The bruise on Jack's jaw looks worse now, in the wan light of Bitty's bedside lamp. Bitty's gaze catches on it while Jack slides off the side of the bed and rubs a hand over it, rasping on fresh stubble.
"Are you sure you don't need anything? Some painkillers? I might even have scar cream for that lyin' around, if you want."
Jack's mouth twitches, but he shakes his head. "It's fine, Bittle. It doesn't hurt that bad."
"If you say so…" Bitty sits up when Jack steps into his underwear and drags them up his thick thighs. He's got some red marks around his hips, but they're faint enough that they should fade before attracting anyone's notice. "That hit was still nasty, Jack. Martin better pay for it next time you've got a game against the Isles."
"Ha. I'm sure Tater's already got it covered." Jack crouches to collect his discarded clothes from all over the floor. He's facing away from Bitty when he says: "Though we’re not playing them again until the middle of March."
They aren't playing the Rangers or the Devils until March, either; Bitty knows because he checked. That's two months without Jack coming up to New York. Without an excuse to see him.
Bitty tries to rein in his disappointment, and horribly fails.
It's quiet while Jack gets dressed. Bitty watches him from the bed, sheets pooled in his lap, hands fisted in the sheets. Jack pulls on his dress shirt and leaves it hanging open from his shoulders as he slips into his pants, pulls on his socks. His abs flex when he bends down to lace up his shoes.
"We're playing the Flyers in two weeks," he says apropos of nothing while he’s buttoning up his shirt. Bitty stares at the dark strip of hair on Jack’s broad chest, slowly disappearing under the fabric, then determinedly averts his eyes.
Jack's face is downturned, shadowed in the dim room, eyes on his hands wrapping his blue tie around his neck and adjusting it under the collar. "Philly’s two hours away. Probably less, that late at night."
Bitty's heart starts beating faster, but he valiantly keeps his expression neutral. "Probably."
"If you want…" Jack’s tone is unreadable. He tugs on the knot of his tie; Bitty itches to get up and bat his hands away, straighten the tie into place himself, but doesn’t dare move.
"Oh, I – if you’re sure!" Bitty bites his lip so hard it hurts. "That’s a heck of a drive after playing a game, though."
Jack puts his jacket on and finally looks up. He looks so sharp in the low light, so elegantly put-together in the tailored lines of his game day suit. It almost hurts to look at him. Only his mussed hair and flushed cheeks hint that he was naked and coming undone in Bitty’s bed only half an hour ago.
"It’s fine. I’ve got this BBC podcast I’ve been meaning to get to anyway." Jack swipes his keys and his wallet from Bitty’s dresser, then takes the step back towards the bed. "Or maybe I could listen to that playlist you made back in college. For before games. If those basses won’t keep me awake nothing will, eh?"
Bitty almost can’t believe Jack remembers that – although, it shouldn’t surprise him that Jack still remembers all of his past teammates’ pre-game rituals. "You, listening to Beyoncé and Sia for two hours? I don’t know, Jack. All that culture shock while drivin’ sounds pretty dangerous."
"Well, I do live for danger," Jack deadpans, and leans down to kiss the startled laugh off Bitty’s lips. Then he pats his pockets one last time, bids Bitty goodbye, and leaves.
Bitty lies down on his bed, still warm with their shared body heat, and tries to convince himself it doesn't mean anything when a boy is willing to drive two hours just for a booty call.
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