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A very thin line separates jealousy, insecurity, and possessiveness—blurry and faint but indisputably there. Bitty is definitely not toeing that line, thank you very much. He is absolutely not jealous. He has no reason to be jealous. Really.
It’s a tumble of emotions he’s certainly familiar with, as much as he doesn’t want to be - they feel like ugly emotions, just the sound of them curled around his lips. Jealousy, he thinks, can turn ugly quickly, venomously. It’s natural, he guesses, but he doesn’t like it, especially when it’s dumb .
This, he thinks, is beyond dumb.
It starts like this: the Falcs get the 27th pick in the draft, and a speedy forward called Martin Cook heads to Providence for the start of the season.
He slots neatly into the team when the season starts up – not like he’d always been a permanent fixture, but because he’d worked so hard to fit in. He volunteered for the community outreach programs Falcs players had to do, offered to do photoshoots, that sort of thing. Bitty’s aware of this all dully in the back of his mind but it really is right at the very very back - he’s got way too much else going on. There’s recipes to write and workshop and heaven-knows-what-else for his book, vlogs to film and edit. And, of course, he’s got a wedding to plan - so, honestly, Martin Cook is the last thing on his mind.
Until, post-roadie, a cluster of games into the season, Jack offhandedly goes, “Oh, we’ve given Cook a name.”
“That’s nice,” says Bitty, manoeuvring himself past Jack to reach the fridge. He raps at it as he passes, the magnets and the little notes and the card Shitty had sent them when Bitty had officially moved in. His favourite is a magnet from an art museum; it’s Lardo’s art, bright and cheerful. Then he turns back to Jack, humming softly. He's learned to understand some hockey names just come, and others take longer. “Lovely, actually. Good he’s fitting in properly. Can you reach the muffin tins for me, honey? They’re on top of that cabinet.”
Jack does as he’s asked. “There you go.” He says, passing them down. He doesn’t even have to stretch to do so - Bitty likes it when he’s home for many many reasons but one of them is Jack saving him from reaching for the stool. Bitty takes them from him and carefully sets them on the side.
“Thanks,” replies Bitty fondly, “Now then - what are you calling him? You haven’t given the poor boy something awful, have you?” He’s a touch soft on the new rookies - they remind him a lot of his Frogs, sometimes, all wide-eyed. Some, not so much; some brush out onto the ice ready to drop gloves at a moment’s notice, more focused on proving a point to themselves or to the world at large than keeping their cool for the team. But this one - he’d seemed pretty okay. Bitty’s yet to meet him, but there’s a family skate, soon, so for now he can go off Jack’s tumbling anecdotes. (Which doesn’t give off too much information about who Martin Cook actually is, like, as a person, just that he was a good playmaker, Bittle, and he’s quick - not as quick as you, though, eh?)
“Oh, no.” Jack shakes his head. “We’re calling him Cookie.”
That name progression makes a lot of sense to Bitty - it’s only a step off his last name, really. Honestly, he’s surprised it took them that long to adopt it, and he voices the same to Jack. “You’re a creative bunch,” he teases softly, and Jack rolls his eyes.
“It’s not because of that,” he says, “Well. Mostly it is, I guess. But he brought cookies to the airport, and the guys chirped him for it, and he turned out he made them himself? So, Cookie.”
Bitty frowns at him. “Made ‘em himself?”
“Yeah,” Jack says, “He offered them but I already had that bagel you made me.”
“Oh, was it alright?” Bitty asks, pressing muffin cases into the divots of the tray. The cases are a touch crinkled.
Jack gives him a bit of a withering look. “It’s the same bagel you always make me,” he says, and then adds, “It was delicious. Thank you.”
Bitty preens, just a touch, and then tilts his head to the side. “Did the rest of the guys have ‘em?” He asks, and starts to deposit the muffin mix into the cases. He does this part with a cautious kind of focus – making sure the mixture winds up evenly spread between cases makes all the difference when it comes to the final presentation. Plus sometimes they dip in the middle if he adds too much or too little.
“Snowy and Poots had one,” Jack says, holding up a hand and folding his fingers down as he works through the list. “Tater had like - three? You know what he’s like.”
Bitty narrows his eyes. “I know what he’s like with my baking.”
“Oh, is this-“ Bitty doesn’t see Jack’s expression because he’s focused on scraping the batter out, right from the crevices of the bowl. He can picture it, though - the furrow in his brow, the crease he always wants to smooth out with the pad of his finger. “Is this because you’re worried that he’s gonna do it again, or something? He’s not going to - like, replace you. With the baking, I mean.”
“No. I don’t think he’s gonna replace me,” Bitty says. He pulls the spatula out of the bowl and tries the batter. It’s delicious, like everything he’s ever made. (Except for the one time he got sugar and salt mixed up but He Didn’t Speak Of That Time and neither did anybody else at threat of being banned from sampling his food ever again.) “Just think it’s a little funny, is all. Your dietitians are gonna have a fit if he does it again.”
This, he thinks, is when he first feels it - that awkward, undoubtably ugly feeling thrumming up his spine. He quashes it.
“I think we’ve only got space on the diet plan for one constant stream of pies,” Jack muses, and frowns at the bowl Bitty’s carting over to the sink. “What are these, by the way?”
Jack’s been here most of the time he’s spent pulling the batter together but Bitty is long-since aware that nobody else’s mind quite works like his does when it comes to baking, subconsciously partitioning ingredients into potential recipes, methodical. He swears he blinks sometimes and little annotations appear above the bakery section in the grocery store. “Strawberry peach muffins,” he says, “I used yogurt, too. And some white choc chips. You wanna try?”
Jack nods, and goes to get a spoon out of the draw. He doesn’t like to use any of the utensils that have already been dirtied out; Bitty doesn’t mind doing the extra washing-up, he’s just grateful Jack’s trying the batter. It’s taken years, he thinks, to persuade him to. Bitty slides the bowl across the counter. “All yours,” he says, “Pop it in the sink to soak when you’re done, alright?” He adds, and spins around to slide the muffin tray into the preheated oven.
That’s the last they talk about Martin ‘Cookie’ Cook for a couple of weeks; he picks up a head injury the game after that and concussion protocol keeps him off the ice. Bitty mostly forgets about it.
Until he doesn’t.
He comes back home from a meeting with his publisher - long, seemingly unproductive to him, but apparently very busy to her. Then again, he’s always been the kind of guy who likes to see physical progress rather than just conversation. Jack gets back just after six and Bitty’s listening to him talk about some new plays the team is developing when he goes “-and Cookie’s coconut bars were a bit of an incentive, so-”
“Coconut bars?” Bitty repeats, brow furrowed.
“Yeah, with like - dark chocolate, I think. I can ask for a recipe, if you want. I didn’t try one.” Jack says.
“I have a recipe,” Bitty replies, almost bluntly. Because he does and it’s a good one — coconut bars aren’t something he makes often ‘cause none of his friends seem to like them, but of course he’s got a recipe. “I just - he bought something baked in? Again?”
“Yeah.” Jack says. He sounds occupied - because he is - Bitty found a documentary series about the Aztecs playing on some obscure channel and he’s been steadily making his way through them all week. Today’s episode is about burial practices and weapon making and Bitty sure as heck is not going to interrupt that. “Anyways, next week-“ Jack changes the subject just as suddenly as it came up but the cogs are already turning in the back of Bitty’s mind.
After that, it comes up in conversation again and again. Cookie made brownies, the other day, Bits, and it was cake today, I didn’t have any, though. It’s very casual, whenever it comes up. Bitty doesn’t ever say much about it but he always ends up baking something for Jack to take in the next day. He doesn’t even really know why he’s got - it’s not even a problem. It’s just-
Well. It’s his thing. He can’t feed SMH anymore; they’re scattered to the winds (exaggeration, he knows that, but it’s different from them all being bundled up nice and smug in the Haus) so the Falcs are the next best thing. They’re his team – he’s gotten used to sending Jack off with a couple of boxes containing pies or tarts or cakes. He’s used to what they like, and it just feels a bit weird that someone else might be making little tweaks to their recipes to account for Thirdy’s mild cashew allergy or Tater’s fondness for overly-salty salted caramel.
The week or so before the family skate, Jack comes back from work and mentions how everybody had loved his carrot-cake cupcakes; but also how they’d been equally happy ‘cause Cookie had showed up with some blondies. Bitty’s spent weeks biting his tongue, but he doesn’t today.
“Okay, but, like, objectively,” Bitty picks up one of his freshly baked lemon tarts and takes a bite - the pastry is crisp, speckled with sugar, the lemon filling within is perfectly tart - before turning back to Jack. “Y’all like my baking more, right?”
“Bits,” says Jack, sounding faintly bemused. Bitty doesn’t get why - this all makes sense just fine to him , thanks. “I like your baking more. You don’t have to-“
“ You like it more,” Bitty frowns down at his lemon tarts. Maybe they could do with a pinch more sugar. “And - like, thank you, sweetpea. But does everybody like it more-“
“I think everybody just likes having two different sources of overly sweet food that isn’t meal-plan approved,” Jack murmurs, plonking himself on the couch beside Bitty. Bitty puts down the little plate with the tarts in favour of huddling into his fiancé’s side. “Don’t stress about it, Bits. Half of them don’t know their macarons from their macaroons, eh?”
“And you do?”
Jack taps his head. “Of course I do.”
“Good, ‘cause otherwise, we’d have words,” Bitty replies, mostly joking. “I just-“
“It’s your thing,” Jack says, simply, and nudges his feet up on the couch. They’re cold. Bitty makes a show of squirming away, and Jack laughs at him. “I get it.”
“Y’know,” Bitty stares down at his hands, “It’s not even that. Well. It is. It’s not like I’m jealous or anything of him, it’s just - weird to think about, I guess.”
Jack probably doesn’t get it. Honestly, Bitty’s not entirely sure if he gets it. It really, really isn’t that he’s jealous or any bullshit like that, he’s just - it feels strange. He doesn’t know any other hockey players with a fondness and a skill for baking. Honestly, he’d thought he was the only one. Which was a bit dumb in hindsight - it’s a common hobby - but - hey. It’s not exactly the worst thing he could be weirdly territorial over.
“Maybe you could talk to him about it,” Jack says, “At family skate.”
“What would I say?” Bitty has no intention of asking the kid to stop - if someone’s feeding the Falcs some good food on their roadies, then it’s probably for the better. But he just — he doesn’t even know what he wants; that’s the frustrating thing. Okay, well - maybe he does. Maybe it’s just ‘cause it’s his thing, even though it’s a dumb thing to keep to just him, baking isn’t just a hobby, it’s a lifeskill, in his opinion. Maybe it’s because he feels halfway responsible for feeding the Falcs and it feels weird to share that with some kid he’s never met. It’s an odd tumble of things but he knows that Cookie hasn’t actually done anything wrong , he’s just being weird about nothing. “I’m not gonna ask him to stop it, so - I dunno. Just like, hi, I’m the other guy with the pies?
“I think he knows who you are.” Jack says.
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” Bitty murmurs, ‘cause mostly everyone involved in the NHL in the past couple seasons knows who he is, even if it’s just in a sense of the guy Jack Zimmermann kissed on the ice.
“No, like, as in- he does-“ Jack sighs, and trails off. “I wouldn’t overthink it, that’s all, Bits. You haven’t been replaced, bud; Tater still bugs me literally every single day for more jam. Actually, I’ve been meaning to mention - did you know how old jam is? I read an article about it the other day; it’s so interesting. It’s one of the oldest forms of preserving food.”
“I know a little about it - like, uh, the oldest jam recipe is from Ancient Rome,” Bitty mumbles, still feeling a touch out of it, “But tell me more, honey. What else did the article say?”
Jack’s eyes light up, and Bitty listens to him, taking in every word.
He doesn’t think about Cookie again until the day of the family skate.
Him and Jack get there fairly early – even now, he needs a little bit to get used to it, the itchy feeling under his skin that he just doesn’t belong there never quite fully subsiding, just growing less overwhelming. He needs a little bit to take in the feel of the rink; to try and remember that this is normal, now.
It’s not even that it’s just Jack, now, alone in the NHL as the only out player - they’d started a bit of a spiral after that moment on the ice. And he’s known the rest of the WAGs (that term is severely outdated, he knows that in the back of his mind, and it doesn’t even fit him - but it’s catchy) for a few seasons, now, he just still feels - eh. He doesn’t even know. An odd sense of otherness.
He thinks it’s a product of his upbringing, a product of being a queer kid in a Bible Belt state, a product of being loud-mouthed and just a touch too flamboyant in a place he shouldn’t have been, of liking figure-skating more than football.
Whatever it is, it takes a few minutes after parking up in the lot for Bitty to feel ready to get out of the car. He’s bought pie with him, because he thinks Tater would have things to say if he didn’t. Sour cherry. It’s something he’s toying with adding to the recipe book; he’s undecided, he’s only got two pages left to play with and he kinda thinks maybe he should stray from the pie territory. (Then again - you could never have enough pie.)
The family skate starts without a hitch; Bitty shows Marty’s kids how to execute a perfect Y spin and almost does his back in on the jump. They watch him, almost awed, and so does Jack from across the ice. The kids don’t manage it but Bitty does which is more than he’d expected, his body isn’t tuned for figure-skating anymore. He gives a little bow as he folds out of the complicated, twisted pretzel-like position he’d assumed
Then around halfway through Bitty spots Cookie skating around the edge of the rink. He’s got - someone with him. They’re cautiously clinging onto one of the penguin-shaped support things the kids skate with. Bitty frowns at them - they’ve got a bobble hat on and a scarf obscuring their mouth, so he can’t make out any features apart from a smudge of greenish eyes and blond eyebrows.
They’re skating close enough that he feels rude not waving hi- he thinks at this point Cookie is the only Falcs player who he hasn’t officially met.
“Hey!” He says, the moment he feels like he’s within earshot. “Cookie, right? It’s so good to finally meet you.” He mostly means it.
He doesn’t know what to expect from Cookie. A stiff wave, maybe, or an awkward pass at conversation - not for the kid to look outright starstruck.
“Mr. Bittle, sir,” he says, “Oh, it is just so - wow. Jack said you’d be here, but - I don’t - it’s great to meet you.”
Bitty frowns at him. “Eric or Bitty is fine; Mr. Bittle is my father,” he says, his usual response to being called that .
Cookie just nods. “Right! Right. Of course.” He pauses, like he wants to say more, but falters at the last moment. Bitty squints at him.
This really isn’t what he’d thought would happen. He’s a little off-kilter.
He’s about to turn away and skate towards the kids again but the person Cookie’s with gives him a shy little wave, before turning back to Cookie. Their voice drops to an undertone but Bitty still just about makes out what they’re saying.
“Aren’t cha gonna tell him?” They say, their accent vaguely midwestern.
Cookie shakes his head tightly. He looks back up again, Bitty catches his gaze, and makes a show of turning around to adjust his laces. He can still hear, though, clearly enough. “Later, maybe.”
“But when are you gonna get another chance to?”
“Next family skate?”
“That’s ages away. Tell him.”
Cookie clears his throat. Bitty looks from his skate.
“Eric,” says Cookie, which is - weird, but not any weirder than Mr. Bittle , yikes. “I just wanted to say - eugh, this is so- surreal. I’ve-” he clears his throat. Bitty frowns at him. “I’m a really big fan, that’s - that was all. Jack might’ve already said.”
“No,” Bitty says carefully, “Jack hasn’t.” His mind races quietly — a big fan of him for what? He’s had a fair few people come up to him because of Jack, or for his vlog, or for being the first openly gay NCAA captain - he doesn’t know which one of those categories Cookie falls under unless he’s mistaken him for someone else. Doubtful, though.
Cookie blinks at him. The person he’s with touches at his arm lightly; Bitty assumes they’re his partner or something. He still can’t make out any features - now they’re closer, he can see sandy brown hair peaking out from the green beanie, curling around the nape of their neck. The green beanie is studded with pin badges - one in the colours of the non-binary pride flag. Which is - huh. Interesting. Jack hadn’t mentioned that anybody else on the Falcs was queer, but then again, Bitty doesn’t think Jack could pick up on that. Then again, they could just be friends, or something. They don’t look like siblings at the least, so he counts that out.
He shifts awkwardly on the ice. “Oh, it’s just - your channel, mostly. I used to bake as a kid, with my mom, and then I just? Stopped after I started taking hockey seriously but I always missed it but - you know, it wasn’t really - something hockey players did. And then, you know, you bake, and play hockey, so…” The kid trails off awkwardly. Bitty stares at him.
“You watch my vlog?” He asks.
The person beside Cookie - he’s gonna refer to them as Green Beanie until he gets a moment to ask for their name - Bitty straight-up sees their eyes light up. They tug down their scalf, and they’re beaming. “Oh, he watches it.”
“It’s -” Cookie rubs at the back of his head, “My mom showed it to me. It made me want to bake again, so - yeah. And that’s… our, like, welfare coaches? Always talked to us about how we need other hobbies than just hockey ‘else we’ll go crazy, so, yeah.” He pauses. “Has Jack mentioned my… the baking? To you?”
Has Jack mentioned, Bitty thinks. The weird tumble of - he hates, hates, hates the word jealousy, so he’s not gonna use that - an emotion he usually feels when Cookie’s baking comes up fades into the back of his mind. He laughs, in a startled kind of way. “He’s mentioned it.”
Cookie nods. “Yeah, I keep trying to - to offer him stuff for him to bring back to you but it’s very hard. Dude sticks to his meal plan like that.”
Oh. Oh. “Did you say that it was meant for me, or…?”
“Well, I said he could take it home and share it.” Cookie shrugs.
Bitty gets the feeling that the past handful of weeks of weird bakery-stemmed jealousy could have been resolved by Jack sharing information about Cookie that wasn’t just good, soft hands, or nice pace on the right. But - hey, no harm, no foul.
Also, he’s decided that Cookie could actually probably be a pseudo-frog if he squints.
“I’m mighty flattered,” he says, “Honestly. Gosh. Though, goodness, we better work out a baking rota ‘else these lot are going to end up upsetting Nate something awful.” Then he tilts his head to the side, and catches Green Beanie’s eye, “Also, sorry, my manners have gone right outta the window - what’s your name?”
They give him a wave with a slight wiggle of their fingers. “Harper,” they say, “I’m Martin’s better half.”
“Hey!”
“Oh, c’mon, you know it’s true,” they nudge him with their hip and nearly tumble onto the ice for the effort. Bitty starts and yanks out a hand, they don’t take it. “Seriously, Eric - I just wanted to say thank you. On his behalf. ‘Cause he’s not gonna actually say what he means, you ridiculous boy.”
“I was building up to it!”
“Hmmm,” Harper says, and leans closer, hands crossed neatly over the face of the penguin skating support. “Just - what you did for the support, like - the two of you, obviously, but mostly you - it meant a lot to him. So thank you.”
Bitty looks between the two of them - oh, right - and then nods. He feels a tad choked up. “I just existed,” is what he says instead of anything else, “That’s all.”
Cookie tugs at his jacket. “I didn’t think people like us were allowed to exist here, and you showed we could. So. Thank you.”
Bitty feels deeply awful for any ill-will he’s ever felt towards this boy and his baking. He decides to send him a copy of his recipe book the second he gets the proof copy, it’s probably the least he can do.
“Aww, shucks,” he murmurs, “Y’all are going to make me cry. Seriously.”
“Don’t do that,” Cookie looks seriously panicked, “Please.”
“I won’t,” Bitty still dabs strategically at the corners of his eyes anyway. “Goodness. Well! I - I’m gonna leave you two to it, seems like you’ve got some skating lessons to deliver, anyhow, but - you make sure Jack takes some of your baking back home with him, okay? I wanna try those coconut bar things he was talking about the other week.”
“It’s your recipe,” Cookie admits, a little sheepishly, “I added ground almonds, though.”
“Now that I have gotta try,” Bitty says, still feeling choked up. He nods at them both once again and elects to leave before he does something stupid like cry.
Later, once the family skate is over and he feels thoroughly wrung out and ready for bed, he turns to Jack with a quizzical kind of look in his eye.
“Hey, honey,” he says, “Didya know that Cookie was a fan of my channel?” He phases it lightly because - well, he knows Jack is unobservant about things that aren’t hockey, but after thinking about it for a while, he doesn’t think he’s that unobservant.
Jack looks at him and gives the faintest little smirk, all lopsided on one corner of his mouth, with twinkling eyes. “I might have had an inkling, yeah.”
“Jack Laurent Zimmermann-“ Bitty starts and leaves it at that because he’s just a boy, and it’s hard to be mad at Jack when he’s smiling like that.
A couple of months later, Bitty gets the first proof of his recipe book.
The ingredient list for dark chocolate coconut bars reads: 5g desecrated almonds and the credits in the back mention Martin ‘Cookie’ Cook.