think that’s what it’s called. You?”

“Uber.”

“I can drop you by the arena on my way back to my hotel. I feel kinda bad that you spent so much time getting out here just to watch me make icing.”

“Eh.” Jack shrugged. “It didn’t take that long. I liked watching you make icing. And now I have your book so I have the recipe.”

“You know that’s a cookbook for kids,” Eric reminded him.

“Perfect, since I have the skill-level of a child. Plus, my parents are coming to visit during the holidays. I want to impress them.”

It always made Eric feel good when people commented on his tutorials or sent letters, but it was weirdly touching to know Jack planned to use Eric’s recipes when his parents visited. 

“Oh, hey,” Eric said as they approached a toy store that had a display of stuffed animals in the window. “Do you mind if we stop in here?” Eric wasn’t going overboard with holiday shopping on this trip—he only had so much room in his suitcase!—but one of the stuffed animals on display had caught his eye.

Jack followed Eric into the small store, which was definitely designed to appeal to the same sort of parent who might buy a high end stand mixer. The type of parents who could afford to stock their playrooms with wooden blocks from Europe and vintage-looking board games that were more conversation pieces than toys. If Eric was being honest that was his target market too, despite not being able to afford that lifestyle. 

“Christmas presents?” Jack asked. He picked up a silky soft platypus from the display. “This one’s cute.”

“It is,” Eric agreed, “but I’m thinking this one.” He pointed to the realistic-looking black cat that initially caught his eye. “Lord knows my kids don’t need more of these things, but Lizzie put a black cat on her Christmas list and this is about as close as it’s gonna get.”

“A real cat?” Jack asked.

“They’ve been begging for a pet for years, but Jesse’s allergic,” Eric explained. “And our landlord doesn’t allow pets. I know this isn’t the same but … I think she’ll like it.” He glanced at the price tag. It was more expensive than a Target stuffie for sure, but it was still within the budget Eric had mentally set for Christmas gifts. And it was so soft. 

“I didn’t have pets growing up, but one of the billet families I lived with had a cat,” Jack told Eric as he got in line to pay. “For some reason it liked to sleep in my room. It would curl up right on my gear bag and go to sleep.”

Eric laughed. “Sounds like a cat. Did you and Ava ever have any pets?”

“We talked about it, but with our schedules it never worked out. Didn’t seem fair to get one when we both spent so much time on the road. Maybe when I get my own place…”

The cashier gestured Eric forward and Jack didn’t finish his thought, but it had Eric thinking. This was the second time this afternoon that Jack had alluded to moving out of his temporary apartment. Could that mean he was beginning to think about staying in Providence? 

For as long as he lived, Eric didn’t think he’d ever tire of watching Jack Zimmermann play hockey.

Jack had made a lot of noise about how he wasn’t the player he used to be, that other guys were younger, faster. Eric didn’t think it was false modesty, exactly—just an exceptional player acknowledging the skill and talent of his younger peers. Because despite Jack’s protests he still had it, in every sense of the word. 

As a player he was self-assured and confident, but there was no cockiness in his game. Jack’s confidence was born of a lifetime in the sport, a lifelong passion that translated to his game. He seemed to have an innate sense for where the puck was at any given time, where his lineys were. He scored twice in the first period and again in the third. It wasn’t enough, as the Schooners ended up ahead by two, but nobody could say Jack Zimmermann hadn’t given it his all. 

Jack met Eric outside of the arena after the game. “Sorry,” he apologized as he approached. “I tried to get out of there as fast as I could.”

“It’s okay,” Eric reassured him. “It’s a nice night.” It was. The day’s earlier drizzle had subsided and now the sky was clear. The temperature had also dropped, but Eric was warm enough in his puffer jacket and Falconers beanie. The latter of which had earned him a few looks during the game. 

“Before I forget, I have something for you,” Jack said, reaching into his pocket. “Game puck for Sam. I got Bragg and Wilder to sign it.” Bragg was the Schooners’ veteran goalie, and Wilder was last year’s Conn Smythe winner.

“Oh my goodness,” Eric said, accepting the offered puck and angling it so the overhead lights illuminated the signatures on either side. “You’re gonna be his hero.”

One corner of Jack’s mouth ticked up. “I was thinking you could be his hero. I just helped you get it.”

“Jack, I can’t take the credit for this,” Eric protested.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Because Eric was thankful for all the help he’d gotten from his parents and friends, but sometimes it felt like too much. Eventually, they’d get tired of helping him. “Because,” he repeated, “this isn’t something I’d be able to get him on my own. My kids have a lot of friends whose parents are, let’s just say, in a different tax bracket. I’m trying to be better about setting realistic expectations”

“I know,” Jack said, “and I respect your feelings. But what’s the point of being friends with a professional hockey player if you can’t call in a favor once in a while? I got one for my parents’ neighbor to give to his kid, too. It’s really not a big deal. It didn’t cost me anything, but I know it’ll win you some cool dad points.”

Jack looked so hopeful, like his every happiness hinged on Eric accepting the darn puck. So Eric accepted the darn puck. “You can’t make this a habit, though,” he warned. “Don’t go getting pucks for Sam every time you go on a roadie.”

“Why not? I could.”

“Oh my lord, you’re ridiculous,” Eric said, laughing. Then, realizing they were still standing outside the arena added, “And starving too, probably. Do you still want to get dinner?”

It turned out most restaurants near the arena had already closed except for a pizza place that looked dubious at best, so they took a car back to Jack’s hotel and found something in the area that was still open. Eric felt underdressed next to Jack, who was still in his game day suit, but it turned out that, if anything, Jack was overdressed for the cozy Italian restaurant.

“What are you having?” Jack asked when their waiter dropped off their menus.

Eric scanned the menu and was relieved to see mozzarella sticks didn’t merit an appearance. “The risotto sounds good,” he finally said. And it did, but it was also one of the least expensive items on the menu. He’d been good about staying within his budget on this trip, but this place was a lot more expensive than he would have guessed based on its unassuming exterior. 

Jack ordered the half-roasted chicken and a side of garlic bread, which he insisted was “to share.”

“You played really well tonight,” Eric said while they waited for their food to arrive. By now he knew Jack well enough to know he could be touchy after a loss so he quickly added, “I know the game didn’t go the way you wanted, but I could tell even the Schooners fans were impressed.”

“Is that what all that heckling was?” Jack asked, a sly smile playing on his lips. It was a good sign that he could joke about it, Eric thought. He didn’t often see Jack after a game but he did talk to him on occasion, and Jack seemed unusually … buoyant … tonight.

“That’s a sign you’re doing something right. Those fans are probably jealous the Schooners didn’t snap you up when they had the chance.”

“Well. If they had I could be home in bed by now,” Jack said in that deadpan way that Eric now recognized as chirping. “But I also wouldn’t be here with you.” 

It was factually true: if Jack had been sent to any team other than the Falconers, they wouldn’t be sitting here together. But for some reason—maybe it was the way Jack was looking at him, maybe it was his half-finished glass of wine—the fond, familiar note in Jack’s voice made Eric’s cheeks burn. 

“Then I guess I have to credit the Falconers with my recent career resurgence too,” Eric said lightly, “since you’re the one who convinced me to say yes to this tour.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jack said, and raised his glass. “So, are you ready to admit this was a good idea?”

Eric took a sip of his wine before answering. “It was. Of course, I miss the kids like crazy, and I’m gonna have a lot of work to catch up on when I get back, but I think I needed this. After Jesse left, I was a mess, but I had to hold it together for the kids. Everything I did was for them. I still had to work, but I focused on the stuff I was already working on. I haven’t wanted to take on anything new because I want to be fully present for the kids. But this week I’ve been connecting with people and getting ideas for new projects for the first time in ages. I feel like I’m finally getting out of this rut I’ve been in ever since the divorce.”

“Just needed to shake things up a little, eh?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“I think I’m ready to shake things up a little, too,” Jack said thoughtfully. 

“Yeah?” Eric had no idea what “shaking things up” could mean to a guy like Jack Zimmermann.

Jack absently swirled the wine in his glass. He seemed looser tonight, more relaxed than usual, and Eric wondered if it was the wine or just fatigue after a long day. Lord knew that if Eric tried to play any sort of hockey game these days, he’d be parked on the couch for the rest of the night. Not that it was any sort of fair comparison since Jack was a professional and used to it, but even at twenty, Eric had been exhausted after a game.

“Yeah,” Jack finally said. “I’ve been talking to a realtor. The one I kind of ghosted back in the summer. I think I’m going to start looking for a place after the new year.”

“That’s great!” Eric enthused, pleased that his earlier instinct had been on the nose. “You planning on another season, then?”

“Euh,” Jack hedged. He seemed to consider how much he wanted—or maybe was able—to share before saying, “I know they want me back next season, it’s just a matter of how much time I have left in me. I’ve been putting off my knee surgery long enough as it is.”

“Can’t be easy to go out and play every night when you’re in pain,” Eric murmured sympathetically. 

“I’ve played through worse,” Jack said wryly, and Eric remembered that Jack had spent part of last season playing on the same team as the man Ava had left him for. “Either way, I think I want to stay in Providence for a while. I like being closer to my parents. They’re getting older, and it’s nice to know I can get to them quickly if something happens. And I’ve made some good friends there.” He met Eric’s eye. “I think it’ll be a good place to start over.”

The conversation turned toward neighborhoods and what Jack was looking for in his future home. “I’m not really sure,” he confessed. “My place in California was great, but I was a different person then.” He described his house on the beach, how he’d been able to walk out the back door and into the water. It sounded like a dream to Eric, but Jack seemed like he was past that. “Someplace big enough for a dog,” Jack said. “And a grill.”

Eric chuckled. “Man has all the money in the world and his one requirement is room for a grill? Jack Zimmermann, you are every realtor’s dream.”

“A big grill,” Jack amended. “Maybe a pool?”

“Well shoot, if you’re going big, why not a full outdoor kitchen?”

Jack shrugged. “Wanna be my consultant? I could probably use the help, and I’m not sure my parents want to fly out just to help me assess potential kitchens.”

“If you’re serious, I won’t say no,” Eric said, already fantasizing about touring the area’s biggest, fanciest homes. When he was a kid, Mama and MooMaw used to drag him to open houses in the neighborhood because they could never miss an opportunity to fawn over recently remodeled kitchens (and also because they couldn’t resist seeing how the neighbors lived and then gossiping about it), and to this day he loved a good open house. “I chose my rental based on what I could afford, not what I actually wanted,” he told Jack. “Please don’t deny me the opportunity to go house hunting with a professional athlete’s budget.”

“It’s a date, then,” Jack said, laughing. 

They were on their second glasses of wine when their food arrived, and then when they were finishing up and their waiter dropped off the dessert menu—before Eric could protest—Jack ordered dessert and after dinner drinks. 

“Are you sure?” Eric whispered when their waiter left to place the order. “Don’t you have a morning workout?” It was pushing midnight and he didn’t even want to think about how Jack, who never missed his morning run, was going to feel when his alarm went off in a few short hours.

Jack gave one of those loose shrugs, looking for all the world like he didn’t care if he skipped his run. “It’s a special occasion. Why not indulge?”

“Special? Y’all lost tonight. Didn’t think you’d want to celebrate that.” 

Jack lightly bumped Eric’s foot with his. “I’m talking about your tour. It’s been a success, hasn’t it?”

“Well, sure,” Eric agreed. “That’s hardly worth celebrating, though. It’s just my job.”

“And in case nobody’s told you lately, you’re really good at it. That should be celebrated.” 

It was silly, but Eric felt like crying. It had been a long time since anybody had acknowledged his work, made him feel special. Back in the day, he used to celebrate every one of Jesse’s professional successes with congratulatory social media posts and dinners out and his favorite pie for dessert. But the most he’d ever gotten when the tables were turned was a “good job, babe.” Even when he’d signed his first book deal, it had been Shitty and Lardo who’d arranged celebratory drinks. Jesse had worked late that night and missed them altogether.

“Thank you,” Eric said, trying to will down the lump that had formed in his throat. 

When their waiter arrived with the check, Jack quickly handed his credit card over with a murmured, “I’ve got it.” To Eric, he added, “Don’t try to change my mind. We’re celebrating you tonight, remember?”

“You know, a boy could get used to this,” Eric said, with just enough sass in his tone to let Jack know he was teasing.

Jack’s answering smile was thoughtful. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Lord, I can’t believe I ate that pumpkin cheesecake on top of the risotto and garlic bread,” Eric groaned as they stepped out into the crisp winter night and began walking in the direction of their hotels. “I’m gonna have to cut back on the carbs after this trip.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and Eric knew a chirp was coming. Was it possible for an eyebrow to smirk? Because that was definitely what Jack’s eyebrow was doing. “Didn’t take you for the type to stress about carbs, Bittle. You know, since you’ve written multiple books devoted to dessert.”

“I don’t, usually,” Eric said. “But two weeks of nonstop travel does have a way of bringing out my worst habits, and I think it’s safe to say that some things need to change in the new year. I don’t need grilled cheese from the late night room service menu as a late night snack every night.” But grilled cheese was always better when you didn’t have to make it yourself, and it had been so easy to fall into that habit.

“Probably not,” Jack agreed, “but don’t go too crazy. You probably should figure out a better balance of carbs and protein, but if I hear that you’re working on a salad cookbook I’m going to start to worry.”

“No need to worry, I just realized I can’t remember the last time I ate a green vegetable. Don’t tell my kids; they’ll be thrilled if this becomes a trend.”

“I don’t know, I think it would be kind of fun to let them know the truth about their dad,” Jack chirped. “I don’t think Sam and Lizzie would mind eating grilled cheese every night. I could totally sabotage your efforts to ever get them to eat a vegetable again.”

“You wouldn’t!” Eric gasped in mock horror. 

“Nah,” Jack said. “But I do have some extra tubs of protein shake mix from one of my sponsors. I’ll bring one over when we’re both back in town.”

“Oh my god, what did I do to deserve this?” Eric said with a laugh. “You know what? Fine. Bring all the protein powder. Maybe it’ll inspire my next dessert. I’ll call it the Zimmermann Special.”

Jack bumped Eric with his shoulder. “You’re punchy tonight. I like it.”

“Well, somebody ordered dessert drinks after we drank that bottle of wine,” Eric retorted. 

“Somebody demanded a taste of my drink with the excuse of quality control.”

“Oh, hush. I told you when we ordered that I couldn’t decide. You said I could try yours,” Eric reminded Jack. Then, realizing they’d walked several blocks and he hadn’t been really been paying attention to where they were, he glanced at the map on his phone. “I think I’m this way,” he said, nodding in the direction of his hotel. Jack’s was two blocks over.

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way,” Jack said. 

They were mostly silent the rest of the walk, the late hour finally having seemed to catch up with both of them. Eric shivered a little and shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. Okay, he’d admit that while Seattle was warmer than Providence, it was still a little too cold for his liking.

The earlier clear skies had given way to a misty sort of fog, which cast a sort of filter over the surrounding holiday lights that lit up the block, but the moisture in the air made everything that much colder. It was a little romantic but also a little bit something else Eric couldn’t quite name.

“You got quiet,” Jack said as they approached Eric’s hotel.

“Just thinking,” Eric said. “This time of year always makes me feel a little sad, you know? It’s like everything reminds me of how magical Christmas used to feel as a kid, and now that I’m grown I want it to feel the same but it never quite does.” 

“Mm,” Jack murmured.

“I know that sounds silly. Forget I said that.”

“No, I think I get it,” Jack said. “I mean, I’m Jewish, so I never believed in Santa or ‘Christmas magic’ or whatever people call it, but I get it. When I was little we used to go to these holiday parties that always ended past my bedtime. On the drive home my dad would always turn up the heater and put on Nat King Cole—he loves Christmas music—and no matter how much I tried to stay awake so I could see the holiday lights, I never made it more than a mile. One time when I was about five Papa woke me up, but we weren’t in our driveway. He’d taken us to this neighborhood not too far from ours that was all decorated. Not, like, gaudy lights and inflatable Grinches. The sidewalks were lined with these paper bags with candles inside and they just kind of … glowed. I thought it was magic because we’d driven down that street at night before, but the lights had never been there. I asked if we could take one home and Maman said no, we needed to leave them so everyone else could enjoy it, but that we could put the menorah in the window so we could share our own light.” Jack huffed out a little laugh. “That probably sounds silly.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Eric said. Thinking about little Jack, so taken with the lights, made something inside Eric’s heart ache in a good way.

“And then you grow up and you realize it’s not magic, just somebody else’s hard work.”

“That’s a very blunt way of putting it, but … yeah.”

“Sorry to ruin the atmosphere,” Jack said wryly. “Next time I’ll ruin the Tooth Fairy.”

“If anybody would know the Tooth Fairy’s a scam, it’d be a hockey player,” Eric chirped, and was rewarded with one of Jack’s rare big laughs that seemed to explode out of him.

They were standing outside of his hotel, Eric realized, had been standing there for who knew how long. Eric gestured awkwardly to the big revolving door. “I should get to bed so I’m not falling asleep during tomorrow’s demo. And you’ve got to get up for your run in—” Eric glanced at his watch—“gosh, four hours.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna skip that one,” Jack said. “Worth it, though.” 

There Eric’s heart went again, aching in a good way.

Jack put his hand on the small of Eric’s back and guided him toward the door. With Jack’s movie star good looks and expensive suit, Eric could almost pretend they were a glamorous couple returning from a holiday party, maybe like the ones Jack had gone to as a kid. Except for the fact that Eric was still wearing his puffer and Falcs beanie, which were decidedly not glamorous. And also the fact that they were definitely not a couple. 

That was okay though, because Jack was a good friend. Maybe magic didn’t exist, but Eric was pretty lucky to have found somebody who cared enough to know exactly what he needed and make it happen.

Chapter Text

Jack was restless.

“Must be tired, Zimmboni. No pep in your step,” Tater observed as Jack bent over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath at a stoplight during their morning run. It was true that Jack hadn’t been sleeping well, though it didn’t seem to be affecting his game. He’d managed to score at least once in each one they’d played on this roadie. His morning workouts were a different story. Tater nudged Jack to let him know the light had changed. “Early mornings must be hard when you’re an old man,” he chirped over the morning traffic.

Tater was right, even if he’d missed the mark with his speculation as to why Jack wasn’t quite awake during their recent morning runs. Two nights into this road trip, his insomnia had come back with a vengeance. 

He tried to tell himself it was because he wasn’t in his own bed, but that wasn’t it. He’d been sleeping fine on roadies up until his date with Eric the other night.

Date. Jack hadn’t referred to it as such at the time, but now that he’d had several sleepless nights during which he’d had more than enough time to review the evidence, it was obvious: Jack had asked Eric to dinner. He’d paid for dinner. He’d walked Eric back to his hotel and made excuses to avoid saying goodbye. Most damning, in Jack’s mind, was that he hadn’t wanted to say goodbye. He’d wanted to be invited up to Eric’s room, to stay up even later continuing the conversation they’d begun outside at Seattle Center and hadn’t finished because they kept finding more things to talk about. 

The evidence was undeniable and somehow, Jack had been oblivious up until the moment he was standing outside of Eric’s hotel, resisting the sudden impulse to give him a goodnight kiss.

Maybe Jack was reading into things, but he thought Eric had looked a little disappointed when they said goodbye, liked he’d been hoping for something more, too. 

So no, Jack wasn’t sleeping. Because every time he closed his eyes, his mind spun out all the other ways that goodbye might have gone. 

“You’re not that much younger than me,” Jack grumbled as Tater cracked up at his own joke. “And don’t you have another kid on the way? Pretty soon you’ll be dragging at morning practice, too.” 

Tater laughed again. “At least baby is proof I’m still getting some,” he said smugly. 

Jack couldn’t argue with that.

“Will your parents be here for Christmas?” Eric asked. They were at the rink again, waiting for Sam and Lizzie to finish practice. 

It had been an accident, the first time Jack watched the kids’ practice. He’d been coming out of a workout in the adjoining training facility and noticed Caitlin Chow waiting with some of the other parents, so he’d stopped to say hi and observe for a bit. Of course, that had been the day Eric’s ex had been late picking up Sam and Lizzie, so Jack ended up staying until Eric could get there. He’d returned the next week, and the next. Now that he’d been to a few more practices and games, he was invested in the team’s progress. 

Among other things. But Jack had only been back in town for a few days and hadn’t had a chance to be alone with Eric to talk about those other things. The Falcs were anticipating some tough games before the short holiday break, and Eric was busy with all of the baking and local events that made the holidays his busiest season.

“They’re spending a few days here with me, but they’re leaving on Christmas Eve,” Jack told him. At Eric’s look of surprise, he added, “Jewish, remember? We don’t do Christmas, really. They’ll be here for our home game against the Bruins, and the first couple nights of Hanukkah. It’ll actually be the first time in a long time that we’re spending the holidays together. Ava and I always spent Christmas with her family.” 

It had always been a point of contention between Jack and Ava. The league only gave them a couple days off for the holiday, and he would have preferred spending them relaxing at home—or even hosting Ava’s family—over traveling. They’d had the space, and more than enough money to fly their loved ones out for a few days. But Ava always said she couldn’t imagine not waking up on Christmas Day in her childhood bedroom and spending the day with her large extended family. So that was what they’d done. Jack usually flew in late and left early, but it had made Ava happy so he’d been happy. Ava’s parents had always extended the invitation to Jack’s parents, but they’d always demurred, claiming they already had plans to travel or spend the holidays with friends.

Those large Cassidy family gatherings were overwhelming and overstimulating, so loud and chaotic compared to the quiet holidays Jack spent with his parents. They hadn’t been all bad—he’d always liked playing with the kids and watching whatever football game was on with Ava’s dad and brothers—but they took a lot out of him. He wouldn’t miss the midnight church service on Christmas Eve, or the family sing-along on Christmas morning. 

“Well, then, I’m glad you get to celebrate your own holiday together this year,” Eric said. “But you’re more than welcome to come to my place on Christmas Eve, if you want. I’ve been hosting a little get together the past few years. It’s usually just Shitty and Lardo, and sometimes the Chows drop by. No pressure, though!” he added. “Maybe you just want to enjoy the quiet.”

“That sounds nice,” Jack said. “What can I bring?”

Eric grinned. “Just yourself. When I say it’s small and low-stress, I mean it.”

Nothing compared to Papa’s latkes.

Jack had tried to make them for his first Hanukkah with Ava. Somehow, he set the smoke alarm off and the house was still so new that it took them a half hour to figure out how to turn it off. When they finally sat down to eat, they discovered that—though practically charred on the outside—the latkes were undercooked on the inside. Ava had been a good sport about it, though; they’d laughed about it for years afterward. 

But Papa’s latkes were perfectly crispy and golden brown, warm and comforting during these darkest days of the year. 

“Ketchup, Jack?” Papa asked, setting the bottle next to Jack’s plate when he took his seat at the table.

Jack scowled and spooned some applesauce onto his plate. “I was seven.” Sometimes Jack wished he weren’t an only child. It would be nice to have somebody to share the wealth with when his parents started reminiscing about his most mortifying childhood moments. Maybe. He wouldn’t put it past them to be twice as obnoxious.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to extend our stay?” Maman asked. “We thought you might want a few days to yourself during your break, but if you don’t want to be alone, we can change our reservation. That’s the beauty of retirement.”

Jack resisted rolling his eyes. The beauty of being wealthy was more like it. Neither of his parents was likely to ever completely retire. Between all the nonprofit boards and foundations they belonged to, the production company Maman had a stake in, and Papa’s occasional commentating work, they were as busy as they’d ever been. 

“I’ll be fine,” Jack insisted. “I told you, I’m spending Christmas Eve with some friends.”

“From the team?” Papa asked.

“Euh … maybe?” Jack knew Eric had invited some of the guys from the team but he wasn’t sure who would show. “My friend Eric is hosting. Have I told you about him? The one who played with Chris Chow at Samwell?”

“I’m well aware of Eric Bittle,” Maman said. “Just between you and me, his name’s been floated as a potential commencement speaker.”

Right. Jack had forgotten Maman was on like a dozen different Samwell boards and committees. She’d probably known who Eric was for years.

Maybe that was why it was easy for Jack to say what he said next, which was, “I think he might be more than a friend.”

Maman and Papa glanced at each other and Jack could see the uncertainty in their eyes. He couldn’t blame them. The ink was barely dry on his divorce papers, dating was probably a terrible idea. 

“Are you sleeping with him?” Papa asked.

Jesus. “No. It’s not … we haven’t even been on an official date. It’s complicated. He has kids.”

Maman raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to date him because he has kids?” There was an edge to her voice that Jack interpreted as disappointment.

“No, his kids are great. It’s just that he hasn’t been divorced for that long. Longer than I have, but not by much.”

“You’re worried about it being a rebound thing?” Papa asked. “Or that he might take advantage of—”

“No,” Jack said emphatically, because he could sense where this was going. Papa was no doubt remembering all of the childhood teammates who’d tried to befriend Jack only for proximity to his parents. “Eric’s not like that. He’s been friends with Chow and Mashkov for years, I don’t think he’d date me for clout. Honestly, that’s probably why he wouldn’t want to date me.”

“Why are you trying to talk yourself out of this?” Maman asked gently. 

“Because it would be complicated. Not just because I’m not publicly out. Whenever it happens, whoever it’s with, it’s going to be a big story.”

“Because of Ava.” 

Jack nodded. “I feel like everyone’s watching, waiting for me to make a move that they can use to sell magazines. I don’t want Eric to have to see articles and videos from her fans about how I ‘lost’ the divorce because my new partner isn’t as famous as Ava.”

Papa snorted. “Kid, if you think being with somebody less famous than Ava Cassidy is losing, I have news for you about every other person on this planet.”

“You know I don’t think that. But you know how the press can be, especially when it comes to me.” Jack leveled a hard gaze at both of his parents. The way the press had treated him from the day Maman publicly announced her pregnancy, throughout his childhood and all the way up to his overdose, had been a big topic in family therapy. One of Jack’s biggest grievances, at the time, was that his parents had chosen professions that put them in the public eye. Jack had not.

Yes, he’d had his fair share of media attention as a professional athlete, but it wasn’t like he got recognized every time he went to the grocery store. In LA, there had been plenty of VIPs more recognizable than a random hockey player.

And then he’d married Ava and, well, it was the price he paid for loving one of the most famous women on the planet. He hadn’t loved it, but having spent most of his life in the media’s crosshairs, he was equipped to deal with it.

“I can’t put Eric and his kids through that,” Jack said. “They’ve already been through so much.”

“That’s an important thing to consider,” Maman said. “But don’t you think you should ask Eric how he feels about this before you give up on the idea? There are a lot of things about your life that will no doubt complicate a new relationship, even if Ava weren’t a factor, but I bet he’s more concerned about how a potential partner would treat his kids.”

“His kids are great,” Jack said. “I love spending time with them. I’ve even been getting out there on the ice with them to practice.” Maman and Papa both smiled a little wistfully at that. Maybe they were remembering Jack at that age. Or maybe they were thinking about how Jack had wanted kids with Ava. “It’s not like I’d be looking for ways to get rid of them so Eric and I can be alone,” he added. “I know they’re a package deal.”

“Okay,” Maman said slowly, “but are you prepared to step in and be a co-parent, if it comes to that? Would you be comfortable on your own with them if Eric has to work late or go out of town? Would Eric be comfortable leaving you alone with them?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m more responsible than his ex-husband’s new partner.” 

“My point,” Maman said, “is that we all bring potential complications to a relationship. That doesn’t mean you should give up on it before it even starts.”

“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” Papa said as Jack and Maman mouthed it along with him. 

“That really loses its impact when you say it about everything, dear,” Maman said.

“I don’t say it about everything!”

“You said it in the store the other day when you were trying to decide between the regular and Double Stuf Oreos,” Jack reminded him.

“And when I was trying to decide if I wanted chicken on my salad last night,” Maman said.

“Isn’t it how he justified buying that boat?”

“The boat! I forgot about that boat!” Maman shrieked.

“How could you forget about the boat?” Jack asked. “He bought that stupid hat and made us call him ‘Captain’ all summer.”

“It’s good advice,” Papa said defensively. “I don’t regret getting the Double Stufs. Do you regret the chicken?”

“I think we all regret the boat,” Maman said, no doubt thinking about all the weekends spent trying to get it into sailing shape. 

“Jack liked the boat. Didn’t you? You and Kent used it all the time that summer.”

He was pushing forty, but Jack still couldn’t meet his father’s eye. “We weren’t sailing,” he mumbled. Might as well come clean, it was too late to ground him about it.

“Ohhhh,” Papa said, apparently just now realizing what they’d actually been doing on the boat. “That explains some things. Babe, did you know what they were getting up to?”

Maman, wine glass halfway to her lips, took a delicate sip in lieu of answering. “None of this,” she said when she set the glass down, “is relevant now. Jack, I’m so happy you trust us enough to share this with us, but shouldn’t Eric be the one you’re talking to about this?” She paused and gave him the look she used to give him when he was little and she caught him stealing cookies from the pantry. “Does he even know you’re bi?”

On Christmas Eve, Jack woke at his usual time and went down to the building’s gym for his morning workout. The mornings had gotten noticeably colder in the past month, the streets icy before the sun came up. All those years in California must have made him soft, because he’d been doing his runs on the treadmill even though he preferred the roads. Or maybe he was just older and smarter than the kid who’d once determinedly run in the middle of a Christmas morning snow storm, convinced nobody would sign him if he couldn’t hack it. Jack had nothing left to prove to anybody.

But he did have a few things he needed to run through. Namely, the fact that Maman was right: he did need to come out to Eric before he could even begin to contemplate a relationship with him. 

At this hour the gym was blessedly empty, though somebody must have been there even earlier than Jack because the overhead TV was tuned to a local morning news program. Jack was already listening to one of his own workout playlists, so he followed along with the captions. He watched a weather report predicting snow flurries later in the evening, then a feel-good story about two middle school students who’d spearheaded a holiday coat drive. 

In his peripheral vision, Jack saw somebody set a towel and water bottle down on the treadmill next to him. Papa. Jack met his eye, made a show of nudging his treadmill’s speed up by a few points. Papa took the bait and set his to the same speed. 

On the TV, the anchor was teasing a holiday baking feature with “our very own Eric Bittle, after the break.” In the clip that played, Eric was showing off some sort of pie.

A Lexus commercial featuring a man giving a woman keys to a ribbon-adorned SUV, a spot for Hamilton’s upcoming run at a Boston theater, and a “Happy Holidays” station bumper played before the program resumed and the anchor introduced the piece. 

“That your guy?” Papa asked, raising his voice so Jack could hear him over the noise of the treadmills.

Jack took his headphones out. “How’d you know?” He didn’t remember telling his parents about Eric’s local TV spots.

“You’ve got the same look on your face that you used to get when you were sixteen and Kent scored. Also, his cookbook has been on your kitchen counter all week. I know what he looks like,” Papa said slyly. His shit-eating grin was so hard to ignore that Jack almost missed it when he casually reached out and increased his speed.

“Oh, it is on,” Jack muttered, setting his speed just above Papa’s before returning his attention to the TV. Eric was explaining how to make a candy cane pie, which involved alternating layers of chocolate and peppermint mousse in a cookie crust. Papa kept his thoughts to himself during the segment, though the next time Jack looked his way he noticed he’d upped his speed again.

It went that way for a while, one of them setting the pace for a few minutes until the other raised the stakes, until Jack looked down and realized they’d just run two miles at a sub-six-minute-per-mile pace. When Papa took it up another notch and their pace dipped into the fives, Jack slammed the “stop” button. He was an idiot for letting his father goad him into this, but he didn’t have a death wish. Legs about to give out, he sat heavily on the treadmill deck.

Papa handed Jack his towel and Gatorade and took a seat next to him.

“He’s cute,” Papa said. How was it that he barely seemed winded after that all-out sprint? How could he still sprint like that at his age? “You know, if you don’t make a move soon…”

Jack lifted his head. “Papa,” he huffed.

“I’m kidding. I’m not the man I used to be. I can only handle one sassy blonde in my bed at a time these days.”

“Please stop.”

Papa reached over and ruffled Jack’s sweat-drenched hair. “I’m just giving you a hard time, kid. I know you’ve had a rough year. But you’ve seemed happier these past few months. It’s pretty obvious to me and your mom that it’s not just the new team that’s responsible.”

“Papa,” Jack warned.

“Don’t worry,” Papa added, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not gonna say the thing. I just think that if you’ve found something that makes you happy, you should let yourself be happy.”

Jack’s parents were right: he needed to talk to Eric.

Now that he’d decided to do it, he wanted to do it right away. But he knew Eric was already stressing over making the holiday special for the kids. And it wouldn’t be fair to demand his attention when he was hosting Christmas Eve. The last thing Jack wanted was to make the evening about himself and his feelings. So he’d only do it if it felt right.

But he did promise Maman and Papa, during the drive to the airport, that he would do it soon. 

Maman hugged Jack tightly when he got out of the car to help her with her luggage. “If things don’t work out with Eric, you’ll be okay?” she asked.

“I’ll be okay.” Jack felt like he’d been repeating some version of this since he was eighteen, but they’d never stopped needing that reassurance. Maybe they never would. 

He had some time between dropping his parents off, so he used it to do some last minute Christmas shopping. In the fancy kitchen store a display of anti-fatigue kitchen mats caught his eye. He remembered Eric talking about how his feet often hurt at the end of the day, but he also knew Eric often stayed up late after the kids went to bed to make their lunches for the next day and test new recipes. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing Eric would buy for himself, but it also seemed like a normal enough gift that it wouldn’t give away how Jack really felt. He’d already bought each of the kids a Falcs toque and new hockey tape (green for Lizzie, blue for Sam), but a set of ice hockey-themed cookie cutters caught his eye as he headed to the register so he bought those, too. 

It was momentarily disorienting when Jack arrived at Eric’s place and wasn’t immediately greeted with enthusiastic hugs from the kids and pleas to read the next chapter in their book. Eric must have noticed Jack’s confusion because he gave Jack a tight little smile. “Jesse and I trade off Christmas Eve and Christmas morning,” he explained. “He’ll drop them off tomorrow morning and I’ll get the rest of the day with them.” His clipped tone told Jack exactly how he felt about the arrangement.

“That must make the Santa thing difficult,” Jack said. Growing up Jewish, Santa Claus had never been a cornerstone of his family’s winter holiday traditions, but if Ava’s family was representative of the Christmas-celebrating population, running to the tree first thing in the morning to see what Santa had left was a big part of the holiday.

“Last year was tough,” Eric acknowledged. “We’ve never put a big emphasis on the Santa part of Christmas, but we did make sure they knew that ‘Santa’—” he made air quotes with his fingers —“would remember to stop by both houses. It’s amazing what kids’ll accept when they still want to believe.”

“Speaking of presents, these are for you and the kids,” Jack said, hoisting the grocery bag he’d filled with gifts. “There’s a bottle of wine, too. I know you said not to bring anything, but—”

“But you were raised by the same type of mama who raised me,” Eric guessed. “Come on, let’s get these under the tree and then get you something warm to drink. Shitty and Lardo should be here in a few.”

Jack handed the gifts off to Eric and hung his jacket on the hook by the door. Then he slipped his shoes off and lined them up by the doorway with the rest of the shoes. Most of them were Eric’s (running shoes, a pair of stylish leather boots, and a pair of snow boots that had seen better days), but there were also a small pair of pink velcro running shoes and a slightly larger pair of navy blue snow boots. Jack wondered if having the kids’ shoes there when they were with Jesse made things seem a little more normal. 

By now, Jack had been in Eric’s home a half dozen or so times, but not when there was a welcoming fire burning in the fireplace, or a festively decorated tree in the corner. Ava had always favored an elegant tree decorated in whatever theme she’d decided on for the season. Last year’s had been birds; the year prior to that, it had been crystal snowflakes. Eric’s tree, in contrast, boasted a collection of mismatched ornaments—including a few obviously-homemade ones featuring the kids’ school pictures. There was even, he noticed as he stepped toward the tree, a faded construction paper snowman with the cut-out face of a smiling blond boy pasted where the snowman’s face should be. It had to be Eric.

Eric, from his crouched position next to the tree, caught Jack looking at it. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, looking up at Jack a little sheepishly. “Second grade. I’d have been happy to let that one stay on my parents’ tree, but the kids found it one year when we were down there for Christmas and insisted on bringing it home.”

Eric as a second-grader had those same big brown eyes, but his hair was a shade or two lighter and there was a gap between his front teeth. “It’s cute,” Jack said.

Eric made a face. “I was so tiny and awkward back then.”

“You were what, seven? When I was seven, I was missing all four of my front teeth. I thought it made me look cool, like a real hockey player, but now I see those old pictures and … it’s real bad.” 

“Now that’s cute,” Eric said with a grin. His gaze flicked from the photo on the tree to Jack’s face. “I’d pay big money to see those pictures,” he added, and Jack could swear Eric was studying him, searching his face for any remnant of that awkward, gap-toothed kid. 

“You and People magazine in the mid-nineties,” Jack said wryly. “But I’m sure my parents would be more than happy to show you for free. You just missed your chance.”

“That’s right, how was their visit? They must’ve enjoyed seeing you play the other night, especially since y’all won. Although, they’d probably still be proud of you if you hadn’t won, right? My kids’ll be forty and I’ll still be telling them the most important thing is that they tried.” Jack chuckled at that because Eric wasn’t too far off.. “Come on, you can tell me all about it while I get us something to drink.”

“It was good.” Jack said as he followed Eric into the kitchen, which smelled faintly of spices Jack couldn’t quite place. He could tell Eric had been in here before his arrival, though, because the oven was on. There was a crock pot plugged in on the counter; four mugs and a plate of colorful marshmallows shaped like snowmen and Christmas trees had been arranged beside it. “Hot chocolate,” Eric told Jack. “I’ve got Bailey’s if you wanna make it a little more fun.”

“I mean, these marshmallows are pretty fun,” Jack said, picking up a snowman and biting off its head.

Eric gasped in mock horror. “Those are for the hot chocolate, Mister Zimmermann!” He tried to swat the rest of the marshmallow out of Jack’s hand, but Jack just grinned and popped it in his mouth. 

They filled their mugs with the rich hot chocolate—Eric said the secret ingredients were condensed milk and premium dark chocolate chips (Jack didn’t know there was more than one variety of chocolate chip, but trusted Eric’s expertise on the subject)—and added a splash of Bailey’s to each. 

“My parents can be a lot, but they mostly behaved themselves,” Jack said as Eric poked his head into the oven to check on whatever was in there. “They really liked the cookies I made. And they only asked about my timeline for finding a new place three times.” 

“Oh, I know how parents can be. But I can assure you it comes from a place of love. I’m sure they just enjoyed spending time with you.” Eric’s smile wavered a little and Jack figured he was thinking about how his kids weren’t here with him right now. “My parents,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “have started asking me when I’m going to start dating again.”

“Ha ha. Would it shock you to know mine did the same?”

“Maybe a little, but only because I know it’d be a whole big thing if you started seeing someone, and I’m sure you’re parents don’t want you to have to deal with all of that,” Eric said thoughtfully.

“That’s actually kind of what we discussed,” Jack said. It was kind of amazing how well this was segueing into the conversation he’d been hoping to have. “Only it was more about how dating me would affect a potential partner.” Jack snorted. “I know that sounds self-absorbed, but I can’t erase my past. To some people I’ll always be Ava Cassidy’s ex, or my parents’ kid.”

“I understand,” Eric said gently. “You’re not just some random guy.”

“And if I come out—” Jack met Eric’s gaze and held it “—that would mean even more attention.”

“Come out? You mean … going public with a new relationship?”

“Yeah, but I also mean it in the sense most people mean it.” When Eric didn’t immediately reply, Jack plowed ahead. “I’m bi. And if I’m in a relationship, I don’t necessarily want to hide it, regardless of who I’m with.” There. He’d said it. His heart was racing like he’d just sprinted from one end of the rink to the other, but he’d said it. 

“Oh my lord,” Eric breathed, his smile shifting from slightly uncertain to delighted as he realized Jack had just come out to him. “All the times I implied you were straight!” He swatted Jack with a snowflake patterned potholder that was sitting on the counter. “Why didn’t you correct me? I know everyone comes out in their own time and all, but really, Jack Zimmermann!”

Okay, that was a lot better than the response Jack deserved.

“Seriously, why are you only telling me this now?” Eric asked. “You know you could’ve trusted me; I spent all my teenage years and most of college closeted from my parents. I know how to keep a secret. I’m not gonna go selling your stories to the highest bidder.” 

“I know. It’s not that I didn’t trust you. I know you would never do anything like that.”

Eric made a little “harrumph” noise that was more amused than annoyed.

“It’s more that I don’t think about it very often? It’s been a long time since I’ve had to think about it.”

“So are you telling me you’re thinking about it?” Eric asked slyly. “Who’s the lucky guy? Wait, it’s not a teammate, is it? Has love been blossoming behind closed locker room doors all season?”

Jack snorted. “You know what hockey players smell like, do you really think it’s love that’s blossoming in the locker room?”

Eric rolled his eyes at that. “Well, no. But it’s not like you have an active social life. You’re either at the rink or on a roadie or with me, and I know you’re not the type to have a puck bunny—is that a gender neutral term?—in every city, so that just leaves someone from work.”

“Or—” Jack waited for it to dawn on Eric.

“Or … me?” 

Jack nodded.

Eric gaped at Jack. “You want to date … me?”

“I realize this isn’t the best time. And I understand if you don’t feel the same way.”

Eric still looked utterly bewildered. He kept blinking but Jack couldn’t tell if he was trying to focus or suppress tears or if he’d gotten something in his eyes. “I feel—” 

And here it was. Eric was about to let Jack down easy. It was disappointing, but at least Jack had said something before he got too used to the idea of being with him.

Eric took a deep breath. “I feel kind of shocked, to be honest. Because ever since Seattle I’ve been thinking about you that way, too. But I never even thought you and I were a possibility.”

Hope flared in Jack’s chest.

“When my parents asked me about all that a few days ago, I told them that I’m not gonna date just to date. The kids, you know? We’re a package deal. It’s not just my heart that gets broken if things don’t work out. And with you, you’re already a big part of our lives. If things don’t work out with us and I have to explain to them why you aren’t around anymore—”

“I know,” Jack reassured him. “I know they’re your first priority. And I want to be part of their lives in whatever way you think is appropriate. But I’m also not planning to break any hearts. I wouldn’t consider coming out for a casual fling.”

Eric took a step back. Jack thought he might be trying to brace himself against the counter, like he needed the extra support, but he bumped the plate of marshmallows with his elbow and sent them tumbling to the floor.

It was enough to diffuse the tension, at least. “Thank goodness this is a plastic plate!” Eric said as they both fell to their knees to pick up the marshmallows. 

“Shame about the marshmallows, though,” Jack said as he and Eric both made a grab for a snowman. 

“Oh, please. I’ve got a whole bag in the cabinet.” Eric sat back on his heels as Jack reached around him to pick up the last marshmallow. “You’d really risk all that for us?” he asked. “The NHL is still so backwards, and the press would be relentless, and you know Ava’s fans are worse than they Beyhive and Swifties combined…”

“It would be worth it,” Jack said simply. 

Eric blinked again, and this time Jack thought he really was fighting back tears. “Oh my lord, Jack Zimmermann, I think that might be the most romantic thing anybody’s ever said to me.” 

Feeling giddy, they took their mugs of cocoa to out to the living room and sat next to each other on Eric’s couch. Jack rested an arm around Eric’s shoulder and immediately wondered if he was moving too quickly, but just as he was about to pull away Eric relaxed into his side.

“If we do this,” Eric said, “we need to take things slow. I didn’t love the way Jesse brought Christian into things. I want to avoid that.”

“You’re their dad, you obviously have the final say, but do you think it would be helpful to talk to them first? If they don’t want this, I’d understand.”

Eric jabbed Jack’s side with his elbow. “Oh my gosh, I’m not going to allow my kids to decide about us. They don’t call the shots in this house. But I do want to talk to them. For the record, I don’t think they’ll have a problem with it. They adore you. But I don’t want it to be a surprise.”

“That makes sense,” Jack agreed. 

“Plus, I haven’t actually dated anyone since college,” Eric pointed out. “I’m not even sure I remember how to do it.”

“I’m not sure I do, either,” Jack said, recalling how quickly he and Ava had moved in together. Even if he wanted to do that with Eric (and he didn’t hate the idea), it was obviously the situation Eric was trying to avoid foisting upon the kids. It would probably be better to take Eric out on actual dates, with or without the kids. “Is what we’re doing right now okay?” 

“Yes, this is okay,” Eric murmured. “In fact, it’s been a long time since I’ve made out with a cute boy on the couch, if you want to—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting whatever Eric had planned.

“That’ll be Shitty and Lardo,” Eric said with a disappointed little sigh. He set his mug on the coffee table so he could let them in. Jack immediately sat up straighter and tried to look like he hadn’t been about to kiss Eric senseless.

“Sorry we’re late,” Shitty said as he and Lardo shed their coats and shoes in the entryway. “Didn’t leave the office ’til after six.”

“You had to work on Christmas Eve?” Eric asked.

“Injustice doesn’t take a vacation for the holidays, Bits,” Shitty said. He plunked himself down next to Jack in the space that had only just been vacated by Eric, propped his feet up on the table, and launched into a story about his latest case. Something about a company that was denying its warehouse workers overtime pay. “Real Scrooge stuff. I’m gonna sue their asses off, but if their CEO gets visited by three ghosts tonight, I won’t complain.”

“That’s Shitty’s way of saying he found somebody to deliver a subpoena on Christmas Eve,” Lardo said. She took a seat on the loveseat across from the couch. 

“Go on, keep talking,” Eric said. “I’m just gonna get you some cocoa.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later, two new mugs in hand.

“I hired carolers,” Shitty said, accepting the mug Eric offered. Eric handed the other to Lardo and sat down next to her. He mouthed “sorry” and flashed an exaggerated frown in Jack’s direction, which Shitty didn’t notice because he was engrossed in his own story. “They’re gonna stand outside the asshole’s house and when he opens the door—bam! Merry Christmas, motherfucker, you just got served.” 

“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Jack said. He thought his attempt at humor came through, but Shitty just fixed him with a surprisingly stern look and said, “As long as you don’t do anything to warrant it, I won’t have to.” Then he lightly punched Jack in the shoulder and said, “You’re having a helluva season! Your OT goal the other night? I haven’t seen Bits that excited since Beyoncé’s last album drop.”

“Oh, stop it,” Eric said. “Like you weren’t just as worked up over that goal.”

“Yeah,” Lardo agreed. “You’re the one who yelled, ‘Marry me, Jack Zimmermann!’ at the TV.”

“I got caught up in the moment,” Shitty said. He threw an arm around Jack’s shoulder, pulled him close, and planted a loud kiss on Jack’s cheek. It wasn’t the kiss Jack had been hoping for this evening, and Eric seemed to be struggling with same thought because when their eyes met Jack could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face.

“Don’t worry, Jack, Shits is embarrassingly hetero despite his big talk. He’s not gonna ask you to be our third.”

“Larissa Duan!” Eric gasped.

“She’s right,” Shitty said solemnly. “If I were gonna go to bat for the other team, though, I’d pick you first.”

Eric buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m still friends with you people,” he moaned. “Jack, I promise they aren’t always this bad.”

“Sometimes we’re worse,” Lardo said brightly.

Jack decided to lean into it. “I do play for both sides, but I’m not really into guys with facial hair. Sorry, man.” 

The room suddenly got very quiet. Eric raised an eyebrow and Jack gave a short nod. It was okay. He hadn’t planned to come out to anybody other than Eric tonight, but he trusted Shitty and Lardo.

“Dude, you straight up put him in his place!” Larissa cackled. She raised a hand for an air high five, which Jack returned. “Nice to have you on the team.”

“Is this for real? Did Jack Zimmermann just come out?”

“Shitty, it’s Christmas, not April Fool’s.” Eric, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smile behind his mug, seemed to lose it a little more every time Jack looked in his direction. 

“It’s not public knowledge,” Jack told them. “My family knows, some of my old teammates, close friends. I told Eric a while ago.” More like a half hour ago, but they didn’t need to know that. “Falcs management knows because it’s good to think about that sort of thing, if I start dating while I’m still on the team. But, uh, I’ve only just gotten to the point where I’ve started to think about that.”

“So this is on the DL. I’m honored to be in the know, and your secret’s safe with us.” Shitty mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. 

“Same, man,” Lardo said.

“But if I did swing your way and I shaved the ‘stache--” Shitty started.

“Not gonna happen, man,” Jack insisted.

Eric laughed so hard he fell off the loveseat.

Hours later, Shitty and Lardo were the last guests to leave, with the exception of Jack. Eric hadn’t lied when he’d told Jack tonight’s guest list was small—the Chows had stopped by, as well as the young family across the street and the older couple who lived next door, but only Shitty and Lardo had stayed the entire time. Now, after a couple glasses of wine and a second serving of Eric’s candy cane pie, neither of them were in the mood to move from the couch. 

“We could watch a movie?” Eric suggested. 

Jack didn’t want to overstay his welcome, but he also didn’t want to leave now that they were finally alone together. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked.

“I guess that depends on how you feel as Die Hard as a Christmas movie.”

“As a Jew, I’m not sure how much water my opinion holds,” Jack said. “But for the record, it is. Ava’s family watches it every year.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Eric said. “You know, I didn’t think it was at first, but four years in a frat house changes a man. We don’t have to watch that, though,” he quickly added. “If it brings up bad memories.”

“Not bad, but yeah, I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

“Well, maybe we should start a new tradition,” Eric said thoughtfully. He turned the TV on and began scrolling through the top movies list on Netflix. “Elf? A Christmas Story? This Christmas prince thing? We don’t have to watch a Christmas movie,” he said as he scrolled past the new Benoit Blanc movie and back again. “Oh, what about It’s a Wonderful Life? The kids never want to watch it.”

“That’s my mom’s favorite Christmas movie.”

“Mine, too. I don’t think I’ve seen it since I was a kid and I’m pretty sure I didn’t understand it, so I don’t blame them for wanting to watch it. But it’s a classic so I should probably try it again, huh?”

“It’s kind of dark. But also … hopeful? I get why people like to watch it at this time of year.”

“Let’s try it, then,” Eric decided. He started the movie and dimmed the overhead lights. With the fire still burning in the fireplace and the warm glow from the lights on the tree, the room felt warm and cozy. 

Jack didn’t mean to fall asleep, but that morning run with Papa must have done him in because one minute, George Bailey was promising Mary the moon and the next thing Jack knew, he was blinking awake to the movie’s end credits. A quick glance to his right confirmed Eric, slumped against him, was also asleep. “Hey, bud,” Jack said, nudging Eric with his shoulder. “Movie’s over.”

Eric’s eyelids fluttered a few times and he squinted at Jack. With his hair askew and his face sleep-scrunched, he was kind of adorable. “Oh lord, did I fall asleep?”

“I did, too,” Jack admitted. 

“You’re a nice pillow, Mister Zimmermann.”

“Thanks?”

Eric poked Jack in the side. “That’s a compliment.”

“Glad to know this body will still be good for something after hockey,” Jack quipped.

“What time is it?”

It had been after ten when Shitty and Lardo left, so it had to be past midnight by now. “Euh,” Jack said, glancing at his watch. “Twelve-thirty? 

“Ugh,” Eric groaned. “I should probably put the leftovers away.”

Jack slowly got to his feet and pulled Eric up with him. “I’ll help,” he said, pulling Eric into the kitchen even as Eric protested.

“You really don’t have to help with this,” Eric said as Jack started putting the leftover potato skins in a container. “You probably got up at five to run.”

“I don’t mind.” Jack already felt a second wind coming on.

Eric didn’t argue, so Jack arranged the leftover potato skins and bacon-wrapped dates in reusable containers while Eric wiped down the counters and washed dishes. 

“Hey, Bittle.” With all of the little appetizers put away, Jack was left with one last mini taco that didn’t fit in the container. “Catch.”

Eric, elbow-deep in the sink, spun around as Jack sent the taco arcing toward him. “How’m I gonna—?” he started, raising his soapy hands in question, then lunged forward in an attempt to catch it in his mouth.

He missed it by a mile.

“Ten second rule,” Jack said as they both stared at it. Eric cocked his head at one of his soapy hands. “You want me to feed it to you?” Jack asked.

“No, I do not want you to feed me dirty floor taco,” Eric said prissily, even as Jack picked it up and tried to shove it in his mouth. Eric tried to sidestep him, but Jack was bigger and pinned Eric against the sink. Eric pressed a hand against Jack’s chest. Fearing he’d overstepped Eric’s “let’s take things slow” boundary, Jack started to back away, but Eric tugged on Jack’s shirt pull him closer. “I mean it, Jack Zimmermann, I have standards.” His menacing glare was betrayed by a snort of laughter.

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t,” Jack said, and popped the taco in Eric’s open mouth before he could protest again.

“Oh my god, this is delicious,” Eric said through mouthful of taco.

“You made it.”

Eric swallowed. “I know. I’m just really impressed with myself.”

The game should have been over, but neither moved. Eric’s smug smile transformed into something softer and more intimate as he gazed at Jack. It wasn’t his proud parent smile, or the modest professional smile Jack had seen him put on like a mask when he was working. It was, Jack realized, the smile Eric reserved for him. 

“You know, I thought hockey players matured as they aged. If it weren’t for that gray in your hair and my aching feet, I’d think I was back in my college kitchen,” Eric murmured. 

“Did you do this a lot in your college kitchen?” 

“What, flirt with well-built men who just happened to be hanging out? A few times, yeah, but it never ended the way I hoped.”

Hockey pundits often praised Jack for his “instinct” on the ice, as if all of his success had nothing to do with the fact that he’d studied the game his entire life. All of those effortless-looking plays were hard-earned. That was why it was always such a surprise when it did feel effortless, when he acted on instinct knowing he’d make his shot.

Kissing Eric Bittle for the first time felt like that.

“Is that how you hoped it would end?” Jack murmured when they pulled apart.

Eric leaned back against the sink, flicked a soap sud off of Jack’s chest. “Oh, honey. I don’t think this is the end of anything,” he murmured through half-lidded eyes.

Eric initiated their second kiss. This one was longer, deeper, so intense that Jack lost track of time until Eric abruptly pulled away. “Sorry,” he gasped, wincing a little as he brought a hand to the small of his back. “It’s not you, it’s this damn counter.”

Jack couldn’t hold his back his laughter. “Yeah, your hands are wet, too.” He pointed to all the wet spots Eric had left on his shirt and jeans.

“Lord,” Eric muttered. He hastily wiped his hands on a nearby dishtowel. “I guess I forgot myself, on account of living out my wildest fantasy.”

Jack glanced around the kitchen. “This is your wildest fantasy?” he asked dubiously.

“Oh, hush,” Eric sassed. “I’m a thirty-something single dad, my days of fantasizing about being whisked off to Paris for a romantic weekend are over. Not that I’d say no to a trip to Paris. It’s just … this is my life. And you’re still here.” There was that look again, that soft, fond thing Jack was coming to think of as his favorite Eric Bittle look.

“I’ll take you to Paris,” Jack said, even though Eric kind of had a point. Jack had been there, done that. Jetting off to Europe on a whim wasn’t worth the jet lag. 

But he’d do it for Eric, if Eric wanted. 

Chapter Text

Eric and Jack had only been dating for a month or so, but already they’d fallen into a natural-feeling rhythm. Or, as natural as could be reasonably expected, given their hectic lives. Jack had started coming over for dinner once or twice a week, and the kids didn’t seem to think it was strange because as far as they were concerned, Jack was their friend as much as he was their dad’s friend.

When the kids were with Jesse, Eric and Jack still tried to see each other a few times a week. On these nights, Eric usually went to Jack’s place. They’d cook together or—if Jack had an evening game—simply hang out for an hour or two afterward. It didn’t matter if they both had other things to do. Eric often tested recipes in the evening, when he felt most inspired. And Jack typically spent an hour or so each evening reviewing tape and catching up on league news. They kept each other company while they worked, Jack at the kitchen table with his iPad, Eric at the counter with his phone so he could take pictures and jot down ideas in his notes app. It was nice that they could work like this, simply enjoying each other’s company while each of them did their own thing. It was equally nice when Eric put whatever he was making in the oven to bake, and he and Jack made out like teenagers until the timer went off.

Sometimes they did more than make out like teenagers. Eric wasn’t sure he’d ever connected in bed with anybody the way he connected with Jack. Jack could be intense, but he could also be silly, and half the time they ended up tangled up in the sheets, laughing until their sides hurt because one of them made a weird noise or accidentally bit the other a little too enthusiastically. Being together was just so easy. And that was a good thing, because there were aspects of the relationship that weren’t as easy to navigate.

They hadn’t gone on any public dates yet because although a lot of the general public’s interest in Jack had died down since Ava announced her pregnancy, the press was still sniffing around. (A couple weeks ago, somebody had spotted Jack and Georgia Martin jogging together, and for a few days their “relationship” was the hottest topic on r/AvaCassidy.) Jack shouldn’t have to worry about what it might look like if somebody spotted him out with Eric, or noticed his car parked at Eric’s place. If Jack’s rumored relationship with a new woman sent ripples through Ava Cassidy’s fandom, his actual relationship with a man would cause an earthquake. Especially since he wasn’t publicly out. The media would take that story and run with it. There was only so much the Falcs could do to protect Jack.

(Okay, maybe Eric was being a little paranoid about the car thing…but people would definitely notice if he suddenly started showing up at events as Jack’s plus-one.) 

The first time they spent an entire night together wasn’t planned. And they literally just slept together, which felt embarrassingly middle-aged, but it also felt like an important next-step. Jack had given Eric a key to his apartment because his kitchen, though not much bigger than Eric’s, had newer and more reliable appliances. Jack also subscribed to the streaming service that carried the Falconers games, so Eric had started going over there to watch them on Jack’s giant TV while he baked. The cherry on top of that situation was, of course, being able to welcome Jack home. He was usually tired, and if the game hadn’t gone his way he didn’t always want to talk, but Eric was learning how to be supportive. Sometimes he wanted to talk it out, give Eric a play-by-play with his added commentary about what had gone well and what he could improve and what nicknames Tater had given to members of the opposing team. Sometimes he just needed Eric to hold him. 

On this particular night, he was exhausted. The post-game interviews had gone on longer than expected, and those always seemed to drain Jack as much as the game itself. He hadn’t been in a particularly chatty mood when he got home, but he was happy to eat a slice of still-warm cherry pie while they watched SportsCenter recap of all of the day’s other games. They both fell asleep before it ended, Jack still in his game day suit. 

Eric woke to Jack’s gentle nudge.

“Hmm?” Eric groaned, not particularly happy about his sleep being interrupted. With great effort, he opened his eyes and, as Jack’s face came into focus, he remembered he’d fallen asleep on Jack’s couch instead of his own. 

“It’s after two. You should stay here tonight.” Jack stood and stretched. 

“I thought we were being careful.” Enough of Jack’s teammates lived in the building that there was a real possibility Eric might run into one of them in the morning.

“We have morning practice. You can sleep in, leave later. You can even work from here for the morning and we can nap together before my game.”

“Are you sure?”

Jack tugged Eric up and pulled him flush against his chest. “I want you to say,” he said, voice low in Eric’s ear. “Want to know what it feels like to wake up with you.”

How could Eric say no to that?

They shuffled to Jack’s room, where Jack found something for Eric to wear to bed. “You’re staring,” Jack chirped as they undressed.

“I’m still not over your abs,” Eric said. “Goals, honestly.” Jack just smirked and undressed a little slower. Then he returned the favor and didn’t take his eyes off of Eric until Eric swapped his jeans and sweater out for a long-sleeved shirt with a faded Team Canada logo on it and a pair of joggers he had to roll at the waist a few times. 

Eric liked to think he still had it, but it had been a long time since he was an athlete, and he’d long ago accepted that his six-pack was a thing of the past. He was mostly okay with that, but sometimes—like when he’d seen Jesse’s pictures of Christian in his tiny swimsuit—all of his insecurities bubbled to the surface. In the last years of Eric’s marriage, Jesse had barely looked at him. He certainly hadn’t expressed any sort of appreciation for Eric’s body. Eric hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it—needed it—until now. Part of him wished Jack could have seen him when he was in his prime, but knowing Jack couldn’t get enough of him as he was now sure was an ego boost. He couldn’t seem to get enough of looking at Eric, touching him, kissing every inch of him. And Eric made sure he reciprocated, as often as possible. 

Jack’s bathroom was small, but there was something sort of romantic about how cozy it was as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the single sink. “I don’t have an extra toothbrush,” Jack said apologetically as he squeezed toothpaste onto his own toothbrush. “But there’s mouthwash and floss. And soap if you need to wash your face. Feel free to use whatever.” 

Eric was reaching for the mouthwash when a familiar little tub next to it caught his eye. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t expect you to use the same face cream as Beyoncé!” No wonder Jack’s skin was so smooth.

“Used to go to her brow guy too,” Jack said.

“No!” Eric tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Jack got his brows done—by Beyoncé’s guy, no less!—but he supposed it made sense. He’d done a lot of red carpet events with Ava, and there were those Body Issue photos…

“He’s my mom’s guy too, so I got to keep him in the divorce.”

“Okay, you are definitely introducing me,” Eric said as he inspected his own eyebrows in the mirror. “Before we do the photography and PR photos for the new book.”

“Deal,” Jack said.

They really hadn’t discussed that Jack would sleep on the right side of the bed and Eric would take the left, but it was the way they’d ended up the first time they’d napped together and it felt right. Eric’s eyes closed as soon as his head hit the pillow, but Jack was rummaging through the nightstand drawer. Looking for a condom, maybe? Jack had to be up in like three hours but if he’d gotten a second wind, Eric could probably summon one, too. He rolled toward Jack, who’d settled on his side facing Eric.

“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, what is that?” It wasn’t a condom, that was for sure.

“This?” Jack pulled at his shirt, an old championship tee from one of his first years with the Kings. “I know I should be repping the Falcs, but it’s comfortable..”

“Not your shirt, you moose. That.” Eric touched the nasal strip on the bridge of Jack’s nose. 

“Deviated septum. If you don’t want to listen to me snore all night…”

“Is it weird that I think it’s kind of cute?” 

“It’s not the weirdest thing you’ve said about me.”

“Your butt could have its own zip code. I stand by that.”

Jack huffed out a laugh and pulled Eric close. “Sleep well, bud,” was the last thing Eric heard before he fell asleep.

And Jack did snore a little, but Eric didn’t mind.

At the beginning of February, a stomach bug ravaged its way through the kids’ hockey team. 

Last week, Eric had been in the middle of his morning workout when he received a call from Jesse requesting he pick up the kids. “They’ve both been puking all night, I’m gonna have to keep them out of school.”

“So keep them out of school,” Eric said. “You’ll need to call the attendance line to let them know, and it’s a good idea to follow up with their teachers to get any assignments or homework.”

“I can’t miss work. I have a meeting at ten.”

“Christian?” 

“At a fitness influencer conference in Orlando.”

Eric could not roll his eyes hard enough. “Well, I have a full schedule today too, so you’re going to have to figure it out.” 

“But my meeting—” 

“Not my problem,” Eric said simply, not really caring what Jesse (or anybody) thought of him for not immediately stepping in to take care of the kids. “You tell the kids I love them and hope they feel better soon,” he added. 

He of course felt terrible that the kids felt terrible, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t the tiniest bit happy that it had all gone down during Jesse’s custodial week. If it were his week, he’d figure it out. He’d rearrange his schedule to be home with the kids, make any necessary doctors’ appointments, contact the school. But it wasn’t his week, and he was actually relieved he’d been granted this reprieve.

Now the universe seemed to be punishing him for delighting in Jesse’s misery because getting out of bed this morning, he was hit by a wave of vertigo that sent him crashing back onto the mattress. 

He laid back and closed his eyes, waited for the room to stop spinning before he tried again. The kids would be up soon and he had to make their breakfast and get them to school. 

Maybe he just needed electrolytes, he told himself as he unsteadily made his way to the kitchen. He found a bottle of Gatorade in the back of the pantry and sipped at it while he made the kids’ toast and—not eggs. Just thinking about eggs made his stomach do unpleasant flip-flops, so he added a banana and some yogurt to their plates.

“Dad, why are you still in your pajamas?” Sam asked as they ate.

“Is it Pajama Day?” Lizzie asked hopefully. If Lizzie had her way, every day would be pajama day.

“No, hon, I’m just feeling a little under the weather,” Eric told her. “I’m gonna stay home from work today and rest.”

“Like when we were sick last week.” Sam nodded knowingly. “Papa took us to work and let us play video games in the conference room.”

“Did he?” Eric tried to keep the judgmental tone out of his voice. 

“Yeah, but it would have been better to stay home,” Sam acknowledged. “Are you going to play video games?”

“I think I’ll probably just take a nap so my body can get better faster,” Eric told the kids. “And speaking of bodies, you two need to finish breakfast so you have energy for school. We have to leave in ten minutes.”

When he got home from morning drop-off, Eric looked at his calendar to see what could be canceled or rescheduled. Fortunately, he’d planned to spend the day working on the outline for the next cookbook—under contract but still in the very early developmental stage—and then doing some research for some upcoming videos. None of it had a hard deadline or involved seeing other people. He’d be able to get a few things done from his sickbed.

Unfortunately, he and Jack had plans to take the kids out for bowling and pizza tonight. Yes, it was a school night, but it was the only night this week that Jack was available. He had a game tomorrow, then a roadie, and when he got back the kids would be at Jesse’s. 

It wasn’t just bowling and pizza, though. Tonight, Eric and Jack were planning to tell the kids they were dating. 

Putting it off wouldn’t be the end of the world, but the thought of not seeing Jack tonight did make Eric feel worse. 

After Eric dropped the kids off at school, he texted Jack and Caitlin to let them know about the change of plans. As he expected, Caitlin offered to drop the kids home after school. Jack didn’t respond, but Eric knew he’d be at practice all morning.

Still feeling a little woozy, Eric took to the couch with his laptop. It was more comfortable than his desk, and he could work lying down. But even half-propped up on pillows, trying to focus made his headache worse, so he set the laptop aside and closed his eyes. 

He’d been asleep for a couple hours when his phone woke him up. Jack’s face—a Falcs-official PR photo that Eric had stolen to use as his contact picture—was on the screen.

“Hi, honey,” Eric rasped. “How was practice?” 

“Hey, bud,” Eric heard a door slam and figured Jack was getting in the car to leave the rink. “I just saw your text.”

“Sorry,” Eric apologized. “I’m pretty sure I caught whatever bug is going around. Rain check for tonight?” He knew he sounded pitiful, but he didn’t care. 

“You sure?” Eric thought he detected a note of disappointment in Jack’s voice, too. “I can bring pizza over. Bowling might have to wait…or, actually, I can bring my Xbox. I think there might be a bowling game on there? We can probably download one.”

Bless Jack Zimmermann’s soul, he was trying so hard. “The kids would probably love that, but I’d never forgive myself if you get sick. You’re gonna be traveling all week.”

Jack sighed. “You’re right. Okay—” he cut out for a moment and Eric figured he was transferring the call to his car’s audio system “—maybe I can take the kids out anyway? It’ll give you a chance to rest.”

“By yourself? Sweetheart, I can’t let you do that,” Eric protested. “We’ll be fine. I haven’t actually thrown up or anything, I’m just dizzy and a little achy. The kids have been wanting to watch the new Pixar movie that just hit streaming, and I’m not so beat down that I can’t heat up some Spaghetti-Os for dinner.”

“That actually sounds pretty dire,” Jack said dryly. “Do you even have canned food in your house?”

“For emergencies like this, yes,” Eric said. Jack laughed, but Eric didn’t have the energy to be indignant.

“I’m coming over,” Jack said again, more emphatically this time. “Go back to bed and get some rest.”

Jack arrived a few hours later, carrying a bunch of plastic shopping bags and a cup of something steaming in one hand. “I think they call this a Medicine Ball,” he said, handing it to Eric. “There’s also some soup in here, and Gatorade. And some Popsicles. My mom always used to give me Popsicles when I was sick.” Eric sipped at the tea and watched, slightly stunned, as Jack put a box of all-fruit Popsicles in the freezer and two bottles of Gatorade in the fridge. He set a third bottle of Gatorade and the soup—Eric could tell by the label on top that it was from the hot bar at the fancy grocery store—on the counter. “What time does school get out?” he asked as he pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with Gatorade. Lemon lime. How did Jack know that was Eric’s favorite flavor?

“For…what?” Eric asked, still a little stunned and also a little dizzy from standing to answer the door and following Jack into the kitchen. Things had been much better on the couch.

“I know you said we should reschedule, but I figured I could take the kids bowling anyway. If that’s okay.” 

“They get out at two-thirty, but Cait’s gonna drop them off.” Eric took a seat at the table as another wave of vertigo hit him. Jack took the seat across from him and slid the glass of Gatorade toward him.

“Cool. Would it be easier if I pick them up instead?”

Lord almighty. Jack was already so very much Eric’s type, but the fact that Jack enjoyed the kids and was so earnest about really getting to know them was beyond endearing. And hot. If Eric wasn’t feeling so miserable, he’d probably jump Jack right here in his kitchen. Instead he said, “The school won’t let you pick them up if you aren’t on the list. Which we should add you to, if you picking them up is going to be a regular thing.” He suddenly felt warm, but maybe he was developing a fever. He met Jack’s eye and Jack grinned. His cheeks looked a little flushed too. “But it’s probably too late for today,” Eric added.

“Right. I didn’t think of that, but it makes sense. Do you mind if I wait here?”

“I really don’t want to give you whatever bug I’ve got,” Eric protested.

Jack shrugged. “I understand where you’re coming from, but all the guys with kids have already had it and I share a locker room with them, so I figure I’m either next in line or immune.”

“Are you saying you’re the one who brought this into my life?” Eric chirped. “Because I wasn’t even with the kids when they were sick last week.”

The brief look of horror that crossed Jack’s face was priceless.

“I’m kidding,” Eric reassured him. “This happens all the time with kids, I’m used to it. I’d love for you to stay if you’re not worried about getting sick, just know that I’m not very good company right now.”

“I’m here because I want to be here,” Jack said. “You don’t have to entertain me. Just let me take care of you. If you want to rest, rest. I can clean up in here—” Jack indicated the breakfast dishes in the sink that Eric had been too tired to deal with this morning “—or just go over stuff for tomorrow’s game.”

That, too, was endearing. 

“Is that my hoodie?” Jack asked, and for the first time Eric realized he was wearing the Falcs hoodie Jack had left last week. He’d meant to wash and return it, but it smelled like Jack and was still new enough that it was soft on the inside. On a day like today, both of those things were everything.

“I’m breaking it in for you,” Eric said, a touch defensive. 

Jack smiled. “It looks good on you. Maybe you should keep it.”

Eric felt warm again, and this time it had nothing to do with having a fever.

Cait walked the kids to the door when she dropped them off and didn’t say a word—or look even remotely surprised—when Jack was the one to greet her. Eric couldn’t quite hear them over the noise of the kids flinging their backpacks to the floor and taking off their coats and shoes, but he caught snatches of their conversation: “sick…resting … helping out …” And then, in response to something Cait said that Eric didn’t catch, “… about six weeks, yeah.”

Interesting. Eric would have to ask Jack about that later, because the kids had found him on the couch and had their own questions.

“Are you better? Are we going bowling?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Eric confirmed, “but I’m still not feeling great so Jack is going to take you. If you still want to go.”

“Yeah, we want to go!” Lizzie squealed. She grabbed her brother’s hands and they began jumping up and down, chanting, “Bowling with Jack! Bowling with Jack!”

“If you want to go bowling, I need you both to go put your school things away and wash your hands,” Eric told them. “You can get a snack, too.” Eric hadn’t made anything for them, but they knew where the snack cupboard was. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Eric asked Jack when the kids were out of earshot. “They can be a lot when they’re excited.” 

“I figure at some point the novelty will wear off, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts,” Jack said with an adorably tentative smile. “They might not be as excited when I’m asking them to eat their vegetables or pick up their shoes.” Eric tried not to read too much into that, but it sounded more and more like Jack was beginning to think of him—of them—as long-term.

“Jack, do you want a snack?” Sam called from the kitchen.

“Euh … what do you have?”

“No protein bars, I’m afraid,” Eric chirped. 

“Applesauce and Goldfish!” 

“If you don’t have a firm stance on the great applesauce versus Goldfish debate, you’d better come up with one,” Eric advised. “It’s a hot topic in this house.”

“Can I have both?” 

“Dad makes us pick one!”

Jack looked momentarily panicked, as if making the wrong choice would disappoint one or both kids and send his stock plummeting. Eric took pity on him. “Y’all can have both today,” he gave in. 

“Yes.” Jack pumped his fist in the air and booked it into the kitchen to tell the kids. 

Twenty minutes later, Jack and the kids were on their way to the bowling alley. “Get a strike for me,” Eric told them. 

“We’ll all do our best,” Jack said, and the kids nodded in agreement like they’d already discussed this. Jack had a determined look in his eyes, though. It figured he’d take bowling just as seriously as he took hockey.

Eric turned on the TV and half-slept/half-watched the local news for the next couple of hours, then finally felt well enough to haul himself off the couch and take a shower. It was amazing how much a shower could fix. By the time he was dressed and toweling off his hair, he felt almost human. And Jack and the kids had been gone for a really long time.

Jack’s text came through right after Eric had that thought. “That took a little longer than I expected. Okay if I take them to dinner?”

Eric gave his okay and settled back on the couch to try to get a little bit of work done. He was deep into research for his annual video on the best local Valentine’s Day desserts when Jack and the kids walked in. Jack was carrying a box of what Eric assumed was leftover pizza, Sam was wearing sunglasses Eric didn’t remember him owning, and Eric couldn’t even see Lizzie because her entire body was obscured by…a giant stuffed red panda.

“Hey, Sweetpeas,” Eric greeted them. “How was your date with Jack?”

“It was awesome!” Sam bounded onto the couch. “Sorry,” he added when Eric winced. “I forgot you’re not feeling well.”

Lizzie gently set the red panda next to Eric. “Jack won this for me, but we decided you can have him until you feel better.”

“That’s so kind of you, sweetie. Is this red panda authorized to practice medicine? Because I think I’m starting to feel better already.” Lizzie giggled. “What about bowling? Tell me everything.”

“I got a strike,” Lizzie said proudly. 

“Great job!” Eric gave her a high five. “What about you, Sam?”

“A strike and two spares,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

“Nice!”

“Four strikes and two spares,” Jack said, not that Eric had asked. 

“Was that with the bumpers or without?” Eric couldn’t resist chirping. 

“Without! And he let us order mini corn dogs and they brought them to our lane!” Sam said, bouncing on his toes a little.

“Oh yeah? Was that before or after dinner?” Eric nodded at the pizza box Jack was still holding.

“Bowling works up an appetite,” Jack said defensively. “And it was Happy Hour, so it was buy one, get one free.”

“And we played pinball!”

“And we got a cat!” Sam announced.

Eric’s eyebrows shot upward. “Like … a real cat?” He tried to peer around Jack, as if a cat might be lurking somewhere behind him.

“It’s, uh, still at the shelter,” Jack clarified, confirming that the cat Sam spoke of was, indeed, real.

“A real cat.” Eric didn’t know if he should be amused or annoyed. The kids were practically levitating with excitement and Jack… Well, Jack looked just the tiniest bit sheepish.

“It’s not ours!” Sam rushed to explain. “We know we can’t have a cat here.”

“It’s mine,” Jack said. “I’ve been thinking about getting one for a while, and I asked the kids to help me pick one out.”

“Jack said we can come play with her whenever we want,” Lizzie said.

“Oh, did he?”

“And help take care of her when he has roadies. If you say it’s okay.”

“I can hire a service,” Jack said.

“No!” Lizzie wailed. “We want to take care of our cat.”

Eric was finding it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face. “Oh, so now it’s ours? Which is it, Mr. Zimmermann?” He knew Jack remembered their conversation about the kids wanting a pet, how Lizzie had specifically asked for a cat for Christmas.

“It’s my cat,” Jack insisted. “But Sam and Lizzie are welcome to come over and see her whenever they want. As long as it’s okay with you.”

“Show him the pictures!” Lizzie said, tugging Jack toward Eric. “Dad, she’s so cute.”

“Do you want to see pictures?” Jack asked, sounding like a proud new parent as he pulled his phone from his pocket. 

“Go ahead.” At this point Eric wasn’t even humoring them. He really did want to see the cat that had charmed the three people he most cared about.

“There’s video, too,” Sam said. “Don’t forget to show him the video.”

Jack started with the pictures. The cat was a tiny—“eight weeks old,” Jack said—ball of black fur with an oval-shaped white patch on its chest. In the first picture, taken from a distance, she sat on the top level of a cat tree, a little hesitant but bright-eyed and alert. It didn’t seem like it took her very long to warm up to Jack and the kids. The successive pictures and video showed her batting at a feather toy and allowing the kids to pet her.

“They didn’t have any all-black cats,” Jack explained when Eric pointed out the white spot.

“But that’s okay,” Sam said, “because the white spot is the same shape as a puck.”

“See,” Jack said. “She’s perfect for us.”

“Let me guess,” Eric said. “You’re naming her ‘Puck.’”

“Too on-the-nose?” Jack asked.

“It’s actually kind of perfect,” Eric admitted.

“Thank God. We made a tag for her collar at the pet store.”

“You are ridiculous,” Eric said. “All three of you. When do you pick her up?”

“After this next roadie. I didn’t want to bring her home and then go out of town right away. Plus, I need time to get supplies.”

“He said we can help pick out her bed and toys,” Lizzie said.

“After your homework,” Jack said, in a tone that sounded like they’d already discussed this. “That was the deal.” To Eric, he said, “Do you mind if I stay a little longer? I thought it would be easier on you if I take care of homework tonight. And I did tell them they can help me pick out some things for Puck.”

Two hours later, homework was complete, Jack had spent a small fortune at Chewy.com, and the kids were in bed. Jack actually groaned when he pushed the red panda aside and sank into the opposite side of the couch from Eric. 

Eric tucked his feet under Jack’s thighs and leaned back against the pillows he’d been using to prop himself up all day. He would have preferred to use Jack as his pillow, but he was still mindful of keeping his germs to himself.

“I always thought retirement would be easier than hockey, but now I’m not so sure,” Jack said.

Eric couldn’t resist laughing at that. Poor Jack looked slightly dazed, like he’d just come to after taking a puck to the head. “You just experienced what they call ‘trial by fire.’ You get used to it, though I’m not sure the exhaustion ever goes away. It’s worth it, though. Even on the rough days. Which, I might add, you got them on a very good day. They didn’t even complain about homework.”

“I know it won’t last,” Jack said. “But I wanted to get off on the right foot with them.”

“Honey, you can do no wrong in their eyes,” Eric said. Or mine, he silently added. “But you might want to tone it down, just a little. I don’t want them to expect the world every time you come over.”

“We were going to take them bowling anyway,” Jack said. “The sunglasses and red panda were from the claw game.” That he’d probably spent a small fortune on, Eric wanted to point out, but he held his tongue. “And dinner was so you wouldn’t have to worry about cooking.”

“You bought my kids a cat,” Eric reminded him.

“I bought myself a cat,” Jack insisted. “I just … wanted to make sure they all like each other.” The more Jack tried to talk his way out of what he’d done, the more adorably flustered he got.

“Oh? And why is that?” Eric couldn’t resist pushing, just a little.

“Because some of the pet listings said they aren’t good with kids, or other pets. I thought if I make sure she gets along with the kids, that’s one hurdle cleared.” 

“Lord. Isn’t that putting the cart before the horse?”

“I plan on spending a lot of time with you guys.”

“You are ridiculous,” Eric said fondly.

“You’re okay with it, right?” Jack asked. “I know we didn’t talk about it. If taking care of Puck when I’m out of town is too much, I understand.”

“That you probably should have asked about first,” Eric agreed. “Not that I would’ve said no, but because it would’ve been awful to get their hopes up if it didn’t work out.” 

“Yeah, I thought of that after I told them they could help take care of her. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. This is still really new for you. I’m just wondering … how long have you been planning to get a cat? I had no idea you even wanted one.”

“Euh…” 

“Jack. Laurent. Zimmermann.”

“I knew I would regret telling you my middle name.”

“Stop deflecting. Did you let my kids talk you into getting a cat?”

“We were just going to look.”

“Oh my lord, I’m in love with the biggest pushover in Providence.” Eric pulled one of the pillows out from behind him and lobbed it at Jack’s chest. “I hope you’re not as easily manipulated on the ice because—”

“You’re in love with me?” 

Eric hadn’t meant for to say it, not this soon. He thought about walking it back; he could probably blame it on being sick and not thinking clearly but…Jack didn’t seem upset. Or even all that surprised. 

“I know it’s fast,” Eric whispered, afraid that if he said it too loudly it would scare Jack away.

“Doesn’t seem fast,” Jack murmured. “I, euh, told Caitlin about us. She guessed when she dropped the kids off this afternoon.”

Eric nodded, heart beating so fast it might burst out of his chest. 

“I probably should have talked to you about that, too, but I’ve been so happy it’s hard to hide. I think people are starting to suspect. I guess she and Chowder figured it out a few weeks ago because you wore my jersey to the game. And I’ve been bringing a lot of baked goods to morning practice. And…smiling more?”

“Oops,” Eric said. He should have known he’d slip up somewhere. But not as much as Jack, apparently.

“But Cait said the kids tell Mia and Alex everything, so they were probably going to find out as soon as we tell them, anyway.”

“I admit I did not account for that,” Eric said. “And if Chowder knows, it’s only a matter of time before Tater knows. And if Tater knows…”

“I should probably talk to George sooner rather than later,” Jack finished.

“What are you gonna tell her?” 

“That I’m in love with somebody and we should start working on an official coming out plan.”

It was a good thing Eric was already semi-lying down, because if he weren’t he’d need a fainting couch, stat.

“We can wait, if you’re not ready,” Jack quickly added when Eric didn’t—because he was still processing everything Jack had just said—say anything. “Obviously, I’ll wait until we’ve told the kids. And just because I’m telling George, that doesn’t meant mean we have to do anything public right away. But Family Skate is next month, and I don’t want everyone to think I’m just bringing my friend and his kids. I want them to know who you are to me.”

Boyfriend. Jack probably meant boyfriend, or partner, or partner-and-his-kids, but the event was Family Skate. And Jack Zimmermann did not do things halfway. He’d just bought the kids a cat because Eric couldn’t have one at his place!

“Is that okay?” Jack asked. He was starting to get that anxious look he’d had when he first confessed his feelings to Eric. “If we plan to tell the guys on the team by Family Skate?”

Lord, this man. How had Ava Cassidy ever let him go? Her loss, because he was Eric’s now. “You know,” Eric finally said, “it’s a good thing I’m not feeling well because if I weren’t so worried about getting you sick, I’d kiss you silly right now.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, boss.” Jack rapped on the doorjamb of George’s open office and held out a caramel macchiato, her standing order when they got coffee after their occasional morning runs together. “Got a minute?”

George looked up from the paperwork on her desk. “For you, I might even have two.” She raised an eyebrow when Jack closed the door behind him. “Oh, this is that kind of meeting.”

It was. Things with Eric were going well. Really well. Though it was still new, their relationship felt like putting on an old, worn-in T-shirt: comfortable, comforting, just-right. Jack felt settled, steady, in a way he hadn’t in a long time. 

Eric had been staying over more often lately when it worked out for both of them; at some point, Jack’s fridge and kitchen cabinets had gone from almost empty to full-to-bursting with butter, spices, and more types of flour than he’d previously known existed. And Eric and Puck, whom Jack had officially brought home two weeks ago, had taken to each other like a duck takes to water. 

It didn’t surprise Jack that Eric, the person who’d been most skeptical when Jack impulsively adopted a cat, would be the one to win her over. Sometimes, Jack would come home late from an evening game to find them both asleep on the couch while the day’s sports highlights played on TV, Puck curled up on Eric’s chest like she belonged there. Jack could relate. After Ava, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever be able to feel such ease with somebody else. Now, he almost felt like he should send Ava a thank you note for breaking his heart.

The ease with which they fit together didn’t necessarily mean everything was easy. Much like when he was with Ava, Jack’s travel schedule made it difficult to be physically present when he really wanted to be, and Eric’s schedule had its own challenges. Having the kids every other week meant he tried to cram extra work into the weeks he didn’t have them so he could make the most of the time they did have together. And a few recent dinners and outings with the kids had offered Jack a glimpse into what Eric called “the darker side of parenting.” Eric assured Jack that sibling bickering, rough days at school, and all-out tantrums over homework and chores were typical kid stuff, and Jack was still all-in, but they’d very much reached the point were they could be their real, messy selves with one other. He was grateful the kids had so quickly made room for him in their lives, but apparently his days of going to the bathroom without somebody yelling at him through the door demanding snacks were over. (He tried venting about this on a call with his parents, but all Papa did was laugh knowingly and say, “Get used to it, kid.)

But they were making it work. Even when the days were long and they were too tired for much more than a quick phone call before bed. 

The next step was to tell people. Jack didn’t want to make a big coming out announcement. Not yet, maybe not ever. He’d already been through a very public “coming out,” of sorts, when he and Ava went public with their relationship—a meticulously coordinated effort that had involved both of their PR teams and a People photo shoot. He knew the stakes were different this time—coming out as a bisexual hockey player, even if he wasn’t the first out player in the league, wouldn’t go unnoticed. But he didn’t have to hand them the story. He and Eric had discussed it and decided that after telling the people who mattered, they’d keep on living their lives and see what happened.

They’d already started telling their friends and family. After Caitlin Chow guessed they were together, Jack told her to go ahead and tell Chris. And then it hadn’t seemed fair to tell him and not Tater, since Eric was close to both of them. If Tater was surprised, he hid it well. He seemed relieved, more than anything, that Eric had found somebody “worthy of his pie.” The only problem with coming out to Tater, Jack realized after the fact, was that he’d taken to sidling up to Jack in the locker room and saying, heedless of the volume of his voice, things like, “Tell Bitty we’re running out of blueberry jam.”

They’d told Eric’s parents, too. They were surprised—Jack wasn’t sure if it was because Eric was finally dating again, or because he was dating Jack specifically—but happy. (And sworn to secrecy. Eric had threatened to skip his annual Fourth of July visit, which was apparently a big deal in the Bittle family, if they outed Jack and Eric before they were ready.) 

Now, they were ready to come out to the rest of the team. Hence the impromptu meeting with George. Jack let her take a long sip of her coffee before he said, “I’m seeing somebody.” 

“Bittle?” Judging by the knowing smirk she was unsuccessfully trying to hide behind her coffee cup, this was hardly a revelation.

“How’d you know?” 

“Please,” she scoffed. “All the pies in the break room? It’s been a while since he’s been in to film stuff with the team, yet they keep appearing. And I know the difference between a grocery store pie and an Eric Bittle original.”

“Right,” Jack said, remembering Caitlin had said something similar.

“I also saw the two of you out jogging the other morning,” George said in a slightly accusatory tone. “The day you said you were too busy to run with me.”

“You—?” Jack started, belatedly realizing that running his and George’s usual route with Eric probably hadn’t been the best idea.

“You were too busy staring at his ass to notice me running right past you. Almost accidentally-on-purpose bumped into you, but I didn’t want to put you on the spot.”

“Sometimes mornings are the only time we have together,” Jack mumbled, wondering—but not really caring—if anybody else had spotted them on their runs.

“Hey, you don’t need to justify anything. You want to run that early instead of cuddle with your man, that’s your business,” George said in a tone that suggested Jack’s priorities might be slightly skewed.

“I figure there’ll be time for that once I retire.”

“Well, that’s a declaration of love if I’ve ever heard one,” George said with a sly smile. “Damn, Zimmermann, that’s actually kind of romantic.”

“I have my moments. It’s not all hockey all the time.”

George laughed at that. “Obviously.” Then, “Are you coming out? Should I call PR in to be part of this conversation? Get all hands on deck?” She picked up her pen and flipped to a page in her notebook that was already filled with bulletpointed notes in her neat, blocky handwriting. Jack guessed she’d been gaming out multiple coming out scenarios for a while.

“Not yet. Eric’s on board with whatever I decide, but I don’t want to make a big announcement to the media.”

“There’s more than one way to come out,” George said. She wrote a big “NO” next to one of the bulletpoints. “You’re not the first, so there won’t be as much pressure to do it the right—” she made air quotes with her fingers—“way.”

“I know I’ll have to address it in some way at some point,” Jack acknowledged, “but we’re not ready for the media circus. I don’t want Eric and his kids to be overwhelmed when the news breaks. Eric’s well-known here, but once the national media and Ava’s fans find out I’m seeing somebody new, it’ll be on a different level.”

Jack would know. Being in love with Ava had been easy, but Jack had always been very aware that her fans and the media were equal partners in their relationship. As Ava’s star rose, they couldn’t go to the grocery store or grab breakfast from the café down the street without the somebody seeing them and posting pictures of the encounter all over social media. Things would probably be like that for a little while, once he and Eric went public. Jack didn’t think it would last. The news cycle would move on once somebody—probably Ava herself—did something more newsworthy. 

But Jack had also grown up in the public eye. There’d been a brief moment, during his arrogant and cocky teen hockey prodigy years, that it had been kind of exciting to see photographers in the bleachers and know they were there because of him. Most of the time, though, it wasn’t like that. It hadn’t been like that during awards season when he was four and paparazzi bombarded him and Maman as they left a doctor’s office in LA, Jack miserable with a high fever and sore throat. Or when a random fellow tourist caught him taking a surfing lesson in Hawaii during his most awkward stage of puberty, and sold the photos to a gossip website. He would do anything in his power to protect his kids—or, in this case, his partner’s kids—from a similar experience.

“I know it’s going to happen no matter what,” Jack continued, “but if we can quietly come out to friends and family first, get our team behind us … that’s why I’m here. Chow and Tater already know, but I’m ready to come out to the rest of team. Unless it’s going to be a problem.”

“It won’t be a problem,” George quickly reassured him. “The guys know and love Eric. Most of them will probably be surprised about you, but you won’t be the first guy in the league to come out, so you’ve got that going for you.”

“Never thought I’d be grateful to Kent Parson for going first in something,” Jack muttered, “but he did make that easier on me, at least.”

George, who’d been around long enough that she’d almost certainly had heard the rumors about Jack’s history with Parson, nodded in understanding. 

“I invited them to Family Skate,” Jack added. 

“That’s in two weeks,” George said. “Do you want to make a formal announcement to the guys before that? And by formal, I mean you can just casually tell them after practice or on the bus. You don’t have to prepare a speech.”

Jack huffed out a laugh. He hadn’t even known George for a year, but already she knew him better than most people. “Yeah, probably not a speech,” he agreed.

George took another sip of her coffee and Jack thought the conversation was over, but then she leveled a sly look at him and said, “Now that the logistics are out of the way, I expect deets during our next run. Assuming you haven’t permanently ditched me for your boyfriend.” Running together had made Jack and George fairly candid with one another, but they tried to keep a professional distance while at work. Discussing coming out, which would affect his work and the Falcs org as a whole, was a fair topic. Actual details about Jack’s sex life were decidedly not workplace appropriate, but all bets were off when they were just trying to get through a brisk six miles before dawn. 

Jack laughed. “Next Monday? Eric has the kids, so he can’t run early.”

“I see how it is,” George said, affecting a mock pout. “I guess being your second choice is better than nothing.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’re more my speed. Eric’s almost too fast for me,” Jack admitted.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Jack shrugged. “It’s been a blow to my ego too, but at least running with him is good for my conditioning.”

“Seems like something’s been good for your conditioning,” George said. Jack groaned. “Fine, I’ll stop chirping you about it until Monday.” Jack thought the conversation was over and stood to leave but then George asked, “Has Eric ever told you how we met?”

“Through Chow, right? Because they played together in college?”

George shook her head. “That’s just a happy coincidence. I met Eric when I tried to recruit him.” At Jack’s obvious surprise, she added, “I’m not surprised he’s never mentioned it. Negotiations didn’t get very far. It was clear even then that his heart was somewhere else. As he put it, hockey was a means to an end to get out of Georgia. He never wanted to play professionally, even after I convinced him there was always a place for a scrappy little winger like him. I was disappointed, but I respected his decision then and I respect it now. Asshole ex-husband aside, he’s done well for himself.”

“I’m getting the feeling people didn’t really like the guy,” Jack said; based on his limited firsthand experience with Jesse he couldn’t exactly disagree.

“He’s definitely better off,” George said without elaborating. “Look,” she finally said, “I’m not going to tell you not to let this relationship become a distraction. By my estimate, you’ve been playing through distractions your entire career.”

“Yeah,” Jack said slowly, still not quite sure what George was getting at. 

“You’re playing better than you have in years. And Eric’s happier than I’ve seen him in years. What I’m saying is, don’t fuck this up for either of you. I’d hate to lose you as my sometimes-running partner.”

Jack grinned. “Not planning on it.”

Jack told the team later that week. After his talk with George he told the coaches, who kept the team on the ice after practice so Jack could make his announcement.

Announcement. It seemed so formal, and part of Jack resented that he had to do this at all. Straight people didn’t have to do this. But he’d do it for Eric, for them, because their future together hinged on getting this right.

“Before you hit the showers, Zimmermann has something he wants to say,” Coach Bradley said bluntly, and suddenly all eyes were on Jack. Tater, who knew what was coming, rested a supportive hand on Jack’s shoulder. It grounded him, gave him the courage to say what he needed to say. Because this was still hard, even when he expected it to go well.

“Euh,” Jack started, “you all know Eric Bittle, right?”

Most everyone nodded. He saw a few guys mouth, “Who?” in confusion. Somebody, Jack wasn’t sure who, said, “I love Bitty!” That put Jack at ease.

“Yeah, I do too,” Jack blurted out, which was not how he’d planned to begin. “I’m, uh, seeing him. I mean, we’re dating. You might be seeing him and his kids with me more often, and I wanted you to know why.”

There was a beat of silence as everybody seemed to process Jack’s news. Griggs broke the tension. “Dude, you’re gay?” he asked incredulously, and Jack realized that a lot of these kids were too young to have been aware of the rumors-that-weren’t-really-rumors about him and Kent. “But you were married to—”

Stoner elbowed him in the ribs. “There’s such a thing as being bi, dummy.” He looked at Jack. “Is that—?”

Jack exhaled, relieved that so far, nobody had stormed out of the room in disgust. “Yeah, I’m bi.”

“Cool, man.” Stoner held out a hand for a fist bump. “So’s my girlfriend.”

“Does this mean you and Ava Cassidy aren’t getting back together?” somebody else asked.

“Ava and I are never getting back together,” Jack said, somehow still surprised after a lifetime in the sport that some guys really were that dense. “She wrote a song about it.”

“Is that why you guys broke up?” somebody else asked.

“Ava and I broke up for a lot of reasons, none of them having to do with my sexuality,” Jack said. As invasive as the question was, the press would almost certainly try to run with that angle. Better to practice his response here than be caught off guard on camera. 

Jack allowed a few more questions before everyone seemed to lose interest. “One more thing before you all go,” he said, and for some reason this was the hardest part because it involved asking for something. “Eric and I have been telling our friends and family we’re dating, but I’m not making an official announcement. Yet. So that means…” he paused, trying to find a way to word the next part without coming off as demanding, when Tater interrupted. 

“It means you don’t blab his and Little B’s personal business,” Tater said with just enough edge to make it a threat. Jack made a mental note to bring in a few jars of Tater’s beloved blueberry jam as thanks.

“Wait, if you’re with Bitty now, does that mean you get as much pie as you want?” somebody asked as everyone began heading back to the locker room.

“Yeah,” Jack said, grateful for an easy question. “That’s one of the fringe benefits.”

“Lucky,” somebody else murmured. Jack couldn’t refute that. He knew, every day, how lucky he was.

Walking to his car afterward, Jack felt giddy with relief. It was pretty much the opposite of how he’d felt the first time he’d come out to somebody. That time, it hadn’t exactly been planned: in the aftermath of his overdose, he’d come clean to his parents about a lot of things, including his relationship with Kent Parson. (He supposed that, technically, Kent was the first person he’d come out to. But they’d never talked about it.) Maman and Papa had taken it well; with time and maturity Jack had come to realize that their biggest fear wasn’t of having a queer son, but of not having a son at all. 

Over the years he’d come out again and again, to people he trusted. Including teammates. But never to his entire team all at once. It was a weight lifted from his shoulders.

He rode that high to the small strip mall he always passed on the way home, where he picked up dinner from a Chinese restaurant he and Eric had recently discovered. It was their new Tuesday night tradition, with or without the kids. Impulsively, he also stopped at the florist two doors down and bought a dozen roses. 

When he arrived at the apartment, it was filled with the aroma of freshly baked cookies, but instead of in the kitchen where Jack usually found him, Eric was on the living room floor, his entire upper half hidden behind the couch. 

“You can’t hide forever, you adorable menace,” Eric threatened, voice slightly muffled. “Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to come out.”

“I actually just did,” Jack said.

“Oh!” Eric yelped. He backed out from behind the couch. “You’re gonna give a man a heart attack, mister,” he admonished. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“It’s okay. I was admiring the view.”

Eric twisted around and made a face. “You mean—?” he asked, placing a hand on his ass.  

“Yeah,” Jack admitted. George hadn’t been wrong when she’d called him out for being distracted during that run. He held out the roses. “These are for you.”

“You know you don’t have to spoil me like this,” Eric gently chided. “Not that I mind. Just, you know I don’t expect this stuff, right?”

“I know,” Jack said. “But I like spoiling you. Besides, you spoil me, too.” What else could he call taking care of Puck when he was away, the encouraging little notes left on the fridge and bathroom mirror, and an endless supply of baked goods? 

“So what’s this about coming out? You finally told the boys? How’d it go?” Eric asked.

“It was actually good practice for if I ever do have to do a press conference about this.” Jack told Eric about some of the questions the guys had asked, including the one about getting back together with Ava.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Eric’s face. “Oh lord, I never even thought they’d go there.” 

“Right? I’m not, obviously,” Jack quickly added. “But I think some of the guys think being bi means I get to have more partners?”

Eric sighed. “Knowing hockey players, you’re probably right. They probably think this means you and Ava and Luke can be a throuple or something.” Eric’s grimace told Jack exactly how he felt about that.

“Hard pass. Luke’s not my type, and Ava really isn’t anymore, either.” 

“Oh? And what might your type be?” Eric asked, all big eyes and feigned innocence.

“You know.” Jack hooked a finger around one of Eric’s belt loops and pulled him in for a kiss. They stopped only when Puck darted out from her hiding spot under the couch and skidded to a stop at their feet.

“Aww, is someone jealous?” Eric handed the flowers back to Jack so he could pick Puck up and hold her in his arms like a baby. “I’m sorry, but your papa is so handsome I just can’t help myself,” he cooed. Puck signaled her agreement—or maybe just her pleasure at being back in Eric’s arms—by nuzzling into his chest and purring.

“Anyway,” Jack said, “everyone was pretty excited that I’m dating you. Don’t be surprised if you start getting requests for more pie.” 

“Well, that’s a little easier to arrange than a threesome with your ex,” Eric said agreeably. “Was anybody…upset?” 

It was a reasonable question. The Falconers, as an organization, seemed to be on the right side of progress. They held annual Pride Nights for the fans and took part in Providence’s annual Pride parade. Everybody in management Jack had talked to about coming out had expressed their unequivocal support. But Jack knew that privately, a lot of players in the league felt different. 

“If they were, they had the good sense not to say anything to my face about it,” Jack told him. “It probably helped that Tater’s taken it upon himself to be our personal enforcer,” he added. 

“Good ol’ Tater,” Eric said fondly. “Remind me to send him some extra jam as thanks.”

Jack chuckled, amused that he and Eric were so in sync. “Already thought of that.”

A timer went off in the kitchen, startling both of them and Puck, who leaped from Eric’s arms and bolted under the couch with a crazed look in her eyes. Jack followed Eric into the kitchen with the takeout bags and flowers. He put the flowers in a vase and began unbagging their dinner while Eric pulled a tray of cookies from the oven and critically assessed them, hand on one hip. They looked like sugar cookies but with some sort of spice sprinkled on top.

“Snickerdoodles,” Eric said in response to Jack’s unasked question. “I put cardamom in this batch and changed a few other measurements. They turned out a little flatter than the last ones. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“Good thing I got a double order of steamed veggies,” Jack quipped as he opened the containers. “To balance things out.” 

“Are you saying I’m a bad influence?” Eric asked with a grin. “I promise I’m not trying to sabotage your NHL diet.”

“No, you just wield butter and sugar like weapons,” Jack retorted. 

Eric threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Tools of the trade. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“Does that explain why my pants have gotten tighter since we started dating?” Jack asked with a glance at his waistband, which was indeed a bit more snug than it had been a few weeks ago. Probably not a terrible thing, given how much weight he’d lost after Ava left him, but still. It was new.

“That’s just proof of my love, hon.” 

“Oh, so that’s what you call it,” Jack said, but he couldn’t suppress his smile, or the warmth that flooded his chest. That was the thing about being with Eric. The things that used to stress Jack out somehow made him feel lighter.