#nhl!bitty

“No active player has come out since you retired,” Eric skirts Jack’s comment, taking the mug before gingerly amending, “Not voluntarily, at least. I’d like to break that streak. Given your experience, and what you do now, it seemed like the smart move to come speak with you.”

“Well, I’ll be the first to admit my behavior didn’t lend itself to much confidence with the public at large, but that’s why I’m where I am today. Making sure people like you can learn from my mistakes.”

“And you made a lot of mistakes,” Bittle murmurs, taking the mug from Jack gingerly, glances back out the window as he takes a sip, and Jack fights a smile when he realizes what’s happening.

“Are you . . . chirping me?”

“Makes me less nervous,” Bittle admits, apologetic. “But that was rude, I’m sorry.”

Bittle’s eyes are bright. His smile is bright. Everything about him is warm, inviting. Jack might be biased, though, he’s always had a soft spot for compact blondes.

“Don’t apologize.” Jack leans back in his chair, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. “You might be the only one in the whole league right now that doesn’t need to apologize.”

“I think I need to have a partner,” Eric clears his throat. “I can’t come out without a reason, otherwise what’s the point.”

“That answers one of my first questions, gives us a place to start. Yes, a boyfriend gets you points, but not in the way you’re thinking. If you come out with a guy on your arm, the story becomes maintaining the relationship, not that you have one or that you are ‘out’ at all. The scandal is the relationship falling apart, or you flirting with a fan when you have your partner at home, that kind of drama.”

“And if I just say, ‘hello, I am a homosexual’ people will think I’m promiscuous, or just trying to get laid.”

“Maybe. Are you?”

Bittle’s expression turns indignant, lips twisting into a judgmental frown that reminds Jack of his grandmother before a scolding.

“What kind of question is that? Yes, of course, but they don’t need to know that. But that doesn’t — You know, you gave me hope?”

Jack doesn’t quite startle, he’s well beyond the jumpyness of his youth, but he has no clue where this conversation is about to go.

“When you came out, when you were drafted, your cup season . . . every time you succeeded, beat the odds, it made me think, maybe, I could do it, too. I could be a professional athlete, I could play hockey, and it didn’t matter who I wanted to be with.”

Jack knows there’s a ‘but’ coming, he can feel it; so he gets there first.

“But . . . then I overdosed.”

“Then you retired.” Eric corrects. “Two years before I signed with Carolina, and you just gave up. I was going to be the first out NCAA men’s hockey captain, you ‘retired’ in scandal, and suddenly the trustees didn’t want the attention. Back to square one.”

“Eric, I wasn’t well.” Jack defends gently, knowing Bittle isn’t trying to be cruel.

“You let them get to you! You were supposed to be untouchable. I needed you to be untouchable.”

“Eric.”

“I’m sorry,” Bittle looks down at his hands, the table, anywhere but Jack. “I genuinely didn’t intend for any of this to come up so quickly, you’ve been nothing but charming and here I am dumping all my baggage on you like we’ve been talking for years . . . ”

“It’s actually alright. I’ve made peace with what happened to me, what I put myself through, and I wasn’t kidding that I’m very intent on making sure I can help others avoid the same pitfalls. So, what do you need from me right now?” Jack asks, genuinely curious. “An apology? A hug? You wouldn’t be the first to ask.”

“I want . . .” Bittle huffs, closing his eyes and evening his breathing. “I want dinner.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve loved the idea of you since I was sixteen, but now I actually need your advice on how to do this without losing my mind, and I can’t plan my future from a boardroom, so, I want you to take me to dinner. I want to hash this out like two normal, well functioning adult men. Also, maybe alcohol.”

“Speak for yourself on the well-functioning part,” Jack chirps himself, “but I think dinner can be arranged. I assure you, you’ll have my full support moving forward. The firm’s, as well.”

Bittle’s lips quirk, holding Jack’s gaze. He caught the slip, and now there’s nothing to do but own it. They lapse into a gentle silence. Jack sipping his coffee, Bittle doing the same. Jack isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, the puck is at the end of his stick. He flashes a smile. Bittle blushes.

“So,” Jack begins. “Do you like Burmese?”

____

They part ways and April’s eyes are huge with suspicion. “Should we discuss fees?” she asks. “Do we need to start billing? Sounds like it went well.”

Once or twice he’d thought Jack … but there was no way Jack had been flirting with him. Not in front of Mashkov and Marty and Aeros he didn’t even know. Besides, Jack had made it painfully clear the other night what he thought of Bitty. Had he been amused that Bitty was pathetic enough to come and watch another team play after the Aeros were booted from the playoffs?

Then he was so annoyed that the boys had invaded his precious dressing room. Maybe their presence stopped Jack from giving his own team a massive dressing-down. No one seemed to mind that they were there, except Jack, who decided to take it out on Bitty by reminding him of his own team’s failure.

Still, it had felt good, those last three months or so, to occasionally see Jack’s name pop up with a text notification. It felt good, Bitty supposed, to have someone who was undoubtedly one of the best players in the league notice him, encourage him, act like he thought Bitty actually could play hockey. Bitty knew he could play; he’d been drafted as a sophomore and called up during his first season, hadn’t he? But somehow, Jack’s opinion carried more weight.

It had also felt good to glimpse the man behind the image. Somehow, that poster of Jack in his underwear concealed his personality more than a full suit did in person, at dinner after a game. The pre- and post-game interviews never included Jack’s sly smile when he got a good chirp off, or his laugh, especially when a chirp was at his expense.

Well. Jack didn’t exist to make Bitty feel good, and Bitty could be generous enough to admit it had been a bad moment after the game for Jack. That’s what Bitty told Chowder on the way back to Samwell, when Chowder left off praising Holtby and Snow long enough to say, “Jack Zimmermann didn’t seem very friendly when you were talking to him. Have you met him before? He always looks like he’s about to yell at someone.”

“Not always,” Bitty had told Chowder. “But no, he wasn’t very friendly tonight.”

Now Chowder was gone, owner of a newly minted CS degree and an invitation to the Schooners’ training camp after a stint at home in northern California.

Tomorrow Bitty would start the drive back to Georgia, but not until he called the Aeros conditioning coach. He would ask the coach to set Bitty up with someone to work with over the summer -- maybe work with Bitty himself -- and when Bitty  got back to Madison, he’d pack the truck and move himself to Houston. Sure, he might be heading back to Baton Rouge in the fall, but showing enthusiasm for the Aeros wouldn’t hurt.

*************************

Bitty folded his lawn chair and brought it into the kitchen as the sun moved further west. The Haus was empty except for Bitty, and no one would be here until a couple of last year's frogs arrived to take up summer residence next week.

Bitty wanted to bake something, but he’d have no one to share it with, and the nutritionists would not look kindly on him eating a whole pie because he was lonely. They wouldn’t know, really, but Bitty would. Mini pies maybe? He could eat one or two and put the rest in the freezer for the summer frogs.

That sounded like too much work. Bitty wished he still had his vlog. That way he could bake something to leave in the freezer and moan about his life at the same time. Not that he had any right to moan, but still.

Maybe he could call Ricksie, find out how his time in suburban Toronto was going. That was another point in favor of spending the summer in Houston: Ricksie had announced plans to move south after a few weeks at home with his parents. He also wanted to get away from being treated like a child, although his motivations were a little different.

“Dude, I mean, it’s not like I can bring anybody home to my parents’ house,” Ricks said. “I still sleep in a twin bed with my peewee trophies on a shelf.”

Ricks was a year younger than Bitty, but he’d been in the Aeros system for longer, having gone pro right out of junior hockey. Still, he reminded Bitty of his SMH teammates more than anyone else he’d played with since graduating.

Ransom and Holster were on their annual pilgrimage to Niagara Falls now that Holster’s season was over. Bitty had seen the snaps to prove it. Maybe Shitty and Lardo were in Boston. The last time Shitty had weighed in on the group chat, he’d been complaining about exams. That was last week. Maybe he was done now.

Bitty reconsidered his plan. If Shitty was done, and he and Lardo were in the Boston area, Bitty could take at least another day or two before leaving for Georgia. He missed his old team.

Bitty found his phone on the counter where he’d left it when he went outside. There was a missed call from Mama -- she’d want to know his plans, the better to worry over him driving that old truck by himself. There was also a text from Jack, the first contact since two nights ago.

Can I call you?

He checked the time: 6:30 p.m. Jack was due on the ice for Game 2 in a hour and a half.

Bitty texted him back.

Sure. Whenever you have time. Good luck tonight!

Before Bitty moved away to forage for dinner from what was left in the kitchen, his phone rang.

“Bitty,” Jack said. “Thanks for talking to me. I have to apologize for my behavior the other night. And I do know,”

“Um, ok,” Bitty said. “Apology accepted, I guess. Don’t you have a game to play?”

“Yes, but Marty said I should call before the game if I could,” Jack said.

“Marty said?” Bitty asked. “What does Marty have to do with this?”

“He kind of said I was being an asshole to you,” Jack said. “And he’s right. That game was bad, but there was no reason to take it out on you.”

“Ok,” Bitty said.

“And I do know what it’s like to watch other teams move on,” Jack said. “We didn’t even make the playoffs my first year. I’m kind of impressed that you were willing to bring your friends by -- I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

“It really wasn’t a chore,” Bitty said. “I like those guys and I like hockey, so it seemed like a good plan. Now go play your game, Mr. Zimmerman.”

“Are you somewhere you can watch?” Jack asked.

“I’m still in Samwell,” Bitty said. “Everyone left after graduation today, so I was going to tidy the Haus up a bit and get back to Georgia tomorrow or the next day. But I’ve got my laptop and NHL Network, so yes, I’ll be watching.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Can I talk to you after the game?”

“Sure,” Bitty said. “But …”

“But what?”

“Look, I don’t want  to say anything negative, and I’m sure you’ll play well, but if you lose, don’t feel obligated,” Bitty said.

“No,” Jack said. “I won’t feel obligated. But I will want to talk to you.”

“All right,” Bitty said. “I’ll make sure to stay up a while after the game.”

Jack ended the call, and Bitty looked around. If he was going to stay up, he should be doing something besides sitting on Chowder’s old bed with his laptop.

There were still apples in the kitchen. Mini pies it was.

***********************************************************

Two hours after the game, Jack hadn’t called.

It couldn’t be because he was upset; the Falconers had put on a clinic, winning 5-0. Jack had a goal and and an assist, and 10 different players made the scoresheet, not to mention Snow’s shutout.

Maybe the team was out celebrating. They had an extra day off before their next game in DC.

If Jack was celebrating with his team, Bitty couldn’t begrudge him. It was a big win to even the series, to build confidence in the team, to head into the opposition rink with momentum.

But there was a limit to how late Bitty should have to stay up and wait for Jack’s call. He’d go to bed with his phone on Chowder’s desk (what used to be Chowder’s desk) and if Jack called, if the phone woke him, he’d answer.

Bitty finished wrapping the mini pies in freezer paper to store them away. He hadn’t eaten any after all. Without his regular training regimen, he wasn’t as hungry. Another sign that it was time to get back to it.

Before he could put the tray of pies in the freezer, there was a knock at the door.

It was past midnight, and no one should be here. But a burglar wouldn’t knock, and Samwell was kind of empty right after graduation, and maybe someone needed help.

So Bitty flipped the porch light on and peeked around the curtain, ready to open the door as long as it looked ok, although even a teenage girl could have a gun … and he’d been listening to Mama too long.

There was Jack Zimmermann.

“Oh my Lord, Jack, what are you doing here?” Bitty said while he was still pulling the door open. “It’s the middle of the night. You shouldn’t have driven all the way up here after your game. You must be exhausted -- have you eaten anything?”

Jack, still in his game-day suit (which had to have been custom made to fit like that), waited for Bitty to run out of words.

“I’m fine, really,” Jack finally said. “I ate at the arena before I left, but I could eat a little more. It’s not that far -- a lot of the guys live at least this far from the arena. But if you’re heading back to Georgia tomorrow or the next day, I didn’t want to miss my chance to talk to you.”

Jack looked down. He was still standing on the welcome mat that Bitty’s mother had sent up with him the year he moved in, the one that had, “Hey, y’all!” in cursive script carved into the sisal fibers.

“Where are my manners?” Bitty said, finally stepping back to let Jack in. “I just made some mini pies. Let me heat some up. You can sit in here if you want --” Bitty gestured toward the living room, then winced -- “but you might want to avoid the nasty couch.”

Jack just kept following him, so Bitty said, “Or we could sit in the kitchen. Much cleaner.”

Bitty busied himself by turning the oven on and unwrapping four of the small pastries. 

“Good thing I hadn’t put these in the freezer yet,” he said. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Do you want -- not coffee, it’s too late --”

He rooted through a cabinet that had three kinds of protein powder. What had these boys done to his kitchen? Then he found a box of orange herbal tea with no caffeine. Orange tea and apple pie. Not ideal, but not too bad.

“Do you want some tea?”

Jack was leaning against the counter just watching him.

“Sure,” Jack said. “Tea would be fine.”

Bitty checked the water level in the electric kettle -- he wasn’t sure who had brought it, but he’d decided it was a valuable addition to the kitchen -- then flipped the switch. “That should just be a minute. Please, have a seat.”

Jack sat at the rickety table and Bitty pulled out plates and mugs, forks and spoons.

“I heard that you baked,” Jack said. “Marty said that you promised him a pie for the tickets.”

“I did,” Bitty said. “But I figured it would be better if I sent it after the season. Do you know what his favorite kind is?”

“No idea,” Jack said.

“I’ll have to ask him, then. Or ask Pops to ask him,” Bitty said. “I don’t have his number.”

“I can give you that,” Jack said. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Jack didn’t seem to be any closer to explaining why he’d driven to Massachusetts at midnight.

Bitty poured hot water over the tea bags in the mugs, then turned to pull the tray with the mini pies from the oven.

“What’s your favorite kind of pie, then?” Bitty asked.

“Uh, I don’t really know,” Jack said. “I don’t eat a lot of pie. Do you ask everybody that?”

Bitty shrugged. “People I like,” he said. “I keep a list for people on my team. Figure they might want to keep me around longer.”

“I don’t think you really need to worry,” Jack said. “The Aeros winning percentage went up as soon as you got there, and the team scored more and gave up fewer goals with you on the ice.”

“You looked me up?” Bitty said, taking the seat opposite Jack.

“I try to keep up with my opponents.”

“You haven’t played the Aeros since February.”

It was Jack’s turn to shrug.

“You’re a better player than you give yourself credit for,” Jack said. “You’d be better if you didn’t try to hit so much, but you’re good.”

“Is that what you drove all this way to say?” Bitty asked.

“Not really. I wanted to apologize for being rude,” Jack said.

“You already did that, on the phone,” Bitty said.

“I wanted to explain,” Jack said. “I know it was only one game, and I know we didn’t play that badly. But when Marty pointed you out, I wanted to impress you.”

“I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about,” Bitty said. “I mean, look at the two of us.”

“No, I mean --”

Jack stopped and took a bite of  the pie on his plate.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said.

“I know,” Bitty said. “Go on.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Jack started again. “But Marty said he heard that maybe you weren’t straight?”

Bitty felt himself straighten up. This could be very bad, or it could be very good. Very, very good. But he didn’t need other teams targeting him, which was why the first words out of his mouth were, “I’m gonna kill Pops.”

“No,” Jack said. “I mean, it’s ok, whichever way, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Ok?” Bitty said, still not willing to give anything away.

“I think Marty and Pops were trying to be the world’s most interfering wingmen,” Jack said.

Bitty noticed that Jack hadn’t quite given anything away either, although it looked like …

“And you drove all this way to apologize … for their interfering?”

“I’m not doing a very good job of this,” Jack said. “Look, I’m going to trust you, because I like you, and Marty said Pops said you were a good guy, and I know you went to school here, and I know the reputation, and even if you are straight you wouldn’t be an asshole.”

Well, there weren’t too many other ways to interpret that.

“I’m not,” Bitty said.

“Not an asshole?” Jack said.

“Not straight,” Bitty said. “I’ve known I was gay since before I knew the word for it.”

Jack released a breath Bitty hadn’t known he was holding.

“I’m not either,” Jack said.

“Not an asshole?” Bitty arched a brow, suddenly feeling more sure of his footing.

“My behavior the other night notwithstanding?” Jack gave a rueful laugh. “Not straight. Bi, actually.”

Bitty nodded. “And there’s a reason you’re telling me this?”

“I like you,” Jack said again. “Not just as a hockey player. I like talking to you and listening to you and looking at you. If you’re willing, I’d like to get to know you better.”

Bitty felt himself melt a little bit inside, watching this beautiful man watch him while he spoke so earnestly. He reached over the table and fit his hand over Jack’s.

“I like all those things about you, too,” Bitty said. He tightened his hand. “And I like touching you. I’m pretty sure I’d like kissing you, too.”

Jack pushed his chair back from the table to make room, and Bitty got up and let himself be pulled in. The first kiss was a just a brush of lips, the second was a brief press. Then Jack tugged Bitty closer, encouraging Bitty into his lap. Bitty kissed along Jack’s jaw, coming back to Jack’s mouth when gasped and Bitty could take Jack’s lower lip and suck on it.

He pulled back briefly and said, “Yep, I was right. I do like kissing you.”

Then he let Jack gather him back in.

They stayed like that, Bitty perched on Jack’s thighs in the kitchen chair, until Jack groaned and Bitty remembered that Jack had played a game that night and must be ready to collapse.

“Come on,” Bitty said, standing up and extending a hand to Jack. “Let’s go upstairs to bed. You need to sleep.”

“Just sleep?” Jack said.

“Well, there’s always morning,” Bitty said. “But you need to rest. Just don’t look in the hallway bathroom.”

@cyn2k

@fifty-shadesofgay

@ontheavalanche​

Eric's first year in the NHL flew by. The prospect camp for the Schooners was fun and went better than he could've hoped. In September he killed it in the rookie exhibition and the preseason games.

Come October, he was playing in the NHL, for real. He, Eric R. Bittle, Jr., was playing professional hockey! A former figure skater from Georgia was on the starting roster of the Seattle Schooners!

If you’d told him in his freshman year that this was what he’d be doing after graduation, well, he’d probably have been quite concerned about your head injury, or perhaps asked for your supplier on Shitty’s behalf.

It was terribly difficult sometimes, to be sure. Jack was on the other side of the country. Skype helped, and calls every day they could manage. Packing months of affection into holidays that were all too brief.  

But they won games. And lost some. But the important thing was, they won enough.

Enough to make the playoffs. PLAYOFFS!!! And wasn't that something else altogether. Out of 34 teams, he was on one that was getting a chance at the Stanley Cup!

And then. Not long after they'd secured their spot, there was a team meeting. Nothing unusual, Eric thought, the coaches just wanted to get them psyched up, keep them focused.

Which, it was, yeah. But after the expected speeches...

"Okay, so if there's any trouble with the creature features..." there were several amused snorts. "...Just see us or the trainers. We know it can get hard to deal with, especially for the rookies." He went on to tell them about proper fang dental hygiene (same as usual, but get extra toothbrushes, and eat more calcium, apparently).

"What," he said incredulously. "That's...something that happens? Playoffs turn you into...into a monster?!?!"

He looked around. Most of the other rookies looked kinda stunned. The more experienced players just nodded.

"Yeah, how much usually depends on ice time," Cricket said. "And no, you wouldn't have heard of it. Being able to actually see it, that's limited to players, other playoff teams, and some of the hands-on staff, like the trainers. It's been happening since at least the '60s, they think. Maybe earlier, but they don't talk about it that far back."

"Wha- Why?" Eric stutters out.

"It's...I dunno, a thing with the hockey gods. The regular season is hard enough. All the big and little sacrifices to make it on the ice. To get through playoffs, you need more. And so we get a little help."

His stomach twisted. He thought back to last year, when the Falconers had made their own deep playoff run. George had warned him, obliquely. Jack had been grumpier, more irritable sometimes, but not really any worse than he'd been at Samwell. Bitty just chalked it up to it being his rookie year in the pros. Of course it would be more stressful.

That night, Eric makes a somewhat stammering call to Jack.

After the sweet greetings and I-love-you's are said, Bitty finally asks.

"So. Hockey gods and monsters on ice. What the fuck, Jack?"

Jack looked slightly sheepish. "Ah. Guess I should've expected this once Seattle made the playoffs."

"I mean, it does explain why you were a bit weirder than usual last year. And the biting." Jack pinked at that. Eric smiled at him. “Not to say that I’m complaining ‘bout that, mind.”

"So many times I wish I could've told you. But would you have believed me without being able to see for yourself?"

"No, I suppose not. But you look perfectly handsome as ever."

Jack dipped his head and gave a shy grin. "Well, of course, the first round hasn't even really started. Nothing to see, yet."

"I figure I'll deal with that as it comes, how bad could it get for a rookie? I'm a little more concerned about...appeasing the hockey gods. Gosh, there's a sentence I never thought I'd say with any sort of seriousness."

Jack was silent for a minute, clearly thinking. "Hrmm. A quick prayer never hurts. But with how my dad and Yags talked about it, it's in the little things. Our pre-game routines, the cellys, even the fights and injuries, all the little dedications that sometimes you don't even realize you're doing. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’re as dedicated to the game as anyone I know."

"Wait...Yags?"

"Oh, Jaromir. Jagr. He's with the Aces now, you might face him soon enough! He's been in the NHL for longer than you've been alive, Bits. He knows things."

Eric didn't know why he was surprised. Of course Jaromir Jagr was among Jack's hockey uncles. He’d won a couple of cups with Bob and Mario. They probably didn’t get to meet up much because oh yeah, he was still playing pro hockey.

On the other hand, hockey gods and ice magic would explain a lot about that.

At the Schooners’ next practice, Eric paused to breathe in the chill of the rink. Okay. Fine. Whatever happened, he would do his best. He’d made it this far.

His spine tingled a little. Just excitement. Or maybe the hockey gods were watching?

Far be it from him to disappoint them.

They won the first two games of Round 1. It felt really fucking good. It was definitely harder than a regular season game, everyone giving it their all. The speed, the rush of it all...it was amazing. Every goal seemed that much sweeter.

Game 3...was a loss. But it was so so close, going into overtime with them tied 3-3.

The next morning, Eric's jaw ached. He probably had just been clenching his teeth in frustration. They'd all played well, but sometimes the other team was just better. But there were at least two more games left in Round One. It wasn't over yet.

He brushed his teeth grumpily. They had the morning to rest, with practice in the afternoon, Game 4 the next day, and the flight back to Seattle after that.

He stretched and grimaced at his reflection, side tender where he'd been checked.

Oh.

OH.

Okay.

He poked his tongue at newly sharp eyeteeth. No wonder they all ached like new fillings.

Well.

Their captain had said things like this were almost common, in playoffs. Pointed teeth and ears, patches of fur or scales. Horns and armor sometimes, in the later rounds. He could live with pointy teeth.

He was just a rookie, though a pretty dang talented one if he said so himself (and so did Cricket, and Jack, and the Schooners GM). How much could really happen to him, anyway?

He spared a brief but delightful thought for how much Jack would squirm if he bit him now. It would leave a nice mark, he mused. Then shook his head. No time for nice daydreams, though. Now was playoffs, and they’d barely started. Hopefully.

Hopefully there would be many more games ahead, and if they were really good and really lucky, sixteen wins.

It was weird. This hockey monster thing...was the weirdest thing that had happened to him since...probably since he went to college and joined Samwell Men’s Hockey. With people like Shitty, Holster, and Johnson...yeah, the rest of the campus was right, the team was full of weirdos.

At the same time...it felt sorta good. He really was a hockey player, he’d earned his spot here and he belonged on the team.

The Schooners won Round One in five games.

Whatever magic it was that happened during playoffs, Eric was grateful for it. The last game was another tough win, and he knew, KNEW that any other time, playing like that would leave him near exhausted. But now, even after cellying like crazy out on the ice, waving their sticks like madmen, he just felt energized. Even if he crashed afterwards, they had a couple extra days to rest and practice before Round Two.

But right now, a few drinks to celebrate wouldn’t be amiss.

Thank you, hockey gods, he thought. God had bigger things to worry about, surely, than playoffs. All it said was no gods before Him right? This was just like...asking an angel or a patron saint for something. Yeah. Hockey was totally an earthly-type matter, the gods of playoffs had more time to devote to hockey players anyway. They needed all the help they could get.

Probably he should ask if there were names for them, he thought, a little tipsy. It would only be polite. So he could thank them. Maybe he could make them a pie? His teammates would be more than ready to eat it afterward.

The next morning saw him peering confusedly at mostly illegible drunken scribbles on his nice stationary. Apparently he’d ended up trying to write a thank you note to the hockey gods.

Wow they mixed their drinks strong at that bar.

The day after that, Eric blinked at eyes that had gone from warm brown to a molten amber.

He'd...he'd gotten plenty of ice time, that was all.