“what the fuck, bittle?” jack says.
what the actual fuck is happening? he’d never thought— not coming from bittle — but there he is, helmet off, his blonde hair a mess, fists risen towards jack, his black gloves abandoned on the ice. the crowd is already on their feet, cheering away the fight.
“afraid of a little fight, zimmermann?” bittle asks, accent thick, a smirk on his face.
jack gapes. so… he doesn’t know if this is only bravado, to make-up for the fact that jack accidentally ran into their goalie, who had to leave the game. the kings have been trailing behind since then and jack knows, in theory, what bittle is trying to achieve. rile up his team. and jack also knows that a guy like bittle sticks up for his team, like the captain he was back at samwell. but he also knows more about bittle, some things that miraculously stayed between faber’s wall.
but he knows that tone. he knows a chirp from bittle when he hears one, and bittle has been checking player after player into the boards tonight like during any other game. unafraid to go shoulder-to-shoulder with jack. a piece of work, that winger, jack thinks, amused.
“get a move on,” the ref orders.
chaos in the crowd redoubles, and bittle’s smirk grows. it’s not like jack has to hit hard. or at all. he can get punched in the face once or twice, let bittle redesign the placement of his nose on his face, and call it a day.
bittle grins, but the expression is replaced a second away by one jack has seen a hundred times. this is bittle just before he un-molds a cake. bittle getting that temperature right for the frying oil. concentrated.
it happens faster than it ever has before. jack’s been in his fair share of fights, although not as many as others have. it’s easy to grab at bittle’s jersey, keep him at an arm’s length before swift knuckles graze the side of his face, his mouth. it stings, and jack tries to shove bittle’s face away. it’s not the strongest punch bittle can muster, jack knows, and he wants to laugh. this is all for show.
it seems less for show when bittle grabs his jersey and swings jack with surprising precision on the ice, at an angle where jack’s knees hit first, and his head not at all.
bittle’s fists in his jersey. their bodies slot, for a single second. and then two. there’s a wild strand of hair glued to bittle’s forehead, and his cheeks are pink, eyes blown wide. his knees, bracketing jack’s chest, hard, assertive, grounding, as bittle sits up.
the refs gets their hands on bittle, pull him off jack.
bittle lets them, without any resistance. “good fight, jack,” he says, with yet another smirk.
jack passes a hand over his lip. the skin is broken there, only slightly. “nice punch.”
“I learned from the best,” he lets slip out, with a wink directed at jack as he picks his helmet up.
there will be screenshots made, later on and reposted everywhere, of jack staring at him, as bittle skates away. shots of bittle’s face, too, and his little smile as he goes to the box. (not the wink. it could only be seen from one angle, as if bittle knew the placement of every single camera around the ice and creating a blind spot for them. he might have. the eye in the middle of the hurricane. just bittle, jack, and a wink.)
