Archive of Our Own

The problem is, Bitty gets too comfortable. 

Freshman year, he was closeted first semester, and second semester he was still keeping his eyes permanently glued to the floor. Still perpetually terrified that a single look in the wrong direction would land him back in a supply closet.

From the start, he’s determined to make sophomore year different. Better. He’s carrying his last box into the Haus, arms toned and golden from the summer, when he spots him.

His breath catches. The guy across the street is…gorgeous. He’s shirtless, his chest bare atop a pair of horrendous salmon shorts and even more horrendous yellow sneakers.

There’s a backward snapback pulled over his head, sweat glistening on his abs while he sits cross legged on the lawn of the lax house, reading a textbook of all things. It’s a rare sight the week before classes start.

As if feeling his gaze, the guy looks up, right at Bitty. Bitty looks back. He doesn’t break away like he would have last year. 

He lets himself drink the guy in, lets himself want, lets himself think that maybe, if those stupidly blue eyes are anything to go by, the guy wants him too.

Slowly, the guy stands to his feet. Bitty’s breath catches. He stumbles to set his last box on the front porch in case…in case what? This guy comes over and falls into his arms to make out with him at 10 A.M?

Granted, he certainly wouldn’t say no…

“I got that one for ya, Bits!” Ransom’s voice calls cheerily from behind him. Bitty swallows hard as Ransom grabs the box with one arm, loops his other around Bitty’s shoulders and pulls him inside.

He tries to turn, but only catches a brief glimpse of the guy standing, dumbfounded, before he’s dragged into the haus.

“This is gonna be a great year, eh?” Ransom says, placing the box down in the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Bitty says faintly, going for the sink because his throat is suddenly very, very dry. “Yeah, it is.”

Bitty doesn’t just get comfortable, he gets careless.

He’s alone in the living room while everyone else who’s home smokes up in Shitty’s room. Usually he’d tag along, but he’s three drinks deep and he needs a minute.

A minute to sit by the window and stare outside like a creep. He’s wondering if he’s imagining things, that’s all. If a summer of being repressed in Georgia conjured an image of a hot guy maybe sort of checking him out.

He’s there though. The lax bros seem to always be outside, sprawled out on the lawn. Shitty says they’re marking their territory, but Bitty’s pretty sure he’s just jealous they have a nicer lawn.

They’re all drinking beers now, a few of them smoking. It’s college, so of course they are, but it strikes Bitty that they’re living parallel nights. Doing the same damn thing and hating each other all the while.

The guy from earlier’s alone too. He’s reading the book still, sipping from a water bottle. One of the many Chads has enough finally, gets up, pulls the guy’s book off his lap. The guy takes it good-naturedly, laughs it off.

Unfortunately the movement draws Bitty’s eyes to his impossibly thick thighs. He feels very close to throwing a hand over his forehead and fainting.

“Oh my God.” Ransom’s voice calls behind him and Bitty scrambles away from the window like he’s been caught watching porn. That would honestly be preferable. “SHITTY!”

“What?” Shitty jogs downstairs wearing nothing but boxers so tattered they should really qualify as a rag. 

“Our little Bitty here is ogling the lax bros.”

“I wasn’t,” Bitty sputters, but his cheeks are flushed and his voice is high and he’s sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room now and it’s so, so obvious he’s lying.

“No fucking way.” Shitty stalks up to the window, peers out. “How could you, Bits?”

“I was…bored,” he says, because it’s certainly less of an offense than admitting he’d stayed behind with the sole purpose of looking.

“Fine,” Holster says, walking downstairs without missing a beat. “Infinite fines.”

“Oh come on.” Bitty folds his arms over his chest, feeling distinctly like a chastised child. “This isn’t fair. Wouldn’t you sneak a peek if there was a house full of hot girls across the street?”

Ransom and Holster both seem to seriously consider this, then shake their heads in unison. “Nah,” Ransom says. “Not if they were lax girls.”

“They’re not even hot!” Shitty says, still shamelessly staring out the window. He doesn’t even sit at the angle Bitty carefully cultivated so he wouldn’t be easily spotted from the other side. “Zimmermann’s the only one who could get it, and he’s just hot because he was a hockey bro before he went to THE DARK SIDE.”

“Who?” Bitty blinks. There’s a series of increasingly loud gasps from the three of them. Bitty makes himself comfortable on the carpet, settling in for what he’s sure is about to be a long lecture.

“Jack Zimmermann is Canadian royalty,” Ransom says.

“Jack Zimmermann did lines off the Stanley Cup when he was sixteen,” Holster says.

“No the fuck he didn’t,” Shitty says. “Where’d you hear that shit, man?”

“Guy on my high school team.”

“Whatever. Jack Zimmermann…” He points out a finger. “Is a traitor.”

“Okay,” Bitty says. He has too many drinks in his system to pretend he really cares. 

They continue with their lecture, taking turns to tell him about someone named Bad Bob and a draft that never happened and a stint in rehab.

It’s complete with pictures they pull up on their phones. Bitty’s heart might just sink when he realizes it is, in fact, the guy he’s been checking out. Lord, he sure knows how to pick ‘em. 

There’s no way in hell this gorgeous, rich, probably straight dude with mega famous parents would be into him. He must have been making something out of nothing, a mirage conjured by his relentless sexual frustration.

“So finally, Jack emerges from the ashes,” Shitty says. “There’s rumors going around that he’s enrolling at Samwell, returning to his ‘athletic pursuits’. I was freaking out. Freaking. Out. We would have been frogs together!”

“...cool?” Bitty guesses at an appropriate response.

“Only it turns out Jack’s done with hockey,” Shitty says. “And he’s moved onto…LACROSSE. FUCKING LACROSSE.”

Bitty stares at him, wishing that Lardo’s parents weren’t keeping her home an extra day. She has much more experience reigning Shitty in. Bitty takes a deep breath, tries his best on his own. “Sorry…let me get this straight. You’re mad that this poor boy who almost died playing hockey—”

“He did die,” Ransom says. “I heard he died and they revived him.”

“I heard he died and didn’t come back and Bad Bob paid a trillion dollars for a clone,” Holster says. No one bothers dignifying this with a response.

“You’re mad that a guy who literally died playing hockey decided to quit?”

“Of course not,” Shitty says. “I’m mad that he plays fucking lacrosse.” 

Bitty stretches out in the front yard, clinging to the last vestiges of summer. He’s out here to bask in the sun, not to attract the attention of one Jack Zimmermann.

That would be ridiculous. For one thing, he’s certain now that Jack is straight, mutual staring notwithstanding. For another, Jack's not even outside partaking in whatever bizarre ritual the rest of his bros are. Bitty’s given up trying to discern what they’re doing; he just knows it requires pelting each other with balls and a lot of beer chugging.

He leans back, resolving not to move from this spot for another hour. He’s got an Arnold Palmer by his side, his phone in hand. Maybe he can’t ogle right now, but he can work on maintaining his tan. This year, he wants to reduce the amount of days he’s all pasty and white as much as humanly possible.

He flips over onto his stomach to get the back of his legs, presses his forehead against the lawn chair. He’s just started to doze off when something hard hits his ass.

He shrieks, assuming it’s one of the boys, but when he flips over, he finds an errant ball from the lax bros’ game. Aaaand it’s rolled straight into his Arnold Palmer and knocked it into the grass. Wonderful.

“I’m SO sorry,” a voice calls out, deep and so, so Canadian. Before Bitty has the time to process it, Jack Zimmermann is looming above him, blocking out the sun with his massive ass. “Are you okay?”

“…yes?” he manages, briefly wondering if he’s passed out from sun poisoning and is dreaming.

Jack looks down to assess the damage and winces when he sees the drink. “I can make you a new one. We have basically every alcohol you can think of back at the house. Cheap stuff, but still.”

“Oh. No, it’s just an Arnold Palmer,” Bitty says.

“A what?”

“What?”

“What’s an Arnold Palmer?” Jack asks. He’s not shirtless today (Bitty can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed), wearing a crimson Samwell shirt atop a pair of blue basketball shorts. Lord, he must be straight if this is his idea of fashion. It helps shake Bitty out of his stupor.

“You don’t know what an Arnold Palmer is?” he asks, a smile teasing at his lips. Jack shakes his head. “It’s part iced tea, part lemonade. I make mine with sweet tea, personally. It's on the sweet side, but I like it that way.”

“That sounds refreshing,” Jack says. “Well, if you give me ten, I can go get sweet tea from the store—"

“No, sugar.” Bitty must be imagining the way Jack’s ears go red at the pet name. “I make it myself. I’m a Georgia boy. I’d never get sweet tea from Stop and Shop.” He shudders.

“Well, give me the recipe then. I’ll make some.” 

Bitty laughs. “I have a whole pitcher in the kitchen. Here just…hang tight.” He stands, squeezes Jack’s arm. “Be right back, hon.”

In the kitchen, he pours out two cups. He looks around furtively, but no one seems to be around. On a liquor run, maybe?

He scurries out the door and, blessedly, Jack is still standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. Bitty comes over, passes him a cup. “Here,” he says and yeah, he must be imagining the way Jack’s eyes trace his lips when he takes a sip. 

A beat too late, Jack tries it himself. “Wow, this is…really good.”

“If you like that, wait til you try my pie.”

“Oh, you’re the one who brought us pie last year?” he asks. Bitty nods. It was the one and only time he brought the lax bros pies, before he was strictly forbidden from doing so. 

Shitty considered making it an official bylaw: ‘no pies for lax bros’. In the end, he determined that that was covered under clause 13: ffffuck the lax team.

“Yup!”

“I didn’t get to try it,” Jack says, looking kind of like a kid who just missed seeing the Easter bunny. God, how is it fair that he’s hot and cute? “There were only crumbs left by the time I got home.”

“Shame,” Bitty says. “I’ll just have to make you another.”

“This is a lot of hospitality from a guy who just got his drink spilled because of me.”

Bitty’s eyebrows raise. “Did you throw the ball?”

“Well, no. I was inside, saw it through the window. But they’re my team.” He shrugs. “I feel responsible.”

“Canadian guilt and southern manners, my my my, what a pair we make,” Bitty says. Jack laughs, the sound surprising Bitty. It’s as beautiful as he is. 
It’s becoming increasingly clear that Bitty’s a goner.

Jack looks at him, pauses like he wants to say something, but can’t quite find the words. No matter how badly he itches to, Bitty doesn’t shy away. He stares right back, moves his eyes from Jack’s only to glance down at his lips.

“Yo, Jack,” a voice calls out, breaking the spell hard and fast. “What the hell are you doing over there? I need you on my teammmm, we’re losing!”

Jack sighs. “I should…” He points vaguely. “Thanks for the drink though, euh…”

“Oh! I’m Bittle. Eric. Bitty,” he stutters. Jack cocks his head, far too amused. “Eric Bittle, but my friends call me Bitty. Hockey nickname.”

Jack winces, like maybe he’d forgotten Bitty plays hockey, or maybe he didn't know in the first place. “It’s nice to meet you, Bittle Eric Bitty. I’m Jack.”

He doesn’t tack on his last name, Bitty notices distantly. “It’s nice to meet you too, Jack,” he says, unable to hide the fondness from his voice.

Jack nods, then runs off. Only fifteen seconds later, he turns 180 degrees and comes right back. Bitty’s heart hammers in anticipation. Is he gonna ask for his number? Ask to go back to Bitty’s room, right here, right now?

“Euh, sorry,” he says when he approaches. “Can I get the ball back?” 

“Oh! Right!” Bitty laughs a little too hard, scooping up the ball from where it’s still sitting on the grass. “What are you boys playing anyways?”

“Dodge pong.” Jack rubs the back of his neck, like he’s very, very embarrassed. “It’s part dodge ball, part beer pong.”

“Oh, that’s…”

“Stupid, I know.”

“I was gonna say genius.” Bitty laughs. Ironically, Shitty would love it. Maybe they could all play together and end this stupid rivalry once and for all.

“So can I…?” He gestures at the ball.

Bitty has no excuse except Jack’s dimples for how shamelessly he says, “Only if you say please.”

“Please,” Jack says immediately, his voice husky, and low, and good lord the sun suddenly feels far, far too hot. “Please may I have the ball back, Eric?”

“Well since you asked so sweetly.” He smiles, tosses it over. Jack fumbles the easy pass and has to bend to pick it up.

“Okay, well…” He points behind him again. “Stay, ya know. Cool. And maybe use sunscreen. Your nose is getting a little…red.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks,” Bitty says and then finally, finally, Jack is gone.

Bitty turns to head inside, in search of a fan or maybe an ice pack, and comes face to face with Lardo. She’s leaning on the front porch, smoking a joint, very blatantly watching him.

“You’re back!” Bitty rushes up through a cloud of smoke to give her a hug. “How long have you been there? I mean, here.”

“Long enough to know you wanna bone Jack.”

“Shit,” Bitty whispers. “Please don’t tell the boys!”

“I won’t, man, relax.” She takes another hit, falling quiet. Bitty’s so, so bad at these silences, but he knows on an objective level that they’re not awkward. Not with her. “Jack’s cool. You’ve chosen well.”

“Wait, you know him?”

She hums. “We’ve been friends since freshman year, yeah. He took one of my art classes, then dropped it. Dude’s figuring himself out. Studies history and photography now.”

“Cool,” Bitty says weakly.

“I do homework with him sometimes,” she says, looking Bitty in the eyes as she adds, “Never seen him smile like that before.”

She has the decency to look away when he blushes.

Bitty gives the stack of papers in front of him a wide berth, then takes the world’s deepest breath. One week. One damn week into the school year and he’s already overwhelmed.

He sips his coffee to find it’s already gone cold. Great. Just great.

“Euh…is this seat taken?” a distinctly French Canadian voice asks above him. Bitty startles, glances up to see Jack staring down at him, an almost shy expression in his eyes.

In the time he’s spent just staring at his homework, Annie’s has filled up, apparently. He can hardly deny the boy. He shakes his head, gestures to it, and Jack sits down.

“Getting a jumpstart on work?” Jack asks, sipping his coffee.

“More like already behind.” Bitty groans.

“What’s your major?”

“...I don’t have one?” Bitty says it like a question, like maybe he can figure it out over the course of this conversation. That sure would be nice.

“Aren’t you a sophomore?” Jack asks. Bitty nods. “Well, you’ll figure it out. Too bad you can’t major in sweet tea, eh?”

“Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty gasps. “Are you chirping me?”

Jack’s face falls. It takes a second for Bitty to realize his mistake. Shit. “I didn’t know who you were til last week,” Bitty blurts out.

“...what?”

“My friends told me,” he says in a rush, feeling strangely guilty. “I didn’t even know who your dad was! I did know your mama, but I didn't know she was your mama, ya know?”

“What?” Jack repeats. “Don’t you play hockey?”

“I’m a Georgia boy, remember? The chain of command there goes football, then baseball, then waaay at the bottom, hockey.”

“Still…” Jack says suspiciously, like he doesn’t believe him.

Bitty huffs. “I bet you anything that if my daddy was a famous football player, you’d have no clue who he is!”

“Well is he?”

“No,” Bitty admits. “He coaches high school football though. He’s trained a few guys who went on to play D1. One went pro for a season, til he busted his kneecap.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bitty sips his coffee, praying he hasn’t messed this whole thing up, when Jack says, “Look at us. A couple of rebels, going against our dads.”

Bitty laughs. “I did try peewee football. I was awful. I have a feeling you were better at hockey.”

“Maybe,” Jack concedes. “You looking forward to the season?”

“I am!” Bitty says brightly. “We’ve got a good group of guys and we were juuust short of the playoffs last year. I’m hoping we can make it further this year.”

“I know. And I think you will,” Jack says. Bitty can’t help the way his eyes widen. “I catch your games from time to time. On my laptop, I mean. Damn, are you fast.”

“Oh, thanks.” Bitty blushes. “Now I feel bad I don’t know anything about your lacrosse skills.”

“Don’t be.” Jack waves a hand.

“Do you ever miss it?” Bitty asks softly. He’s not sure what compels him to say it. Maybe it’s because this table’s small and Jack’s big enough that their knees are knocking beneath it. Maybe it’s because Jack’s eyes are open and so so blue and Bitty suddenly wants to know every thought behind them.

Whatever the case, it’s probably too much. But that doesn’t stop Jack from answering, “Yes. All the time. But it’s…easier, playing a sport where no one can compare me to my dad. Handling a different stick, and all.”

“Yeah,” Bitty squeaks out, hoping his blush at the innuendo isn’t too obvious, but knowing it probably is. “You ever, uh, come watch a game? In person, I mean.”

“No. I want to, but it’s…people recognize me in rinks. I wouldn’t want to…take the attention off you guys.”

It’s sweet, but Bitty can’t help but wonder if his reasoning is purely selfless. Jack smiles sadly, and Bitty’s heart physically hurts for this beautiful boy he hardly knows. “We need to get you a disguise. Ooh, maybe you could dress up as the well!”

Jack laughs. Bitty’s savoring the sound when it's drowned out by an all too familiar baritone waxing poetic about 30 Rock. Shit.

Without a second thought, Bitty yelps, ducks under the table. Jack must think he’s insane. Only, thirty seconds later, Jack crouches beside him. “Who are we hiding from?” he asks. “Your ex just walk in?”

“Worse,” he whispers. “My teammate.”

Jack cracks a smile. “Don’t want them to see you consorting with the enemy, eh?” 

“It’s not that,” Bitty says quickly. “Well, it kinda is. It’s…I’m enjoying your company. And if they catch me with you, they will physically carry me out of here. Wouldn’t your teammates?”

“I’m too big to be carried,” Jack says seriously. “I’d put up a fight.”

Bitty returns his smile. They’re silent for a moment, crouched down on the dirty coffee shop floor. Bitty wants to pull Jack in by the collar of his shirt and kiss him right here, right now. Instead, he says, “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“Why I’m supposed to hate you.”

Jack shrugs. “Teams like having a common enemy. It bonds them, I think,” he says. And then, so quietly Bitty almost doesn’t hear it, “For what it’s worth, I’m not doing a very good job hating you either.”

Bitty leaves not long after, with a spring in his step and a new phone number burning a hole in his pocket.

It’s Chowder who poses the question in the end. Chowder, the sweet new goalie who Bitty’s already drawing up adoption papers for. Chowder, who settles far too comfortably on the disgusting couch and says, “So why exactly do we hate the lax bros?”

“Bro,” Nursey hisses, “don’t question it.”

“No, it’s good for you boys to learn your history,” Shitty says. He launches into a tirade of random, strung together anecdotes, half of them reasonable, half of them absurd.

The lax bros’ parties get out of control—and not in a fun way. The lax bros can’t seem to learn the difference between women and property. The lax bros are probably the types of guys whose dating profiles are just various pictures of them holding up fish. The lax bros once threw out a perfectly good couch.

“Wait.” Bitty gapes. “Is this their couch? Shouldn’t we burn it then?”

“On the contrary, little bro,” Shitty says. “We’re giving it a second life.” 

“More like a fifth,” Bitty mutters. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he slips into the kitchen without glancing at it. 

It’s Jack. He knows it’s Jack because they’ve been texting nonstop for the past week.

Jack: I asked my dad if he knew what an Arnold Palmer was.
Jack: He proceeded to go on a twelve minute rant about how they should name a drink after him.
Jack: Yes, I counted.
Bitty: LOL
Bitty: Maybe I could invent one, get it started!
Jack: Please don’t
Jack: He has a big enough ego.
Bitty: are you guys close?
Jack: We are, yeah
Jack: Our relationship got easier when I stopped playing hockey, I think.
Bitty: That’s nice!
Bitty: It was the opposite for me. My dad saw me as a “real boy” once I stopped figure skating and started playing
Jack: You figure skated?
Bitty: Yup. You’re texting a junior regional champ!!
Jack: That’s amazing
Jack: and explains so much.
Bitty: What? Like how small I am?
Jack: I meant how fast you are and how amazing your balance is.
Jack: But that too
Bitty: :))) 

Bitty takes a minute to wipe the smile off of his face before he goes back out to the living room.

Bitty and Jack studying at Annie’s together becomes a thing. It’s a risk, being right out in the open. But they go early enough that neither of their teammates seem to be awake yet.

They take in the sunrise, drink their coffee, and Bitty pretends to work while he watches Jack. Every now and then, he swears he catches Jack watching back.

“Oh lord,” Bitty groans during their fourth study session.

“What?” Jack turns his head quickly as if to make sure there aren’t any hockey players waiting in the wings to jump him.

“My grandmother.” He turns the phone over, showing Jack a text from Moomaw wishing him a good morning and asking if he’s met a nice girl yet. She’s gotten more and more brazen about slipping it into conversation lately. Selfishly, he kind of wishes they never taught her how to text. 

Jack frowns. “Oh. Well…have you?”

Bitty laughs. “I’m gay. She just doesn’t know that.” Jack nods. Maybe Bitty’s reading into it, but his shoulders seem to settle a bit. “I’ve tried to tell my family so many times but I just…can’t seem to get the words out.”

“Well, you can always come out how I did,” Jack says, and Bitty’s heart beats so fast he can practically feel it in his forehead. He lets out a quiet hmm, not sure he’s up for forming an actual response. “Have a guy over and don’t lock the door.”

“No!”

“Yup.” Jack ducks his head, sheepish. “It’s been years and my dad still knocks for thirty seconds before he enters my room.”

Bitty laughs and, unable to help himself, wonders.

They’re getting home from practice, still shower damp, when the lax bros stretched out on the lawn start hooting and hollering. Bitty doesn’t really get what the joke is, catcalling them, but he’s long since given up on trying to understand the social dynamics of straight dudes. 

“THAT’S RIGHT. TAKE IT IN, MOTHERFUCKERS.” Shitty pulls off his t-shirt right there in the middle of the street. Bitty’s surprised he didn’t immediately go for his pants, too. “BEHOLD. THE BODY OF A REAL MAN.”

They all start booing, flipping him off. A few throw crushed up red solo cups, and one side swipes Bitty a hair.

Like a moth to an annoyingly endless flame, Bitty’s eyes find Jack’s. “Sorry,” Jack mouths bashfully.

Bitty flashes him a quick smile that he hopes is reassuring before he joins Lardo in stopping Shitty, who has made the inevitable leap to stripping down all the way.

“Public indecency, bro,” Lardo reminds him, pushing him inside by the chest. “Public indecency.”

“Stupid laws,” Shitty mutters.

“Maybe you could get on the supreme court and change that!” Chowder says far too optimistically. They all start discussing Shitty’s odds and what laws they’d want him to change when Bitty’s phone buzzes twice in rapid succession.

Jack: Sorry they’re so immature
Jack: They weren’t totally off base though. You look good. 

Bitty holds his phone tight to his chest for the rest of the night.

Jack has taken to live blogging lax bro parties to him. The details range from amusing to deeply concerning.

Jack: 18-year-olds vomiting count: up to 6
Jack: 18-year-olds I’ve had to physically pull away from drunk girls: 3
Bitty: jesus christ

It’s a quiet night in the haus, thank God. It always gets intense when they’re having parties on the same night, trying to one up each other.

Tonight though, everyone’s taken to a heated Mario Kart competition while periodically shitting on the party raging across the street. He used to think Shitty was just jealous of how big their parties get, but hearing what it’s like from an insider, he gets it.

He shudders. Not for the first time, he’s relieved to be living in the haus. He wishes he could take Jack in, let him sleep under his bed. Or on it, maybe.

He gets all warm and flustered at the thought. Luckily, everyone’s too focused on the battle over Rainbow Road to notice.

Bitty: Is it always like this?
Jack: It’s worse at the beginning of the year for sure
Jack: Before I can get our guys in line/before the kids get used to partying.
Bitty: Okay old man
Bitty: I’m sorry though. That sounds hard
Jack: It’s okay. A lot of the guys are cool.
Jack: Chad R. and I take turns watching over everyone.
Jack: Ugh hold on, another guy’s trying to take a girl home who’s way too drunk.
Bitty: eesh

“When do you think it’ll be shut down?” Holster asks, clearly bored of watching Shitty and Ransom go head to head.

“Soon, I hope,” Bitty mutters, almost considering calling campus security himself. “Have you ever been to one? A lax bro party, I mean.”

“Once. Before Shitty steered us straight. It was a nightmare, man.” Holster takes a long pull of beer. Bitty hasn’t had much tonight, just enough for a nice buzz. “There’s fun crazy and then there’s just…crazy. A girl literally collapsed on the front porch. Rans and I had to carry her to her dorm. Pretty sure she was roofied.”

“Oh my.” Bitty clutches his chest. “Was she okay?”

“Yeah, we made sure no one followed her home,” Ransom says, cursing under his breath when Shitty throws a green shell. “I’ve heard it’s gotten better though.”

“What?”

“The parties,” he says, cheering when he laps Shitty. “They gave Zimmermann the C—or whatever the hell lax bros call it—and he keeps them in check, I guess.”

“Yeah right.” Holster scoffs. “He’s a party boy. They probably do lines off their stupid netted sticks now.”

Knowing Jack, actually knowing him, it’s a ridiculous mental image. Jack is always equipped with a book, half of them not required reading, all of them boring and dense. 

Jack bumps his shoulder lightly on their early morning walks to Annie’s, argues with him about the pronunciation of pecan. Jack’s eyes light up when he talks about his dreams, the new ones of going to grad school at Brown, toiling away in a World War II archive.

Jack…is sweet. He’s so, so sweet and it pains him that no one else seems to see that.

“Doubt it,” Shitty calls out and for a second, Bitty hopes he’ll do his Shitty thing, defend Jack from being battered by the rumor mill. “The lax bros are, like, incapable of self improvement,” he finishes.

Bitty sighs internally, tuning back into his texts.

Jack: Okay, her friend’s taking her home.
Jack: It’s not always this bad.
Jack: It’s a rough crowd tonight.
Bitty: It’s really sweet of you to try to take care of everyone
Jack: Eh, it’s the decent thing to do.
Jack: I’m kinda reaching my limit though, I’ll admit.
Jack: Someone just asked me if I have the Stanley Cup in my room??
Bitty: What, like, casually sitting on your dresser?
Jack: Apparently. He wants to make cocktails in it I guess.
Bitty: how creative 
Bitty: Is it weird? Getting recognized?
Jack: Annoying, mostly
Jack: I’m used to it. I just hate it at parties because people always ask me for drugs.
Jack: Somehow, I don’t think they’d be happy taking my antidepressants.
Bitty: I mean, they would be if the meds do their job
Jack: Hah

Bitty presses a light thumb on the side of his phone, considering. Shitty’s cursing Ransom out for beating him. Holster’s retreated into the kitchen in search of more beer, and, probably pie. 

Screw it. Didn’t he say this year would be different? 

Bitty: Would you wanna get out of there?
Bitty: With me, I mean?
Jack: I’m not sure I’d be welcome at your place.
Bitty: We could go somewhere together
Bitty: I think you need a break
Jack: I think you’re right
Jack: Okay. Yeah. Let me go tell Chad R. he’s on duty.
Jack: Meet at the creepy tree down the block in 5?
Bitty: See you there!

He runs up to the bathroom, takes a hard look at himself. He looks…fine. Decent. He swaps his shorts for jeans that hug his ass well, musses up his hair, and heads back downstairs.

He immediately comes chest to chest (okay, fine, stomach) with Holster, who frowns down at his jeans. “You heading out? Now?”

It’s a reasonable question, considering it’s 11:30 P.M. “Lardo texted me,” he says, knowing she’ll cover for him if it comes down to it. “She needs help with her sculpture.”

Holster nods, seeming to accept this, and the others are too busy with the next round to notice the exchange. Bitty bolts before they have the chance to.

He gets to the creepy tree two minutes early, wondering if Jack’s really gonna come. He wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. This is stupid, probably. Where are they gonna go this close to midnight? Annie’s is closed, and they’ve never been anywhere else together.

“Hey,” Jack’s voice hits him straight in the chest. He’s wearing jeans himself, along with a black muscle tee that shows off his ridiculously toned arms and a Canadiens baseball hat.

Bitty can’t help the way his lips quirk up at the sight. “You know, I’m not sure that hat is doing you any favors when it comes to getting recognized.”

He laughs. “You’re probably right.”

They start walking with no real destination but away from frat row. Bitty buries his hands in his pockets. It’s cooler out than he thought it would be. Fall’s around the corner and he’s entirely unprepared for it.

He looks up at Jack. “Save anyone else from choking on vomit?”

“Capped out at six.” He sighs. “Your parties don’t get like that?”

“The vomiting, yes.” Bitty winces, remembering his poor, poor shoes from winter screw. “The rest…not as much. Is it true girls have been roofied before?”

Jack sucks a sharp breath in. “Two guys got kicked off the team for it last year, yeah. I testified against them in the hearing,” he says. “It was…intense after. Some of the guys hated me for it, still do. I got the sense that a lot of them were relieved, though. I just don’t want our house to be somewhere anyone’s scared to go, you know? And I don’t think I’m alone in that.”

Bitty nods. He wishes Shitty could pull his own head out of his ass. He’s pretty sure after only five minutes with Jack, they’d be best friends. “It seems like you’re making a difference.”

“I hope so. I kinda wish I’d known what I was getting myself into though. Maybe I’d have run track instead.”

Bitty’s immediately hit with the mental image of Jack running in too short shorts. He pushes it away fast, though he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself from revisiting when he’s falling asleep tonight. “It’s worth it to be on a team though, right?”

“Definitely. There’s no feeling like it,” he says. “You get it. You’ve got a good group of guys behind you, eh? And Lardo’s great.”

Bitty smiles. “She’s the best. She’s working on a sculpture right now, actually. Do you wanna go see it?”

“Yeah, sure. That sounds fun.” They change course, taking a left toward the art building. Jack asks what Bitty’s been baking lately, and Bitty tells him about the maple apple pie recipe he’s been trying out.

In turn, Jack tells Bitty about a research paper he just read for his thesis. Bitty only thinks about kissing him four times. Okay, five. 

He’s surprised when they make it to Lardo’s studio. It kind of seemed like they could walk through the night forever, never running out of conversation or pavement. She’s there though, goggles on, using a blowtorch on a piece of scrap metal.

“Pass me that wrench, will you?” Lardo asks, seemingly unfazed by their appearance.

Bitty hands it over. Instead of tightening something, she bangs it against the metal a few times, before lifting her goggles. She nods, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. “Sup?”

“Escaping the party,” Jack explains.

“You guys can hang here if you want. Or…” She puts the wrench down, crosses the room, and fishes a key out of her backpack. Bitty gets all flustered, assuming it’s to her dorm, until she says, “Faber.”

“Oh.” Jack blinks. “Yeah. Okay. Would you want to…?”

It takes Bitty a second to realize he’s being addressed. He nods. They watch Lardo for a few more minutes, shower her six foot work in progress in praise, then head back out.

“You sure you’ll be okay going to Faber?” Bitty asks shyly when they’re back beneath stars and street lights.

“Yeah. I like rinks—as long as they’re empty. Lardo’s, euh, lent me the key before.”

“Wow. I can’t believe she’s had a secret lax bro friendship for, what, three years? Only Lardo could pull that off.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job yourself.” Jack nudges his shoulder and Bitty smiles, pretends the idea of them being just friends doesn’t make his heart skid to a brief stop.

Faber’s beautiful this time of night. He hasn’t been here when it’s this late, this empty, since they got knocked out last year.

He’d come by himself, spun in aimless circles, wondered if he’d be better off still figure skating, without a team to let down.

Jack joins him now, stretching his feet in loaner skates. He takes a lap and his shoulders sink lower than Bitty’s ever seen them.

“I wish you could play with us,” Bitty admits. “And not just because we’d probably get to the frozen four with you.”

Jack chuckles. “You have a good shot this year, I think.” He skates closer to Bitty, grazes a gentle hand across the boards. “I wish I could too.”

So play, Bitty wants to say. Quit lacrosse and come live in our basement and let the whole hockey team realize how wonderful you are. He knows it’s not that simple, but he wishes it could be. “Wanna race?” he asks, the three syllables so much easier to push out.

“Oh come on. You know you’ll win.”

“And what do I get if I do?” Bitty asks, biting his lip, because Jack’s so gorgeous in the low lighting and the ice beneath his feet makes him brave.

Apparently, he’s not alone. “A kiss,” Jack says and then, before Bitty can so much as blink, he takes off. Bitty skates after him, shrieking that he’s a cheater, but it doesn’t matter.

Bitty wins easily. They’re both breathing hard when Jack catches up to him at the end of the rink, Bitty’s heart pounding even harder. He hopes with everything in him that Jack meant what he said.

In the end, he doesn’t have to hope long. Jack presses one hand to Bitty’s cheek, the other to the glass, and kisses him.

Bitty melts into it, back pressed to the glass, lips pressed to Jack’s. He takes what he’s wanted to for weeks, greedy for it. The kiss is soft, then harder when their tongues collide, then soft again.

Eventually, Jack pulls back, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays close, looping his fingers through Bitty’s. “God, I’m so glad I gave up hockey,” he breathes. Bitty tilts his head, confused. “I’d…I’d be trying to go pro,” Jack explains. “I’d never let myself have this. At least not without a fight.”

Bitty swallows hard, looks up at him, lids heavy. “And what is this exactly, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“The start of something, I hope.” Jack presses close, kisses Bitty again. Bitty lets him, and lets him, and lets him.

Lardo smirks at his chapped lips and mussed up hair when he returns the key.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“I didn’t say anything. Now you know why I sent you guys to Faber, though.”

Bitty gasps. “You—You’re the best manager ever, you know that?”

“Yeah. I know.”

Bitty looks upward, toward her sculpture. It must be an amazing feeling, creating something so much bigger than yourself. “Would it be so bad?” he asks, following every curve and dent of metal. “If I like him?”

“Course not,” Lardo answers without hesitation.

“But the boys—”

“Bitty. You grew up closeted in Georgia. You went on one date last year with a guy who threw up on your shoes. Shut up and let yourself have this.”

“Okay," Bitty says, because she’s right. It’s not Jack’s fault that some guys on his team are assholes. It’s not Bitty’s fault that his own team despises every last one of them.

It’s a silly, petty rivalry. Bitty wants to kiss him again, so he will. Just the thought makes him smile.

“But if you don’t want the guys hounding you tonight, you should probably wipe that lovesick grin off your face and fix your hair.”

Bitty knows she’s right, but he still lets out an indignant squawk. 

The next day, Bitty heads to Stop and Shop (murder, not racist) with Shitty and Ransom to load up on butter.

If he and Jack are becoming Something (he’s determined that that requires a capital s), he needs to make him a pie. Really, he can’t believe it’s taken this long. 

He’s talking with his hands, ranting about drama his mom got in with some ladies at church, almost home and ready to take a nice, hot shower. Or a cold one thanks to the way his thoughts are turning when they reach the lax house and he sees Jack, shirtless, tossing a frisbee around.

Bitty bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I don’t get it,” Ransom says, hands full of bags. He’s got the butter while Shitty holds the gratuitous amount of chips he bought. They both insisted Bitty not carry anything to ‘save his hands for baking’. “What was LeAnne’s plan?”

“That’s the question!” Bitty grins, thrilled Ransom’s actually following along. “Like, you can’t just dictate who does and doesn’t join book club.”

“Eh, I don’t know,” Shitty says. “Sounds like Terri was being an asshat and deserved to be kicked out.”

“HEY!” a voice calls from the lax house just as they’re about to turn up the front steps. “YOU GONNA SHARE WITH THE REST OF US, OR ARE YOUR SWEETS ONLY FOR YOUR BOYFRIENDS?”

Bitty freezes. One sentence and he feels sixteen again, insignificant enough to be shoved into wall after wall. 

“SORRY, BITTY’S PIES AREN’T FOR FUCKING ASSHOLES,” Shitty shouts back. “IF YOU EVER WANNA COME BY AND DISCUSS THE ROOT OF YOUR HOMOPHOBIA WITH ME IN DEPTH, MAYBE HE CAN SPARE A SLICE. MAYBE.” 

“Jesus.” The guy laughs, shakes his head. He’s a freshman, Bitty thinks. At least, he’s young and not instantly recognizable. “I know it’s Samwell, but I didn’t expect the hockey team of all things to be so faggy.”

He doesn’t shout it, but it’s loud enough to carry across the street. Shitty takes a step forward. Bitty squeezes his eyes shut, always defaulting to freeze, no matter how desperately he wishes he could fight or at least fly.

In the end, he doesn’t see the punch, but he hears it. Knuckles hard against skin, a shocked shout, and some scuffling. His eyes fly open, expecting to find Shitty with blood drenched hands, but he’s only two steps onto the road, jaw slack.

“Holy shit,” Ransom whispers. Bitty follows his gaze to see Jack leaning in for a second punch. Some of his teammates rush over, tackling him to the ground.

Bitty’s feet move forward without his permission, toward Jack. Shitty and Ransom are on either side of him though, ushering him into the haus.

He drops right down onto the floor, partially because the living room’s full, and partially because he’s not sure he can make it much further.

“Fuck.” Shitty hoists him up, shoos the frogs away until a beanbag clears. He plops him in it. “Are you okay, Bits? That was royally fucked.”

“What happened?” Chowder asks, eyes wide. “Was there a murder?”

“What?” Dex’s own eyes are narrowed.

“It’s murder Stop and Shop! There has to be murders there. They’re racist at racist stop and shop.”

“That…is actually sound logic,” Holster concedes, casting an equally curious glance at Ransom.

“Jack Zimmermann just punched a guy in the face in Bitty’s honor!” Ransom says, bursting with excitement.

“Yeah, I think that’s kinda burying the lede of that frosh being a homophobic douche to Bits,” Shitty says.

A loud outcry follows. Half people awed by Jack, half ready to go fight the lax bros on his behalf.

Bitty feels similarly split. On one hand, it makes him sick to his stomach, getting talked to like that not just at Samwell, but in his home. If he can’t be safe here, where can he?

On the other hand…he can’t stop playing it back. Jack’s gaze, focused, furious. His hands, shaking and eager for seconds.

He clamors for his phone, sends out a quick: Are you okay?!

Then, he takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “Who wants pie?”

“Bitty–" Lardo starts.

“It’s fine. Really, thanks y’all, but…pie.” He heads into the kitchen before any of them can stop him.

The boys won’t leave him alone for hours. It’s sweet, really. They hover nearby, regaling him with stories about nothing and everything.

He loves them so much, even if he has to talk them down from more than one revenge plot against the lax bros. He glances at his phone, hopes against hope that Jack’s okay.

He doesn’t hear back until he’s brushed his teeth, is about to tuck himself into bed.

Jack: I’m so sorry Eric.
Jack: My phone broke during the fight.
Jack: We had a team meeting and then I had to go get a new one.
Bitty: Oh no!! Are you okay? 
Bitty: Could you afford a new phone?! I’d die if mine broke!!
Jack: I’m trying to think of the least crass way to assure you that my parents can foot the bill for a new phone.
Bitty: Oh
Bitty: Right. Of course
Jack: I’m so sorry.
Bitty: What? For what?
Jack: For not doing something sooner.
Jack: And for punching him instead of, I don’t know, having a conversation.
Jack: We all had a good long talk after. It was nice.
Jack: Most of the guys feel really bad.
Jack: And the gay guys on the team are pissed of course.
Bitty: Oh wow. I’m glad to hear they’re on your side?
Jack: Yeah, totally. Like 90 percent of them at least. The assholes are just the loudest, you know?
Bitty: They always are
Jack: Anyways, I’m sorry you had to see me like that.
Jack: I promise I’m not like…a monster.
Bitty: Jack
Bitty: Stop apologizing
Bitty: It was hot
Bitty: Like, really hot
Jack: Oh
Bitty: My window’s open. It’s the one on the second floor that actually has curtains.
Bitty: If you want to come through it, I mean
Bitty: I’m here, hon

He bites his lip, stares down at the phone, then at his window. Jack doesn’t respond.

Just in case, he shoves his dirty clothes in his laundry basket, tucks Señor Bun under his bed. It’s dumb. Jack won’t show up. He’s being way too forward and freaking him out probably. 

A second later, a foot pops through his window. Despite literally asking for this, Bitty yelps. He hurries over to help Jack in, which ends with Bitty’s hand on his thigh and Jack sitting on his desk, knocking half of its contents over in the process.

Bitty doesn’t care, really. He could destroy his whole room and it would be worth it for that timid smile. “Euh, hi,” Jack says. “Maybe I should have texted first? I ran right over.”

Bitty smiles back. “Couldn’t wait a second, could you?”

“Nope.”

They take exactly five seconds to stare at each other before they’re kissing desperately, Bitty pressed between Jack’s legs, Jack’s hands pushing up Bitty’s cotton t-shirt. “This okay?” Jack mutters.

“Yes, oh my God,” he groans, pushing Jack’s hands away long enough to pull his own shirt off. It’s then that he glimpses it: the fresh bruises on Jack’s knuckles. “Is that from…”

Jack nods. “Euh, yeah…I’ve never done that before, seriously. But I…I didn’t like the way he talked to you.”

Bitty practically throws himself at Jack, arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him to the edge of the desk so there’s no distance between them. “I can’t believe you,” he whispers, or more so pants.

“If this is how you react, maybe I’ll do it more often.” Jack laughs.

“Please don’t,” he says, out of obligation more than anything.

“I won’t. As long as people aren’t assholes to you.”

Fuck. Bitty’s so turned on he could scream. It’s just that no one’s ever stood up for him before. Everyone knew the way he was treated in high school and they closed their eyes, plugged their ears, turned the other way over and over again.

No one said a word, let alone responded fists first. He drags Jack to his bed. He’s never sucked a dick before, but this seems like the perfect place to start.

His hand lowers tentatively to the waistband of Jack’s sweatpants, but Jack shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “You’re the one who had to deal with Tatum’s bullshit. Let me take care of you.”

Jack pulls a condom out of his pocket and Bitty’s heart ratchets against his chest. Jack planned this. He came over with the intention of doing this with him, for him. 

It’s not the first time that Bitty’s wondered if he’s dreaming in Jack’s presence. It is, however, the most intense. There’s just no way. There’s no way that this ridiculous, protective, gorgeous man is pulling Bitty’s pants down, looking up at him through his eyelashes, and…fuuuck.

Bitty nearly whites out at the first contact of Jack’s mouth, hot and wet. He lets out a groan, too fucking horny to care if it’s loud. He whines, bucks his hips up without meaning to. He settles them down, stops himself, because this isn’t his own hand. There’s a real life, beautiful, human mouth attached to him right now.

As if sensing his hesitation, Jack lifts a hand under Bitty’s hip, egging him on. Tentatively, Bitty lets his hips do what they want. He fucks into Jack’s mouth little by little, his moans growing more and more frequent until he blurts out a clipped, “I’m gonna,” and comes so hard his head spins. 

Slowly, Jack pulls himself up, takes care of the condom, presses his chest against Bitty’s. Bitty’s completely and utterly spent, but Jack doesn’t seem to mind, pressing light kisses to his jaw, his cheeks, his forehead. “‘M sorry,” Bitty whispers. “I should have given you more warning.”

“Non,” Jack whispers back, followed by a sentence Bitty can’t quite discern. It takes him a second to realize it’s not in English.

He’s not too hazy to smirk. “Are you speaking French?”

“Ouais–ah, yeah.” Jack drops his face to Bitty’s chest, his cheeks warm against it. “English is tougher when I’m…”

It’s then that he feels it, Jack hard against his leg. “Oh! Right, you’re still…” He reaches a hand down, finally pushes past the waistband of Jack’s sweatpants.

“You don’t have to…”

This boy. “I want to. Seriously.” His fingers graze Jack’s cock, feather light, exploratory. “You’re my hero, you know that?”

Jack groans, the sound vibrating against Bitty’s chest. He’s nervous and deeply inexperienced, but it really doesn’t take much before Jack’s coming, sputtering, shaking, biting Bitty’s neck hard through more muttered French. Bitty’s never seen a more beautiful sight and somehow, it’s all for him. No, because of him.

After, silence stretches out between them. A breeze whistles in through the window. There’s laughter down the street, or maybe down the hall.

The world keeps turning, even though Bitty swears it’s standing completely still. “I like you,” Jack whispers in a pause between kisses to Bitty’s cheek. “I really, really like you.”

That much is already obvious, but it’s still a thrill to hear it. “I like you too, sweetheart,” he says, then gasps. “Oh my goodness.”

“What?”

“You haven’t even had my pie yet! I’ll go get some.”

“Maybe a washcloth, too?” Jack asks.

Bitty salutes. “Aye aye, captain.”

Jack doesn’t spend the night. It sucks, but it’s for the best. Lax-hockey relations are tenser than ever after yesterday. 

He’s pretty sure he’ll have to put a padlock on the fridge to stop the boys from egging them. And that’s their least expulsion-worthy plan.

If he and Jack are going to be Something, they can’t risk cluing in their teams, at least not this early. Still, that didn’t stop Jack from staying until 3 A.M., showering Bitty in kisses and raving over his pie.

When Bitty rolls into the dining hall the next morning, he’s exhausted, but happier than he’s ever been in his whole life. It’s dramatic, but true nonetheless. “Hey y’all,” he says, trying and failing not to sound too cheery.

He’s met with the sound of thunderous applause. He takes a seat and looks behind him, like maybe there’s someone else waiting in the wings worthy of this greeting, but it’s just little ole him. “Uh…”

“Light it, light it!” Holster chants.

Shitty slides a cake across the table, lights the single candle on it. Bitty doesn’t blow it out, too busy trying to read the terrible frosting work. 

“Oh good lord,” he yelps when his brain finally comprehends it. In goopy red icing, it reads ‘virginity’ with a big X over it.

“Team tradition!” Shitty says, like this explains everything. “We haven’t been able to do this in years.”

“I…what,” Bitty manages. He gawks so long that the candle goes out on its own. Ransom and Holster both groan. “Why did you…no, how did you…”

Shitty looks him dead in the eyes and says, “Bits. The haus walls are, like, famously super thin.”

“Oh God,” he whispers. Then, much louder. “Oh GOD. You…you heard that?”

“Bro, we heard it from the attic,” Ransom says. “Should’ve known you’d be as noisy in bed as you are in the kitchen.”

“I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again.” His eyes dart across the dining hall, finding Jack’s who’s giving him a confused albeit amused look. The fact that he’s watching this go down, even from a distance, makes it a thousand times more mortifying. 

“Nonsense!” Shitty booms. “It better happen again! This is amazing. What better way to get revenge on those homophobic asshats than having killer gay sex! It was killer, right? It sounded killer.”

“It had to be killer,” Holster says. “I literally thought someone was watching porn on full blast at first.”

Bitty has no choice. He’s going to have to change his name, burn off his fingerprints, and flee the country. 

“We need deets!” Shitty slams a hand on the table. “Who is he? Did you meet him on Grindr? Are you on Grindr?”

“I haven’t seen him on there,” Nursey says around a mouthful of eggs. Everyone sans Shitty turns, stares at him. It’s a thousand times simpler than the way Bitty came out, with a hundred less notecards. “Unless your profile pic is just your dick? You seem like more of an abs pic dude to me though.”

Dex splutters, forcing out a sentence that largely sounds like gibberish. Well. At least this will get some of the attention off of him.

“Wow!” Chowder says. “I didn’t know you were gay, Nursey. And I didn’t know you were a virgin, Bitty. I’m learning so much today!”

“I’m bi,” Nursey says. “And it sounds like Bits isn’t a virgin anymore.”

“Right! Was he nice? I hope he was nice.” Chowder frowns. “The girl I lost mine to was kind of mean. She kept calling me Carl.”

Holster snorts. “Bro. That’s foul.”

Everyone turns to Bitty. Belatedly, he realizes they’re waiting for an answer. “He was…a perfect gentleman and that is all I will be saying on the matter.”

Everyone boos him. Someone even throws half a muffin in his direction. 

“Enough,” Lardo snaps. “Give him a break. And aren’t you the one who did away with that tradition, Shitty? The way I remember it, you gave a two hour rant about how virginity’s a social construct and then changed the bylaws.”

“It is!” Shitty flinches like he’s been wounded. “But, I dunno…it felt like we needed to celebrate today.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Bitty pushes the cake away. “Who made this anyway?”

“Racist Stop and Shop,” Dex says. As if it couldn’t get any worse.

They go to Jack’s room that night. Bitty’s too embarrassed to explain why they can’t go to his over text and, thankfully, Jack doesn’t ask, just waits til the coast is clear to usher him up the stairs.

Jack’s room is small, plainly decorated. He loves it. It’s like stepping inside his world.

“Is this you?” Bitty asks, pointing at a family photo. Jack’s twelve, smiling with his mom rink side. Bitty pointedly ignores the fact that the mom in question has a face he’s seen on screens and magazines and billboards. “You were the cutest kid.”

“I think you might be the first person in history to say that.”

“Really?” Bitty looks up to see Jack on the other end of the room, staring at him, an almost bashful look in his eyes. “What?”

“Just wanna kiss you,” he mutters. Bitty giggles, but of course he doesn’t deny him. 

He crosses the room, kisses him softly. They get into bed not long after. Things are lighter than they were yesterday, less frenzied.

They talk, mostly. Jack traces a fingernail down his arm, tells him about how at first, losing hockey felt like losing his lungs. How he picked up lacrosse to keep his body active, his mind at rest, and never stopped. How it heals him to see a game as nothing more than that.

“What was that about today?” Jack asks when the conversation lulls. “In the dining hall?”

“Hmm?” Bitty looks up, presses a kiss to Jack’s jaw just because he can.

“Your friends all clapped for you.”

“Oh!” He blushes at the mere mention of it. Lord, he’s going to kill those boys when he gets home. “They uh…heard us. Last night. I mean they don’t know it was you, but...”

“Oh God,” Jack says. They both laugh, even though this morning Bitty was pretty sure he wouldn’t see the humor in it for thirty years at least. “Do they do that every time someone has sex? That’s gotta get old fast.” 

Bitty stills beneath his grasp. He almost doesn’t want to say it, but knows that he should, that he needs to. “They don’t. Just when it’s…someone’s first time.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “Oh. Really?” Bitty nods. “Crisse, you should have told me. I would have been…that was so filthy.”

Bitty laughs. It’s so far from the response he was fearing and so, so Jack. “No! It was perfect. You were perfect.” He turns over, repositions himself so his lips are hovering above Jack’s. “I hope you’re not, like, scared to touch me now.”

“No way. Look.” Jack palms a hand over his ass, and Bitty laughs again, kisses Jack. Jack returns the kiss tenfold.

They keep kissing slowly, lazily. It’s nice. Really nice. Bitty’s beginning to think he could do this all night when Jack’s phone rings. He groans, squints at the screen, then groans again. “It’s my dad. Sorry, I can’t…They worry if I miss their calls.”

Bitty goes to move off the bed but Jack pulls him closer, hugs him to his chest with one hand and holds his phone with the other.

A long string of French follows, which instantly turns Bitty on. It’s a ridiculous Pavlovian reaction. Jack is talking to his dad, for Christ’s sake.

His dad who happens to be a Stanley Cup champion worth millions. Bitty wonders if maybe he’s out of his depth here. But then Jack traces a heart on his shoulder and the fear loses all oxygen.

Jack huffs a small laugh, says something else, then hangs up. 

“What’d he say that made you laugh?” Bitty asks.

“Nothing,” Jack says quickly.

“Well that’s no fair.” He pouts. “You’d be able to overhear all the gossip my mama and I swap. And you’d be lucky to, it’s juicy stuff.”

“He said I sounded happy. I told him I am.” Jack rubs a palm over his face. “They’re coming to visit soon. Would you want to…meet them? I know it’s soon, but I’d like to tell them about you and—"

“No,” Bitty rushes to say. He feels Jack tense. “No, I mean, it’s not too soon. I mean…this feels right, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Goodness,” Bitty whispers. “What are we gonna tell our teams?”

“I had an idea about that actually,” Jack says. “Leave it to me.” 

“…what in the world does that mean?”

“You’ll see.” Jack smirks and it’s so unfairly hot that Bitty kisses him and forgets all about it. For awhile, anyway.

The answer comes a week later, in the form of a package.

Dex drops it in the living room without a word. It’s not postmarked and there’s no address. It simply says “To: the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team. From: the Samwell Men’s Lacrosse Team.”

“It’s gotta be a bomb,” Ransom whispers. Actually, he’s been whispering some variation of this for the past ten minutes, since they started debating what to do with it.

“So what do we do?” Chowder asks. “Call the cops and ask them to diffuse it?”

“Fuck that, no cops in my haus,” Shitty says. “We die like men. And woman.”

“I have a crazy idea,” Lardo says drily. “Why don’t we open it?”

“Seconded,” Bitty blurts out, because he knows it’s from Jack. His handwriting is all over this. Literally. He recognizes it from his homework and the notes they’ve spent the past week passing back and forth across their yards. “It could be something nice!”

“It’s from the lax bros,” Shitty says.

“Maybe it’s drugs. And we think it’s nice, but really they’re setting us up and they’re gonna call the school on us and we all get kicked off the team,” Ransom says.

“Bro,” Holster says simply.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Lardo walks into the kitchen, comes back a second later gripping a steak knife. Half the room starts screaming like she’s gotten possessed by a lax bro and is gonna start stabbing them, or something.

She punctures the box, slices it open. She pulls out the note on top, written on cardstock, and smiles to herself.

Everyone shouts over each other asking what it says until, finally, she starts to read it and they all shut the hell up.

“Dear Samwell Men’s Hockey Team, we’re writing with deep apologies for our freshman’s behavior last week. We, the undersigned, have a zero tolerance policy for any kind of bigotry. We will be seeking further action to ensure such an incident does not occur again.”

“Yeah right,” Holster mutters.

“Within this box, you’ll find some gifts that we hope will serve as a peace offering and forge a newfound bond between our teams. With great respect, and then there’s like twenty signatures,” Lardo says. “Not the whole team but most of the roster, I’d say.”

“Huh." Shitty rubs his stache. “So they’re buying our forgiveness.”

“Oh please. It’s an olive branch!” Bitty says, hoping he doesn’t sound too desperate. “It’s nice.”

“I don’t know…” Ransom says.

“I’m literally the victim here,” Bitty snaps. “And I say it’s nice.”

“Alright," Shitty says. “I guess we can at least open the box?”

Chowder claps and Shitty makes the frogs all sit on the floor like it’s Christmas morning. “Let’s see what Santa got you,” he says. He pulls out the first item and snorts. “Well, looks like someone called in a favor from his daddy.”

He holds up a signed Bob Zimmermann poster. Everyone laughs. “Whoa! Cool!” Chowder says.

“Alright, that one’s for Chowder.” The other frogs protest, but Chowder’s already holding it tight to his chest.

“That was nice of Jack,” Bitty says. Lardo kicks him in the shin, laughs at him.

“Big whoop, he got an autograph from his dad.” He peers into the box. “What’s next? Another—holy fuck. Holy FUCK.”

“Care to share with the class?” Lardo asks.

Wordlessly, he throws it at Holster, who holds it up. It’s a Wayne Gretzky jersey. A signed Wayne Gretzky jersey.

“I think I just peed my pants,” Ransom whispers.

Bitty manages to conceal his giggle, but it’s a close thing. 

“Okay, I’ll take that one,” Dex says.

“Fuck that, we’re framing this shit and hanging it in the living room,” Holster says. “We’ll get rid of the TV if we have to.”

The rest of the box is much the same. A game winning puck signed by Mario Lemieux. A baseball hat signed by Sid Crosby. Signed sticks and more jerseys and vintage trading cards.

Bitty holds his phone down low to text Jack.

Bitty: You ridiculous boy!!
Jack: Do they like it?
Bitty: obviously!!
Bitty: Gosh you must have had to call in a million favors
Bitty: Thank you honey
Jack: Of course.
Jack: It wasn’t a big deal. My dad told them all that my relationship depends on it.
Jack: Uncle Mario said he’ll get you guys box seats to a Pens game if it’ll “get me laid”
Bitty: good LORD

Bitty makes the lax bros pies. Lots and lots of lots of pies.

He makes the boys help him, so it’ll actually be a group gesture. Granted, Jack got all his gifts on his own, but at least he got everyone to sign the note.

Bitty tried to do the same and it ended up with a bunch of dicks drawn on it. They’re children, all of them.

It’s Shitty’s turn to help and honestly, Bitty’s losing his mind a bit. There seems to be no end to his bitching and moaning.

“Like, okay,” he says, rolling out some dough far too thin. Bitty cringes at the sight. “It’s cool shit. Of course it is. But at the end of the day, Zimmermann just called his highly connected daddy to bribe us.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘it’s the thought that counts’,” Bitty says flatly.

“I’m not sure there is much thought though,” Shitty says. “It’s like ‘you like hockey, here’s hockey stuff’.”

“Oh my God, what the hell is your problem?” Bitty snaps finally, because he can’t. He can’t take it.

He and Jack went to the movies last night. Jack bought their tickets and they sat in the back row and kissed through half of it and it was absolutely delightful. 

They walked home after, Jack’s flannel draped across Bitty’s shoulders. Jack asked, eyes darting away nervously, if it was too soon to make things official. Bitty answered that it wasn’t soon enough.

He gave his boyfriend (boyfriend!!!) a goodbye kiss four houses down from theirs. Jack kept a steady hand beneath his head, told him to keep the flannel, that it looked better on him. Bitty laughed at him for thinking getting it back was an option.

He snuck in through his own window and fell asleep with it wrapped around him, pretending it was Jack’s arms. He floated downstairs this morning (really, there’s no other word for it) only to be greeted by a lecture about what an asshole Jack must be. He can’t handle another second of this.

Jack Zimmermann’s already gone through too much of his life with the world hating him.

“Whoa.” Shitty lifts his hands from the dough, stares at Bitty like he just fired off a gun. "What's up, Bits? If this is about that homophobic asshole—"

“It’s not! It’s about you,” he says, pointing a finger in Shitty’s shocked direction. “We all hate the lax bros, I get it. But you despise them. You want to, like, kill them all and wave their corpses around in front of their mothers. Why? What did they do to you?”

“I—"

“Not to me,” Bitty says pointedly. “To you.”

Shitty’s shoulders sag. “I dunno. They just remind me of all the asshats at Andover. The ones who would, like, pretend they liked me to bum a smoke and then laugh behind my back about how weird I am.”

Somehow, it never occurred to him that there was a world where Shitty wasn’t seen as cool. He shakes away the tender part of him that wants to accept this and drop the subject. “That sucks. I get it. You know I get it. But that still doesn’t mean you can assume every lax bro is evil. You’re generalizing. You, of all people!”

Shitty squints. “Why are you defending them? Why are you making them pies? I know it’s, like, up to you how you process, but I can’t wrap my head around how you’re so cool about this.”

“I…” Bitty looks out the window. If he stands at just the right angle, he can make out a sliver of the Lax house, the corner of Jack’s room. Two days ago, he napped there before a game, curled into Jack’s side, their breathing steadily synching.

“Because if this is some deeply ingrained, Christian, love thy neighbor shit—"

“I’m dating Jack,” Bitty blurts out.

“What? You…Jack who?”

“Zimmermann,” he says. He turns, looking Shitty in the eyes with what he hopes passes as a challenge. “I’m dating Jack Zimmermann. He’s my boyfriend.”

He kind of thinks Shitty might loop an arm around him, say ‘yeah, we know buddy.’ 

He hasn’t been the best at keeping it a secret. The boys have been teasing him for his room being locked half the week, empty the other half. Ransom and Holster keep saying ‘bonjour’ to him with a knowing look whenever he enters a room. He swears Dex saw him walking out of the lax house slightly disheveled a few days ago.

Shitty just…flounders though. Opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “…you…what…so that’s why…huh?”

“Yes.”

“So when he punched that kid…” Shitty sounds it out slowly, like he’s learning a new language.

“We had our first kiss the night before. At Faber.”

“Faber? You brought him to Faber? And then you…” He goes white. “Oh my God. You lost your virginity to a lax bro.”

“Yes.” Bitty keeps his arms folded, maintains a strong front even when he blushes. “And I…he makes me so happy, Shitty. He’s like…everything I always dreamed of when I was fifteen and terrified of being gay. Except for the part where I have to hide him.”

“Hide him?” Shitty blinks. “Wait…because of us?”

“Yes.”

Shitty’s face contorts then into an expression he’s never seen from him before. Sadness, he thinks. Maybe guilt.

“Oh my God, Bits. I’m so sorry. You should never have to hide. Not here.” He crosses the room, pulls Bitty into a tight hug. “I’m the worst bro.”

“You’re not,” Bitty says into his chest, nearly tipping over with relief. “You’re protective. There are worse things in the world.”

“Yeah, well I’m not the only one.” Shitty pulls back, grinning. “Dude, Jack pummeled that guy for you. That’s hot.”

“That’s what I said!” Bitty laughs. “He’s a good guy, Shits. You’d really like him, I swear.”

“If you like him, I’m sure I would. We should have a date. A bro date.”

“Sure,” Bitty says, beaming. “That would be cute. I could make y’all pies for your play date.”

“Bro date,” Shitty corrects. “Not a play date.”

“Uh huh.”

Shitty pulls him in for one more hug, whispers into the top of his head, “You do know I’ll shove his stupid lacrosse stick up his ass if he ever hurts you, right?”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

They have a plan. A meticulous plan carefully curated over coffee with Chad R. and lunch with Shitty.

Well, actually it’s pretty simple. They’re both going to treat their teams to dinner on Friday.

Bitty, for his part, will be spending two days whipping up chili, cornbread, collared greens, and seven pies. Jack will order a bunch of meat lovers pizza.

They’ll ply them all with beer and then, when the time is right, Shitty and Chad R. will give their cues.

They’ll ask Bitty and Jack, respectively, if they’re seeing anyone and Bitty and Jack will say, ‘It’s so funny you should ask!’

Actually, Jack says he’ll probably respond, ‘yeah’. Bitty just has to live with that, he supposes.

Then, bright and early on Saturday, they’ll get brunch with the Zimmermanns. If this all goes to hell and frat row burns down and they get kicked off their teams, they’ll enact the nuclear option from there. Which is, of course, hitching a ride back to Canada with Jack’s parents and living in one of their six houses.

Jack insists that that won’t be necessary and that they ‘only’ have three houses, but it’s always good to have a backup plan. 

By the time Thursday rolls around, he’s feeling a bit better about it all. It helps that Autumn is coming in proper, the pretty part that makes it sink in that he’s not in Georgia anymore. 

The change in the leaves doesn’t feel like a warning like it did last year. It feels more like a promise. A promise of early sunset strolls and very large hands helping him prep for Hausgiving and cuddling up to watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special while snow piles up outside his window.

He’s pretty excited to find out what it’s like to kiss Jack in all four seasons. 

He’s getting ahead of himself though. For now, it’s fall. For now, it’s Thursday. The last day he’ll have to keep Jack a secret.

The boys tug him away from his kitchen prep, bring him to the yard to mess around. They crunch and fall and jump into leaves.

Shitty declares a ‘leaf ball fight’ and everyone starts partaking as if this is a good idea.

“Shitty Knight,” Bitty shrieks. “You are going to poke someone’s eye out! Don’t make me call your mama, I know she raised you better than this.”

Shitty drops a handful of leaves over his head in rebuttal. He’s brushing them off when something strange happens. The whole haus, for the first time maybe ever, falls quiet.

Ransom and Holster are no longer trying to use Lardo as a shield. Dex and Nursey stop bickering. Chowder lets out a high-pitched squeal, the only proof that sound does indeed still exist on this planet. 

Bitty spins around and comes face to face with a man who’s older and so, so familiar. “Eric?” the man asks. “Eric Bittle?”

“Uh, yes?” Bitty perks his head up. He can hear someone whisper ‘what the fuck’ behind him, though he’s not sure who. “How can I help you sir?”

The man’s eyes crinkle in a smile and it’s that sight, that lopsided grin, that makes recognition slam into him. Oh no. “It’s so nice to meet you! I told you it was him,” he calls over his shoulder. “We heard your accent from across the street and I said, ‘isn’t Jack’s boyfriend southern?’ and Alicia said, ‘there’s definitely more than one southerner on campus’ but sure enough, it’s you! Oh, I’m Bob, by the way.”

Bitty has about two seconds to figure out what his priority is. Impressing his boyfriend’s very intimidating parents or avoiding getting interrogated and tackled by his team.

In the end, the decision is made for him. “BOYFRIEND?” Holster shouts, because of course the loudest member of the team would be the one to break the silence.

From there, it’s…chaos. Ransom and Holster are shouting, desperately attempting to get a word in over each other. Shitty starts throwing leaves at Lardo like this will somehow distract everyone. Dex and Nursey wrestle in some bizarre competition to see who gets to talk to Bob first. Chowder starts gushing about how excited he is, Jack seems nice, everyone says he’s mean but he’s nice isn’t he, he must be nice, Bitty wouldn’t date someone mean.

As if it couldn’t get worse, Alicia Zimmermann walks up, all poise and beauty and the sharp cheekbones he saw the first time he snuck into a rated R movie.

“Honey.” She places a gentle hand on her husband’s elbow. “Their teams don’t know, remember? That’s why you sent them all that merch.”

“Oh!” Bob slaps his forehead. “I’m so sorry Eric, I just got so excited. Oh no. Jack’s gonna kill me.”

“It’s fine Mr. Jack’s Dad,” Bitty squeaks. He doesn’t have the chance to take these very embarrassing words back before Holster’s literally lifting him in the air.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Holster shouts, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “Is this why Jack punched that dude in the face?”

“Excuse me?” Alicia says.

It’s at this moment that Jack appears. Bitty can’t see him, because he’s currently being hoisted over and over by Holster in some sort of weird take on pull ups. He hears him though, stuttering out a long string of frantic, desperate French that sure is familiar.

Apparently, not just to him. “Ohhh,” Holster says. “So Jack’s who’s been in your room laying down pipe. He’s French Canadian.”

“Wait, that makes sense,” Ransom says. “Oh my God. We owe Pierre a major apology.”

“Shiiiiit.” Holster drops Bitty abruptly. He scrambles to land on his feet. “He must think we’re freaks. Do you think he hates us?”

“Probably.”

“Sorry, Bits, we congratulated Pierre on getting busy with you after we overheard your beau speaking French. We used your full name and everything. Whoops.”

“Who on Earth is Pierre?” Bitty all but shouts. He avoids eye contact with every single Zimmermann, hopes that maybe they’ve teleported back to Canada somehow. He hears a laugh that’s kind of like Jack’s only deeper, looser, and knows he hasn’t gotten so lucky.

“Dude. Did you even look at the most eligible bachelors of Samwell spreadsheet I made you?” Ransom frowns. “Pierre! He’s a French exchange student. He’s short and blonde, totally your type.”

“Yeah,” Lardo says sarcastically. “That’s definitely his type.”

“Well I didn’t know he had the hots for Zimmermann!”

“We did literally walk in on him checking him out the first day of the semester,” Holster says. “Shit, are we stupid?”

“Yes.”

“Lardo!”

“Wait, blonde and short?” Dex says. “You just described him.” 

“No shit. If I was gay, I’d wanna bone myself, wouldn’t you?”

“Being gay doesn’t mean you’re only into yourself,” Dex says.

“How would you know?” Nursey shoots back.

“How are you possibly offended by that?” 

“Okay, enough,” Holster interrupts. “I don’t care that he’s Jack Zimmermann and he’s Canadian royalty and he punched a guy for Bitty. Granted, that was pretty hot—"

“Really hot,” Ransom says.

“But he’s still a lax bro…right?”

“You really punched someone?” Bob asks. Bitty raises his head nervously and finds Bob doing something very odd. He’s grinning. “I knew it! I knew you were a fighter too.” He throws an arm around Jack’s neck, pulls him into a headlock.

“Boys,” Alicia snaps. “Bobby, we should not be encouraging this!”

“It was just,” Jack says, trying and failing to shove his dad away, “a little slap.”

“Really?” Ransom says. “From where I was standing, it looked like you broke that dude’s nose. Wait, is that why Bitty boned you?”

“That’s totally why. I’d have boned him if it were me, lax bro or not.”

“Boys,” Bitty snaps, finally at his limit. Beyond it, really. “If any of you ever want to eat my cooking again, you will be inside that haus in five seconds.”

It’s Chowder of all people who protests in the ultimate betrayal. “But we haven’t even met Bad Bob!”

“One. Two.”

They’re all scrambling inside by the time he reaches three. He takes a deep breath and turns back to the Zimmermanns.

Jack’s free from Bob’s grasp finally, and Alicia’s smacking them both on the back of the head.

“I’m so sorry about…well, literally every single word they said,” Bitty says. He’s sure he’s blushing redder than a pig on a hot day without a trough of mud in sight. 

He’s never met a boyfriend’s parents before so he has nothing to compare it to, but this seems kinda like the absolute worst case scenario. Well…that might happen if he ever introduces Jack to his own parents, but this is at least a close second.

“No, we’re sorry,” Alicia says. “My husband’s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.” Bob drops his head guiltily.

“It’s okay! Really. We were gonna tell them tomorrow anyways. You just saved us the hassle.”

Bob smiles. “I’ve gotta say, the way you handled that, I’m surprised you don’t have the C.”

“Oh no, I’m only a sophomore.” Bitty waves a hand.

“So? I’ve never gotten a team in line as quickly as you just did.”

One glance to Jack shows that he’s equally impressed. It figures that the way to both their hearts is athletic leadership.

“Well, we’re about to head to dinner, Eric,” Alicia says. “Would you like to join us? I know we have plans on Saturday, but I’m not sure I can wait.”

“Me neither!” Bob says. “We’ve gotta talk about your game against Duke last week. That play in the third period—"

“No, Bobby. We are getting to know our son's boyfriend, we’re not just going to talk about hockey for two hours.”

Bob visibly deflates and Bitty tries and fails not to be overwhelmed by literally all of this. “Oh gosh. Um, maybe tomorrow?” Bitty says. He knows he shouldn’t turn them down, but he’s covered in dirt and leaves and he’s got some music to face. “I think I’ve gotta go check in with my boys.”

“Of course.” She nods. “It really is so nice to meet you. Jack, are you gonna say something to the poor boy before we leave or just stand here gawking?”

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” Jack says. Bob bursts out laughing. Jack shoots him a glare and takes a few steps forward til they’re face to face, adds in a quiet voice, “you gonna be okay?”

“No clue. Ask me later?” he says. Jack nods, leans in, presses a kiss to Bitty’s lips, chaste and quick.

He jogs back to his parents and Bitty eyes them anxiously, but they’re both beaming like this is the best sight they’ve ever seen.

Bitty takes their joy, pockets it for later, and slowly makes his way into the haus. He squares his shoulders, because this feels like a fake it til you make it occasion.

When he breezes inside, Ransom and Holster pull abruptly away from the window. Dex and Nursey start loudly shouting nonsense in a weak attempt to hide the fact that they were talking about him.

He clears his throat. The room stills. He’s not sure where to go from here, he realizes. He flashes Shitty and Lardo a desperate look.

“So, Bitty,” Shitty says. “Are you seeing anyone?” Lardo lets out a groan.

“Okay,” Bitty says. “I’m sure y’all have questions—"

“Jack Zimmermann’s gay? My sisters are gonna be devastated.”

“I can’t believe Bad Bob knows who you are! That’s so cool!”

“How long has this been going on though? Was it really never Pierre? Or are you making your way through every French dude on campus?”

“So we’re, like, allowed to date lax bros now?” Everyone swivels in Nursey’s direction at the last question. “What?! Just wondering!”

“He’s gay,” Ransom whispers, very possibly approaching coral reef mode. “Jack Zimmermann’s gay.”

“He’s bi,” Bitty says. Everyone in the room turns to him and he freezes, wondering if maybe saying something, anything, was a mistake. He also wonders if it’s too late to flee to a quaint little mansion in Canada.

“So you’re really…”

“Yes,” he says with unearned confidence. “We’re dating.”

“Like dating-dating?” Holster asks.

“What other kind of dating is there?” Dex retorts.

“I mean, it could be a friends with benefits thing. They’re having a lot of sex. Like…a lot of sex.”

“Sex with Jack Zimmermann,” Ransom says, as if this is a necessary addition.

“We’re dating. Or dating-dating, whatever that means. He’s…he’s my boyfriend.” He thinks about Jack’s intensity whenever his eyes find Bitty’s across the bedroom or street or quad. He thinks about spare kisses to his forehead and ankles tangled beneath tables at Annie’s and the note Jack slipped him when he passed the lax house three days ago that simply said: I woke up today thinking of your laugh. “It’s serious.”

Maybe he smiles too fondly when he says it. He can’t be blamed for that, can he? He’s carefully levelled out his happiness for weeks now and it’s finally spilling over.

“Holy shit,” Holster says. “You mean to tell me you’re in a serious relationship and we had to find out from Bad Bob Zimmermann? When were you gonna tell us? On your wedding day?”

“Tomorrow! I was gonna tell y’all tomorrow. That’s why I’ve been cooking that big dinner.”

“Do we still get dinner?” Nursey asks, earning a swift punch to the arm from Dex.

“Wait, is this why I saw you leaving the lax house?” Dex asks. Bitty ducks his head, unable to stop the memory of exactly what he was doing in Jack's bed before Dex spotted him. “How long have you guys been together?”

“You saw him leaving the lax house and you didn’t tell us? Bro.”

“I thought he was dropping off more pies!”

“Whatever. Answer the question.” Holster swivels his critical gaze toward Bitty.

“Officially, it hasn’t been long, I promise. Unofficially…since the day before he punched that guy for me, I guess. Though I think he’d do it even if it wasn’t me, I mean, that kid was being a real jerk, and technically—"

“But how do you even know each other?” Ransom interjects. “How do you know Jack Zimmermann?”

“He’s our neighbor.” Really, isn’t that all boils down to? The boy next door. Or more accurately, the boy across the street, catching his gaze and never dropping it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell y’all sooner. I didn’t know how you’d take it, what with him being a lax bro and all.”

“I don’t know how to take it,” Holster says. “This is like…unprecedented. Or is it? What if that’s why we hate each other, ya know, besides them being assholes. Like, maybe years ago a lax bro and a hockey bro fell in love and it ended badly.”

“Broooo,” Nursey says. “That would be tragic.”

“You should write a poem about that.”

“Totally.”

“Well I for one think this is great news,” Shitty announces loudly. “Our itty Bitty’s in love, who cares if it’s with a lax bro?”

Holster and Ransom zero in on him in sync. “You’re being really chill about this,” Holster says. “You knew already, didn’t you?”

Ransom nods. “He totally already knew.”

“...Lardo knew too!”

“Dude. What the hell?” Lardo smacks his arm. Bitty’s pretty sure everyone’s gonna end tonight with welts. “He’s right though. Jack’s cool.”

“Jack Zimmermann,” Ransom says. “Bitty, I don’t think you understand how big of a deal this is. Your American mind can’t comprehend it.”

Bitty shrugs. “Okay, but…you guys are okay with this?” He realizes now that maybe he’s not just nervous about Jack being a lax bro. Maybe he’s nervous about Jack being a man. There’s a difference, he thinks, between the guys knowing he’s gay and actually seeing it.

Ransom silently consults with Holster. Nursey and Dex try to silently consult but end up bickering about not being able to read each other’s expressions. Lardo and Shitty glare at them all, daring them to say no.

“I think it’s the best news!” Chowder says. “I mean, it’s Jack Zimmermann. He’s so cool. And like…you deserve to be happy, Bitty. You make the rest of us happy all the time!”

“He definitely makes Jack happy,” Nursey mutters. The room fills with laughter and the tension that Bitty didn’t realize was pulled tight across his chest starts to loosen.

“Okay, but double fines for at least a month for secretly dating a lax bro,” Holster says. Everyone nods, muttering agreement with this sentencing.

“Well, now that’s that out of the way.” Shitty claps his hands together. “Deets. Deets. Deets.”

The rest of the room starts chanting too. “Lord, you’re menaces, all of you,” he says, but secretly, he’s grateful they’re reacting exactly like they do when one of the boys brings a girl up to his room. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Not much to tell?” Holster scoffs. “If I’m ever moaning that loud and I say it’s not much to tell, please punch me in the dick for being a fucking liar.”

“You could never,” Lardo says. “You once told me about a girl you were banging while you were banging her.”

A loud cacophony of shouting follows. “I ran into Lards on the way to the bathroom!” Holster protests. “You make it sound worse than it was.”

“Enough about Holster, I wanna hear about Jack.” Shitty grins. “What’s up with the French? Does he do it for you, like does it turn you on, or are you so good in bed he forgets English?”

Bitty, inexplicably, feels his face get even warmer. Surely it must have reached its redness threshold by now. “Oh my God, he’s blushing,” Ransom says. “He totally makes Zimmermann forget English. Daaamn.”

“Goals, honestly,” Nursey says, looking at Bitty like he has a newfound respect for him. “Goals.”

“Who tops?” Holster asks. “Are we allowed to ask that?”

“No.”

“Do you really need to ask?” Ransom says.

“Yes! Looks can be deceiving. Like how Jack looks like a douchebag, but apparently he’s nice enough for Bitty.”

“Yeah, I don’t get that,” Nursey says. “I was in line behind the guy at the dining hall one time and he grunted at me.”

“I’ve heard he only says like three words a day,” Holster says. “It’s in his programming.”

“Programming?”

“Ya know, since he’s a clone. A robot clone.”

“There’s this thing called thinking before you talk,” Lardo says. “It happens to be a skill Jack has.”

“Thinking?” Holster laughs. “I’ve heard he never goes to class and has, like, a 1.5 GPA. Giving all of us jocks a bad name.”

Before he can stop himself, Bitty cackles. Everyone turns to stare at him. “Sorry, it’s just…he’s the biggest nerd I’ve ever met. I’m including Shitty in that.”

“Hey!”

“He does his homework, like, two weeks in advance and reads nonfiction for fun. Where do you hear these things?”

“Well, I didn’t know we had an inside source here!” Holster argues. “How can I have accurate info when you won’t answer a single one of our questions?”

“I am a southern gentleman.” Bitty folds his arms. “I do not kiss and tell.”

“I’m sorry Bits, you can’t convince us you’re just kissing,” Shitty says. “We’ve heard too much.”

“At least tell us how you met,” Chowder says, smiling. Bitty’s not sure he ever stopped.

To his surprise, the other guys echo this rather tame request. Finally, Bitty sits down into a beanbag and settles in.

His heart is still beating way too hard at the prospect, but he does want to gush about his boyfriend. Maybe the haus won’t topple over and the world won’t end if he does.

He takes a deep breath, steels himself, and says, “Well, I guess it started with an Arnold Palmer.”

The one place Bitty doesn’t think about Jack is on the ice. In fairness, he doesn’t think about much of anything besides being too fast for anyone to catch him.

So it comes as a surprise when, before a game against BC, he hears Jack’s name. Not from his friends, whose chirps about Jack seem to be limitless, but from someone on the opposing team.

“Hey,” the guy says, loud enough for his voice to carry, “that’s Jack Zimmermann in the stands, right?”

“Nah, man. Pretty sure he’s dead,” his teammate answers.

Bitty whips his head around and sure enough, there’s Jack. Jack, in the middle of a crowded rink. Jack, surrounded by lax bros passing around poorly disguised flasks. Jack, looking stupidly gorgeous in a Samwell Men’s Hockey t-shirt and offering him a shy wave.

“Goodness,” Bitty exhales, waving back.

The other guys follow his gaze and, of course, the jokes are immediate.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Jack Zimmermann,” Holster says. “Remember that guy? What ever happened to him? You know, I heard he’s, like, a really good French kisser.”

“I heard the only thing he likes more than boning his boyfriend is eating maple apple pie,” Ransom adds.

“I heard he’s a huge dweeb who cares, like, way too much about trench warfare.” Shitty nudges him. “And also his boyfriend’s ass.”

“Shut up!” Bitty’s pretty sure his face is the color of his uniform now.

“I didn’t know he was coming,” Nursey says. “We should get him on the ice.”

“Bet we could make a play out of his lacrosse stick,” Holster says.

“Nah, the real play is him and Bitty making out, distracting the other team with their hotness.” Ransom sounds far too serious for his liking. But after a week, it’s still a rush hearing them talk about Jack like this, talk about Jack at all.

“Where’d he get that shirt?” Dex asks. “Isn’t that one just for players?” 

“Good question,” Ransom says. “It’s not a crop top on him, so it must not be Bitty’s.”

“Hey!”

“It’s mine,” Shitty says. All heads turn to him immediately. Bitty’s smile may or may not stretch across his whole face. “What? He said he was gonna come surprise Bits and cheer us on and I told him he needed to represent.”

“Yeah, cheer us on,” Holster says. “Definitely not just Bitty.”

“Hey, he's my bro,” Shitty protests. Bitty’s heart squeezes because he knows what that word means to Shitty, that he wouldn’t use it if he wasn’t serious. “You guys realize we all have to go to a lacrosse game now, right?”

Everyone groans at the prospect, except Bitty, who can’t stop beaming, wouldn’t be able to if he tried. “Thanks, Shits.”

“No need to thank me. I’ve got your back. His too.” The whistle blows and Coach Hall yells at them to get their heads in the game. “Come on boys,” Shitty shouts, “Let’s give Zimmermann a good show.”

They do, in the end. They win 3-2, thanks in part to an assist from Bitty.

After, frat row is packed. It wasn’t a particularly special game, not this early in the season.

But it’s a special night. Shitty and Chad S. are hosting the first ever joint lax-hockey kegster.

It seems like all of Samwell has shown up for the occasion. Bitty stands in the crowded street, beer in hand, watching it all, wondering how he was ever afraid of this.

Ransom and Holster are engaged in an intense round of dodge pong with some lax bros. Shitty’s roped Tatum into a lecture about homophobia, or maybe consent. Or both? 

Lardo is either flirting with or harassing a Chad, it’s unclear. Nursey is definitely flirting with a lax bro, while Dex looks on, eyebrows furrowed.

Bitty spares a thought for himself a month ago, every kiss with Jack a secret held close to his chest. He spares a thought for himself a year ago, every glance at a guy a risk that never felt worth taking. He spares a thought for himself four years ago, terrified that he would never have this, that maybe he didn’t deserve to.

Two arms wrap around him, warm and solid. He leans into the grasp, an instinct he didn’t realize he’s developed. “Whatcha thinking about?” Jack whispers in his ear. 

Bitty tilts his head back, smiles up at him. “Just…how happy I am. That this all worked out.”

Jack presses a kiss to his cheek, right there, in the middle of the street.

“FINE,” two voices shout in sync. Both Ransom and Chad R. freeze, looking at each other with wide eyes before they crack up and get back to dodge pong.

Bitty swats Jack’s arm. “Aww, y’all fine too?”

“Of course. I've gotten a lot lately, if you can believe it. Apparently I keep smiling at my phone or something?”

“Can’t imagine why,” Bitty giggles. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

He wiggles out of Jack’s grasp only to take his hand, tug him through the throng of bodies into the haus. Jack instinctively heads to the stairs, but Bitty shakes his head, leads him toward the basement.

“Oh,” Jack says as they descend, frowning. “You actually wanna show me something? I thought you were just trying to get me to your bedroom without getting fined.”

“I am.” Bitty tosses him a smile over his shoulder. “All in due time, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Okay…wow, it’s musty in here.”

“Like yours is much better.” Bitty stores some baking supplies in the basement of the lax house now, in case he wants to whip something up late at night. It’s all beer and funnels and tangled up Christmas lights, a mirror image of theirs.

Except for the scrawled writing on the boiler. “This is what I wanted to show you,” he says, pointing at it. “The Samwell Men’s Hockey team official bylaws.”

“You write them on your boiler?”

“Sure. Where else would you write them?”

“A notebook? Ours are in a notebook. And a Google Doc.”

“How efficient. Anyways, take a look for yourself, go on.” He ushers Jack forward, stands back, and waits. Jack seems confused, but he steps forward anyway like he can't resist humoring Bitty, makes his way through the list.

It’s clear when Jack gets why Bitty dragged him down here. He lets out a deep chuckle, turns to crowd Bitty against the nearest wall, presses a kiss to his lips. “So, you said these are official, eh?”

“Yup. Written by me and ratified by Shitty. Now it’ll be easier for future generations.”

“How generous of you.” Jack smiles against his lips. “You sure you don’t have more self-interested motivations?”

Bitty gasps. He’d throw a hand over his heart if they weren’t both hanging low on Jack’s hips. “Me? Never. Go back to telling me how generous I am.”

“Are you generous enough to take me to your bedroom or am I gonna have to make due down here?” His eyes are so heavy, his voice so husky, that Bitty knows he’s seriously considering it. 

“Ew, honey no, there’s mold down here. I don’t care how cute you are, a boy has his limits.”

“Cute?”

“Oh please, you know you’re cute. It’s literally written on the wall. Or boiler, I guess. Now get your cute butt up there, come on.” He pushes Jack toward the stairs and, after one more kiss, he goes.

Bitty takes his hand, follows him up, but not without one last lingering look at the bylaws, the newly inked addendum scrawled in his own penmanship. 

13. Ffffuck the lax team.
13a. Unless the lax bro is cute. Then, ffffuck the lax bro.