#private label workout clothing california

[mariasmith01]

[bittysvalentines]

Careful Fear and Dead Devotion

To: @happyzimm

From: @doggernaut /RabbitRunnah

Rating: T, for mentions of alcohol.

Relationship: Jack Zimmermann/Eric Bittle

Characters: Jack Zimmermann, Eric Bittle, Bad Bob Zimmermann, Kent Parson, original child character

Tags: Jack Zimmermann, Zimbits, Jack Zimmermann character study

Happy Valentine’s Day, @happyzimm! I hope you enjoy this little Jack Zimmermann character study. I tried to incorporate some of the other things you asked for as well.

i.

Jack Zimmermann is five years old, and his feet don’t touch the ground.

He’s sitting in a hard, plastic chair at a table for two while Papa waits in line to order doughnuts. There are two Papas in this doughnut shop — the one standing in line, and the one on the poster behind the counter.

The Papa in line is wearing his home clothes: jeans, a t-shirt, running shoes. The Papa on the wall is wearing work clothes — his Pens jersey but not his helmet — and holding a doughnut decorated with black and yellow sprinkles.

Even though the real Papa’s back is turned to him, it feels like he’s watching Jack.

When Maman takes him to get doughnuts after his swim lesson she always takes him to the shop across the street from the rec center, the one with yellow tables and the smiling man behind the counter who always hands Jack his chocolate old-fashioned doughnut and cinnamon sugar doughnut hole before he orders. The one that does not have a picture of Papa on the wall.

But Maman is working in California — Jack has never been to California, but he knows it’s a place people go to work, because Papa goes there too — so Papa had to take Jack to his swim lesson today. Papa doesn’t know Maman always takes Jack to the other doughnut shop, and when he told Papa this is the wrong one it was too late. They were already here.

The boy behind the counter is much younger than the man who works at the other doughnut shop. He must be friends with Papa because he greets him by name and talks to him longer than he talked to the other people in line. Papa knows a lot of people.

“Told you that wouldn’t take long, Jacky.” Papa sets a sprinkle doughnut with white icing on a paper napkin in front of Jack and opens his chocolate milk for him.

Jack frowns and picks at the black and yellow sprinkles on the doughnut. He doesn’t like the colors, or the way they feel in his teeth when he chews them.

“What’s wrong?” Papa asks. “Not hungry?”

Jack is hungry. He’s always hungry after his swim lesson. He picks off a teeny tiny piece of doughnut — a part that isn’t touching white icing or colored sprinkles — and sticks it in his mouth. He eats the entire cake part of the doughnut this way while Papa eats his maple bar and an apple fritter. When he’s finished, all that’s left is a ring of sticky icing and sprinkles.

“All finished?” Papa asks when he notices Jack is no longer eating. “Do you want another?”

Jack thinks. It would be rude to ask for another doughnut, but Papa is offering. “Can I have chocolate?” he asks.

“Hey, Paulie!” Papa’s voice is loud in the mostly-empty shop as he waves to get the attention of the guy behind the counter. “Can I get a chocolate doughnut for my boy?”

Paulie comes around to their table and hands the doughnut to Jack. Jack whispers a “thank you” as Papa hands Paulie some money and tells him to “keep the change.” He winks and smiles, and it’s the same smile as the Papa on the poster behind the counter.

Jack takes a bite of the new doughnut and chews. The chocolate is rich and sweet. He takes another bite and swings his legs as Papa smiles at him.

ii.

Jack is 18, and he is so close to having it all.

“Drink up!”

The bottle Kent presses into Jack’s hand is cold and smooth except for the label, damp and wrinkled from condensation. Jack doesn’t like these parties and he doesn’t like the taste of alcohol. It burns on the way down and tastes like spite, a bitter, caustic thing that burns inside of him whenever Papa offhandedly remarks that Kent just might go first. Jack doesn’t like the way that feels, or the way he feels for feeling that way. But he likes the way he feels after a few beers, the way it makes him loose and brave. Kent says it makes him more fun. So Jack takes a pull of his beer and grimaces, quickly twisting his mouth into a smile when he catches Kent glancing his way.

One beer makes Jack loose enough that his smile comes more easily.

Two beers and the world starts to shimmer around the edges, suffusing everything with a nice haze that makes him feel buoyant and bold. When he’s on the ice he feels loose and free, not heavy and grounded the way he feels as soon as he removes his skates. On the ice he does the right things and the words come easily; people smile and cheer his name. Two beers in and Jack feels closer to the way he feels on the ice, his ever-present anxiety and self-consciousness fading into something palatable.

Three beers is the magic number. He can laugh at jokes made at his expense about that shot he missed and flirt with the girls who somehow always know where the team is partying. With three beers in him, Jack’s hand can find Kent’s in the dark and he doesn’t worry that he’s not really this brave. He doesn’t worry about any of it.

“Zimms! There’s girls here!” Rusty, yelling from the other side of the room, is anything but subtle. Though these girls, with their loud, exaggerated laughter, don’t seem like they value subtlety anyway. One of them catches his eye, a small blonde who doesn’t look away when Jack catches her staring.

Jack runs his thumb back and forth over the smooth label, wearing away a patch in the center. Bits of paper bead up and cling to it, turn gritty under his thumb. When he tries to brush them away they just stick to him.

“Awww, is Zimms gonna score again? Score on the ice, score off the ice, is that how it works?”

“Shut up.” Jack elbows Kent.

“Make me.”

Jack swallows hard, suddenly remembering exactly what he did to make Kent shut up last night, and the night before. He can’t do this right now. He shouldn’t do this ever. The one thing that matters, the only thing that matters, according to Jack’s father, is THE DRAFT.

That’s how he thinks of it, in all caps.

Tonight when Jack counted out his pills, there were seven missing. He doesn’t know how it happened. He’s good with numbers, at knowing the score at all times. He remembers the shots he made and the shots he missed, keeps a running tally in his head. He memorizes stats. Not just his, but those of every first round draft pick of the last five years, and those of every guy who has even been mentioned as a first round pick this year. He is constantly calculating his odds.

Jack is good with numbers. How has he lost track of the pills he’s taken?

Somebody pries the beer bottle, now warm, from Jack’s hand and replaces it with a new one. Jack didn’t even realize he’d finished the first. Jack takes another drink.

He is so close to having it all, and he is so close to losing it all.

*****

iii

Jack is 24, and when he swiftly pays for Bittle’s coffee, telling his teammate he’s “good for it,” he realizes he is. It’s not just that he can afford it because he’s about to sign an NHL contract. It’s also because Bittle is his friend, and Jack enjoys doing nice things for his friends.

Somehow, and Jack still cannot explain how though he suspects it has a bit to do with Bittle’s own grit and generosity, Bittle has become one of Jack’s best friends.

Checking practice, a morning workout that it turns out they both needed, isn’t really necessary anymore. These days, the early ice time with Bittle is just an excuse for an extra workout. Sometimes they even goof off more than they practice, a concept Jack would have found sacrilegious a year ago. They race each other around the rink, skating faster and faster until their breath comes in aching gasps. Or Bittle will pull out a jump, tentative and imprecise. “I know it’s not impressive,” Bittle says self-deprecatingly, “but just imagine if I had my figure skates.”

Bittle is wrong. Jack is very impressed. Somehow those words catch in his throat when he tries to voice them so he just nods.

Afterward, they get coffee. Jack drinks his black and bitter. “Like your soul,” Bittle once joked. Jack used to think that was true, but now he thinks that maybe he’s softened. More and more, he feels the way Bittle’s milky latte looks: lighter, cooler, sweeter.

Jack takes a sip of Bittle’s latte by accident and ... it’s not unpleasant. There’s an underlying smoky sweetness Jack’s own black coffee is missing, a richness that makes him yearn for a second sip before he hands it back. It’s not the worst thing.

“Good?” Bittle asks, eager and expectant, like Jack’s answer will reveal the secrets of the universe.

“It’s not disappointing,” Jack concedes.

“Well, for five dollars I should think not!” Bittle scoffs as they head back out into the cold.

Bittle wears gloves in 40 degrees and pulls his toque down low over his ears, and sometimes Jack catches himself wondering what it would be like if he could provide that warmth. He decides, when Bitty gives him a friendly hip check, that maybe he’s getting there.

*****

iv

Jack is still 24, and he’s in what his boyfriend just called “Southern-Fried Hell.”

Okay, not really. Objectively, Bitty’s MooMaw’s place isn’t bad at all. It’s the fact that he’s here, sweating profusely and trying to politely choke down a plate of terrible coleslaw, while every single Bittle and Phelps in the state of Georgia attempts to engage in polite conversation when all he wants to do is find a private corner where he can make out with Bitty.

Jack doesn’t even like coleslaw. It’s slimy and stringy and this particular coleslaw is oddly sweet yet somehow bitter and acidic at the same time. There’s pepper in it? Pepper, and something gritty that might be sugar or possibly dirt. Jack hopes it’s sugar.

From the other side of the yard, Bitty catches his eye and hides a smile behind a slice of watermelon as Jack explains his upcoming training schedule to some uncle or cousin or neighbor. He’s been introduced to so many people today, and it’s exhausting. Jack genuinely wants to get to know Bitty’s family, but he also wants Bitty, and only one of those things is possible at the moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bitty laughs as he cards his fingers through Jack’s hair later that night. “You did not have to eat Aunt Connie’s coleslaw. Bless her heart, she tries, but we all stopped pretending we liked it years ago.”

“I wanted to be polite,” Jack says. “Make a good first impression. My parents always made me try a little of everything at their parties.”

Bitty’s face does something complicated, a look equal parts pity and irritation. “Jack. I promise you nobody in this family is gonna think less of you because you don’t eat Aunt Connie’s coleslaw, or Uncle Hank’s ribs, or Judy’s potato salad. I’m not gonna think less of you. It’s enough that you’re here.”

Bitty presses a little closer to Jack, and Jack’s body registers every point of skin-on-skin contact: elbows, hands, thighs, calves. Bitty’s bare foot where it tangles with Jack’s. It feels like there’s an electric current running through each point, vibrating at a frequency only they can feel.

Or it could just be the humidity. Georgia in July is really fucking humid.

Overhead, the fireworks show is starting, far enough away that they can see but not hear the spectacle.

“Promise me,” Bitty says, corners of his mouth quirking upward, “that next year you’ll skip the coleslaw.”

It should feel scary, to make that promise when this is still so new, but Jack can clearly see the years spooling out ahead of them, years of avoiding Aunt Connie’s coleslaw and making small talk with the strangers he met today until they’re no longer strangers.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bitty sighs happily and rests his head on Jack’s chest, a pleasant weight that reminds Jack of everything he’s found since the day he lost it all.

*****

v

Jack is 36, and some days he feels every day of it. His shoulders and knees ache more often than not, especially when a four-year old is perched on top of those aching shoulders. When they walk into Bitty’s shop he gently lifts Evie from his shoulders and sets her down in front of the bakery case so she can look at the day’s treats.

“Chocolate old-fashioned?” Bitty’s sliding the doughnut across the counter before Jack orders. He knows his husband. Never once, in all the time he’s owned this shop, has Jack ordered one of the novelty doughnuts he keeps on the menu even though there’s nothing really “novelty” about Skittles or Hot Cheetos on top of a doughnut these days. They’re a holdover from the previous owner, who made his name creating Instagrammable confections. Bitty’s taken his original recipes in a different direction, experimenting with natural food dyes and delicate floral infusions. His creations have gotten some attention in local foodie circles, but most people come in for the classics.

Jack still doesn’t eat sprinkle doughnuts. The sprinkles, even the organic ones Bitty uses, still stick in his teeth and make them feel funny. But Evie loves sprinkle doughnuts. She especially loves it when her daddy hands one to her and takes a break to sit with them while she eats it.

“How was your swim lesson, sweetheart?” Bitty asks, a soft sigh escaping as he sits for what is probably the first time all morning. Jack listens to the two chatter happily as he picks at his own doughnut, chewing slowly.

Jack remembers sitting in a shop like this with his own mother, and — occasionally — his father. He and Maman would stop at the doughnut shop across from his swim lesson for “a little treat,” as she liked to call it. They always went to that one instead of the chain shop Papa had an endorsement deal with; it was a long time before Jack realized Maman intentionally chose the smaller shop because of its anonymity.

“That’s Papa.” Evie points at the poster on the wall behind Bitty, at a smiling Jack holding a cake doughnut topped with sprinkles, Falcs blue and yellow. After the last Cup Bitty had the idea to recreate the advertisement Bad Bob did years ago, and with time Jack agreed that it could be fun. Somehow, the photographer managed to capture Jack at the exact moment he saw Bitty and Evie walk in. Bitty says it’s the most natural photo Jack has ever taken.

“That is your papa,” Bitty says. “Remember, we took the pictures together and talked about how we were going to put the one of just Papa up here in the shop because his team won the Cup? How does he look?”

Evie take a bite, swallows as she tilts her head and considers the Jack on the wall. Suddenly, he recalls with perfect clarity what it felt like to be four or five and see another version of his father in a public space. The way it made him feel proud and shy and scared for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

“Happy,” Evie finally declares, swinging her legs and beaming up at her fathers. “I think he looks happy.”

[steffijones12blog]

[theauthorfiles-blog]

Meet Marika Ray!

TAF: Pull up a chair. Let’s break the ice shall we? Knowing that you have a love of the beach, let’s pretend that you are in a Jaws or Shallows type situation. You have to choose three people to help you fight off and survive the shark attack. A lifeguard, a paramedic, and a friend. Who would they be and why?

 MR: First of all, I would absolutely want my husband there. He’s so good at spotting things far out in the distance. Like he’s got some crazy bionic eye or something! And he used to be a lifeguard back in high school, so I’d definitely want him in this scenario as a lifeguard. For my friend, I’d want my girl Amanda. She’s pretty level headed and a ride-or-die kind of girl. She even swiped a huge bug out of my eye one time while hiking so I know she’d pull through in case of any shark drama. For the paramedic, I’d choose my grandfather. I know what you’re thinking: how’s a 97-year-old guy gonna help?? Well, you said pretend, so that’s what I’m doing! That man is the most multi-talented guy I know. He was in battle during WWII, he worked construction, he cooks, he reupholsters furniture, he even sewed tiny flowers onto my veil for my wedding. If a shark took a bite out of me, my grandpa is the man to put me back together.

 TAF: Okay now that we know how you intend to survive every beach lover’s nightmare, tell us a little more about you for my readers that haven’t yet had the privileged to curl up with one of your books!

           MR: My first book just came out on February 22, 2018, so I’m sure most of your readers haven’t heard about me yet! So…hi!! I’m a little awkward, but I own it, dammit! I am a Jill-of-all-trades. I’ve worked in physical therapy, special interest lobbying, internet start-ups, finance, owned my own business, and I love to write. Basically, once I get turned onto something, I dive in. Like, waaaay deep. If I have no interest, I can’t be bothered. I love learning new things and am ridiculously positive by nature. I feel calm and centered at the beach and I grew up in southern California, so the Beach Squad series is close to my heart. I’m a coffee addict and I love snuggling with my daughter. And lastly, I have a ton of stories floating around in my head that I can’t wait to get on paper!

 TAF: Have you ever Googled yourself?

           MR: I’ve googled my real name and there are some crazy pictures that show up…one of the reasons why I love writing with a pseudonym. lol

 TAF: Do you have an evil day job or do you write full time?

 MR: I have a part-time day job that I actually love. Not quite as much as writing though. I’m blessed to be doing exactly what I love to do.

 TAF: Do you see yourself in any of your characters?

           MR: Esa, in Sweet Dreams, has a habit of mixing up her phrases. That character trait was             totally written from first-hand experience! I mix my phrases up constantly…it’s bad…

 TAF: Do you listen to music while writing?

           MR: Yes, I usually have some easy listening top 40 type music in the background. Not loud enough that I can make out lyrics though as that derails my brain. I also diffuse oils on my desk. I basically try to create a really cozy experience so I continue to always love writing.

 TAF: What are your favorite hobbies?

           MR: Don’t unfriend me over this, but I love to workout!! I love the mental release of sweating and listening to loud music while I move my body. That doesn’t mean I’m a skinny little thing…’cause I also equally love to eat! lol Other hobbies are surfing (which I learned how to do at the ripe ol’ age of 38), reading (been a fan of books since I read Little House on the Prairie) and trying new recipes.

 TAF: What are your guilty pleasures?

 MR: Definitely chocolate and romance books, the spicier the better! The books, not the chocolate…

 TAF: If you could be one of your characters, who would you chose?

           MR: I definitely would love to be Bailey, Esa’s best friend! She is so sassy and doesn’t put up with shit from             anybody. I was always a bit shy and could have used some backbone in my younger years. It would be fun to live as her for a bit where you just say what you’re thinking, and everybody still loves you.

 TAF: If I were to buy you a book for your birthday or just because I am such total awesomeness, what genre would I need to scour?

           MR: Romance is my first choice, of course! But I also secretly love YA. I love all the angst and firsts and finding your power drama….it’s nice to read about it, knowing I’m well beyond that point in my own life! lol I also enjoy suspense and I have a few ideas of my own for some twisty suspenseful reads in the future.

 TAF: State a random fact about yourself that would surprise your readers.

           MR: I grew up in a religion that’s now been officially labeled a cult. Being graphic with sex scenes in my books has been a liberating experience, as that was totally taboo to talk about growing up.

 TAF: In closing, tell us a bit about your latest release (& share a yummy excerpt for those who aren’t yet familiar with your work)

 MR: My latest and first release is Sweet Dreams, a stand-alone novel in the Beach Squad Series. It’s about a lifeguard and his fearless lady, Esa. Her story shows you what a strong woman she is, yet she still has fears like we all do. In this book, she faces a stalker and she faces herself, seeing if she can open up and let love back into her heart after it’s been broken.

Excerpt

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 6, before they’ve become an official couple.

 I was just pulling my pjs on when Ivan knocked softly on the door. "Are you decent?" he called before stepping into the room.

"Just barely!" I said while my stomach went mushy. This felt intimate somehow. Wearing our pjs, talking in my bedroom. Like we were playing house together. I was nervous, but in a good way.

"Damn, I missed the show.” He teased me with a half-smile, half-leer. "Turn around so I can change too. Or you can watch, it doesn't bother me."

"Ivan!" I said, flushing red. I turned around and heard clothes rustling as he changed pants. I walked toward my bed and climbed up on the quilt and sat down facing him, sinking a few inches into the pillows.

 The red in my cheeks didn't go anywhere as I got to check him out with pajama pants hung low on his hips. His feet were bare and thank the Lord, he had nice looking boy feet. Feet weren't attractive most of the time and so many guys had nasty feet. Total deal killer. But not Ivan.

My eyes drifted back up, and I saw the sexy, male muscle bumps on either side of his hip bones. I think Abercrombie made them famous a decade or two ago. It's like they were arrows leading to the treasure. I could literally feel my lips burning as I thought about getting my mouth on them. Five years without a hint of a sex drive and I'd gone from zero to sixty in one date. I would have to turn on the ceiling fan to cool it off in here.

And then I took in the abs, and the pecs, and the biceps. All tan, all bumpy with muscle, a few strategically placed veins in all the right places. A faint scattering of dark blond chest hair tapered into a subtle happy trail, disappearing into his pants. Good God. My face burned even brighter and my eyes glazed over. That man was straight up lethal and I wasn't sure I could handle it. I mean, he was a California beach lifeguard. They made a TV show out of hottie lifeguards! He had to stay in shape for his job, he had women drooling over him all day, he took action in dangerous situations. And now he was in my bedroom, half dressed and looking at me with hooded eyes, taking in my pajama-clad self in bed.

He walked toward me and I swear it was more of a prowl than a walk. Not much to do but try to take it all in and burn it to memory. I could have jumped up and moved us to the living room, but the sexy side of me that literally just woke up from its long slumber wouldn't let me. I was frozen in place and I think Ivan knew it.

He reached the side of the bed. He lifted one leg, climbed up, and sat criss-cross-applesauce in front of me, knees touching mine. I could feel his heat and I was drawn to it, just like his familiar scent that surrounded me with him this close. He leaned in and touched his lips to my cheek. "Relax, Esa," he whispered against my cheek.

Author Bio

Marika Ray spends her time behind a computer crafting stories, walking the beaches of Southern California scoping out the lifeguards, and making healthy food for her kids and husband whether they like it or not. Prior to writing novels, Marika held various jobs in the finance industry, with private start-up companies, and then in health & fitness. Cats may have nine lives, but Marika believes everyone should have nine careers to keep things spicy. But definitely no cats, because she’s allergic to them.

 You can stalk Marika here:

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