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whoacanada · 6 years

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‘Hot Jock Contest’

2k of date night auctions, shenanigans, and awkward first meetings. A Zimbits AU where Jack never overdosed and Bitty’s gay self is comfortable with being auctioned off for charity.

Rating: Teen, no explicit anything (not this time, lol)

(100% based off an ad I saw in passing for the Chicago Gay Hockey Association’s ‘Hot Jock Contest’.)

Jack rereads the email and fights a tightness in his throat at the image attached.

“Gay men’s hockey club is holding some kind of striptease disguised as a fundraiser. It’s the perfect place for you to spread your bisexual wings. You’ll get to see cocks in jocks, Jack. The kind you can actually look at, and, hopefully, touch.”

“Parse, I don’t know if that’s the kind of image I’m supposed to be cultivating, you know?”

Jack is eight months out of the closet and still horribly, desperately single; a fact made even less palatable by his ex trying to get him laid from a thousand miles away.

“Okay, that excuse worked until you got so backed up it started affecting your game. Look, at some point you have to make yourself happy, right? Coming out is supposed to be liberating and you’ve been wallowing in your freedom because people knowing you like dick doesn’t change the fact you’re still real fucking awkward, bud.”

“Thank you for the pep talk, Kent.”

“No, I mean,” Kent huffs like he’s the one suffering through this conversation. “Go out, have fun, get laid. And take Tater, he’s a good wingman.”

Ultimately, Jack folds like a cheap suit and finds himself in clothing that is far too tight, sipping on a craft beer that is too sweet, in a loud club full of beautiful people doing questionable things.

Jack doesn’t belong here.

“I still don’t think this is --”

“Zimmboni, relax! We find you cute boy tonight, no problem at all. How about that one? Nice legs? Nice face? Look good in your bed, ah?”

“Easy,” Jack throws his teammate a warning look at tries to focus on the parade of scantily clad hockey players looping the stage. “It’s not a meat market.”

Tater snorts. “Is always meat market. Just usually you are meat on ice.”

A beefy defenseman in a blue jock and matching harness stops in Jack’s line of sight and cocks a hip to display his bare backside and the tattoo of puck on his left ass cheek. Tater whistles and earns himself a wink.

“You’re not gay,” Jack chides.

“No, but I appreciate good physique.”

The lighting changes up and so does the music before a voice comes over the speakers announcing ‘special guests in the club tonight’ and Jack barely has time to duck his head before he’s hearing Tater’s name alongside his own.

“Crisse,” Jack curses while Tater stands to accept the resulting applause.

“AM HERE TO FIND ZIMMBONI CUTE BOYFRIEND,” Tater yells gesturing at a red-faced Jack. “HE LIKES BLONDES WITH SOFT HANDS.”

The crowd goes wild, practically drowning out the music.

“Well,” Jack peeks through his fingers and sees the glitter covered announcer staring him down, mic pressed close to his Providence Blue lips. “Lucky you, we have one of those up for auction tonight.”

Blue Harness comes to a stop on the other side of the stage with the other men up for auction and Jack tries not the stare, looking for the aforementioned blonde.

“Did you see him already?” Jack askes Tater, kicking himself for falling prey to his own curiosity.

“No,” Tater whispers loudly, “but always save best for last. You have to bid, or I bid for you.”

The lights go pink and Jack leans back in his chair, forcing himself to enjoy whatever is about to happen.

“Ladies, Gentleman, everything and everyone betwixt and between,” the MC teases. “Our last lot of the evening is a feisty peach from the sunny south who can out-skate, out-bake, and out-class just about any man on the ice.”

Tater wolf-whistles while Jack stares, lost in anticipation -- too preoccupied to comment on the fact ‘betwixt’ and ‘between’ are the same thing -- as the curtain slides back to reveal a short, adorable blonde with big brown eyes and very little covering his nearly perfect body. The man sees Jack, flashes a bright, teasing smile, and Jack’s breath leaves him.

“Our very own NCAA Champion, Eric ‘Bitty’ Bittle. Bidding starts at $500.”

Jack can’t make his voice work and someone else gets the first bid -- in fact, the auction is all the way up to $2000 by the time Jack can choke out “$1500,” but Jack’s voice is drowned out by Tater’s yell of “$3000!”, and Jack nearly gives himself whiplash turning to his teammate.

“What are you doing?”

“Bad taste for you to buy your own boyfriend, so I will buy for you. You will pay me back later -- I can be best man at your wedding.”

Someone else ups it another two hundred and there’s a slight commotion on stage. Bittle, ‘Bitty’ Jack silently corrects, has taken the mic and is assessing the crowd with an amused expression amid catcalls and whistles.

“Y’all, I’m very flattered, but you know you’re just buying a date, right? And you should also know I don’t put out on the first date.”

Some of the cheers slide to boos as Bitty hands back the mic before kissing two fingers and pressing them against his bare ass, skin practically glowing against the stark-white jock and thigh-high socks. Jack’s so light headed he’s going to pass out. He’s already dead.

Tater looks like he’s about to bid again when someone sticks a phone in Jack’s face and all hell breaks loose because Tater tries to grab the thing and by the time the dust has settled Jack is being ushered to the door and the auction is the least of their worries.

“All this press and you didn’t even get laid?”

“I knew it was a fucking mistake,” Jack grunts, trying to focus on his quads and fighting the heat in his cheeks as the boys keep chirping. He’s embarrassed for more than a few reasons. The pictures that popped up online, the call to his publicist, the fact he really wanted to win that date and couldn’t handle the attention long enough to pull it together.

It’s a lot of regrets to bring to a late-season home game.

Jack’s still going through his warm-up stretches when he starts hearing a tapping behind him -- he doesn’t look, he’s too experienced for that -- but eventually, the tapping becomes small voices saying, “Excuse me? Mister Zimmermann?”

Crisse. They’re being polite. He swipes a puck near his skate and stands, ready to plaster on a smile for whatever parent is pimping out their child for a game puck when he sees a familiar tuft of blonde hair through the glass.

Oh.

Bittle waves shyly from behind a whole slew of small children in Falcs gear, face pink with the chill in the arena. He’s bundled up tight, a blue and yellow scarf around his neck, looking embarrassed but determined. He’s as handsome fully clothed as he was barely dressed the night before.

Bitty calls out something over the kids' chatter, and Jack can barely make it out.

“I can’t hear you,” Jack tries, and Bitty shakes his head apologetically.

He swipes a few more pucks from the ice and shoves them through the camera hole before motioning for Bitty to follow him toward the penalty box, which is more of a task than expected as the seats are half full and cordoned off. Jack moves ahead and raps on the door of the penalty box until the attendant, Marcus, finally lets him in.

“Jack, what’s going on --”

“You see that guy?” Jack points to Bittle, who is trying to negotiate his way past an usher one section over. “Blonde guy they aren’t letting into 109, can you go get him?”

“You know I can’t leave, kid.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jack pulls off his gloves and sidles past Marcus to pull open the side door and step out into the stands, much to the shock of the dozen or so fans sitting in the first few rows.

“Zimmermann! What the hell are you doing?”

Jack sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly until the usher turns to see what’s going on, and Jack recognizes the staffer almost immediately. Unfortunately, he also attracts the attention of every fan the surrounding three sections.

“Hey, Christine! He’s with me! Let him through!”

She waves apologetically and Bittle, bright red with embarrassment, slides past the other attendees to reach Jack, who is back hiding behind the door as fans pile up behind the glass hoping for a photo. Eventually, Bitty makes it to the penalty box and Jack cracks open the door to let him in, but not before tossing a few bait pucks to the fans in the way.

“I don’t think any of those are going to kids,” Bitty chides with his delightful accent, collecting himself and making Jack’s heart melt even as fans keep slapping the glass hoping for more swag.

“eBay,” Jack mumbles, looking down because Bittle is a solid foot shorter than him in skates. Jack could lift him easily. “Probably. Hi.”

“Hi,” Bittle returns, the red in his cheeks still bright. “Hey, I thought you were going to win the auction.”

“What?”

Marcus coughs and says, “I don’t think you’re allowed to do this.”

There’s a pounding behind Jack and he catches Poots and Snowy making kissy faces at them. He can’t flip them off with kids around but they know he wants to, the look on his face is enough. Thankfully, Bittle laughs and blows a kiss back for good measure.

“I like him!” Poots yells, skating off. “I’m gonna tell Tater!”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Bittle continues. “I thought you were going to win. Then you were just gone. Hurt my ego a bit.”

“Bad timing,” Jack apologizes. “I get skittish around cameras.”

“Mmm,” Bitty hums and turns around to look at the dozen people recording them on their phones. “And this is much more private?”

“Well, you picked the venue,” Jack fights a smile and summons his courage, leaning down to whisper in Bitty’s perfectly shaped ear, “and, you’re wearing clothes this time.”

Someone slams into the boards hard enough to rock the wall and Jack spins, dropping a protective arm around Bittle. It’s Tater, grinning like a damn loon.

“LITTLE B! YOU FIND ZIMMBONI!”

“I did! Thank you again for the tickets, Alexei,” Bitty shouts back, leaning into Jack’s side. “I’m very grateful.”

Tater opens the box door and leans in, “Zimmboni, see, I am best wingman, Kenny tell you this. Also, coach pretty mad, you should come do job, now. Paid to skate, not kiss cute boy. Do that after game.”

Bitty giggles and Jack looks up to see there are only seven minutes left on the clock. “Crisse, I need to go,” he curses, looking back down at Bitty. “Where are you sitting?”

“Section 113, but how am I supposed to --”

“Go back and find Christine, the usher you were talking to, tell her Jack wants you to go to Bob’s Box, she’ll take care of you. I’ll find you after the game.”

“Okay, ‘Bob’s Box’, I can do that,” Bitty seems only slightly overwhelmed by the orders but nods dutifully, stepping aside for Jack to pull open the side door. “Wait, who’s ‘Bob’?”

Marcus snorts and Jack fights a laugh because, of course, this hockey playing angel wouldn’t know. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he sure as hell is now.

“You’ll find out,” Jack teases, leaning down once more to whisper, “and maybe tonight you’ll get a chance to see me wearing nothing but a jock strap. If you want.”

He drops a quick kiss to Bitty’s cheek, heedless of the cameras, and hopes to god he hasn’t ruined everything.

Evidently, he hasn’t because when he rears back, Bittle is staring at him with wide eyes and a bright smile, almost dazed.

“Oh, honey, I want that very much,” he sighs, reluctantly slipping through the fans and out into the stands, heading toward Christine. “See you soon!”

He’s beautiful. Jack might have a date. Hell, Jack might even have a boyfriend.

“Zimmermann! Close the damn door!”

First, however, Jack might have a League Fine.

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halfabreath · 7 years

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An excerpt from the Zimmerflow (tm) fic because I told @omgpieplease/ @cannedtalent I would do it.

Jack makes a bet on the best day of his life and promptly forgets about it. He's too busy being a Stanley Cup Champion to remember a ridiculous wager he'd made when he was tipsy. Besides, he was the most sober player at that party. There's no way anyone will remember it. Right?

Wrong.

Turns out, Tater had filmed not only most of the party (“For memories, Zimmboni! Precious moments with team, no?” And really, how can Jack argue with that?) but he'd taken special care to capture every single idiotic syllable of the bet.

By the time June rolls around, Jack has stopped categorizing events as the happiest day of his life because every morning he gets to wake up and play the game he loves with the man he adores at his side. Still, he has to admit that winning the cup for the second year in a row - a feat everyone, including himself, had deemed impossible - is a pretty spectacular day. Before the party can begin, however, he's accosted by his teammates who wrestle him down to a couch. Tater pulls his phone out and holds it too close to Jack’s face, and he's got adrenaline-pulsing hockey players all over him and they're loud and obnoxious and ecstatic but they quiet down when Guy stands before them and utters two words.

“The bet.” The room grows quiet as Tater plays the video. Jack can clearly see himself, sitting on a hotel couch much like the one he's currently on, but in the video his cheeks are flushed and he's holding a beer between two loose fingers as he laughs at whoever is holding the camera.

“This is so dumb, Tater. The worst bet ever.” Jack’s words weren’t quite slurred, but even he can tell that his accent was much thicker than is usually is. It’s strange, seeing how different he is when he’s intoxicated. It’s a good thing he always took it easy at Kegsters. The frame shakes as if Tater is shaking his head (and his entire body, judging from the way the camera shakes) in disagreement.

“No, no, is good bet.” The Jack on the screen pulled a face, clearly not on board with the plan but too good-natured to shut it down. “The best! Tell terms to camera.” Tater’s voice was too loud; clearly he’d been holding the camera too close to his face. Drunk Jack rolls his eyes and nods, the motion loose and relaxed. He doesn’t look like he’d just played a seven game series.

“Mmkay.” Jack began. He paused to lift his bottle to his lips, taking a leisurly sip before continuing. “I, Jack Zimmer - ”

“No, is wrong! Repeat after me.” Tater’s voice interrupted him, and Video Jack raised one finger and raised his bottle to his lips, clearly being petulant, when Tater continued. “I, Stanley Cup Champion Jack Zimmermann,” Jack paused, his annoyed expression melting away into a genuine smile as the hand holding the bottle slowly lowered to his lap.

“I, Stanley, uh,” The Jack in the video clears his throat, clearly trying to keep his voice from cracking. Thirdy squeezes his shoulder just as video Jack regained his composure. “Stanley Cup Champion Jack Zimmerman.”

“Am make promise to grow out flow if Falconers win Cup again in year’s time.” Tater sounded absolutely ecstatic. His deep belly laugh almost drowned out Jack’s word for word response, but not enough to allow Jack to claim plausible deniability. The moment Jack finished reciting his words Tater’s hand appeared in the shot. “Now we shake!” Jack only shook his head, batting down Tater’s hand.

“You have to wager something! That's how bets work.” Jack nodded definitively, gesticulating towards the camera with the beer bottle. He looked relaxed and happy, if a little annoyed by Tater.

“Ah, Zimmboni is more sober than I think! How surprise! Okay - if we not win Cup, I will wear Snowy’s makeup at game time, for, uh, twenty percent of games.” Jack’s expression shifted again - was he always this expressive when he was drunk? - this time into the flat, unimpressed look he’d leveled at Ransom and Holster far too many times.

“That’s only sixteen games, Tater. If we win I’ll have dumb hair for like,” Jack squinted off into the distance, clearly trying to think quickly. “Like, however many games we play. All the games. Or at least sixty games once it’s grown.”

“Okay, I wear makeup for sixty percent of games. You happy?” Jack nodded solemnly, reaching out to shake Tater’s hand.

“We have an accord.” Jack said solemnly, and the video cut off.

The room was silent. Tater pocketed his phone, bending down to cradle Jack’s face in his two huge hands.

“Zimmboni,” His tone is quiet but deadly serious. “We have accordion.” There’s a pause as Jack’s shoulders start shaking, his lips too mashed up as Tater squeezes his face to allow any of his giggles out. The room explodes into laughter, and the guys slowly climb off Jack and the couch to chirp Tater and continue celebrating. The party comes to life around them, but Tater only collapses on the couch next to Jack, his long limbs splayed all over.

“It will be good year.” Tater says, pulling Jack close with an arm hooked around his neck. “You see!”

#The Zimmerflow (TM)#i have no idea when this will be posted tbh #grad school is getting to me #but here you go #here's a lil bit #jack zimmermann #omgcp #check please!#omgcp fanfiction #check please fanfiction #check please fanfic #alexi tater mashkov #marty #thirdy #the providence falconers #unbeta'd #flow!jack

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