#pavfics

To: [email protected]

Subj: Restriction on Pies and Pastries Supply to PVD Falconers

Mr. Eric Bittle,

It has recently been brought to my attention that you are responsible for the pies and various pastries that have been delivered to members of the NHL team, the Providence Falconers. Unfortunately, the high fat content found in pies and the like poses a significant risk to athletes' physical fitness. It is vital for hockey players to maintain optimal physical condition to ensure their peak performance on the ice, and therefore the team’s win.

As it is my duty to oversee their dietary requirements, I ask you to cease the distribution of such food items to the members of the team immediately.

Thank you for your cooperation,

Jack Zimmermann

Providence Falconers Nutritionist | Providence, RI

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From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Re: Restriction on Pies and Pastries Supply to PVD Falconers

Dear Mr. Zimmermann,

It’s really nice to make your acquaintance. I actually had to message Alexei just to make sure this wasn’t some prank from one of my friends - I couldn’t believe an actual NHL staff member reached out to me! He assured me you’re the real thing, however (although I’m not sure how you got my school contact info?).

About the pies - you have nothing to worry about. Firstly, I only use the very best products, so anything your boys are getting from me is high quality. Second of all, I explicitly told the boys that I would only make the deliveries on cheat days. They better be smarter than to lie to me. 

I’m a big fan of the Falconers, and I would never do anything to harm their chances! On the contrary, I do believe having a pie waiting for you at the end of a hard week gives more motivation for training. So actually, I’m helping y’all out :) 

You’re very welcome, and good luck against the Devils!

Eric

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From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Re: Re: Restriction on Pies and Pastries Supply to PVD Falconers

Mr. Bittle,

I appreciate your reply. However, I feel that I have not made my stance clear enough.

Hockey is a very demanding sport. Cheat meals are meant to benefit our players, not provide them with an excuse to consume excessive amounts of sugar and fat. Nine of our players had received deliveries from you in the last 3 months. In my estimations, that comes to about 216 baked pies. 

You must not be aware of this, but regular consumption of saturated fat can lead to heart disease and stroke. I advise you to look into investing your time in less harmful pursuits. I attached a list of recommendations for preferable culinary interests and other hobbies (if you eat even a portion of what you make, I highly recommend taking an interest in physical activity).

Please write back to me with confirmation that you will no longer deliver to members of this team.

Sincerely,

Jack Zimmermann

Providence Falconers Nutritionist | Providence, RI

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From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Re: Re: Re: Restriction on Pies and Pastries Supply to PVD Falconers

Mr. Zimmermann,

Unfortunately, I can make no such promises. Your players are counting on me, and I’d hate letting those sweet boys down. But just give it a few more months! You’ll see their game won’t be affected, and we could put all this behind us. In fact, I bet you’ll even see some improvement :)

Thank you for your concern, but it’s honestly not needed. I’m definitely getting enough physical activity, haha. Actually, I’m the captain of a Division I NCAA ice hockey team. And look, I’m doing just fine!

Also, I did take a look at your list. Flourless protein brownies?? Poor man. If that is what you consider a dessert, it’s no wonder you’ve got all these misguided views on pies. I had real brownies delivered just for you this morning, so you can taste the difference yourself. If they’re not on your desk by this afternoon, Thirdy or Poots must’ve gotten to them. Please let me know so I can make another batch.

All the best,

Eric

- 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: Final Request to Discontinue Pastry Deliveries 

Mr. Bittle,

You’re a hockey player who bakes a dozen pies a month in his free time? This is unacceptable for a sports team on any level. If possible, I would like the name of your team and your coach. Your staff should be made aware of the risks involved in not supervising their players’ health. I am more than willing to offer my services for a free-of-charge seminar about nutrition. 

I have made my position about the deliveries very clear. If you cannot assure me of your cooperation, I will be forced to speak to security and restrict entry of food into our facilities without my approval.

I don’t wish to resort to forbidding you from future contact with team members, but if it is in the best interest of the team’s success, I will.

Good day,

Jack Zimmermann

Providence Falconers Nutritionist | Providence, RI

-

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subj: (no subject)

Dear Jack Zimmermann,

I would like to see you try.

Bless you heart,

"Are you sure you don't need anything? Some painkillers? I might even have scar cream for that lyin' around, if you want."

Jack's mouth twitches, but he shakes his head. "It's fine, Bittle. It doesn't hurt that bad."

"If you say so…" Bitty sits up when Jack steps into his underwear and drags them up his thick thighs. He's got some red marks around his hips, but they're faint enough that they should fade before attracting anyone's notice. "That hit was still nasty, Jack. Martin better pay for it next time you've got a game against the Isles."

"Ha. I'm sure Tater's already got it covered." Jack crouches to collect his discarded clothes from all over the floor. He's facing away from Bitty when he says: "Though we’re not playing them again until the middle of March."

"...Oh."

They aren't playing the Rangers or the Devils until March, either; Bitty knows because he checked. That's two months without Jack coming up to New York. Without an excuse to see him.

Bitty tries to rein in his disappointment, and horribly fails.

It's quiet while Jack gets dressed. Bitty watches him from the bed, sheets pooled in his lap, hands fisted in the sheets. Jack pulls on his dress shirt and leaves it hanging open from his shoulders as he slips into his pants, pulls on his socks. His abs flex when he bends down to lace up his shoes.

"We're playing the Flyers in two weeks," he says apropos of nothing while he’s buttoning up his shirt. Bitty stares at the dark strip of hair on Jack’s broad chest, slowly disappearing under the fabric, then determinedly averts his eyes.

"Uh… Okay?"

Jack's face is downturned, shadowed in the dim room, eyes on his hands wrapping his blue tie around his neck and adjusting it under the collar. "Philly’s two hours away. Probably less, that late at night."

Bitty's heart starts beating faster, but he valiantly keeps his expression neutral. "Probably."

"If you want…" Jack’s tone is unreadable. He tugs on the knot of his tie; Bitty itches to get up and bat his hands away, straighten the tie into place himself, but doesn’t dare move.

"Oh, I – if you’re sure!" Bitty bites his lip so hard it hurts. "That’s a heck of a drive after playing a game, though."

Jack puts his jacket on and finally looks up. He looks so sharp in the low light, so elegantly put-together in the tailored lines of his game day suit. It almost hurts to look at him. Only his mussed hair and flushed cheeks hint that he was naked and coming undone in Bitty’s bed only half an hour ago.

"It’s fine. I’ve got this BBC podcast I’ve been meaning to get to anyway." Jack swipes his keys and his wallet from Bitty’s dresser, then takes the step back towards the bed. "Or maybe I could listen to that playlist you made back in college. For before games. If those basses won’t keep me awake nothing will, eh?"

Bitty almost can’t believe Jack remembers that – although, it shouldn’t surprise him that Jack still remembers all of his past teammates’ pre-game rituals. "You, listening to Beyoncé and Sia for two hours? I don’t know, Jack. All that culture shock while drivin’ sounds pretty dangerous."

"Well, I do live for danger," Jack deadpans, and leans down to kiss the startled laugh off Bitty’s lips. Then he pats his pockets one last time, bids Bitty goodbye, and leaves.

“Sorry!” Eric blurts out finally, voice trembling, body trembling even harder. “I – I just –”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, but he still moves cautiously with his eyes unmoving from Eric, like Eric’s some wide animal that he might spook. “I shouldn’t have…”

He trails off, sentence unfinished. Eric gets it. There’s nothing he shouldn't have done; Jack never does anything wrong. It’s Eric who startles and flinches and gets lightheaded whenever the stranger he’s supposed to be engaged to tries to touch him.

“It’s fine, Bi–Eric.” Jack clears his throat, then crouches down to pick up the shards, smiling faintly up at Eric. “This floor's been through worse. It’s not even the first time I made you drop something, eh? Least this time it’s just water and not peanut butter.”

by the time the next fall comes around, he's been through enough therapy, physical and otherwise, and actually looks forward to being home all halloween for the first time in years. to see the kids go trick or treating, maybe unearth his camera and take pictures of the festivities. maybe even participate in something. start feeling like part of a community again.

but when halloween comes, jack spends all night on his couch, alone, holding a full-to-the-brim bowl of handmade candy. no one comes to knock on his door. because kids judge quickly, and parents are slow to trust, and his first few months in town were enough to establish a reputation as someone to be avoided.

he stays up later than he has since he was a teenager, but when it becomes clear that no one is going to stop at his house he dumps all three bags of the halloween treats he ordered special - none of that chemically manufactured shit that's so bad for kids - and puts them out front, to be picked up with his garbage. and then he goes to bed, and tries very hard not to think.

bitty opens his bakery early. he happens to walk past jack's house on his way to work, and recognizes the bags sitting out front; it's hard to forget that order, from the man who asked him question after question about the ingredients of the candy he'd be giving to kids on halloween. bitty made him a candy-cane inspired sweet in the form of a hockey stick, and watched the man crack the first smile bitty's seen from him since he moved to town.

but the bags are all full out here on the sidewalk. and although bitty wishes he didn't know why, he can make a pretty good guess. he was new to town, once, too.

it's hard to purposely bump into someone who keeps to himself as much as mr. zimmermann does, but bitty is nothing if not determined. he stops by mr. zimmermann's cart when they're both out grocery shopping and makes sure to exchange small talk with him, just loudly enough for others to overhear. he moves his daily run from the evening to the early morning, although it's torture to get up even earlier than he already does, so the jogging crowd spots him running into mr. zimmermann and waving cheerfully. it's the little things. and if bitty can make one of his neighbors feel more at home, then he darn well will.

gradually, little by little, mr. zimmermann starts opening up. insists that bitty call him jack. keeps walking with bitty all the way to the register when they're both out grocery shopping, while gravely telling him about the importance of eating clean. changes his running route so bitty and he start their loop around the park at the same time, and when it gets colder, brings another set of gloves along because bitty always forgets his. bitty's not even sure how jack figured that out.

and it's other things, too. one day mrs. sylvester who lives down the street tells bitty that jack joined the book club, and while he never says much, she swears he reads all the books. ms. bishop, who works at city hall and can't keep a secret to save her life, leans over to bitty during their shared pilates class and whispers that she's not supposed to tell, but someone made a big donation to the town's community center. principal stacy announces the annual career day at the elementary school, and unsubtly suggests that perhaps new residents with unusual career paths may like to sign up.

“Sure it is!” Bittle claims brightly, clasping his hands behind his back. He looks inordinately proud of himself; the buttons of his tight dress shirt are straining against his chest and his sunny beam carves a small dimple in his right cheek. It’s incredibly exasperating to look at. “Between you and me, I almost called in to cancel ‘cause I didn’t think I’d get it done on time, but I just couldn’t bear to after all y’all have done for me.”

Bittle says y’all, all sincerely with that slow Southern accent, like he’s talking about Jack, too – even though Shitty’s the one doing most of the heavy lifting, and his paralegals are picking up the rest. The only thing Jack’s done for Bittle’s divorce is pencil him into the schedule. And, occasionally, forbid him from sneaking pies into the spotless conference rooms. 

Jack hasn’t done anything worth appreciation since he captained his team to the Cup last season. He doesn’t like being reminded of this fact.

“Mr. Knight will be done with his meeting in fifteen minutes,” he says stiltedly, dropping his eyes to the screen and ignoring Bittle's dimming smile. “You can wait over there until he’s ready for you, but I don’t think this is admissible. You were supposed to fill the exhibit forms he sent you.”

“Well – well, yes, but I, it took a while, and I did start filling them, but then I couldn’t find them anymore? But I listed everything he told me to!” Bittle says, big-eyed and bow-mouthed, leaning closer to Jack over the edge of the desk. “I even sorted my pension, and last year’s taxes, and all of those godawful things  –”

“Bittle,” Jack cuts him off. He feels like the vein in his forehead is throbbing, like if he grips his computer mouse any harder the plastic will creak under his hand. “I’m sure it's a comprehensive list of all your financial assets. But maybe you shouldn’t put your paperwork off for so long that you lose it, because you wrote this down on a Whole Foods purchase receipt.”

“Can you meet in the library? Tomorrow morning,” his voice is quiet, bland, and his eyes are trained on the paper detailing the assignment outline Mr. Liddell handed out. Eric doesn’t think they’ve ever actually made eye contact, even though they’ve been sharing a desk since the semester started. “I have practice after school.”

“Uh – yeah, yeah, sure,” Eric stammers, nervously fiddling with his own assignment paper, folding the edges inwards and then smoothing them out. Meeting in the morning means he’s going to have to ask Coach to leave the house even earlier than usual, but he’d rather fail the whole class than explicitly remind senior ice-hockey captain Jack Zimmermann that he doesn’t have a driving license yet. Or a car he can drive to school. 

“Okay,” Jack says, but his eyebrows draw together and his mouth pinches in that way that always makes Eric shrink away in alarm. He looks vaguely angry, and since Eric can’t think of a single thing he could’ve done to inspire that, he tentatively assumes Jack isn’t angry at him. Which leaves –

“I’m actually, uh, real good at these – stuff,” Eric says hesitantly, in case Jack’s anger stems from worrying about his final grade in Family and Consumer Science. Jack doesn’t immediately go for the obvious jab (“‘Course you are, Bittle, you’ve always been into all that girly shit, huh?”), so Eric gathers his courage and elaborates, “Well – well, maybe not the personal finance stuff, but the cooking and the sewing. Um.”

He’s opening himself up to a world of pain, here, considering that he’s good at cooking because he spends most of his free time in the kitchen with his mother and he’s good at sewing because up until a few years ago he still sewed the sequins onto his leotards. But either Jack doesn’t care enough to make fun of him, or doesn’t think class is the best time for it. 

“Right,” is Jack’s response. He doesn’t seem inclined to say more, so Eric swallows the flood of words clawing up his throat and grips the edge of the desk to ground himself. There’s a faded J+M engraved in the metal. He traces it with a blunt fingernail while Mr. Liddell drones on in the background.

Class is dismissed with a rush of chairs scraping and voices rising and school bags’ zippers opening. Eric stuffs his creased assignment paper into his bag and stands up, half-heartedly wishing he was brave or cool enough to skip school. He has calculus next period. Facing Coach’s wrath might actually be a better fate than that. 

“I’m alright with finances.”

It takes Eric a very long moment to realize who is speaking, and who they’re speaking to. He turns around, almost certain he’s misheard, and blinks at Jack Zimmermann, who is shoving his water bottle into his bag and folding the assignment paper into weirdly even halves before slipping it in as well.

“So. We can divide the work,” Jack finishes, confirming that he was in fact talking to Eric. 

He looks up then, and for what is certainly the first time, their eyes meet. Jack offers a stilted nod, shoulders his bag, and disappears into the sea of other students jostling out toward the halls.

jack never really got that. jack never really got the point of picking up complete strangers for casual sex, honestly, but - that's besides the point, probably. the point is, the idea of enjoying being less into his sexual partner than they are into him is... it's not for him. jack would rather just not waste time on sex at all.

so when bittle dresses up in that tiny, body-hugging puck bunny costume for halloween, that's not the fantasy that springs to jack's mind.

because jack does have one puck bunny fantasy. one he doesn't think about often, and never had any intention of seeking out. the idea of sleeping with a stranger who idolizes him isn't for him - but the idea of being with someone who really appreciates his game? that's different.

when he stares at bitty in those tiny, tiny shorts and bunny ears (and stares, and stares, and stares some more), that's what he thinks about. taking bitty home in that costume. feeling bitty's warm hand on jack's arm as bitty compliments his slapshot. kissing bitty's neck while bitty recites his stats in his ear, approval clear in his voice. unzipping that low, low v as far as it can go and taking bitty into his mouth while bitty tells him he played good, he played so good. slipping his hands inside bitty's shorts while he tells jack his favorite highlights, pushing his fingers into bitty while he pants about that last goal of the game, fucking bitty in the puck bunny costume with bitty's hand on his shoulders, his back, his hips, urging him on, telling him he just has to keep being good for a little bit longer.

Jack loses a toy, and needs help getting it back. The only person he thinks to ask is Bittle.

happy birthday, @weneedtotalkaboutfic ❤️ you are a joy and also the force behind 90% of my best filth, and for that you deserve all the fics I can gift you.