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When Bitty was small, his mama told him that there was a live wire loose in his head. Where everyone else had a little voice telling them to be careful, Bitty had sparks showering in his brain, zapping him if he went too long without adrenaline.
When he was real young, it was jumping off the back of the couch, seeing how many steps he could skip on his way down the stairs for supper. Then it was football, tagging along with his daddy to practice, he found he liked the part where he got to run as fast as his legs could carry him more than he liked getting hit, found that he got hit an awful lot for reasons that weren’t entirely fair. There was a summer of dirt biking, many more trees climbed and leapt out of. Mama put him in figure skating because she wanted him to learn control, figured all the jumping could satiate his need to hurl himself through the air. She was right for a while, and then he put on a pair of hockey skates.
He could go so much faster, could stop on a dime and the elegance wasn’t forced, it was a byproduct of his movement rather than the goal of it. So Eric Bittle played hockey, and he did it well. Well enough to get a scholarship, well enough to go to the University of Georgia for it. Not well enough though, to want to stick around.
Eric Bittle found that he wasn’t much of a team player. What was the point of being the fastest if everyone else trailed behind you? Bitty’s always been good at quitting. It’s not that he liked giving up, just that there was always something new that piqued his interest, something pulling him somewhere else, an impulse he had no choice but to follow.
At 23, Eric Bittle is a Red Bull athlete. And damn, he does it well. He’s everything they wanted him to be, young, athletic, funny and sexy in equal measure. He’s content gold when he has a video camera in his hand and there’s no plane in the world that he won’t jump out of. He gets free swag, clothes and travel, a whole lot of energy drinks. The money’s decent, he still vlogs, social media is his main gig, but Red Bull takes care of a lot.
The best part about it all, is that he never has to stay put for long. He’s always doing something, always filming some insane video, always doing some crazy stunt somewhere. They’ll send him to the arctic to see how fast he can skate across a glacier one week, then they’ll send him to Australia for a “hockey before the ice melts,” challenge the next.
He made his name competing in the Crashed Ice series. He’d done it on a whim a month after he dropped out of school. Grabbed his skates and an overnight bag and didn’t tell his parents before he got on a bus to Boston. He signed himself up, and bright eyed and rosy cheeked, he’d shown up and won the Boston stop. He didn’t look back, and he hasn't been home for more than a few days since.
“Doesn’t this ever get old for you?” someone asks as he’s tying his skates in the parking lot of the Providence Falconers arena.
He shakes his head, because honestly, it doesn’t. Launching himself full speed off of a platform, onto a frozen course with elevation changes and jumps, he won’t say that it won’t ever get old, but it certainly hasn’t yet. The Crashed Ice Championship is the highlight of his year (he’s won it four times since he was 19, of course it is), but any time he gets his skates sharpened to dig into a Crashed Ice course, he knows it’s going to be fun. This isn’t meant to be a competitive run, not today. They’re filming an “NHLers try Crashed Ice” thing ahead of the Crashed Ice tour stop in Providence tomorrow night and it’s Bitty’s job to go through the course like it’s supposed to be done before a handful of the Falconers stumble their way through it.
Eric Bittle doesn’t particularly like hockey players, but he’s gotten good at faking it for them. And pretending to like them on camera.
He finds three of them waiting in front of the course, cameras already set up, crew hanging around waiting for instruction. Bitty introduces himself to them, one hand on his hip, the other outstretched for them to shake.
“I’m Randall, the boys call me Thirdy,” the man with the captain’s C on his chest says.
“Alexei, you can call me Tater,” the tallest of the three says, he has a firm handshake. Bitty’s known boys like him, big, goofy looking, sweet, but ultimately boring after a few dates.
The last one hangs back, Bitty has to prompt him to give his name, “Just Jack,” he says and Bitty’s eyeroll is only hidden by the fact he wears sunglasses to this kind of thing.
They film the intro first and Bitty turns on the charm immediately. He goes through his spiel, an explanation of what Crashed Ice is. Thirdy and Tater play along, they ask questions that toe the line of annoying, but ultimately come across charming and curious. Jack doesn’t say much of anything, seems to be laser focused on Bitty while he explains how to land the jumps, what parts of the course to go full out on, how it’s way harder than it looks.
“So, do you boys think you have what it takes?” he asks, with a smirk.
Tater and Thirdy nod, Jack a little delayed, nods too.
The thing is, you get hockey players to do this, and they’ll always be better than someone who’s never skated before, but they’re still pretty bad. That’s the fun of this, it’s for Bitty to giggle, to give some genuine advice, and for the professional athletes to fail miserably, it’s all in the game. Bitty stands on top of the starting platform, Thirdy’s just gone, couldn’t finish the course, the last incline was too steep and he threw his hands up and laughed in defeat. Tater finishes, only just, and Bitty can see Jack gritting his teeth.
“You know this is supposed to be fun, right?” Bitty asks.
“I have fun when I try,” Jack says.
“I didn’t say not to try, sugar, just don’t hurt yourself.”
And there’s fire behind Jack’s eye and Bitty wants to feed it. When the horn goes, Jack launches himself out of a cannon, he doesn’t make it that far, he loses an edge on the first turn.
“I want a do-over, I did the start wrong!” He shouts.
“Keep going, fallin’ is part of the sport, honey.”
Jack grits his teeth harder with every pet-name and that’s just motivation for Bitty to keep letting them roll off his tongue. At the end, Jack has a better recorded time than either of his teammates, beating them both by five full seconds. He still doesn’t look satisfied, but they have more filming to do, so he can’t practice.
“Well boys, I’m impressed. You better stick to hockey, but that wasn’t too bad. So. Do you want to see how a real pro does it?” Bitty asks with a wry grin.
“Didn’t you already show us?” Jack asks.
“That was for teachin’ this one’s just for showin’ y’all up.”
In the video they’ll smash cut to a montage of Bitty blasting through the course like it’s nothing, cutting through the ice like butter, no incline too steep, no jump too intimidating. In real life, there’s some shuffling as everybody moves the equipment and Bitty climbs to teh starting line. He knows there are eyes on him, he’s used to eyes on him, likes eyes on him. But he can feel an icy burning intensity cutting through him as he waits for the start signal, so maybe he’s showing off a little. It’s smooth, and it’s crisp and he throws in his favourite trick (a single axle as he takes one of the jumps. His time is a full 20 seconds shorter than Jack Zimmermann’s.
Bitty can see him fuming about it as he grins to the cameras.
“Not bad with no warm-up,” he says with a smile, grabbing his skate guards from a crew member and snapping them onto his feet as he catches his breath.
Angry is a good look on Jack Zimmermann, Bitty can admit that. It’s the blue eyes, the way they narrow, the way he stands up a little straighter.
“It was good meetin’ you boys,” Bitty says smiling once the cameras are put away.
“We come to event tomorrow?” Tater asks.
Bitty’s undoing his skate laces, “Well I don’t see why not,” he says, “I’ll see if I can’t dig up some tickets for you three, let me know if you want to bring anyone.”
Jack hangs back while Bitty exchanges numbers with his teammates. He politely coos when he sees Thirdy’s lockscreen, a picture of a little girl in a party hat with cake on her face.
“Zimmboni, you have to come too,” Tater says, “Thirdy brings his wife, I bring you, we be each other’s dates.”
“Tater how many times do I have to tell you that just because we’re both single doesn’t mean we’re each other’s dates to everything.”
“So is that a no to the ticket?” Bitty asks.
“Put me down for one,” Jack mumbles after a moment of looking frustrated.
Bitty can see the look in his eye, determination, maybe a little bit of awe. He wants to figure out how this works, wants to figure out if he can do it.
Bitty’s supposed to hang around for a while after, there’s some more filming to do and that means he can get in a few extra practice runs. The thing about doing Crashed Ice is that you can’t really train for it like you would for anything else. He can skate and he can lift weights, but the courses themselves are ever-changing… and not exactly permanently publicly accessible.
“What are you still doin’ here, honey?” Bitty asks about twenty minutes later.
Jack Zimmermann is still standing near the course. His teammates have gone, most of the camera crew has gone.
Eric Bittle has Jack Zimmermann figured out. He’s never been the worst at anything, he’s never failed. His mouth always stays shut, lips pressed together in a firm line. He’s a hockey player, devoted to the game and not much else. He looks bitchy, if Bitty’s being honest. The kind of boy who only pays attention to Bitty now because he sees him as an equal, if they met in high school, or god forbid, Bitty’s single disastrous semester of college? No shot they’d be friends let alone acknowledge each other.
Jack just shakes his head, “Should get going.”
“You didn’t answer my question, you waitin’ for a ride or did you just want to stand here and stare?” Bitty clicks his tongue at the end of his sentence.
Jack shakes his head again, “Trying to figure out how you do it,” he finally says.
“What, this?” Bitty gestures at the course.
Jack nods.
He’s used to people being surprised that he can do this. He doesn’t carry muscle like a hockey player, he’s lithe, not bulky, and he’s never going to be taller than 5’6” and a half.
“How can little ol’ me skate up all those steep hills?” he sticks his bottom lip out for emphasis and then rolls his eyes, “Practice,” he says simply.
Jack, for his part, doesn’t get defensive, he just nods, “How do you take the corners, that’s where I kept losing speed.”
“Are you actually asking?” Bitty says.
Jack nods
“Oh,” Bitty says, “It’s about finding the right line. Slowing down a little when you’re coming into the corner, but not much and just maintaining the line. Harder to do when there are other guys around you, but you kind of just have to run your own race.”
“You race with other people?” Jack asks.
“You didn’t google it before you got here.”
Bitty’s not sure if the blush rising on Jack’s cheeks is the cold, or embarrassment, but he doesn’t try to dig himself out of the hole. He just nods.
“Sorry,” he says, “Kinda forgot this was today before my assistant texted me.”
“Oooh big fancy hockey player has an assistant,” Bitty teases.
Jack just shrugs, “Keeps me accountable.”
God. Everything he says is so hockey, it’s so professional athlete, so boring.
“Hm,” Bitty says, “Okay then. Well yes. There are four people on the course, we do it in heats, then quarters, then semi-finals, then finals. It’s a race.”
“Oh,” Jack says, “Why didn’t we race then?” And Bitty can see just a little bit of that fire that had sparked during the shoot.
“Not sure, didn’t want to be responsible for NHL property losing any fingers, would be my best guess.”
Jack nods, “Makes sense,” his jaw is set again, he looks over at the course and Bitty thinks he’s going to come to regret what he says next.
“I can show you how to take the corners.”
“Really?” Jack asks, “Is that allowed?”
“I just have to strap a go-pro to my helmet to get some extra footage and send it off, there’s no one here to tell you no.”
“Um. Yeah. Okay. Let’s do that.”
It turns out, that Jack’s a quick learner. He picks up the right way to position his feet pretty quickly, understands the idea of drifting around a corner on skates. Picking his line is less familiar to him, Bitty supposes it’s not something that really comes up all that often in hockey.
“You just have to visualize it and stay on it,” Bitty says, “It’s really not that hard.”
“For you maybe, you do this for a living.”
“They do not have big enough prizes that this is all I do for a living,” Bitty snorts.
“Oh,” Jack says.
“Okay,” Bitty says, “Picture it like,” he puts one hand on Jack’s waist. He feels Jack stand up straighter, not pulling away, but startled, Bitty keeps his hand there anyway, “You’ve got a rope tied around your waist,” he puts his other hand on the other side of Jack’s waist, moves his hands over Jack’s abdomen until they’ve met in the middle and then he takes a step backwards, holds his hands as if he’s holding the imaginary rope, “And it’s tied to the finish line, right in the middle. And it’s tight, it never gets loose, if you stay right in the centre of the course, it’s perfectly taut.”
“But the corners,” Jack says, “Shouldn’t you go up the inside.”
“Learn the basics first, and then maybe you’ll be good enough to get competitive.”
Bitty sees that fire again, he thinks he can learn how to feed it. Jack does a few runs of one section of the course. A section without any jumps, Bitty won’t risk that.
“It’s getting late,” he says after a minute, “I need to get the footage before it gets dark.”
“Right,” Jack says, “Yeah, I shouldn’t keep you. Do you mind if I watch?”
Bitty smiles to himself, it’s softer than he means for it to be. He’s not here to be soft with Jack Zimmermann.
“I’m not the boss of you,” Bitty says, trying to muster up some snark.
He deliberately does not think of Jack Zimmermann as he switches on the GoPro and stands at the starting line. He’ll film a vlog, parts of it for his own channel, parts of it to go to a social media coordinator. That can wait until tomorrow. For now it’s just him and his skates. It’s quiet, the sun is setting and twilight is settling over the lot. Bitty closes his eyes. There’s no signal to cue him to start, so he just goes. Launches himself forward over the jump. The start is crucial, more important than any other part in his humble opinion, and his starts are something to behold. He’s won races on the first stride of a perfect start. The sound of his skates digging through the ice as he rounds a corner, the feeling of his body engaging, bending his knees as he goes over the bumps. The way his heart pounds, adrenaline and exertion at the same time. He crosses the finish line, sliding on his knees, mostly for the benefit of the camera, but maybe a little bit of practice for his finish tomorrow night.
“Do you always celly when you practice?”
Fuck. Zimmermann’s still here. He blacks everything else out when he’s on the course, Zimmermann had disappeared from his mind almost entirely.
“Of course you say celly ,” Bitty rolls his eyes.
“What you never played hockey?” Jack asks.
Bitty sneers, “You think I could do this,” he gestures to the hockey skates on his feet, “if I never played hockey. No, no, I played hockey. I just don’t like it.”
Jack never takes the bait, not even as Bitty insults his favourite sport, does he snap back. He’s measured and calm and Bitty thinks maybe he was wrong about how to feed the fire in his eyes.
“That’s understandable. I mean if this is what you’re into instead. Hockey might not be the sport for you.”
“Wasn’t so much hockey,” Bitty says, “Hockey players mostly.”
“That’s fair too,” Jack nods.
“You’re hockey players,” Bitty points out.
Jack shrugs and Bitty finds it equal measures endearing and annoying.
“Can’t hate me that much if you let me crash your practice time.”
Bitty wonders, for what will not be the first time, if Jack Zimmermann knows he’s being smooth, or it he just says shit like that because it’s what he thinks.
“Maybe you have a point, Zimmermann.”
“You can call me Jack,” Jack says.
“I’ll think about it,” Bitty says.
He’s leaning over the boards, swings one leg over, then the other so he’s perched on them. This might be the longest conversation he’s had with a hockey player since college, certainly the longest he’s gone talking to a hockey player without being called some variation of gay.
“We should probably get out of here,” Bitty says, “There’s definitely security.”
Jack laughs, “You’re not famous enough in… the Crashed Ice scene to tell them to leave?”
Bitty shakes his head, “That’s not really a thing. Sometimes I feel more like a billboard than an athlete.”
He pulls his skate guards out of his pocket, snaps them over the blades and jumps onto the rubber mats that surround the course. He finds his bag in the now empty hospitality tent. He wasn’t sure if Jack was going to follow him, but he did. Like someone not sure where he’s supposed to be, unsure of where to go next or how to proceed. Maybe it’s Bitty’s job to tell him. He feels the adrenaline rush that he spends most of his life chasing at the thought of it. At this towering professional athlete, this stoic, hockey robot of a man, following him, Eric Bittle around. They’re on his turf (ice?) right now, and Bitty feels in control, it’s electric, he likes it.
“What are you doing tonight?” Bitty asks, careful not to sound too expectant.
“Not much,” Jack says, and it’s dimly lit so Bitty’s not sure but he thinks Jack bites his bottom lip, just for a second, “Usually stay in.”
“Well,” Bitty says, “If you feel like going out. We’re doing a club night. You could come. I’ll text you the address.”
“Club night?” Jack asks.
“You know, bottle service, private booths, dancing, you do know how to dance, right?”
“I’m a quick learner,” Jack says.
Bitty doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be a joke, so he just pulls his hoodie on and grabs his bag off the ground and slings it over his shoulder. He texts Jack the address right then and there. He doesn’t say goodbye, just returns the soft wave that Jack gives him as they head for their respective cars. Jack’s is a pickup truck, Bitty’s is a rental.
He showers and he gets dressed, by now he knows exactly what to wear to this kind of thing. He has tight black jeans and a metallic silver shirt. It’s out there, and he knows it, “out there” is kind of his thing. He rolls up the sleeves, pops a button for a little extra danger and he takes a shot from the minibar before he calls his uber. He’ll meet friends there, if he doesn’t already know people, he’ll make friends. Bitty makes friends easily, wherever he goes. There’s always someone who he can convince to spend the night dancing with him, always someone he can go to bed with even if it’s harder to find someone he can wake up with the next morning. Just before he leaves, he grabs a hat off the dresser. His hair’s been misbehaving, and he can rock the fratty look if he has to. It’s a black cap, with the Red Bull logo, also in gold. It’s subtle, and that’s why he likes it. He puts it on backwards before he heads down to the lobby.
It’s loud, and that’s how Bitty likes it, it’s easier to make friends when you can only half hear each other. There are PR people with their phones, getting content for the weekend, careful not to show anything too risky. There are other athletes, some of them here for Crashed Ice as competitors, others here just to watch. Bitty knows one of them, a snowboarder with bright green box braids and a Swiss accent. She’s sitting in the booth already, scoots over to make room for Bitty and hands him a drink without him even having to ask.
“Liking the shirt,” she says.
“Oh good,” Bitty says, “I thought it was nice.”
“Trying to impress someone?” She asks, a raised eyebrow.
“Trying to impress everyone, honey,” he winks, she rolls her eyes like only a friend can.
He does jagerbombs with the snowboarder and a pair of BMX riders. Jagerbombs, at this point, are almost mandatory at this kind of thing. All this is to say, Bitty’s drunk when Jack arrives, pleasantly buzzing as he hesitantly walks into the club. He’s dressed exactly how Bitty would expect. Slacks and a white dress shirt. The most interesting thing he’s wearing is a watch. Bitty’s considerably less sober than he had been when they first met, though. So now, when he sees Jack Zimmermann, his first instinct is something along the lines of Touch, or maybe Kiss, mixed with just a little bit of Bite. All of which are bad ideas. Jack Zimmermann is considerably more famous in certain circles than he is, he is not someone Bitty imagines he’d get along with, and he is notably, straight as far as Eric Bittle knows.
But Jack’s making a beeline to him and if Jack’s off limits, someone forgot to tell his racing heart and his twisting stomach.
“Eric, I made it,” Jack says, almost too proud.
“Glad to see it, sugar,” Bitty says, “Bar’s over there, get yourself a drink.”
Jack follows instructions like he has no option not to. Bitty doesn’t follow him and that casts a confused look on Jack’s face, but he heads to the bar anyway. Bitty returns to the booth. His snowboarding friend is gone, replaced with one of the BMX racers and Braeden, another Crashed Ice guy. He doesn’t talk to them. He watches Jack make his way through the crowd, watches him politely signal the bartender and wait his turn.
Eric Bittle wants to say that he has Jack Zimmermann figured out, but in reality, he hasn’t got a fucking clue.
“This isn’t really my scene,” Jack shouts over the music as he sits down next to Bitty.
“I can tell!” Bitty shouts back.
Jack blushes, he says something else, covered by the music entirely.
“What?”
“I said… guess I’ve been getting out of my comfort zone a lot with you today, eh?”
Bitty nods, “and how are you liking it?”
Jack thinks for a second, and then he nods, “It’s alright.”
Bitty can’t remember where his own comfort zone is. There’s something electric about watching Jack take bigger and bigger steps toward discomfort.
“I’ll take you skydiving next time,” Bitty says and surprises himself with the ease at which he pictures a next time.
“Might have to work our way up to that one, bud,” Jack says.
He takes a big sip of his drink, a beer, because… hockey player.
“We should dance,” Bitty says.
“Um,” Jack says.
“Scared of the dance floor, Mr. Zimmermann?”
So Jack gets up, goaded by Bitty, and Bitty grabs him by the arm, pulls him to where other people are dancing. It’s club music, so Bitty doesn’t know what song it is, just that it has a lot of bass, just that there are strobe lights and confetti and so many cans of redbull, so many of the hats that they give out to their athletes.
Jack stands with his hands at his side, not sure what to do with his body. So Bitty takes control, he grabs both of Jack’s hands, puts them on his own hips. It’s bold, he knows it is, but Eric Bittle doesn’t do subtlety anymore, he doesn't do caution. Jack keeps his hands there, let’s himself be pulled forward, lets Bitty move to the music, moves with him, looks down at Bitty.
“I like the hat,” Jack says.
“Aw this ol’ thing?” Bitty asks.
Jack laughs, he plucks it off of Bitty’s head to examine it.
“Woah, careful with that mister,” Bitty says.
“Or what, you’ll be in trouble.”
“Quite literally, yes,” Bitty says, “They only want their athletes and partners to have the clothes, so it can stay exclusive ,” he puts emphasis on the last word, a smirk on his lips.
“Oh well then,” Jack says, smooths Bitty’s hair, puts the hat back on his head, “You should take good care of it.”
Bitty’s scalp actually tingles as Jack makes contact with it and he leans in as he puts the hat back on his head.
“I’m very careful,” Bitty says.
Jack looks at him like he didn’t quite hear what he said, the gap between songs long enough for them to talk about the hat, but not much else. Bitty looks up at him, gives him the wide-eyed look that’s worked on so many boys before, boys who were distinctly playing hard to get, boys who were more of a challenge than Jack Zimmermann. Bitty wants the thrill, he wants the chase, he wants the feeling that he’s doing something just a little bit dangerous. He wants it all the time, he wants it even as he looks up at Jack Zimmermann. Jack looks down at him, and Bitty can get behind that height difference, he’s climbed mountains, he can climb Jack Zimmermann.
Jack Zimmerman doesn’t seem to be in on the thrill of it all, not motivated by adrenaline. Still, he pulls Bitty by the hips, closer to him so that their bodies are pressed together. Jack smells like expensive cologne. Jack’s not a dancer, but he keeps his hands on Bitty, moves with him at the right time. Bitty turns so that his back is pressed to Jack’s chest, more importantly so that his ass is pressed to Jack’s crotch. Jack grabs one of his hands, puts his other hand on Bitty’s hip. He feels Jack groan behind him, and Bitty smiles to himself. It’s not dancing anymore, they’re moving their bodies together, Bitty wants to chase Jack, but chasing Jack would require Jack to be unattainable and right now the hard outline of his dick is pressing against Bitty’s back as he holds him close.
A slow song comes on and Jack puts his hands on Bitty’s shoulder, turns him around so that they’re face to face again. Jack’s face is red, Bitty’s sure that his looks the same. They’re surrounded by sweaty people, they’re drunk and horny and he’s sure Jack is just a little bit sheepish about the whole thing.
Bitty bites down on his lip, he looks up at Jack, Jack’s looking down at him. It’s a risk. Bitty loves risk, Jack seems… decidedly risk-neutral.
“I think you should kiss me,” Bitty says, he gets on the tips of his toes and whispers it right into Jack’s ears.
“What?” Jack says.
God, repeating yourself makes everything way less sexy. Then Bitty watches Jack’s eyes go wide as he seems to process what Bitty’s just said to him, he looks at Bitty’s face, eyes lingering on his lips and as another song starts to play, this one louder and faster, he puts both hands on either side of Bitty’s face and pulls him up for a kiss. Bitty, startled at first, leans into it, chases Jack’s lips with his own once the initial shock of Jack just going for it wears off.
Jack’s lips are dry, so are Bitty’s. Bitty licks his lips the first time they pull apart, they look each other in the eyes, both silently agreeing that they’re going to keep kissing, a slight nod of both of their heads as Bitty drapes both of his arms over Jack’s shoulders and covers Jack’s mouth with his own. He has one leg between Jack’s as close to him as possible, feels the warmth of his body surrounding him, skin sticky with sweat pressed against his. They kiss until they’re out of breath, tripping over each other’s tongues, panting into each other’s mouth. Jack has one hand on the small of Bitty’s back, one travelling lower to grab his ass. Bitty’s teeth scrape against Jack’s bottom lip and Jack moans right there in the middle of the dance floor. Bitty smirks, licking the spot he's just bit at the same time. Jack pulls away.
“Can we get some air?” he asks.
Bitty nods, “Follow me, sweetheart.”
He leads Jack through the club like he knows where he’s going, eventually finds a side door and they step outside into an alley. The December air is cold, but Bitty has a coat shaped like vodka and Jack seems to run hot naturally.
“Shit, you’re hot,” Jack says, running a hand through his hair.
Bitty leans, back hitting the brick wall and before he can answer, Jack’s boxing him in, arms on either side of his head, leaning down to hit him with another bruising kiss, Bitty arches into it. He prefers to do his communicating with his actions anyway. Jack’s hand reaches around again, grabs Bitty’s ass, tries to pull him closer. Bitty gets a hand on the front of Jack’s jeans, rubbing him through his pants. Jack has to stop kissing him as he groans, presses his head to the brick wall next to Bitty’s face.
“Let me call us an uber,” Bitty says, “You’re gorgeous but I’m not gonna blow you in an alley.”
Jack audibly gulps at the mere suggestion of it. Bitty can admit that it sounds hot, but he’s picked gravel out of his knees before and he’s not eager for a repeat. Besides, he wants to get out of here anyway, he’s had enough fun at this party, gotten pretty much what he wants.
“Is that a good idea?” Jack asks.
“Backing out now?” Bitty raises an eyebrow, “Nothin’ wrong with that, but you were just humping my leg back there so I kind of assumed you wanted to take things further.”
Jack nods, “I do, just euh. How much have you had to drink?”
“Enough to have fun, not so much that I’m doin’ anything I wouldn’t want to do sober.”
“Good,” Jack says, “Good, me too.”
Bitty presses a kiss to Jack’s neck and he can’t wait to decorate that smooth expanse of skin later on.
Jack doesn’t keep his hands off of Bitty while they wait for the Uber, he has a hand in Bitty’s back pocket, leaning into his space, pressing gently kisses to the back of Bitty’s head, on top of his hat, crouching down to flutter his lips over the back of his neck.
“Nice room,” Jack says after Bitty pushes open the hotel door, pulls Jack in by the wrist.
“Oh thank you,” Bitty says, “Left the laundry on the floor myself.”
Jack chuckles. Bitty doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t know why Jack’s trying to make polite conversation, they both know why they’re here. Boys like to throw Bitty against the bed, they like to take him apart, and Bitty likes the challenge, he likes to make them think they’re in charge. Jack’s not taking charge though, he’s standing there, he kicks his shoes off, and he doesn’t do anything more. Bitty can work with this, Bitty can make it work.
He grabs Jack by the wrist, puts both of Jack’s hands on his own hips, Jack moves, pliant, Bitty pulls him forward, and he sees the fire behind his eyes again. He captures Jack’s lips in a kiss, Jack kisses back. Bitty sighs happily, he wants to speed things up, he always does, he craves intensity.
“Good kisser,” he says and it slips out before he means it to, but when he looks up at Jack he sees that fire in his eyes, and oh, okay, that’s something.
Bitty gets onto his tiptoes again, presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek, puts both hands behind his neck, drags his fingernails through the hair at the nape of his neck and relishes in the way Jack shudders.
“I wanna see what else you’re good at,” he says, hand sliding from Jack’s neck over his chest before grabbing him by the belt loop and tugging him towards the unmade bed.
Jack nods, his eyes are wide, he looks determined.
Bitty sits down on the edge of the bed, and he doesn’t give Jack another instruction, Jack just sinks to his knees in between Bitty’s legs. Bitty caresses the side of Jack’s face and there’s a little part of his brain that’s sounding alarm bells because this is far too tender.
“Eric,” Jack says softly.
“You can call me Bitty, I only ever get called Eric when I’m in trouble.”
“Bitty,” Jack corrects himself, “Can I?” he asks, nudging at Bitty’s clothed thigh with his cheek.
“Are you asking as if the answer could ever be no,” it’s supposed to be teasing, but god it comes out so soft.
“Is that a yes?”
“God, yes,” Bitty says and he pops the top button of his jeans, tugs at his fly and works himself out of his pants. Jack, from his seated position, tugs them off and sets them next to him.
Jack settle between Bitty’s legs, nuzzles at the fabric of his briefs with his nose and then Bitty feels wet heat surrounding his dick, Jack’s not doing much more than mouthing at him through his underwear, but it feels amazing. He gets a hand in Jack’s hair and Jack groans as Bitty scratches at his scalp, tugging just a little bit.
“Fuck,” Bitty says, breathy, “Good,” he says, and he looks down, Jack’s looking up at him and Bitty knows now that this is how he feeds the fire. He wonders how big he can make it, how much he can feed it before it burns him.
Jack pulls Bitty’s briefs off, Bitty scoots forward to help him. Jack gets one hand wrapped around the base of Bitty’s cock, the other presses into Bitty’s thigh. Jack swallows him down whole without any warning and Bitty lets out a long, loud groan.
“Holy shit,” he says, and this is not what he expected Jack Zimmermann to be like in bed. For one thing, he didn’t expect Jack Zimmermann to be in bed with anyone other than a pretty blonde underwear model. But besides that, he didn’t expect him to get on his knees, didn’t expect him to choke himself on Bitty’s dick at the first chance he gets.
Jack makes little choking noises, but it doesn’t slow him down, if anything, it’s like he gets off on it. Bitty’s hand, tangled in Jack’s hair now, tugging and twisting, doesn’t push.
“That’s so good, sweetheart,” Bitty says, loosens his grip on Jack’s hair, runs gente fingers through it.
Jack does something with his tongue, flattens it as he runs it up the underside of Bitty’s dick and it’s a testament to his own core strength that he doesn’t just jerk his hips forward.
“Okay that’s enough,” Bitty finally says.
Jack pulls off, looks up at Bitty, disappointed, he looks almost hurt.
Bitty puts a finger under his chin, tilts his face so that he’s looking up at him, cups his cheek and runs his thumb over his cheekbone.
“You did good, honey,” Bitty says, “Too good,” he laughs, “I bet you’d fuck me good too, I don’t wanna come before I get to find out.”
Jack nods, open mouthed wordlessly, Bitty grabs him by the shirt collar, hauls him awkwardly onto the bed and kisses him, undoing his shirt button by button at the same time. Jack gets the memo, undoes his own shirt just as quickly, both of them casting them aside. He knocks the hat off of his head, lets it fall to the ground in the pile of their clothes. He runs his hand through his hair while Jack kisses his neck, nips at the skin, then runs his tongue over the mark.
“Shit,” Bitty says, as he realizes that condoms and lube are in his toiletries bag, all the way in the bathroom.
“Take your pants off, I’ll be right back,” he says.
Jack nods, and Bitty hears him fumbling with his belt as he gets up. It’s an act of discipline not to run to the bathroom. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks as desperate as he feels, tries to get his wild eyes under control before he snatches the lube and a roll of condoms out of the toiletries bag.
Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed when Bitty gets back. He throws the condoms and the lube onto the bed and then he throws himself at Jack, knocking him onto his back, rolling his hips against Jack’s, working their mouths together. Jack has one hand on each of Bitty’s ass cheeks, squeezes, and then groans.
“So good,” Bitty whispers against Jack’s lips, “Want you,” he groans.
Jack nods, Bitty feels Jack’s hand moving searching for something. He hears the click of the lube bottle. He’s pressed against Jack’s body, laying on top of him, breathing into his mouth when he feels the first press of a finger against his hole. He gasps. He usually preps himself, and it’s hardly ever part of the foreplay, hardly ever this involved. But it feels so good to have his body draped over Jack’s while Jack pushes the first finger in, testing the waters, getting in past the first knuckle. He feels so warm, so relaxed, keeps kissing Jack’s lips, no tact to it anymore.
“More,” Bitty says, “Want more.”
Jack obliges, sliding a second finger in alongside the first. He starts to curl his fingers and Bitty buries his face in Jack’s shoulder, biting down on flesh.
“I’m ready,” Bitty says, significantly earlier than he should, but it’s fine, he’s an athlete, he can handle the burn.
He pulls his head back, props himself up on his elbows and looks at Jack, their eyes meet and Bitty sees the fire, raging, fed, blazing behind Jack’s eyes.
“Let me ride you,” he says.
Jack nods, he’s already flat on his back so the only thing they have to do is reach for a condom. Bitty does it himself, tears it open and rolls it over Jack’s dick. He lines Jack up and sinks down, it’s too fast, not fast enough, it’s too much, not enough. He’s so full, feels like something’s been knocked out of him.
Bitty smooths Jack’s hair off of his forehead, runs his fingers through it, rolls his hips experimentally. Jack groans, Bitty groans too. He can see Jack’s face perfectly like this, vulnerable, wanting, eyes open, staring right at Bitty.
“That’s perfect,” Bitty says, “God, that feels so good, you feel so good.”
And then he looks down, looks at Jack, and Jack looks at him and their eyes meet and Bitty feels something that he hasn’t in a while. He’s out of his comfort zone. Not to say that he doesn’t want to be having sex with Jack Zimmermann, because that’s all he wants to be doing right about now, but it got real. He can see Jack, he can see the way Jack’s looking at him, he can see the way that he looks at Jack reflected back to him in Jack’s eyes.
He puts a hand on Jack’s chest, leans forward, Jack’s dick slips out of him and he rolls over, Jack looks at him quizzically.
“Is it okay?”
“You’re doing so well,” Bitty says, because he still wants to feed that fire, still wants to see if he can get burned, “From behind,” he says, and he gets onto his hands and knees. Jack nods, understands the instructions. He knees behind Bitty, drapes his body over his back, presses a kiss to his neck and Bitty feels so surrounded, he wishes it didn’t feel as good as it does.
Jack puts one hand on Bitty’s back, the other holds his hips steady, and he slides in easily.
“Yes,” Bitty hisses, “Right there,” he says and Jack takes an experimental first thrust, “Hard and fast, sweetheart,” he says, “So good.”
Jack hasn’t failed to follow an instruction yet, and this is no exception, because he braces one hand against the headboard for leverage, pulls out and pushes back in with enough force to make Bitty cry out in pleasure. It only takes a few thrusts for him to nail the angle, hard, deep, fast, Bitty’s mouth falls open in a silent sob.
“Good, you’re so good,” he manages to choke out. Jack’s hand is so gentle on his back. When he pushes Bitty’s face into the pillow it doesn’t feel aggressive, it feels comforting, soft, like Jack wants his elbows to get a break.
Bitty can’t remember the last time someone else has made him come untouched, but he can feel it unravelling in his stomach, he can feel the tension coming so close to breaking.
“You’re good too,” Jack says in a low, gruff voice.
Bitty lurches forward, eyes falling shut, a long moan muffled by the pillow as he comes. It’s long and it’s intense and Bitty wishes it would last forever. If he was more reckless he would have told Jack to ditch the condom, to come inside of him, but he’s not stupid, he won’t take those kind of risks. Instead, he reaches back, puts his hand on Jack’s hip, keeps him inside of him.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, “Keep going.”
“Are you sure?” Jack asks.
“Yes,” Bitty pants. It’s starting to get uncomfortable, almost painful, but he wants this, wants to be fucked by Jack Zimmermann for as long as Jack Zimmermann can fuck him.
It turns out, Jack Zimmermann can fuck him for a while. Bitty almost falls asleep, drifting off while Jack’s hips are still working furiously behind him. He’s blissed out, relaxed, let’s himself close his eyes and focus on the sensations, let moans fall from his mouth, the word good sounds more like a noise by now. Jack keeps nailing his prostate and that keeps Bitty from passing out entirely. He comes for a second time, less intense, more like he’s floating through the sky.
Jack’s thrusts slow before they get erratic, he has to be tired by now, just as Bitty’s thinking about offering to suck Jack off, Jack buries himself one last time and with a soft moan fills the condom. He stays there for a second, draped over Bitty’s back, before he pulls out and rolls over. He ties off the condom and Bitty’s not sure where it ends up, that’s a problem for a future version of himself to deal with tomorrow.
He rolls over, eyes closed, tucks himself against Jack’s chest, tangles both hands in his hair and kisses him softly on the lips. Soft. He doesn’t do soft. He does smooth, he does hard, he does rough edges and blunt words. Eric Bittle lights fires in other people, he feeds them to push, to see how far he can go before he gets burned. He has no idea what to do when he feeds a fire that grows and grows, but only ends up keeping him warm.
He wakes up the next morning, Jack Zimmermann is gone. It’s nearly afternoon. Bitty rubs his eyes. The room smells like sex and he’s sticky and crusty and the first thing he does is get in the shower. He takes his time getting dressed, just some sweats and a hoodie. He looks for the hat he was wearing last night, but he must have put it somewhere dumb because he ends up having to settle for the red, yellow and blue pom-pom beanie that they gave to all the Crashed Ice participants this year.
He checks his social media. His last vlog is doing well, he has a handful of new followers on Twitter, his Instagram story got a few flame emoji reactions. He scrolls through his twitter timeline. He didn’t realize he was following the Falcs, but he must be, because when he refreshes, there’s a video from them at the top of his feed.
Morning Skate Media Availability: Jack Zimmermann.
Bitty clicks on the video. It’s just Jack, he’s answering the standard questions, he’s just talking hockey. Bitty sees the hat before he sees anything else. It’s his hat, he recognizes it. Fuck, he hopes no one else does. Jack Zimmermann is not a Red Bull athlete, he has no way of getting one of those hats… unless… well unless he got dressed in the dark in the hotel room of someone who happens to be a Red Bull athlete.
Why is Zimmermann wearing your hat?
A text from someone in PR. He groans. One really good hookup might be about to turn into one really big pain in the ass.
Hey it’s Jack
What time does your heat start?
For the competition tonight?
I should return your hat
Maybe we could get drinks or something after, I’ll buy
Fuck.
Bitty smacks himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. Fuck. The way Jack had looked at him, the way he’d looked at Jack.
Bitty realizes with a sudden clarity, that he’s afraid of whatever this is. The way he pushes limits doesn’t feel like this. This risk is different, it’s new and uncomfortable.
So what do you say?
Bitty takes a deep breath. He has a wire loose in his head, but his Mama never said anything about sparks being anywhere else. What about his heart? He’s never tried to find out.
Yes
To both.
See you tonight.