Hi, I'm Chelsea and this is my Check, Please! sideblog :) I follow from my main (@adventuring-introvert). Come talk to me about Gay Hockey Hell! Icon from @jlzimmermann header from @chowder-chow
Been thinking a lot about rookie Dex living with Capt Shane Hollander when he gets drafted by the metros because mentally he’s still a broke college student who just got offered free housing and he’s not gonna say no. And the usual suspects that offer to take in rookies are having babies or having their house remodeled so they can’t do it, and Shane feels bad because he’s Capt and he’s never housed a rookie before and that’s what captains do so he says yes. And now Shane and Ilya have to figure out how to see each other now that someone is literally in the house. Shenanigans ensue. All the while, Will is oblivious because he’s coming to terms with the fact that he’s in love with Derek who was drafted by the admirals.
turns this is claude giroux being very good at avoiding pucks and not, as i initially thought, claude giroux being VERY bad at stopping even just one of them
(Hey, look! That Zimbits AU where Jack goes into PR after retiring from the NHL and NHL!Bitty comes looking for advice about coming out!)
“Your ten-o-clock, remember?” April gestures to the conference room with her pen. “The cutie the Hurricanes coughed up for Pride Night outreach? He’s here.”
Jack tugs down the blinds with a cautious finger and zeroes in on the handsome blonde sitting awkwardly at one end of their large conference table, conspicuously alone. “There’s always suits for outreach talks,” Jack hazards, looking back at his receptionist over his shoulder. “They never send players alone.”
“It’s what we’ve got on the books. Eric Bittle, Carolina Hurricanes. No plus ones.” April whispers, checking her calendar. “Well? Get in there, Boss; and buckle up, he’s got an accent.”
.
Eric Bittle looks up, his dark brown eyes wide and unfairly attractive as Jack extends his hand, Bittle rising to take it. Everything about Bittle is polished and perfected; suit tailored, hair coiffed so neatly Jack would posit he’d gone in to have it trimmed before he’d arrived this morning. He’s pulled together so tightly, in fact, that Jack can’t find any loose threads, and if he remembers his time in The Show correctly, no loose threads means Mr. Bittle’s probably hiding something.
“Eric? I’m Jack Zimmermann. It’s great to meet you.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Bittle chuckles, and Jack’s heart would skip a beat if he wasn’t so certain there’s a huge piece of context still missing from this meeting. “It’s still very nice to meet you in person.”
“So, tell me about Pride Night,” Jack pops the button on his suit jacket and settles down across the table. “What, exactly are the ‘Canes thinking about doing that involves you coming to see us?”
Bittle bites his lip briefly, gaze darting off before coming back to settle on Jack, and Jack is reminded of so many media training sessions it’s like he’s back in Vegas again.
“I may have, ah, fudged the reason for my visit a bit. Yes, we have Pride Night coming up, yes I’m the designated sacrifice, but I’m more here on personal business.”
Jack eases the tip of his pen from the legal pad, recognizing an off-the-record admission is coming. “How personal?” He questions. “Are we talking potential legal trouble or just potential social trouble? Or no trouble at all.”
“I’m gay.” Bittle says plainly. “Whatever trouble that may be. My team knows it, my family knows it, and I want to come out — I need to come out — and I can’t mess it up.”
Jack is grateful for his game face, reaching for the coffee carafe near him to couch his surprise and no small measure of his excitement. “Oh, you mean like I did?” Jack jokes, earning a soft smile.
“No active player has come out since you retired,” Eric skirts Jack’s comment, taking the mug before gingerly amending, “Not voluntarily, at least. I’d like to break that streak. Given your experience, and what you do now, it seemed like the smart move to come speak with you.”
“Well, I’ll be the first to admit my behavior didn’t lend itself to much confidence with the public at large, but that’s why I’m where I am today. Making sure people like you can learn from my mistakes.”
“And you made a lot of mistakes,” Bittle murmurs, taking the mug from Jack gingerly, glances back out the window as he takes a sip, and Jack fights a smile when he realizes what’s happening.
“Are you . . . chirping me?”
“Makes me less nervous,” Bittle admits, apologetic. “But that was rude, I’m sorry.”
Bittle’s eyes are bright. His smile is bright. Everything about him is warm, inviting. Jack might be biased, though, he’s always had a soft spot for compact blondes.
“Don’t apologize.” Jack leans back in his chair, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. “You might be the only one in the whole league right now that doesn’t need to apologize.”
“I think I need to have a partner,” Eric clears his throat. “I can’t come out without a reason, otherwise what’s the point.”
“That answers one of my first questions, gives us a place to start. Yes, a boyfriend gets you points, but not in the way you’re thinking. If you come out with a guy on your arm, the story becomes maintaining the relationship, not that you have one or that you are ‘out’ at all. The scandal is the relationship falling apart, or you flirting with a fan when you have your partner at home, that kind of drama.”
“And if I just say, ‘hello, I am a homosexual’ people will think I’m promiscuous, or just trying to get laid.”
“Maybe. Are you?”
Bittle’s expression turns indignant, lips twisting into a judgmental frown that reminds Jack of his grandmother before a scolding.
“What kind of question is that? Yes, of course, but they don’t need to know that. But that doesn’t — You know, you gave me hope?”
Jack doesn’t quite startle, he’s well beyond the jumpyness of his youth, but he has no clue where this conversation is about to go.
“When you came out, when you were drafted, your cup season . . . every time you succeeded, beat the odds, it made me think, maybe, I could do it, too. I could be a professional athlete, I could play hockey, and it didn’t matter who I wanted to be with.”
Jack knows there’s a ‘but’ coming, he can feel it; so he gets there first.
“But . . . then I overdosed.”
“Then you retired.” Eric corrects. “Two years before I signed with Carolina, and you just gave up. I was going to be the first out NCAA men’s hockey captain, you ‘retired’ in scandal, and suddenly the trustees didn’t want the attention. Back to square one.”
“Eric, I wasn’t well.” Jack defends gently, knowing Bittle isn’t trying to be cruel.
“You let them get to you! You were supposed to be untouchable. I needed you to be untouchable.”
“Eric.”
“I’m sorry,” Bittle looks down at his hands, the table, anywhere but Jack. “I genuinely didn’t intend for any of this to come up so quickly, you’ve been nothing but charming and here I am dumping all my baggage on you like we’ve been talking for years . . . ”
“It’s actually alright. I’ve made peace with what happened to me, what I put myself through, and I wasn’t kidding that I’m very intent on making sure I can help others avoid the same pitfalls. So, what do you need from me right now?” Jack asks, genuinely curious. “An apology? A hug? You wouldn’t be the first to ask.”
“I want . . .” Bittle huffs, closing his eyes and evening his breathing. “I want dinner.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve loved the idea of you since I was sixteen, but now I actually need your advice on how to do this without losing my mind, and I can’t plan my future from a boardroom, so, I want you to take me to dinner. I want to hash this out like two normal, well functioning adult men. Also, maybe alcohol.”
“Speak for yourself on the well-functioning part,” Jack chirps himself, “but I think dinner can be arranged. I assure you, you’ll have my full support moving forward. The firm’s, as well.”
Bittle’s lips quirk, holding Jack’s gaze. He caught the slip, and now there’s nothing to do but own it. They lapse into a gentle silence. Jack sipping his coffee, Bittle doing the same. Jack isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, the puck is at the end of his stick. He flashes a smile. Bittle blushes.
“So,” Jack begins. “Do you like Burmese?”
____
They part ways and April’s eyes are huge with suspicion. “Should we discuss fees?” she asks. “Do we need to start billing? Sounds like it went well.”
“Nah, we’ll talk later about payment,” Jack replies, folding his jacket over his arm, hiding the slip of paper with Bittle’s personal number and trying not to stare as the forward walks away. “I have a strong feeling I might be handling this pro bono.”
most key thing to remember re: nurseydex is that that is NOT their best friend. bc for both of them their best friend is and always will be Chris ‘Chowder’ Chow, for whom they will not stop fighting but would commit truly any amount of murder. chowder is always and forever the unspoken third person in that relationship. that’s their goalie dude like that’s their favorite fucking guy!!!!
so i was brought back to the hazeapalooza blog post for an entirely different reason, but look!! i found the third instance to finally prove that holster 130% uses ransom’s first name whenever he is jealous
and a bonus, because really n, you’re not even trying to make this boy subtle
what if he doesn't even hate the pink ones. what if in lardo's frog year he offers lardo a pink one and her eyes light up and she tells him the pink ones are her favorites. and he doesn't know why but the way her face lights up makes him go "just take all the pink ones brah they're gross" without even Thinking. and he just watches her smile triumphantly as she picks out all the pink ones methodically for him and realizes he's in love.
JackHoltz AU they booked a couples cooking class on a whim and are still stubbornly going despite having been broken up for months because A. the instructor’s short & competent & therefore very hot so Jack’s into him and Holster’s a good wingman (ha) and B. there’s another guy taking the course, except his girlfriend has mysteriously stopped showing up, and Holster desperately wants to oh sorry accidentally brush fingers as they reach for the last bottle of olive oil
#exes who wingman each other is a very funny dynamic#Holster: hey I need some help over here my burner’s too warm#Bitty: oh! Okay let’s get that checked out#Holster: oh jk. It’s just Jack ;) but while you’re here you could check him out#Bitty (internally): are they. looking for another chef in the kitchen or—#meanwhile Jack: my ex wants to crack your eggs for you#Rans: is that an innuendo or ?#Jack: one would hope so
au where bitty and jack live on opposite sides of the street and bitty’s kitchen window gives in to jack’s kitchen window. bitty’s cute and always in his kitchen so jack finds excuses to be there as well at the same time and actually ends up developing his cooking skills.
jack has caught bitty’s eye too, and bitty bakes elaborate desserts every time and lets them cook by the window in order to impress jack, who must be a great cook by how long he spends in the kitchen. jack cannot tell a quiche from a pie.
plenty of "girl who looks cute wearing her boyfriend's clothes" content out there but not enough "guy who looks cute wearing his girlfriend's clothes" in my opinion. where's your commitment. where's your bisexuality.
‘this is my husband/boyfriend/partner etc.’ + NurseyDex
that's mine
nurseydex, alternating pov
.
Nursey goes flying. Headfirst into the goal, arms flailing, Will thinks he hears a yelp sort of flying. He only resists the urge to roll his eyes because Bitty’s looking right at him and he doesn’t want a lecture.
Still—when one of the assholes on the other team barks out a laugh and says, “Who was that, Bambi?”, Will can’t help but sigh.
“That’s my teammate, asshole,” he says, and cuts over to check him against the boards.
—
Derek misses the days that the frogs were wide-eyed and respectful in the Haus. These kids—he’s going to need some sense knocked into them soon. They’re loud, rowdy, and far too interested in integrating into the group by joining in on the teasing, which is a right they have not yet earned.
Like now, when they’re giggling to themselves and looking at him.
“So—” one of them starts, smirking, and never finishes.
“So,” Derek repeats, jerking his thumb at Dex, “that’s my roommate.”
The laughter grates on his nerves, but not as much as pretending he doesn’t care about sharing a room with Dex.
—
Nursey is … singing? Will thinks that’s what he’s trying to do at least, and he’s heard him sing almost every day in the shower so the warbling coming out of his mouth is surprising. He’s not saying Nursey is good by any means, but he can sound decent with the right song and this … this is not the right song.
He doubts the fact that all the words being slurred thanks to being absolutely trashed is helping.
Will stays at the bar until the song is done, resolutely facing away from the somewhat dimly-lit karaoke stage so he doesn’t get dragged into participating. Luckily—or not, considering Ransom and Holster seem to have disappeared so the drunken idiot is now his responsibility—Nursey doesn’t say anything when he comes crashing up to the bar except, “Tequila shots?”
Will can barely understand him, but the look on his face—the one that appears whenever Nursey thinks he’s had a particularly good idea—speaks volumes. “Water,” he says firmly, sliding a waiting pint glass over.
He really doesn’t understand whatever Nursey mumbles then, but he has more pressing problems, because his lap—previously empty of everything except his coat—is now occupied. “Jesus,” he mutters, trying to wiggle away. “Dude—Nursey—”
“S’comfy,” Nursey says, and Will tries once more to get him to move to his own seat with no avail.
The bartender, when she returns, gives Will a raised eyebrow. “He bothering you? I can get him out.”
Will sighs. “He’s a friend,” he says, and adds, “so he pretty much bothers me all the time.”
“Ya love me, pretty boy,” Nursey says. He starts to laugh—at what, Will has no clue—but it makes him wiggle in a way that Will isn’t sure he’s entirely comfortable with, and Nursey goes sliding to his own seat after another shove.
“Shut up and drink your water,” Will says, and motions to close their tab.
—
“That’s Jack,” Derek says, nudging his grandmother and pointing at the television, where Jack is leaning on the boards and chatting with the coach. “He’s on the Falconers.”
“I’m rooting for them,” she says, and tuts when Derek makes an aborted noise. “Hush, you don’t get to choose who I like. Is he a defender?”
Derek’s been playing hockey most of his life and every time he watches a game with his grandma it’s like she’s never heard of the sport before. “No, he’s not a defenseman,” he says. God help him, he’s never going to get through this game alive.
The shot switches to a close-up and she hums. “Handsome.”
Derek shrugs. Jack’s fine, he supposes. A bit too bland for him, nothing that really stands out, not like—”And that’s Dex—Will—over there, in the white. Will—he’s my—” he swallows a bit too hard.
“If you think I haven’t figured out you like men and women, Derek, we’re going to need to have a conversation regarding your assumptions about my intelligence.”
He wonders if God would actually strike him down if he prayed hard enough. “He’s my boyfriend, Gram,” he says, staring resolutely at the television.
She hums again. “That Jack is more handsome though, don’t you think?”
It’s going to be a long game.
—
Will’s trying to hide. Table at the back, hat still on and pulled down low, black hoodie and black jeans. Anything to make himself blend into the background, because he doesn’t want to be caught dead here.
He also doesn’t want to be involved in any conversations, not that the girls at the table next to him have picked up on that. He’d made two fatal errors: being cordial when one of them had said hello, and admitting he’s never been to an open-mic poetry night.
They haven’t stopped talking to him since.
“Okay, this guy—I’m not sure he’s your type, you know? Not that you aren’t like, super intelligent—I mean you’re here, right, so obviously—but he has a lot of heavy themes in his work if you really dig in and you really need to hear them a few times to peel back the layers. I’m hoping he reads the tree above the grave again, it’s—”
She cuts off, finally, when a cough sounds from the front and Derek begins to speak. There’s utter silence while he recites words that Will’s heard a hundred times over in various iterations, tweaked and stressed and polished until he could probably say them in his sleep, then an excited outburst of conversation among applaus when it’s over.
“Amazing, right?” she says, and keeps talking while Will nods. “Have you heard of him before?”
Will looks at her. “He’s the one I came for,” he answers honestly, grinning for the first time all night when he sees Derek making his way over. “He’s my husband.”
