Chapter Text
Do you remember? Our story began with Jack Zimmermann's first memory.
Three first memories, to be precise.
Or rather, not precise, because it turns out that the Jack Zimmerman whose story we have been following is not who—or what—we believed him to be.
The Jack Zimmerman we know woke up for the very first time in his life in a cold white room in l'Hôpital Général Juif in Montreal. That was his first memory.
He had never once played hockey.
He had never kissed Kent Parson.
He had never swallowed those pills in a hotel bathroom.
He believed he remembered these things, because memories about them clattered around in his head like shattered ice.
But those memories weren't his.
His true first memory barely counted as a memory at all. It was merely a jumble of sensory/emotional input with no meaning or order, cobbled together from any number of indistinguishable moments. No idea of before and after. No sense of time passing. No story. Only a perfectly constant and simple and wordless now.
He was still half-sedated, his body recovering from the effects of an overdose that happened to someone else. He woke into a world of discomfort. The tube in his throat and the tug of the IV needle in his arm were only part of it. The room was too cold and the blanket was plasticky and thin and wrong. The scratchy edges of the plastic bands on his wrist would have driven him into a rage if he was fully awake. The hum of the lights and beeps of the monitors could have been specifically chosen to set his teeth on edge.
None of that mattered.
What mattered was the warm hand that held tight to his own and the head that rested next to his on the bed. One part of him rejected the touch as wrong, wrong, wrong. But the scent of the hair brushing his cheek and the gentle lullaby humming deep in his bones reached down into something much older than the stolen past that had been inflicted on him.
It didn't matter that it felt wrong, because more than wrong, he felt safe. He drifted back down into sleep, but not before the soft humming stopped and Maman commanded the universe in a shaky voice:
"It's going to be okay, Jacky. Everything's going to be okay."
Jack dreamed of that first memory. He dreamed of a hundred and fifty-one first kisses, and a hundred and fifty one game-winning goals. He dreamed of a lot of things.
At last he dreamed he stood in the center of an empty rink, and it felt like waking up for the first time.
No one was in the stands, and no one was on the ice except for him and Bitty, standing alone at center ice. It was quiet. Everything had just…stopped.
Bitty was solid and warm in his arms. Jack buried his nose into Bitty's hair, taking in the smell of soap, cinnamon, and the funk of a hard-played game. His shoulder throbbed and two of his fingers wouldn't bend, but it didn't matter.
He didn't want to wake up. Ever.
"I wish I could kiss you," he told Bitty. If this was how everything ended for him, that would be enough. Just this one, perfect moment…
Bitty went still in his arms. Then he pulled back but not away, eyes wide and earnest.
"Kiss me."
"What? We can't," Jack protested instinctively. Layers and layers of contradictory memory rapidly collapsed back together into a whole but nothing like this had ever happened before. He didn't know what was supposed to happen next.
"Why not? You want to."
Oh, god, did he want to…
He said nothing.
"I want you to. Why can't we?" Bitty demanded.
Jack had no idea what was supposed to happen next, because anything could happen.
Anything. And everything.
He smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."
For the first time in a very long time, Jack Zimmermann was free to write his own story.
"Kiss me," Bitty said again, even as Jack leaned in.
They kissed. And then again, because they could.
Jack laughed, giddy and wondering as he kissed Bitty over and over and the world blossomed into gold and warmth and laughter and—
ping!
"Hnh?"
ping-ping-ping!
Jack lifted his head from the pillow. Bad idea.
"Crisse…"
The rapid series of text alerts had jolted him out of a very pleasant dream and into a throbbing hangover.
Wait. Was it a dream? It wasn't slipping out of his memory like water between his fingers, but he had only just woken up. But woken up where? It was barely light out, so he hesitated a little before reaching out to pull Bitty close to him. He shuddered with relief to find that Bitty was actually there and that he hadn't just punched the side of his desk.
ping!
"Whoever you are, fuck all the way off," he muttered. In addition to having a headache, it tasted like something had died in his mouth.
ping-ping!
After a moment's hesitation, he sighed and reached for his phone. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Also, hadn't he left the damned thing on vibrate? He checked the time.
"Seriously?"
5:15 a.m. Just after sunrise. Far too early to be awake after the night he was starting to—sort of—remember.
He blinked. Did he remember last night? He only caught bits and scraps, staticky and unsaturated, just like—
A cold tendril of anxiety uncurled in his stomach. He knew that Marty had crashed into him during the celly, screaming in his ear, but the picture in his brain was a man in a World War One uniform with a bandage slipping off to reveal hazel eyes.
That had happened. Hadn't it?
ping!
Jack looked at his phone again. The text notice disappeared before he could read it, but the phone told him that not only ass o' clock in the morning, it was ass o' clock in the morning on Thursday, June 16, 2016.
It took longer than it should have for what that meant to sink in:
It was the first June 16, 2016 of his entire life.
Another fragment of memory from last night—a frazzled George snapping out instructions while also trying to talk to someone on her phone—told him that in a little over two hours, he was going to be the main attraction at a press conference.
He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say.
Thank God that's over with probably wouldn't go over very well. But not all of the reporters' questions would be about last night's victory, would they? That brought a flicker of anxiety—of course it did—but for once, it was easy put it to one side for a little while.
More than anxiety, he felt peace. Peace, warmth, and a sense of freedom that he hadn't felt since…
Since ever? He couldn't remember.
Or, no. He now vividly remembered being a small child on a frozen pond, laughing and skating towards his mother.
Smiling at the thought and still very hangover-fogged, Jack forgot about the text alerts. He sank back into an easy sleep, warmed on one side by Bitty snugged up against him and on the other by the light of the rising sun.
Bzzzt...
He had just fallen back asleep when his phone vibrated. Bitty muttered something about being fine, but he didn't wake up. He simply snuggled closer, which Jack wasn't going to complain about.
Jack would have drifted off to sleep again, but the damned phone buzzed again. Bitty sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Honey, is that your phone?"
Jack resisted the temptation to haul Bitty back down into bed. He grabbed his phone. He groaned when he saw the time and who was calling.
"Allo, George. We're on our way. We're not late…" He pulled his phone away to double-check the time. It had not magically reset to five-fifteen when he wasn't looking. "Yet?"
"Jack, for you, not being half an hour early is late." Her teasing did nothing to hide how on edge she was. "Also, Tom wants to make sure that the Cup here so the journos can get some photos."
"The Cup?" Why was she asking—
A glint of silver caught his eye and he was suddenly very awake. The Cup was right there, right next to his bed.
"Euh…"
His brain locked up. Was there something he was still supposed to do? Johnson had dealt with the storm, right? It wasn't about to break loose in his apartment, was it?
Bitty got out of bed and before Jack could do anything, he gave the Cup a gentle pat on his way out of the room, much like one he might give to his stand mixer or his oven in thanks for a job well done.
Nothing happened. Bitty went on his way, and the Cup sat there, lit gently by the morning sun peeking through the curtains.
"Please tell me nothing happened to the Cup, Jack," George said.
"It's, uh, it's right here," he said. Just outside the bedroom door, Bitty chattered away with someone about jam and pies and pecans. The volume of the chatter rose abruptly as Bitty entered the room with a nattily dressed yet clearly hung-over man right behind him. Jack recognized him at once. "Oh! And so is the Keeper, apparently?"
George didn't even try to hide her laughter at the way his voice squeaked.
The Keeper nodded an apology even as he kept up his end of the conversation with Bitty. He efficiently whisked the Cup away, Bitty following him out.
"Get here as soon as you can," George said, firm but not unkind.
"Uh, sure?"
As soon as George hung up, a text popped up.
It was from Johnson. The sudden lightheadedness could have been from dread or from relief. Maybe it was both.
One: It wasn't all just a dream. That is a cheap as hell ending to a story and you know it.
Another text quickly followed:
Two: Check the earlier texts before it starts to look like a loose thread.
And another:
Three: See you at Faber in a few weeks. We'll settle up then.
Settle up? How? And why Faber? The memory of the last few minutes in that weird rink still felt more real than anything that happened between lifting the cup and being woken by Johnson's texts, but Jack couldn't remember anything about 'settling up.' He tried replying to the texts, but that triggered a 'Failed to Send' message.
Huh.
Maybe the earlier texts would give him some kind of clue.
They didn't. Johnson's texts were a series of links to Wikipedia and Hockey Reference. Jack could tell from the URLs that two articles were about Uncle Mario and Henrik Sedin. Some following articles were about specific NHL seasons. Before he could see any more than that, he locked his phone.
He could still hear Maman telling him to smile for the cameras after the Penguins won the 1995 Stanley Cup.
Not that Jack was in any way complaining, but why did he still exist? And why did he remember a game that—maybe—never happened?
He gave his phone the side-eye. What it would say if he looked up the 1995 season? Would it still be the Devils?
That would have to wait, because Bitty was back and looking quite pleased with himself.
"Hey, bud. What was all that about?"
Jack told himself, that maybe it didn't matter who won in 1995. What mattered was that Bitty was here, and so was he.
"Oh, just some chit-chat and me thanking him for letting us keep the Cup with us last night," Bitty said cheerfully.
"Okay…? Wait. Was the Keeper here all night?"
"You're the one who told him to use the guest room if he wanted, don't you remember? Tater's on the couch, by the way. I should probably go wake him, and you need to get out of bed." Bitty shooed him towards the shower, reminding him that he shouldn't be showing up at the presser in his current state. "Just because it's called 'tub juice,' it doesn't mean you should smell like you've been bathing in it."
"That was Shitty's fault!" Jack protested as shooing became shoving, but Bitty was having none of it.
"You have ten minutes, because I need to shower, too, and don't even think of suggesting we save time by showering together, because you know darn well that is going to do the opposite of save us time! If you want to save time, then brush your teeth while you're in there. Unless, of course, you want to send everyone in the front row to the hospital the first time you open your mouth."
Jack grumbled but did as he was told. "Then stay here and remind me about what happened last night. I think—no I definitely had more to drink than I should have last night."
There was a long pause while Jack lathered up.
"How much do you remember?" Bitty said. The rushing water made it hard to read his tone, but Jack knew he never wanted to hear Bitty sound like that ever again.
A few memories that weren't his flickered by. Memories from Juniors about waking up not knowing what had happened the night before and being scared to death he had done something stupid while blacked out.
Everything's going to be okay. Jack held on to that thought and took a deep breath.
"I remember kissing you at center ice," he said to himself as much as to Bitty.
Bitty let out a long exhale that could have been relief or dread.
"And before you even think of asking, I don't regret it," Jack said sternly.
It was real. It was real. Thank god it was real. Then—
"Do you?"
Bitty was quiet for a little longer than Jack would have liked. "No," he said firmly. "I do not regret kissing you. There's—well, there's a lot other things I'm regretting right now."
Jack nodded. He had heard over a hundred variations on the same thing: I wanna tell her more than anything.
"It's going to be okay, bud. I mean that. Maybe it won't be easy, but we'll get through it, eh?" Bitty was supposed to win, after all. "So, what happened after we got back to the apartment?"
While Jack rinsed off and brushed his teeth, Bitty filled him in on some of the juicier highlights. Shitty showing Poots how to mix up tub juice. Tater trying to use his crutch as a pool cue. Mrs. Endicott from downstairs coming up to complain about the noise and Lardo challenging her to flip cup.
Bitty tsked. "It feels weirdly fitting that the first time someone ever beats Lardo at flip cup, it's a little old lady in a floral nightie who's even tinier than Moomaw. Oh! You also managed to get the cutest picture of her two Yorkies sitting in the Cup!" He paused and made one of those sighs that usually accompanied a 'bless your heart.' "You might as well know, Holster posted his own picture of them along with one of your more, ahem… memorable… baby photos with the caption 'what do these dogs and this baby have in common?'"
Jack nearly swallowed his toothpaste.
Another 'bless your heart' sigh. "At least the Keeper was sweet about it. He says it's not the worst thing that ever happened to the Cup, not by a long shot."
Jack got out of the shower. He enjoyed the way Bitty gave him a nice look up and down before handing over the towel. He returned the favor as Bitty shucked off his boxers and stepped into the shower.
"So how did we end up with the Cup in our bedroom?" Jack asked over the sound of running water.
"Funny story," Bitty said. Jack enjoyed watching his form through the fogged glass as he stretched and leaned over in the running water. "He was going to go back to the hotel with the Cup because he said that it's usually not a good idea to keep it out after midnight because, quote, 'bad things happen,' unquote, but he said it didn't feel anywhere near as fractious as it usually did after the finals."
"Okay…"
"Now, you'd better not be laughing at me, mister! He was dead serious, and while I'm not as superstitious as some folks I won't name, I know better than when to question these things. Anyhow, he said it was fine, especially after I gave him the last five jars of that experimental jam I made in that 'jam fugue' this spring."
"What?!" His lucky jam? The jam he had eaten every morning throughout the whole fourth round? "You gave him the last of it? We don't have any left?"
"Just what you left in the jar the yesterday morning, unless someone got to it last night."
If Tater had eaten it, Jack would break his other knee. At the same time, he had to laugh because yesterday and last night were in the past and would stay there. Forever. "If get you some star anise and some sour cherries, can you try to duplicate it?"
For a moment, the only sound was that of water spattering against tile.
"I don't think I've ever tried that combination before," Bitty said with the kind of caution that prickled at the back of Jack's neck. "I mean, I could have? You never know what you're going to get in a jam fugue, but what I gave him were the five jars of strawberry-pink peppercorn jam. I can try the other if you want. It sounds promising."
"Never mind. I got things mixed up," Jack said quickly. He remembered the strawberry-peppercorn jam. He also remembered raspberry-thyme, blueberry-lavender, nectarine-basil… but the taste that lingered on his tongue was cherry-anise. "Euh, I'm going to go get dressed and wake up Tater."
When Bitty came out of the bathroom and found Jack half-dressed and fighting off a panic attack, Jack took the cowardly way out and let Bitty assume it was about the press conference.
The next forty-eight hours were busy enough that Jack could avoid thinking about unopened texts and memories that might not match his current reality.
First, there was the press conference. That went okay. Mostly. The biggest blowback the Falcs got was that it was neither as disastrous nor as motivational as a lot of people were hoping. For once, Jack's wooden interview style was a blessing.
Then there was brunch and cleanup back at the apartment while Jack and Tater fielded phone calls about parade and post-parade logistics, Shitty complained loudly about not being able to go to the parade because of a research seminar, and Bitty avoided his mother's attempts to get in touch with him.
Brunch carried on into dinner, with most of the crew sticking around. The only two people who left were Tater and Shitty. Tater needed to go down to his own apartment by six to take his pain meds and hook his leg up to an ice therapy machine per doctor's orders. Shitty volunteered to help him because he had to leave anyway because of his seminar, which was super-duper early and he hadn't prepared yet.
"Lame!" Holster proclaimed.
Lardo just gave him a bleary side-eye.
"Turbo lame," Ransom agreed. He sounded annoyed—probably because Shitty had beat him to the punch when it came to helping Tater. "Who the hell knew Harvard Law made you go to summer school?"
Shitty flipped them off, then pulled Jack into a crushing hug complete with a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "Sorry to miss your parade, you glorious moose, you. I promise I'll make it up to you soon, and you can tell me all about what it was like to lift the Cup."
He released Jack with a pat on the shoulder and a wink, then glommed onto Bitty. Bitty laughed and told him to let go so he could pack up some cookies to help Shitty get through his seminar. Jack stood there, mouth half-open, wanting to say something but not daring to with everyone else around.
It felt like Shitty meant something by that, but Jack didn't have time to think about that. First there was dinner. Then Papa called to talk about meeting up for dinner after the parade tomorrow.
At last, he sat on the bed, anchoring Bitty while Bitty finally called home and said the words I'm gay to his mother for the first time. Jack felt as helpless as he did when the storm carried him across a churning sea towards the gentleman in grey, but the call went okay. Mostly.
I love you, too, Bitty said to his mother as the conversation wound down, but it sounded defeated. Exhausted.
Bitty collapsed on the bed next to him.
"You're tired," Jack said. It had been less than a day since they kissed on national TV, but it felt like a year.
"You're a Stanley Cup champion," Bitty pointed out.
Jack laughed and held him close. He was a Stanley Cup champion, and the Cup had granted his wish.
Everything was going to be okay. Bitty wins.
The comfort that brought didn't last long. Things were clearly not okay yet with Bitty's parents.
Okay didn't mean easy. Or perfect.
And winning rarely came without some losses along the way.
The next day involved the parade, another press conference, and dinner with Maman, Papa, and Bitty in a private room at Al Forno. It was busy without being frantic, which was perfect for keeping Jack from thinking too much.
That ended when he and Bitty got home. Bitty was exhausted, mentally and physically, and Jack knew he was due for his own crash all too soon. All he wanted to do was go to bed, snuggle up next to Bitty, and sleep for twelve hours.
So when Leroy at the front desk waved him down, Jack nearly screamed in frustration.
"Got a package for you, Mr. Zimmermann. Your friend—the one with the mustache, damned if I can remember his name—stopped by about an hour ago."
It was a large manila envelope with his name written in hot pink glitter pen.
From the feel of it, it held a composition notebook.
That night, Bitty slept for nearly fourteen hours. Jack was not so lucky. He slept fitfully, and was up before seven. He made a cup of coffee and went out onto the balcony.
The reason for his fitful sleep was tucked under his arm: a composition notebook with a neon rainbow gradient and shimmery holographic hearts on the cover.
Shitty had written a title on it in metallic silver marker:
History for Dummies: 2009 - 2016
A red tab proclaiming SIGN HERE poked up near the back of the notebook. Last night, Jack had only browsed the table of contents. It was full of things like: The Mandela Effect and You, or your dating history or what I know about it because you never share deets god damn you, or—worst of all—things your parents told me during that one winter break when you were out back practicing your slap shot.
The last line of the table of contents said SIGN HERE TAB = READ ME FIRST.
The fact that the book existed was reassuring. The fact that he had no idea what it contained was not.
So, Jack followed Bitty's example of how to deal with a dreaded task and did something else entirely. He called Papa.
Papa chirped him for calling so early. "Are you sure you're my son? The earliest I ever got up the week after a Cup win was ten a.m."
Jack's breath froze in his throat. Papa had only been joking. But Jack was… he wasn't…
"Jack?" Teasing gave way to grim concern. "Is everything all right?"
"Euh… yes. Sorry, sorry. Just… woke up in the middle of a weird dream." He closed his eyes, and took a breath as he revisited that bright day out on the pond with his parents. His parents. Younger Jack's last gift to him was more than just a memory. "I was just thinking about how much has changed."
Papa said nothing, but Jack recognized the faint hum on the other end of the line and how Papa knew he wasn't done.
Jack took another breath. "And I guess I was also thinking about how the me I was back in 2009 never could have imagined this. Not just the Cup, but Bitty, and Samwell, and, well, just how good everything is. Now."
Bob started to say something, but his voice hitched. Then he sighed dramatically. "What an evil child you are, making your father cry… And now you are laughing! Mocking my pain! Evil! Evil child!"
Jack of course laughed harder at that, but his own eyes stung a little.
"I am so, so proud of you, Jack. I wish I had told you that earlier. You know. Before."
"I know." And now Younger Jack knew, too. It didn't fix everything, but it was something. "And I also know you would still be proud of me if I hadn't won the other night."
The silence on the other end was long, but it was not awkward.
"Well, it's not like I'm not proud that you won the Stanley Cup your rookie year," Papa said with a lightness that would fool exactly no one. "And more than proud, I'm happy. I'm happy that you're happy, and that you have a good team and good friends and an absolutely delightful boyfriend."
Jack smiled so broadly it turned into a laugh. "He is delightful, isn't he?"
"You do know that when you two get married, I'm going to take most of the credit, right? Just think, if I hadn't given you that little push at your graduation…"
The smile disappeared. "Ha ha," he said. He had fixed that this last time around! Hadn't he?
"You know I'm also going to give you all kinds of shit in my speech—and I am giving a speech—for keeping things a secret from your mother and I until this January."
Also wrong. Maman had helped him plan for Bitty's Christmas visit this last time. Jack flipped open Shitty's notebook and searched for something in the table of contents that might help.
"Jack?" The teasing was gone. "I'm sorry. I'm didn't mean to pressure you, especially about something as serious as—"
"No! No! That's okay. I do want to marry Bittle." And now that he had survived, he could turn all those proposal daydreams into actual plans. A flutter grew in his chest, but it was a good one this time. He pushed the notebook aside again. "And I promise, I will tell you if I feel pressured. It's just that these last few days, have been kind of…"
He fought for the right words, but Papa's knowing laugh said he understood all too well.
They talked for a long time after that. Papa talked about some ideas he had for You Can Play, and Jack talked about the latest book he had been reading. It was easy enough from there to steer the conversation to history and ask if they had any relatives who had fought in World War One.
Papa said he wasn't sure, but that he thought that a second cousin on his paternal grandmother's side had been doing research on the Laurent and Verrault sides of the family and might be delighted to have a willing audience and maybe an autographed jersey.
Jack had one more question for his father, this time about the first captain of the Habs:
"Speaking of the early twentieth century, you didn't happen to name me after Jack Laviolette, did you?"
This time, the silence on the other end of the phone was definitely awkward. Then, Papa took a deep breath and said:
"You must never tell your mother."
While still procrastinating on taking a deeper dive into Shitty's notebook, Jack reviewed Johnson's texts and visited the different links. He learned that:
The Leafs did not win the Cup the year after Bill Barilko's disappearance.
Uncle Mario had beaten cancer and returned to hockey, but retired not too long afterwards due to back problems.
The 2004-2005 season never happened due to a failure of the collective bargaining agreement.
The Canucks had never won a Stanley Cup.
The Aces did not win the Cup in 2010.
As far as Jack could tell, the wishes made on the Cup were still in effect. History was the way he remembered it.
Except for large parts of his own history.
So, which version was the right one?
Was any of them the right one?
He steeled himself and opened the notebook to the flagged section.
READ ME FIRST
My beloved Jackabelle, my sib from another crib, my bestest bro, my sweet Canadian Adonis.
I was going to put something like "Do not open until Free Agency Day" or something like that, but if I'm right and this isn't a bad shroom or something, you'll need this sooner rather than later.
I'll be honest and say I'm kind of freaking out about how you'll react, but I know I can trust you the way you trusted me. At least, you'll believe that I believe it. I think I remember saying something like that to you once.
Anyhoo, here goes:
To make a long story short, you've just been through some extreme Groundhog Day shit and some of what you remember about the last couple of years doesn't always match what other people remember. You gave yourself away when you were complaining to Poots about how hard it was to find time alone with Mr. Bitty Bittle our senior year.
Spoiler alert: you two didn't hook up until after graduation. At least that's what I remember. So does Lardo.
What's weird is that, I also remember you telling me about getting together with Bitty right before Epikegster.
Basically, I remember what the last few years were like (complete with super-romantic graduation kiss, you sap, you), but I also have another memory sitting along side of it of the last year and a half.
It's kind of like at trivia night, when both Holster and Rans are wrong but they're both so convinced they're right, that you start thinking that maybe they are and that pot really does fuck with your memory.
One thing I do I remember is that you weren't sure you'd make it after squaring up with Johnson's brother or whatever. And I also remember promising you that I would remember.
Well, I did. So there. Ha.
Anyhow, have fun with your cheat-sheets for the past eighteen months and call me with any questions. I'll fill you in as best I can.
As always, I've got your back.
"Have they started scheduling Cup days yet?" Maman asked the next time she and Papa talked to Jack. "If you're going to have it here at the house, we're going to need some time to prepare and get on peoples' calendars. You know how it is."
Jack winced. Maman loved planning events. She would do a fantastic job of it, but Jack didn't want to spend his Cup day surrounded by his hockey uncles and in the shadow of Bad Bob Zimmermann's eight—no, seven—Cup wins.
"Euh, I was actually planning on having it at the Haus. With my team. My Samwell team," he clarified, smiling at the memory of all the times he had panicked George with his announcement that he was dating a teammate.
Who better to celebrate with than the team that was—in a profound way—the first team he had ever played with?
Besides, with dozens of current and former SMH players showing up to celebrate, no one was going to question what Johnson was doing there.
Jack still didn't know how or what they were supposed to settle up at Faber.
"A frat party?" Maman said weakly. Part of him felt a little bad about squashing her dreams of planning a Cup party, but this was his victory. Not hers. Not Papa's. Not the gentleman's.
"That actually sounds more on brand than a garden party," Papa chimed in with all the smugness of someone who had just won a minor marital debate.
"I did promise Shitty he could mix tub juice in the Cup." He refrained from adding 'again.'
Maman gave the kind of sigh she gave when she didn't understand her husband and her son but loved them very much all the same.
"I'm not sure if I should tell you to take a lot of pictures or avoid leaving any kind of evidence. Well, I hope you and Eric plan to come up sometime this summer and that you'll let us treat you to dinner at least once."
"We'd love to."
"When you do, be sure to bring your championship puck and your Memorial Cup puck with you. I know someone who'll do a fantastic job making a custom shadow box for them."
Jack's grip went so tight his phone case creaked. "Okay?" How was he going to explain this, how would he—
"Oh! Before I forget, I just got some wonderful news! Your friend Adam will be especially excited about this, but he has to promise not to tell anyone until the official announcement."
"Okay?" Jack said again.
"HBO just green-lit a follow-up miniseries to Silver Falls! I meet with the producers and the writers at the end of July!"
"That's fantastic, Maman!" It was. She was always so happy when she had a big project to sink her teeth into.
He also chose to see it as a good omen—a story about a conflict between twins had been cut short, but was about to get a new start.
It was either that, or dramatic irony. Maybe he would know more when he met up with Johnson at Samwell.
Speaking of Johnson, at least Maman had unknowingly provided a clue about what Johnson meant by 'settle up.'
Jack's Cup Day at Samwell hosted many SMH players, past and present. Alex Berger, Dave Cohen, and Carter Marsh, all from before Bitty's time, were were able to make it. Tango and Ford (just as formidable as Lardo in her own way) were there even though their time at Samwell didn't overlap Jack's at all.
Tater was there, in a knee brace. He parked himself right by the food, to no one's surprise.
So was Johnson, also in a knee brace. While Jack was circulating among his friends at the picnic outside Faber, he overheard bits of a story about the Appalachian Trail, bad footing, and an unexpected opossum.
Shitty's notebook had turned out to be a godsend. It gave him enough information that he could figure out—more or less—which of his memories since November of senior year were the 'correct' ones. The few times someone brought something up where he wasn't sure what was 'real,' he was able to change the subject.
Sometimes, being socially awkward had its advantages.
It wasn't until after the pictures and the picnic and a few rounds of semi-sober shinny that Jack and Johnson got a chance to talk in something resembling privacy.
They hung out by the net and watched the others at the other end of the ice. Bitty was showing Bergey, Dave-O, and Marshy how to do a waltz jump. Shitty patiently helped Lardo shuffle and wobble across the ice.
"So, what's on your mind O Captain, my Captain?" Johnson asked after a few minutes of quietly watching the others.
Jack smiled as Bitty did a basic jump and landed skating backwards with one leg extended behind him and his arms spread out like wings. "It's just… There's something that's still bothering me. Well, not bothering, exactly, but…" he stammered, because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
Johnson waved his hand in a broad circle that hinted at a much larger space than Faber. "You're safe from prying ears, man. If you want some free exposition, you got it."
Jack's laugh got a flicker of a smile from Johnson. Then, Jack went quiet for a moment. It wasn't a matter of finding the right words, but of debating if this was something he really wanted to know or not.
"Why am I here?" he finally asked.
Johnson side-eyed him. "Uh, there are a lot of ways I could answer that. I might have a better shot at it if I was a philosophy major."
Jack shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Sorry. I meant, why do I still exist? I'm not complaining, but didn't you say we would most likely end up undoing all the things your brother did? All those wishes and deals and bargains? But I'm still here, and it's not just me that's still here. I finally read the links you sent the other day. Everything is the way I remember it should be. I know your brother drew on the Cup's power for the wishes, but it wasn't just the Cup, was it?"
Johnson thought for a while, head bowed and mouth working as if he was literally chewing on the answer.
"There's a couple of possible reasons, and I'm not sure which of them is the right one, or if either of them is even right in the first place. Or maybe both are right? I dunno. Magic is weird, man. Anyhow, how many times did you go through the time loop?"
"One hundred and fifty-one."
Johnson's eyes widened slightly and he gave a crooked smile that said he got the significance of the number. "Of course you did. The thing is, you know how your memory was starting to fracture because you'd re-lived the same moments over and over and over?"
Jack nodded, even though it was becoming harder and harder to remember what it was like with each passing day. The ice had cracked, and there were still treacherous and uneven spots, but the shattered pieces were slowly re-freezing back into a whole. Again, Shitty's notebook was a huge help.
Still, there were things he wasn't clear on. He didn't know when or how he had apologized to Bitty about the 'lucky shot.' He didn't know exactly what happened up in his room when Kent came to Epikegster.
"One time, I compared it to being like wearing a permanent track through thick grass by walking it over and over again. Maybe by going over and over the same years so many times, you somehow wore a permanent track in reality. And the reality you live in, the one you remember, is the one where your uncle's cancer was caught in time and there was no Cup game in 2005 for a horrible injury to happen in."
It made sense—sort of. If he followed Johnson's analogy, then on his last route he had wandered off the path a little, but all it hadn't been enough to change the actual path. In any case, it was a good enough answer that he could accept it as 'close enough.' Maybe.
"You said that there were a couple of possible reasons I might have survived."
Johnson glanced over to where Bitty was now talking animatedly with Coach Murray.
"If that little shit—your words, not mine—hadn't come along, I don't know how your story would have ended. Definitely with a Stanley Cup victory, but I'm not sure it would have been a happy ending, y'know?"
"Euh, Rhode Island probably would have been wiped off the map. I can't imagine anyone counting that as happy."
"Developers in Connecticut with a shiny new opportunity in ocean-front property?" Johnson said with the kind of chipper brightness that went with avoidance. Before Jack could react, Johnson flushed a little and looked away, "Yeah, yeah, I know. Too soon. I guess I'm still trying to get my head around things. But basically, your story—and mine—got knocked off track by a third story."
Maybe there was a third reason. Jack thought of the notes he had written to himself lifetime after lifetime, notes reminding him that he loved Bitty and Bitty loved him. He thought about Shitty's promise to remember him.
He also thought about a snippet of conversation with Bitty that had happened dozens and dozens of times:
I'd much rather think about how I'm gonna keep you instead dithering over all the ways I might never have found you.
"Well, whatever the right answer is, the important thing is I'm still here." His brow furrowed as something else occurred to him. "When I made my wish, things got kind of weird. They—"
Johnson cut him off with a wave. "You went omniscient. You saw everything. If people want to remind themselves of what that was like, they can go back to chapter twenty-eight."
Jack decided he would be better off not knowing what Johnson meant by that, so he went with what he was originally going to ask.
"It's kind of slipping away now, but I saw so many other ways that things could have gone. Things that were really different."
Johnson nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. AUs. Alternate universes," he clarified. "You might want to find some basic books on current cosmological theory and read up on the whole multiverse idea. I wouldn't worry about it, though—you're not likely to stumble into one of those any time soon. Or ever."
"Ha ha. Yeah, I'd rather not do that on top of everything else. I was just wondering, though…"
"Hm?"
"Why were so many of those… AUs, was it?… set in coffee shops?"
Johnson laughed loud and long. He clapped Jack on the back and shook his head. "Greater minds than ours have wondered much the same thing. Anyhow, this is getting long enough as it is. Do you want to settle up?"
Yes. Also no.
"Sure. Meet me over by the Cup."
Without waiting for a response, Jack skated over to the players' bench, leaned over the boards, and grabbed his duffel. His game-winning puck was in there, labeled with stick tape and Sharpie. He felt a twist of anxiety over what the hell he was going to say when Papa or Tater or Uncle Mario or Bitty asked where it was. And they would ask. Maman had already asked. What would they think, if he said he had lost them?
Besides, he actually did want to keep it. It represented everything he had been working towards for years.
And that was one reason he had to let it go. It may have even been a more important reason than what the puck now guarded inside itself.
Things like this—redemption, conclusion—were never without cost, were they? He hefted the puck in the cup of his hand, memorizing its weight and its edges, and he deliberately asked himself if it was worth it.
Yes. The answer came without hesitation or qualification. He was free. The rest of his life was his own. And if he chose to entwine it with Bitty's, then that was their choice and no one else's.
That was worth a hundred and fifty-one game-winning pucks and then some.
Still, sue him if he wanted to hold it for just a little while longer.
He didn't take nearly as long with it as he would have imagined.
Jack glided over to meet Johnson where the Cup sat near the Zamboni tunnel. He held out the puck with absolutely zero regret. It was no different from any other regulation puck, but even with the warm afternoon light pouring through Faber's windows, it looked cold, more grey than black. When Johnson took it from him, Jack would have sworn it had a faint silvery gleam to it.
Of course, it could have just been his imagination.
Johnson took the puck and studied it for a good long while. The brim of his snapback shadowed his face, so Jack had no idea what he was thinking.
It didn't make him look mysterious. If anything, the oddness that Jack associated with Johnson was gone. He looked real, not like a character in a story.
Johnson sighed, and looked up, and the moment was over. He gently wrapped the puck in a well-worn Samwell toque, and Jack had a there-and-gone flash of how the gentleman had always complained of the constant cold.
"You, uh, give this freely and all that other shit, right?" Johnson asked.
Jack nodded, but then remembered that this was an occasion where he really should use his words. "Yeah. I do. I give it freely and without condition."
"Thanks, bro," Johnson said, and Jack didn't think he was imagining the thickness in his voice. He slipped the puck into his pocket.
Jack shrugged, not sure of what he possibly could say to make things okay. He got his happy ending, but others had not.
"Not your fault. Or your responsibility. You know that, don't you?" Johnson said.
He did. But knowing this didn't make Jack feel any less grateful for the outcome of Kent's wish or any less guilty for not being able or even willing to give Kent what he wanted in return.
What some buried part of Kent might always feel he was owed in exchange for sacrificing his first victory.
Or maybe, just maybe, Kent was free now, too.
Sometime, somehow, Jack would figure out the difference between gratitude and obligation, and if there was any way he could make things right between the two of them.
He had the rest of his life to try and figure that out.
"Well, there's knowing and there's knowing," he said.
Johnson laughed again, bitter this time, and very much him. Very much human. "Yeah, I get that. Believe me, I get that."
They remained by the Cup, quiet, each lost in his own thoughts. Jack rested his hand on the rim of the Cup. It was cold from the ice even with the rubber mat underneath, but it was just an ordinary sort of cold. Maybe he'd win it again one day. Or not.
He wanted to win it again, and win it on his own terms with nothing else attached to it. And he was going to work his ass off to get the Falconers there again.
But he didn't need to, and the freedom that came with that thought was a relief that took his breath away like a panic attack. There were so many things he could do with his history studies, his photography. He could even follow Shitty's suggestion and go into competitive horticulture.
He couldn't remember much about those alternate histories he had seen, but the little fragments he could remember offered up a wealth of possibilities.
History sounded good. His distant cousin had promised to scan and send over what she had learned about the Laurent side of the family. She also confirmed that their great grand-uncle was a Colonel who had been killed at the Somme. She offered to send a photo if Jack would like.
He would. He also looked forward to digging into the history of the 22nd and seeing what he could find out about a young lieutenant from Trois Pistoles. Or any of the thousands of others whose stories might be lost somewhere.
"So what's next for you?" Jack asked once his thoughts had settled and the silence grew long enough to become strained.
Johnson's hand twitched towards his pocket, then went a little too still. Jack pretended not to notice. "There's someone out west who can help me," he said, and Jack didn't think he was talking about somewhere as easy to find on a map as Vancouver. "It'll be warm there. And safe. My—well, she's not really an aunt, but I call her that—she's the one who helped me out when I was trying to figure out who I was without my brother. She'll get me on the right path so we can finish our story." He laughed softly. "It's her fault I got into hockey, you know."
There was so much Jack wanted to ask that it all jumbled up and got lodged in the back of his mouth.
"We'll be okay," Johnson said. "Now go get your boy."
Jack gave the Cup another pat before he skated off. It was warm to the touch. That was how he would choose to remember it. Not the biting cold that thrust him into another world, but the warmth from the sunbeams slanting through Faber's windows.
He would also remember the comforting hush of his skates as he skated over to where Bitty waited by the tunnel, laughter rising and falling as he chattered away with Ransom and Holster.
He would remember thinking, yes, this is where I will propose to him.
It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated peace.
He would remember it for the rest of his life.