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One.
“You a little hungry, bro?” Shitty asks, drawing up next to Jack.
Jack glances at Shitty, but his expression does not change as he continues to dump scrambled eggs onto his plate. His second plate, on his second tray.
“It’s not for me,” Jack explains shortly and starts adding Canadian bacon to the egg-loaded plate.
Shitty refrains from sighing. Jack is always pissy during preseason, and being captain this year has not exactly helped his irritability levels. “Well, if you’re making people breakfast now, I’m more than happy to accept,” Shitty says brightly, hoping to cajole a smile out of Jack.
Jack smacks away Shitty’s hand when he tries to steal some bacon. “I’m not,” Jack says, scowling. “I’m teaching that freshman how to get protein into his diet.”
“Which one?” Shitty asks, already knowing the answer.
“Bittle.”
Sure enough, the little blond Georgian is sitting uncomfortably at the end of the hockey team’s customary breakfast table, his phone sitting down in front of him instead of a tray of breakfast. Shitty turns back to Jack and grabs his own plate. “I’m pretty sure Bittle knows how to feed himself,” Shitty says, casually. He is wicked curious; Jack has never shown this much overt concern for another teammate, and sure, he might be the captain now, but one of the other frogs subsists off of Lucky Charms three meals a day, and Jack has not said a word about him. “Plus,” Shitty adds, “Isn’t Bittle the one who basically lives in the student kitchens?”
Jack does not appear to take this observation as a comfort. “He doesn’t know how to feed himself properly,” Jack says, voice tinged with exasperation. He then grabs his two trays and heads to their table.
Shitty curiously observes his Hausmate as he approaches the frog. Bittle snatches his phone out of the way as Jack sets down the tray piled high with food. The frog looks rather intimidated, but Jack’s expression does not change, and without Jack’s having to say a word, Bittle gives in and begins eating. Jack watches him for a moment before starting to eat, apparently satisfied.
Shitty smirks. He is not a person to jump to conclusions, but that … that was certainly interesting.
Two.
If Georgia had not wanted to attend a larger undergrad institution, she would have loved to go to Samwell. Even for the fall, the weather is gorgeous today, and just warm enough for a run outdoors.
“Have you enjoyed attending Samwell?” Georgia asks Jack.
Jack does not answer right away. It is one of the many traits Georgia likes about the Zimmermann kid – he thinks before he answers questions. He wants his response to be truthful without being damaging. Essentially, he would be a piece of cake for the PR team.
“I don’t regret my decision to come here,” Jack answers. They have been running for a while now, and Jack is barely even huffing. “The people here are great, and the team is great. They’ve taught me a lot, even when I thought I already knew everything.”
“You guys certainly work well on ice,” Georgia says truthfully. Many teams at the college level would be tempted, if they had someone like Jack on their team, to put everything on one or two star players, but the Samwell men work together almost seamlessly, even well into their third line.
“The guys work hard, and Coach Hall and Coach Murray understand how to play the game to our strengths.”
They take a left turn, and suddenly they are running along the river. Georgia takes a moment to take in the view: students milling about, their red Samwell gear matching the buildings and fallen leaves around them.
“The coaches are visionary, really,” Jack goes on. Georgia glances at him; his eyes are suddenly brighter, matching the lift in his tone of voice. “They were the ones who realized Bittle and I would work well when he came on as a freshman. Bittle, he’s one of our wings –“
“The short one?” Georgia asks.
Jack smiles. He actually smiles – Georgia can count on one hand the number of times she has seen Jack genuinely smile. “The boys call him Bitty,” Jack says.
Georgia grins. “Still have the crazy nicknames, huh?”
“For the most part.”
“My teammates used to call me Geor when we were on ice.”
“Do you still keep up with them?” Jack asks. His tone is suddenly reserved, and Georgia has a sense that as well as he seems to handle it, Jack has apprehensions about life after Samwell.
“Of course I do,” Georgia replies, honestly. She would not lie to Jack. “I’m actually meeting up with a few of them in Philadelphia in a couple weeks.”
They are approaching one of the bridges, meaning their run will be over soon. Georgia mentally sighs. She genuinely likes Jack and almost wishes she did not have to bring up business things. “So, I’ve been keeping up,” she says. “What do you say about an actual meeting, with the other GMs and our agents?”
Jack considers for a moment. “When would this meeting be?”
“A week from now, maybe. It would depend on your schedule, of course.”
Suddenly Georgia notices a flash of golden hair on the bridge. “Hey, isn’t that the teammate you were just telling me about?”
Jack follows her line of sight, and his lips twitch. “Bittle? Oh, yeah.”
Georgia grins. “Wanna run into him and pretend it was an accident?”
“Yes.”
It is simple to catch the kid unawares; he is wearing a hat and has his head down, absorbed in his phone. With a wink at Jack, Georgia executes a perfect little off-ice check, and the kid goes crashing down.
“Kiddo! Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Georgia asks, leaning over and holding out a hand.
“I guess you’re looking for extra checking practice, eh, Bittle?” Jack asks teasingly.
Bittle looks up with wide brown eyes, first at Jack, then at Georgia. He looks a bit stunned, and Georgia holds in a laugh. What a little cutie.
“George, this is my friend Eric Bittle,” Jack says. “You saw him play yesterday.”
Bittle finally takes Georgia’s extended hand, and she easily helps him stand. Jack finishes his introductions by saying, “Bittle, this is Georgia Martin. She’s an assistant GM for the Falconers.”
If possible, Bittle’s eyes widen even more. “Oh! Bittle!” Georgia exclaims. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you were number fifteen.” She grins. “You’re a speedy little guy.”
Bittle finally finds his tongue. “I should really be more careful!” he says, and geez, that accent makes him, impossibly, even cuter. “Oh, I hope I didn’t interrupt any business!”
Georgia wants to take this kid home. “Kid, you’re fine,” she reassures him. “We do real business with agents around. I’ve only been convincing Jack to come meet my team for the last mile.” She leans in and says behind a conspiratorial hand, “And I told him if I couldn’t keep up, he could stop taking my calls.”
Bittle laughs, and Georgia pulls back again. She notices Jack has picked up Bittle’s hat, which fell off when Georgia ran into him. “We should get going and let Bittle here text about his walk to class,” Jack teases.
Man, Georgia has never seen Jack this relaxed. She waves to Bittle and starts walking on, but she does not miss Jack put Bittle’s hat on for him and say, “See you later, Bittle. Head up, all right? Even off the ice.”
Bittle smiles, and Jack takes off, jogging to catch up to Georgia. They set off for the last leg of their run.
“Checking practice, huh?” Georgia asks.
“Samwell is the first league that Bittle has ever played in that allows checking,” Jack says. “I’ve been helping him out.” When Georgia glances over, Jack’s cheeks are flushed for the first time since they started this run. Georgia is willing to bet the color is not due to physical exertion.
“So,” Georgia says, “Providence. It’s not that far from here. You can come to us, or we can come to you.”
It is the most direct business statement Georgia has said yet. “I can meet you halfway,” Jack eventually answers, and Georgia mentally fist pumps. One step closer to getting Jack Zimmermann on her team.
Three.
Finals week at Samwell is actually finals weeks – any and all final assessments for the semester are spread out across two weeks. This system can either be beneficial or terrible; as Holster sees it, it depends on what type if person you are and what your schedule is. If you are a weird robot like Jack Zimmermann, then a finals schedule spread across two weeks is no problem – you study each subject every day for three weeks leading up to finals and then review for exams as they come. If you are Shitty, you prefer to have all your finals in a span of six days and spend one week cramming and then the subsequent week partying and/or getting high. If you are Ransom –
There is no good option.
This winter Ransom has had all of his finals and projects due in the first six days of finals weeks. Holster has dealt with his delicate, crazy-eyed teammate for the entirety of his chaotic study period, and now that period is finally over.
“It’s all over, bro,” Holster says reassuringly as he leads Ransom up the front steps of the Haus. Holster is pretty sure there are catatonic people who are more responsive than Ransom is right now.
Holster manages to get them into the Haus. As Holster manhandles his roommate down the hall, Ransom makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a question, and Holster replies, “Yes, we’re going to play Smash Bros. And we’ll have one of Bitty’s pies.”
Ransom makes what Holster assumes is a noise of satisfaction. The blond pushes him into the living room and towards the couch, where Dex has spread out binders and papers for whatever exam he is studying for.
“Hey!” Dex shouts indignantly when Ransom faceplants into a stack of papers.
Nursey looks up from his textbook from where he is sitting in what used to be Johnson’s napping chair. “Yo, chill –"
“You fucking chill –"
“HEY!” Holster bellows, and the two frogs shut up. “Turn on the Wii, put in Smash Bros, and make sure Ransom gets the walking radish with the rainbow carrots. This is a mandatory study break!”
Holster leaves and hears the frogs scrambling to follow his orders. They both know by now that neglecting Ransom’s needs during finals weeks can lead to disastrous consequences. Content that Ransom is in good hands for a few minutes, Holster heads to the kitchen to find a Bittle baked good. He stops just before the doorway, though, when he hears a panicked voice.
“Oh, my gosh, why are these variables Greek? I don’t remember any Greek! Why do we even need Greek? There are twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, we can’t have possibly used all of them yet!”
That is definitely Bittle; he sounds more Southern when he gets stressed, among other things (read: when he has gotten schwasted). Holster is ready to burst in and force Bittle into a therapeutic hour of Smash Bros when he hears another voice and realizes Bittle is not alone.
“That’s calculus for you,” Jack replies, calm as ever.
Holster peeks into the kitchen. Bittle is hunched over a textbook and several notebooks, his hair going in every which direction, and Jack is standing just behind him, a glass of water in hand. As Holster watches, Jack leans over Bittle’s shoulder to read his notes. “They’re Greek because you’re in parametric mode,” he says.
“Parametric?”
“Yeah. So you just put them in the integral and you use –" Jack takes Bittle’s pen and writes something on Bittle’s notes “– this formula.”
Bittle stares at the paper for a moment and then drops his head onto his textbook. He groans, and Jack snorts. “You’ll be all right –"
Jack cuts himself off. He has laid a hand on Bittle’s shoulder, and when he squeezes, Bittle makes a noise that sounds something like meemph! “You’ve got a massive knot there,” Jack says. Holster can perfectly imagine the tight frown on Jack’s face.
“Stress baking isn’t conducive to relaxed shoulders,” Bittle says morosely, his words muffled by his book.
Holster expects Jack to make a teasing comment and then be on his way out, but to his surprise, Jack instead sets down his water and shifts to be directly behind Bittle. “Sit up,” he orders in his captain voice.
Bittle complies and makes a noise of surprise (or possibly pain) when Jack begins kneading his shoulder muscles. “Oh, God,” Bittle whimpers.
“Oh, my God,” Holster whispers. Bittle has done the impossible. Bittle has melted the Canadian ice giant’s even icier heart. Or maybe finals week has gotten into Jack’s head.
Holster realizes he has been spying for a while. He carefully backs away before straightening up and walking into the kitchen as if he had not been there all long.
Bittle has his eyes screwed shut, so it is only Jack whom Holster makes eye contact with. Since Holster cannot decipher Jack’s expression in a split second, he settles for silently giving Jack the bro nod of solidarity before stealing a pie and four forks and getting the hell out of there.
Four.
Lardo loves Spring C because it is one of the few events where there is enough alcohol for her to get wasted. She is a high tolerance girl, which is great for beer pong tournaments, but bad for her future health (so her mother says) and her wallet. When half of the school is buying, though, Lardo feels free to get drunk.
She is not quite there, yet, though most of her team is. Lardo is pleasantly buzzed, sitting on Holster’s shoulders like she is the queen of the world. Holster is definitely drunk, but during his Hazeapalooza as a frog he won the on-ice obstacle course while utterly trashed, so Lardo trusts him. They are bringing up the rear of the pack of hockey boys that is slowly gravitating away from the now empty stage and towards the Haus.
Ahead of Lardo and her ride, Ransom and the volleyball girl he has been hooking up with are mercilessly tormenting Chowder, who has an arm around Farmer more for support than as a sign of affection. Dex and Nursey throw in a chirp every now and then when they are not too busy trying to shove each other off of the sidewalk. Ollie and Wicks are seriously contemplating the origins of the fist bump. Bittle is on his phone, and Holster has to periodically let go of Lardo’s legs to steer Bittle out of the path of something dangerous like a trash can or a flying Dex.
“YO! WAIT UP, BRAHS!”
Holster lumbers around, hands still on Bittle’s shoulders, so Lardo has to grab the sides of Holster’s head to keep from being thrown off. It is Shitty, wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks, and Jack, who is slightly more reasonably dressed for the night chill.
“Shitty! Jack!” Bittle exclaims, finally looking up from his phone.
“Bro, gimme your beer,” Lardo tells Shitty.
Shitty obliges and pats Holster’s cheek while he is still in close quarters. “You,” Shitty says with feeling, “You fucking beaut, Holtzy, watching out for our royal manager –"
Lardo attempts to kick Shitty’s head. “Get your rank breath outta here,” she says with a grin.
“OBEY THE ROYAL MANAGER,” Holster bellows, and Shitty pets his face one more time before leaping away to interfere with Nursey and and Dex.
Bittle’s voice, extra Southern between his drunkenness and indignation, catches Lardo’s attention. “I can take care of myself!” Bittle protests to whatever Jack has just said.
“I know you can,” Jack counters, “but you’re missing a shoe, and you could end up stepping on glass.”
Bittle looks at his feet and promptly turns horrified to indeed see a shoe missing. Lardo snickers, and when she feels Holster trying to turn away, she covers his eyes with her hands to keep him from moving.
“See?” Jack tells Bittle, taking a step closer to him. “You don’t want to step in glass, do you? You’ll get cuts, and they’ll get infected, and you won’t be able to walk. Sounds terrible, eh?”
Bittle gives Jack a nasty stink eye for a moment before conceding. “Fine,” he says.
To Lardo’s amusement – and Holster’s, once Lardo moves her hands – it takes five minutes for Jack and Bittle to figure out a piggy back ride. Bittle is a rather uncoordinated drunk, and giggly too; by the time he is comfortably draped over Jade’s back, Jack’s expression is fondly exasperated.
“Lead the way, captain,” Lardo says ceremoniously. “Holtz and I got the rear.”
Jack nods, and Eric rubs his face against the back of Jack’s neck. “ ‘M tired, Jack,” he mumbles, and geez, that is too fucking cute.
“I got your back,” Jack promises, and with his hands curled under Bittle’s thighs, he sets off after the rest of the team.
Giggling. “I’m on your back.”
Holster inhales deeply, and Lardo quickly slaps her hands over his mouth. “Shh,” she says, curling over to whisper in Holster’s ear. “No chirps. Just let them be.”
She lifts her hands, and Holster pouts. “No chirps?”
Lardo considers. “Twenty-four hours,” she decides. “Let them get over their hangovers.”
Five.
“Hey, Chris,” Farmer says, interrupting Chowder’s ranting, “Your favorite people are coming in.”
Chowder turns in his seat to see Jack Zimmermann pulling open the door of Annie’s to let Bittle inside. Chowder nearly starts bouncing in his seat, and Farmer resists the urge to pat his head. He is such a ball of energy and sunshine; Farmer sometimes wonders how he possibly exists.
“Oh, my God, it’s Jack and Bitty,” Chowder says. “I didn’t know they were coming here!”
Farmer smiles. “Annie’s is the most popular café on campus,” she reminds her boyfriend.
“Of course. And Jack and Bitty come here all the time but – oh, my God, they’re going to chirp me so much for being here with you.”
Farmer wants to roll her eyes. Hockey boys. “I hope I’m worth it,” she says.
“Of course you are!” Chowder looks horrified at the suggestion of anything otherwise.
Farmer grins and leans over to kiss Chowder’s cheek. “Besides,” she whispers, “I don’t even think they’re going to notice us.”
She still has her eye on Jack and Bittle. The café is fairly packed at this time of day, and Bittle is so absorbed in his phone while also talking to Jack that Jack has to steer him to prevent any collisions. He is subtle enough that Bittle does not notice it, but Farmer can see it. She has eyes. She knows. Jack is as much of a mother hen to Bittle as Bittle is to Chowder. But Farmer also has a gut feeling that Jack’s protectiveness is of a different nature than Bittle’s.
“Don’t stare!” Chowder whispers back urgently. “They’ll notice us!”
“Chris, we could stare at them the entire time they’re in here, and they wouldn’t notice a thing.”
Jack and Bittle order their drinks, and then Bittle is right back to animatedly talking, using wild facial expressions and dramatic hand gestures. Jack is smilingly slightly the entire time, angling his body to direct Bittle away from oncoming obstacles and even leaving his hand hovering just behind Bittle’s lower back. He is herding him. Jack is herding Bittle.
“Wow,” Chowder says.
“I know,” Farmer agrees.
“I can’t believe they haven’t noticed us.”
I cannot believe you have not noticed them, Farmer wants to say, but she keeps quiet. It is not her business.
The barista slides over their drinks, and Jack slips the cardboard sleeves onto the cups before giving one to Bittle. They head to the door, Jack again subtly directing Bittle, and they leave without so much even looking at Chowder and Farmer.
“You’re safe from any and all chirps, now,” Farmer says teasingly.
Chowder grins. “I can’t believe –"
Someone slams into the window next to their table, and Chowder nearly falls out of his seat. Farmer turns, and it looks like she spoke too soon: Oluranski and Birkholtz are pressed up against the glass, making kissy faces at Chowder. Farmer waves at Shitty, who is standing just behind his teammates, and he shoots her a wink and two finger guns.
Chowder moans and slumps forward on the table. “I can never escape,” he cries, and Farmer leans over to rub his shoulder. Hockey bros are ridiculous.
Plus One.
Bittle does not look at the clock until he has finished cleaning his last pie dish, and when he does, he double takes. It is already two in the morning; the last time he baked for this many hours straight … Bittle cannot remember. It is not something he does unless he is really stressed.
With a sigh, Bittle turns off the kitchen lights and shuffles up the stairs of the Haus. He wants to fall face-first into bed, but first he has to brush his teeth and change his clothes and … and …
Jack’s door is open.
Bittle peers into Jack’s room. “Jack?” he asks hesitantly.
Jack looks up. He is on his bed, slouched against the wall, his laptop sitting on his thighs and sending a blue glow across his face. “Bittle?”
Bittle takes a hesitant step into the room. “You doing all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine – sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” Jack frowns. “Why are you up so late?”
“Got caught up baking.” Bittle rubs his eyes. “Why are you?”
Jack pats the bed beside him.
It is a testament to how tired Bittle is that he is climbing into Jack’s bed before he even realizes that he is climbing into Jack’s bed. At this point, however, it is too late, and goodness, a bed has never felt so comfortable before. The solid line of Jack’s arm against him does not hurt, either.
“Hockey? Really?” Bittle asks, then adds, “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Jack smiles. “It’s one of my favorite movies.”
Bittle watches for a moment, frowning when he cannot understand any of the dialogue, until he finally realizes: “It’s in French.”
“Québécois.”
“Same thing,” Bittle says, stifling a yawn.
“Pas du tout,” Jack murmurs, and Bittle suppresses a shiver. He can feel the vibrations of Jack’s voice against his skin.
They watch silently for a few minutes. Bittle can feel his eyes drooping lower and lower, and as much as he does not want to tear himself away from this current comfortable position, he has already indulged himself long enough. “ ‘M gonna fall asleep if I don’ go,” Bittle mumbles.
“You’re already here,” Jack replies softly. “Get some sleep, all right?”
Bittle really does not have the energy or will to argue, so without another word, he drifts off.
----------
When Bittle wakes, it takes him a moment to collect his bearings. There is a nasty, tacky taste in his mouth, and he is incredibly hot, so he pushes the sheets off of his body – at which point Bittle remembers that he is not in his room.
His flail of panic is not too embarrassing because he is alone. The clock on Jack’s nightstand reads just past ten AM, which is exceptionally late for Bittle. Further observation of the room leads to Bittle’s discovery of a glass of water and a plate of toast (now lukewarm) on Jack’s desk. On the nightstand, Bittle’s phone is charging, and Bittle definitely did not put it there himself.
Bittle slides out of Jack’s bed – fully clothed, thank goodness; he is not quite sure he can handle the idea of Jack undressing him for bed, in either a raunchy or non-raunchy way – and grabs a slice of toast. Perfectly golden-brown, with a spread of butter and strawberry jam, exactly how Bittle likes it.
There is a piece of paper wedged under the plate, and Bittle teases it open with his non-occupied hand, revealing Jack’s slanted handwriting. Did you know you talk in your sleep? it reads, and suddenly, it hits Bittle.
Jack Laurent Zimmermann!
Bittle drops the toast back on the plate and practically lunges to grab his phone. He shoots a short text to Jack, asking, Where are you? A couple seconds later, Bittle can hear Jack’s phone buzz somewhere in his room, so Jack must be in the Haus – that boy may always lose track of his phone in the Haus, but if he is going out, he is sure to have it on him.
Bittle cautiously exits Jack’s room. There is no one in the hall, so Bittle quickly darts down the stairs. He can hear voices in the kitchen – that is Shitty, and that is Ransom, and that is Jack –
Bittle bursts into the kitchen. His three teammates all turn at his entrance, but Bittle only has eyes for Jack.
“Finally up, eh, Bittle?” he says, a weak attempt at a chirp. Weak, because Bittle knows Jack is actually a complete ball of fluff who totally cares about people even if he has trouble saying it in words.
“You precious Canadian oaf,” Bittle says before walking forward until he bodily slams into Jack. Jack freezes on his stool, but Bittle does not care; he simply wraps his legs around Jack’s waist and his arms around Jack’s neck and tries to hug as much of the hockey-loving doofus as possible.
Bittle hears Shitty herding Ransom out of the kitchen, and he would try to decipher what Shitty is saying except Jack finally figures out that this is called a hug (if a very octopus-y one at that) and he wraps his arms around Bittle, his large hands spreading across Bittle’s back, and that – that feels nice. Bittle wants to stay like this for a while. Possibly an hour. Or a day.
“Are – are you okay?” Jack eventually asks.
Bittle opens his eyes and pulls back, but Jack, oddly enough, does not loosen his arms enough for Bittle to fully extricate himself. They are awfully close, then, when Bittle says, “Of course I am.” He grins. “You made me toast.”
There is no missing the flush that spreads across Jack’s cheeks.
“You made me toast,” Bittle repeats, “and you buy me coffee, and you voluntarily practice with me at four in the morning, even in the off-season, and you care, Mr. Zimmermann, and I know my breath reeks something awful right now, but I just need you to know that I see through you and you, in fact, are not a big scary ice giant, you are a pie, Jack Zimmermann. A warm pie straight from the oven, probably maple flavored.”
Okay, maybe that got a little excessive. Bittle is not yet ready to rule out lingering affects of sleep deprivation. Or the fact that when he is nervous, he prattles, and being this close and (literally) all wrapped up in Jack certainly makes Bittle nervous. A good kind of nervous.
Jack is speechless for a minute; the only reason Bittle knows he has not completely stopped function is the thumb that is gently (and probably subconsciously) dragging back and forth at the nape of Bittle’s neck. Bittle waits patiently. He senses that Jack is going to respond, but he needs to carefully choose his words first.
Bittle’s left foot is on the verge of falling asleep when Jack finally says, “Do you want to grab some coffee?”
Bittle’s heart sinks a little, but he puts on a smile. “When have I ever said no to Annie’s?”
Jack shakes his head and forcibly swallows. “No, I mean – Bit– Eric. Do you want to go get coffee? Together?”
For a second, Bittle’s brain refuses to believe it, but then Bittle really looks at Jack, takes in his nervous expression, the growing flush of his cheeks and ears. There was an intent in Jack’s repeated question, and his hands are shaking against Bittle’s back, and Jack – Jack just asked him out.
Sweet Lord.
Bittle cannot helping breaking into a cheek-splitting grin. “Let me just change my clothes,” he says.
All the tension drains out of Jack, and Bittle awkwardly clambers off of his lap. He starts to walk away, but on a split second impulse turns around and pecks Jack’s cheek. Instantly, Bittle is embarrassed – was that too much? – but when he tries to dash away, Jack reaches out and drags him in by the waist.
Jack presses his forehead against Bittle’s. “You missed,” he says, his lips curling into a smile that is both shy and teasing.
“I – what?” Bittle says. Jack is so close, and Bittle’s breath must smell so bad –
“You missed,” Jack repeats, then closes the space between them and gives Bittle a proper kiss.
He is not the best kisser, and neither is Bittle, but good Lord, does it feel like finally.