Chapter Text
On Tuesday, Jack is taking Bitty to the arena.
It’s been on their schedule, inasmuch as they have one for Eric’s visit, in part because Erin Jakowski* wants to meet Eric and in part because Jack is actually excited to show him around.
Everything about the Falconers' arena is a little bit glitzier, a little bit more larger-than-life than Faber, and walking into the complex still provokes in Jack a complicated mix of emotional reactions: wary pride, giddy awe, a lingering fear about what will happen if he fails to live up to expectations. Marci’s tasked him with articulating what failure looks like, and whose expectations he’s trying to live up to. It’s a homework assignment still very much in progress.
But still, Jack finds as they eat breakfast bumping knees at the kitchen island that morning, that the idea of taking Eric to see where he’ll be playing come fall is a happy one. He’s anticipating it with pleasure rather than mounting anxiety.
Recognizing this causes his brain to suggest that this unusual state of affairs is, itself, a cause for concern. Maybe, his brain suggests unhelpfully, maybe he’s not worried enough. What sort of reckless idiot is he -- and Jack tries to remind his brain that “idiot” is not a term Shitty would approve of, but his brain refuses to listen -- what sort of reckless idiot is he, anyway, thinking he’s entitled to walk into the arena with Eric at his side like this is normal like this is the sort of thing anyone might do.
But it is the sort of thing anyone might do, Jack reminds himself firmly. Most of the guys he’s already met from the Falconers, excepting the question mark of Chris and Dan, don’t seem to be in relationships. But he’s been around the world of professional hockey long enough to know it’s a family affair. Players bring their wives, their kids, their girlfriends to games and team barbecues, to charity galas and awards dinners, and makes plans to rendezvous on the road. Eric should have the right to be treated no differently from anyone else's plus-ones.
When he’d asked George the week before if it would be okay to bring Bitty by to give him a tour she’d responded by asking if Eric might be willing to come back during training and show her players a thing or two about speed.
So he knows he has permission.
But he also knows that Eric at his side is notable in a way a girlfriend wouldn’t be. Even if his presence can be explained away by former teammate, played on my line, needed a place to stay before the start of school, giving him the grand tour to anyone besides George and Erin. If, that is, they run into anyone nosy enough to ask. We probably won't, he reminds his brain. The arena will be mostly empty today. The team meeting’s been cancelled this week -- Jack is one of a scant handful of players in town and both of the coaches, Thompson and Mishurin, are gone -- and half the staff seems to have scheduled vacation in August.
He mops up the last of his soft-boiled egg with one of the artisan English muffins Eric had found and insisted on purchasing the day before. Jack had teased him about it, but now has to admit that probably he should just cede all culinary decisions to Bitty forever because Bitty’s mere presence makes food more delicious. The cake he’d made the day before, for example, has no right to be as tempting before ten o’clock as it currently is, gazing innocently out from under the glass mixing bowl Eric had used as a makeshift dome.
With his free hand, he reaches over to where Eric is drinking the last of his French press coffee and tapping out a message of some kind on his phone.
“Ransom is asking when are we --” Eric begins, then stops and looks up as Jack slides his fingers across the inside of Eric’s wrist. Jack finds Eric’s wrists fascinating, because they’re narrow and fine-boned, his hands long-fingered with small oval fingernails that he keeps trimmed short and blunt for the kitchen work. His hands are rough and reddened from bleach solution and scarred and calloused working around knives and open flame. Jack had never really thought about Eric’s hands before his trip to Madison, at least not any more than he thought about any other portion of Eric. But since Madison he’s had a lot of time to think about all of the things Eric can do with his hands. How capable and sure they are, how confidently Eric touches Jack even when he’s doing so in ways they’ve never tried before.
Jack also likes the look on Eric’s face when Jack traces the tendons on the inside of Eric’s wrists with his thumb or fingers or tongue, the way he can encircle Eric’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, catching and holding those capable hands -- pinning them down, keeping them near, holding them at arm’s length as Eric tries to outmaneuver him for control of the moment.
Or, sometimes, lets go and leans into the moment with a sigh of release. Of yes please and more.
“Keep that up and we’ll be late for the meeting,” Eric tries, even as he’s turning his wrist upward toward Jack’s palm, eyes flickering to Jack’s mouth and then back up to meet Jack’s gaze.
Jack could tease him, but anything that comes to mind suddenly feels harsh -- like it undercuts the importance of this, of Eric a reach away, Eric who responds with such effortless ease and want to every touch. Eric, who slept beside him all last night with Bun tucked under his pillow. Who grumbled monosyllabicly through a shared shower, then magically whipped up eggs benedict and café au lait brewed to perfection. Jack’s only previous relationship experience involved a lot of aborted touches, unmet gazes, reluctant reciprocity, and the constant feeling of getting it wrong. With Eric, even fumbled plays lead only to something better as Eric responds with yes, but here or not like -- let me show you.
“I could live with that,” Jack says, smiling but not like he doesn't mean it. If Eric wanted him to, he'd cancel without a second thought.
“Mmm.” Eric slides off his stool and comes around the corner of the counter to stand between Jack’s knees, “You make a tempting offer. But I really don’t think we should cancel this meeting, Jack.”
Jack sighs. “I know.”
“I like that you’re tempted, though,” Eric offers, shyly, pressing his face into Jack’s shoulder. “Maybe we could rain check whatever it is you’re thinkin' of 'til later this afternoon?”
Jack slides his arms around Bitty’s shoulders and pulls him in for a full-body hug, resting his chin on Eric’s head. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we could do that.”