Peach Bud + Sweet Pea

THANK YOU BABES <3 <3 <3 

(I love goalie!Jack so it’s a win-win)

Fic: The One Where Jack’s a Goalie - Part Four

Chapter Summary: Jack’s senior year starts with Bittle’s glow-up. He is not prepared.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Jack comes back from summer vacation and makes it a whole two minutes before nearly breaking an ankle on the front step of the Haus when he sees a man who can’t possibly be Eric Bittle rocking short-shorts and an undercut.

“Totally saw that,” Lardo razzes from the doorway, toasting his shame. “Bitty had a growth spurt. You need a few? I think Shits cried when he saw him.”

“No, I’m okay. Only bruised my ego,” Jack recovers, picking up the strap of the duffel he dropped while ogling a teammate. “He looks good.”

“Blossomed like a beautiful gay butterfly,” Lardo agrees sagely, sneaking a quick drag off a smoking joint in the ashtray on the railing. “We’re gonna be knee deep in thirsty bitches this season,” she rushes on the exhale, giving Jack a knowing look, “which reminds me, I’ve got dibs on Camilla this semester.”

Jack scopes out the yard and seeing that the coast is clear motions for the joint, taking a quick hit. It won’t be enough to get him blitzed, but it’ll take the edge off before he bumps into Bittle and says something stupid. Which he will. 

He doesn’t want to spiral out on day one because all his blood is in his dick.

“You and Shitty still…?” Jack fights a cough while Lardo grins.

“We aren’t exclusive. I can date and Shitty can continue his fruitless quest to get in your pants.”

Jack passes the joint back to Lardo and fights a laugh, remembering the drunken fumbling freshman year when Shitty has been determined to conquer ‘Mount’ Zimmermann. 

They’d never made it past second base, not for lack of trying on Shitty’s part.

“Shitty’s been in my pants, remember? My ass was too much for him. His poor stoner heart couldn’t take it. Now I’m just his muse.”

“Muse,” Lardo grins and stamps out the roach, sliding past Jack to help Holster unload his Jeep. “Big Gay Panic, more likely.”

Jack shoots a wave to the boys and heads inside coming face to face with a wide-eyed version of Bittle that Jack’s mellowed mind immediately labels ‘twink’. He resists the urge to say it out loud.

 It’s very difficult.

“Hey Jack! Did I just hear you,” Bitty starts, then hesitates. “Did you say you ‘slept’ with Shitty?”

“I ‘made out’ with Shitty,” Jack corrects, keeping his eyes staunchly on Bittle’s face and definitely not below the waist. “He just wanted to say he’d touched my ass. I was used.”

Bitty shuffles his feet -- bare, Jack falters, looking down -- and says softly, “Oh.”

There’s clearly no reason for the conversation to continue but Jack gets the feeling Bittle wants to talk about something. Or maybe Jack’s the one who wants to talk. Either way, the bag on his shoulder is getting heavy and Jack jerks his chin toward the stairs. “I’m going to dump this in my room if you want to keep talking.”

Bitty’s face is pink and his hair is short and Jack thinks this could be a bonding moment if he was a better man, but the warning bells in the back of his mind are ringing because Jack isn’t great at shutting down his crushes, limited and fierce as they are.

“That’s okay,” Bitty backtracks. “I have some cookies in the oven, I just wanted to say you, um, look good. Did you train this summer?”

Jack did, in fact, attend a camp where he lifted many heavy things and pretended like he was interested in signing with an AHL team all so he could get a new gear duffel. Right now all that matters is Jack ‘looks good’.

Bitty does not need to know the last part.

“Yeah, up in London, there was a —”

“You went to London?” Bitty asks incredulously, eyes so wide Jack can practically see himself in them. “That’s awesome.”

“Ontario,” Jack corrects, somehow ashamed he’s ruining whatever image has manifested in Bittle’s mind. “London, Ontario.”

“Oh,” Bittle laughs sheepishly, “well that makes sense, I guess.”

Silence settles between them before Bitty adds, “You know, I went to Athens over break?”

Athens? Something clicks in Jack’s hazy brain. 

Flirting. This is flirting.

He needs to shut this down because Johnson was right, Jack likes it. Likes Bittle. He’s always liked Bittle, and now Bittle is somehow more charming and attractive than he was before. He’s blossomed from a closeted freshman into pure, undiluted Zimmermann Kryptonite.

Jack should stop. ‘Pining Captain’ isn’t a good look. Or he could just --

“You drove all the way to Greece?”

The laugh Jack gets is absolutely worth it.

They go back and forth for a few minutes until the energy in the house changes enough to disrupt whatever ‘thing’ they’re working on developing.

Bittle trails Jack upstairs to his own room — which is an apocalyptic five feet from Jack’s own — and bids him goodbye like it isn’t eleven in the morning. Jack, frustrated in ways he can’t quite articulate, opens the door to his room and throws his bag onto the bed, where it misses by a hair and lands loudly on the floor.

Jack should unpack but he’s too far gone, imagining burying his face in Bittle’s hair, sliding his hands up under the hem of his shorts and —

Jack kicks off his shoes, unzips his pants, turns on the fan, and wraps a hand around his dick. He comes with Bittle’s name on his lips and Beyoncé crooning across the hall.

It’s a hell of a way to start his senior year.

Fic: The One Where Jack’s a Goalie - Part Three

Summary: Jack gets caught with his pants down, Bittle comes out, dibs, and the end of year one.

Pairing: Zimbits, references to past hookups, in this one, a present hookup.

Link to Part One, Link to Part Two, 

Winter Screw finds Jack in his room with a guy from the Soccer team who shares a study period with Johnson and whose thighs are nearly as thick as Jack’s own.

“You’re seriously wound up,” O’Reilly grunts, getting a hand on Jack’s ass. “Need a massage?”

“No, I need to get laid,” Jack groans, pulling off his shirt. “Hoping you can help with that — ?”

Someone knocks on his door and Jack ignores it, losing himself in a kiss before throwing a leg over O’Reilly’s hip.

Another hesitant knock, then the door cracks open enough that the light blinds them both.

“Ferme la porte!” Jack yells, tugging the blanket up to cover them up, and the door slams shut quickly.

“Sorry,” Jack huffs and drops his head against O’Reilly’s chest. “Where were we?”

The next morning finds Jack sore and hungry, cleaning up the kitchen so he can even attempt to make himself breakfast. What he doesn’t expect is for Bittle to wander in sheepishly wearing the same clothes from the night before.

“Walk of shame?” Jack chirps.

“What? No, I, um, I crashed in Shitty’s room?” Bittle answers noticing Jack collecting trash and moving to help. “I’m sorry about last night,” Bittle apologizes, holding a trash bag open for Jack to dump his handful of crushed cans. “I thought you were alone.”

Oh. Damn.

“Didn’t realize that was you,” Jack catches himself before he scratches his neck, a tic he hasn’t quite shaken from the Q. “Sorry if you got an eyeful. I should have locked it.”

They work in silence for a few minutes: Jack picking up bottles and cans, candy wrappers, while Bittle trails behind with the garbage bag. “We could use some music,” Jack comments, digging a paper plate out from beneath the couch. “If I wasn’t so sure it’d wake everyone up. You sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I did,” Bittle answers softly, like they’re discussing something sensitive, not just trying to be good roommates. “So, um, last night, that wasn’t a puck bunny.”

“Who? O’Reilly? No, he plays soccer,” Jack crumples the plate and turns to put it in the bag when he sees Bittle is looking at Jack’s feet, not his face.

Jack can practically feel the lightbulb go off above his head when Bittle asks, “Are you two, um, together?”

“Fuck no, just a hook-up,” Jack laughs, cautious of spooking Bittle. “I don’t mess with puck bunnies, not that they’re very interested in me anymore. Were you going to get lucky last night? Was that why you were looking for a room?”

“No!” Bittle shakes his head furiously, apparently uncertain of what he wants to say. “No, I was just…looking for somewhere quiet.”

“Oh. Euh, well, last night was a bit of an anomaly so don’t feel like you can’t hide in my room if you need to. Winter Screw can get pretty intense —”

“Are you gay?” Bittle asks, glossing Jack’s offer.

“I don’t really like labels,” Jack explains, sensing that this could be a significant moment for Bittle, though if that moment will be positive or negative remains to be seen. “I like people, if that helps. More of a case-by-case basis thing but you can call me whatever. Does that bother you?”

“No,” Bittle flushes, pausing like he’s contemplating his next words carefully. “I just…um…I think I might be gay, too?”

“Think?” Jack takes the bag from Bittle’s hands and fights the urge to laugh at the smile that spreads across the frog’s face.  

“I’ve never said it out loud. You’re the first person I’ve ever told,” Bittle breathes, wide-eyed and excited. “I’m gay.”

“Fuck yeah, bud. I’m sorry I don’t have confetti,” Jack shakes the bag. “Only trash. Either way, congrats. Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks? Maybe? Gosh, why was I so scared to say it before?”

“Oh, yeah I hear that. Way easier to communicate after you break the seal. Hey, there is one bylaw that does affect you, now,” Jack snags another bottle and tosses it in the bag. “Don’t fuck any lacrosse players. Not that there aren’t some good guys lost in that shit team but they tend to treat Haus hookups like war games and we always lose something.”

“War Games?”

Jack looks back at Bittle and finds the frog watching him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, you know, stealing mascots and stuff.”

“We have a mascot?”

“Euh, we used to?” Jack answers but when Bittle goes pale Jack course corrects hard. “It wasn’t alive! It was a statue.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Look, just, this is a safe space, you know? I’ll still be your hardass captain, but you let me know if anyone gives you any shit, okay? I mean, it’s Samwell, you shouldn’t have any issues but --”

Jack’s rambling. He can feel he’s been talking too long and he forces himself to stop when he realizes Bitty is looking at him with far too much admiration.

“Thank you, Jack. That means a lot.”

“No problem, Bittle,” Jack realizes he’s lost his urge to cook anything and hooks a thumb toward the door. “You wanna grab something at Annie’s? I’m done cleaning up other people’s messes.”

Jack doesn’t read into the hopeful expression on Bittle’s face, even if he does end up buying the kid a ‘congratulations’ latte with rainbow sprinkles on top.

Jack’s a good captain. Alternate Captain.

Maybe.

Between 4am checking practices, team breakfasts, and Bittle using the Haus kitchen on a near daily basis, Jack’s life is becoming increasingly more tangled with his teammate’s.

“I’m giving Bitty my dibs,” Johnson tells him through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. “He deserves it.”

“It’s barely March, and he hasn’t done anything for you,” Jack points out, leaning against the door that separates their rooms, letting the wall support him.

“He’s done a lot for you, so I’m grateful,” Johnson emphasizes. “You were my frog and now he’s yours. Maybe you’ll surprise everyone. Pull a Ransom and Holster. Share a room.”

“Roomies with a blonde, gay teammate,” Jack scoffs, picking at a callous on his palm. “Because that worked out so well last time.”

“Look, I know you don’t see it but you’re totally off book, here,” Johnson rinses and spits, busting out the floss. “You can do whatever the hell you want. You don’t have to fuck him. You can just be friends.”

“Who said anything about fucking Bittle?”

“You took to that kid like a duck to water,” Johnson pulls the floss tight and gives Jack a look. “He is 110% your type and he adores you as much as you like him. You two are, like, a full year ahead of schedule.”

“Don’t do that crazy psychic crap, man,” Jack groans, grabbing his towel from the rack and heading back to his room. “I don’t need your weirdness on me tonight.”

“You’re a goalie!” Johnson shouts indignantly as Jack retreats. “You are weirdness!”

The end of the season brings the chance of a playoff berth and increasingly desperate seniors looking for one last taste of glory.

Jack just wants to play good hockey, which is difficult given how little ice time he’s been given since Johnson found his mojo and decided he was going to end his college career with a bang.

It’s the reason Jack has to watch from the bench as a Yale defenseman sends Bittle airborne off a low-hip check, and Jack’s entire year condenses down into one misplaced promise to a skittish frog.

He told Bittle he’d watch his back.

Jack doesn’t know what takes over when he leaves the bench to check on his frog, helmet and gloves abandoned as he slides to a stop beside Hall.

“I’m alright,” Bittle tries to assure them, even holding his head and listing slightly to the side. “I only blacked out for a second.”

Jack spins and launches himself at the first Yale player he can find.

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

LINK TO PART ONE

“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; Johnson’s still rocking two PT sessions a week so Jack isn’t ‘just’ a backup, not 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.