Fic: The One Where Jack’s A Goalie – Part 2
Summary: Jack Zimmermann comes out of rehab with a new lease on life and a desperate need to reconnect with the ice. However, he’s unwilling to place himself back in the spotlight so he decides to start his career over and retrain as a goaltender. With less judgment from his peers and little chance of going pro, Jack has a chance to be himself at Samwell, possibly for the first time in his entire life.
Pairing: Zimbits, references to past hookups
“His nickname is ‘Bitty’,” Holster explains excitedly. “We decided last night.”
“Bitty?” Jack takes a break from re-taping his favorite stick (the one he doesn’t ever actually use, see ‘favorite’) and tries not to glare at Holster because he knows exactly what’s coming. “May I ask why?”
“It’s because he’s —“
“— If you say it’s because he’s ‘itty-bitty’, I will personally come over there and kick your ass,” Jack interrupts, keeping an eye on the door. Bittle’s been using the kitchen frequently enough he practically lives in the Haus at this point.
“Bittle,” Holster coughs after Ransom comes thundering down the stairs to elbow him in the stomach. “Because his last name is Bittle.”
“He’s got a mental block about his size,” Jack chides, turning back to his task. “Don’t make it worse for a joke.”
“Thought you were supposed to be helping with that,” Shitty yells from the kitchen. “You said he was getting better.”
“He is but I’m not the only guy on this team that should be watching out for him,” Jack defends before someone starts ‘coo’-ing like a pigeon and the noise spreads until the whole house is clucking and making bird noises. The ‘mother-hen’ title hasn’t gone away as quickly as Jack would have liked.
“Just remember if he loses his scholarship there won’t be any pie!” Jack yells over the noise, gathering his gear to retreat to his room. “Can you live with that?”
The answer is more clucking.
Jack’s plan for early morning pre-practice sessions is derailed slightly; Hall doesn’t want to overextend him too early in the season given Johnson’s still rocking two PT sessions a week so Jack isn’t ‘just’ a backup anymore.
This doesn’t stop the protein plan, the only aspect of his unexecuted training regimen he can actually encourage.
Under normal circumstances, the average person can set a habit by repeating an action sixty times. In hockey circles, a habit might as well be a superstition; and no one has superstitions like a goalie. Jack has never considered himself ‘average’ and he’s proud to say he can set a habit in less than half that time.
The boys maneuver the seating arrangement at the breakfast table to accommodate Jack’s newest quirk without a word of discussion. It’s so subtle and unquestioned Jack catches Bittle asking Shitty if he’d made someone mad.
He needs to eat with Bittle. Needs to add something to his breakfast. If they can’t physically train yet, they can work on nutrition. The first morning it was hard-boiled eggs. The next day: a protein bar. The day after that? A slice of bread slathered with almond butter.
“I can feed myself,” Bittle says defensively after Jack tries to hand him a plate of bacon. “I know you think I’m not trying hard enough, but you can stop teasing me, thank you.”
The whole table goes silent, expecting something Jack can’t interpret. Perhaps in another life, he’d be offended on his own behalf but that’s not something he feels like entertaining today. Though there is now a curl of embarrassment in his chest threatening to strangle his heart.
“Oh, uh, no, I just,” Jack sets the dish down and snags a crispy piece for himself, trying to play off how unsettled he’s immediately become. “I know you’re capable of feeding yourself, I didn’t mean —”
“Jackie-boy’s just trying to make you feel welcome,” Shitty interrupts with careful levity, keeping an eye on Jack as he drops an arm around Bittle’s shoulders. “Just a good ol’ goalie superstition. Means he likes you.”
Jack finishes the bacon and slides his left hand under his thigh, already feeling the ghost of a tremor. He hasn’t had this happen in a while, almost six months, and he’s not about to have a panic attack over a misunderstanding.
You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, he’s okay, you’re okay —
“Yo, Zimms, we have that meeting in five,” a weighty hand settles on Jack’s shoulder and he nearly jumps when he blinks up and finds Johnson staring down at him. “You ready? Let’s go.”
He forces a nod and shoves out from the seat, quickly enough the noise echoes through the hall. Bittle says something Jack doesn’t quite catch through the blood pounding in his ears but he doesn’t have time to think beyond the instinct to follow Johnson.
“You okay?” Johnson pulls a water from his bag and hands it over. “Talk it out. C’mon.”
“I know what triggered it,” Jack breathes, tucking himself against the brick wall, tapping a count on his fingertips. “Just didn’t realize it was a trigger.”
“What? The Frog getting all huffy? You talk about Bittle to everyone but Bittle. Some tension had to develop but you know this is about you, not him, right?”
“Well, no shit it’s me,” Jack downs half the bottle, gasps because he needs oxygen, too, and hands it back. “I think…Embarrassed? I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to make people feel inferior. I don’t want to make people feel like I felt. Like I wasn’t good enough. I still feel like I’m not good enough.” Jack slides down the wall and sits on the dirt, processing. “Fuck. I need to call my therapist.”
“Nice job working it through. You’re getting better at that.”
“You think I scared him? Bittle?” Jack asks, glossing the compliment and waiting for his heartbeat to regulate. “The boys acted like he’d dropped a slur.”
“I think you interpreted the situation how you wanted to interpret it. He’s probably just confused.”
Jack sucks in another breath, easing himself into a forced state of calm. “Confused,” he echoes, “makes sense. Should I apologize?”
Johnson gives him a look that can only be interpreted as ‘no’.
“Wait it out. Bittle’s got his own perception of what you’re trying to do. Let him piece it all together before you start re-building bridges you haven’t actually burned. Sound good?”
“No,” Jack admits, shaking a hand through his hair. “But I’m compromised so what the hell do I know, right?”
A polite cough brings their attention to Bittle, standing awkwardly near the trash can, Jack’s messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Um, you left your bag, I thought I’d —”
“You know what, I’m late for something unimportant,” Johnson offers a hand and Jack allows himself to be pulled to his feet while Johnson says his goodbyes. “Jack,” Johnson says, then nods to Bittle. “Potential love interest.”
“Potential what?” Bittle’s awkward embarrassment slides to blatant confusion and in that sense, he and Jack are on an even keel.
“He does that…if you ignore him he’ll stop.”
“Oh, well, um, sorry,” Bittle recovers, cautiously handing Jack his bag. “I was coming out here to apologize, too. Um, Shitty explained some things about…I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. You were trying to be nice. I guess.”
“He told you I’ve got anxiety and I’m quirky, right?” Jack finishes, watching the girls playing ultimate frisbee over Bittle’s shoulder. “I thought you’d appreciate food-based acts of service, all the baking you do. Also, I accept your apology.”
If Jack keeps chirping he’ll be okay. Nothing defuses his anxiety in the moment like vague insults; though to be fair that strategy tends to backfire pretty spectacularly when he has time to reflect on what he’s said.
“Yeah, well,” Bittle laughs and tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m used to feeding people being my thing. It’s the Southerner in me.”
“Well, in that case, being a hockey player with loose personal boundaries is the French Canadian in me. I can trade you baked goods for aggressive training tips if you’re agreeable.”
“I think I may be,” Bittle smiles, tension draining from his posture. “You don’t have to stop. The protein thing. If it’s a ritual, that is. Lord knows it doesn’t bother me a bit if it’s coming from a place of good intention.”
Jack is about five seconds from launching into an explanation of his entire training plan when Bittle’s phone chirps and he’s apologizing because he needs to go to class.
“I’m sorry again!” Bittle calls, turning tail so quickly the cowlick on the back of his head is flat for a half-second. “See you at practice!”
When Jack gets to his Econ class, twenty minutes early because why not, he finds a napkin-wrapped peanut butter cookie wedged precariously between his notebooks. He sniffs it, takes a bite, and his suspicions are confirmed.
Homemade.
Bittle.
Published
Nava 