Prompt: Retired NHL player Jack Zimmermann takes ownership of a sports bar in Pittsburgh and accidentally falls for the Penguins’ (closeted) new left winger.
A/N - just the start, I’d like to get around to more of this; the basic idea was an It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia AU, but I couldn’t manage to make everyone that terrible so Jack owns and operates a gay sports bar and starts crushing on one of his patrons.
“Can’t believe you’ve owned this place since ’89.” Jack coughs, waving the dust away from his face. “Did you ever come back after we moved home?”
It’d be disingenuous to say Jack had been expecting anything other than cigars and whiskey when his father had invited him on a trip down to Pittsburgh to see Mario and glad-hand some Penguins sponsors. In fact, he’d kind of been looking forward to sulking and getting shit-faced, not limping around a condemned building dodging roaches and rats.
“It was an investment opportunity. That was the trend back then, famous athletes buying up restaurants and clubs — I had big plans for this building. Then your mother got pregnant and I realized I didn’t really give two shits about running a nightclub.”
“Realized you were pretty lazy, huh?”
As Bob laughs, Jack picks at the peeling, lacquered bartop, trying not to imagine how many decades of grime he’s just collecting under his nail, the situation made even more disgusting in such close proximity to the glittering gold championship ring his father had insisted he wear to their lunch meeting with the Penguins front-office suits. Jack flicks the gunk away as Bob levels him with a weighty look, hands braced in the air as if outlining a play and not offering a tour of a cobweb-filled dive.
“Here’s my thought,” Bob says. “The bar. It’s yours.”
Jack leans against the counter, taking some weight off his braced leg, and asks, “What’s mine?”
“This place,” Bob gestures around the room. “The whole building. It’s just sitting here, empty, the bar, the liquor license, there’s apartments and office space upstairs, we’d just need to do some renovations and —“
Jack can’t help himself. He barks a laugh and says, “I’m not moving to Pittsburgh.”
“How many times have you and I talked about opening a sports bar? I’d wanted to get this place fixed up so it’d be ready when you retired, but since the final — you could make it a gay bar, even, if you wanted!” Bob says quickly, offering another awkward olive branch. “A gay sports bar. I wouldn’t care.”
“A gay sports bar. In Pittsburgh,” Jack echoes, reaching for a chirp to defend himself, but he closes him mouth as he realizes a sports bar run by a Zimmermann might not be a terrible investment idea. “The building needs a ton of work,” Jack settles. “I just saw a rat.”
“That was a mouse,” Bob dismisses, not bothering to look at the rat still clearly in view. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. Got a dollar?”
Jack pats his pockets, finds a spare looney and hands it over. Bob doesn’t hesitate, pulling an envelope out of his back pocket to exchange for the coin.
“Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of,” Bob looks around helplessly. “I actually don’t know what they call this place now. A Bar?”
“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” Jack swallows against the tightness in his throat, holding the deed carefully in his hands. “Thanks, Dad.”
Bob brings Jack in for a loose hug and they both ignore the soft squeaking coming from the backroom.
Five Years Later
There’s a man examining the announcement board in the vestibule, and Jack knows that posture: the forward hip cant, thick thighs, a small but definite bubble butt — guy’s a hockey player, and he has been for some time.
“Hey. Hi.”
Blondie spins around at Jack’s address. Not quite startled, but something close enough that Jack feels a twinge of guilt. “You interested in playing in our beer league? You look like you might know your way around a rink.”
The man quickly looks at his chest, as if expecting to find something displayed, but relaxes immediately. Jack fights a grin, he was once old hat at wandering into public spaces decked out in identifiable team merch.
“Bitty.” The man squares up to offer his hand; his accent is warm and distinctly southern, not at all what Jack was expecting. “You can call me Bitty.”
“Oh, with a nickname like that, you have to play, now, no excuses,” Jack gives Bitty’s arm a firm shake, surprised at how complementary his grip is; not just an overcompensating bro who’s walked into the wrong club.
“If only I had the time,” Bitty placates wryly. “Is this place new?”
“Been here a few years, but not long. How about you? Are you ‘new’? In town, I mean.”
“Moved for work,” Bitty’s smile is timid, eyes darting around the room looking for other patrons, up at the memorabilia and the various pennants. “First year. Slowly learning the area.”
Jack doesn’t miss the way Bitty’s eyes linger on the Pride flag draped from the second floor railing, but Bitty doesn’t mention it, and Jack isn’t in the business of prying.
“Let me be the first to welcome you to The Bar.”
“I saw that outside, do you not have a name?”
“We weren’t creative. The owner didn’t realize he was filling in the wrong line on the business license so we are literally called ‘The Bar’.”
“That’s actually pretty solid,” Bitty laughs, the sound lifting Jack’s mood easily. “I’ll have to make sure I come back and patron your establishment at a reasonable hour.”
“What you aren’t interested at getting sloshed before noon?”
Bitty laughs, and Jack is enough of an adult to recognize he’s got a tiny bit of a crush.
______
True to form, Bitty slowly becomes a feature of Jack’s early afternoons. The first few weeks, he does little more than quietly purchase a single domestic beer before tucking himself away in a corner booth, hunched over his phone, ball cap pulled low for discretion. Jack gives him space, and aside from a few curious regulars, Bitty is little more than another closeted young man seeking quiet sanctuary.
That is, until, hockey kicks up and Mario hooks Jack up with season tickets beside the bench. It’d taken time for Jack to get comfortable with being in an arena again, especially without the ability to step onto the ice himself, but he’s acclimated and learned to appreciate his new lot in life. He can be happy for his success and mourn the end of his career with equal measure.
(Doesn’t hurt he still gets asked for autographs on the regular.)
Bittle, the new forward traded out of Columbus, spins to whip the puck between Lundqvist’s thighs and the score is 3-2 with a minute left in the third. Jack stands to cheer with the crowd as Bittle’s pulled into a celly with his line mates, and the new angle gives Jack a good look at the man’s sunny face, complete with a familiar, bright smile and missing canine. Jack’s heart leaps into his throat when he realizes Bittle is ‘Bitty’, and Jack can’t help but cheer louder.
________
After the game, Jack does his homework. Pulls up stats pages and articles on Eric Bittle. Looking to link the quiet hottie from his bar with the energetic man he saw tonight on the ice. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he absolutely is after watching highlights from Bittle’s time in Columbus.
The next time Jack finds Bitty slipping into the bar, probably between practice and a good nap, Jack makes his move; filling a pint glass, wedging an orange slice on the rim, and adjusting his shirt before striding to the corner booth as easily as one can with a titanium femur.
“On the house,” Jack says, setting down the glass gently. “Choice goal, Tuesday. Great bounce.”
Bitty’s grateful smile falters, turning into something guarded.
“What goal?” Bitty asks, voice steady, and Jack’s immediately alerted to his misstep. Jack casts a careful eye around the room and doesn’t find anyone watching, kicking himself for not thinking this through. He’s used to playing this game with guys who aren’t quite comfortable, who might be visiting with the wrong people, but he hasn’t had to do the closeted-pro-athlete dance in a while.
“You know, I must have been mistaken.”
“Happens all the time. Very sweet of you, though.” Bitty apologizes and pushes away the beer, but Jack waves him off. It’s the least Jack can do for calling the guy out.
“I should have known,” Jack tries to recover. “You’ve still got all your chiclets. But, between you and me, Bittle’s a spitfire, eh? Crazy soft hands. I’d like to meet him someday.”
Jack whistles low, rapping his knuckles on the table before turning back to the bar, moving slowly enough he catches the way Bitty’s cheeks flare pink at the compliment.
About thirty minutes later, Jack, half focused on counting down the till, nearly misses Bitty’s exit. He looks up to offer a parting wave, and Bitty returns the gesture, flashing a shy, incomplete smile; one canine missing on the left side.
________
“Anything new to report? Sales look good, think you might be able to take some time off and visit your poor parents?”
Jack slides open a window to let some air into his bedroom, not for the first time wishing he’d taken the chance to tear out a wall and convert a corner of the top floor into a balcony. There’s still time — his father never seems to wary of giving Jack renovation loans — but Jack loves his condo and hates the idea of relocating again, even temporarily.
“New distillery opened, cut a deal on some local gin. We’re working on drink specials, if you have any ideas for names I’m open,” Jack eases onto the windowsill and looks down at the line of people waiting to get into the bar. “And I met someone. Think he might be a hockey player.”
“No shit? Beer-league?”
“NHL.” Jack corrects, an edge of caution in his tone he knows his father won’t misinterpret. “Started coming around a few months ago, gave me a fake name. Went to a game last week, scored right in front of me.”
“Well, you going to tell me who or am I going to have to guess?”
“He’s keeping to himself,” Jack holds the curtain steady to catch sight of a particularly flashy person in a glittering teal gown, texting Holster to snag a photo for the bar’s Instagram. “Don’t go hunting.”
“Well, if he needs any help you let me know.”
“What could you do?”
“I don’t know. Talk to . . . someone. I guess.”
“I’ll keep that under advisement.” Jack placates, smiling at the saucy photo Ransom texts back immediately of Holster lifting their favorite Drag Race runner-up above his head like something out of Dirty Dancing.
“So.”
“Mmm?”
“Does this mean you’ve got a little boyfriend, again?”
Jack leans out over the railing and tries to see if the universe has blessed him with a sighting of his favorite new Left Winger. Sadly, it’s Saturday evening and the Penguins are in Dallas, so no Eric tonight.
“Working on it.” Jack offers, rapping his knuckles lightly against the window sill and trying not to think about the way Bittle’s face lights up when he sees that Jack is working. “Think I might really have a shot at something.”
“Well, you know what Wayne always says.”
“I do,” Jack breathes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, taking in his one-of-a-kind view of the city. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Once he gets back.”
“ — You know, I’ve got the game on right now. I bet you $1000 I can tell who you’ve got the hots for. You have a specific type — ”
“Papa.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s the kid we just got from the Blue Jackets, isn’t it. Bittle? You always like the fast ones — ”
eric bittle/jack zimmermann, larissa duan/shitty knight
Jack Zimmermann is not impressed that part of the budget that year is going to a new class on baking. He's even less impressed with the bow-tie wearing, pie-baking southern sunshine of a man who isn't bothered by anything. But when Jack needs help regarding one of the players on their High School Hockey team, Jack is left with no other choice than to ask the other teacher for help. When Jack realises their pasts are not so dissimilar, he realises he might have been wrong about the other man all along.
one day (we’ll get this right) - a zimbits future!fic
Fifteen years ago, Jack was traded to Winnipeg for a first round draft pick; a move that cost him far more than the 'A' on his sweater when the distance proved too much for his partner to handle.
Now, Jack is two years into his new life as the Schooner's Assistant General Manager when a chance encounter at a public market gives Jack a chance to rebuild the life he was always meant to have with Eric Bittle.
