#pwoops

Bitty laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah! And, um. You’re starting and all, so they must be so… excited!” He already said excited. Fuck. 

“Yeah.” Whiskey glanced back down at the toaster.

“Whiskey,” Bitty said, “I just wanted to say, y’know, if you ever --”

The bread popped up and Whiskey coughed, snatching it out of the toaster before making his excuses and leaving Bitty to toast his bagel alone.

“I am giving him space,” Bitty said that night, as Kent stripped in his bedroom after repeating his previous advice.

“I dunno, babe,” Kent said as he set his clothes off to the side in a carefully folded pile. “Are you giving him, like. Your version of space or his version of space?”

“Lord, honey, I don’t know,” said Bitty, “how should I know?” How did you know what someone’s version of ‘space’ was? “But it’s not like I can completely avoid him. I’m his captain. We have to interact! So how do I tell him, like. ‘It’s cool, I didn’t see anything’?”

“You mean like how d’you lie to him?” Kent asked, climbing into bed. He’d come by, just for one night, in between games on an East Coast roadie. It was out of the way, and Bitty felt… a bit bad about it, to be honest, but any excuse to have Kent in his bed was worth taking. Kent wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, anyway.

“It’s not, like, lying,” Bitty said. “I mean, what if he wants to talk about it, and doesn’t think he can? Or --”

“If you say you didn’t see anything, then he’ll know you did see something,” Kent said, wiggling under the covers, “because if you didn’t see anything then you wouldn’t have any reason to say you didn’t see anything, so that means you totally saw something. Right?”

“Oh my god,” said Bitty. “Who are you, Joe Hardy?”

“Please, I’d obviously be Frank and you know it.” Kent stretched, bringing one arm up to rest behind his head.

“But Joe was the blond one,” Bitty said.

“Frank was the hot one,” Kent countered.

Was he? “But --”

“Okay, Carolyn Keene, thrilling as this is,” Kent interrupted.

“Carolyn Keene did not write the Hardy Boys,” Bitty said. 

Ignoring him, Kent continued. “We kind of need to talk about your dad before we go to sleep, so --”

“What?” Bitty swallowed. “No, why -- we weren’t talking about him.” They had avoided talking about Coach the entire visit. Well, mostly. Bitty took a breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey, I --”

“He’s coming tomorrow, isn’t he?” Kent asked. He had to leave first thing in the morning to catch a flight, wouldn’t be there. “To your game. And you haven’t seen him since what... March, right?”

March. Before everything, before The Kiss. Not that anyone in his family said a word to him about it.

Ugh. “You’ll be long gone before then, so what’s there to talk about?” Bitty snapped, hunching his shoulders. 

“Um,” Kent said.

“There would only be something to talk about if Coach was gonna see you,” said Bitty. “And he’s not. So.”

Kent nodded, looking down at the sheets. He picked at a loose thread, not speaking.

“I’m not being avoidant,” Bitty said, and Kent eyes flicked back up to him for just a moment. “I’m not. And it’s not that I don’t want you to see him, either. He’s just coming to watch us play. Who cares.” 

Kent worried the skin of his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I just think, um. It would be normal to have some… feelings about it?” He glanced back up at Bitty.

Bitty sighed. “Okay, yes,” he said. “Fine. I haven’t seen him in a while, but. I’ll see him before the game, and we’ll get a tense and stoic dinner afterwards. It’s fine.”

Kent’s arm slid around him. Gently pressing a kiss into his hair, Kent pulled Bitty down and tugged him close. “Okay,” he murmured. 

“Kent Parson, go to sleep and stop tormenting me with your sleuthing.” Bitty wound Kent’s chain around his finger, rubbing the Saint Michael pendant with his thumb. “You’re getting up so early.”

“Mmm.” Kent nuzzled the back of Bitty’s neck. “All right. G’night, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Bitty said.

The following day was a blur. Kent left before the crack of dawn, barely waking Bitty to say goodbye. Bitty couldn’t pay attention in any of his classes; between the half-sleep he’d gotten once Kent left and the anxiety of the upcoming game, he wasn’t particularly well-rested. As a group of them walked back to the Haus that afternoon, Bitty contemplated how much time he had to nap before the game as they chattered about the weekend.

“Hops, I can’t wait to try your mom’s baking!” Ford grinned. 

“She watched all of Bitty’s vlog in preparation for the game,” Hops said. He turned to face them, walking backwards up the sidewalk. “Seriously, Bitty, she’s gonna freak when she meets you.”

So sweet. “Then I will surely freak out in return when I meet the beautiful woman who birthed John Hopper,” Bitty said, sliding his key into the Haus’s front door lock. She had to be an angel, raising such a gem of a son.

“I’m texting her you said that!” Hops said, heading into the Haus first.

Bitty followed him in, completely unprepared for the voice that called to them from the kitchen. “Hey! Y’all back?”

Bitty sucked in a quick breath. That sounded like -- but it wasn’t time yet. Surely not. He tugged his ball cap off, following the voice.

“There you are!” Coach pushed away from the counter, smiling. “Got in early,” he said. “That Asian boy let me in -- Chow.”

“Oh,” Bitty said, lowering his cap. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Texted you -- after checking into the hotel, no answer… And I thought it was silly to just sit around,” Coach said. “You know, your mom said this wasn’t like any of the frat houses I’ve seen, and boy, she ain’t wrong.” 

Fuck, Bitty had missed a text. A very crucial, informative text. The one time he wasn’t obsessively checking his phone -- he took a deep breath.

Plucking at the curtain over the sink, Coach squinted at it. “Aren’t these your aunt’s curtains?”

“They are,” Bitty said, because what else could he say? “She was fixing to throw ’em out.”

Coach blinked at him for a moment, and Bitty’s shoulders tightened.

“Um,” Bitty said. “Coach -- Dad. This is John, he’s a freshman, and Denice, she’s our manager. Y’all, this is my dad.”

Coach stepped forward, holding out a hand. “You can call me Coach!”

“Hi, Coach Bittle!” said Ford, shaking his hand.

“Wow, hi!” said Hops. “You look just like Bitty.”

Did he? Bitty frowned.

“You’re a football coach? My brothers play football!” Ford grinned as Coach smiled at her.

“Oh, hey! Whereabouts?” he asked.

“They’re only juniors in high school… But we currently live in San Diego,” she said.

“Okay!” Coach said. He frowned a little. “Hm, now -- football and California. Then how in the world did someone like you get roped into hockey?”

Ford laughed. “I --” 

“Dad,” Bitty said, interrupting them. “Some of the guys are gonna take naps before we head to Faber…”

“Oh, all right,” said Coach, waving a hand. “Just getting to know the team. It’s a pleasure to meet y’all.”

“Nice to meet you, Coach Bittle,” said Hops.

“Nice to meet you, Coach Bittle!” Ford smiled.

Coach cleared his throat and followed Bitty out of the kitchen to the entryway. “Well! I’m glad I could stop by before your warmups,” he said. “If any of your crew want to come with tonight -- there’s a little restaurant downtown where we can watch your friend Kent’s game.” Coach was smiling, but Bitty hadn’t missed what he said.

Your friend. As if that was all Kent was to him. Bitty narrowed his eyes. 

“See you, Junior,” Coach said, a moment later.

“Bye, Daddy,” Bitty said.

Before anyone had an opportunity to ask any questions, Bitty went upstairs to his room, tugging the door shut behind him. Leaning against it, he shut his eyes for a moment. 

Family day was going to be fine. 

The afternoon game started off a little chippy and stayed that way, with both teams taking penalty minutes and Dartmouth scoring on their first powerplay. Everyone on the bench chattered about the members of their family in attendance -- Tango’s mom had quite a mouth on her, if Bitty did say so himself. He tried not to think about Coach in the stands.

It had been a long time since Bitty really felt paralyzed by a check. He shouldn’t have even fallen after the hit, it was barely anything, but -- but he did, legs shaky and everything, ending up with both hands planted on the ice. Bitty took a breath. Fuck, he had to get up.

“Bitty, man!” That was Dex. 

Bitty took another breath.

“Hey.” That was Whiskey. “Can you get up?”

Bitty took a breath again.

They lost the game.

Coach asked Bitty, after catching up with him -- and his coaches, and his teammates -- in the dressing room, if he was ready to go watch “his friend Kent’s” game.

“Yeah,” Bitty said.

Coach drove them to the restaurant in a rented truck, going over points of Bitty’s game and occasionally talking about Kent’s upcoming game.

Or rather, Bitty’s friend Kent. Coach made sure to put friend in front of Kent’s name.

He just kept saying it like that, every time -- “your friend Kent.” 

At the restaurant. During the game. In the car to go back. He never called Kent anything but Bitty’s friend, not once.

As they got into the car to head back to the Haus, Bitty couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know, your mama and I’ve been talking about this winter break… your friend Kent --”

“He’s not my friend,” Bitty said, trying to keep his voice even.

Coach sighed. “Come on,” he said. “You’re getting snippy because you’re --”

Getting snippy? Getting snippy? Really?

“If you don’t like us together, then just say it,” Bitty snapped, losing any semblance of control over his tone, “but he’s my boyfriend! If you don’t support it, then just say it!”

“W -- so I fly all the way up here to watch you play because I don’t support you?” Coach huffed. “Where’s the sense in that?”

Because flying up to watch your son’s game was totally the same as supporting his being gay. Absolutely the same. “Watching me play a sport and admitting I’m dating Kent are two different things,” Bitty said. He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling them in tight.

“I know you’re with him,” said Coach. “I’m trying not to make it a big deal.”

Not to make it a big deal? It was a huge deal. They were -- not the point, that wasn’t the point. “Then stop pretending that he’s not my boyfriend!”

“I never said he wasn’t --”

Oh, lord. As if just calling him Bitty’s friend constantly wasn’t basically the same thing? “You haven’t once acknowledged --”

“You want me to treat it like it’s normal, then?” 

Bitty sucked in a sharp breath. The memory of Kent’s mother shoving a pamphlet for conversion therapy across the table sprang into his mind, unbidden, and something in his stomach dropped.

“Or what,” Coach went on, “you want me hollering and marching in a damn parade and getting all the rainbows --”

“Just treat it like it’s something that exists --” Bitty interrupted, but he didn’t get to finish, either.

“How? You didn’t tell us!” Coach snapped. “We had to find out from the TV --”

“Because -- I just want --” Bitty swallowed. This is why I didn’t tell you. “I want you to say there’s nothing wrong with it!”

Coach sighed, pressed a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Christ. 

He’d known it would be like this. Bitty had always known that, even before those kids at school locked him into that closet. If Coach wanted to pretend he hadn’t known Bitty was gay for a long time, that was fine, but Bitty knew better. They’d known forever, his parents. They’d always known. Nobody ever talked about it, nobody said anything except the stuff Bitty heard in church, but he wasn’t stupid. Coach knew Bitty was different a long time ago, knew he wasn’t the kind of boy strong men wanted to have as a son.

“I want you to tell me I’m not messed up!” Bitty’s eyes burned. Weak. “Please,” he said, bringing a hand up to cover his face as the tears spilled over. “J-just tell me you don’t think I’m messed up. I know you’ve always thought I was.” Bitty sniffed a little, but it was fucking useless. He was turning into a sobbing mess in front of his daddy and there was nothing he could do about it. He sucked in a hitching breath, scrubbed at his face with one arm. “Because I didn’t wanna play football and all the baking and the girly stuff. Please, just tell me that you -- that it’s okay. You don’t think I’m messed up.”

“You’ve never been messed up,” said Coach, and his voice was maybe softer than Bitty could remember ever hearing it. “I never thought that.” His hand descended on Bitty’s shoulder. “And you and Kent being together… that don’t make you messed up.” He paused. “You know that.”

Bitty knew that? How could -- how could he sit there and say that? They never talked. Not ever, not Bitty’s whole life, and he just -- “Daddy… how am I supposed to know what you think?” Bitty asked, not looking at him.

After a moment, Coach pulled his hand away. “I’ll take you back to the Haus,” he said.