Chapter Text
Jack rolled his neck and concentrated on relaxing his shoulders while he waited for the elevator. He did not look at his reflection in the lobby window, or try to see through the glass to the rain falling in sheets in the predawn darkness.
He knew he looked half-dead, pale and drawn with what he suspected would be a spectacular bruise blooming around the stitches in his jaw. His feet were wet just from walking to his car at the airport, his face throbbed and his shoulders ached. He couldn't get upstairs and into bed fast enough.
Crisse. Why did he have to wait for the elevator now anyway? It was 4:30 in the morning. It should have been waiting right there in the lobby, ready to open the moment he pressed the button. Maybe he should have taken the stairs. But six flights up after a game in Dallas and flight home seemed like just too much.
Finally he heard the elevator car arriving and he bent to pick up his bag. He was still straightening up when he put his arms out to fend off the small blond man that nearly walked right into him.
By the time Jack's mind had processed what happened, the other man -- slender, shorter than Jack by half a head, with sleepy brown eyes and pink cheeks -- was stepping to the side, apologizing.
“Oh my gosh,” the man was saying. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect you to be there. I should be more careful.”
Jack dropped his arms and stepped to the other side. “No, sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be getting off.”
The man nodded, and said, “Well, anyway, good morning …” He paused and looked at Jack’s suit and bag and the way his damp hair curled around his ears. “Or good night for you?”
Jack chuckled and said, “Night for me. Morning for you, I think?” and stepped into the elevator.
**********************
Eric wondered if it would be too dramatic to actually sit down on the floor while he waited for the elevator. He had always been a baker, yes, but that was for friends and family, on his own terms. He wasn’t used to being responsible for running an actual bakery yet. When Matthew offered him the job as manager of his Providence business, Eric jumped at the chance. He’d worked for Matthew at the Boston location of Sugar ‘n’ Spice since graduation, but that was 10 until closing at 4, serving customers, prepping for the next day and -- what he was actually hired for -- running social media for Matthew’s bakeries.
Now, six months later, he was on his own in charge of the Providence location. Matthew had even helped him with housing, getting the previous bakery manager to allow him to sublet her apartment at a reduced rate. The former manager, Adrienne, hadn’t really needed the bakery job, Matthew explained. She was just doing it for experience before going to pastry school, and she’d be happy to have someone pick up at least most of the cost of her lease.
Eric loved the job. He liked being the first one there and the last one to leave, he liked the staff Adrienne had put together, he liked the customers. He enjoyed baking the favorites that Sugar ‘n’ Spice was known for, and he loved the freedom to try his own recipes.
But the schedule was killing him. Being there at 5 to start the baking for the 6:30 a.m. opening and staying until he turned the lock at 4:30 p.m. six days a week was too much. Matthew had told him to make his own schedule, and to make use of the staff who knew what they were doing. Chris Chow had been there for a year and a half and could close, Adrienne had told Matthew, and William Poindexter was responsible enough to open.
The thing was, Eric wanted to make sure everything went well. He wanted to know what the bakery ran out of which days. Did the pretzel rolls sell out on Mondays? Was pecan pie more popular on Fridays? What did people buy in the morning compared to the afternoon?
Eric rolled his head on his shoulders and wondered if it would help to find some open ice somewhere and skate for a while. He was busy and exhausted, but maybe giving his body a challenge would help him feel like himself.
He was slouched in front of the elevator door when it opened and the man he saw that morning stepped out, dressed in warm up pants, a light sweatshirt and baseball cap. He looked like he’d slept, but the bruising around the cut on his face was darker. It must have been fresh this morning then.
Good Lord, he was even more attractive now, Eric thought.
The man nodded and said something -- Eric had forgotten he had his earbuds in -- and was gone before Eric could take them out and say hello.
**************
Jack didn’t see the small blond man with the warm eyes for the next couple of weeks. That shouldn’t have been a surprise; Jack didn’t think he’d even recognize any of his other neighbors.
But he started running more in the late afternoons when it wasn’t a game day. He told himself that the timing was better for him, to help him be at peak energy in the evenings when he did have games. He was at least trying it. And if his eyes scanned the lobby every time the elevator door opened on his way out, well, who could make anything of that?
Finally, one day deep enough into November that the sun was already sinking by 5, Jack laced his trainers and pulled a toque over his ears before leaving his apartment. He walked to the elevator and found the man he saw before standing there, dressed in what looked like running tights but carrying a bag.
The man not only lived in his building -- he was on his floor.
Jack saw the button was already pushed. The door opened and Jack paused to let the other man enter first.
When the door closed, the man turned to look at him.
“Your face looks better now,” he said. “It looked like it hurt before,”
Jack shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“Goes with playing hockey, right?” the man said.
So he did know who Jack was. Jack shrugged again. He thought he liked it better when he was anonymous.
“I was kind worried that day,” the man continued. “I mean, coming home at four in the morning with a face like that? Then heading out, what, for a run, the same day instead of spending the day resting with an ice pack and ibuprofen like a sane person? But then I saw your picture on a bus and it made sense. Anyway, I’m glad you’re better.”
The man stopped talking, and Jack said, “Thanks. I’m Jack.”
“I know, Mr. Zimmermann,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Eric. Eric Bittle.”
The elevator opened and Jack left on his run while Eric turned and walked to the bus stop on the corner.
Eric. Eric Bittle. Whose eyes and smile were warm and whose voice sounded like honey. Maybe anonymous wasn’t better after all.
After that, Jack found himself running into Eric more often. There was another early morning elevator meeting, when Jack was heading back from Chicago, and Jack saw Eric once or twice a week in the late afternoons, always in athletic clothes and always with the same bag slung over his shoulder.
They would smile and nod. The first time Eric said, “Hello, Mr. Zimmermann,” Jack corrected him.
“Call me Jack, Eric.”
Eric had smiled and said, “Well, then, hello, Jack.”
Jack thought about Eric more now than he had before he knew his name.
Where did he go early in the morning? Work? What kind of job started that early? And where did he go in the afternoon? Maybe to a gym, but Jack thought he would dress differently for an indoor workout. And his bag looked too heavy for just a change of clothes. Maybe with the black tights and the black jacket he was a cat burglar, and the bag held his tools. Jack laughed at himself. But really. Maybe he could follow him. But that would be creepy. Besides, how could he follow someone on the bus?
He could just ask him. But that would seem like an invasion of his privacy. More than following him? Jack shook his head. He couldn’t remember ever being so curious about anyone, but he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation. Most strangers he spoke with came up and talked to him. All Eric ever said was, “Hello,” or sometimes, “Nice game.”
What did people talk about? The weather? Jack could say, “Nice day out there, eh?” Or, “Getting tired of all this rain?” But he was afraid if he tried, the wrong words would come out. He’d say, “Where are you from that you sound like that?” or “Where do you go so early in the mornings?” or “Why do you always smell like vanilla?”
All of those were too personal, Jack thought. Especially the last one.
*************************************
Chowder and Dex were getting tired of hearing about Jack Zimmermann.
After Eric had recognized him -- literally by seeing his face on the side of a bus Eric was boarding -- it had been a matter of mild interest in the bakery that Jack Zimmermann lived in Eric Bittle’s building.
After all, it wasn’t every manager of a small but successful bakery who could say he shared an address with a Stanley Cup winner.
But all too soon, it was clear that Eric might have, well, just a small crush on his neighbor. If “small” meant the size of Canada. Each morning when he came in, Eric told Chowder whether he had seen Jack the afternoon before. His conversation during the day was sprinkled with references to the Providence Falconers and their young captain. Before he left at 2:30 p.m., he shared his thoughts with Dex on the Falconers’ chances if they had a game or speculated on whether he could time his walk to the elevator to meet up with Jack.
Even Lardo, who managed the rink on Brown’s campus where Eric went to skate, was getting tired of it.
“Eric. Bits. Do you ever talk to him?” she said, while Eric laced up his skates and talked more about how amazing his neighbor was and what he’d done in the previous night’s game.
“Sure, I say hello in the elevator,” Eric said.
“No, I mean, like, have you asked him to come over for coffee? Or even to come see you at the bakery?” she asked. “Come on, Bitty. You know how to make friends, and I know you like this guy. Give it a shot.”
“Lardo, this isn’t Samwell,” Eric said. “Jack’s a professional hockey player. In the NHL. He’s almost certainly straight. I’m definitely not, and yes, I know I have a crush on him. But I also know that having him sit in my kitchen and eat my food will not help me get over that. Besides, it’s not like he really talks to me either. I think to him I’m just that weird neighbor who comes and goes at odd times.”
“But he’s still meeting you, right?”
“He’s not meeting me, he’s just going out for a run,” Eric said. “I doubt he thinks anything about it at all. Got the music for me?”
“Sure thing,” Lardo said, heading to the box.
She had never thought, when she took the job managing the Samwell men's hockey team, that it would turn into, well, not a career, but a post-college job that helped pay the bills while she tried to make enough money with her art to do that full-time. But a fellow hockey manager at Brown had told her that the rink manager job at Meehan Auditorium was open, and Providence was cheaper than Boston and close enough to Cambridge, and maybe she could take some courses at the RISD. Then she found out Eric was moving to Providence, and it seemed like a good decision.
Five months in, it still seemed like a good decision. When Eric complained about the lack of opportunities to skate, she had offered him the free hour between 5:30 and 6:30 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and any other time that worked with his schedule. In return, he taught a beginning skating rec class for Brown students on Sunday afternoons. It worked out for everyone: Eric got a chance to work off the stress of his day job, the rink got a good teacher who could relate to the college students who felt more than a little foolish in the class and Lardo got regular access to Eric’s baked goods and an insight into just how good of a figure skater he had been. She doubted Shitty or any of the other boys Eric played with at Samwell had any clue.
Lardo would have to get Shitty to come up and watch one day if she could pry him away from the law library.
When Eric was done for the day, Lardo tried again.
“How do you know Zimmermann’s straight?” she said. “I know you Googled him. You know there were rumors.”
“I stopped looking when I saw something about the rumors about him,” Eric said. “That makes it even worse. It felt like an invasion of privacy to read that, and it makes it more likely he wouldn’t want to even be seen with me, even just hanging out. I mean, look at me.”
“Oh, so you can tell someone’s sexuality by looking?” Lardo challenged. “Did Shitty teach you nothing?”
“Of course not, not always,” Eric said. “But there is something to how people choose to present themselves, and I know that a lot of people look at me and think ‘gay.’ And that’s OK with me, because I am gay, and if I want to meet someone ...”
“Fine,” Lardo said. “But if I tell Shitty Jack Zimmermann is your neighbor, he’s gonna basically move into your apartment so he can worship at Zimmermann’s door. Best get beyond the ‘Hello’ stage before that happens, right?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
********************************
Jack kept up his routine of late afternoon runs on the days he was home and didn’t have a game, and more often than not, he managed to meet Eric at the elevator. It might have had something to do with the way he watched for Eric to pass his door through the peephole. He knew Eric knew which apartment was his; Eric had seen him come out more than once. He had Eric’s apartment narrowed down to one of two at the end of the hall. But he still hadn’t managed to move the conversation beyond small talk about the weather. At least he had managed that much.
Then one day Eric’s routine changed. At least it looked like it was changing. Instead of the dark sneakers Eric usually wore, there were bright silver trainers, and the black jacket was replaced with a windbreaker with wide stripes of reflective material. Eric looked like he was going for a run.
Jack wished Eric a good evening before Eric set off at an easy lope in the opposite direction from Jack’s usual route. Jack watched him, hesitated, and then followed about a half-block behind.
He wasn’t doing any harm running on a public street. Besides, Eric was probably just going to make a loop and head home. At least Jack could see him home safe before finishing his own run.
Five miles in, Jack realized that if he thought Eric’s run wouldn’t be enough of a workout, he’d been wrong. He’d known Eric was in good shape -- weeks of seeing him in those tights was enough to prove that -- and he gained a greater appreciation watching him run. Eric was moving at a good clip, and was finally coming around back towards their building. There was about a mile left when Eric turned a corner he wasn’t expecting and disappeared.
Merde.
Jack turned the corner too but he didn’t see Eric. He slowed down and proceeded down the block, figuring he’d turn back if he hadn’t seen Eric by the next corner.
Just before the intersection, someone reached out and grabbed his arm.
Jack nearly shouted as he turned, ready to defend himself. He found himself face to face with Eric, standing in the open door of a small shop.
“Jack?” he was asking. “Why were you following me?”
*****************************
Eric was letting go of Jack’s arm by the time Jack turned around, holding his hands up in a “I won’t hurt you -- please don’t hurt me” pose.
Jack’s look of confusion gave way to embarrassment, but he said, “Who said I was following you? You went for a run, I went for a run.”
“Jack, you were behind me for five miles. And I know for a fact you usually go the other direction. I’ve seen you,” Eric said. He wasn’t scared any more. He really hadn’t been once he realized the steady steps behind him came from Jack. But he was a little upset that Jack thought following him would be a good idea.
Jack looked down at the pavement, where he still stood, then up at Eric, standing in the doorway. Finally he said, “I was curious.”
“About what?” Eric said. “My running pace?”
“No,” Jack said. “Well, yes, but not … But just, I wanted to know about you. Where you go early in the morning. Where you go in the afternoon. What you do.”
Eric wasn’t sure he was ready to let go of his anger just yet, but Jack’s awkwardness was melting any ice he wanted to keep in his tone.
“If you wanted to run with me, all you had to do was say so,” Eric said. “And those other questions? That’s information neighbors might share over a cup of coffee. So why don’t you come in and I’ll make you one.”
Jack took in where they were -- in the entry to a bakery, obviously closed for the night, but the door was open.
“Can we?” Jack asked.
“Sure,” Eric said. “This is where I come so early in the morning. It’s my bakery -- well, I manage it, at least, and I try to always be here to start the baking before we open. And I usually stop on the way home in the evenings to make sure everything’s OK and ready for the morning. But I’m sure we can find something to eat, and I keep a small coffee maker in the back.”
Eric stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind Jack, beckoning him past the counter to the kitchen. Eric filled the coffeemaker and then walked into a cooler, coming out with two small pies, not much bigger than cupcakes.
“Apple or peach?” Eric asked.
“Uh, apple,” Jack said.
“Good choice,” Eric said, as he placed both in a warming oven. “Peaches are out of season.”
Eric leaned against the counter and looked at Jack without saying anything more until he poured two cups of coffee and put the mini-pies on plates.
“Come on, we can go sit in the front and you can tell me why following me seemed like a better idea than talking to me,” Eric said.
****************************
Jack stopped himself from moaning when his mouth closed around the first bite, but it was a near thing.
He chewed and swallowed before saying, “That’s phenomenal.”
He took another bite before saying, “Why are you doing this? I mean, I thought you were mad.”
“I was,” Eric said. “But I’m pretty sure you weren’t planning to jump me, or trying to scare me.”
“No,” Jack said. “Jump you? Why would I even …? I just wanted to know more about you, more than I get from sharing the elevator, and I didn’t know how to ask, and then you were out there running, in public, and I didn’t think you’d go that far, and I thought when you turned I could just keep going. Crisse. This is why I don’t talk.”
Eric looked at him a moment longer, and then said, “I’m doing this because this is how people get to know each other. They sit down, and maybe have something to eat or drink, and talk to each other. Instead of, y’know, following someone for five miles.”
This time Eric smiled. He'd been frightened for a few moments, felt his breath hitch when he realized those footsteps were still behind him, three blocks and a turn later. He knew people probably didn't think he could hear with his earbuds in, but he kept his music low when he ran outside. He only dimly noticed the steps at first -- it was a busy street, and there were plenty of runners in Providence -- but as he got further from the main road and the traffic quieted, it seemed like the steady thump-thump behind him was drowning out the beat of the music. Finally, making another turn, Eric had been able to sneak a glimpse and recognized his hot hockey-player neighbor. By the time he ambushed Jack, he was equal parts annoyed and intrigued.
“Were you really afraid I'd hurt you?” Jack asked. What was that look on his face? Confused? Hurt? Offended?
“Well, not once I knew it was you,” Eric said. “But when you grow up in Georgia looking like, well, me, and figure skating to boot, you learn to watch your back.”
“Wait -- you’re a figure skater?” Jack asked.
Eric looked down at the table this time.
“I used to be,” he said. “Now I'm more a baker -- or bakery manager -- who figure skates. I usually go to the rink this time of day -- the manager at Meehan is a friend -- but they have some youth hockey tournament in town this week, so the ice wasn't available.”
“Sounds like you're still a skater,” Jack said.
“Not really,” Eric said. “I haven't had a coach since I quit when I was 15. I went to junior regionals that year.”
“Why’d you stop?” Jack asked.
Jack's interest felt genuine, not intrusive, so Eric answered, “We moved and I started a new school. I didn’t want the kids to get the same idea the kids in my old school had, and it was further from my coach. It just seemed more important to try to fit in. There was a co-ed hockey club team, so I did that.”
“But you still missed figure skating?” Jack pursued.
“Every day,” Eric said.
“Do you regret it?”
“I don’t know,” Eric said. “I mean, I went to college on a hockey scholarship, and that got me out of Georgia, and I have some great friends. And having somewhere else to live, that gave me the courage to come out to my parents, and that didn't go as badly as it could've. But I always wondered how good I could have been.”
“You played hockey?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, I got that a lot,” Eric said. “And I wasn't really that good. I was always afraid of being checked. But usually they couldn't catch up to me.”
Eric stood and carried the dishes back into the kitchen. Jack followed him and said, “If you want to skate this week, I could probably get you on the ice. Our practice rink is usually empty by five.”
“You’d do that?” Eric asked.
“It’s the least I can do after the pie and coffee,” Jack said. “But I'd probably have to come with, at least the first time.”
“As long as you don't follow me all the way there,” Eric chirped.