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Jack hasn't had the time or heart to think about dating, but letting off steam by himself is getting a little boring. Something about the first note Eric left him hit him like a very strong static shock. It was just a few words and a smiley face left with some soup Eric made him specially when he found out Jack was home sick.
He's been eating Eric's food for months and it tastes better than other food. Zimmerman family meals were eaten in restaurants or were highly bland. Protein. Starch. Fiber. He's getting all those things with Eric's meals, which are tailored to meet each player's nutrition plan. Jack eats his dinners at home alone while watching C-Span. Eric's food makes that a less lonesome experience than it should be.
Eric delivers meals when everyone is at practice, to minimize schedule disruption. None of the Falconers have met the guy, but they joke about him like he's Santa. If you don't play better, Eric won't leave you dinner. He makes these tiny pies and they argue about which kind is the best. A few of the wives have met Eric and they all adore him.
The only staff member who's met him is Georgia. Jack and Eric have exchanged half a dozen silly notes and Jack is getting curious, but going on Facebook to look for a picture and details might be crossing a professional line. He asks Georgia what Eric is like. She smirks at him. "He's a southern gentleman. Cute as a button. You could put him in your pocket."
Jack's only ever been attracted to tall athletic types. So that should be the end of that. It's not.
That afternoon when he's on the ice he's only thinking about hockey, but once he takes off his skates and cleans the slush off the blades--he tries to imagine cute as a button. Tater chirps him for grinning at nothing. "Zimmboni. You look like you seeing cartoon birds."
Jack showers and changes. He is a highly paid NHL player and most of his life is taken care of by other people. They are good people and they do their jobs well, but the boundaries are always clear. They do what they are paid to do. Eric took time to make him soup and deliver it off schedule. He left the extra money Jack put out on the counter with a note that said, "Hon. It's not get well soup if you pay for it. -e"
People always want things from Jack or do what he asks because he is who he is. Based on half a dozen short notes and some soup, Jack suspects Eric doesn't operate that way. Maybe it's just wishful thinking. He comes home late and Eric has left him an extra pie with a note that says, "I won't tell if you won't."
He asks Eric in a note why his food tastes better than other food. It's a compliment, but Jack also wants to know. Not about the food. He wants to know about Eric. Where does he live? What color are his eyes? Is he left handed? Did he have a pet dog growing up? Does he sing in the shower.
Eric replies, "You're sweet. Cooking's not hard. Good ingredients. Some basic skills. And a lot of love. You gotta love what you do, right? ;)"
Jack replies, "I couldn't do it. I think you've got a gift."
Eric leaves a note with three pies. "Course you could. You just need some lessons."
Jack scrawls, practically illegible, "You offering." And writes down his cell number.
They text for a week before they can find a time. Eric says he'll bring groceries to Jack's. His emoticons confuse Jack. Many of them he doesn't seem to have on his phone.
Jack is so nervous when he let’s Eric in, he formally shakes his hand and bows slightly. Well. Eric is shorter and maybe he was trying to put him at ease. He doesn’t know. Eric smiles at him and Jack’s brains short circuits.
“Is this a shoes off home?” Eric says.
Jack nods because he has no idea what Eric just said. Eric toes off his shoes and his feet are small and shell pink at the edges. He stands with his feet turned out like a dancer and then bounces very slightly on the balls of his feet because Jack is staring at him like a creeper. Somehow there isn’t enough room in Jack’s mouth for his tongue. How has it fit in there all these years? It's scraping against his teeth now.
Eric laughs a little awkwardly and says, “Uh. I’ll just take these into the kitchen.”
Eric floats and Jack lumbers after him. He’s definitely too tall for this. Maybe he can bend slightly at the knees. He’s dimly aware that these are crazy thoughts, but Eric breezes by him to put something in the fridge and he smells green and succulent. Succulent is not a word Jack has ever used in his life.
Eric is emptying two bright orange bags full of ingredients and setting them out on the counter, talking a mile a minute about the fat content of European butter. He has sunglasses perched on top of his head. His eyes are a warm amber framed by thick pale lashes. His hair is sun streaked gold. Jack wants to run his fingers along the fine fringe at the back where Eric needs a trim.
Eric is brandishing a mango at him and talking about ripeness and juiciness and for the love of God. Jack wants to know what mango tastes dripping from Eric’s bow shaped mouth. He leans fake-casual against the counter, gripping it to keep from giving in to a mad urge to scoop Eric up and put him on the counter. He hasn’t entertained much, but he’s pretty sure that manhandling someone in the first two minutes they spend in your home is not the mark of a good host.
Before he can say anything coherent, Eric looks around. Opens a few drawers and cupboards and turns around frowning. Jack looks down at his white knuckled grip on the counter and Eric follows the movement.
“Oh, my God. Are you injured? I saw your last game. That hip-check looked nasty. You in pain? Tumeric is an excellent anti-inflammatory.”
“No,” Jack croaks and clears his throat. “I’m good. I– you?” Jack makes a circle around his face thinking it’s the international sign for, You are frowning. How do I fix it?
“What?” Eric laughs a little and scrubs at his face. “Do I have something on my face? Gosh. That’s so embarrassing.”
Jack shakes his head. His hands left streaky sweat marks on the polished black granite. He buffs at them with the edge of his t-shirt until his brain screams at his fingers to stop being weird. Maybe he hasn’t really been on a date in forever, but he’s not usually this wacky. And then he says out loud, “Wait. Is this a date?”
Eric turns pink. “Um…” He takes off his sunglasses and sets them on the counter next to the mangoes. He bites his lip, thinking carefully how to answer.
Jack wonders if he could fake H1N1, but is it bird flu or swine flu? His brain is dying. This is so bad.
“Oh, hon.” Eric lightly touches his arm. “Take a breath.“ Eric inhales deeply and Jack does the same, but only because he’s spent decades immediately mimicking things people tell him to do. “I don’t know if this is a date. If it goes well, let’s say it is.” Eric smiles again and it melts away enough of Jack’s worry for him to take another breath.
“Okay,” Jack says. There's a stray eyelash on Eric's temple. Jack reaches out and brushes it away with his thumb because he wants to. Eric inhales sharply.
"Eyelash," Jack says and steps back a bit. He holds it up for Eric to blow away, but Eric is looking at him now the way Jack feels. Slightly dazzled and feverish. Jack blows the eyelash away and makes a wish. It's a big wish. Probably too big. Eric must emit a magic pheromone that scrambles his thoughts.
“Okay, Mr. Chatty. There’s a slight problem here." Eric glances behind him. “Your kitchen is gorgeous, but you don’t have a food processor, do you? Or a good knife?”
Jack shakes his head on both counts.
“All right.” Eric starts putting the onions and parsley and things back in the orange bags. Jack panics and starts snatching the things back out as fast as Eric can put them in. Eric looks at him, a bit startled, but amused.
“Please don’t go,” Jack says.
“No.” Eric shakes his head. “I was going to suggest we both go. To my place. Where I have, you know, knives and stuff generally found in normal kitchens.”
“Oh. Okay,” Jack says. His toes curl up and he doesn't even care that he's acting kind of loopy, because Eric seems to like him anyway. Not because he's the Jack Zimmerman, but because he's Jack.
“All right then. Get your stuff, mister. Let's hit the road,” Eric says. There’s something so unfailingly sweet and kind in his tone that Jack bounces on his toes a little too.
“I’ll grab my keys and stuff. Just a sec.” Jack brushes his teeth and uses mouthwash and looks at the bottle of aftershave his mother gave him and decides against it. He doesn’t want anything to interfere with the way Eric smells: good enough to eat.
He lets Eric drive and they both laugh when Jack has to push the passenger seat all the way back. "All you hockey players are giants."
Jack smirks. "To you."
Eric swats him.
Eric’s apartment is north of Providence in a neighborhood filled with tidy triple deckers and bathtub Virgin Marys. He’s on the top floor. The rooms are sun filled. The walls are painted in eye-popping colors. It’s small. The kitchen is overflowing with things, but everything has a place. Eric syncs his phone with a small bluetooth speaker. "You like Beyoncé?"
"Who doesn't?" Jack wouldn't know a Beyoncé song if it nailed him in the face like a hockey puck. He's heard of her and this must be one of her songs.
Eric unpacks the groceries again. He should offer to help, but watching Eric move is too delightful. Eric glances at him a few times, but he seems comfortable being watched.
“Were you a dancer?” Jack says.
Eric giggles and literally flutters his lashes, which should be ridiculous instead of endearing. “Two time Junior Southern Regional Figure Skating champ, right here.”
“You skate?" Jack snorts. "Really?"
Eric raises an eyebrow and sets a hand on his hip. “Probably better than you.”
“You wanna bet?” It’s all moving so much faster than Jack expected, but he is crush-drunk.
“Maybe,” Eric says. “You wanna beer?”
Jack has never wanted a beer more, but he declines. “I don’t drink much.”
Eric opens the fridge and bends at the waist to rummage around, moving lots of bottles and mason jars. He’s not just graceful he’s supple. Jack balls his hands into fists and crosses his arms. Eric offers him a list of things and Jack seizes on the last one. “Uh. Fizzy water is good.”
He looks around the room while Eric gets him a glass, and ice, and a slice of orange. When he opens a new bottle with a sffffft and it sprays a bit and he rushes it to the sink, laughing. Eric’s home is bursting with life. He has so many things and each one probably has a story. Jack would like to hear them all.
He has a feeling Eric would cry laughing if he told him he eats his dinner while watching British Parliament on C-Span. He’d like to make Eric laugh so hard that he tears up. Jack can’t remember the last time that happened.
He sips the water and the bubbles tickle his nose. Eric pops open a local IPA and takes a deep drink. Jack watches Eric’s Adam’s apple bob and can’t find a comfortable way to stand. He shifts his weight back and forth.
If Eric notices he has ants in his pants, he politely ignores it. Jack doesn’t know a lot about southerners, but he feels like this must be a southern thing. Northerners just ask you bluntly what your deal is and tell you to chill.
Eric picks up a large knife and holds up one of the mangoes. “You ever cut a mango before?”
Jack's not sure he's ever had a mango, but he's not going to admit that. He shakes his head. Eric explains about the large flat seed and slices through the green and red skin. He deftly crosshatches the yellow flesh. Juice drips down his fingers when he turns the skin inside out. The little cubes of mango stand out erect like a stubby porcupine. Jack clutches his glass. He shouldn’t have thought the word erect.
Eric pops a piece of mango in his mouth and groans. “My God. It’s perfect. You've got to try it. You're going to die.” He doesn’t notice that Jack is a hair away from ravishing him and absently hands him a piece of mango to taste.
Jack stares at Eric’s outstretched hand, juice running down his thumb. He’s not sure what to do until Eric looks up at him and smiles that ten thousand watt smile.
Jack, moving very carefully, sets the water down and wraps his fingers around Eric’s small wrist. He licks the juice that’s snaked down to Eric’s thumb and works his way up to the mango. He sucks it into his mouth with Eric’s finger tips. Eric’s eyes drift closed and he hums, pleased. Jack lets Eric’s fingers free with a pop.
Eric’s eyes fly open. He’s breathing hard. “Oh, my. Are we gonna–“
“Yes.” Jack crowds Eric back against the counter and leans down, giving him a moment to say no, or push Jack away.
But all he says is, “Oh. Thank God.”
Jack moves slowly, still unsure, but Eric grabs his head and pulls him down. He tastes sweet and tart. They devour each other. Jack cups the back of Eric’s head and teases the wispy little hairs at the back. They’re silky. He only pulls away when it’s choice between kissing and consciousness. Eric’s lips are red and swollen. There are red stripes high on both his cheekbones. It’s a good look on him. Jack aches in the best way, but he doesn't want to rush this. He wants it to last for a long time. He used to hoard his Easter candy. He could stretch it out to last until August.
“I don’t usually do this. On a first date.” Eric scratches the back of his neck. Huffs a little laugh.
“So this is a date, huh?” Jack is wedged between Eric’s legs. Eric squeezes his legs against Jack's hips. He’s not going to dignify that with a response.
“We can stop if you want.” Jack is teasing. He tries to take a step back, but Eric hook his fingers into Jack’s belt loops and pulls him back. He’s small, but he’s got the long, lean muscles of a figure skater. This is my type, he thinks. Not small. Just Eric himself.
“You know that is not remotely what I want.” He pouts. It should look ridiculous, but when Eric does it, it makes his stomach elevator bounce.
“Oh. Thank God.” Jack teases and he dives into this kiss like it’s his first and his last. They make out like teenagers, fumbling and unrestrained, but not going anywhere fast. Jack pulls away the second time Eric’s stomach growls.
“I didn’t have lunch,” he says.
Jack taps the tip of Eric’s adorable upturned nose. “Show me what to do with mangoes.”
Eric throws his head back and laughs. He laughs so hard that he wraps his arms around his belly and thunks his head forward against Jack’s collar bone. When he leans away he has to blot a tear or two. Jack steps back and Eric is still giggling. It’s like when spring finally comes in late May and it took so long that you forgot what nice weather was like.
Eric presses his hands to his cheeks. “Lord. I am never going to be able to look at a mango again without having indecent thoughts about what I’d like to show you.”
“I’m not that easy." Jack laughs. “Make me dinner first at least.”
It’s surprising how easy it is, like they’ve been doing this for ages. Eric waves his hands around while he’s talking and cooking. His hands blur when he's working. He slices things so quickly that it takes Jack's breath away. But that's just the effect Eric is having on him. He walks across a room and it seems special, because it is is. They sit on the couch to eat and Jack finds himself talking more than usual. He steals sips of Eric's beer. When they're done Eric puts his feet in Jack’s lap. He rubs them and Eric sighs, content. He looks relaxed and happy and Jack can't stand not kissing him for another second. He reaches out and tugs Eric towards him, but pauses and jumps up.
He returns with half a mango and says, “Okay. Show me.”