Chapter Text
Jack felt sweaty and gross on Thursday morning as he headed back up the block toward home. The cool, rainy weather from early in the week had disappeared, and now he was dripping with perspiration even though it was barely eight o’clock in the morning.
Which should be about the time --
Yes, there was Bittle, looking clean and fresh in navy trousers, a pale yellow dress shirt -- short-sleeved, probably because of the weather -- and a deep red bow-tie. If Jack had to bet, he would wager that there was a sweater of some sort in Bittle’s messenger bag. He didn’t have the sort of job that required bringing a lot of work home, so there would be room for a sweater and lunch.
It would be a delicious lunch, too. Not just because Bittle seemed determined to blow Jack’s nutrition plan out of the water with his baked goods. No, Bittle could seriously cook, finding ways to add flavor to the foods Jack had been making for himself since he was 16. The only difference was that when Jack made chicken or fish with rice, it tasted roughly like wallpaper paste. When Bitty made fish and rice and vegetables for dinner, each dish had its own taste, but they all worked together, and Jack had left the table feeling more satisfied than he had in a long while.
It annoyed him to see the way Shitty bounced around through the meal Tuesday night, grabbing Bittle’s arm or nudging his shoulder when Bittle was trying to eat the food he himself had prepared. Shitty didn’t appreciate the quality of the dinner anywhere near enough. Shitty and Bittle had known each other for four years; maybe Shitty just took it for granted?
Well, he shouldn’t.
Then the next day, Bittle had packed some of the leftovers for Jack to eat between his classes, and they were still good. Jack would think Shitty was spoiled, but when Bittle handed him the insulated bag in the car Wednesday morning, Bittle had said, “I packed these up for you. There was just enough left for my lunch and your dinner.”
“Didn’t Shitty want it?” Jack asked. Bittle was his partner, and the food was in their house. It seemed like Shitty should have dibs.
“Oh, no,” Bittle said. “I tried packing him lunches but he never takes them. This way, if you eat it, it won’t go to waste.”
Jack had assured Bittle that he would eat it, and silently cursed Shitty for his lack of appreciation.
He smiled and prepared to wave as Bittle passed him, but Bittle wasn’t continuing down the sidewalk. He was waiting for Jack to reach him. Jack slowed to a stop, wiping his face on the hem of his shirt. When he pulled the shirt back down, Bittle wasn’t meeting his eyes.
“Uh, did you need something?” Jack asked.
Bittle’s eyes snapped up, and he said, “Did you have plans for the Fourth? Or the third, really. Me and Shitty are having a little barbecue, if you want to come. You and Larissa both, I mean. Or either one of you, if the other one is busy.”
“I don’t really celebrate the Fourth of July,” Jack said. “Tomorrow’s Canada Day.”
“I know you’re Canadian, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle said with a grin. “But Larissa’s not. Besides, this is America. You might as well celebrate if you’re here. That’s what Ransom says.”
“Uh, Ransom?” Jack asked.
“I mean Justin, I guess,” Bitty said. “One of my old hockey captains. He’ll be there for the barbecue with Holster. They were co-captains.”
“Oh, um, we wouldn’t want to intrude,” Jack said. “Not if you have old friends coming.”
Nothing sounded worse than a gathering of not-quite-professional hockey players, no doubt armed with beer and fireworks, who wanted to know if everything they’d heard about Jack Zimmermann, hockey’s prodigal son, was true.
Bittle’s face fell, just for a moment, but Jack saw it. Then Bittle had his smile pasted back in place as he shrugged and said, “That’s fine. Shitty told me you probably wouldn’t want to come anyway. I just thought I’d ask. Ransom and Holster are kind of loud sometimes, but they’ll behave if I tell them too.”
Jack wanted to groan -- the barbecue still sounded like three hours of torture. (Was that how long they’d have to stay? Maybe they could leave after two hours.) But Jack couldn’t stand here and disappoint Bittle, especially if it meant Shitty would get to be right.
“No, it sounds great,” Jack said. “I just don’t want to be in your way.”
“You won’t be,” Bittle assured him. Then he promised Ransom and Holster wouldn’t let word of Jack’s presence spread, but allowed that they might bring back the college tradition of beer pong.
That was what made Jack sure about going. He’d watched Larissa play beer pong on a handful of occasions in Providence. She would absolutely love the opportunity to dominate a houseful of hockey players.
The next day, Jack wandered through the farmer’s market and couldn’t help thinking of Bittle and what he would do with the food there. There was no way Jack could make anything good enough to bring to Bittle’s house -- wine and beer would work well enough -- but maybe he could bring Bittle something to bake with.
That’s how he ended up with a huge box of strawberries and one of blueberries that were barely even in season. But blueberry pie was a thing, and if it could go in a pie, Bittle could probably make it.
When Jack approached the house to drop off the berries, a faint odor of marijuana hung in the air. Jack spied an open window on the second floor; that was probably where it was coming from. He doubted the almost-never-present girls next door were smoking.
Jack was hoping Bittle would answer the door right away, hoping his eyes wouldn’t be rimmed in red, hoping he wouldn’t be giggly or speaking in disjointed sentences. At least not more than he usually did.
Not that it should matter to Jack. It really shouldn’t matter at all what Bittle did, and Jack knew a little recreational weed wasn’t a big deal. But given his past, given his position in the spotlight, Jack shied away from the use of any kind of illegal substance. He hardly even drank alcohol. And if Bittle was a regular user … it shouldn’t matter. Bittle was just his neighbor who occasionally brought over baked goods.
But Bittle answered the kitchen door as soon as Jack knocked, clearly elbows deep in some kind of dough. The only scent in the kitchen was something sweet baking.
“Oh, my gosh, Jack, you didn’t have to do that,” he said when he saw the berries. “Just put them over there. I haven’t made a blueberry pie in months. What’s your favorite pie? You never said.”
Jack really couldn’t answer that, so instead he asked what Bittle was baking.
“I’m just kneading some baguettes now, but there are oatmeal cranberry cookies in the oven. They’ll be out in a just a couple of minutes -- if you want to wait you can take some home. Shitty doesn’t need all of them.”
“Shitty gets … hungry, does he?” Jack asked.
Bittle blushed. “Only when he’s not working. Is it a problem?”
“Not for me,” Jack said, feeling lighter. “I just try not to be around it too much.”
The friends who arrived at Bittle’s house for the party turned out to be former D-men, both bigger than Jack. The blond one -- Holster, Bittle called him -- was frankly enormous. Jack saw them both hug Bittle on the front step (Holster actually lifted him off the ground) before Shitty emerged from the front door and tried to tackle them, with limited success.
Jack stepped back from the window and saw Larissa watching him.
“Ready to go?” he said.
“Sure,” she said. “But before we leave, it’s Bittle, right?”
“What?”
“The one you’re pining after,” Larissa said. “I mean, you haven’t really said anything, but you’re always looking over there. And Shitty’s not your type.”
Jack shrugged. He’d been denying it to himself for days, but if Larissa saw it too, there was no point.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “He’s got someone. I’m not going to get involved.”
“It does matter,” Larissa said. “Even if you don’t do anything about them, your feelings matter. You still want to go? I can say you’re sick, or some sort of emergency hockey thing came up.”
“In July?” Jack asked. “No, I said I’d go, and I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Okay,” Larissa said. “Got your back.”
The barbecue was surprisingly easy. The other two guests almost vibrated with excitement when they saw Jack -- apparently no one said he was expected -- and started talking about the last season and the Cup year at a pace that left him dizzy. Soon enough Bittle broke in and said, “Five minutes are up. Time to stop fanboying and treat him like a normal person -- because he is -- or I’ll put you to work cleaning.”
Shitty backed up Bittle, saying, “C’mon, dudes. You know that’s not cool.”
Jack thought Bittle’s method was probably more effective. He cracked open a LaCroix and took a seat near the edge of the back patio. Bittle was doing something in the kitchen, Ransom and Holster were indeed setting up for beer pong, and Shitty was regaling Larissa with stories from his work.
When the pong game started, it was Ransom and Holster against Shitty and Larissa. Both teams had asked Jack to join, but he shook his head. He liked where he was, able to watch them and see Bittle through the patio door.
When Bittle came out with a tray of meat for the grill, Shitty -- already a little drunk-- grabbed him and smashed a kiss against the side of his face.
“You’re our hero, Bits,” Shitty said.
Bittle grimaced and pulled away, saying “Let go. My hands are full. And your mustache has beer foam in it.”
Shitty just laughed and turned back to the game. Bittle put the first batch of chicken on the grill and came to stand near Jack.
“You could play with Larissa if you want too,” he said.
“No,” Jack said. “That’s more her thing.”
“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch all the pretty people?” Bittle said.
Jack knew he looked at Bittle a beat too long when he answered, “Yes, it is,” but he couldn’t help it.
Bittle blushed -- the same rosy pink in his cheeks from yesterday -- and then there was a whoop from the pong table.
“Three games in a row!” Shitty yelled. “Larissa, Lars, Lardo -- Lardo, that’s it! -- Lardo, you are my queen!”
Larissa had a smug grin on, Bittle was next to Jack, smiling fondly at the group at the table -- which included two consternated former D-men -- and somehow, it all felt right.
It couldn’t last. Maybe it was because everyone except Jack was already several drinks in. Maybe it was just the strange combination of people. Maybe Jack didn’t belong here, with this group of old friends. They had their own ways of being together, and he was taking everything too seriously.
As the meat started to come off the grill and the game was abandoned, Bittle said, “Ransom, Holster. We don’t need to trip over your stuff all day. Take it upstairs and put it in my room.”
“Yes, Mama Bittle,” they chorused, making Bittle shake his head and Shitty say, “We’re all grownups. Stop playing mother hen and enjoy yourself a little bit.”
Then Shitty plopped himself down between the two bigger men at the picnic table and planted kisses on both their cheeks, proceeding to wax eloquently about how much he missed their college days. Larissa, who was now answering to Lardo, apparently, tried to direct Shitty’s attention to how good the food was, but only succeeded in drawing his attention to herself, as he told the guests how amazing she was.
“Bro,” she said. “Show a little love to your boy. He worked hard on this.”
Shitty said, “Bits knows I love him, but I see him every day. And he seriously cooks to relax.”
Bittle looked like he wanted to hide under the table.
Ransom and Holster covered it by going overboard on the food, making frankly obscene noises over the steaks and corn on the cob.
The moment passed, but the awkwardness remained, and when dinner was over, Jack tried to slip away. He was ready to go home.
“Wait, Jack!”
Bittle caught him by the corner of the house.
“We haven’t even had pie yet,” Bittle said. “Please stay. I’ll tell Shitty to leave Larissa alone.”
That was enough to make Jack at least pause. Shitty and Larissa had been with the group the whole time. Shitty had been overbearing maybe (“Lardo”? Really?), but Jack had the impression that was just the way he was.
“She’s fine,” Jack said. “She’s having fun, and she can take care of herself. Let her stay and have a good time.”
“You’re sure?” Bittle looked uncertain. “Because I can tell Shitty he’s paying too much attention to your …”
“My what?” Jack said. “Larissa’s not my possession. She’s my friend.”
“If that’s what you’re calling it now,” Bittle said, with a little smirk.
Crisse, not this. Jack expected it from the press and from the gossip sites, but not from his friendly neighbor. His friendly neighbor whose boyfriend railed against heteronormativity like he got paid for it, while acting all possessive at the same time.
“No, really,” Jack said. “Larissa and I are friends. And even if she was my girlfriend or whatever, that wouldn’t give me the right to decide who she talked to and what she did. Or to act like what she did wasn’t important.”
Bittle had gone still, and his face was doing something complicated.
“What do you mean by that?” he said,
Maybe Jack should have had a beer or four. Then he could blame what he was about to say on the alcohol.
“I don’t like how Shitty treats you,” he said. “All possessive one minute and dismissive the next, when all you do is take care of him and everyone else. You deserve better, and you should know that.”
Jack couldn’t hide his surprise when Bitty responded with a long, clear, ringing laugh.