Chapter Text
It starts with a fist bump. Eric doesn’t even notice Jack actually smiling at him for once; he’s so focused on the gesture. The sound of it is oddly satisfying, and he’s starting to get why bros do this so often. He stares at their knuckles and thinks for the first time since he joined the Samwell Men’s Hockey team that maybe Jack doesn’t hate him after all. Maybe they could even be friends outside of practice and games.
It’s been interesting these past few months to see how his friendships have developed, from traveling everywhere in a pack, either with the other students in his dorm or the rest of the frogs on the team, to falling into patterns with just a few people. The most surprising thing is the way Shitty and some of the older guys have sort of adopted him. He’s just a freshman and it’s not like it’s his performance on the ice that is earning him their respect, though Jack’s checking clinics have been helping. If Eric is honest with himself, they might only like him for his pies, but there are worse things to be known for.
And maybe, it’s because of the way he hangs around the Haus all the time, turning up like a bad penny and baking during every minute of his free time, that Jack is starting to warm up to him more. Proximity breeds familiarity and all that.
As he and Jack walk back inside the rink, Eric flexes his hand and smiles. Hopefully there will be additional friendly fist bumps in their future.
But then Eric scores the winning goal against Yale and Jack is so mad he won’t look at him, so maybe it was just wishful thinking after all.
****
It’s the fourth “checking clinic” that Jack has with Bittle, and the improvement has been both surprising and satisfying.
When he first suggests extra practices to Bittle – and yes, he realizes “suggests” implies that he had a choice in the matter – he isn’t sure if he means for the extra practices to be punishment or not. Jack won’t lie and say he isn’t slightly gratified by the look of irritated exhaustion on Bittle’s face as he opens the door of his freshman dorm at 4:30 a.m.
Making Bittle miserable is only fair for the way he is making Jack miserable. He can’t be worrying about taking care of some tiny frog on the ice when there will be eagle-eyed scouts at every single one of their games. It’s affecting Jack’s focus. In their first few scrimmages, he could barely keep track of the puck because in the corner of his eye, he kept seeing Bittle cringing – or worse, falling down – to avoid a defender.
If he’s honest with himself though, Jack doesn’t understand why he’s so bothered by Bittle and his fear of checking. He’s never had this problem with a teammate before. It’s not even like Bittle is the worst teammate he’s played with. It defies logic, but seeing him crumple into a ball after a hit infuriates Jack in a way he cannot explain. He’s not even sure if he’s angry at Bittle, angry at whichever guy is checking him, or angry at himself for not stepping in to stop it.
So Jack does something about it, which is how they end up here, slamming into the boards in the shimmery light of early morning.
Though it’s clear that Bittle has gotten braver since they started, even at their first extra practice, there was something sharp in the determined look he gets before taking a hit. His eyes darken, his shoulders stiffen, and for the first time, Jack had thought that maybe he could play with this kid. Maybe he really does have the drive – the hunger – it takes to win a championship. But then Jack had knocked into him and Bittle had fallen to the ice in tears, and it becomes clear that it will take more than one attempt at this to help him overcome his fear.
But now that they’ve been doing this for a couple weeks, Jack can admit that Bittle is improving. He didn’t expect it, but Jack is also improving from their practices together. As Bittle becomes more comfortable with the hits, Jack’s had to come up with a number of different drills to work on. They practice skating through checks, avoiding checks, and even a few where Bittle tries checking Jack himself. Jack in turn has been trying to think more like a defenseman as they simulate real plays and situations where a check might occur, and he notices the way it has enhanced his performance in games as well as Bittle’s.
It’s obvious that Bittle will never be the most physical player on the ice, but the angry, worried, anxious feeling Jack gets from watching their opponents hit him has mostly subsided. If he still can tell even without looking where on the ice Bittle is at any given moment, check hazard or not, well that’s a different story, and one that he is not going to worry about now.
They are about to call it a day, since they have to clear the ice soon for the youth league. Bittle skates along the wall, catching his breath and waiting for Jack to call him back into position. Jack doesn’t wait and rams him into the board without any warning. Bittle loses his balance, spins, and falls right on his ass. He lets out a huff as Jack skates around to face him.
“Well that wasn’t very nice,” he grumbles, pulling off his gloves.
“Sorry, Bittle. Are you alright?”
He rubs at his tailbone. “I think I’m fine. But I’ll probably be black and blue by tomorrow.”
“It wouldn’t be hockey without a few bruises, eh?” Jack reaches a hand down to help him up. “You did really well today.”
Bittle looks up at Jack, smiling. “Thank you.”
He grabs onto Jack’s hand and lets him pull him up gracefully. They skate back to the entrance slowly, chatting quietly about their upcoming game. Or at least, Bittle talks. For whatever reason, Jack is mostly caught up on the fact that it’s not just in the hockey sense that Bittle has really soft hands.
****
They make it to the playoffs, but then a concussion ends Eric’s season early, and even then they don't make it past the next round. Before Eric knows it, he’s moving into Johnson’s old room in the Haus, and it’s summertime.
Eric misses his friends, and for the first time in his life he wishes for summer vacation to be over so he can go back to school.
When he finally arrives back at the Haus in August, it’s wonderful. Somehow these boys still like him and want to be friends with him after months apart.
Even Jack gives him a (stiff, awkward) bro-hug when they finally see each other, like even he is happy to see him.
It’s really incredible the difference a year makes. A year ago, Eric was getting yelled at by Jack on the ice, and now he’s sitting in Shitty’s room laughing and drinking beer trying to get Jack to join them.
“Come join us, Zimmermann! We’re playing your favorite game!” Shitty yells toward the bathroom.
“Favorite game besides hockey you mean,” corrects Bitty, gesturing with a can of Coors Light that he can't decide if he hates or not.
“Nah, brah,” says Shitty seriously. “Hockey isn't a game to Jack. It's a lifestyle.”
Eric nods in faux seriousness and takes a sip. A moment later, Jack peeks around the bathroom door frame, still damp from his shower.
“What are you yelling about?”
Shitty gestures largely at the small, off kilter flatscreen on his dresser. “We’re playing Drunk History Channel, and Bitty’s great but he's better at the drunk than the history—”
“Hey!”
“—and we need you to correct my wildly inaccurate claims about who actually built the pyramids and how all of America’s founding fathers were gay for each other.”
Jack sighs, but then catches sight of the muted program on the TV. “Oh, is that Ancient Aliens?”
Shitty leans over and stage-whispers to Bitty, “I told you he wouldn't be able to resist Ancient Aliens.”
Bitty laughs, and begins composing a tweet, because he can just tell this is going to be good. Jack returns from his room a few minutes later in jeans and a red plaid flannel and sits on the other side of Shitty. As soon as he's settled, Shitty throws an arm around his shoulders.
“Come here fucker.”
Bitty smiles and stands as he pulls up Twitter.
“What are you doing Bittle?” Jack asks, brow furrowing. The contrast between his expression and Shitty’s grin just makes Eric laugh.
“I'm recording your friendship for all posterity. Smile!”
Before he can finish the tweet, let alone take the picture, Jack leaps up and grabs for the phone. Not even his best figure skater twirl is enough to keep his phone out of reach. Jack stretches over his head, reaching his long arms over Eric’s body.
Jack wrenches the iPhone out of his hands and stand up triumphantly.
“Mr. Zimmermann, you give me back my phone.” He tries to grab it back, but Jack only smirks and holds the phone over his head, extending his entire wingspan to keep it out of reach. Eric’s first instinct is to jump for it, but as he steps closer, into Jack’s space, he realizes that he will more than likely miss and end up all up in Jack’s business. It's not a great idea, and he's not sure if their fledgling friendship is ready for that kind of invasion of personal space. He's not Shitty, after all.
Instead he crosses his arms and gives him the patented Mama Bittle look, the one that says you may be bigger than me but you will not be getting away with this.
Shitty laughs and says, “Just live in the moment, Bits. You can have your phone back after we’ve determined that the Incas were aliens all along.”
“Fine,” Bitty says with a dramatic fake sigh. “I guess I can live without Twitter for a few minutes.”
The time flies though, and he doesn't even miss his phone. Shitty’s running commentary gets more outrageous by the minute, and even Jack’s deadpan corrections are on the silly, sarcastic side. He and Shitty end up laughing so hard that Shitty argues it should count as a core workout, and Jack should be required to let them skip conditioning at practice tomorrow.
“Not a chance, boys. But if you think it helps, next time I can do stand-up during crunches.”
Bitty snorts and Shitty cackles, while Jack looks somewhere between sheepish and proud, like he’s not sure if he’s comfortable being the funny one.
They end up watching Pawn Stars until Jack declares he's going to bed. After he leaves, Shitty flips to Comedy Central and they watch South Park until the beer is gone. It's only the next morning that Bitty remembers his phone is still sitting in Jack’s jacket pocket.
****
Saturday nights are weird for Jack. During the season, he can usually use games or practices as an acceptable excuse to stay home, but it's still early in the year. He's proud of himself though for being more comfortable in social situations. Early on, especially during his freshman year, going out was just one more thing he should be doing, because he chose to go to college and the college experience was supposed to include binge drinking at awful parties, hooking up with girls whose names he can't remember the next day. The captain at the time, a kid named Brandon, made it his mission to get Jack wasted, in the attempt to get him to crack a smile and “thaw his icy robot soul.” He only succeeded on getting Jack drunk once, which hadn’t really ended well for either of them… So he basically quit drinking, and for the most part, stopped going out or going to Haus parties.
It's his senior year though, and he doesn't want to waste his last year living in the same mile radius – the same house – as his closest friends. It's just that the pressure to have anyone else's idea of fun has fallen away, so he can pick and choose what he wants to do.
The Haus is quiet, Holster, Ransom and the wilder guys having already left to pregame and watch the baseball playoffs, and he's just about to head down stairs and see if anyone is still around when Shitty arrives at his door.
“Hey Shitty,” Jack says, noticing his languid posture and the slight aroma of pot.
Shitty comes all the way in and wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders as he sits at his desk.
“Come on Grandpa. We’re getting froyo and you're coming. Put on pants!”
Jack closes his laptop and attempts to stand up while Shitty hangs on. “It's funny when you're the one telling me to put on clothes.” He finds his jeans on the floor and zips up a hoodie while Shitty yells down to the front yard.
“Who's we?” Jack asks. “Is Bittle going? If he tweets about this I’m taking his phone.” For some reason, that makes Shitty laugh, and yeah, he's definitely baked.
They get downstairs and sure enough, there's Bitty, thumbs flying on the screen. “Can't you live a minute without the internet, Bittle?”
Bittle rolls his eyes and shoves the phone in his face. “I was looking up the flavors,” he retorts. “They have peanut butter and raspberry, so you can make a frozen pb & j and pretend it's a game!”
“What sort of chocolate options are there, Bits?” Lardo asks. “I insist on chocolate!”
Bittle reads off the flavors, but he still doesn't put his phone away. Jack waits a few minutes, until they're almost at Superberry to attack. He uses his quick reflexes and stick handling skills to grab Bittle's wrist and snatch the phone right out of his hands.
“Hey!” Bittle yells. “Give it back!”
Jack holds the phone over his head out of reach, laughing happily at the way Bittle has gotten a little bolder since the last time Jack stole his phone. This time, he tries to jump and take it back. His arms are simply too short though, and Jack grabs his wrist with his open hand and holds him at arm's distance.
He holds tightly, registering in the back of his mind the juxtaposition of Bittle’s strong forearms and delicate hands. He keeps holding on even as Shitty comes over to help him.
Looking down at the screen on the phone, Jack is a little confused by the stream of content on Bittle’s Twitter. He finds a search bar and looks up “how to use twitter,” but the results aren't helpful, so he pockets the device and gives up on embarrassing Bittle on social media. After all, it's almost too easy to chirp him in real life.
Bittle breaks free, pouting but secretly laughing, and walks faster to catch up with Lardo, who links her arm in his. She must have smoked too. Jack can tell from the easy way she leans into the contact, the two of them touching from shoulder to hip, stepping in sync. It looks nice, comfortable, and suddenly Jack feels something somewhat like jealousy, but softer. It's a longing, to feel that comfortable with someone else, to be linked and in sync.
But either way, Jack is happy. These are the kinds of nights that he loves. No pressure to be Jack Zimmermann the college jock, or Jack Zimmermann the hockey prodigy. He's just Jack the Grandpa, and for these three, that's enough.
****
Bitty should be doing homework. He has a math quiz in two days that he is completely unprepared for, as well as a presentation in his food class, but instead he's catching up on his pinning, reading over all of the new fall recipes his mom has put on their Pinterest board. One of them, an intriguing espresso chocolate chip cookie recipe claims to “taste like autumn in your mouth.”
He's getting to the last of the new recipes when he hears something. His door is open, but Jack’s is closed, and he can just make out a muffled voice coming from inside.
Curiosity piqued, he sets down his laptop and walks over to knock on the door. Certain people in the Haus-hold don't bother to knock, but Bitty’s polite, and Jack is intimidating, and he's not really sure what he's walking into.
At the knock, the speaking ceases and after a few seconds, Jack opens the door.
“Yes, Bittle?”
Bitty peeks into Jack’s room, but he doesn't see anyone, and Jack’s laptop is closed and phone is sitting quietly on his desk, so he wasn't Skyping anyone or talking on the phone. “I just was wondering who you were talking to,” Bitty admits.
Jack looks away, an embarrassed expression on his face. “Oh, um, I was practicing for our Women, Food, and American Culture presentation.”
“Oh,” is all Bitty can say, because of course he is. Jack looks so awkward though, so he eventually adds, “Do you want a few pointers?”
The look on Jack’s face is exactly how Bitty imagines he looks before he gets checked. If he had to guess, he'd say he looks torn between desperately wanting the help and not trusting that this won't lead to an enormous chirp session.
“I promise not to chirp,” Bitty assures, “I just already know the assignment and saw your last presentation, so I will probably be able to help. Besides, it's only fair that I get to coach you on this after all the coaching you've given me.”
Jack lets him in hesitantly, shutting the door behind him. “I could probably use the help. Even Professor Atley said that last time I was a bit stiff…”
Bitty sits down in an armchair Jack keeps in the corner. “I’m going to sit here as long as it takes, okay?” Jack nods, wearing his game face and standing in the center of the room. Bitty looks up at him expectantly. “Well, let's see what you got!”
Jack inhales deeply and shuffles around a few index cards, then begins. “Turner and Ferguson’s article on gendered identity in food consumption explains many important facets of the role of—“
Bitty cuts him off almost immediately. “Okay, I'm going to stop you there. You sound like a GPS!”
“I’m trying, Bittle,” Jack mutters. “That's just what my voice sounds like.”
“Now I know that's not true, Mr. Zimmermann. You are capable of speaking naturally in front of a group. You do it for us before every single game.”
Jack sighs, “Even then I sound like a robot according to some people…” He looks at Bitty as if he's daring him to contradict him, but well, Bitty’s not going to lie to him.
“But even still, you sound more energized and inspiring than you do right now. You just need to relax! Take a deep breath!”
Bitty watches as he inhales, shoulders clenching up around his neck, then exhales, his shoulders comically remaining exactly as tight as they were before. “Goodness gracious,” Bitty admits, “What are we going to do with you?”
Jack looks at him helplessly, and then Bitty has an idea. He stands and walks over behind Jack, placing his hands carefully, but firmly onto Jack’s shoulders. He freezes, as Bitty’s thumbs sweep quickly up and down the line of his shoulder blade muscles. “Let’s try something. Just relax. Breathe in… and out.” As Jack exhales, Bitty presses firmly down on a knot just to the side of his shoulder.
It's like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly all of the tension in his shoulders falls away. Jack turns around, shocked. “How did you do that?” He turns his neck side to side and all but groans. Bitty can't help but flush a little.
He rambles, “It's a nerve thing I learned back when I was figure skating. It's super effective. Even Coach and his training staff use it. But I thought it might help you relax, so that you won't be so stiff during your presentation.”
“Thanks Bittle,” Jack smiles. “I definitely feel better, though I'm still not sure it's enough to save my speech.”
“Don't you worry!” says Bitty cheerfully. “Well go over it a few times and work from there.”
He sits back down, and Jack centers himself in the center of the room, starting again. “Turner and Ferguson’s article on gendered identity in food consumption explains…”
His delivery is slightly better this time, and Bitty watches on proudly, but if he's not paying total attention on the content of the presentation, it's only because he's still thinking about Jack’s solid muscles underneath his hands.
* * * *
Today’s practice was the best one of the season so far. The drills seemed effortless, the lines are all clicking, and there’s an energy – an electricity – between the guys on the ice. This is a team that can go far, maybe all the way, Jack thinks as they warm down. He’s skating back toward the locker room with Shitty, passing by Bittle, Dex, and Nursey discussing something in a small huddle at center ice.
“Nice job out there, Bits!” Shitty exclaims, smacking him hard on the ass.
Bitty yelps and he jumps so abruptly that his skates even leave the ice. “Gah! Shitty! Can you not?”
Dex and Nursey laugh. Shitty circles them. “It goes with the territory, Bitty. Nice job today too, boys,” Shitty says, slapping the frogs both gently on the butt as well.
“You should be thankful,” Holster chimes in, skating over and joining the small circle. He drapes his arms over Jack’s and Shitty’s shoulders. “My team in high school was all about turkey-tapping.”
“What’s turkey-tapping?” Bitty asks.
“It’s when you do this,” Holster replies as he quickly attempts to punch Shitty between his legs.
“Whoa there! Let’s keep it civil!” Shitty shouts, recoiling quickly.
Everyone is laughing, including Jack. “You’re fine, Shitty,” Jack chirps, giving him a friendly pat on the ass.
As Jack turns to leave, he hears Bittle behind him.
“You did well today too, Captain! Can’t leave you out.”
Smack. Right on the glutes. Jack can hardly believe it. He stops in his tracks as Bittle races past him, laughing and chirping as he goes.
* * * *
“Come on Bittle, It’s time to go!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming! I just need to grab a few things!”
It only took he and Jack until Week 3 of the semester to establish a routine for their food class. Eric finally has Jack trained to wait for him, no matter how scattered he gets trying to make it out the door. By the time Eric is ready with his book bag, Jack is already waiting for him on the porch.
For the first few classes, Eric had to convince Jack that walking together was not only the nice, normal thing to do, but it made sense. What didn’t make sense was the time that Eric walked about 20 feet behind Jack for the entire way, just because Jack couldn’t wait thirty seconds for Bitty to tie his shoelaces. Oh, his awkward captain…
Now though, Jack waits for him diligently, and Bitty won’t admit it, but if it weren’t for Jack, he’d probably be late every day.
Bitty hands Jack one of two cupcake-sized breakfast quiches as they walk down the porch steps. “I thought you only baked desserts,” Jack remarks after eating his in three bites.
“As if,” Bitty scoffs. “Wait until I make my savory empanadas. Want the rest of mine?” Bitty holds out his hand with half of his mini-quiche on it as an offering, one that Jack accepts, lightly brushing his fingers along Bitty’s palm. “I already ate two,” he admits.
“Thanks Bittle,” says Jack happily, and Bitty makes a note to look up a few more quiche recipes for fall.
****
Something that Jack never expected this year was that he’d hang out so much with Bittle. And yet, here he is sitting at Annie’s, nursing a black coffee before class while Bitty sits across from him, chattering on about pies and music and the girl in their class who always asks the dumbest questions.
“I can’t take it anymore! How does she come up with these things?” he laments.
“You think it’s bad now…” Jack responds, “I’ve had her in at least one class every semester since I declared. She once tried to argue that Orville Redenbacher signed the Declaration of Independence.”
“The popcorn guy? Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Bitty groans, but then a new song starts playing in the café and he immediately brightens. “Oh! I love this song!”
“Is this Taylor Swift?” Jacks asks, remembering Holster mentioning something about her earlier in the week.
Bitty laughs at him, “No, it’s not. I think the song is by Alesso.”
Jack thinks it’s bizarre how excited Bittle gets about all of this stuff. It’s just a song, it’s not that important. Most of them sound exactly the same anyway.
Bittle continues, “I swear, you can name every single U.S. President and Canadian Prime Minister, but you might be the only person who doesn’t know what Taylor Swift sounds like. Even my Moo Maw knows her!”
Bittle takes a sip of his latte, checks his phone, then says, “We have about ten minutes before we need to leave for class. I bet you can’t name a single singer of the next three songs. Loser buys the winner coffee next time.”
He extends his hand. Jack takes it. “Deal,” he agrees. They shake, and Jack wonders not for the first time, what Bittle does to keep his hands so soft. Jack’s palms are calloused and dry, but Bitty’s are warm and smooth. He still has some callouses, most of the team does, but Bittle barely has any considering how good of a stick handler he is. Jack almost asks him, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he guesses the next three songs wrong and makes Bittle laugh so hard he snorts his latte, which is good too.
* * * *
The mini pies look flawless, thinks Bitty as he pulls them out of the oven, Shitty standing by eagerly to devour at least three of them as soon as they are cool enough to pick up comfortably.
“Eric Bittle, you’ve outdone yourself, you adorable motherfucker,” Shitty says approvingly. The pies do look pretty great, and they are too busy admiring Bitty’s handiwork to notice when Jack enters almost silently. It’s not until Bitty hears him clear his throat that he turns.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” Jack asks.
“No plans yet,” Bitty replies, popping the mini pies out of the cupcake tray. “Just finishing these up.”
“I’m just living in the moment, Jack-Attack,” adds Shitty.
“Oh. Well, we could all do something, maybe. If you want…”
It all devolves quickly after that. Shitty is suddenly yelling, and Ransom and Holster appear, seemingly out of thin air. Bitty had no idea they were even home, but now here they are, egging him on as he shotguns a beer, and goodness, what is his life these days? It’s not even fair, Jack’s the one who never wants to go out, and this was his idea, so why isn’t he the one his teammates have decided collectively should be shitfaced.
They all do a round of shots, and before Bitty has even finished his, Shitty is pulling out a six pack of cokes, pouring out half and filling the rest back up with whiskey.
He grabs Jack by the shoulders. “No arguing, brahs. Tonight we’re drinking Jack and Cokes exclusively in honor of this sonofabitch who rarely gives us the opportunity to get drunk with him.” Jack smiles back at Shitty, so Bitty doesn’t mention anything when he notices Jack quietly grab an unopened, plain soda instead of the mixed drink.
They leave the house with no particular goal in mind, marching along the road to River Quad amid boisterous laughing and rough-housing. Shitty steals his phone almost immediately and Bitty feels naked without it. Between that and the fact that the whiskey hits him all at once, he’s feeling a little out of out of touch with reality, and can't help but enjoy the moment.
At one point, Ransom pushes Holster into a bush and Bitty laughs so hard that he falls over. Jack is the one who lifts him up off the ground and gives him a reassuring pat on the back. “You’re going hard tonight, eh Bittle?” Bitty tries to glare at him, but it doesn’t work very well, which only seems to make Jack laugh at him more.
His teammates keep dragging him along, and they end up on the beach. He and Jack sit back-to-back with Holster and Ransom. “Hashtag Got Your Back,” Bitty shouts as they settle in down by the water. A few feet away, Shitty is sitting on a low branch nearby trying to compose a Samwell University drinking song.
“This college’s dedication to imbibing is literally right there in our motto. It is a fucking travesty that we have no official song to drink to.” The whole thing seems to be to the tune of “Don’t Stop Believing,” but the only line that Bitty can even make out is something about “Mother-chugging Wellies.” Needless to say, it’s hysterical.
Eventually, Holster and Ransom get up to skip rocks on the river, leaving Bitty and Jack on their own on the beach. Bitty takes a moment to pat Jack on the side of his leg. “I’m glad you came out with us tonight. This is fun.”
“Yeah,” Jack replies. “Me too.” Bitty’s feeling loose and a little drunk, and he wishes he could just let himself lean on Jack, but he’s pretty sure Jack wouldn’t like that. So he’s glad when Shitty leaps down from his tree and sits down on his other side. He rests his head on Shitty’s shoulder and basks in this feeling, a total conscious awareness that he is happy.
So this is what friendship is supposed to feel like.