#zimmboni

When he finally looks at the clock, there’s still an hour until he even has to think about getting out of bed. He’s got PT at eleven, and then lunch at a new restaurant with B and Zimmboni. Tonight Bitty’s going to teach him how to make blueberry pie properly.

This summer has been good for Tater. Aside from the Cup win, he’s happier than he’s been in a while. He’s able to shake off his melancholy about his injury easily, focusing on one session at a time and feeling stronger every day and lunch on me today boys. But today, today is especially great. He’s well rested, the only sore muscles are a good sore from working out, he’s got a call with his parents scheduled for tomorrow, and time with Little B and Jack is always welcome.

With them, there’s no pressure to talk about hockey (unless Bitty is freaking out about being named Samwell’s captain again). Sure, he and Jack chat about their teammates’ vacations, and Thirdy texts him funny pictures of his daughter. But the cautious checking in on him from earlier this year is noticeably absent. 

Every local Cup Day is a party for the whole team. The rookies, the coaches, even the old guys who normally go to bed early. Even Jack “Too-Busy-Looking-At-My-Boyfriend-To-Drink” Zimmermann joins in the celebrations. Tater laughs louder and longer than anyone when Jack and his parents recreate the photos of Jack being put in the Cup as a baby.

Tater loves his team, is the thing, wants to be there for them as much as possible. Tater knows they love him too, that they want him whole and healthy – not for the team’s sake, but for his own. For them, he’s enough. Tater isn’t desperate to prove anything anymore, content to dig deeper for one more joke, one more hug, one more memory; buoyant that he gets these people in his life.

Watching Jack and Bitty in their apartment is like watching professional dancers. It’s a cliché, but they move around each other like they were born for it, like two halves of a whole, constantly aware of the other. If Tater wants for anything, it's for that feeling, to find his person. Wants to soak up the kind of love that proves even the worst cynics wrong, that makes people sit up and take notice. But he’ll happily bear witness to the kind of love that stories are written about in the meantime.

Summers like this don’t happen to everyone, he knows. Intellectually he accepts that he’s got more PT ahead of him, walking farther, lifting more, stretching just a little bit more— But something in his heart sings at the thought of being fully recovered from this injury. Tater prides himself on being dependable, cheerful, someone his team and his friends can rely on. He delivered on that and more during the play-offs – who’s to say his injury didn’t inspire his team to be that much better?

He blinks up at the suddenly bright ceiling, realizing he’s been grinning only when his cheeks start to hurt. He can just hear Zimmboni’s soft voice in the spaces between the garbled flood of Georgia-accented words from Little B through the wall. The smell of baking cinnamon rolls wafts through the air, bringing another smile to his face.

Tater is better than he was in March. There’s always someone to hang out with, to hug, to joke with, to just fucking talk to. Today’s going to be a good day. Today he’s got PT and lunch sitting outside with friends and a nap and learning to make pie and his leg feels strong and he slept well and it’s no effort at all to bring out a happy face. Twenty more minutes, he thinks, and closes his eyes, drifting into an easy sleep.

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Inspired by this look. Thanks, Mike Green