Jack’s never missed a single opening before. It’s his shift. The moment in the day he feels at ease, the rest of the world still asleep, as he rolls doughs in the back of the small bakery. But this— this is worth it.
He smiles, as his eyes settle on Bitty, a blue dot on the bench. He’s worked so hard to be here, tonight. Jack still can’t believe fourteen teams passed on him. Fourteen. Before the Falcs snagged him, 15th pick overall in the first round. 15th, after his brilliant NCAA career. The moment he finished his senior year, the Falcs called him to play. On the farm team. To help him adjust. For developmental reasons.
Bitty never complained. Bitty took each of those games with a smile, and scored, and scored. Bitty never complained because the Falcs chose him, and that, Jack thinks, was more than Bitty has ever expected. Still, the 15th rank stung a big.
“Is it because I’m too small, or too gay?” Bitty asked him, that night.
Jack didn’t know the answer. He could only press a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple, and curl around him as they settled in bed. “You’re going to be amazing,” Jack had whispered back.
“What I’m going to do is prove them wrong.”
And here they are, tonight, at Bitty’s first NHL game. Because the Falcs have been looking a bit… not good, recently. The playoffs are coming, and they’re still battling for that one last spot, and tonight’s the game that might clinch it, if it goes their way. And somehow, somehow, a manager out there recognized that they might need Bitty. Barn Burner Bitty. C'mon. There’s no better nickname in the league.
Watching Bitty play tonight — Jack’s glad he decided to get tomorrow off. Even though he might run by the bakery later during the day. And his blog is already written and ready to go, in case Bitty wants to go and celebrate his first NHL game tonight, which is more than likely.
The Falcs are down 3-0 and it’s not looking good. Bitty skates hard and fast — faster than anyone on the ice — avoids checks the way he’s learned to do against bigger men, huddles with his teammates, consults his vets. It’s a joy to see his soft hands and edge work, but the game isn’t going their way.
Three against three is a whole other deal. It’s not so much about physicality, definitely not about checks. You have to be fast, you have to read the game right. The Falcs aren’t doing a bad job of it, but five minutes can be over quickly, and they’re not generating that many chances.
Beside him, Lardo groans as the Falcs lose possession — Bitty’s line jumps back on the ice, and they manage to get the puck again. They cross the blue line.
It happens in the span of a single second, or two — Shitty’s hand bites down on Jack’s arm’s, Scott on the ice flings it towards Bitty, and—
“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” Shitty belts out, fries flying everywhere.
Jack’s on his feet, and it’s like he’s in a dream — he can’t even hear his own shouting over the home crowd’s noise, as Bitty slams his back into the boards, shit-eating grin on his face as if it has never left, and arms open wide to collect his teammates.
“FUCK YEAH, BITTLE!” He’s pretty sure there are tears streaming down his face, but he doesn’t care. Bitty said the cameras wouldn’t be on him, tonight.
Lardo is laughing as the Falcs jump on the ice to celly, Bitty lost in a sea of white and blue. Bitty lost in a sea of players, because he’s so small. And proving them wrong. He did it. He fucking did it. First NHL goal, in OT at that.
“Tabarnak, Bittle,” he breathes out, smiling hard.
He bolts downstairs as the team gathers to leave the ice — he doesn’t even wait for Shitty and Lardo, retrieving his family pass from the back pocket of his jeans. He can imagine the celebration going on in the locker room right now, the bottles of champagne popping off left and right in a double celebration, for their rookie, for their team. He doesn’t want to intrude, but he wants to be there, for when Bitty will be searching for him.
It takes a good five minutes for Jack to jog through the crowd, and there’s a bit of an awkward wait in the corridor. There’s still shouting on the other side of it, accompanied by Bitty’s laughing, bright and clear through the noise.
After a few seconds, the door to the locker room opens, and Muller peaks out, before closing it back again, muffling his voice as he announces, “Guess who’s there.”
The door swings open, and Bitty comes running — jersey off, his Underarmour shirt clinging to his chest, but still with his skates on. Gorgeous and smiling and red in the face, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as he extends his arms forward.
“We made it!” Bitty squeals, his voice, unbelieving, resonating against Jack’s neck and shoulder. “We made the playoffs, Jack!”
“You did it. Shit, Bits, you did it!”
Bitty looks up, and there’s nothing Jack can do but get a taste of that smile as well.
It’s a fairly chaste kiss, but then there’s like twenty men around them whistling and drenching them in champagne. “Fuck yeah, for the fiancé too!” Scott shouts, in time with another pop of a bottle. “Always keep our lill’ Barn Burner smiling!”
Yeah, Jack thinks, grinning against Bitty’s lips. He intends to.
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