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Kent was waiting in the lobby, because it definitely wasn't a "come up and see my new Providence love nest, Kenny" sort of lunch. More of the "Hey, Parson, let me show off how obvious it is I traded up when I dropped you" kind.
Okay, in fairness, Kent had actually said, "Since I'll be in town early, do you want to see if we can talk in person?" and Zimms had said, "I'm not giving up any of my weekend with Bitty, but fine," so he probably didn't mean it as gloating. Not intentionally.
And there they were, coming out of the elevator just a little bit too close to each other, while Kent stood in the lobby, hat in hand.
Not because he was, like, asking for something from his liege lord, because he was readjusting it and he was apparently still getting his timing wrong around Zimms every time.
"Oh, there's Kent," Zimms said, pointing, while Kent hastily crammed his hat back on.
"We have met," Bittle said, striding across the lobby in his general direction.
"Hi, Jack, Bitty," Kent said.
"Oh. Right. You would have," Zimms said, and then made a face, patting his jeans pocket. "Merde! I forgot my meds." He looked over at Bittle. "Can you -"
Bittle sighed. "Just run up and get them, Jack. We don't need a chaperone."
Zimms gave him the look that Kent could still read as couple-language for 'only if you promise to be good and not make trouble,' and then Bittle replied something silent that Kent couldn't read, and then Zimms said, "Fine. Five minutes. I'll be right back. I'm really sorry, Kenny," and fled.
"They're antibiotics," Bittle said aggressively. "He got cut up pretty bad last week, they wanted to be careful."
What Kent didn't say in reply to this: 1. "I know, I watched that tape a probably unhealthy number of times"; 2. ''I'm in town early really meant I needed to see Zimms to make sure he was actually okay"; 3. "Is he okay? Please don't let him lie to you about whether he's okay."
What Kent said: "I wouldn't ask."
Bittle shrugged and started typing on his phone.
So. Eric "Bitty" Bittle. The thing about Bittle was - so, Column A: He was Jack Zimmermann's new boyfriend, so that was weird, Kent presumably hated him with burning jealousy, and Bittle presumably hated him back. But Column B: Bittle loved Zimms, a lot, and he was good at it, probably better than Kent, it didn't take much to see that if you knew what you were looking for, so he was clearly an exceptional person who Kent already kind of liked a lot just from knowing that.
Column A: The only previous time they had met was on the second-worst day of Kent's life, so he didn't exactly call up good memories for Kent, and Kent hadn't made the greatest impression. But Column B: He knew all of Kent's worst secrets, even some of the ones Swoops didn't know, which meant Kent could talk to him without having to obey the constant commentary track of what he could and couldn't say, which already felt amazing and they'd barely said two sentences to each other--
Actually on second thought, move that back to Column A, because God knew what he would say if he forgot to not say things, and that would only end in disaster. Column B, then: Bittle made really fucking good pie.
"Thanks for the pie," Kent said. "It was, like, amazing. Possibly magic."
Bittle squinted up at him from his phone, and frowned.
"You liked it?"
"Yeah, I mean, it was off-the-charts good. The Kent Parson of pies."
"It was supposed to be a spite pie," Bittle said after a second. "I can't tell if you realized that, which bothers me."
"A spite pie?"
"Yeah, you know, basic 'you aren't good enough to polish Jack's boots, much less eat my pie, so I'm sending you one to make sure you know that,' pie"
Kent stared at him.
What he didn't say: "Okay, if that is what you consider straightforward communication no wonder you and Zimms work so well together."
What he said: "Does that mean if you stop hating me, I don't get any more free baked goods? Because in that case, I'll have to try to turn down the charm."
"The charm was never the problem," Bittle muttered, and turned back to his phone.
"I watched your tape from 2010 Junior Regionals," Kent said after a moment. "It was impressive. You're really, really good. I'm surprised you never made nationals."
He knew Bittle had Twitter and a vlog - excerpts had appeared in one of the periodic collections of social media clips from his agent on the subject of 'keep the fucking closet door LOCKED, Parson,' special edition: I Told You To Stay The Hell Away From Samwell.
He hadn't looked at them any farther because stalking his ex's boyfriend's social media was the kind of thing he thought the person he was trying not to be would do. But one of the articles from the Samwell Swallow had mentioned Bittle's figure skating career, so he'd looked up the tape. Everyone watched tape. And Bittle was beautiful on the ice - he was a good hockey player, was clearly having fun, and on a line with Zimms he occasionally approached greatness. But it was obvious from the tape that he'd been in love with figure skating in a way he wasn't with hockey - the way Kent and Zimms were in love with hockey.
Bittle didn't say anything.
"If you're ever in Las Vegas you should come over and teach me some jumps," Kent said. "I've always wanted to learn jumps."
"You know you shouldn't do jumps in hockey skates, right?" Bittle said without looking up from his phone.
"I'm not that ignorant. I'll have you know I own a pair of custom figure skates, they're a couple years old but I'm sure they still fit."
Bittle looked up, finally. "Is this where you tell me that secretly you've been pining to be a figure skater all along but were forced into hockey instead? Because I don't believe you."
"No, I just really, really wanted to be on Battle of the Blades," Kent said with a grin.
Bittle was warming up a little despite himself, Kent could tell. Kent had a talent for this. "Wasn't that mostly retired players?" he asked.
"You underestimate how badly I wanted to be on that show. But my agent was like, Parson, the presumption of heterosexuality you get as a pro sports player is somewhat elastic, but not that elastic, especially given that thing that happened in the back room at the Bellagio."
Bittle digested this. "Battle of the Blades was all pairs, though," he said. "Figure skating doesn't get any more heterosexual than pairs. Well, ice dancing, I guess."
"Exactly! I was like, I will be spending the whole time touching beautiful women in inappropriate places, how much less gay can you get on primetime TV, and they were like, believe me, we will be reminding the viewers of that every episode, but it is still not for you, Parson."
"Kent Parson, too gay to skate pairs," Bittle said, shaking his head.
"Well, there was also the 'retired players' thing and the part where they said I was probably too short for the lifts."
Bittle looked him up and down. "Y'all could definitely do lifts," he said. "I could do lifts and you're not much shorter than me."
What Kent didn't say: 1. "Sure, I'm shorter than you in what universe?" 2. "Does it weird you out a little that we could probably pass for siblings if you didn't hear us talk?" 3. "Because I don't know how I feel about the fact that Zimms has that much of a type."
What Kent said: "See, this is why you should teach me jumps."
"I'll think about it," Bittle said, and looked back at his phone. "I should probably apologize for the pie, anyway. Sorry. Jack keeps saying it wasn't all your fault, and if he's not mad I guess I got no right to be."
"Hey, you have every right to be as mad as you want," Kent said. "Like. I know I screwed up with Zimms. A lot. And what's the point of being boyfriends if you can't get revenge for the shit he's too repressed to admit he's mad about?"
"Do you think it was your fault?"
Kent shrugged. "At the party? Yeah. I mean, I deserve a lot worse than the world's greatest pie for that. I shouldn't've cornered him without warning at his home - I mean, he doesn't make it easy, and I was technically invited, but, yeah. And I shouldn't have said some of the shit I said about Samwell; you guys made it to the Frozen Four and all, you're a good team for the NCAA. Wouldn't be surprised if you make it to the end again this year, even without Zimms. The rest of it, before? I don't--" he sighed. "Look. I don't blame myself, because sometimes shit just happens, and we were kids, there were adults who were supposed to be keeping an eye on us and fucked up a lot worse than me, but yeah there's choices I could've made that might've made it better for Zimms, and yeah I feel bad about that, who wouldn't."
Bittle shook his head. "What about what you said about Jack at the party?"
Kent had what he'd said that night practically memorized, trying to figure out exactly when it had all gone wrong; it shouldn't have surprised him that Bittle did too, but he frowned. "What, that he should be with the Aces instead of the Falcs? I'm not apologizing for that, the Falconers aren't good enough for him. And I guess I shouldn't have threatened to out us, but I was pissed off, he should know by now that I wouldn't do anything to screw up his team."
"How about the part where you said he was worthless and everybody would know it soon?"
"What the hell?" Kent said. "I didn't--"
"You did."
"I said he shouldn't be afraid people would judge him by his past, because give it a few seasons in the NHL and nobody would care, because it would be obvious how good he was! Which is true! Even with the Falcs! I don't know if you noticed but he's fucking good at hockey! Which he fucking knows if he can get his head out of his own ass long enough!"
Bittle took a step back. Kent took a deep breath or two.
What he didn't say, because it wasn't his to say, at least not in a semi-public place, even one that was empty: "He needs to stop acting like his fucked-up self-loathing anxiety thing is some deep dark secret that everybody has to skate on thin ice around, it is not doing anyone any fucking good, even if the NHL as a whole probably does prefer the 'coke addict' narrative to the 'had an emotional breakdown because your internal culture is the worst' narrative."
"That's what you were trying to say?" Bittle asked.
"What the hell!" Kent repeated. "Yes!"
"Okay, you really need to work on your communication skills."
"I'm not the one trying to communicate complex emotional concepts via baked goods," Kent said. What he didn't say: "Zimms fucking knew what I meant, okay, we've been fighting like that since before you put on hockey skates."
What he said: "Also, were the cookies from you? I didn't figure it out for awhile, but it must have been you, nobody else I know hands out magic pastry."
"Oh! Yeah," Bittle said. "That was a mistake, I slipped them in your bag before I realized you were an asshole, not a cool NHL star."
"Well, whatever, thanks anyway," Kent said. "I think they might have literally saved my life."
"Literally as in figuratively."
"Literally as in I was really fucked up for awhile there. But they were really good cookies." He shrugged.
"Nobody's ever told me my baking saved their life before."
"Well, you should ask around, maybe they just didn't tell you." Bittle looked over at him. "Seriously, Bittle, they were really good cookies."
"I... well, you're welcome, then."
The elevator arrived right then, which might have also saved Kent's life, because God knew what he was going to decide to say to Bittle next. Zimms stepped out of it with a perplexed expression and held up a prescription bottle.
"Sorry it took so long. They were in with the flour. Why would they be in with the flour?" he asked Bittle plaintively.
"I don't know, Jack," Bittle said. "It's your kitchen. Why were they in with the flour?"
They did more of that silent-couple-talk, which Kent would have needed more context to read well, but he got the gist of it anyway. "No worries, Zimms," he said, "No blood was shed, Bittle was a perfect gentleman. And not the 19th century Georgia pistols-at-dawn kind," he added, before Zimms could pull out one of his History Facts.
"Kent thinks I should become a figure skating coach for NHL players," Bittle added beforeZimms could get a word in.
"I bet we could make some good plays out of it," Kent said.
Bittle sporfled a laugh and looked over at Zimms. Some in-joke there he was missing. Good for them, having in-jokes.
Zimms shook his head. "Let's just go to lunch and get this over with."
****
"That could've gone worse," Jack said, after Kenny left. They'd managed to keep the topic on hockey, and not the Falconers. He and Kenny had always been able to talk about hockey. And if they were going to keep trying to be something like friends, Bitty needed to not hate him.
"Mmm," Bitty noncommitally agreed. "Kent's not hard to like. So, he's gay, right? You two used to be together?"
"Did he tell you?" Jack asked. He was surprised; Kenny had always been more of a risk-taker than Jack, but someone as high-profile as Kent Parson didn't stay in the closet that long without learning how to be careful.
"I think he thought I already knew," Bitty said. "Probably thought that you confessed all."
"I wouldn't do that!" Jack protested. "That's not my place to--"
"I know, Jack, I know you didn't tell me, because I didn't know," Bitty said. "C'mere, I need cuddles."
When they were properly cuddled on the couch, Bitty added, "You might want to make sure he knows that you wouldn't, though. Next time you talk to him about something other than hockey."
Jack buried his face in Bitty's hair. Bitty let him for a second, and then pulled away to give him a stern look and say, "I know you've been chatting with him every couple weeks, Jack. When's the last time you talked about anything other than hockey?"
"Um. July?" Jack said, looking over Bittle's head.
"Boys," Bitty sighed fondly, and tucked himself back under Jack's chin.
****
When Kent finally got back to the hotel after the game with the Falconers - and that had been some after-game press shitshow, although at least it had been about 1000% better than it would have been if Zimms was still ghosting him - there was a pie in his room.
He didn't even want to ask how it got there. He was halfway sure Bitty was actual magic. It was sitting on the bedside table, sort of brooding darkly to itself.
"I'm not asking about the pie," Swoops said, staying carefully on his side of the room. "I am never asking about the pie again."
They'd shut out the Falconers, which wasn't really a surprise. Zimms was, as expected, eat-your-heart-out spectacular on the ice, and the rest of his line weren't half bad, but one decent offensive line with one world-class player on it (okay, maybe two) did not make for a team that could beat Kent's Aces. Zimms seemed to be dealing with the loss okay, at least better than he had in the Q, although that was an epically low bar. Kent scored two goals and tried very hard not to say "I told you so" anywhere in Jack's hearing. Bitty had apparently baked a pie.
"Thanks for the pie," he texted carefully to the number Bitty had put in his phone at lunch.
It got a checkmark but no reply. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. He looked at the pie. He was pretty sure the pie looked back at him.
"What kind of pie is it?" he asked. "It looks kind of... angry." He added an angry-face emoji and a couple of sweatdrops to illustrate.
"It's schadenfreude pie," Bitty texted back after a pause. "Nursey found the recipe online, it looked like shoo-fly pie only even richer, and also terrible, so I decided to try to improve it. I couldn't think of anyone else it would be appropriate to inflict my first try on."
It somehow tasted exactly the way scoring against Zimms's team felt: dark and sweet and triumphant and bitter and burnt and brilliant and like it was definitely going to sit in his stomach like a lump of coal tomorrow.
Regrets, he had a few. Eating half of that pie the night before he had to get on a plane and fly cross-country was probably going to be one of them.
It was fucking good pie, though.