Alright, anon, you sent this three months ago and so BAD ME for taking this long (especially since I’ve had this idea for like 6 months) and it’s still not done all the way BUT, here it is:
5 Times Shitty Calls the Zimmermanns (& 1 Time They Call Him)
1. February, Freshman Year
It’s strange to think that Alicia Zimmermann used to be one of those people who kept her phone on silent. Not even on vibrate. Sure, the light would flash at her if she got a text or email but there were no alerts or ringtones or alarms. People were always surprised when she told them but, as she told the story often enough, at a certain level she found the beeping and the buzzing entirely too much. It was all she could do to get through ordering a coffee uninterrupted. And even when some of her friends in the fashion industry told her to just buy a second phone–one for work she could keep silent, one for her personal life–she had laughed. She had grown to hate her phone and buying a second seemed completely ridiculous. She would check her messages and emails when she had the time and if people needed her, well then they could just leave a message.
She and Bob had worked out a system. She knew he called her two hours before any game that he had and she called back (and expected to be answered) forty-five minutes after the game. Win or lose. He also called her before and after any plane travel and she liked to text during her lunch break and Jack never was much for talking on the phone but he knew to try Bob’s phone first and she knew that if he were going to call, it would be around 8PM.
That was before, though.
Now… Now Alicia keeps her sound on the highest setting at all times and even if they go to a show, she keeps it on vibrate and in a pocket where she can feel it because she needs to be near her phone, always, because if she’s not, she might miss the call, miss it like she missed the last one that something is wrong, that her life has changed, that Jack has–
She doesn’t think she will ever forgive herself, really, for missing the call from the hospital. And missing the first four from Bob. When she finally called him back (14 minutes after the first call came in), he had been panicking and Jack had been unconscious and both of them had needed her and she was 14 minutes late because she didn’t like being interrupted.
(She’s lucky it was only 14 minutes. She’s lucky she had wanted to look up that one guy’s name from His Gal Friday at that particular moment. Now, she can’t decide if she hates that movie or loves it.)
So as she sits across the counter from Bob, who is narrating his cooking as usual and her ringtone starts blaring from her purse, it’s no longer unusual. People do call her a lot. Bob goes quiet and Alicia glances at the screen (because her ringer is on but you better believe she screens) and its Jack.
It’s 8:45. A little after his usual window, but not too late.
“It’s Jack,” she tells Bob.
“Remind him we land on Wednesday,” Bob tells her, turning back to what she thinks is going to end up as soup at some point.
“Hey, Jack,” she says, nodding and lifting the phone to her ear. “How are–”
Bitty could not
believe he was sitting in the emergency room for something so stupid. After all
his years of pee-wee football, serious figure skating competition, and now NCAA hockey, he found himself in a chair,
cradling his hand to his chest and trying not to let anything touch his thumb, over
a video game. Darn Holster and his “a
Haus tournament will be fun!” like he didn’t know he lived with a group of
hyper-competitive athletes. There was a reason so many games were banned from
the Haus.
The worst part about
the wait, in Bitty’s opinion, other than the potentially broken thumb and all
that implied, was that he couldn’t scroll his phone comfortably. Did he really
deserve to be stuck in the emergency room and
deprived of comfortable access to Twitter? That really did seem like too much.
He hoped the guys would come back with dinner soon.
He’d just managed to
zone out watching the not-quite-prime time cable channel infotainment the
waiting room TV in view was tuned to, entertaining himself by trying to figure
out what the terrible closed captioning was actually meant to say, when someone
settled hesitantly into the chair next to him. He looked over and immediately
got caught in blue, blue eyes.
Sad blue eyes that
were starting to be surrounded by bruising on both sides, from what Bitty could
see around the compress the guy (the tall, dark-haired, well-built, annoyingly
handsome even while injured guy) was holding to his nose. “Oh, honey, what
happened to you?” slipped out before Bitty could stop himself.
And at that, the guy
added to all the color on his face by attempting to turn red as well. “Uh, it
was a babysitting accident.”
Bitty blinked at him
for a second and then pulled one leg up so he could turn sideways in his chair
and stare at the guy in amazement more fully. “A babysitting accident?”
“It wasn’t her fault!
I was the dragon and Princess rightly defeated me with her sword-wand. She just…
has more of an arm than I expected from a three-year-old.”
Bitty felt his eyes
widen at the image this conjured up and he gave the guy a lingering once-over
as he tried to imagine it in more detail… at which point he registered the
Falconers cap, the Falconers’ rainbow logo shirt from last year’s Pride parade,
and, yes, there they were, the atrocious yellow running shoes.
“Oh my god, you’re
Jack Zimmermann.”
The guy, Jack,
winced. He glanced down at Bitty’s hand and saw the phone. “Please don’t tell
anyone?”
Bitty hastily tucked
the phone in his pocket. “I swear. But why are you here? Don’t you have, like,” he waved his good hand vaguely before
the other hand twinged and he brought its support back, “trainers or someone?”
“Sure, but they’ve
got the night off like everyone else,” Jack pointed out reasonably. “The season
hasn’t actually started yet.”
“I guess that’s true,”
Bitty admitted. “My team’s trainers are gonna be pretty irked with me, too,
come practice on Monday.”
Jack, as much as was
possible around his ice pack, perked up at this. “Oh? What do you play?” Then
he added belatedly, “And what did you do?”
“Hockey. At Samwell.
And I think I broke my thumb. Video games. It was stupid.”
“Oh, my mother went
there,” Jack said, and then, a little wistfully, “I almost did.”
“Really?” Bitty asked
with interest. “What did you want to study?”
Jack looked so
startled at the question, Bitty immediately tried to backtrack.
“I mean, not that
that’s any of my business…”
“No, no,” Jack said
hurriedly. “It’s just… no one ever asks me questions that aren’t about hockey.”
Bitty resolved there
and then to fix that right away, and they spent the next hour talking about, of
all things, the history of rationing during WWII. He had no idea so much time
had passed until a nurse called his name for the second time and he startled so
badly it jostled his hand, reminding him of why he was there.
“It was real nice
talking to you, Jack!” he called over his shoulder with a wave.
***
It wasn’t until after
he got back to the Haus that he realized he’d never given Jack his name. “Nooooo!”
he moaned pathetically from where he’d flopped across his bed.
“No what?” Chowder
asked, popping across the hall. “Do you need a painkiller? I can get you some
water.”
Bitty waved his good
hand dramatically. “A painkiller won’t be able to help with this! I met—” He
stopped himself before he could break his promise to Jack about revealing his presence
in the emergency room and restarted his sentence. “I met a cute boy at the
hospital and I didn’t give him my number.” Which was rather understating the
case, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Chowder. Or anyone else. He let his
hand fall to the bed and let out a sigh of deep despair.
Chowder gave him an
encouraging pat on the knee. “Don’t give up! Maybe you’ll see him again!”
Bitty reviewed his
chances of ever running into a famous hockey star from a city almost an hour
away again. “I really, really doubt it.”
***
“Bittle, can you come
in here?” Coach Hall called from his office before Bitty could make it out to
the stands, where he’d been sitting next to Lardo for the past week, waiting
for his stupid thumb to heal.
“Yes, Coach?” Bitty
said, and then stopped short.
Jack Zimmermann was
in the coaches’ office. Jack. Zimmermann. Was in the Samwell hockey team’s
office. At Samwell University. In Samwell. Where Bitty was. Right now.
“I was wondering if
you might give Mr. Zimmermann here a tour of Faber. He’s making a donation to
the hockey program—”
“In my mother’s name,”
Jack broke in.
“—and since you’re
not allowed back on the ice yet, I thought you could take him around.”
“Oh, well, yes,
certainly, I’d be delighted,” Bitty managed, and mentally smacked himself for
babbling.
“Great!” Coach Hall
said, and picked up his clipboard. “Well, I’ve got to get out there, but I
leave you in good hands, Mr. Zimmermann.”
Bitty and Jack just stared
at each other as he left.
“Hi,” Jack managed.
He sounded nervous, and it snapped Bitty out of his own stunned silence.
“Hi,” Bitty echoed. “I…
I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. What’s all this about a donation?”
Jack shrugged
self-consciously, looking down at his feet with his hands in his pockets. “I
wanted to find you, and I knew you played at Samwell. I heard the nurse say
your name, but you hadn’t ever actually introduced yourself, and I didn’t want
to seem creepy.”
Bitty’s eyes widened
in surprise at the revelation Jack had wanted to see him again just as much as
Bitty had wanted to see Jack. He moved forward and took Jack’s elbow in his
good hand. This boy. “Well, Jack, you
certainly don’t do anything halfway, do you? C’mon and let me give you that
tour.”
This time Bitty was pretty sure Jack’s blush was
pleased. He grinned and didn’t let go of Jack’s arm for the entire tour. He made sure to show him the entire building, even the loading docks.
Thank you so much! One of the prompts I got when I was accepting them last month was a request for another part in that world, so hopefully I’ll get to that soonish. Trying to keep it between-the-scenes canon-compliant takes a lot of mental energy, especially as canon is ongoing, but it’s a fun exercise! I love having an excuse to make up other stuff about Samwell’s campus life.
“Hey Will?” Dex’s dad poked his head into the living room, where Dex laid on the couch, exhausted, after a day of working on the boat. “Would you come help me with the car?”
Dex heaved a great breath and pushed himself off the couch to follow his father to the garage. His dad’s car was there, the hood popped, exposing all the machinery inside. Dad settled over the engine and held out a hand. Dex gave him the tool he needed and waited for further orders.
“You know,” Dad said, adjusting something with a grunt. “Your grandma didn’t want me dating your ma, back when we got together.”
“Really?” In his twenty years of life, Dex’s maternal grandmother had never given any indication that she didn’t like Dad. Dex didn’t know how anyone could not like his dad. He was a funny, kind, and devoted guy, who was good for a laugh or a beer or a heart to heart. Everyone loved him.
Dad turned to offer Dex a cheeky grin. “She thought I was a bad influence,” he said, and held out the tool for Dex to exchange. He turned back to the engine. “Actually, lotsa people thought Kathy was too good for me. We ran in different circles, youknow. She was with the smart crowd, I was with the delinquents.” He chuckled at his past self, shaking his head a little. “Everyone said it was a bad match.”
Dex couldn’t really believe that. His parents had one of the best relationships he’d seen in his life. They came home every night from work, exhausted to the bone, and still smiled and spoke softly about their days over dinner, still kissed one another goodbye every morning with sleep-happy expressions on their face, still danced whenever a slow song came on and talked quietly with one another as if they were in their own little world. Dex’s parents were as in love today as they were when he was a kid, and likely since before Dex was even there to pay attention.
“No way,” Dex said, handing his dad another tool.
“Yes way,” Dad said, laughing a little, taking the tool and turning so Dex couldn’t really see his face. “But now anyone’ll tell you how good we are for each other.” A metallic noises echoed around the garage as Dad tinkered. “But, you know, that’s the thing about people. They don’t always have the right idea about things.”
Dex tried not to but he tensed. He thought of the Cup, the kiss, his parents’ faces when Dex got back home after visiting Providence, the things their shifting eyes said while their mouths were pursed, closed to him. Things had been strained throughout the whole family. The weekly barbecues found aunts tip-toeing around him, working daily with Uncle Finn had become a silent affair. No one said anything but Dex knew what they were thinking.
“Hand me that wrench?” Dad said, and Dex jolted to follow the order. Dad remained facing the engine and Dex couldn’t get a read on the conversation. “People say things about stuff, right, but they don’t always get it. Sometimes the only people who understand are the ones that are in it.”
“I–I guess.”
“Love’s one of those things, youknow. People don’t always get it but–” Dad straightened up and gave Dex a smile. “They way I figure it, if your mom had listened to those people saying our love was bad, we’d have missed out on one of the best things in our lives. Love’s too good to throw away for other people’s sakes.”
Dex stared at his dad for a few long seconds. He swallowed. “Thanks, Dad,” he said, and his voice was a little rough.
Dad smiled back for a moment before laughing and clapping Dex on the shoulder. “What’re you thanking me for? You’re the one that helped.” He turned to lower the hood and said, “Now let’s go help your ma in the kitchen. I think we’re having meatloaf tonight.”
*squints at you suspiciously* I’m starting to think you like hurting these boys…
40. “That is some severe bruising.”
Nursey was used to
catching his breath a little (just a very
little, definitely not enough for anyone to notice, never that) when Dex took
off his jersey in the dressing room, but not like this.
“Bro. That is some
severe bruising.” Chill, he needed to stay chill. If he seemed too concerned, Dex
would take it the wrong way and stop listening to him entirely.
Dex lifted one
shoulder in an irritable shrug. “It’s fine. You know my pasty skin; everything
always shows up worse than it is.”
Nursey eyed the
mottled bloom of color across his chest and frowned. While Dex wasn’t wrong,
Nursey was very sure he’d never seen colors that deep on him. Or that showed up
that fast. He knew exactly what check that had come from, and Dex had just
gotten up and skated through it. Hockey was a tough sport, sure, but surely
this was excessive.
Nursey let the other
sounds of the dressing room swirl around him as he showered and dressed on
auto-pilot, always keeping track of Dex out of the corner of his eye. He sat on
the bench in front of his stall fiddling with his phone for another minute or
so until Dex was ready to leave, too. Dex was definitely moving slower than
normal, more carefully, though anyone who didn’t habitually watch him as
closely as Nursey did (entirely without meaning to, he just couldn’t help it) would
probably have missed it.
Nursey picked up his
bag and headed out next to Dex like everything was normal. Then, just as they
were passing the trainers’ office, he “tripped” sideways, knocking Dex through
the open doorway.
“Whoops,” he said. He
didn’t work too hard to sound convincing.
Dex glared at him and
rehitched his bag over his shoulder, wincing ever so slightly. “Jesus Christ,
Nurse.”
Sheila just raised an
eyebrow at them.
Nursey took the
opening. “Well, hey, look at that, as long as we’re here, why don’t you get
that bruise looked at?”
Dex straightened up
in anger, a pose Nursey was unfortunately entirely too familiar with. “I told
you it was no big—!”
Nursey knocked the
door shut with his foot. Sheila took Dex’s bag and pointed at the table
imperiously.
“Traitor,” Dex
hissed.
Nursey crossed his
arms and leaned back against the other table. “And I’d do it again,” he said,
utterly serious.
He wasn’t sure what
Dex saw on his face at that, but his glare faded away to be replaced by
surprised confusion, and a faint blush stained his cheeks as he looked away.
“I didn’t know you cared, Nurse,” he muttered, still trying to downplay.
Fuck it. Nursey was pretty sure he’d shown his hand already, might as well go all-in. “Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“He’s grumpy because he cares,” Chowder says solemnly.
Nursey abruptly stops staring at the wrinkle between Dex’s furrowed eyebrows—even halfway across a crowded room it’s still distracting–in order to turn and look at C instead. “He’s grumpy because he’s an asshole.”
“Well, that’s convenient. You know, since you’re kind of an asshole, too.”
Nursey sputters, and then clutches one hand in a desperate fist over his heart, playing it up. “Chow. Bro. You wound.”
Chowder rolls his eyes, and then starts not-so-subtly scouting the crowd for Cait so that he has an excuse to get out of Nursey Patrol. Not that Nursey needs the babysitting tonight. He’s only had one beer and doesn’t feel much like going for another.
“I love you both,” Chowder tells him, distracted, “but I will also murder you both if you guys don’t get your shit together already.”
“Hey, we haven’t fought in, like, weeks, alright? I have my shit perfectly together, thank you. I am now the resident SMH expert in dealing with all things Poindexter.”
“Are you also now the expert in pining? Because you know some of the guys have got a pool going.”
theproblemwithstardust 