jack is autistic!

"Oh, and... I started seeing someone."

shitty quirks an eyebrow at him. “how was your first night together?”

“we have not shared a bed.”

shitty’s air of surprise grows, before he catches himself. “he’s bored, then,” he says, as he sits down, in front of jack.

“how do I change it?” he’s never been good with people, but it is humiliating to see that even his husband dislikes him; dislikes the estate; dislikes his new life.

shitty leans in, elbows on his knees. “you know what is my favorite remedy against boredom.”

“I— shitty—”

“brother. bed him.”

“I cannot,” he says, simply. 

it is not that his husband is unattractive — even he can see that, but jack does not desire him in any way. and what is, perhaps, his duty has been derailed by his consideration for his husband’s own desire. he had been smiling on their wedding day, but not so much since. now, he seems cold, distant, and jack knows any advance would be met with repulsion. he would rather not proceed this way, whatever etiquette dictates.

shitty lies down on the couch, crossing his legs at his ankles. “then find him a lover.”

jack frowns. he is not sure he likes that alternative either, although bittle— he should stop calling him that— is free to do as he chooses. 

“is there a third alternative?” jack asks, rubbing his hands over his face.

shitty hums. “find what he likes and give it to him. entertain him that way.”

But then. Imagine this:

Alicia Fenway, famous supermodel/actress, is in every single magazine and corner of the media across America. Everyone is wanting to know what she’s doing and who she’s doing it with. Rumors of who she’s dating sell like crazy to the news. It’s all anyone who’s anyone talks about.

Anything Alicia likes becomes the new trend. Pictures of her with a handbag from a new designer suddenly cause them to sell out on their debut. Her mention of liking the color purple cause an entire fashion trend that lasts a year. Restaurants prepare for an influx of customers as soon as word gets out she goes there too.

The point is: Alicia helps sets the trend.

So imagine this: Alicia goes to a hockey game, and keeps going to hockey games. She raves about it in interviews, little things about “how exciting it is” and how “they really know how to make it interesting.” Tickets sell out across the country. People clamor asking for her favorite team, and the NHL suddenly has to deal with TOO many people wanting to get the inside scoop.

But it’s not everyone. Most fans are the run of mill people who wouldn’t take too looks at a sport they don’t know anything about. It wouldn’t make sense.

So imagine this: The It girl of the decade comes walking to a red carpet event with an incredibly handsome man. Tall, built, brown eyes that are a bit captivating. An ass that does not quit. Acting every bit a gentleman to his girlfriend.

People wonder if he’s a model? A new actor? An up-and-coming star?

They ask it as such to both of them, only for Alicia to laugh and the mystery man to smile. “He’s a bit of a star already,” Alicia whispers conspiratorially.

“I’m really not!” the mystery man laughs in a booming type of way, and Alicia looks like the cat who got the cream.

“Who is he?” “Where did he come from?” “Why is he your date?”

“I’m Bob Zimmermann,” the man says. Most of the reporters don’t react, but the ones that do surge forward. “I play for the Pittsburgh Penguins.”

It’s plastered on every headline. “Alicia Fenway with Hockey Legend In the Making.” Suddenly everyone wants a piece of the story. Sports reports start shfiting more the hockey, to get even a bit of the action. There’s record high ticket sales. People are either slandering Bob or finding him as the newest hot guy. 

Shirtless pictures of “Bad Bob” circulate along with the stories of his famous encounters, and then people are looking twice at hockey. People put more interest in it. More schools and programs try to implement it. Hockey cities become avid with new fans.

Imagine this: Hockey becomes the new hot thing because of one couple.

She tries not to sigh as she picks up the call.

“Maman.”

And then, guilt hits — Jack sounds just a bit shameful, which he never should, not with her. “Jack, darling.”

“So you’ve seen?”

She smiles. They know each other too well. They all think Jack got it all from his father, but Alicia knows it was only ever the looks and the earnestness for hockey. “I’ve seen.”

A silence. “I wanted to tell you before, I swear. We thought— we thought we had more time. Sorry.”

“You know how it goes,” she reminds him. “If it’s not inside—”

“It’s public, yeah. I, euh, sorry. I wanted to wait and be sure he's— well.”

She bites on her lower lip. It’s serious, then. It’s serious, and it’s with a model. History repeats itself. History had been ugly for her.

“His name’s Eric. We’ve been— seeing each other for two months now. Just a couple of dates,” he adds, trying to downplay it all.

“I know who he is,” she lets out, and he must have heard it too, because another silence fills the line.

“Tell me, then.”

She sits down, crosses her legs. Sighs. “Jack. I’m happy for you. I truly am. But you might want to reconsider dating… one of us.”

“Maman… He’s not like that.”

That’s a lie. Alicia knows what the industry does to people. It breaks them down to sew them back up in tighter clothes. It leaves people bitter, too competitive for their own good, and starved for something more. Nothing Jack needs. Not Jack’s type to begin with.

“If he’s not like that, then he’s naive, and you can do better.”

That’s the second category of models she encountered out there. The Marilyn Monroe type. The ones who get famous easily. The ones whose only defence is blind optimism. Those are eaten up by the wolves.

“Maman—” Jack protests. “He’s not like that either, okay? He's— he’s been through some shit. You know how it is. He’s seen it all. And he’s stronger for it. He’s the nicest person I know. And clever. And funny. And when he smiles— it lights up the whole fucking room— I lo— I like him, okay? I really do.”

He’s getting breathless, and it makes her pause. Jack’s never gotten breathless before, certainly not talking about someone he’s dating. Her eyes are still on her laptop, scrolling that one twitter thread. Everyone there seems to rejoice — there might have been rumours, but most people agree they’re a good fit. She’d be an idiot to blindly agree with twitter, though.

And then, she lands on another picture. Must have been taken in a pub, late last night, after the game. It’s Jack and Eric, sitting in a booth. Eric’s probably just said something funny, because he’s beaming, careless, head thrown back. And Jack— Jack is looking at him like he can’t get enough. There’s a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, one of those private smiles that only the best jokes can earn. Or the best people.

Eric Bittle’s smile doesn’t light up the whole room, but it sure does Jack’s eyes.

Alicia’s shoulders sag with relief. This time, when she speaks, it’s with ease. “Jack, Jack— I believe you. I’m so very happy for the both of you. You’ll bring him around soon, right?”

“Euh— I’d like to, but… I need to ask him first.”

She smiles. “Good. And good thing your father still lives in 1995. I hear him coming in— you can break the news to him.”

“All right. Merci, maman.”

“Thank you for telling us, sweetie. Je t'aime.”

jack zimmermann post retirement: