Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Elena Rygg, George Grady, Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett, Shawn (Game Changers), Maria Villanueva, Background & Cameo Characters

Additional Tags:

Deaf Character, CODA (Child of Deaf Adults) Character, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Romance, Communication, Explicit Sexual Content

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-28 Completed: 2026-10-04 Words: 59,368 Chapters: 21/21

Signing Space

Summary

Scott meets Kip, and talking is easy. Finding his voice is harder.
(An AU where Kip is Deaf, and Scott is a child of Deaf parents)

Notes

Okay this Alternate canon will come as it comes (I have to do real life work at some point lol). This is a taste of the fic to come, with which I hope to explore Scott and Kip's communication and the ways in which their communication makes them visible to the world. Things will jump around so we can get different glimpses of Scott and Kip's relationship through this slightly different lens.

A quick note on the formatting of this fic:
-When Kip speaks via American Sign Language or via an ASL interpreter, his speech will appear in normal quotation brackets " ".
-If Kip or another character is lipreading spoken English, the speech will appear in italics.

I am not a member of the Deaf community, so any mistakes are my own!

Chapter 1

2017

The light for the final buzzer goes off, and the usual dissolve from visual clarity to chaos at the end of an MLH game is multiplied by a thousand as the Admirals win the cup. 

Kip watches the jumbotron from the stands as Scott’s sweat streaked face flashes across the screens above the blaring LED text: NEW YORK ADMIRALS MLH CHAMPIONS! 

The building shakes with the elation of a win on home ice after more than two decades, and the bodies on the ice slam into each other in a cluster of red and white as Scott and his line are swamped in celebratory hugs. 

“Great game,” Kip’s dad signs beside him, “So glad we could come, kiddo.” 

Kip nods, even as his eyes track one person on the ice. The celebrations are quickly schooled into an impromptu ceremony. The Cup gleams as it’s passed into Scott’s hands. The hands that had given Kip so much love, in words and touch. 

Scott had finally made his goal, and the Cup in his hands said everything that he had given up to make that happen.  

“I’m not sad,” he promises Elena, when she touches his face to wipe a stray tear. 

“You’re allowed to be,” she says, close and private in front of her chest. On the ice below, the stands spill out, wives and girlfriends and children rushing out to meet the players. 

Beside him, Kip can see his dad’s palms meeting, matching the rhythm of cheers and stomping that Kip can feel through the soles of his feet in the crowded stadium. He manages a smile, looking out over the ice, and when Scott turns to the crowd Kip makes sure that his hands are open, fingers splayed and shaking so that if Scott looks up he can see the applause that Kip is giving just to him. 

Scott’s eyes catch on him. For a long breath it’s like everyone else in the arena goes still. Kip doesn’t have his glasses, so the details of Scott’s face are a little soft in the harsh light, but Kip can see clearly when he raises his hands. They hang, in a long pause, and then speak:

“Come down here? Please?” 

Kip isn’t the only one who sees. Elena’s grip goes tight on Kip’s elbow. His dad pauses, his body turning toward Kip with uncertainty. The jubilance around them clutters as other people in the stands turn to each other with furrowed brows and puzzled slants to their mouths. 

Scott must see. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate.   

“I love you,” Scott says, with big signs, reaching out of the standard space so Kip can see. Clear to anyone who knows. “Please Kip, come here. I love you. Please. Let me show you.” 

Go! Kip catches on Elena’s lips out of the corner of his eye. She doesn’t want to pull him away from this with her hands. Instead she uses them to push him past her, toward the end of the row and into the aisle, until Kip is stumbling down the steps past the visual cacophony of celebration on either side. He makes it toward the boards, and doesn’t catch what Scott says aloud to the guard but he’s let through, until he’s just a few steps away and Scott is pleading: “Jump. Come over the boards. Please come.” 

Kip hops the boards, and steps through the gate Scott opens for him onto the rink. He has to give talking to hold tight to Scott’s forearms as his loafers skid over the ice, nearly frictionless. Scott tows him forward, closer to the busy gaggle of families and loved ones bunching around the cup. It’s like Kip is being pulled in by gravity. He manages to free one hand. 

“You don’t have to do this.” 

“No,” Scott says back, fingers closing sharply on the air. “I do.” His fingertips curl as he pulls his hand in toward his chest, matching the pinch of his eyebrows and the brightness of his eyes. “I want to.” 

Scott pulls him in, falling silent as his arm slips around Kip’s waist. 

I love you so fucking much, he says aloud. Their faces are so close Kip can almost feel the shape of the words coming off his mouth.

Held steady on the slick ice, Kip pushes the same sign into Scott’s chest. 

“I love you, too.” 

Scott beams. He pulls Kip into a kiss, and as his eyes close Kip feels the thunder of approval from the crowd in his bones.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Back to the beginning! Thanks so much for your comments, they've been so encouraging :)

Scott rediscovers a dead language on a random Tuesday in Tribeca. 

(Not that American Sign Language is dead. It’s probably one of the most alive languages there is. It was dead to him. That part of Scott had been dead. That part of him—the most important, essential part—had died, and it had hung heavy on his hands until he’d shaken it off and learned to only speak with his vocal cords and a hockey stick.)

He finishes a run, and looking for hydration and to escape the doubts of the commentary he’s punishing himself with he steps into the first juice bar he sees.  

It’s kind of an odd shop, with the overdone design and veneer of gentrification that tended to pop up in Tribeca and vanish just as quickly in six months. There are only one or two other customers with headphones and laptops in the far corners of the room, and there’s no music playing, which strikes Scott as kind of weird. That’s explained by the single employee slumped over behind the counter, his head slack against his chest and an art history textbook cradled in his arms. A speaker system with an ancient iPod classic dangling off an aux cord appears to be on the fritz. 

Scott approaches the counter, not particularly quietly, but when that and clearing his throat doesn’t get a response he clocks the paper sign on the counter, propped up in a cheap acrylic frame lying next to a well used notepad and pen. 

Hi, my name is Kip. I’m Deaf. Thanks for your patience while I take your order today!

The sign doesn’t match the branding in the rest of the shop, or the symbol button clipped below the nametag on “Kip’s” shirt. It’s like he brought it himself. Which seems like a, uh, shitty thing for an employee to have to do, but it’s unfortunately not Scott’s business. Under an unfortunate baseball cap, Kip is a good-looking guy, late twenties maybe. It’s barely eight AM and he’s already got a tempting growth of shadow over his jaw, hinting at either very careful grooming or an ease of facial hair growth that would have had twenty-year old Scott seething with jealousy. Maybe both, which is definitely not unattractive. 

Scott drags his eyes away from Kip’s jaw and the toned shape of his forearms to consider his next move. The service bell on the counter doesn’t seem appropriate for this situation, so Scott calls on his creaky childhood muscle memory and taps the guy gently on the sleeved forearm with two fingers. Kip startles awake, and when Scott gives him a tentative handwave, he practically jumps to his feet. 

“Sorry,” he says, both out loud and with a circled S shape on his chest. 

Scott only hesitates for a moment. But Kip circles “Sorry” again and Scott’s hands answer instead of his mouth. 

“It’s truly not a big deal.” It’s been years. It’s like no time has passed at all as Scott finds the signing space. 

Kip’s eyes catch on Scott’s hands and his eyebrows flick up. Oh, his mouth shapes out, obviously pleased. “Well, thanks for your patience,” he continues in ASL, “What can I get you?” 

They discuss smoothies and their stupid names, which require an interesting mix of signs and fingerspelling. Scott does his best to keep up with Kip’s expressive, metropolitan signs, wanting to keep the relaxed look of happiness on his face that he imagines Kip doesn’t get often in his job. He’s a really attractive man, and Scott takes advantage of the requirement to look at his strong hands and the shape of his mouth. 

He gets a laugh, a little loud in the nearly empty shop, when he struggles to remember the sign for blueberries, and it makes Scott forget what he was going to say next. Kip’s smile creases around his eyes and he’s so handsome. Kip’s eyes catch on him in return, and Scott’s face warms. 

It’s been a long time since he’s let himself look. The fact that Kip doesn’t recognize him makes the looking an even rarer pleasure. 

Eventually, Kip pauses before turning to the blender. “Sorry, if this is too personal. I just—” His fingers hesitate briefly, with an uncertain smile to match. “--I don’t run into a lot of Deaf guys jogging in Manhattan that I haven’t met before.” His eyes pass over Scott’s chest and hands again. “Are you new to town? Because there are resources I’d be happy to—” 

Scott cuts him off, realizing the misunderstanding a beat too late. “Thank you, but no. I’m not—” 

A car alarm goes off outside, and Scott jumps a little at the sudden noise that Kip clearly doesn’t hear. His brow furrows for a moment before he glances over Scott’s shoulder, no doubt catching the flashing lights that matched the blare of the horn. “Oh, sorry. You’re hearing. But you must know someone—?”

“My parents,” Scott confirms, leaving off the past tense. “I haven’t used it in a while, so sorry for the mistakes.” 

“No, it’s fine. You have good placement.” Kip studies him, interested. “You don’t sign like someone who ‘learned’.”

“I didn’t. I was ASL first, basically until kindergarten.” Scott pauses, a little self-deprecatingly. “It took a little speech therapy to catch up in English.” 

“Join the club,” Kip says aloud with carefully shaped sounds and an eyeroll before slipping back into ASL. His speaking voice is flat and round, nothing like the quick and elegant movement of his hands. There’s a dialect quality to Kip’s signs, not just in their speed but a flicker of something between his hands and his face. It takes Scott a second to match that with Kip’s obvious interest and realize the quality he’s noticing might be…gay. 

“You sign so fast,” Scott says, since commenting on the other thing would probably be a dick move.  

“No, you sign slow,” Kip flashes back with a grin. Then, thoughtfully: “Any chance you’re from Rochester?” 

Scott glances up from where he was checking out the muscle of Kip’s chest between his speaking hands. He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. I haven’t been back there since I was a kid.” He wiggles his fingers. “Is it that obvious?” 

Kip shrugs. “I know a couple guys who went to NTID. You have that Upstate rhythm.” 

That’s a name Scott hasn’t heard in a while. “My parents were faculty there.” He twists his wrists lightly after the verb, making the past tense clear this time, and Kip’s expression softens. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Scott assures him, then, laughing softly. “I guess I still have their accent, so there’s that.”

“Yeah. That’s nice.” Kip claps his hands together. “Anyway. One Blue Moon over Brooklyn, coming up.” 

Running the blender takes Kip’s hands, and it’s remarkably similar to how the loud hum would drown out a verbal conversation. Scott pretends to look at his phone, mostly so he can sneak a few more glances at Kip’s arms and back. More than once he looks, and Kip is already looking back.  

Eventually Kip slides his drink across the counter, and Scott tips one hundred percent, because he can. It’s harder to remember the adjustments to signing with one hand, and he doesn’t have a reason to stay, so Scott makes his exit. 

“Thanks again, K-I-P.” he says, spelling out the letters carefully. He turns to go, but Kip waves to get his attention. 

With a shy smile, he says, “It’s Kip,” tapping a letter K at the corner of his eye. A name sign. 

Scott falters over the gesture, something warm behind his breastbone. 

He has a name sign, too. He’d almost forgotten the shape of it in his parent's hands. The friends he'd had at school. 

“Thanks, Kip,” he repeats, using the sign, then: “I’m Scott.” 

He taps an S to his forehead, then drops to a light T tapped once against his chin. His parents had chosen it to echo his English name. Not the way it sounded spoken out loud, but the way it felt to form the consonants in the mouth. Tap-tap. Sc—tt. His dad had explained it to him when he was small, holding Scott’s tiny hand to his throat so he could feel the way the K clicked and the T tapped. It was a name Scott could see, feel, and hear. 

Scott hasn’t been called by his name since he was a child. 

“Scott,” Kip repeats the sign, shaping the same click and tap of the consonant sounds. “It was nice meeting you.” 

"You, too."

Scott steps back out into the noisy street, something nervous and happy tingling through his extremities. 

He has a feeling he’s about to get really into smoothies.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

A quick chapter, getting a little taste of Kip's community! Thanks for all the lovely comments, despite the blips with ao3 (thanks volunteers for all your hard work!).

“This guy signs?” Shawn asks, skepticism written heavy across his eyebrows. 

They were occupying their usual segment of bar top at the Kingfisher. Kyle behind the bar was bilingual and didn’t mind keeping the lights up so they could see, and in return Kip and his friends had established the place as the premier hangout for overworked ASL users in the Village. 

Kip is testing his friends’ loyalty to the core, forcing them to watch not only sports but televised sports with deeply shitty captions. This is how we’re going to spend the few hours a week I get to spend with my hearing aids off? Shawn had complained, but Kip had insisted, and now he’s watching Scott Hunter zoom around the ice, a bright 21 emblazoned on his jersey. 

“Oh, he signs,” Maria interjects, flicking her eyebrows. 

“Like he’s from the sticks, but yeah.” Kip is a New York baby, so it’s always weird to meet someone who can sign fast but does it slow on purpose. “He said he’s a CODA. Didn’t speak English until he was like six.” 

“What the fuck?” Shawn practically flings the signs across the bar. “Why isn’t this guy doing ads for us?” 

“Ads for who? All Deaf people?” Next to Kip, Maria snorts over her contraband box of chow mein.

“Yes, girl.” Shawn continues. “Get a beefy hockey star in front of a few cameras doing Simulcom and give Nyle DiMarco a vacation.” 

“Nyle DiMarco is doing fine,” Kip replies with no little sarcasm. 

“He’s exhausted. Put this man to work!”

“He’s busy. He’s doing…this.” Kip gestures at the screen. “Hockey stuff.”

“And flirting with you.” Maria traitorously insists. She leans in to tell Shawn with relish: “He gave him his tragic childhood name sign. It was some Mr. Rochester shit.”

“I’m sure he didn’t know you were spying when he shared that,” Kip retorts, but Maria and Shawn are rapidly signing past him about his own delusional love life. 

“Enough,” he signs eventually, slicing into their gossip with the cut of his hand. The game catches his eye again as a new score flashes across the screen, and a replay shows number 21 slinging a shot into the net. Scott Hunter pumps his fist onscreen, and Kip does not mind taking in that little display of testosterone. 

“Oh my,” Shawn admits, as the camera cuts briefly to a close up that shows off Scott’s broad shoulders and square jaw. “I’d like to hear what those hands have to say.”

Kip hums his agreement, then sighs. “Well, it’s whatever. He’s hearing. He’s definitely not gay.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re blushing—”

“He looks like that? Girl, make him gay—”

Hands fly and Kip barely gets a word in edgewise for the rest of the night. 

On his next shift, Kip has been blessedly free of counter and notepad duty, until Maria jumps up from her stool around nine.

“Oh my god, he’s here again.” Maria waves Kip urgently into her spot with close, tight signs, turning so her cochlear implant isn’t visible to anyone coming in the door. “Take that stupid hat off, and don’t tell him I can hear him. I want to see what he says.”

“Eavesdropper,” Kip signs sharply, scandalized, but Maria just grins and pretends to be busy with the dishwasher. The door swings open and Kip just has time to whip off his cap and run a hand through his flat hair before he’s facing Scott Hunter once again at the counter. 

“Nice to see you again, Kip.” Scott taps Kip’s name sign, looking absolutely dad-hot in a half zip that tragically hides his abs but makes his shoulders look even broader. 

“Nice to see you, too, Scott.” 

Scott’s eyes trip over the shape of his name on Kip’s hands, and they linger on his face. Kip almost doesn’t want to continue. “Scott…H-U-N-T-E-R?” He fingerspells the last name, and points to Scott’s photo on the cover of the newspaper lying on the counter. “That’s you, right?” 

Scott nods after a second, smile going a little hesitant. “Yeah, that’s me.” 

“You played a great game last night.” 

Scott’s sheepishness vanishes as his eyes light up with something Kip can’t define. Interest, maybe. Focus, definitely. “Did you watch?” 

God, Kip is sweating under this man’s attention.  

“Yeah. I don’t usually—” The words are already past the tips of Kip’s fingers before he catches himself and winces. “Sorry, that was rude. I—live TV isn’t always the best way for me to enjoy sports.” 

Scott waves him off. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“I watched the playoffs with my dad last year,” Kip volunteers. “He’s hearing—and a big fan, by the way—so he signed all the commentary for me. Explained the rules in detail.”

Scott laughs, still looking pleased. “Well, that’s cool. Signed is how I first learned the rules of hockey, too.” His eyes duck, and his smile turns almost shy. “But you watched last night?”

“Yes. Very cool. Impressive.” Kip cannot be imagining the way Scott’s eyes flick from his hands to his mouth, and back down to his chest. Scott jumps, reacting to a sound, and Kip turns to find Maria reaching for the mop after very conspicuously dropping a whole blender canister in the full sink. 

Sorry, she says aloud, eyes flicking wide at Kip. Cut it out, he mouths back, before turning back to Scott. 

“Anyway,” Scott continues, seemingly oblivious. “When something goes right with my game I try to repeat it, then I try to perfect it. …so can I order another smoothie?” 

“Anything I can improve?” Kip realizes they are both definitely leaning forward across the counter a little. 

“No,” Scott replies, fingertips meeting crisply. His eyes are on Kip's hands. “It’s perfect the way it is.” 

Kip makes another Blue Moon Over Brooklyn and Scott leaves him another ten-dollar tip. 

“I’ll see you next game day, I hope,” Scott says, picking up his to-go cup. He leaves, but not before turning for one last look before the door swings shut behind him. 

Kip turns to Maria, trying so hard to be chill and normal.

“Okay, that was a lot of eye contact, right?” 

Maria holds up a hand to stop him. “I’m texting Elena,” she says one handed before she puts her phone down to make her official declaration: “He’s obsessed with you.” 

Okay, Kip is so on shift with the wrong friend to help him keep a level head about this. “Maria, please.” 

“He wants your body, and he’s willing to leverage his sad childhood to get it.” 

Kip just drops his face in his hands with a groan. It helps hide the fact that he’s smiling through his fingers. 

It’s totally crazy. 

Maria is crazy.

Right?

Chapter End Notes

Next: We all know where this is going ;)

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

This chapter is--somewhat ironically--about sound.

When Scott was a child—old enough to read but too young for hockey to have taken over yet—his mom would bring him out to the wide swing on their back porch after dinner, when the evening had gone dark and warm. She would light a candle to keep the bugs away, and turn on the porch light over her shoulder. Scott remembers the light, the way it caught on the curly edges of his mom’s short, practical haircut. They made a little warm cocoon, a fleece blanket thrown over their laps at the edge of the dark backyard. 

“Will you tell me a story,” his mom would ask, “About all the things you can hear right now?” 

Scott would listen so carefully before raising his hands, because he wanted to tell his mom a good story. He would wait, and listen, while his mom rested her eyes, until something new caught his attention. Then he would tap her arm:

“There’s a car driving by, and its engine is loud. The engine is so loud it makes the insects stop singing. The night is very quiet around the loud car. The car must be old, maybe from before I was born, because my teacher says that new cars have quiet engines…”

Scott can see now how it was a way to help him develop his signing alongside the English he was learning at school. His mom was helping him learn to translate his perception of the world into physical signs moved around space. Not just the necessary signs of everyday life, but abstractions—poetry, as much as a seven-year-old could understand. She would tap his wrist to show him a new sign, or to help him place nouns and return to them later in the story, or to say how something happened just now vs. yesterday vs. before he was born. She was helping him so that as Scott grew up as part of the hearing world, he would always be able to tell her his stories: the ideas that he had and what was in his heart. She was helping him find his own voice across two languages.

Long after his mom passed away, Scott still found himself imagining the stories he would tell her. It helped him think things through, the exercise of translating. It helped him keep his patience.

Like at this gala. 

What are you hearing right now, Scott? 

I’m here with an awful woman, and her voice is high and loud. Everyone’s glasses keep clinking and it sounds like people laughing unkindly. The food is boring, and hard to eat. It would make it hard to talk, if you were here, because it’s messy and there aren’t enough napkins. 

Scott plays this game behind his friendly smile and attentive nodding, so he isn’t paying enough attention when a waiter pops through the kitchen door they’ve drifted in front of. Scott barely registers the hard bump of a shoulder into his before a tray of brie bites go flying, mostly into his shirt front. He doesn’t recognize the wordless shout, but he recognizes the hand that automatically circles “Sorry, sorry,” against his chest as Kip dips down to grab the tray that he’d dropped. Scott flaps his hand, just a little, to get his attention, and when Kip looks up his eyes go round. 

The last time Scott had seen Kip, he’d been sitting in Scott’s reserved seats. Kip had said you all look like sexy lumberjacks about Scott’s playoff beard and Scott had offered him his tickets and Kip had said yes. 

He came to my game. I won that game for him.

Much more belatedly, Scott remembers that a lot of people know him here. None of them know about his parents and none of them know he has a reason to be able to talk to Kip. 

Scott doesn’t want anyone here to look at him. He doesn’t want this woman to see his hands move and make it something to interrogate, or worse, fawn over. Instead, he lightly touches Kip’s shoulder. 

“Ok?” He asks aloud, with a subtle sign held close to his chest. Kip glances between Scott and the woman bemusedly, but he nods instead of signing back. 

“Sorry again,” he says aloud carefully, picking up his spilled tray. 

“It’s really fine,” Scott says in English, making sure Kip’s eyes glance over his mouth. His conversation companion sighs pointedly. 

“New York used to have professional waiters. Now it’s all just models who can’t carry a tray.” 

“He obviously didn’t hear us through the door, it’s no big deal,” Scott says with a careful friendliness, pointing to the subtle badge Kip has pinned to his vest. Luckily the woman registers Scott trying to steer her away from making an embarrassing scene over a server’s disability. 

“Right, well,” She says stiffly. “If he’s capable of the job he should know to be careful.” 

Scott ignores that. Kip vanishes back into the kitchen, but Scott finds him every time he slips back into the room with another tray. At one point Scott catches his eye, and with a frisson of panic alongside the desire, Scott winks. 

Kip smiles as his eyes drop from Scott’s face down his body in a clear, slow look. Another server catches his attention with a tray of champagne, but Scott knows he’ll be able to find Kip again.

This is my chance.

Scott has a really nice apartment. Scott has—hnng—a really gorgeous body, when Kip turns from looking out over the Manhattan skyline to find that Scott has stripped out of his tuxedo shirt. 

“I can give you the full tour,” Scott offers. 

“No.” Kip draws close. Scott reaches out to touch him for the first time, drawing his hands over Kip’s forearms. His wrists. His eyes are everywhere in the dim light, like looking at Kip in his catering get up is as erotic to him as all the bare muscled chest he’s just put on display. 

“I want—” Scott’s hands falter, and he swallows. “I don’t know the signs for this.” 

“I’ll show you,” Kip promises. Scott traces the backs of his fingers up Kip’s tie. 

“I want you to come to bed with me.” 

“I will.” 

“I want you to sleep with me,” Scott scowls over his literal translation. “—not sleep—” 

“Have sex,” Kip says, making the sign twice, clear and slow. “Fuck.”  

“Yes.” 

Kip wants that too, so he steps too close to sign. Scott—so hungry, how did Kip not see how hungry he was for this?--slides an arm around Kip’ back and tugs until they can be kissing. Scott’s beard scratches against his mouth along with the rumble of his voice as he groans and his hands go tight in Kip’s shirt. Kip parts his lips, closes his eyes, and lets Scott take them where they need to go. 

He’s physical. He’s so physical, pulling Kip into bed until his feet are practically off the floor. Scott pushes and pulls with so much control over his body except for the need trembling in his hands as he tugs Kip up by his shirt collar and slips the buttons loose. He pushes Kip flat on the bed until Kip can feel the stretch in his shoulders and lower back. He pushes in close to suck kisses into Kip’s chest and neck and jaw. Scott rolls his whole body forward, smoothing his weight over Kip’s biceps and chest and the rise of the erection in his dress pants until Kip is gasping. Scott is so hard against him. His cock feels heavy and right. 

Kip tries to follow Scott’s mouth when he pulls back. Scott is like a tide pulling him across the bed, but this time Scott holds him back. Kip fits his hands to the swell of Scott’s bicep and holds on.

Wow, Scott’s lips move as he stares at Kip’s exposed chest, eyes dark. “You’re so beautiful.” He sweeps the sign over Kip’s face, and again over his chest. “So beautiful.” 

His fingertips drag through the coarse hair on Kip’s chest and it raises goosebumps to his skin. 

“I can’t believe you want me.” 

“I want you.” Scott pulls the sign hard. He laughs, even as the intensity of it furrows his brow. “I want you so much.” He balances on an elbow so he can kiss Kip again, dragging his mouth across Kip’s lips and into the tender corner of his jaw. Kip can barely see when he says, like he almost meant it for himself: “I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

Scott has reach, and he has strength, and he has so much tenderness as he kisses his way down Kip’s chest, smearing his face into the swell of Kip’s pec, his underarm, and the rise and fall of his toned stomach. His hands are everywhere, until they’re on the fly of his pants, pulling down his zipper as Scott stares up from beside Kip’s hip with bright eyes. 

“Let me?” The sign is small. Shy, but clear. Yes, Kip says aloud, hands too tight in the pillow under his head to let go and sign something so obvious. 

Kip had followed Scott home, schooling his expectations. A hookup with a professional athlete wasn’t his worst decision—by far—and it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if Kip had ended up on his knees—or hands and knees—so that Scott Hunter could kick him out after and still convince himself he wasn’t that gay. 

Instead, Scott sucks his cock like it’s something he’s dreamed about. He’s—god—his mouth is so warm and wet, sucking Kip with the unselfconscious enthusiasm of someone who rarely gets to practice. One of his hands—the arm not wrapped all the way around Kip’s thigh, holding him in place like he weighs nothing—finds Kip’s chest again, palm circling over his nipple, and Kip knows he must cry out, catching Scott’s hand and holding it there as Scott takes him deep and Kip can feel the clench of his throat. 

Kip manages to slit his eyes open past the pleasure, and Scott isn’t looking at him. His eyes are closed, his brow furrowed, his mouth wet and his jaw pried open around the thickness of Kip’s cock. His grip is leaving white fingerprints in the tender muscle of Kip’s inner thigh. Scott groans, and Kip can feel it all the way up his spine. 

Scott is blissed out on it. Oh, he needs it. 

“Baby, baby yes—” Kip doesn’t even know if Scott can see it. He’s basically knocking the shape of signs against Scott’s face as Scott takes him in his throat. Eventually Kip can only hold on. He finds a grip in Scott’s hair—which earns him the soft buzz of another groan—guiding his pace. He tries to tap, when he gets close, but Scott just taps a quick soft “no” back against Kip’s chest. 

Kip comes, and Scott swallows like it’s his job. He pulls off, breath moving through him like an earthquake rolling over a mountain. He breathes in hard against the crease of Kip’s hip until the air pulls cool against Kip’s sweaty skin, like Scott wants his scent in his lungs. Kip flaps his hand, gets a grip on Scott’s shoulder and pulls him up so he can lay his weight on him. Scott is still so hard, but he says nothing, contentment written across every slack muscle in his body. 

“Good.” Kip says with sloppy hands. “You’re so good. You took me so deep.”

Scott soaks in the praise, mouth pretty and used as he drops eager kisses on Kip’s face. Kip catches him and licks the taste of himself out of Scott’s mouth, sharing his warm breath. 

“Your sounds are beautiful,” Scott signs with pleasure shaky fingers when they part. 

“My sounds?” Kip repeats. “Sorry, was I loud?” 

“No.” Scott’s hands still, uncertainty clouding his features, until he smooths a hand up and down Kip’s chest, fingers catching on his chest hair again. “That makes a whisper sound,” he says with one clumsy hand, pointing to where he’s touching Kip’s skin. “Beautiful.” 

Scott dips down to kiss him, mouth parted as their lips slide together hungrily. He pulls away and their damp skin clings. “That’s a wet sound,” Scott continues, tapping Kip’s mouth, “It makes a smack when we stop, like it feels. A sticky sound. It’s beautiful.” 

Scott nuzzles into Kip’s jaw, leaving a nipping, sucking kiss in the shadow there until  Kip shivers, oversensitive. The pleasure of it buzzes in Kip’s voice box and Scott touches the pad of his thumb to Kip’s throat, so gently. “That’s the sound I heard when I made you come,” he says, beaming, “And when I touched your chest. It’s a beautiful sound. It’s low and warm. Not your voice, I know, since that’s here—“ He taps Kip’s hands. “But a man’s sound. I like it.” 

Kip holds the shape of Scott’s bristly jaw in the stretch of his palm. Scott blinked slowly, wetting his lips. 

“Is it okay to tell you that?” 

“Yes.” Kip kisses him. He kisses him for the pleasure he gave him, and he kisses him for giving him the poetry of his own voice. “Scott, yes. Come here.” 

Kip fits his hand to the hot and hard shape of him through his boxers, and Scott has to hide his face against Kip’s throat as his hips jerk helplessly into the motion. Kip tips Scott onto his back so that he can admire him while he spits in his own hand and finds the slit in Scott’s boxers. He works him, smoothing wet up and down until Scott is twitching and trembling. His cock is gorgeous, blood hot and thick in Kip’s hand. Kip doesn’t want this to be all he gets of it. He wants to be fucked. He wants to see the bliss and need on Scott’s face again if Kip ever gets to fuck him. Kip doesn’t want this to be their only night. 

Eventually, Scott’s hips start to flex in his need, and Kip dips down to finish him with his mouth. He fits his shoulders between the bulk of Scott’s thighs and lets Scott set the pace a little, taking the light thrusts against his tongue. Their mutual sweat is tangy in the air, and Kip enjoys giving head in a way he hasn’t for a while, learning Scott’s body with his hands and mouth. 

When his thrusts finally grow more urgent, Scott finds Kip’s hand and fits it to his throat and then Kip can feel the sound of Scott’s pleasure. The buzz and shudder of his voice and breath. Scott comes like that, to the barely there pressure of Kip’s palm under his jaw. Kip tastes Scott’s pleasure, and feels it, and smells it, and it settles in him, complete. 

They catch their breath and Scott cleans them up. He doesn’t show any sign of kicking Kip out. On the contrary, he wants to pull Kip into bed, under the sheets. He wants to kiss. He wants to be held and hold Kip in turn. It’s so sweet, and weighted down by pleasure and exhaustion Kip doesn’t interrogate it. He gives Scott all the little touches he’s so clearly gone without, and soaks up his gratitude. 

“Please don’t stop,” is the last thing Scott says, the signing space so small between their intertwined bodies. “Please keep your hands on me.” 

Kip rests his eyes, and the only sense between them is touch. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for all the lovely kudos and comments so far! I hope you'll let me know what you enjoyed here :)

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

The category is: light

Kip usually slept with a light on in his room. He had a sleek, grown up plug-in for the outlet beside his bed. He could set the timer so the light shifted from cool blue to warm white. He’d had it for a few years, just one in a long line of night lights which made it so he could always open his eyes and orient himself. 

As a kid, it had become a game with his dad. Kip was afraid of the dark. Lots of kids were—but Kip got dizzy in the pitch dark. Nauseous. He fell out of bed once and bled enough that he needed a stitch above his eyebrow. Eventually they figured out that Kip was a little farsighted. Waking up in the dark without sound to help him find the edges of the room, the slight blur that made it harder to see his own hands was enough to make him panic. 

After the doctor’s visit to have his inner ear checked, Kip’s dad had walked his four-year-old son to the corner bodega, where they had chosen his first night light together from the limited options. It was a lengthy debate between the Virgin Mary and a Yankees baseball. To the relief of all, the little plastic Virgin ended up coming home, and Kip slept easy through the night under her watchful glow. 

After that, a trail of novelty lights found its way from Kip’s room to every floor outlet in the house. First it was a Statue of Liberty in the hallway, then “I Heart NY” appeared at the top of the stairs, and a little bubbling fishbowl in the bathroom. Kip’s dad went to a teaching conference in Philly and then there was a Liberty bell glowing beside the phone jack in the kitchen. Long after occupational therapy had helped Kip past his nighttime proprioception issues, George brought lights home, so Kip would laugh, and so he would never be afraid of the dark again.  

Scott’s bedroom lights are on a dimmer. They’re still casting a warm glow when Kip slips out of bed and starts looking for his clothes. He’s finding his belt in a shadowy corner when the lights briefly swell bright and soften again, and Kip turns to find Scott’s hand on the switch. (Kip savors the little sign of cultural fluency—not a typical part of his hookups trying to get his attention.) 

“What are you doing?” Scott asks, hair fluffy from sleep. He looks so soft, the light bouncing off his warm skin and the slope of his muscled shoulders. 

“I didn’t want to wake you up.” Scott had fallen asleep so quickly and heavily. An athlete’s habit. “You have a game tomorrow, so I thought—” 

Kip falls still as Scott wordlessly extends a hand to him. 

They haven’t held hands. Kip doesn’t hold hands a lot. He’s busy talking, or he’s busy working, or he’s busy with the kinds of guys that aren’t really in the market for handholding. Scott reaches out, draws Kip close, and holds his hand, brushing his thumb over Kip’s knuckles for a long weighted moment. They have to let go so they can talk, but for the length of that moment Scott looks at him with so much peace. He knows what it means to take that moment to be silent. When he eases their hands apart, drawing the tips of his fingers against Kip’s palm, it’s to ask: 

“Can you stay?” 

Kip nods, eyes tracing the soft lines of Scott’s face. 

“Then stay. Please.” 

The light glows warm behind Kip’s eyelids as he closes them to focus on the push and pull of Scott’s mouth against his. Scott eases them back into bed together, Kip’s weight slung over his lap as they trade heavy kisses without expectation. It’s a steady, comfortable present, sharing their desire without the edge of urgency from earlier. 

“I do have to sleep,” Scott signs after a moment. Their faces are tipped together, both looking down at the conversation between their hands. “But I want to sleep with you. Literally, ‘sleep,’ not—” 

“Fuck?” Kip guesses with a glance up, just to see the pink bloom on Scott’s cheeks as he shapes the sign. 

“Not right now,” Scott replies, with obvious reluctance. Kip laughs at him, kissing the bridge of his nose and petting the fluff of his hair. 

“Be good,” Kip says when he retrieves his hand from Scott’s bedhead. “Sleep. I’ll stay.” 

Scott dims the lights, and falls back into his athlete’s coma. Kip, in the barely there glow, nods off to the steady rise and fall of Scott’s chest grounding him in space.

Kip looks gorgeous in Scott’s kitchen. The morning light bounces off the sleek, modern surfaces that Scott rarely uses except to reheat the meal prep containers his nutritionist leaves him. That light catches on Kip’s glossy hair and smooth skin, and the detritus on the counter that adds up to something like Scott’s habitual smoothie order. Kip looks like an ad for Men’s Health, working the blender with nothing but his boxer briefs obscuring his physique, except the raking morning light pulls Scott’s eyes to the handful of rosy marks he’d left at the base of Kip’s throat with his teeth. 

He’s lovely, only more so with the proof that last night he’d decided to come home with Scott. 

Before he startles him, Scott finds the hall light switch, flicking it on and off to gently catch Kip’s attention. 

Kip spots him and lights up, briefly, before his eyes fall back to the whirring blender and he looks mildly chagrined. 

“Did I wake you up? I’m normally doing this at work, and nobody is trying to sleep in the shop, so I didn’t think—”

Scott waves him off. “You’re making breakfast?” 

“You have most of the stuff already.” Kip looks embarrassed, like this isn’t the kind of thing Scott watches his teammate’s girlfriends do for them while trying not to puke from jealousy. “And your game today—I’m not working but I thought you’d still like to follow your routine.” 

Again, Scott is being so normal about this. About Kip knowing that he has a routine. That it’s important. 

“That’s cool,” Scott says, totally chill. Champion normal guy, right here. “Thanks.” Then, tracing out the new sign Kip had taught him, stretching it into a hopeful subjunctive: “We could fuck now…maybe?” 

Kip turns off the blender, breakfast forgotten. “Yes. That. Absolutely.” 

Kip opens his arms and Scott picks him up off the ground, because he can. Because being a hockey player means he can lift one-hundred and eighty-five pounds of beautiful man in his arms, and Scott feels owed something in exchange for all the homophobic slurs. He takes the weight of Kip’s arms around his shoulders and his heavy thighs clinging to his hips as fair recompense. The tender tip of Kip’s nose brushing over Scott’s cheek is so distant from the tension of the locker room that Scott feels drunk with it. 

Scott takes them back to bed, the blinds wide open and the sun warming the sheets in their absence. He fishes the lube out of his drawer that’s typically reserved for his discreet personal massager, and when Kip takes the tube and foil packet from his hands he pushes Scott down on his back and climbs onto his lap.

“Okay?” Kip asks, already bare, rocking his weight down onto Scott’s half hard cock.

“Yes.” 

Scott gets to watch—gets to kiss Kip all over while he gets himself ready, and when Kip finally lines up and sinks down Scott feels every centimeter of it in the hot press of his palm to Kip’s trembling abs. Kip braces his hands on the headboard over Scott’s shoulders, and it’s a cage with just enough space for Scott to tell him “Good, good, so perfect” with their hot breath moving over his hands. Kip is wet, and tight, and he rides Scott into the bed until Scott is laughing and clinging with all his strength, hands greedy for the swell of Kip’s chest and the flex in his thighs. 

When have I ever felt like this? Scott wonders, taking kisses from Kip’s pleasure slack mouth and finding the heat and shadow of the sun on Kip’s skin with the flat of his palms.  

It’s hot, and amazing, and it’s frightening because Scott needs him already. He doesn’t want Kip to leave. He wants to come inside, and he wants suck Kip’s cock again. He wants Kip to come on his face and suck bruises into Scott’s skin (one he definitely can’t let happen). Scott wants to feed this man, and talk to him through their hands. He wants to sleep and fuck and do everything in between that he’ll need Kip to teach him new signs for. 

Scott wants to admire Kip—make him feel good—in all the possible shades of daylight through his windows and all the soft settings his lamps have to offer. 

Scott is hungry for Kip’s light, enough that when they’re back in their boxers drinking melted smoothies and Kip says “I should probably go” with reluctant hands, Scott breathes past the shake in his fingers to reach out for what he wants: 

“What if you didn’t?”

Chapter End Notes

Scott can be a little desperate. As a treat :)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

You have 2 new messages. 

Mark: Hi Scott, just checking in. Have you had time to look over the new Levi’s contract? Let me know. 

The Boys GC: Yo, check out this hunny wearing my jersey at the Detroit game (link to Instagram). When are we going back to Michigan??? I need those digits! (several people are typing…)

3 calendar reminders: 

10:00-11:30 ADMRS PRACTICE (DEF/SPECIAL GROUPS)

5:00 PRE-GAME/ROOKIE CHECK-IN

7:30 PUCK DROP V. FLYERS 

Nobody can piss Scott off today. He slept held. He had sex with a gorgeous man this morning. If he goes home and Kip is still there and they have sex again, Scott will have gotten laid more times in the last twenty-four hours than he has in the last two years.

(It’s the first night he hasn’t slept alone in much longer than that. It’s the first time he’s had a man in his apartment, ever. It’s the first time he’s been intimate with someone who knows Scott by the name his parents gave him and not the one that hockey made into a public commodity.)

“You’re in a good mood, Cap.” 

Scott flaps his practice jersey to get some cool air against his sweat soaked pads, his eyes on the shape of the defensive line running drills with the guy they just brought up from the farm after Johansson got benched with a broken wrist. 

“I sure am, Breezy,” he says to the rookie looking like he’s deciding whether or not to make a first-time chirp attempt on the Captain. “Don’t ruin it, or you’ll be doing bag skates until I get it back.” 

Breezy skitters back to his line drills, and this, too, pleases Scott. It’s a good day for hockey. 

It’s a good day for anything. 

It’s a short skate, since they have a game tonight, and Scott forgets to doubt himself until he’s in the elevator, heading back up to see if his apartment is still occupied by an aspiring art historian. 

(He wonders how Kip’s grad school applications are going. Does that kind of thing cost money? Does Kip have to hire his own interpreter for classes? That definitely costs money. Scott could help. Will Kip let him help?) 

Scott's mind is so far into possible emails to his financial manager that he’s in the door before he remembers that Kip might be there. And sure enough, he’s on the couch in sock feet, glancing up from a book like Scott’s most pathetic domestic fantasy. 

“Hi.” He’s wearing glasses. The afternoon light glints off the delicate gold frames and Scott’s mouth waters. 

“Hi.” Scott drops his bag, happiness and desire bubbling up inside him like a fountain soda. Magnets couldn’t pull him across the room faster. 

“How was practice—” Scott doesn’t catch the end of Kip’s sentence because he is pouncing on him, pulling Kip’s mouth to his like he’ll die without it. Too much, too hard, too fast, he thinks, but no, that’s Kip’s arms around his ribs, pulling him in closer. That’s Kip’s mouth scraping against his, eager and wanting until neither of them can kiss properly because they’re both smiling through it. Kip gets a grip on the back of Scott’s hoodie and rolls him onto his back, letting his weight rest between his thighs and rubbing them together until Scott’s eyes threaten to roll back in his head. 

“Anything you want,” Kip promises, breathless already as he leans heavily on one elbow to sign. “Tell me."

Scott has to pull his greedy hands out from under Kip’s shirt. “I want too much.” 

“No.” Kip shakes his head, dragging the back of his knuckles against Scott’s cheek after he closes his fingers around the sign. “Not yet. Tell me. Ask me.”

“Leave your glasses on?” Scott requests as an overture. Kip adjusts the thin gold frames more carefully onto his nose. 

“Easy. What else?” 

Scott sighs happily. “Come fuck my mouth?” 

Kip scoots up until his thick thighs are pressing into Scott’s underarms. He pets Scott’s shower damp hair, and thumbs over the soft drape of Scott’s bottom lip. 

“You’re so high maintenance,” he signs, eyes teasing as Scott eagerly goes to work on his fly. “How will I survive?” 

Kip kneels up, and Scott sits up against the armrest just enough that he can fit his mouth where he needs, and then Kip is slipping his half-hard cock inside. Scott sucks and licks him hard, his hands tight in the waistband of Kip’s jeans. There’s nothing in his head but this as Kip starts to rock into his mouth. Scott is so full. Kip is touching his face, his hair, sweet sounds humming in his chest and dropping thoughtlessly from his mouth. They’re both pretty much dressed, only connected skin to skin in this essential, vulnerable way. To write it down might have made it seem impersonal, but it’s everything to Scott, giving a man pleasure in his own home. Touching the skin at the edges of clothes with his fingertips and knowing he can have more later. 

Scott works and touches until his jaw is sore, savoring every pass of blood hot flesh against his tongue. It lasts, but not too long. Kip comes in his mouth with a cracked groan and Scott swallows everything he can, eyes closed and grateful. He sucks him until Kip has to pull him away, a strong hand in Scott’s hair, and then Scott kisses the gently softening arch of him, pushing his face into the open fly of Kip’s jeans and breathing deeply. 

“You really love it, don’t you?” Kip manages to ask, pink and gorgeous when he finally sits back on Scott’s chest.

Scott can only nod, feeling the truth of it in his bones and the buzzy soreness of his mouth. Kip kisses him there, where Scott is tender and used. 

“Handsome man,” Kip calls him when he draws back, brushing the sign over Scott’s face. If he’d spoken, it would have been a whisper. So intimate. “Sweet to me. Sexy.” 

My man, Scott allows himself to think, soaking in Kip’s unselfconscious affection. His artless, confident physicality. Finally. One for me. However long I can have him.

Kip has to tap Scott’s cheek to pull his attention back to his hands. He sits back across Scott’s thighs, working the waistband of his sweatpants down until Scott’s erection is jutting red and thick in the air. Kip fits Scott’s hand around it, spitting in his palm first. 

“Make yourself come,” Kip instructs him, and then rocks forward to brace his elbow on the armrest behind Scott’s head and kiss him until he does. 

Scott loves to suck cock. He loves to fuck. He doesn’t get to do either often enough. …But he loves this too. Just stroking himself, caged in by Kip’s built shoulders—still in his shirt; Kip is still dressed—being kissed. Being touched with desire and tenderness while he makes himself come, staring at the thing he wants most—the thing he is—right in the face. Scott likes Kip. Scott loves men. He could see those two verbs switching rapidly in the near future. 

You’re amazing, Scott says aloud as he shudders through the aftermath, letting Kip read and taste the words right off his lips. This simple thing is all he’s ever wanted. This and the ice. 

“You’re easy to please,” Kip replies. It’s like he’s reading Scott’s thoughts. Maybe he’s just that obvious. Luckily, Kip doesn’t seem to mind. 

Getting ready for his nap is infinitely better when his bed also contains a soft post-shower Kip in his bed. Kip in just a pair of Scott’s sweatpants with the glasses is…a look. If Scott’s body weren’t a machine that needed to be programmed to play the best hockey possible he would be angling for another round. Sadly rest is not an optional part of his pre-game routine. 

Kip brings his laptop and sits up against the headboard, lightly tapping away at his applications while Scott lazily works his way through a protein shake, head tipped onto Kip’s shoulder. Scott isn’t looking to be nosy but his eyes skip over a few of the phrases Kip deletes and types over and over. Exhibition history. Historiography of access to art. Museum education and engagement. 

“Is this what you want to study?” Scott asks after tapping Kip’s arm. 

“Yes. But also what I want to do with what I’ll study.”  

“Work in a museum? Like a—” Scott doesn’t know the sign, so he fingerspells out. “C-U-R-A-T-O-R?”

“Curator,” Kip shows him, laughing when Scott mimics the sign which resembles delicately plucking objects off a shelf. “And maybe. Another job is to design programming to help make museums more equitable. I need an art history degree first, but then the work is to help more people connect with art, especially kids.” 

“That sounds amazing.” 

“Did you ever go to museums with your parents? There’s some great ones in Rochester.” 

“We went to a historical museum once with a lot of cameras. My dad loved it, I remember.” His dad loved gadgets. He had shown Scott all the parts of the cameras, pulling off his glasses and explaining the idea of a lens and reflected light. 

“The Eastman Museum. I haven’t been but it’s famous.” 

“I guess so. I’m sure there were more. Looking at art was something we could all do, even though I got bored fast as a kid.” 

“That’s the idea. Better programming gives structure to kids and they don’t get bored as fast. You could have had more time with your family.” Kip’s hands falter, then quickly: “Sorry, I only meant—” 

“I know what you meant,” Scott assures him, nudging his shoulder and ignoring the ache in his chest. “It’s good. You want to help people.”

“Yeah.” Kip nudges their knees together with a shy smile. “One day.”   

“You don’t have to bring your own interpreter to graduate school, right?” Scott places the question delicately. He knows it’s annoying to talk about your aspirations and be asked but how will you do this or how will you do that. 

“Supposedly, no,” Kip says, “Universities provide them. It’s an ADA thing.” 

“Supposedly?” Scott repeats. He does not like the look of the “if” structure Kip used. 

“Will I have a consistent interpreter, the way Elena has Jack at work?” Kip shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Schools are different. Hunter College has more Deaf students, so they might have more established services. NYU and Boston have fewer, so I might be able to get more time one-on-one. The law is the same everywhere, but getting access when you need it is always different.” 

“Right.” It would be very little of Scott’s money to make sure Kip has a full-time interpreter. It would also be deeply crazy to voice that suggestion. 

Kip taps a fingertip playfully between Scott’s eyebrows. “You’re thinking intense thoughts.” 

Scott catches Kip’s hand, making sure he isn’t cutting him off talking, and kisses the back of it. 

“I am,” he agrees, “And they’re too intense. For right now. Because you aren’t going to school until next year. …and you can advocate for yourself.” 

“Good answer.” Kip kisses where he tapped his finger. “But you’re cute to think about it.” 

“I’m cute?” 

“Very cute. Very hot.” Kip works his fingers through Scott’s scruff. “If you want to score goals tonight, you need to be less hot and more sleepy.” 

“I’m going to score lots of goals tonight,” Scott promises, sliding down in bed until he makes contact with a pillow. 

“Good. I’ll be watching.” 

Kip goes back to his papers, and Scott falls asleep with his face pressed to Kip’s hip and the tick-tick-tap of Kip working in his ears. 

You have 12 unread messages:

BFFElena: I read your first draft and it looks great but I have some thoughts on paragraph 3. Drinks later for editing sesh? 

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Baby boy, I have some video transcription gigs for you if you’re still saving up for those app fees. Small $ but every bit counts <3

CaptionsOrDEATHCinemaGC: Yo, GOT watch party, this time the Dothraki is on Screen, I SWEAR (several people are typing…) 

Dad: Hey bud, hope all went well catering. Should I plan on you for dinner or are you doing your own thing this weekend? Love ya.

Karen Esposito (Lexington School): Hi Kip, thanks again for your assistance with our spring art workshops. I heard from George that you’re thinking about grad school. Is there anything I can do to help? You’re an amazing volunteer and we’d love to provide a reference or CV support :)

CUNYRunningGC: Central Park Saturday? That construction is finally done on 59th we can finally do the whole loop again (several people are typing…)

LGBT/DHoH NYC GC: anyone free for the State Senate primary debate in Queens on Thursday? If we can get 10 RSVPs we'll get the interpreter up on stage!! We only need two more ;)

Maria (from the Smoothie trenches): Oh my god, this woman is back with all SIX of her kids and we’re trying to close!!! The Struggle is REal

(See more…)

Chapter End Notes

Lots of things going on ;). More to come! Comments will be folded up delicately and placed on Scott's nightstand next to Kip's glasses :))

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Thank you all for the lovely comments! I hope you enjoy this next installment.

Kip is maybe fully in love by day five. He’s dick-matized, and that is for fucking certain. 

The thing to bear in mind is that Kip is gay. He’s been gay, and it hasn’t been a secret since he started doing twirls at eight years old. With the exception of a brief infatuation with Marlee Matlin during her West Wing arc (which mostly consisted of twelve-year-old Kip sigh(n)ing to his dad, “She’s just so beautiful,”) Kip had little reason to question his desires from the moment they started popping up in his brain like rainbow flowers destined for a Pride Parade lei. 

If one were to go back in time and flip through baby Kip’s queer little dream journal, certain recurring qualities would begin to emerge regarding the perfect boyfriend:

Big and strong (maybe he’s an athlete, swoon), sweet and sensitive. He’s Deaf, obviously, like Kip, with gorgeous hands for signing. He thinks Kip is smart and handsome and he wants to kiss and hold hands (maybe even have sex one day) and bring Kip to live in his gorgeous apartment in a skyscraper. 

Eat your heart out, fourteen-year-old me, Kip muses as Scott fucks him tenderly into the tile wall of the fuck-off five headed shower in his Tribeca loft. Kip’s feet aren’t even touching the floor. Scott is locked-in, and it is Kip’s favorite flavor of crazy, getting Scott Hunter’s dick with the same intensity he used to put three in the net last night against Tampa Bay. He risks a Category Five Shower Sex Injury to pull one arm from around Scott’s neck and tell him “Good. Good. You’re so good,” which as it has done every time, pokes the sweet, hungry nerve in Scott’s brain that makes him come.  

Kip holds on and kisses the sopping wet bristle of Scott’s jaw while he grunts into Kip’s neck and throbs in his ass and pulls back to stare at him in awe and gratitude like Kip alone is responsible for the invention of penetrative sex. 

Kip will take the credit, especially when it means Scott pulling out only to drop to his knees, get two fingers in deep where Kip is loose and achy, and jerk him off until Kip is splattering Scott’s chest with come. The shower rinses it away like snow in rain, but for the rest of the morning Scott is flushed and happy like he’s still wearing it.  

Kip is loved up, and it takes the door closing as Scott leaves for his third home game of the week—still sweet from his nap but sharp in his suit—for Kip to surface for air and realize he’s possibly being hoarded by the world’s sexiest, ASL-fluent dragon.

His phone flashes with a message. (He has a couple dozen.) 

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Honeybear, the 36-hour dick lockdown allowance is LONG OVER. Show up for drinks or I’m calling the POLICE 🚨🚨🚨

Kip: No cops at 36 hour dick lockdown (not that that’s what’s happening) 

Shawn: The police are FIGURATIVE. Get your ass to happy hour

The locker room is buzzy as the team gets dressed for warm ups. A couple of younger guys are still high off of getting pulled up from Hartford this season, and the shine of chasing star-struck co-eds around Manhattan has yet to wear off. They’re flipping through their phones, showing each other Snapchats. One of them tries to get Scott’s opinion, like he has any interest in rating the attractiveness of nineteen-year-old girls. 

“Don’t bother, rook,” Carter calls from his cubby. “Cap’s immune to puck bunnies.” 

Haha, don’t panic. “Yeah, I like my prospects a little further out of high school. How’s Gloria, Vaughany?” 

Carter groans, and the river turns as Scott gets filled in on Carter’s “low-key” attempts to integrate the Tony Award Winner he’s been dating for six months into the margarita nights and weekend barbecues that populate the heterosexual calendar of professional hockey players and their partners. 

“I don’t think she gets it, man, that, like I love her deal and I’m not trying to make her, like, my cheerleader. I just think she’d have a good time, and we could hang more, you feel?” 

Scott hums. “Sounds tough.” 

“Yeah, you sound real sympathetic. I know you’re all age and wisdom, but some of us need more than the love of the game.” 

“Love the game a little more, Vaughany. How many goals have you scored this season?” 

That gets him cursed out, in the way only a real friend can deliver. Scott takes it, feeling almost smug.

I have a man at home. Scott listens to the rookies debate which Instagram models are just looking for views and Carter fret over whether a Broadway actress wants to bother with the WAGS and Benny loudly say nothing because he and his wife got married at 24 and they’ve been basically roommates for almost five years of the time since. 

You all can have this, out loud, here, because I have a man in my house and he touches me with the same hands he calls me handsome and sweet with. 

“Alright guys, let’s focus up.” 

Scott comes home with a win and to a flushed, loose-fingered Kip laid out on his couch in near darkness, like he'd almost dozed off. 

“Scott!” He signs as Scott flips a light on, beaming, before making grabby hands. “You played so great.” 

Scott leans over the back of the couch to kiss him hello. This late, Kip’s stubble is an instant burn against his mouth. Delicious. “Did you go out for drinks?” 

Kip nods. “Shawn made me take a shot every time you scored. So, I’m a little tipsy.” 

Scott laughs, petting Kip’s hair even as his stomach gives a little flop of nerves. “Every time I scored?” 

Kip shakes his head, the gesture loose. “The A-D-M-I-R-A-L-S, don’t worry. I won’t kiss and tell.” 

“I know. It’s okay.” I can’t come out. Not right now. Kip had heard those words, and Scott had to trust him, or this precious thing between them would break. “Sounds like you had fun.” 

Scott strips off his jacket and settles on the couch, Kip easing down to lay on his back with his head in Scott’s lap. Scott alternates their conversation with slipping his hand under Kip’s shirt to feel the warm rise and fall of his toned stomach with its wiry trail of hair. 

“They know you’re a CODA.” Kip says, after a few minutes of game talk. “Just that we sign at the shop. That’s okay, right? I didn’t think it was a secret when we met.”

“Um, sure.” Scott feels another strange lurch. It’s different from the fear of being outed, but equally personal, like Kip had pulled out the contents of Scott’s pockets and shown his friends. But that’s maybe unfair, given the circumstances. “I guess so.”  

Kip holds Scott’s forearm for a moment, easing his fingers contentedly through the coarse hair, before asking: “Do you have other Deaf friends?” 

Scott shakes his head. “Not right now. Just you.” 

Kip’s eyes are dark and a little glassy (The Admirals had scored three goals, all in the third period). 

“That’s sad,” he says eventually, “I think.” 

Scott laughs, bending to kiss Kip’s forehead, before tapping his chin once with his middle finger where Kip can see. “I disagree. You’re amazing.”  

Kip sighs, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. “Everyone should get to see what nice hands you have for signing.” 

“You like my hands?” 

Kip sighs again, and this time it’s happier. “Love them.” 

Kip catches Scott’s hand, folding his fingers down until he can slide just the first and middle into his mouth, and that’s all the coherent signing they do for a while. 

Later, after they’ve fooled around and Kip has gone to sleep with a big glass of water, Scott stays up for a while. The game is still buzzing in him, and Kip’s questions are buzzing in him at a different pitch. Before he crashes Scott types in a Google search on his phone:

Rochester School for the Deaf youth hockey, 1990 

He has to scroll past some garbage and eventually switch to an image search. The program doesn’t exist anymore, apparently not since his parents died and there was no one to replace them both. Eventually he finds what he’s looking for. Rochester Wildcats, 1990 ESDAA Junior Hockey Champions. 

There used to be a framed print of this photo in their house. His parents in their black and orange half-zip coaching jackets, lined up with about ten junior high kids in all their gear. On the other side was his Aunt Kathy, his mom’s best friend. She’d been a teacher at RSD—a child of Deaf parents, like him—and she’d come and interpreted for all their travel games. Scott is there too, eight years old, tucked under his mom’s arm and looking at the older boys with hero worship in his eyes. He’d just started peewee hockey at his own school, but these trips with his parents were where Scott had learned to love the game, and eventually all of these boys (and the ones that came after) had been his friends. 

Scott had started at St. Thomas’s in 1996. He’d been packed up and sent to New York by his last living grandparent, to take advantage of all the opportunities hockey could afford him. There had been no text messaging, then. AIM would come out a year too late for Scott to find the many friends he had left behind. Aunt Kathy had sent him emails that he accessed in a public computer lab, until his replies got shorter and shorter and her messages fewer and fewer. 

Scott used to have lots of Deaf friends. He’d had to leave them. It wasn’t really his choice, or theirs, but that was what happened. Eventually, he’d let the world fill his ears with sound and his mouth with words. It hurt less that way. 

Scott saves the photo to his phone and lies down with Kip in the dimmed light. Their connection is so easy right now. So good, and right. It’s also fragile. Kip is a man—sexy and funny and tender. He’s also Scott’s first time touching the world he’d been yanked out of when his parents died. There’s no extricating those two parts of him. Kip is Deaf, and it’s one of the many reasons Scott is falling hard and fast. But Scott could so easily put too much weight on him, trying to find the community he lost. Scott wants to let what they have build, safe and private, before he tries to reach out for more. 

Scott had never realized how fragile his connection to the community of his childhood was, until it was too late. 

He'll be careful now. 

Chapter End Notes

Just a note for those interested: I've tried to keep the specifics of Deaf schools fictionalized for the sake of not getting too weird about research, but Scott's parents' hockey team reflects many real programs in the US and Canada for Deaf youth and adult athletes. They play by standard hockey rules with accommodations to center visual communication between players, coaches and refs. The ESDAA (Eastern Schools for the Deaf Athletic Association) is also real, though it does not currently feature a hockey program.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Here we skate towards act two. Category is: Motion and silence
Warning for setting typical homophobia, including use of the f-slur (not actively directed at any character).

Kip is used to a certain amount of staring in his day-to-day life. It isn’t his favorite thing, obviously, but motion draws the eye. His speech will always be more visible than a hearing person’s, but most people—most, there’s dumbasses everywhere—look, register him having a private conversation and not waving to get their attention, and look away. The people who stare longest are the ones least likely to understand what he’s saying, so it’s not like his conversation is actually being overheard. It’s annoying, but rarely malicious. Kip has developed a tolerance for it, along with a particular pointed look to remind people when they’re being rude. 

Scott, it becomes evident as they step into the gallery, does not have this tolerance. 

Let it be said, this was not Kip’s idea. An hour ago he was perfectly content showing Scott images on a website, and then not showing Scott images on a website because Scott had hopped the back of the couch and draped himself in Kip’s lap. Kip is presently grieving that make-out session that should have been, because instead of letting Kip get a hand down his pants Scott had gotten a slightly manic look in his eye and tapped his arm to say: “What if we go check out the show?” 

So here they are, in Chelsea, with Scott in a baseball cap and sunglasses, his hands in his pockets, stiffly nodding as Kip says normal shit in a language no one else in the room can understand, like “Wow, I love the use of color here,” or “This one reminds me of that Soderbergh movie from the other night.” 

Kip is a visual guy, so he can see the layering of what is happening right now, like a train crash he doesn’t have the power to stop. If Scott had stayed in his boxy white t-shirt and walked around this tiny gallery with Kip using ASL, they’d just be two Deaf guys looking at paintings. Signing—when you don’t speak the language—pulls the gaze away from the face to the hands, where the motion is. Scott would be anonymous. 

Instead, Kip is signing alone, drawing the eye of people walking around like an arrow pointed at the brick wall of discomfort that is Scott Hunter trying to be incognito. The gallery is sparsely populated at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday, but the eyes of one well-groomed gay couple, three garishly dressed MFA students, and two post-bellini-brunch madams linger on Kip and then hit Scott like darts. With each strike Scott hunches his shoulders further, flinches harder, and makes himself a bigger target. It’s not a matter of being recognized. It’s a matter of being perceived at all. It’s like because he can understand that Scott has forgotten ASL isn’t lingua franca, that Kip isn’t talking out loud. His hands don’t broadcast their sex life to the whole room as Kip forgets the tension for a moment in front of a gorgeous canvas and says “This one would be so good on that blank wall in your bedroom—”  

Kip doesn’t finish his thought. He can’t, because Scott stops him, tugging his hand out of the sign shape in an awkward tangle of fingers that no one could mistake for intimacy. 

And Kip is hurt—he’s fucking offended, frankly. Scott may as well have held his hand over Kip’s mouth to stop him talking. But mostly he’s confused. He can’t see Scott’s eyes, and he won’t move his hands, and the set of his mouth is stiff and flat. 

Scott is so afraid. Kip can see that clearly, but he doesn’t know how to speak to this scared, mute person who has suddenly replaced the man he feels like he’s shared every inch of his skin with in the last month. He feels deaf, in a way Scott has rarely made him feel, when he speaks aloud to the gallery attendant who had apparently walked up from behind them in terse syllables Kip can barely read off his lips. 

We’re just looking. 

It’s brutal to go so suddenly without Scott’s poetry. 

The attendant turns away—as she was always going to, it’s not like the average person walking around a gallery in jeans is there to buy anything—and Kip tugs his hands out of Scott’s clumsy grip. The whole interaction takes maybe five seconds, from Scott grabbing Kip’s wrist to Kip pulling sharply away. 

The trip back to Tribeca is tough. They stand about six feet apart on the train. Kip seriously considers switching to the A-line at Canal street and going home to Brooklyn. 

He stays.

The apartment is close and dim after a walk through the New York autumn. Kip’s eyes are still adjusting, so he can barely see when Scott’s hands unlock. 

“That was—I’m really sorry.” Scott pulls off the glasses, and throws away his hat. He’s pale. Clammy. He’s here. Kip can see him.

“It’s okay. It was too soon. We shouldn’t have gone—”

“No.” Scott looks truly stricken. “I mean what I did. I’m so sorry.” 

Kip lets Scott gather him in his arms. He lets Scott pull his hands to his mouth and kiss his palms. Kip lets Scott shape the words I’m sorry, I’m sorry against his skin over and over again, because anything that isn’t the silence of the last hour is such a relief.

He doesn’t sign a word, just fits his hand to the back of Scott’s neck and holds the man he loves in his arms again. 

What are you hearing right now, Scott? 

I heard the worst sound of my life today. I pulled it out of the man I’m in love with. I stopped his voice, and I made him gasp instead. He still let me hold him afterward. He comforted me. 

What are you hearing right now, Scott? 

Three guys have said fag in the time its taken me to put my skates on. The word feels like an ice chip biting the skin of my neck. Bennett just got called limp wristed for bringing up a kimono exhibition at the Met. 

What are you hearing right now—

“Whatever it is, brother, shake it off.” 

Eric drops onto the bench next to Scott in a pile of goalie pads. 

“Yeah.” Scott pulls himself out of his mental signing space. “Not always easy.” 

Eric just nods, already sinking into that zen place goaltenders find where they can handle hard rubber pucks flying at their face for hours at a time. Scott breathes at Benny’s pace for a minute, and finds his shoulders unlocking. 

“You need me to, uh, have a talk with Rodriguez?” Scott offers after a moment.  

Eric just laughs, soft and rough under his breath. “Do I need you to talk to a twenty-year-old who thinks—what was it again—going to a museum is gay? I think I can take that one on the chin.”

“Right.” Scott doesn’t laugh. “Yeah.” 

They finish suiting up, and then it’s out to the ice, at home against Charleston. The cold air in Scott’s lungs finally lets him breathe. He taps helmets with Benny, and then he’s over the boards. 

What are you hearing right now, Scott? 

Skates on ice, mom. Just skates on ice.

There’s some kind of connection forming between being gay and using ASL in Scott’s mind, Kip muses that night as he watches the Admiral’s game at the Kingfisher. Kip doesn’t fully understand it yet. It has a lot to do with being recognized, Scott’s impulse to hide his hands, but also to protect himself. Maybe he’s trying to protect the voice that he used with his parents, and now he uses with Kip. Kip thinks—hopes—that Scott might have been too young when he stopped signing the first time for much cruelty to be spelled out before his eyes.  

Kip understands the impulse, really, but it’s not realistic. There’s no language exempt from homophobia. There’s no going silent and turning away from the portion of the world that will be cruel because of who you love.

It’s not like Kip has never read the word fag spat at him as he stumbled out of a club. It’s not like he wasn’t sent home in tears from his first summer job as a camp counselor, because he’d made the mistake of mentioning his boyfriend and shortly after been informed by the volunteer coordinator in motherly signs that we just aren’t sure how appropriate it is for you to work so closely with children.

(His dad had gone ballistic on his behalf, but SONDA was yet to come until 2003, and the hard truth was too many people agreed with the decision.) 

So Kip gets it, because these are the worlds they live in. Kip has worked hard to build the world he wants to be a part of—Deaf, queer, proud—but he knows equally well that the world you grow up in—the world that shapes you—is not necessarily your choice. There are no utopias, whether you can hear or not. 

On screen, Scott assists on a goal, and from the excited knot of players that forms for the celly Kip can guess it might have been a rookie’s first time scoring. In the mass of red he can pick out Scott, knocking helmets and slapping the back of a smaller guy with Rodriguez on the back of his jersey. His grin is broad and bright. It’s really him, Kip’s Scott, and that makes something a little sharp twist in Kip’s gut. 

It’s not jealousy: It’s relief, that Scott really does seem to get the love back that he gives to this game. It’s also fear, because Kip is almost certain—as Scott seems to be—that that love is conditional. 

That’s the world Scott lives in, as many do. 

Scott loves Kip. He hasn’t said it yet—they aren’t saying a lot of things that are just haha, wow, too intense—but it bleeds out of him. It’s in the air Kip breathes in Scott’s apartment, fidelity and devotion hazing the atmosphere like pollen. Scott’s hands are itching to shape the signs.

Scott’s love is also conditional. He would hate to hear that, but it’s true, and it’s fair. They’ve known each other for six weeks. It’s okay right now, for Scott to fit his love around the edges of hockey, even as they “joke” about going condoms optional and where Kip would haha maybe want to go on vacation during the summer off-season.

They need more time, and Kip is willing to give it. But some things have to change, because Kip needs Scott to pull his hands out of his pockets someday.

Kip doesn’t smoke, not really, but he follows Shawn out to share a cigarette during the first period break so that halfway through a story about the latest catering ordeal Kip can touch his elbow. 

“I need your help,” Kip says to maybe not his best but definitely his oldest friend. To the first boyfriend that Kip had been so excited to tell his fellow camp counselors about, when they were young enough that finding someone similar had been all it had taken to believe they were in love. “I need the joking to stop. About Scott Hunter. I know he must seem like this fantasy person but he has a real life and if even you guys teasing me turned into something ugly for him—” 

“Hey.” Shawn drops his half-cigarette, grinding the ember out under the toe of his sneaker. He catches Kip’s forearm and Kip realizes how fast he’d been signing. That his hands are shaking a little. “It’s okay. I know the whole world isn’t a gay bar, baby.” 

“I know you know. Can you help? If it comes from me—” 

“It’ll seem like you’re lying?” Shawn interrupts pointedly. 

“It’ll seem defensive,” Kip finishes. Shawn flicks his eyebrows at that, but not without sympathy. 

“He’s a good person,” Kip says eventually. “We talk—when he comes into the shop, we talk a little, and he’s so happy to sign with someone. If he gets to know more people he can sign with, he should be able to share things about himself when he decides.” 

Shawn sighs, his shoulders rising and falling. “Wouldn’t we all like that.” 

“I would have.” 

“Me too.” 

It chips away the brief flush of panic that had taken over Kip, the vision that someday he might actually get Scott to an ASL meetup or out for dim sum only to have all of his friends giggling behind their hands like highschoolers while Scott turns to stone beside him.

Shawn nods after a moment. “I’ll handle it. You just stay pretty and get that lumberjack making us commercials.” 

Kip rolls his eyes, but he’s relieved. “As if.”

They go back inside, and Kip drinks one slow gin and tonic so that he’s just sleepy, not tipsy later that night when the mattress dips under Scott’s weight. Scott is heavy and slack when Kip rolls into his arms, in that nice way he gets after a hard won game with no injuries. It’s like he’s left all the weight on his shoulders in the arena, and Kip just gets the man left over. 

Kip tucks a knee between Scott’s thighs, and tips his chin up for a kiss. It makes a perfect space between their chests for their hands to talk.  

“I saw your game. You’re beautiful on the ice.” 

“Not how most people would describe a hockey player.” Scott smiles though, happy, and Kip has to touch the blush that rises on his cheek.

“Then those people aren’t seeing you.” 

Scott pulls Kip’s hand to his mouth. He kisses his palm again, then his forehead, then his mouth. They kiss until they need more, and Scott rolls on top of him so that he can get one hand around their cocks and they can rock together to a shivery good orgasm. Kip sighs as he comes, and lets Scott kiss him to sleep, I love you shining behind his eyes and trembling in his silent hands. 

They deserve more time. Kip hopes they get it.

Chapter End Notes

Comments are added like a wedge of lime to the Kingfisher's heavy pour gin and tonics.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

A little treat before certain Canon Events.

Scott has—has always had—a strange relationship with sound. Auditory processing, it might be better termed by his childhood speech therapist. He has perfect hearing. He knows this for a fact, because he’s been tested many, many times. He was tested often as a child because—despite the obvious evidence that unlike his parents he was not congenitally deaf—Scott would sometimes fail to respond to noises or voices. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t hear them. Some sounds just weren’t relevant to him, so Scott ignored them. He’d jump at a dog barking or a car door slamming like anyone else, but if his mom didn’t react to the loud music playing over the neighbor’s fence, or the baby crying at the next table over in the mall food court, why should Scott? Noise didn’t stop him talking with his parents or his Aunt Kathy or his friends, so Scott learned to tune it out until it was urgent enough to tap someone on the arm over. 

Sometimes sound is poetry, Scott learned at a young age. Sometimes it’s just noise. 

He’s never missed a ref’s whistle, or a car horn coming at him in traffic, so Scott doesn’t overanalyze it. He runs without music in his headphones when he doesn’t feel like hearing it and he starts his true crime podcasts over when he realizes he’s zoned out of an episode. He lets the crowd pump him up at home games and fall away just as quickly when what he needs is to see the shape of the other team’s defense, or the gaps between a goaltender and the edge of the net. 

Scott developed a reputation early on for being a focused player, for letting chirps roll off his back and keeping his eyes on the bigger game. He’s of what is now considered the Hollander category (what in his first few years people were calling the Hunter category). He was a smart player (maybe not the smartest). He has a high hockey IQ (if no longer the highest).

Maybe that’s true. It’s just how his parents taught him to play the game. Deaf or hearing, if you want to play hockey you have to pay fucking attention. Hold focus on one thing at a time. Don’t get distracted, because that’s how you get injured. 

When you’re in the game, be in the game. 

Last practice before a long string of away games, Scott is thinking about Shane Hollander mowing down their young defense. There’s only so many ways to do the math on that one, and only so many goals he can get back without his knee starting to act up again. He’s got to save something for the back half of the season. Sound hovers the background of his thought process. The scrape of skates on ice is always there. They’re replacing a row of seats in the upper bowl, so there’s an occasional puncture of the grommets getting removed and set. 

“—roadie,” Carter is saying next to him between slugs of electrolyte water during their break. 

“Hm?” Scott was looking at the new backup goalie they're training up for when Bennett inevitably retires and didn’t zone in on Carter talking. 

“I said ‘I’m not looking forward to this roadie,’” Carter repeats, used to Scott’s particular brand of focus. “A lotta flights just to hand Columbus their ass and get our ass handed to us in Montreal.” 

“You got somewhere else to be?” 

“During game time? Nah. Sitting in YYZ for a three hour layover on a Friday night? Absolutely.”

The second forward line zooms past, the slice of metal on ice filling the air for a moment. Carter slumps against the boards. It’s not like him, and Scott nudges him, eyebrows raised. What’s up?

Carter wrinkles his nose. “Gloria has a thing. It’s not, like, a premiere or anything. But it’s a thing that I would have gone to.”

“The schedule’s the schedule.” Scott palms Carter’s helmet, giving him a little shake. “You’ll make it up to her.” 

Carter just shakes his head and laughs. “She’s not upset, man. Not even a little.” They both watch the drills in silence for a minute. “Is it shitty that I kind of wish she was?” 

“No.” Scott thinks about Kip. Kip goes out alone to see his friends or his dad. He goes to work and he always comes back. He’s stopped mentioning the exhibitions he’s excited about, or the Deaf group he goes running with in Central Park. He’s found the edges of the compartment that Scott is keeping them in, and he’s not rattling the doorknob trying to get Scott out. He’s being really fucking compassionate about the whole thing. 

It’s a relief. It hurts. Scott doesn’t see the alternative right now.

“No, Vaughany,” Scott sighs. “I get it.” 

“Let’s get the first line in the mix,” Murdock calls from center ice, and Scott claps Carter on the shoulder before they both hop the boards. 

Like zones on the ice, the signing box is there for a reason. You can’t just put defensemen anywhere in the arena and signs have to go where they belong or they don’t make sense. It’s grammatical in a way that Scott can’t really articulate, the way he doesn’t know how to explain why English always goes subject-verb-object. Signing requires Scott’s face, the length of fingertip to elbow and the width of his shoulders. 

He doesn’t live in the confines of a dictionary, so obviously he’s not always sat face to face with Kip at a perfect 180 degrees, but there's an acceptable range. Besides the quick questions they can ask and answer out of the corner of the eye, or the signs Scott can feel the sleepy shape of against his chest when Kip wants coffee but doesn’t want to get out of bed yet, their day-to-day is full of thoughtless little orientations. Scott sees a fluttering hand and his body angles toward Kip. It’s the natural way to hold himself, relaxing into the range of motion that lets him see the most of what Kip has to say and be able to answer fluidly back. 

Sex often stops them talking, for practical reasons. It’s not like Scott is particularly skilled at signing with a dick in his mouth. (He could blame lack of practice. Kip is very willing to assist him in this regard.) Fucking, in it’s various configurations, tends to occupy one’s hands and eliminate space. Talking means stopping, shifting weight around to elbows, holding the core and hips too tight to be able to flick out a frantic more lube over the shoulder before collapsing back into a pile of limbs, laughing at the silliness of the moment and the pleasure of figuring it out. Then it’s back to more urgent needs, skin on skin with no room for signs between them and neither Scott nor Kip willing to take their hands off each other to try. 

So it’s harder to talk, during, and that’s one thing, but also Scott has never once missed the audio of it all: the half-hearted exchange of grunts and disingenuous pet names or mm, yeah you’re so tight over his shoulder or given from his own mouth to someone under him. He doesn’t feel silent, because Kip is there, in all his stunning strength and physicality, his hands flexing against Scott’s skin and the curls of his hair tickling and the weight of his hips pushing into the aching center of Scott’s desire. 

Like now. Scott is three-quarters facedown on the bed, Kip’s arm hooked under his so he can grip Scott’s shoulder while he pushes his cock inside, his chest already sweat-glued to Scott’s back. It’s the least they’ve ever been able to say to one another, with Kip’s face hidden by the bulk of Scott’s shoulders, his forehead pressed to the base of Scott’s neck as he fucks into him for the first time. Other than Kip’s “Okay? It’s okay?” in front of Scott’s face and Scott’s urgent nod into the cup of Kip’s palm under his jaw they haven’t said a word, and Scott has never felt closer to him. 

There are sounds, but Scott doesn’t want them. He doesn’t need sound right now. He doesn’t need to say anything, or sign anything. What could he possibly say? What could he possibly add to the truth of being fucked that wouldn’t just be noise? It aches so sweetly, taking Kip’s cock, because it’s been a long time. Scott loves this and the act itself isn’t like, ontologically special but he has given himself to so few men this way, so it’s been special every time and never more than now, with Kip’s breath hot on the back of Scott’s neck and their hands tangled against Scott’s shoulder and the fullness of Kip fucking in, so slow and then perfectly fast. 

He can feel the shape of Kip’s smile against his skin between kisses and fuck if Scott isn’t smiling too, pressing the shaky, helpless sign of his happiness into the sheets with each eager thrust of Kip’s hips. Scott rocks back and it rubs Kip’s dick inside him where he needs it most. Curses drop from Scott’s mouth but what matters is the squeeze of Kip’s hand in his, the weight on top of him. They smell like Astroglide and clean sweat (he’s going to have to shower again before his flight—fuck). 

Scott wants to sit in the Toronto airport tonight and feel where Kip has had him. They’re well on track to make that wish come true. The blood is hot in Scott’s face as Kip pushes him fully onto his front to brace a hand on the back of his neck and fuck him. 

Kip is so strong. Scott feels so fucking safe. It’s shivering up and down his spine as their rhythm pushes his dick into the mattress over and over. Kip chases the tingles with his free hand, the pads of his fingers catching on streaks of sweat as he chases Scott’s pleasure like he can see it moving under his skin.

He should have played hockey, Scott muses blearily as he comes just from rutting into the bed. These thighs are wasted on art history. 

He keeps that an inside thought and savors Kip finishing after a few more jerky thrusts. His breath shudders out against Scott’s back, his hips twitching and stilling. He finds Scott’s hand tangled in a pillow case and works their fingers together until Scott can pull the bundle to his mouth and kiss Kip’s knuckles. What an order of events. 

Kip goes soft and slips free, and Scott wishes there was no condom. He wishes he could go through fucking TSA in two hours with Kip’s come still leaking out of him. This would not be true in actual practice, but sue him, Scott is feeling sentimental. God, the feelings one could have over a pair of socks and getting topped to within an inch of your life. 

“You destroyed my ass,” he informs Kip, the first thing he’s said probably in fifteen minutes after they collapse, side by side in the sweaty sheets. His fingers are stiff and creaky from gripping the pillow at the end. 

“You’re really catching up on the dirty signs,” Kip replies, their humidity making his curls droop even glossier over his forehead, his brown eyes sparkling. 

“Actually,” Scott says, still catching his breath (but who cares, that’s not relevant to their conversation), “I learned that one in 1991 playing Streetfighter II.”  

Kip is laughing before Scott can finish stumbling through the fingerspelling, rolling on top of Scott again to kiss him until he’s at risk of hypoxia and telling him “Crazy. You’re insane. You’re so gorgeous and you’re insane.”

Scott just holds on. He’s never been so happy. 

Things come back down to earth eventually, because Scott has to shower and repack the suitcase they accidentally dumped all over the floor. He has to put on his game suit and get in a car to Tarrytown, then the team bus to Westchester, then the plane to Toronto. He has to be gone for seven days, about twelve hours of which will actually be spent playing hockey, and damn if Carter isn’t right. 

Scott has things he’d rather be doing with that layover time. 

“Have fun.” Kip kisses Scott at the door when he gets the text from his car service. “Send nudes.” 

Scott laughs, and squeezes his man, kissing his mouth and his neck and the solid cliff of his shoulder. He closes his eyes, face pressed into the collar of Kip’s shirt, and breathes out one audible I love you into the otherwise silent apartment. 

Kip doesn’t react—why would he? Sound is nothing to him, and it shouldn’t be. Besides, Kip already knows. Scott can’t keep secrets in his own body. He’s telling Kip he loves him every time he touches him, and Kip isn’t stupid. 

Scott is giving Kip all the love he can right now, and until he can match it with bigger signs, I love you in any language is just noise. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed! Comments will be added to my Hydroflask along with electrolytes for maximum hydration.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

This was a tough one. Private/Public.

There was an exhibition game in his rookie season, where Scott got turned around at center ice during a scramble for the puck and fully took a shot on his own goal before he realized he was headed in the wrong direction. It’s still a meme in Philly (on whose behalf he almost scored a point, and who never know when to let a bit fucking die): Hunter, the goal is that way. 

It’s the kind of fuck up that he can take a joke about now that the Admirals are regularly picking drafts in the high twenties instead of the top ten, but it is the fumble of his career. The stuff of nightmares for a top draft pick. It’ll be on tape at his retirement party. At his Hall of Fame induction. They’ll play it at his goddamned wake. 

It’s the second worst fumble of his life. 

Scott sits on the floor of his own kitchen, barefoot and still in his bowtie, watching the ice melt in a second scotch that he can’t bring himself to drink. His apartment is silent. No motion. Dead air. 

Scott wishes he’d scored against the Admirals. Put the stick back in his hands, he’ll take the shot on Bennett right now. Maybe it would have ended his career at twenty-two, and by now Scott could be a physical therapist or an accountant for an NGO, and when he walked into Straw+Berry and met a gorgeous barista he could have said let me buy you dinner and yes, I’d love to hear about that support group for adult children of Deaf parents and do you want to be my date to this weird gala thing I still go to? No, I don’t have to give a speech, they make some famous guy do that. Scott would have a shitty one-bedroom in Queens that sucked up three-quarters of his paycheck and it would be heaven on earth because he’d be fucking Kip on the floor of it right now, a little drunk on free champagne and a lot drunk on the fact that he’d found him, the guy who made his career-that-never-was worth it. If Scott hadn’t washed out of the MLH he wouldn’t be able to hold Kip’s hand on the train during their fuck-off commute into Manhattan. He wouldn’t be able to go to the Kingfisher for Kip’s birthday next week. He wouldn’t be able to say wow, I’d love to, if it’s not too soon for you when Kip suggests—a little shy but absolutely certain— Scott should come by his dad’s Christmas Eve party for Lexington School volunteers. 

If Scott had never washed out of the MLH, he’d be a closeted sad sack sitting on the floor of a high rise penthouse, too wrung out to cry over the fact that his boyfriend couldn’t bring himself to cut off all his friends and family to play house with Scott for the twenty hours a week he wasn’t on the ice. 

That would be awful. 

Four hours earlier 

“...your parents would be so proud, Scott. Especially your mom, she would just be thrilled.” 

Scott has heard that so many times at these events. He has no idea why free champagne and a string quartet makes people feel like they’re his personal friend, and not someone his publicist had to remind him to say hello to in her prep email this morning. 

You don’t know her, Scott doesn’t say to “Tom” before slipping away. You don’t even speak the same language she did.  

Carter, who thinks Scott is feeling sad about his dead mom rather than annoyed that someone who would probably judge her for her disability presumed to know her opinion, catches his elbow. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” Jesus, Scott wishes he could be a better friend to Carter. A more honest friend. “I should be used to it.”

Scott should be more used to lying. More used to smiling for the donors, so that more kids like him can get into hockey training camps and private boarding schools. He doesn’t know why this song and dance he’s done a hundred times is chafing this time. 

Maybe he’s tired from the roadie. 

Maybe he wishes he could have gone straight home. 

Scott was on a plane three hours ago. He’d changed into his tux on the bus and borrowed some rookies no doubt disease ridden comb to get his hair under control. He and Carter had been practically tossed out of a town car onto the press carpet. It’s been seven days since he’s seen Kip, six hours since he got his heart emoji and nothing else in reply to his sock pic. 

Scott feels stretched out. Thin. Like his connections are as fragile as the rim of the glass he’s holding, ready to chip if he sets it down wrong. 

He just wants to see Kip. 

He wants to know if the tuxedo fits. 

Scott scans the room for the shoulders that he’s learned the breadth of so well, the particular rhythm of moving hands that fits perfectly between them. It’s a tempered relief when Scott finds them. Scott has worn a few tuxes in his day. He doesn’t think of himself as looking good or bad in one, just existing in one the way he exists in Under Armour or his Admirals equipment. It’s part of his job, sometimes, to be the guy in black tie who cleans up well enough not to embarrass the organization. 

Kip looks like a movie star. He’s so lovely in his soft denim and worn-in linen, but this—so much more than the off the rack suits he wears for catering gigs—suits him too, the crisp black and white highlighting the warm glow of his skin and the glossy curl of his hair. The light shadow on this jaw looks rakish. Old Hollywood. 

He’s perfect, except the tension in his jaw. There’s two empty champagne flutes on the high cocktail table next to him. Kip is here with Elena—someone Scott recognizes from Kip’s Instagram and his many stories—and he glances over his shoulder and jumps as Scott approaches them, drawn in like a magnet to steel.

“Kip, right?” 

The interaction happens in a weird kind of stereo, as Scott realizes the third person standing by Elena is not another Deaf partygoer, but her interpreter. It’s admittedly not a familiar area for him, since as a child he’d mostly experienced ASL at home or in predominantly Deaf social groups where an interpreter would have been superfluous. He vaguely remembers his aunt interpreting for his parents at rest stops on their way to hockey games in Buffalo or Ithaca, but that had been easy for him to tune out, surrounded as he was by cool older boys showing him the latest curse words in their sharp, flickering signs. 

Now, Scott speaks aloud, and watches his words repeated in ASL by this youngish man in a black turtleneck and sportcoat. Scott’s said two words, and hardly anything incriminating, but it’s a weird sense of vertigo. 

“Christopher, when he’s all dressed up.” Scott takes in Elena’s signs and her interpreter’s voice like an echo. 

“I’m Elena.” Scott blinks for a second, and shakes his head, taking Elena’s hand. He’s being rude, already looking too much at Elena’s interpreter—Jack, he recalls Kip mentioning—and not her.

“Nice to meet you, Elena. I’m Scott.” 

Kip hasn’t said anything yet. Scott wishes he could wipe the uncertainty off his face, but he dragged them both into unsteady waters here and he’s not sure how to get them out. 

“You look beautiful,” Scott says to Elena, gesturing to her elegant gown. His hand sweeps, habit, wanting to make the you plural, but he flinches and stops before it can reach Kip under the eyes of this third person. “Um—” 

“We clean up pretty well,” Elena agrees, glancing pointedly from Scott to Kip. When Kip only manages a nod and an awkward smile, she turns to Jack. “I just saw someone arrive that we should talk to before your break.” Turning back: “Would you two excuse me? I’m sure you can find something to chat about for a minute.” 

Elena sweeps away with Jack in tow. Kip turns, so his signs are visible to Scott but not the room. That leaves Scott facing out, his words more visible for anyone who cares to look. He turns so that Kip can see his mouth. 

Christ, Scott wishes they could be at home. This would have been easier if he’d just signed. Now he’s stuck. 

“Are you having fun?” he asks in English, trying to keep it light. This is just a performance. This isn’t who they are. 

Kip laughs, under his breath. “Sure. You?” 

“I’ve got places I’d rather be,” Scott enunciates carefully. Kip nods, meeting his eyes for a fleeting moment. “The tux fits perfectly.” 

“Yeah. Someone knows me,” Kip signs, his smile fading. “Thank you.” 

“I wanted you to have it.” Scott says. Seeing the lingering tension in his boyfriend: “You okay?” 

Kip’s fingers tap on the high table, wordless. A nervous habit. “Elena knows. She figured it out, and I couldn’t say no enough.” 

Scott breathes through the clench of nerves. “Yeah. I got that. But she’s discreet? And, uh, Jack? You know him?” 

“Of course she is,” Kip signs in reply. “And we weren’t discussing it in front of Jack—but he’s a professional. You could have talked with him there. Not—I’m saying you could have talked with us.” 

Scott sucks his teeth, a sound Kip can’t hear. He says: “Elena is your friend. If you trust her, it’s okay. I don’t know Jack or how professional he is.” 

Kip squints a little, and Scott remembers he isn’t wearing his glasses. That he’s farsighted. 

“This would be easier if you would sign, Scott,” Kip says, still looking out at the room. “I honestly can’t see you that well. It’s—this is weird, for me.”

Even now, Scott can feel the eyes of the room on him. He circles a quick “sorry” on his chest. Kip sighs, but whatever he might have said next is cut off by Elena returning.  

“Jack’s on his break,” she signs cheerfully to Kip, “He’ll be back in ten. In the meantime, Scott can order another round of drinks for us.” 

“I—um. Sure. Of course.” Scott allows Elena to tuck her arm into his elbow, while Kip hovers awkwardly. 

“You two go. I’m going to find the men’s room.” Kip won’t look at him, and it’s starting to make something like panic curl in Scott’s gut. 

“We’ll get you another Chardonnay,” Elena promises, face perfectly neutral as she steers Scott away from his boyfriend to the far end of the temporary bar. Nearly hidden by a large potted fern, they aren’t actually in convenient view of any bartenders. Elena perches on a stool, perfectly comfortable with this fact as she stares Scott down in a manner too friendly to be completely genuine. 

“Is this hidden enough for me to ask your intentions with my friend and have you actually answer?” 

Scott hesitates. It seems like he can do nothing else tonight. 

“Speak or sign,” Elena says, signs snapping off her fingers. “I can read if you’re going to be weird. Just actually say something. Kip is crazy about you and I care about him.” 

That at least is easy to answer. “I’m crazy about him, too.”

Elena reads the English off his lips with a little furrow of concentration between her brows, and Scott is aware that he has not made a neutral choice in speaking aloud. 

“He’s also miserable.” That locks Scott in on Elena’s hands. The flat set of her mouth. 

“What?” he asks faintly.

“Are you miserable, too?” 

“No.” Scott has half a mind to reach behind and see if someone has actually dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. “What do you mean?” 

Real sympathy melts onto Elena’s face. She purses her lips, and eventually sighs. 

“Do you know,” She says, keeping her signs small. “Kip doesn’t talk to his mom?” 

That must be true, because this is the first Scott has heard of her other than the fact that she exists and that she and Kip’s dad aren’t together anymore. “They don’t talk, like—”

“They barely can talk. They text, sometimes.” 

Scott doesn’t understand for a moment. And then he does and it aches. “She doesn’t sign?” 

“She’s like a Level 1-plus, and Kip is almost twenty-seven.” Elena flicks her eyebrows derisively, but with the worn edge of resignation, like it’s an argument she’s gone over before. “She has a whole other family—adult stepkids, now—and none of them sign with him.” 

“They can’t or they won’t?” 

Elena shrugs. “What’s the difference?” 

A bartender actually comes by, and Scott swallows past the lump in his throat to place the order that Elena rattles off to him in rapid fingerspelling. 

“I don’t know you,” Elena continues when they’re alone again. “And I’m not saying this to be mean, or involve myself where I shouldn’t. I just think it’s important you know that Kip already has someone in his life he loves who won’t speak to him because it makes his disability too visible.” 

Scott might be sick. “That’s not—it isn’t like that. I love him. I just…can’t do better right now.”

“Then I hope something changes,” Elena replies, her smile sad. “Because he deserves the best. And you deserve more than what you’re letting yourself have.”  

Their drinks are delivered, and Kip returns with Jack at his elbow just in time for an event official to come whisk Scott away to make his speech. Scott gives Kip his seat, and in the rapid coordination of bodies Scott can’t seem to find Kip’s eyes. He leaves with a brief press of his hand to Kip’s upper back, and meeting Elena’s knowing gaze Scott sweeps the shape of the word beautiful between Kip’s shoulder blades. 

Scott can’t look back to see if Kip got his message. 

Kip can’t hold Scott’s hand in the car on the way home. That’s…hard. Stark. There’s a gap that he didn’t see until tonight. Even after the gallery. That having Scott the way he does when they’re in private means a vast gulf in public that Kip isn’t sure how to bridge, no matter how subtle the way. 

He tries, still. 

“It’s my birthday on Sunday,” he says, as Scott pours them both a drink back in the safety of his apartment. 

“I know.” Scott taps his brow like a boyfriend of two years, not two months. Back here, it’s like the fear falls off him. Like it never happened. 

Kip still feels the weight of the evening clinging. 

“You know the bar I told you about, where I watch all your games?”

Scott nods, but his gaze focuses in, wary. 

“A couple of friends are throwing me a party there. Not even a party—just hanging out.”

“Right.” 

“It’s a gay bar—not a club, a bar.” Kip can see the wince on Scott’s face already so he tries to reroute— “And some of us might get dinner before, you know. Just a big group. I thought you could come, to some part of it, as my friend, and meet my other friends—” 

“Kip.”

“And a lot of them are gay, obviously,” Kip continues, hands fluttering after the long silence of the gala, “because they’re my friends, but not everyone, and it’ll be ASL the whole night, anyway.” Scott is getting smaller and smaller in front of him, like Kip is losing him down a long tunnel even though they’re standing with only the space of the counter between them. “I have friends who are other CODA. I could introduce you—”

“Kip, I can’t.” Scott flicks the sign with a pained expression. “I can’t do that, and have people ask questions. About you, or me—” He stops signing to breathe. He tips his head back, like it will keep Kip from seeing the helplessness behind his eyes. “I want to tell everyone. I want everyone to know you’re mine. But I’m not ready.” 

Kip nods, to what, he isn’t sure.

“Soon, maybe. In a few years.” Scott says it like a reassurance, but there’s a fine tremble in his hands. This is him stretching himself as far as he can go, as real a possibility as he can imagine, and in the shake of his hands and the purse of his mouth Kip can see how far Scott knows he’s falling short.  

It hurts, because Kip wants to comfort him. He wants to take Scott to bed and promise him that it’s okay, and they can keep doing this until Scott is ready, until the world is different. 

Kip can’t do that. Scott will never be ready, and the world will never be different. 

“I know how it sounds,” Scott continues. “but it’ll go by quickly, I promise, and—and then we can be normal. Like other people.”

Normal. What a word. Scott’s hands hang silent, and Kip fills the space with the question that’s been haunting him all night: 

“How much like other people do you want me to be?” 

There’s an ugly beat, and then Scott shakes his head. “I—no. Kip, I didn’t mean—” 

“I know what you meant.” Kip drags a hand through his hair, letting the air out of lungs. Then, heart in his stomach: “But I think, because of me—us—that you’ve made being Deaf one of your secrets. That it’s mixed up for you with being gay. Getting outed.”

Scott says nothing. His eyes drop to the counter. His shoulders hunch. 

It’s true, and they both know it. 

“That’s not fair, Scott,” Kip says, as compassionately as he can. “Being Deaf isn’t something I can choose to be discreet about. It’s not fair of you to put me in situations where I have to try and do that.” 

“I know.” Scott circles “Sorry” heavily on his chest. “That’s not what I want.” 

“I saw your speech tonight.” Jack had really done well with the interpretation. The expression of Scott’s words couldn’t have been more clear, even secondhand. “Your team is your family, and you feel responsible for them. …but I have a family, too.” 

“I have to go home.” Kip scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I’m able to live the way I do because I’ve built a community here.” He shakes his head. “You’re talking about years, and if I push away my friends or my dad so we can keep going at this pace, who sees me when you aren’t here? Who can hear my voice?” 

Scott says nothing. What can he say? Kip isn’t angry. It’s just the truth, and it hurts. They can’t keep going like they have. 

Kip reaches across the counter, just for a moment, and takes Scott’s hand. He can let his voice go for this long. He can take the moment to touch the man he’s fallen so in love with, before he has to go.

Scott squeezes his hand, eyes dark and wet. His chest rises and falls. He lets Kip go when he pulls away, nodding shakily. 

“You still sign like your parents,” Kip says, after he’s pulled his fingertips away from Scott’s skin. He’s overstepping, maybe, but this is his language. His culture. “That’s a piece of them you should get to have. Not a story for donors—a real, living part of you. But it’s your decision, no one else's."

Kip has to turn away then. He has to open the door and leave, because if he waits and Scott tosses him the thinnest lifeline of hope, he’ll stay, and they need more space. If Kip keeps making himself any smaller, eventually he’ll disappear, and no amount of Scott’s love can fix that. 

Kip steps out into the night, breathes the cold, lonely, fresh air, and heads for the nearest Brooklyn bound R. 

Chapter End Notes

Comments will be catered for Kip's birthday (because we don't have to choose).

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Okay sorry for the mini-hiatus. Welcome to this detour into Scott's brain. He and I are working through some ideas together.

Related thought: It's kind of a weird vibe to write flashbacks to a two-month relationship. Nonetheless, get on Scott's level.

Now 

Scott indulges in some masochistic floor time. He’s already down here, and he’s got two cut crystal glasses of melted ice water. That’s provisions. He’s got two days off after the roadie, so he’s not ignoring any urgent responsibilities. It just seems like the place he needs to be right now, holding still in this moment before he has to get up and act like everything is normal. 

In Scott’s experience of taking bad hits, it can be better to let the bruise form before he tries to stretch out the muscle. He can see the damage, and understand what he’s working with. Right now, Scott is staring down the first stirrings of a brutal hematoma. Metaphorically. Literally, if he stays down here and lets his hip really dig into the hardwood. He’s vibing with that pain right now, so Scott pulls off his bowtie, rolls up the non-skid mat by the sink for a pillow, and settles in for a little self-inflicted suffering. 

Then

About three weeks into their mutual insanity, Scott comes home from a game with a bruise blooming across his hip and thigh deep enough that he’d had to stay late for some imaging, just in case. Scott lurches in the door, still with the ice pack they’d strapped him into for the car ride home under his suit jacket, to find Kip on the couch, watching him with a complex expression. 

“You okay?” he asks, eyes unreadable.

“Yeah,” Scott promises, feeling the sore weight of the ice pack press against his hip as he takes his hand off it to sign. He tries to offer a reassuring, if exhausted, smile. “Normal stuff. Didn’t even break anything.” 

Maybe this is it, Scott thinks as Kip kisses him lightly and slings one of Scott’s arms over his broad shoulders to guide him towards bed. This might be where this lovely, smart aesthete realizes he’s playing high stakes commitment chicken with a goon who gets his head knocked into the boards for a living. That it’s not as titillating to see the action on the television screen get translated into the stiff knees and physio appointments at home. Kip doesn’t say anything, hands occupied with getting Scott out of his game suit and shaking out ibuprofen and petting his hair once Scott is laid out and Kip is perched on the edge of the bed. They peel away the ice pack—twenty minutes on, ninety minutes off—and Kip’s breath sucks in at the sight of the ugly bruising that looks like it goes right down to the joint. 

Scott waits, watching Kip’s dark eyes in the glow of the lamplight. He doesn’t look upset. It’s almost like—

“It’s hot,” Kip decides, pulling the clawed shape of the sign away from his mouth with a curious intensity. “I’m—” he dips down, pressing his mouth to the purpling bruise, which Scott can only feel in starts and stops against the abraded skin and the forming ache underneath. “Fuck, Scott. I don’t like that you got hurt, but you’re strong. You took the hit. Now, I can touch it, and it’s really, really, hot.” 

Kip runs his hand over the whole bruise, from ribcage to knee, and he dips down again and licks where the deepest, most vicious blue is still working its way to the skin, and Scott is tired and sore and possibly the most aroused he’s ever been in his life. 

“Is it okay?” Kip asks, signs fitting between him smoothing his hands over Scott’s skin, tugging at the elastic of his boxer-briefs. Fitting his palm to the rise of Scott’s half-hard cock. “Do you like that I feel this way?” 

“Yes,” Scott promises, face flushing hot with Kip’s attention. His desire. His willingness to ask.  “Baby, please—” 

There’s so many ways to be a man. Scott knows this. But god, he thinks as Kip strips him out of his underwear and sucks a wet path from his hip to his cock, this is one hell of a way.

Now

Floor time is starting to become medically inadvisable—there’s a reason Scott paid eight grand for a top of the line memory foam mattress—when his phone starts buzzing. The bursts are short and irregular. 

Texts, not a call. 

Scott pulls his focus into the specific rhythm. Carter texts in paragraphs full of emojis. A text every ten seconds or so, when he’s really on a tear. A flurry of quick buzzes after means Carter hyping up the Olympic group chat and getting a bunch of tapped replies. 

Eric treats texting like a phone call. He asks his question and waits for a reply. Single buzz, no follow up for eight hours or so. 

Kip texts like a telegraph. Short line breaks, like the separate messages are clauses in a sentence. Which they are sometimes. It’s an ASL vernacular—with all the particulars unique to the individual—that Scott isn’t as fluent in, honestly, since he stopped signing in 1992 before texting became a thing. Kip calls it “lazy English.” Scott calls it the fucking Zodiac code, and figuring out the idioms he’d missed in twenty years in combination with the switchbacks between ASL “topic-comment” and English “subject-verb-object” structures had been his primary joy through three roadies. 

Scott is receiving telegraph texts. He scrambles off the floor like a 220 pound D-man just put him there and the puck is heading towards the home goal. His shoulder, hip, and knees make their objections to his choice of resting place known, and Scott ignores them to catch his phone just before it buzzes its way off the edge of the kitchen countertop. He blinks some black spots from his vision—that’s the eighteen-hour calorie deficit coming into play—until he can set eyes on the message notifications. 

K: So…um. I hope you’re okay. 

K: That conversation was necessary for me, but I don’t want it to be the last time we see each other

K: I don’t want it to be our last anything

K: But obviously we both need to clear our heads a little

…Okay. Okay. Fuck. Scott presses his forehead to cool marble and breathes. There is so much here. Scott is not quite in his body enough to feel the relief yet, but it’s enough to know at least academically that the happiest time of his life is not just over between one conversation and the next. 

Scott needs to reply. Kip knows he has the day off. That would require Scott’s brain to be working. And for him not to be dizzy. 

One of those problems can be fixed. Scott fishes a protein bar out of the snack basket by the cupboard and mechanically chews his way through five hundred calories of too-sweet-to-be-pleasant soy and peanut butter. He sucks down an electrolyte water and feeling slightly more like a human being capable of having a mature conversation with a partner and less like a film of algae on his kitchen floor, Scott considers his phone.

S: I’m really glad to hear from you

S: It would be a lie to say I wasn’t still…processing. But I heard everything you said. It was important.

S: Bottom line—I don’t want that to be our last anything either  

Message bubbles appear, and then vanish. There’s a pause, long enough that it occurs to Scott that Kip might be eating his own metaphorical protein bar right now. That’s comforting, in a weird way, even though everything about this that sucks for Kip is Scott’s fault. 

Oof. 

Scott’s spiral is cut off by the reappearance of messaging bubbles. Eventually:

K: Okay.

K: Good. 

K Can we…take a week? Promise to talk then? 

Seven days. Scott barely held it together for the last eighteen hours. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. 

S: Yes. Definitely.

Then

Scott gets home from practice in time to hold Kip’s hand as he clicks submit on his final grad school application. (The fact that Kip sees Scott as a source of support in this matter is intoxicating.) 

Kip spends the rest of the afternoon in a mixed state of relief and nausea. Scott, never less than thrilled to serve as a body pillow, observes with fascination as each congratulatory text that he reads over Kip’s shoulder makes his boyfriend (!) more anxious. 

“It must feel good to be done,” Scott observes cautiously over sushi takeout at the breakfast bar. Kip hasn’t eaten his share of gyoza, and Scott knows enough about Kip’s gym habits at this stage not to assume he’s the kind of gay guy who won’t eat the carbs in a dumpling wrapper. 

“I found two typos in my writing sample already,” Kip replies with darting hands. He drags a hand through his hair. His glasses are smudged from adjusting them on his nose all day. “What if I just embarrassed myself and wasted a ton of money?” 

“I’m sure that’s not true.” This is a side of Kip—anxious, doubting himself—that Scott hasn’t really seen before. Kips phone lights up again, another text from what looks like a busy group chat. “Your friends seem super excited for you.” 

“Definitely.” Kip gives one of his soundless laughs, the one Scott knows isn’t real. It has the right shape—like a vowel sound learned in speech therapy—but none of the feeling behind it. “Elena is acting like I’ve already gotten a funding offer. Like even if I get in, I won’t be constantly having to work to make sure I have the tools I need to communicate—” The shape of his laugh falls away. “Like feeling any doubt about this whole process is me being overdramatic.” 

Kip’s hands fist tightly in the final sign, and Scott maybe sees the edges of what’s going on here. He puts down his chopsticks, and smoothes a hand onto Kip’s knee. He’s not really aiming for sexy, just the kind of pressure that makes you remember you have a body and not just nerves. 

“Sorry,” Kip says after squeezing Scott’s hand for a second, his glance skittering away. “My friends are trying to be nice, and I’m being shitty. Not fun.” 

Scott is so far past the mental relationship marker of wanting every moment with Kip to be “fun,” that the apology almost confuses him. But he gets it. Kip is showing a negative emotion, and some part of him is worried Scott will be turned off by that. Like Scott hasn’t waited his whole life for the chance to try—and possibly fail—to comfort a partner. 

Scott taps Kip’s knee, pulling his eyes back to their conversation. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks. “And if it’s not what you need to hear right now, that’s okay.” 

Kip’s brow furrows, a little wary but curious. “Okay.” 

“I know these applications are important to you, and I want you to achieve everything you’re hoping for. I believe that you will.” Scott wets his lips, even as he continues to speak through his hands. “I also know that meeting you—sharing this time with you—is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Um, exactly as you are. Right now.” 

Scott is fully aware that he’s too much. He feels the emotional stretch like a muscle, like a rubber band that he’s pulling until it might snap back in both their faces. But what’s he supposed to do? Lie? Let Kip sit here looking fucking beautiful and feel like shit? Scott isn’t cut out for that, not when he can help it. 

“I get why you’re nervous,” he continues, a little nervous himself. “Even if it goes well, it’s a big change. I don’t need you to pretend that you don’t feel that.” Scott has to stop. Laugh. Flex his hands a little. “But if you’re worried about being embarrassed, or disappointing people…you can take me off that list. The version of you that makes smoothies and the version of you that has a doctorate are both guys I’m really fucking lucky to be with.”  

On the counter, Kip’s phone lights up with another text. Kip ignores it. Instead, he clasps Scott’s hand—maybe to stop him from spilling out anymore of his guts—and pulls it to his mouth. He kisses Scott’s scarred knuckles, and when he’s done he smiles, and it’s all feeling and no shape. Kip pulls Scott in and kisses him on the mouth, his glasses smudging against Scott’s cheek. They kiss enough that Scott gets pulled off his stool, the gyoza growing cold and the sushi growing warm as Kip holds him. 

For once in his life outside hockey, Scott doesn’t wonder if he’s said the right thing. He just feels, one breath—one kiss—at a time, as the tension eases out of Kip’s body, and knows. 

Now

Scott stays alive for five days. That—okay, that sounds bad. He’s maybe veering into melodrama. Scott watches a whole season of The Walking Dead on his second day off, just to remember that there are people with bigger problems, then he shows up to practice ready to be normal. He’s still greeted in the dressing room by Carter, who looks him up and down, saucer-eyed, and declares: “Jesus, Scott. Who died?” 

“Our playoff chances, Vaughny,” Scott replies without missing a beat, dropping his duffle in his cube with a sigh. “Unless we can get back what the Metros took from us against Boston this week.” 

Carter doesn’t push, but makes pointed eye contact with someone over Scott’s shoulder. Scott drops his head onto his shelf and groans audibly. He’s getting assigned to the Goalie Aura. 

“This is a betrayal of the team hierarchy, Carter.” 

“As your loyal A, I have to disagree. What do you think, Benny?” 

“I think it’s a good call, oh wise Alternate Cap.” A heavy padded hand lands between Scott’s shoulders and starts rubbing circles. It feels, admittedly, great, which only serves to piss Scott off. Being pissed off still feels better than feeling like a lonely sad sack, which at the end of the day is the purpose of being in the Goalie Aura. 

“Come on, Scottie,” Eric rumbles, in his caring yet disaffected way. “You look like you haven’t been eating to plan. Let’s get you a green shake, and I’ll tell you all about this killer Hockney exhibit I saw over the weekend.”

Scott spends the next three work days not on the ice in the loving bosom of Eric and his odd cult of back-up goalies, and the next three nights laying awake in bed trying to actually think critically about the intersections of his private and public lives and not just react to external stimuli like an animal. There is still a crack in the door here, because Scott fell in love with the most generous man to ever live, and if Scott doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in the cold, mute aftermath of having had Kip Grady and lost him, he’s got to fucking think. 

Five days since the gala, one lackluster win against New Jersey, and one brutal loss to Boston, Scott doesn’t have answers, but he’s narrowing down the question.  

The thing is, Kip was right and he was wrong, about Scott tangling up being gay and being Deaf-culture adjacent. About wanting to keep them both secret. And that’s fair. Scott’s refusal to sign in public has been bizarre and inconsistent. He doesn’t fully understand it himself, but he needs to get a grip on it, because there’s no sane man alive who will stay in a relationship with someone who randomly refuses to speak to him in their only shared language. So Scott thinks, drinks the weird spirea packets in his water that Benny left him, and eventually catches the metaphorical edge of the wobbly paving stone that has been tripping him up on the path to true (closeted) love:  

Kip is the only Deaf person in Scott’s life right now, and he is (was? Jesus, stay on track, Hunter) Scott’s lover. So if Scott were to come out (figuratively) signing now, and someone asked a question along the lines of what prompted this renewed interest in the Deaf community, any answer that isn’t my gay lover, the most exquisite man alive, who miracle of miracles can call me by my actual name would be a lie. 

So what, exactly, is his fucking problem? That is the question—the big question: 

Why can’t Scott just lie? 

Scott’s shuddering stumble toward self-actualization is interrupted by the buzzing of his phone on his bedside table. Telegraph texts. The rhythm of it is bliss, and it’s an ice cube down Scott’s shirt, because what if Kip has come to his senses? What if he’s (completely reasonably) changed his mind and this is a courtesy text to let Scott know that he’s blocking his number and finding a boyfriend who is willing to speak to him in public?

Scott gets a grip and picks up his phone. 

K: Okay, so I know we said a week

K: But I have like all my clothes at your place

K: All my best shirts

K: I had to wear my dad’s Mets hoodie to work today because I haven’t been to the laundromat 

Okay. What does mature adult Scott Hunter have to say to his partner, besides please no, come back or you can’t have the peach denim one, because I’m sleeping with it under my pillow ?

S: Then come over. For your stuff. you can come over whenever you want

S: I can be gone when you’re here

S: Or not

S: You can decide if you want to see me, I mean

K:....

K:...

K: Sweetheart, I want to see you so bad I could puke. 

Scott lets his phone drop, dizzy with relief. It’s—wow. It’s ragged. Raw. Terrifying, the gap stretched out in front of Scott between where he’s lying now—weight leaden, like he might just sink straight through the mattress to the floor—and where he needs to be to be able to give Kip the shape of relationship he deserves. But that sweetheart is honey on Scott’s tongue. It’s like a kiss. 

Kip still wants to see him. 

Scott is going to do the work to make sure that stays true.

Chapter End Notes

Comments will be added to Scott's gross electrolyte water and consumed as emergency calories ;)

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

uh, I heard you guys were into interiority, so here's a chapter where Kip feels one, possibly two complex emotions. *hides*

George Grady starts his first ASL class a week after his son is born. 

This is Christopher, he says, indicating the sleeping newborn strapped to his chest instead of introducing himself. I want to be able to tell him I love him as soon as possible. I want him to be able to tell me anything. 

This story—legend, really, now that his dad teaches his own share of ASL classes—is deeply familiar to Kip, because it has been told to him many times by almost every adult in his life besides his dad, who seems to find it embarrassing. And maybe that’s healthy, since that manifesto is kind of, um, a lot for a kid to live up to, but it’s the foundation of their relationship. That’s probably why when Kip stumbles into his family home at almost one in the morning—still in the custom Hugo Boss that Scott had tailored to Kip’s measurements from memory—and spots his dad looking sleep mussed and wary in the entry hall, something unlocks in him. His vision blurs with tears, only catching the shape of hey, buddy—before he’s being squeezed tight, propped up by the stocky frame that matches his own, give or take thirty years. 

Grady men don’t pussy out of hugs, so besides a break in the middle for a quickly signed “You’re okay? Not hurt?” his dad lets Kip ride out the unexpected crying jag in the safest place he can think of. 

Kip is taller than his dad, he can’t help but think every time they hug. Just an inch, maybe, but the evergreen surprise of it never fails to throw him a little, and in this case throw him off the path of hysteria. A hiccup clicks in the back of Kip’s throat, followed by a light puff of air and chest rumble of his dad’s laugh, and the one two tap of a solid hand on his back before Kip is being guided to the kitchen table and his dad is fishing out the Brooklyn Defender tallboy he keeps in the back of the fridge for emergencies. He watches his dad pop the tab—one of the few things in this world Kip is truly curious about the sound of; TV ads just seem to spend so much time on it—and pour half into a glass that he passes to Kip. The kitchen is warm, the beer is cold when Kip sips it, letting the piney notes wash away the stale champagne and expensive scotch that only reminded him of Scott’s sad fucking face. 

“Okay.” His dad has been signing for twenty-six years—almost twenty-seven, Kip remembered with a sharp ache—and he’s as close to fluent as you can be, but it’s still odd to compare him to Scott, who if you tested him would probably only scrape level 3+ in the Proficiency Interview on vocabulary but uses non-manual markers and spatial grammar like he’s Deaf. His dad is hearing, and the traces of English are still there. It’s his voice, adding in a few extra words that Kip would have left out and letting his question expression slacken through the quick fingerspelling when he asks: “So the suit. Is this, like, a W-O-L-F O-F W-A-L-L S-T-R-E-E-T thing I need to be worried about?”  

Kip laughs, just to avoid starting crying again. The truth—some version of it, what Kip can give without feeling the second hand tang of Scott’s anxiety—spills out of his hands. His dad isn’t squeamish. He has a gay son who as a teenager couldn’t hear a knock on the door or gauge whether he was being loud when he got his first hand job after wrestling practice. He gets that Kip sometimes doesn’t come home because he’s met someone at a club, or he’s keeping a friend company that isn’t going to come home for Thanksgiving except as part of the blurry group of Kingfisher pals. 

The basic facts are easy to give once he actually starts: Kip met someone Deaf-adjacent who can tell him his every secret in perfect fluency but can’t come out and won’t use ASL to crack the closet door, that they moved too fast because every minute they spend together is complete and perfect until they step outside. They’re skidding over the first real patch of gravel and it hurts and Kip doesn’t know what to do but the idea of leaving Scott all alone with no one who knows his name is agony. 

“Okay,” Kip’s dad says, after some thought, as another guy who has definitely been through it in terms of personal relationships, “Okay. That sucks. That’s hard.” 

“I knew him the moment I saw him.” Kip has to blink past another wave of tears. “Do you know what I mean? It was—” 

“Like getting struck by lightning,” his dad agrees, a little sad. “I know.”

“That doesn’t mean it works,” Kip says, naming the hurt behind his father’s eyes. “He’s so…resigned. Afraid. He wants to go to work and love me at home where it’s safe. It’s like he can’t imagine anything different. He was surprised that I could. That I might push, eventually, for more.” 

Elena had told Kip the outline of her conversation with Scott. She’d blindsided him, and felt bad, Kip could tell. It was one thing to think some rich guy was taking advantage of her friend and put on her tough bitch face. It was another thing entirely to see the devotion thrashing behind Scott’s flat public speaking smile and realize it was too late to pull the brakes. Someone had to tell Scott Hunter he was breaking Kip’s heart one day at a time.  

“I guess I don’t understand why he doesn’t want to meet more people. He could have more Deaf friends, but he’d rather hide and only sign with me.” 

His dad taps his thumb on the side of his beer can, thoughtful. “Well, for starters: you’re a handsome, sweet guy and any partner would be lucky to hang out at home and talk to you.” 

“Dad.” Kip presses his mouth flat and his dad raises his hands in surrender. 

“I know. Serious.” He thinks. “Let me tell you something. It doesn’t—” His dad looks almost embarrassed. “It doesn’t paint me in the most flattering light, but it feels relevant.” 

“Okay.” 

“When you were about three and a half, you went from baby signs to pretty much full sentences overnight. And it was so cool.” His dad puffs out his cheeks a little, proud. “You had so many questions, like you’d just been waiting for your hands to catch up to your curiosity. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Why?’ ‘What are they talking about?’ And you were already in ASL daycare while I had to work, but for about eight hours a day it was just you and me. I was your translator in the big wide world, and I loved every minute of it.” 

“Okay?” Kip furrows his brow, making the sign a question. “What’s the connection?”

“I’m gonna get there.” His dad takes a slug of beer. Another speaking habit, like he needed to refresh his hands like he would his mouth. “I liked being the person you depended on. That I could help you, but also protect you. But I caught myself a few times over the years, getting greedy. Only signing the things that were happy and easy and switching to English when it got hard, so you didn’t have to know.” His dad offers him a rueful smile. “Not fair, right? Not when you were getting older, counting on me to be honest. To help you learn what you needed to be your own man one day, and not just the cute little guy who made me feel ten feet tall.” 

Kip knows what he’s talking about, because it had been really obvious when his dad, who loved to tell him everything and answered a million questions, suddenly would drop his hands. Turn his head, once Kip started structured lip reading at school. It left little pockets of empty space in Kip’s memories. A lot of them clustered around his mom, when after a day at the park or a lunch full of stumbling signs and his dad working double to interpret, she would inevitably pull some flyer or printout from her purse on the latest study. Some new technology or therapy that wouldn’t help Kip and would make George’s hands go stiff and silent because he’s not sick, Peggy. Why can’t you wrap your head around—

Kip’s dad wouldn’t sign angry. Kip would only catch the blur of the coming argument off his mouth before his dad inevitably turned away. He would turn off Kip’s access to the conversation like a switch and leave the room, and come back after a long few minutes with a smile and talking hands like nothing had happened.

“I’m not proud of it.” A familiar sigh rolls over his dad’s shoulders. “I could be impatient—maybe if I’d given your mom a little more time to catch up, in the early days—” 

“Dad.” It’s late enough that Kip doesn’t want to drag this out right now on top of everything else. “It’s okay.” 

His dad keeps pretty careful boundaries around the subject of Kip’s mom. It’s a barbed wire topic. To be too kind to Margaret Grady would be a cruelty to Kip; the reverse is equally true. Pretty much Kip’s entire life has been spent with his dad on the tightrope of trying to be honest about the reason for his ex-wife’s absence—her inability to cope with her son’s disability—and the heartsore anger George still carries over it, while keeping the door open to reconciliation, i.e the slim hope that this is the year Margaret will start making an effort and every resentful word George left unsigned over the years will be a brick in the path that leads to Kip finally having a relationship with his mom outside of Christmas cards and birthday texts. 

They’ve talked about it a little bit, now that Kip is an adult who can handle the concept of his parents having complex inner lives. It’s something they had to learn together alongside ASL, over years: how to talk man-to-man and not just father-to-son. There’s still only so honest his dad can be and Kip doesn’t begrudge him the very small number of cards he keeps close to his chest. 

“Right, sorry.” His dad wipes a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I was just so excited to talk to you. Help you meet the world. But also…maybe I also got a little jealous. A little protective of that feeling. Of being the only guy in your corner.”  

Kip nudges his dad’s slippered foot with the toe of his polished black dress shoe. “You’re still in my corner.” 

“Always, kiddo.” He uses Kip’s name sign, the one that Kip had been given by his kindergarten teacher, that his dad had celebrated and embraced and made something special for them when Kip brought it home. 

“You think Scott—” Kip freezes, realizing he’s given away a namesign, too. But it’s just a sign, a click tap that his dad catches but that doesn’t track on to any part of Scott Hunter’s public life. “You think he’s doing that with me? He wants me to be alone, except him?”

“Maybe.” His dad shrugs. “It kind of sounds like he doesn’t know any other way to be. Lonely is a hard mindset to shake off.” He hesitates. “...and maybe up to now, part of you liked him that way.” 

Irritation zips across Kip’s nerves and sizzles out into hurt just as quickly. The shade of truth left behind aches, too much for Kip to shape into words. His dad watches, ready to catch Kip’s ugly emotions alongside the warm and fuzzy ones with the compassion of long practice.

“It feels good for a while, doesn’t it?” he continues when Kip’s hands hang silent. “To be the center of somebody’s world. To have everything you say be special. It makes it hard to want to change. To ask someone to take a risk and change with you.” His dad gives him a knowing smile. “Maybe, it’s easier to play house for a while and put that conversation off until you’re out of room to maneuver.” 

Fuck. Kip nods, throat tight. “I can’t be everything to him. We both need more than that.” 

Kip literally needs more. If he has a hearing partner, it literally means signing on to promise a kind of support that Scott unilaterally cannot give as long as he’s in the closet. Even with that knowledge, all Kip wants in the world right now is to turn around and go back to Tribeca. He wants to burrow down with Scott and give him everything he needs and send him off to the Olympics in February with the kind of kiss that would make Cary Grant seethe.

“If you’ve got that figured out, you’re probably on the right track. One step at a time.” His dad hefts himself up from the kitchen chair. He puts Kip’s empty glass in the sink and flicks on the Liberty Bell nightlight by the old landline. 

“I gotta crash,” he says, ruffling Kip’s hair. “You want to talk again in the morning, we can crack a breakfast Defender, yeah? I’m here for you.”  

Kip scrubs at the dry tears itching under his eyes. Manages to find half a smile. “Thanks, dad. Love you.”

“Same, kiddo. Always.”  

Kip stays a few more minutes, the edges of the room soft in the warm yellow light filtered through the yellow plastic. Scott would be so afraid to come to Bay Ridge, but Kip wants to see him in this light. Kip wants to work his way through a pack of microbrews with him and his dad, the grapefruit and hops strong enough to trigger hay fever. Kip wants to see him try to cram his long legs under the kitchen table chosen for a house where nobody was over 5’8”. 

Kip isn’t done. But he has to start thinking differently. Scott will never sign in his dad’s kitchen if Kip has to drag him there by the wrists. 

Five days later

Kip punches in the code to Scott’s loft and finds it empty. A note on the bed next to a stack of Kip’s freshly laundered clothes heads off the waterworks at the pass. 

Didn’t want you to feel trapped in here. Meet me on the roof when you’re done? -S

Kip and his duffle bag of shirts—minus the peach chambray, left under Scott’s pillow, Christ—and textbooks boards the elevator again. The doors open like a curtain parting onto a concrete slab with a balcony rail, a bucket of sand to catch the cigarettes the building staff must sneak up here on their breaks, and the love of Kip’s life. 

The weak December sun makes Scott’s hair dark and his eyes light. It catches on the breadth of his shoulders, the cut of his jaw. He’s in a black coat suited to his height, tossed over an old charity t-shirt and sweatpants like he’d gotten Kip’s text that he was on his way and fled his own apartment, a spur of the moment decision not to give either of them the option of getting naked. 

Scott was right to take the precaution. Kip wants him so bad. The need thumps through him, and Kip sees his own relief mirrored back at him in Scott’s red-rimmed eyes. Yes, yes, this is real, not a single thing embellished in five days of separation. 

Scott waves. Hi. Kip drops his bag by the door and the cigarette bucket. Closes the unnatural space between them. 

Scott pulls Kip into his arms and Kip can’t possibly grip him back tight enough. His sherpa jean jacket isn’t really warm enough for this set piece, so Scott tucks him into his coat, room around the ribs for Kip’s arms and space in the crook of his neck for Kip to hide away, just for a second. Scott presses his lips to Kip’s temple, tentative, like he’s not sure he’ll be allowed, and Kip leans into the touch until Scott gets brave enough to dip down and give him one on the mouth too. It's quick. Anyone could pop up here for a smoke and see them.  

They must be beautiful, though. Very An Affair to Remember, lovers reuniting at the top of a skyscraper. The wind is whipping around them, tugging its chill fingers through Kip’s hair and biting at the skin peeking out of sleeves and collars. It makes him feel small, and it makes him feel giant, like he and Scott and their warmth is the only thing in the world that matters. It must make a sound, Kip muses, if the tactility of it is so extreme. Air rushing like water over Scott’s ears, deafening him. Scott probably thought of that—probably loved the imagery of it—like it would make this conversation more equal. 

Fuck. Kip presses his forehead to Scott’s collarbone, exhaling hot into the worn-thin cotton against his mouth before the wind could leech it away. It’s scary, to feel this complexly for someone, and have his first instinct still be to pull closer, not create distance. He’s—Kip is frustrated. He’s hurt, and impatient. Scott is just so ready to love him—in private, in secret—and too big a part of Kip is ready to soak in Scott’s poetry until he starves every other relationship in his life to death. 

Kip doesn’t owe Scott anything, but god, he wants him.

Jealousy is ugly. His dad named the emotion a week ago and holding Scott now Kip knows he’s sick with it. He’s jealous over Scott, who wastes his time speaking English with people who don’t know him when he should be signing with Kip, letting Kip teach him new words and bring new people into his orbit. He’s jealous over Scott’s hands, his brain, his ribs: the things Scott risks for a sport that would spit on the pleasure he takes with the bodies of other men. Kip is—Jesus—jealous over Scott’s grief, over the deep well of loss that is so thrilling to pour his comfort into, to be the only one who really understands.  

It’s caught up to him all at once and now Kip is banging on the glass of their enclosure and of course Scott is afraid. Of course he’s shrinking back. He’s been honest. He was so honest, after the gallery, flat on his back in their bed, hands shaping the words while his eyes gazed distantly at the ceiling after Kip asked, so tentative: Sweetheart, what are you afraid is going to happen? 

Scott’s laugh had been ugly as a grimace. 

It's a slow death. Slow, cold, and legal as I have fewer minutes and less press and more injuries until everyone agrees that I’m past my prime—too much trouble in the first place—and the franchise would be better off with a center who can carry the team. Someone who isn’t selfish. Doesn’t distract. Only a handful of old boys at the top need to hate me and they will throw away my legacy—twenty years of my life—just to make it clear that hockey isn’t for F-A-G-S. 

Kip had flinched away from the shape of the word, and the jarring innocence of Scott never having learned the sign for it. 

And I know those guys exist, because I shake their hands. I meet their wives. They would take the ice from me, Kip, and I need you to understand why that can’t happen too soon. It would—Scott had looked genuinely ill. —poison me. Poison what I feel for you.

The shake in Scott’s hands had bought them another three weeks. Kip’s jealousy might get them through New Year’s—his desire for the gratitude Scott would pour out when he gave him a secret, private Christmas on the twenty-sixth spiking like a caffeine rush in his blood. 

The end when it comes will be so much worse. They will leave each other lonelier than ever.

“Kip?” The touch of Scott’s hand to his face makes Kip jump. 

“Sorry,” he says, brushing the sign haphazardly against his chest. “Sorry. Intense thoughts.” 

Scott taps Kip’s jaw again until he’ll look at his hands so he can ask, hungry: “Tell me?” 

Kip thinks about his dad, dropping his hands so that the only signs Kip saw were easy and kind. 

He tells Scott everything, spelling it all out in the cramped signing space between their bodies. 

It’s too much, too soon—it’s been two months, Grady, you lunatic. It puts the wind up Scott, he can tell, because unlike his own brand of intensity (I want you to be here when I get back; I want you to stay) Kip’s yearning is actionable. He wants Scott at his dad’s kitchen table. He wants to figure out how to make space so Scott can walk through the door of his own free will. Kip names his jealousy, his loneliness, and he tells Scott how much he wants to bleed it away because the more people who know Scott’s name, the easier it will be for Kip to get to say it in the daylight. 

Kip tells Scott all of it, everything, until he has to shake out his cramping hands. Scott is stiff, muscles tense with the effort of not pulling away. Scott is also loved, and now he knows how much. It’s glowing under his skin, sparking against the fear.

Kip fortifies himself with a drag of chilled fingers through Scott’s beard, then gives out the thesis statement: “I can’t give you up. I don’t want you to be alone.” 

Scott catches Kip’s hand. Kisses it. Curses out loud, the word blurred and flat. Thank fuck. He pulls away, but Kip’s heart is only halfway to his throat before he realizes it’s because Scott needs both his hands back to sign. 

Kip will trade the chill for Scott’s voice. 

“I think, maybe I’m not,” Scott says. Afraid. Loved, still. “Alone, I mean. You make me want to find out. Find more space for us. I need some time—the Olympics. It’s going to be a lot. But let me try?” 

Kip likes the shape of that. It doesn’t end with them downstairs in bed. Not today. But it might end with Scott signing in Bay Ridge, and that’s a detour Kip can live with. 

“Yes. Scott.” Click tap. Kip’s favorite word. “Of course.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for the lovely comments, and keeping up with this fic even tho my posting schedule has slowed down!

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Kathy's story

Info on TTY technology in the age before texting and email (with explanations for the abbreviations I've used

Message recorded via answering machine, 2:58 PM, January 14th, 1995.

From: Joel Whitaker, Whitaker and Beaurevoir, LLP 

To: Katherine Anderson 585-***-****

Good afternoon Ms. Anderson. This is Ramona, interpreting a message on behalf of Mr. Joel Whitaker: 

Hi Kathy, 

I’m sure you’re still at work but I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible. I’m so glad you reached out, and let me just say how sorry I am for your loss. Keith and Melissa were such pillars in the community and I can only imagine how difficult this situation must be for you personally. If there’s anything Dana or I can do to support you you can get us on TTY, anytime. 

I wish I could be answering your inquiry with better news. I understand Melissa’s relationship with her father was challenging, but since their passing was so sudden Mr. and Mrs. Hunter had no documents in place regarding their son’s custody. Raymond Lafayette is Scott’s closest living next of kin and I’m afraid without any concrete concerns regarding Scott’s material or physical wellbeing we have very little legal room to maneuver. As you no doubt can imagine custody battles can get ugly fast, and Mr. Lafayette has an unfortunate history of litigiousness over far less serious matters than his grandson’s guardianship. I appreciate your frank appraisal of your financial situation, and I have to be honest: given the expense and unlikelihood of success, I really can’t recommend you pursue a suit of custody.  

I know this must be tough to hear, and I hope you’ll reach out to me again if you have any developing concerns. Scott is a great kid and we all want the best for him. I can only imagine what he’s going through, and how much he appreciates your love and support right now. Maybe try to reach out to Raymond, and see if he’s open to some informal visits? Any goodwill you can build will only help Scott.

If you would like to discuss my recommendation in more detail, we can set up an in-person meeting. Take care.

Message concluded: 3:02 PM January 14th, 1995.

~

Teletypewriter (TTY) dialogue printout, 4:33 PM, March 8th, 1995

From: Smith-Hardwick Family Residence 585-***-****

To: Katherine Anderson 585-***-****

KA: HELLO, THIS IS KATHY. MAY I ASK WHO IS CALLING GA

S-H-R: HI MS ANDERSON THIS IS DEVIN. JOSH AND AMY HERE TOO. HAVE YOU TALKED TO SCOTT THIS WEEK? GA

KA: HI DEVIN. DOES YOUR MOM KNOW YOURE CALLING? GA

S-H-R: YES MOM SAYS HI. HOW IS SCOTT? WE MISS HIM GA

KA: I MISS HIM TOO. HE IS DOING OK WITH HIS GRANDPA IN BUFFALO GA

S-H-R: WHEN WILL HE COME BACK? GA

S-H-R: GA

S-H-R: MS ANDERSON? ARE YOU THERE? GA GA

KA: SORRY YES. SCOTT WILL BE STARTING NEW SCHOOL IN THE FALL GA

S-H-R: HERE? GA

KA: IN NYC. BOARDING SCHOOL WHERE HE WILL LIVE GA

S-H-R: NO

S-H-R: GPA DOESNT WANT HIM SCOTT SHOULD COME BACK HERE. CAN HE LIVE WITH YOU? GA

KA: NEW SCHOOL IS SPECIAL FOR HOCKEY. ITS AN IMPORTANT OPPORTUNITY GA

S-H-R: SCOTT CAN PLAY HOCKEY HERE GA 

KA: SCOTT WILL COME VISIT GA

S-H-R: SCOTT NEEDS FRIENDS. ASL AT NEW SCHOOL? GA

KA: SCOTT IS HEARING. ENGLISH SCHOOL LIKE ALWAYS BUT NOW WITH SPECIAL HOCKEY GA

S-H-R: NO SCOTT IS DEAF AND NEEDS FRIENDS. NO TTY AT HEARING SCHOOL. WORSE THAN GRANDPAS HOUSE IN BUFFALO. DONT LET HIM GO. GA

KA: IM SORRY DEVIN IT IS FAMILY DECISION GA

S-H-R: THIS SUX. CALL SCOTT PLZ. TELL HIM WE MISS HIM AND THIS SUX BECAUSE HE SHOULD PLAY HOCKEY HERE WITH US AND NOT STUPID SCHOOL IN NYC GA SK 

KA: I WILL TELL HIM AND WE WILL FIND A WAY TO TALK WITH NYC DONT WORRY SKSK

TTY call ended: 4:42 PM, March 8th, 1995

~

Message recorded via answering machine: 7:12 PM, August 20th, 1995

From: Katherine Anderson 585-***-****

To: Raymond Lafayette 716-***-****

Hi Ray,

This is Kathy Anderson again. Just checking in since I know Scott is going to be making the move to the city soon to start at St. Thomas’s. We were sorry not to be able to set up a visit in July—Scott’s friends were really hoping to have him in town for his birthday—but I’m sure Scott really benefitted from the skills camp in Minnesota. I really appreciate your commitment to his professional future. 

Looking forward, I just want to reiterate how happy I would be to host Scott in Rochester for a break or holiday anytime. I don’t want to step on any toes, but lots of people here miss him and both of you are welcome. Maybe we could do Thanksgiving up here? 

Last thing before I get out of your hair: Is there a number we can reach Scott at down the line in NYC? Or will he have access to a computer? Lots of Scott’s friends from RSD have been asking about getting him his own teletypewriter or one of those new email account things. I hope you’ll let me know! Bye and give our best to Scott whenever he gets back.

Message concluded: 7:14 PM, August 20th, 1995

~

From: KathyandersRSD@hotmail.com

To: XxhockeykidxX@hotmail.com 

Sent: October 1st, 1995

Subject: Hello from Rochester! 

Dear Scott,

Hello sweetheart! I hope this email is working and that you are okay getting time on the computer at your school library. You can always call me on the phone (You have my number still, right? 585-***-****) but I’m sure you’re a cool kid who doesn’t want to be stuck on the phone with Auntie Kathy when you’re trying to make new friends. 

I’m sorry we didn’t have time to bring you home to Rochester for a visit before the big move, but I’m trying to see if your grandpa doesn’t have other plans if we can get you both up here for Thanksgiving or Christmas. 

How is St. Thomas’s? It’s so amazing that you got this great scholarship. I am very proud you and how hard you’re working, but I’m sure there are challenges too. I’m here for you if you ever need to talk. Do you have everything you need? I know you can get mail so let me know and I will send a care package. 

I already gave your email to Devin and the gang at RSD and they all said they’re going to send you messages ASAP! We are very excited about this new email thing. Much easier than TTY, but having to have the internet is a pain. Still, there is an internet cafe right down the street from my house (remember it used to be Shelley’s diner where we always had lunch with your mom?) and I will be sure to check this account at least once a week. We are talking about getting a computer lab at RSD since it is so helpful for assistive communication and then it will be even easier to stay in touch!

Love you lots and I hope school is going great,

Aunt Kathy

(see 3 replies) 

(6 additional messages from 1995) 

~

Message recorded via answering machine: 4:02 PM, December 15th, 1995

From: Katherine Anderson 585-***-****

To: Raymond Lafayette 716-***-****

Hi Ray, 

Happy Holidays. I’m calling because I was a little confused by the message you left me. What do you mean Scott wants to stay at St. Thomas’s over Christmas? He hasn’t mentioned that in our emails. Are you going to go and spend the holidays with him in NYC somewhere?

I really don’t mean to overstep, but Scott is thirteen years old and just lost his parents. I can’t imagine any school event, hockey or otherwise, is more important than Scott being around family and friends this year.  

You’re under no obligation to come to Rochester, but if it’s a matter of money to get Scott home for Christmas I’m more than happy to help. Please give me a call back. 

Message concluded: 4:04 PM, December 15th, 1995 

~

From: KathyandersRSD@hotmail.com

To: XxhockeykidxX@hotmail.com 

Sent: January 2nd, 1996 

Hi Scott,

Happy New Year! I hope you got the Christmas package that we sent. Devin and Amy helped me pick out some comic books that they said you HAVE to read haha. 

I hope everything is okay. Your grandpa said you wanted to stay at school for the winter break. I just wanted to check in. I know I was really missing your mom and dad this Christmas, and it's okay if you were, too. They would be so proud of you, but they would also want you to have help if you need it. I’m always here if you need to talk.

I might be coming to NYC for a teaching conference in April. I’ll be meeting a few friends I know from NTID and their kids who are about your age. Maybe I can come sign you out for a Saturday and we can all see an Admirals game! Only if it’s okay with your grandpa, of course. I know that you haven’t had a chance to make many new friends yet who use ASL, but there’s a great community in NYC that I’m sure would love to get to know you! 

Lots of love,

Aunt Kathy 

(See 2 replies)

(See 5 additional messages from 1996) 

~

Message recorded via answering machine: 5: 26 PM, April 17th, 1996

From: Katherine Anderson 585-***-****

To: Raymond Lafayette 716-***-****

Hi Ray,

I was disappointed to get your message that you won’t be giving permission for me to visit Scott at St. Thomas’s while I’m in New York next weekend. I have to say I don’t appreciate your insinuation that my taking my nephew out to lunch or to see a hockey game is “damaging” to his future. If it’s Scott’s dream to play professional hockey then I support him every step of the way, and I appreciate the work you’ve done to make that dream possible. Scott is still a fourteen-year-old boy who needs more in this life than just coaching, which is something his parents were vehement about while they were still with us. I don’t want to speak for Melissa, but I am becoming concerned. I hope you change your mind, because Scott deserves all the support he can get.

Message concluded: 5:27, April 17th, 1996

~

Message recorded via answering machine, 11: 30 PM, April 19th, 1996.

From: Joel Whitaker, Whitaker and Beaurevoir, LLP 

To: Katherine Anderson 585-***-****

Good afternoon Ms. Anderson. This is Andrew, interpreting a message on behalf of Mr. Joel Whitaker: 

Hi Kathy,

I’m really sorry to hear that things remain tense with Ray Lafayette. I know you had concerns about his limiting your access to Scott against Melissa and Keith’s wishes and they seem to have come to fruition. Unfortunately we still have no legal leg to stand on here. Ray is Scott’s guardian, and as much as I personally disagree with his choices, it is up to him who is allowed to visit Scott at the St. Thomas Academy. As a teacher you know better than me why these rules are so hard to circumvent. 

I agree that Ray’s actions are becoming a pattern, but the emails from Scott that you’ve shared won’t convince a judge that Scott is experiencing any material harm under his grandfather’s custody. I also share your concern that Ray’s actions might be motivated by his desire to separate Scott from the ASL community, but again even if we could prove this to be the case there would be little we could do. Scott is not deaf and his lack of access to ASL-using peers, guardians, or assistive technology is not a matter of legally mandated accommodation. 

Honestly, I think any gestures toward legal action would only result in Scott becoming more isolated. Right now Scott seems to be able to communicate with you (and I hope some of his old friends) pretty freely over email and I would hate to see that change. As long as that stays the case and Scott is still voluntarily participating in this MLH track Ray seems to be set on, I think the best you can do is try to be there for him and hope things cool off in the future.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news again, but stay the course. There are still a lot of people in this community rooting for Scott Hunter. We’ll get him home again one day, and who knows, maybe we’ll win Ray over, too.  

Message concluded: 11:34 PM, April 19th, 1996

~

Hi Scott,

Happy birthday! I hope you are celebrating with your teammates at skills camp…

(see 1 reply.)

(see 6 additional messages from 1996)

Dear Scott,

Merry Christmas! I put a little package in the mail for you, I hope it will arrive by the 24th so you’ll have it to open…

(see 1 reply)

(see 4 additional messages from 1997) 

Hi Sweetheart,

I hope you’re surrounded by love and support today. It’s crazy to think it’s already been three years…

(no replies)

(see 3 additional messages from 1998)

Hi Scott…

(no replies)

(see 2 additional messages from 1999) 

Dear Scott…

(no replies)

(see 2 additional messages from 2000)

From: Angela Martinez <a.martinez@NYAdmirals.org.

To: me <s.hunter@NYAdmirals.org>

Sent: 9:36 AM, December 22nd, 2014

Subject: Re: Tech help regarding old email 

Hi Mr. Hunter,

This is Angie, your PA! I managed to get in touch with Outlook and get the information for your former hotmail.com email address! Here is your info in case you want to log in yourself via Outlook: 

Username: XxhockeykidxX@hotmail.com

Password: GoWildcats69

As you requested, I downloaded all messages from KathyAndersRSD@hotmail.com. I also noticed a K.Anderson@RSD.edu starting in 2004 that I assumed might be from the same user so I included those as well, I hope that’s okay! You should be able to see all those messages chronologically in the attached PDF. This is such an amazing archive, the messages date from 1996 all the way to 2013! Technology has come so far since email first started.

Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance!

Angie Martinez

NYAdmirals Support and Social Media Team

~

From: me <s.hunter@NYAdmirals.org>

To: Angela Martinez <a.martinez@NYAdmirals.org>

Sent: 9:50 AM, December 22nd, 2014

Subject: Re:Re: Tech help regarding old email 

Hi Angie,

Thanks, this is a big help. I wonder if you could handle one more last minute thing for me before the holidays? We’re boarding soon for our flight to Buffalo, but I was hoping to arrange a rental car for tomorrow morning instead of flying back with the team. Any make and model is fine, I know the holiday demand will probably be crazy. 

Best,

S

~

From: Angela Martinez <a.martinez@NYAdmirals.org>

To: me <s.hunter@NYAdmirals.org>

Sent: 11:35 AM, December 22nd, 2014

Subject: Re:Re:Re: Tech help regarding old email 

Hi Mr. Hunter,

Of course, no problem! See attached your reservation details for a 2014 Honda CR-V. A driver will meet you to hand off the car at 9 AM tomorrow. Let me know if you need any of these details adjusted. 

Safe travels, and Happy Holidays! 

Angie Martinez

NYAdmirals Support and Social Media Team

~

From: me <s.hunter@NYAdmirals> 

To: Katherine Anderson <K.Anderson@RSD.edu> (Note: This user is outside your organization. Trust messages from this user? Yes/No) 

Sent: 11:42 AM, December 22nd, 2014

Subject: Visit? 

Hi Aunt Kathy,

It’s been a long time. I’m sorry about that. Maybe this is crazy, but if it’s not too late, I’m going to be in town tomorrow. If you aren’t too busy with the holidays, maybe I could stop by for a visit? 

Thanks for all the emails. They meant a lot, even if I didn't always know how to answer.

Scott Hunter

Chapter End Notes

Next up: Scott goes home

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

A rapid second post! If you're just checking in for the first time in a while: make sure you've read chapter 13, or this update will be really confusing lol.

Thanks to everyone for your beautiful comments. This is an arc of this fic that I've been looking forward to since I started writing, and I can't wait to share as Scott continues on this path.

Merry Christmas lol

From: Katherine Anderson-Phillips <K.Anderson@RSD.edu>

To: Outlook hotmail user Unknown <XxhockeykidxX@hotmail.com>

Sent: 9:58 AM January 10th, 2010

Subject: Thinking of you

Dear Scott,

I know it must be silly to keep sending these emails. I’m sure by now you don’t go by XxhockeykidxX and your agent wisely keeps your contact info private, so I haven’t been able to really talk to you in some time. Still, it’s fifteen years to the day since we lost Melissa and Keith, and as always I’m thinking of you today. We’ve both lived so much since then, and I hope that you’ve been able to move on. I’m married now, and I have Paul’s daughter who I consider my own. I still wish I could have done more for you. You are so close to my heart, and I always consider you family.

We watched the playoffs this year, and rooted for you (especially since Buffalo was wiped out in the conference as usual!). The Admirals made it so far! I’m so proud of all of your accomplishments. I watch your games whenever I can, and it looks like you still love hockey. I hope that despite everything that has never changed. 

I hope you have a full and happy life, because that’s what your mom wanted for you, more than anything. She wanted you to be Deaf and hearing. She wanted you to be her sweet boy who told her stories, and your own man who had all the choices in the world. She and your dad loved you so much, Scott. I can’t claim to know you that well anymore, but I can tell you that for certain. 

In case you ever see these messages, you are always welcome in Rochester. You were born into this community, and you can always come home. 

Lots of love,

Aunt Kathy

Now 

S: Is this a terrible idea? 

K: It’s a great idea

K: Brave

K: You deserve it <3 

S: I could pull over now and we could have phone sex instead

K: No <3

Scott feels tiny walking up to the multi-story brick façade of the Rochester School for the Deaf, and then like a giant stepping once he’s inside its warm, off-white painted walls. He was twelve when he was last here, still waiting on the growth spurt promised by his mom and dad’s broad, tall frames. The colorful decorations—seasonal crafts and birthday charts—that were once at eye-level are now comically low to the ground. 

Scott was never a student here, but he spent a lot of time in these halls, mostly when they were dim and empty as he followed his parents to a basketball game or a wrestling match. A lot of his friends played hockey on the team his parents coached, but they also did other sports, or theatre, or the science fair. RSD was one of those places where everyone participated as much as they could so that everyone had the chance to do the thing they loved. Scott spent a lot of time goofing off with his friends under the bleachers, like any other sixth-grader. The off-color jokes and video game cheat code exchanges just happened in ASL.

“Can I help you, sir?” 

Being here—being at home—Scott doesn’t think to answer in English.

“Yes. Thank you. I’m here to meet K-A-T-H-Y A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N.” 

The secretary—whose nametag announces that she uses ASL, English, and Spanish—leads him into the main office. Scott signs in and finds himself faced with a cracked door with a paper placard covered in holiday stickers: Katherine Anderson-Phillips, Vice Principal, Grades K-6.

Scott knocks, and steps inside when he hears a soft “Come in.” 

Kathy is sitting behind a large desk, the corkboard behind her covered in printed calendars and children’s drawings. She’s older—Scott knew she must be in her early sixties—but it’s still a shock to take in her wispy gray hair and deep laugh lines and imagine the brief echo of his parents who would never age past their forties. 

A pair of tortoiseshell cateye glasses has replaced the square plastic frames that Scott remembers, and the lenses are thicker now that she’s older, making her blue eyes a little larger in her face. Those eyes widen as Kathy takes in Scott’s massive frame cluttering up her doorway.

“Scott!” Click-tap. “Scott, oh, you’re here. I—” Kathy’s hands pause. She asks in a low voice that Scott remembers snatches of from his childhood, now a little huskier with age. “Sorry, I should have asked. Do you still sign? Would you rather speak English?” 

“No,” Scott replies quickly, watching Kathy’s smile widen as his fingertips close around the sign. “No, please. I came to sign, not talk.” 

“Okay. Great.” Kathy shifts easily back into ASL as she rises from behind her desk. She was always tall and solid, like Scott’s mom. It was the thing that brought them together as kids, besides signing, when being a 5’10 girl made life awkward. A bright orange Wildcats fleece makes her imposing form cozy and round. “Was the drive okay?” 

“It was no problem.” Scott had spent most of his winter weekends in the 90s on that stretch of interstate, packed in with his parents team when they carpooled to games and then on his team bus when he started playing for the Spartans. “I-90 most of the way, and no snow yet.”

“That’s right. Wow. Look at you,” Kathy says once she draws close, crows feet creasing the corners of her eyes. “You’re all grown up. I see you on TV, of course, but wow!” Her hands fall briefly on Scott’s shoulders. “You’re as tall as your dad. You’ve got his hands, too.” 

“Thanks for making time to see me,” Scott says, wincing at the formality. Kathy’s smile shrinks a little, into something more vulnerable. 

“I’m so glad you could come.” Kathy reaches out as if to touch him again, but stops herself, like Scott might vanish. “I know—it’s been a long time, and we have to get to know each other again, but I missed you so much.” 

Now that Scott has signed with Kip, he can see what he means about the Rochester rhythm. Kathy signs a little slower, with a little bit of a swing between signs. Her furrowed brow and soft ch for emphasis have more space to settle into Scott’s chest, waking up the memories of voices he’d lost except as fuzzy images in his mind’s eye. 

Kathy signs like his parents. Kathy signs like Scott. She’s one of the people who taught him how. 

“I’m sorry I waited so long,” Scott says, throat growing tight. He feels like a child again, cut off from everything but hockey and only an hour a week in the computer lab to reach out with. He feels twenty, holding grandfather’s still hand in the hospital bed with the certainty that everyone else had moved on and now he was truly alone. 

“I’m sorry.” Scott repeats, as Kathy’s eyes go round and damp. “I missed you, too. I didn’t even know how much.” He blinks, hard against the burn of tears. He hadn’t come here to say all this the minute he walked through the door. It’s too much, too soon. Too intense. But it spills out of him, here in this public office with the door wide open: “I was so far away, and I didn’t know how to ask to come home. I’m sorry.” 

Kathy’s breath catches on a sob and her hands flutter over Scott’s face before pulling him into a tight, long-limbed hug. Scott squeezes back, arms still fitting around the solid curve of his aunt’s ribs even now that he’s grown into his dad’s height and his mom’s strength. Kathy’s fine silver hair tickles against Scott’s cheek as he breathes in familiar perfume and lets the woolly fleece he’d fallen asleep against on many a team bus trip soak in the stray tears slipping free.

“Look at us,” Kathy says with a wet laugh as she rubs Scott’s back. “Silly, now that we’re finally here, huh?” 

Scott just nods, no words in ASL or English to describe the long lost parts of him crackling back to life here in his aunt’s office. 

It turns out tonight is the annual faculty/friends and family RSD Christmas party—hosted by Aunt Kathy and her husband. Scott’s offer to get out of her hair is firmly rejected, and his offer to help her run last minute pick-up for the catering is happily accepted. This is how Scott ends up in the “good” Wegmans near his old childhood home, walking the aisles and chatting with Kathy in a mix of ASL and necessary English. Scott signs most of the trip around the four bottles of rosé he’s holding hostage, lest Kathy forbid him from paying for them as his contribution to the party. 

The ennui of earlier is replaced by excitement as Kathy catches Scott up on her life and asks many questions about his. The store is busy, and they move through the crowd with relative anonymity. Scott feels the catch of eyes on him more than once, only to realize the look is at his hands and not the Admirals logo on his chest. Rochester isn’t Manhattan, and at least today the shoppers at Wegmans are busy with their last minute errands, not sneaking phone videos of Scott hefting racks of Polar Ice seltzer into his aunt’s grocery cart while she picks up her party sub order from the deli counter. 

Kathy lives in one half of a duplex on a shady street in North Winton Village. It’s not the apartment Scott remembers, but as they step into the cozy space laden with deli-trays and drinks, he immediately spots a wide array of familiar knick-knacks and photos. 

“Just put those down anywhere,” Kathy instructs, moving into a spacious kitchen with dark brown cupboards. Scott deposits the racks of soda cans on the floor near the fridge and looks over some of the picture frames dotting the wall in the entryway. There’s a wedding photo of Kathy with a slightly shorter man that must be her husband Paul, and a high school graduation photo of a young woman with loose waves of blonde hair and braces. Kathy’s step-daughter, who she mentioned has a new baby. In the landing leading to the upstairs bedrooms, Scott finds some older pictures with more familiar faces. 

Scott catches a flutter from the corner of his eye to find Kathy watching him from the kitchen doorway, her blue eyes bright. 

“Sorry,” he says, face warm. “I didn’t mean to snoop.” 

“It’s okay.” Kathy gestures at the small collage of photos of Scott and his parents. “Lots of memories, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Scott turns back to look, and Kathy joins him.

“I tried to always keep a couple of pictures of you all where I could see them. It’s no good wallowing in the past, but I never wanted to forget the good times, either. I have lots of albums though. I’ll find them for you later. We can make copies of anything you’d like.” 

Scott only nods. He sees the photo he already knows of the 1990 Wildcats hockey team, and what looks like Kathy and his mom in their graduation gowns from RIT (NTID in his mom’s case, but all the same, really). He stops on a small frame where he can see himself, maybe five years old, in a Winnie the Pooh hoodie and his face sticky with ice cream on a picnic table bench near a younger Kathy in thick plastic glasses frames and a feathered bob. His younger self is smiling at the camera cuddled up to his aunt, but his face is a little splotchy, like he’d been crying earlier. “I kind of remember this one. Why did I get so upset, again?” 

“That was a great day, but it started out pretty hard for you.” Kathy sighs, rubbing a light hand briefly on Scott’s back. “You figured out that you were going to public kindergarten in the fall, and not RSD with your daycare friends.” 

“Oh, wow. Right.” The memory is coming to him like he’s seeing it through bubbled glass. He remembers how hot his face got—being so small that every big emotion seemed to take up his whole body—his eyes too blurred with tears to see his parents trying to explain that yes, he was like them in so many important ways but not the most important one. 

“You were so smart, and your mom and dad thought they had a few more weeks to warm you up to the idea. The fit you pitched—oof.” Kathy covers her smile. “Sorry, not to laugh. You were so devastated, but I just remember you—little hands over your ears and a big scowl. You were going to do that forever, you said, and then you could go to Deaf school.”

Scott laughs in spite of himself. “But I kept taking my hands off my ears to sign.” 

“That’s right. You were too little to understand,” Aunt Kathy continues, smile fading into something more wistful. “Your mom and dad were Deaf. Most of your friends were Deaf. It didn’t make sense that you couldn’t be Deaf, too. That you couldn’t stay with them.”  

Scott kind of realizes Kathy isn’t just talking about that day in 1988. He wraps a tentative arm around her shoulders, giving a brief squeeze. “You helped me though.” 

“I tried, sweetheart.” Kathy wipes quickly at her eyes. “That day, anyway, I pulled my weight. We went for ice cream at eleven AM on a Tuesday, and I managed to get Julie to bring Emily by—you remember Devin’s sister? She was in first grade at Franklin Elementary—and started a little club for you so we could talk about CODA things.” 

“Emily used to do English tongue twisters with me.” Scott recalls a vague impression of an impossibly cool older girl, which is a funny thought to have about someone under ten. 

“When you were a little older, that’s right. You were such a good kid. You made trouble like anybody else, but you were devoted to Melissa and Keith. To filling in the language gaps, what little we had to worry about here.” 

Scott nods. “I remember a lot of hearing people in our neighborhood who could sign.” 

“There’s more now. You’d be amazed. Still, your mom and dad always tried to keep that pressure off you. They wanted you to be a normal kid, not their interpreter.” Kathy shrugs. “You were never normal though. You were always special. You helped people connect, and we never wanted to stop you from being amazing by trying to protect you.” 

“I would have really loved being able to help them more,” Scott says. “To be there for them now, I mean.” 

Kathy smiles at him, and it’s proud, and sad. “I know. But you still have what they taught you.”

“Yeah.”  

“Have you made some ASL friends in the city by now?” 

Kathy probably means it as a light change of subject. It’s any but as nerves swoop in Scott’s gut. The hardwood creaks under his feet as he decides what to say, desire warring with fear. 

“I have a friend. Recently. I met someone.” 

Kathy hums. “That’s great. Are they part of hockey, or…” 

“No. Just someone I ran into in Manhattan.” Scott feels the start of a cold sweat under his collar. “I hadn’t signed in a long time. We met, and it all came back to me.” 

“I’m glad.” Kathy’s eyes crease with sympathy. “I know—I assumed Ray must not have signed with you.” 

“No, I guess not.” It hadn’t really occurred to Scott that his grandfather must have known ASL, having a Deaf daughter. Anxiety thinning his filter, he asks: “Why would he?” 

Kathy’s mouth thins a little. “Because you might have wanted to, honey. …but that’s okay. It was a long time ago, and you have a friend you can sign with now. There’s so many great people in New York. I should give you my friend George’s email, he has a son your age—”

“Can I, um, tell you something?” Scott asks, against a lurch of nausea. “Something I would have liked to tell my mom?” 

Kathy’s hands fall still. She takes in the rise of Scott’s shoulders and the tremble in his hands. “Of course.” 

Dumbass what if she tells? What if she’s upset? What if she mentions it to the wrong friend at this party and you’re on Twitter tomorrow? What if—

Scott tries to breathe. “If it’s not okay,” he signs, “I can go, before anyone gets here. It, um—it still meant a lot to see you, so—“

“Scott.” Click-tap. Scott didn’t have to remind Kathy of his name. She knew. She called him by it before she ever spoke aloud. “There are few things you could tell me right now that would make me want you to leave. What is it, sweetheart?”

It took so much to come here, and Kathy has been so kind to him. Scott feels stupid, risking throwing it all away, but this is the window. The opening is so clear and he’ll kick himself forever if he doesn’t try. Scott doesn’t want Rochester if it’s just going to become another place he has to lie. 

“My Deaf friend is a man. He’s—we aren’t friends. I mean, we are—I mean, he’s more than my friend. I love him.” Scott’s face feels hot, like he’s five years old again, his body too small for this feeling even now that he’s six-foot-three. He grinds any last possibility of ambiguity into dust under his heel. He taps the truth on his chest, then his chin: “I’m gay.”

Oh. The sound of surprise leaves Kathy’s lips and Scott’s heart plummets, but before he can flinch away she's grabbing his arms, her English low and urgent. “No, no, shh it’s okay.”

“Is it?” Scott asks, hands almost like a shield in front of his face. 

“Of course.” His aunt touches his cheek, then pulls away to sign: “Of course. Thank you, Scott.”

“For what?”

Kathy wipes a hand over her mouth, eyes wet again. “I’ve missed knowing you so much. This is part of who you are. An incredibly special part. So thank you for telling me.”  

The relief is like aloe on a burn. Kathy gives him another quick squeeze, and it sets the bone. They’re okay. Scott told someone, and the world didn’t end.

“No one knows.” Scott hates that he has to immediately put up walls around it again, but even now he feels too exposed. “Hockey…and everything. It’s really important that you not tell anyone.” 

Kathy’s brow furrows, but she brushes her hand lightly over the faded Admiral’s logo on Scott’s chest. “I understand. It’ll stay between you and me,” she promises. Then: “Can I ask—did your grandfather know?” 

“No,” Scott says, maybe a little too quickly. Not—it doesn’t make him afraid. The idea is just foreign to him. “I don’t know—maybe I could have told him, towards the end. He wasn’t…bad, in that way. But we didn’t really talk like that. You’re the first person I’ve told.” 

Kathy looks a little heartbroken. “Ever?” 

“My boyfriend knows,” Scott says instead of a painful yes. The levity doesn’t quite land. 

“He must be a special person.” 

Scott misses Kip right now so much. “He is.”

“Okay.” Kathy squeezes his forearm. “Okay. Help me set up these trays in the kitchen? I’ve still got to get some veggies chopped and it’ll be tough once people get here and we want our hands to chat.” 

They switch to English so that Kathy can break down a bag of produce to snackable size, while Scott is assigned opening all the plastic sleeves of crackers to fan around the edge of the cheese tray. 

“Do you have plans with your boyfriend for Christmas?” 

Boyfriend. Hearing it from someone else’s mouth was like licking a battery. Never mind that he and Kip were in a bit of a soft pause right now. “No. Not yet—not this year I mean,” Scott says, not really thinking about the line of questioning. “He’s with his dad in Brooklyn.” 

“And you’re here with us.” Kathy finishes slicing a cucumber into rounds and moves on to the waiting bell peppers, her voice neutral in a way Scott realizes might be hiding some nerves. “Maybe you have team plans on the twenty-fifth—but if not, you’d be more than welcome to stay.” 

Scott yanks too hard on a sleeve of Ritz crackers and almost sends an explosion of crumbs onto the cheese platter. “Stay for Christmas? That’s—wow, that’s so nice, but I’m sure you want to spend that time with your family.” 

“Yes,” Kathy agrees. Her knife slides cleanly through the pepper, the blade meeting the cutting board with a punctuative clack. “Scott, I really do.”

Kathy meets his eye, and Scott sees reflected back at him, the only person who really gets it. There’s no one else alive—his grandpa Ray, who could only wear his grief in the deep lines etched around his eyes and in his mumbled critique of Scott’s backhand, long passed now—who has borne the heavy and patient grief of showing up for Christmas year after year knowing that people you want to be there more than anything aren’t coming. 

Scott can’t have his parents. 

Kathy can’t have her best friends. 

But they can have each other, from now on. 

“I can stay.” 

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Anything that could be said next is interrupted by the rumble of a garage door opening and a coordinating light blinking over the stove. “Oh, that’ll be Paul with Jeanie and the baby.” Kathy’s face lights up as she leaves aside the rest of the chopping and wipes her hands on a dish towel to sign. “They’re so excited to meet you. I hope you won’t be embarrassed—I’ve shared a lot of stories over the years.”

“Not at all,” Scott assures her, and follows Kathy into the foyer to meet the rest of the family. 

December 23rd 7:58 PM: S has shared 2 photos

[ ln the first photo Scott is standing on the edge of a large group with his Aunt Kathy in a living room decorated for Christmas. Almost everyone in the picture is wearing a garish holiday sweater. On Kathy’s other side is her husband, Paul, with her step-daughter Janine holding her daughter who’s a little less than a year old. Many of the smiling figures in the photo have slightly blurred hands, as if they were in the middle of a sentence when the picture was taken.]

[In the second photo Scott is standing in front of a large snack table with a man of Indian descent with dark curly hair, probably in his early thirties. The man is holding a small child about two years old on his hip. All three are beaming at the camera while the man holds bunny ears behind Scott’s head.]

S: I got here just in time for the RSD Christmas party, haha. A couple of the teachers are the same from when I was here

S: Second pic is Josh! He was one of my best neighborhood friends. He has a kid now! I remember when he used to eat nothing but microwaved taquitos lol and now he’s responsible for a whole baby

K: <3 <3 <3

K: Also omg is that your Aunt Kathy??

K: She’s so tall

K: Queen!

Carter: Yo how’s the mystery roadtrip?

Scott: Good so far! 

Scott: Also will you give your mom my apologies I wont be coming over for dinner this year

Scott: I'm still sending the cheesecake if you don't mind picking it up

Carter: ?!? Sure man but are you all good?

Scott: Yeah

Scott: I’m doing Christmas with my aunt and her family in Rochester :)

Carter: !!! Hell yeah bro. I didnt know you still had people out there. 

Scott: turns out I do :) Merry Christmas Vaughany 🎄

Carter: hell yeah Cap. Merry Christmas 🎄🎄🎄

December 25th, 9:58 PM: S has shared 1 photo 

[Scott is seated on a couch beside his Aunt Kathy, a Christmas tree laden with eclectic ornaments twinkling in the background. Scott is wearing a new Rochester Wildcats fleece and Kathy a new Admirals hoodie. Both Scott and Kathy are smiling but slightly tearstained as Scott holds up his wrist, now bearing an older but carefully maintained Casio watch.]

S: This was my dad’s. Kathy kept it for me all this time 

K: Thats amazing! 

K: Looks like you had a great day

S: Yeah a little overwhelming haha

K: Christmas is always overwhelming

K: Are you back at your hotel?

S: Yeah, ready to crash. This has been so crazy

K: Good crazy? 

S: Yeah. Amazing

S: …

S: They wanted me to stay

K: Until New Years? You have a game on the 27th right?

S:...

S: No I mean in 1995

S: Kathy’s husband told me she tried to adopt me. Get custody I mean. So I could stay with her

S: I had no idea

K: Oh 

K: Scott

K: wow

K: …

K: Do you want to talk about it? 

S: Are you free to call? It’s ok if not

K: I’m home and dads conked out 

K: Let’s FT

Facetime call ended, 11:10 PM December 25th. Call duration 43:15.

S: Thank you

S: I wouldn’t have any of this without you

S: I forgot to say Kathy wants to meet you btw. Let’s make it happen after the Olympics.

K: !!!

Chapter End Notes

next: the olympics

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

The epic highs and lows of Olympic hockey, aka Carter's song

The first team breakfast of an Olympics is always a little weird. Scott (and Carter) have done a lot of work to get the team talking strategy over email and in the group chat, but it’s another thing to have twenty guys usually out for each other’s blood at one table, jet lagged and sleep deprived the morning after the Opening Ceremonies. A couple of the West Coast guys at their first Games are definitely hung over, and Scott does not begrudge them the experience. Scott’s end of the table is in slightly better shape, even though he and Vaughny only got in less than eighteen hours ago after a brutal regular season game against Long Island. 

An obscene amount of scrambled eggs has improved Scott’s outlook, but he is not firing on all cylinders. Carter, as always, is a boundless well of enthusiasm for all things Olympics.

“I wish we could get a couple extra days to check out the Paralympic stuff,” he laments. “Like sledge hockey? I want to know what’s up with that.” 

Arnetto (their main goalie, slotted comfortably into the chair Eric would normally occupy) hums, focused on his Kindle. “Para snowboarding sounds cool.” 

“Yeah, man. Like flinging yourself around on the board but you’re like one leg down or deaf or something. That’s metal as fuck.” 

“Deaf athletes don’t usually do the Paralympics unless they have an additional physical disability.” Scott chimes in without thinking. 

“Oh yeah? How do you know that?” Carter asks, flipping through Vancouver clips on his phone. “You neck deep in Olympics podcasts or something?”

“Um, no.” Scott watches the half-and-half swirl into his coffee. 

This is information anyone can google. It’s your present, not just your sad-as-fuck past.  

“My parents were Deaf,” he continues eventually, keeping his voice light. “They have their own games. They don’t usually compete in the Paralympics.” 

Their end of the table falls silent. Scott looks up to see several of his teammates staring. 

“Dude. What?” Carter looks genuinely confused, half a smile on his face like Scott has made some kind of weird joke that isn’t landing. “What do you mean?” 

Scott shrugs. “My mom was an alternate for the women’s hockey team at the Deaflympics in Lake Placid in ‘75.” 

“...because she was deaf?” 

“That’s a requirement, yeah.” Scott fumbles through sweetener packets on offer next to the shelf stable half-and-half containers. “Have you guys got any normal sugar down there? I’m not sure about the Russian Splenda—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up.” Carter puts his phone down, one hand out like he’s about to start directing traffic. “I—sorry, man. This just seems like absolutely basic factual information to know about you, and I don’t?” Carter turns to Arnetto, who shrugs, uneasily fazed. “Is it me? Is this not weird?”  

“It’s not weird,” Scott says pointedly. “It was just…private.” 

“Both of your parents were literally deaf? Like they couldn’t hear at all.”

“The term is ‘profoundly’ Deaf, and yes.” 

“But you can.” 

“Hear? Obviously.” 

“Like, how did you learn to talk?” 

“I watched Sesame Street, mostly,” Scott says mildly, while Arnetto drops his face in his hands with a groan. 

“Oh my god, Vaughny. You can’t just ask people how they learned to talk.”  

“What? This is bizarre,” Carter insists. 

“Hey—” Scott warns. 

“No, Scotty, I don’t mean being deaf, or whatever. I mean you keeping this a secret! Like, do you speak sign language?” 

“I use sign language, yes.” 

“Do something right now. Sign something.” 

“It’s not a party trick.” Scott raises his voice to address the table. “Guys, ice time in two hours. Team strategy tonight at four for Slovakia tomorrow. It’s early, but let’s stay rested and stay focused, yeah?” 

A murmur of assent rumbles as the team rises from the table, but Carter clings as Scott rises with his paper to-go cup. 

“Oh no. You’re not getting away that easy. I want to see some sign language.” Carter follows Scott out to check out the Men’s Luge. “I’m always learning some crazy shit about you guys at the Olympics.” 

And so it goes. This isn’t Scott’s first Olympics, but it passes as fast as ever. They sweep Slovakia and Switzerland in groups, and Scott teaches Carter ASL curse words. Russia gets knocked out in an upset with Latvia, but it makes for an easy win in the quarterfinal and in the breaks in their shitty dorm rooms in the Village, Carter fumbles his way through some basic hockey vocab. The team is meshing, and Scott gets to sign a little, even if it’s only in bits and pieces for Carter’s entertainment. 

It’s hockey like Scott remembers, and every time the stress of the captaincy (and international diplomacy) catches up to him, Carter is there, asking questions that make Scott laugh like “okay but how do you survive checks if you can’t hear the guy coming?” and “Dude, is this why you don’t listen to music?” 

With Carter keeping Scott’s hands moving (and saying well-meant shit about gay guys over soft-serve with Shane Hollander of all people) Scott gets, maybe not comfortable, but a little daring. He plays some good hockey, and the end result is a gold medal slung around his neck after a final against Canada that Scott is going to be keeping the tape from to show rookies a decade from now. 

One minute, they’re on the ice listening to the final buzzer, the next, they’re dropping gloves and helmets to get lined up for the medal ceremony, and Scott is trying not to cry through the Star Spangled Banner. They don’t even get a shower before the first presser, the microphones already waiting outside the locker room while they’re still tugging off jerseys soaked with sprayed champagne. 

After a blur of questions about the game, a faceless voice reaches Scott’s ears through the cacophony: “Scott, who were you playing for today?” 

Scott is still sweating through his equipment, and something about the combination of the lights and the excitement and the lactic acid in his muscles makes him nudge Carter. He feels a swoop of adrenaline-crash nausea and a giddy grin stretching his mouth as he says:  

“You want to see some real sign language, Vaughny?”

Kip is exhausted, waiting for the train to his early shift at Straw+Berry. He stayed up—or rather woke up—to watch the gold medal match against Canada, the blocky captions covering nearly a third of the phone screen and Scott himself tiny in his dark blue Team USA jersey. Kip had watched as long as he could, dressed to go to work but waiting until the last possible moment to run for the train so he could see the timer hit zero and the screen flash with 3-2 USA. 

Scott Hunter is now an Olympic gold medalist. Kip sends him a fuck ton of gold hearts as he carefully makes his way through the relatively quiet streets of Bay Ridge at 6AM. It’s February, so the streetlights are on as he descends to the 77th street platform. The wait for the Manhattan bound R is better lit as Kip joins the small throng of his fellow service workers heading in to open the coffee shops and bagel spots that keep the island running. 

Half the ads in the massive frames along the tiled walls of the platform are Scott in his Team USA drag. They’ve been up since the Games kicked off. Scott getting coffee with Ashley Wagner, looking over his shoulder with stars on his back, tapping a Visa card against a smiling cashier’s waiting sensor. Visa: Everywhere You Want to Be. 

Kip doesn’t exactly want to be in Sochi right now, but being able to give his Olympian boyfriend (?) a hug would be nice. He’s distracted from maudlin thoughts by the double blink of his phone screen in his pocket. 

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Holy SHIT babe turn on the Olympics 

Kip: I know I watched the game. He won :)

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Not the game! Your boy is doing the commercial!! 

Kip: ??

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): TRUE-BIZ the lumberjack is signing on camera RN!!!

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Men’s Hockey Team USA Gold Medal Ceremony—link to NBC Sports Sochi Livestream

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Scrub to 16:45 he’s in front of a mic

Kip has enough bars to click the link, and after a few long seconds of buffering he’s seeing Scott. It’s not exactly 1080p but it’s him, not the miniature figure on the ice. It must be just a few minutes after the ceremony, Scott out of his team USA jersey but still in most of his pads against a cinder block wall with a microphone in his face. He’s clearly not showered yet, hair matted with sweat and breath coming hard, whether from exhaustion or just the weight of knowing the Games are finally over. Carter Vaughan is next to him, looking about as worn out, and as the video stabilizes he can see Scott nudge his friend and mutter something Kip can’t quite catch before he lifts his hands to sign. 

Kip is practiced enough at lip reading that he finds Simulcom distracting, Scott’s English words interfering with his non-manual markers when the two languages don’t align. Still, the fact that Scott can do it at all without completely dropping into Signed English is enough to show viewers in the know that he’s the real deal and not a hobbyist showing off his level 1 vocabulary. 

“People might know a little of my family history, but what people probably don’t know is that my parents were Deaf. I learned to play hockey in my first language, ASL, and my first heroes on the ice were my mom, dad, and the kids on the youth travel team they coached at the Rochester School for the Deaf. So, uh, Go Wildcats.” Scott laughs, flushed, and his eyes dart toward the camera as he continues. “But, um, yes. I recently reconnected with my family out there, which I’m so grateful for, so this team gold is for them, and my old friends in Rochester—” 

A flicker of hesitation passes over Scott’s face before he sets his jaw. Kip has to watch the next few seconds of video three times to make sure he’s seeing what’s happened correctly. Scott’s mouth forms the words “—and my new friends in New York.” Kip is absolutely positive, watching Scott’s teeth meet his bottom lip on the soft ff and his tongue lift to touch the back of his teeth on the ds in fr-ehn-ds. The captions, on a second day, match his mouth. It isn’t what Scott signs. 

Scott’s hands say, tapping the unmistakable K corner of his eye: “--so this team gold is for them, and my old friends in Rochester, and my friend Kip in New York.”

“Thank you all,” Scott concludes, eyes darting to the camera again as his chest rises and falls shallowly, “for your support and the chance to represent Team USA and use what you all taught me.” 

Olympic press coverage is chaotic at best, and the camera cuts away from Scott pretty quickly after that. The uncaptioned interview with Shane Hollander from Team Canada that follows is interrupted by the flashing messages from Shawn.

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): 😱😱😱

Shawn (Sugar Daddy): Do my eyes deceive me or did an Olympic gold medalist just flash your namesign???

Shawn: Did you know he was going to do that? 

Kip did not. Kip had no idea. He’s pretty sure until it happened that Scott had no idea he was going to do that either. Kip sinks into a grated seat by the train platform, the walls around him plastered with Scott’s smiling face. 

Kip feels nauseous, and happy. Mostly happy. Scott signed. Kip’s simplest wish, and there it is on video, the Olympic gold glinting around Scott’s neck and his hands telling the world that Kip is part of his life. It was a risk, and Scott had done it anyway.  

Kip breathes, and it feels a little deeper than a few minutes ago. This isn’t Scott at the Kingfisher, but maybe it’s a second try at the gallery. It’s not Scott at his dad’s table, but it could be dinner out with friends. It’s precious space that he can tell from the pixilated tension around Scott’s eyes was hard won. 

It’s still a life that Kip doesn’t know that he can live forever, but it’s an actual life, one with Scott in it. 

It’s something they can try to build on together.  

Scott is still wearing his gold medal when he makes it to the closest men’s room and pukes up everything he ate before the game this morning. He doesn’t manage to shake Carter, who bursts in a few seconds later to find Scott bent over in a stall. 

“Whoa, Scotty—” Carter turns back and speaks hurriedly with someone outside the door. “--Nah, man all good. ….yeah, for sure, just give us a cool ten, ‘kay? Hard comedown, you know how it is after the big ones. …Haha, right.” 

Scott makes out the thunk of the bathroom door lock through the full shudder of a dry heave. His eyes and nose are streaming. Fuck. 

“Get out of here, Vaughny,” he rasps, hiccuping. 

“Like hell,” Carter replies, nudging the stall open to hand Scott a wad of paper towels. “Remember the Fireball in 2009? I owe you one.” 

Scott sniffles, his hands shaking as he wipes the worst of the snot from his face. He collapses on the tile next to the toilet. 

“I’m assuming this isn’t late onset food poisoning.” 

Scott shakes his head, curling in on himself. 

“I said his name.” Scott tugs his hair in two fists. Christ. “I told everyone his name, Vaughny.” 

“What are you talking about, man?” Carter sinks into a restless crouch in front of him, his hands raised like Scott is a spooked animal. “You didn’t say any names. I was there.” 

“Signed it. I—fuck, I said one thing and used his name sign instead. I said my friend Kip.” 

Carter’s brow furrows. “Okay…so you said ‘hi’ to a friend and said his name? Help me out here, Scott.” 

“I’ve been so careful.” Scott’s whisper is harsh. “I’ve been careful for years, but I just want to make him happy.” 

Scott can only shiver miserably, and his panic is enough for Carter to reach an educated guess. Scott hears a soft oh shit and flinches. 

“Hey man, no.” Carter’s hand lands solid on Scott’s knee and he squeezes. “Okay, wow. Like, yeah okay, you just gave a big impromptu speech, and threw in a little kudos to your, um, boyfriend?” Scott nods. “Yeah, okay. That’s a lot, and we just played a hard game and we’re a long way from home. Let’s just breathe for a minute, okay? We’re good here for a minute.” 

Scott breathes, and Carter gets him a cup of water so Scott can rinse out his mouth. They get out of the worst of their pads and collapse against the wall of the stall side by side.

“Okay,” Carter says after some thought. “I think this is fine, actually.” 

Scott throws Carter an incredulous glare. He just had to dab puke off his compression top with Russian paper towels. 

“I mean yeah, you’re gay” —Carter lowers his voice to a dramatic whisper on the word, causing Scott to roll gritty eyes— “which, like, people are going to have opinions about if they find out, for sure, but I don’t think that’s what’s going down here. Hear me out: nobody who’s trying to publish shit on you knows your guy’s name-thing, right?”  

“What?” 

“The sign. It’s just a hand gesture, right? Like did you spell it out? If the Post has someone who can translate it watch the video will they know what it means?” 

Scott thinks about that. “No. I mean, you’d have to know him. Name signs are pretty personal.” 

Carter slaps Scott’s knee again. “So what’s the problem, man? Some Deaf people in New York who already know this guy might see you call him your friend?”  

“It’s a big community. There’s—word spreads fast.” Gossip had spread like wildfire around Rochester. A kid telling their mom who told her friends who told their cousins—all in ASL that anyone could see, and that was before Twitter and Instagram and group chats. All it would take is one aspiring influencer—

Carter squeezes his shoulder hard, and Scott breathes deep, realizing he’d been sliding back toward another spiral. 

“What’s your guy’s name?” 

“Huh?” 

“The sign. Show me.” 

Scott taps the K near his eye, and debates briefly if he needs to puke again. He’d given Kip’s name away to literally people all over the world, like it wasn’t precious.

Carter takes in the motion, his brow furrowed. “So—okay, letter K, like that.” He copies the sign, repeating Kip’s name with unpracticed fingers. “You know better than me: how many people’s signs are just, like, the first letter of their name tapped on their face somewhere?” 

Scott forces himself to take a long exhale, pushing the air past the stone of anxiety lodged in his throat. “A lot of people. Most, even. Maybe.” 

“There you go.” Carter rubs hard between Scott’s shoulder blades. “That was a big swing, man. I get it. But I gotta tell you, for the people who don’t know—me, for example—it just looked like a lot of you flicking your hands around. Like, sick as hell, don’t get me wrong, but like it’s six AM in NYC and the guy who drew the short straw at Page Six to watch that stream doesn’t know sign language. I promise.” 

“There’s a lot of people looking at us, Vaughny.” Scott grips the thick plasticky ribbon of the gold medal hung heavy around his neck. “Especially now.”

“I know, but these are your people right? And your guy’s. They’ll look out for you.” 

“Being Deaf doesn’t automatically make you a virtuous secret keeper.” 

“It doesn’t automatically make you a fame-hungry asshole either. It’s done, man. Let it ride.” 

Scott sits with that for a minute, until Carter nudges his shoulder. 

“So this hottie who’s got you sending secret messages. What’s he like?” 

A sound gets caught in Scott’s throat that might be described as hysterical. Half a giggle. A hiccup. He just did a simple thing—thanked his partner for their support—and he’s still half convinced the world is ending. The English doesn’t come. 

“Okay,” Carter says, changing tack when Scott laughs like the world’s most depressing circus clown. “Sign it to me.” 

“What?” 

“That’s like, what’s easier for you right? Like Jallo and Swedish or whatever.” 

“Jallo’s Finnish.” 

“Shut the fuck up and tell me something about your boy, Cap.” 

Scott really wants to tell Carter about Kip. He’s heard so much about Gloria. Eric has told him so much about Holly over the years. It should be normal, right? It should be allowed, for Scott to tell his best friend about the man who makes him want to take risks, even when those risks are terrifying.

Scott will tell Carter in a way that he can understand, one day. Right now, the words spring to Scott’s hands, and that’s enough.

“Kip is beautiful.” Scott sweeps the sign across his face. You’re so beautiful. He said that to Kip in dim light, Kips eyes glittering at him, warm and dark. Your sounds are beautiful. “Funny. Sexy. His signs are so fast, and when he touches me, I—I feel parts of me come to life I thought were dead.“ 

Scott closes his eyes. He can’t take Carter’s warm gaze right now, the eagerness of it zapping against raw nerves. He just moves his hands through the signing space, the prickle of Kip’s stubble and the brush of his fingertips ghosting across Scott’s skin even here in Russia.  

“He’s so present in his body. The way I feel on the ice, he lives that way, and he makes me want to be there, with him, all the time. Kip can imagine things I can’t, and just letting him tell me his dreams for us makes me want to make my life bigger for him.” 

Scott’s panic bleeds away. His racing heart slows. The nausea fades, leaving dizzying relief in its place.  

“My life is already bigger than I thought was possible,” he concludes, the tremble settling in his hands, “and no matter what happens, that will always be because I loved Kip. Because he loves me enough to ask me to grow.” 

The bathroom is silent but for the hushed water passing through pipes in the wall and the occasional squeak of Carter’s sneakers against the tile. Scott opens his eyes to find his winger near tears. 

“Wow.” Carter’s voice is really straining the limits of cool and nonchalant. It’s a lot closer to ragged when he says: “Seems like he’s the kind of guy who deserves a shout out.” 

“Yeah,” Scott croaks. He feels the adrenaline crash all at once, like a wrung out dishtowel finally allowed to go slack. “Vaughny—“ 

“No, man.” Carter sniffles, then visibly collects himself and claps Scott on both shoulders. “You don’t gotta say a thing to me. We’re good.”

Carter bumps their foreheads together, something he’s done after a thousand games, but it’s this time that causes Scott to have possibly the straightest thought of his life, which is This is how the guys in the Shawshank Redemption must have felt. 

He feels a little outside his body, and not in a bad way. He just won a gold medal at the Olympics. He just reminded the world of his proximity to the Deaf community. He just took a big stumble closer to outing his same-sex relationship on the international stage one day. 

It’s not a bad moment to take stock. 

Scott’s biggest feeling is the awareness tingling under his skin of all the kinds of intimacy he’s been denying himself, and how full he feels right now. Like yes, sex. God, Scott misses sex, but just thinking about Kip he feels the goosebumps from all the pleasure they’ve given each other, and the promise of more in the future. 

Scott thinks of Kathy’s hugs, solid and strong as the ones he used to get from his mom and dad. When Scott checks his phone in an hour he’s going to have a dozen texts from Rochester, even at six in the morning. 

Then there’s Carter, who Scott always held at arm’s length so that when the truth came out it would lessen the pain of him pulling away. The joke is on Scott, because now Carter knows he’s Deaf and gay and actually a wreck behind the image of the perfect Captain, and he’s literally holding him in his arms on the floor of a men’s room in Sochi that’s probably contaminated with black mold. 

“I probably could have told you a lot of this a long time ago, huh?”

“Yes, dumbass.” Carter shakes him by the back of his neck and then pulls Scott to his feet. “But I get why you didn’t. Now, don’t say any other friendship shit that’s going to make me cry. We’ve gotta go back out there and do like eighty million more interviews, and I don’t want to look all puffy.” 

“Yeah. Jesus.” Scott scrapes his hands over his face. “The Olympics, huh?” 

Carter slings an arm over Scott’s shoulders, like absolutely nothing has changed. “Yeah, man. Always something crazy.” 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments! They really make my day.

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

a bit of a transitional chapter. Thanks for all the comments, they've been super!

Also just saying for the record: all depictions of higher learning institutions in this fic are completely made up. I did minimal research so don't base any opinions or career decisions on my impressions lol.

From: Naomi Patel <arthistory@HunterCUNY.edu>

To: me <K.grady87@gmail.com>

Sent: 9:50 AM, February 20th

Subject: Teaching assistantship

Dear Christopher,

I hope this email finds you well. This email is to notify you that unfortunately you have not been selected for a TA position in the Department of Art History. As you know, our limited number of assistantships are awarded on the basis of seniority and we had a large number of PhD candidates apply for the coming fall. This decision has no bearing on your acceptance to the department or our enthusiasm for your application. We hope you will still consider joining the department at Hunter and reapply for a teaching position in the future. Just a reminder you can review the Hunter College of New York fees and tuition here. 

We understand this may impact your enrollment decision. If you have any questions or concerns ahead of the April 15th decision deadline, please don’t hesitate to be in touch.

Kind regards,

Naomi Patel

Senior Graduate Program Specialist

Department of Art and Art History 

Hunter College of New York

From: Adam Kristofferson <A.Kristoff@NYU.edu>

To: me <K.grady87@gmail.com>

Sent: 4:12 AM, February 25th

Subject: Re: Assistive tech accommodations

Hi Christopher,

I’m glad to hear you are still considering NYU for your MA. We really loved your application! We’re increasing our offerings of remote learning courses for our gen-ed enrollment, so there will be no shortage of grading positions available for the coming autumn which will give you the flexibility to pursue your own research or internship opportunities. 

As far as accommodations, you will need to register directly with the Moses Center, the University’s accessibility and inclusion. They will set you up for a consultation regarding your needs as a student and a teaching assistant. I’m not an expert on the specific assistive technology they will recommend for your courses, so you’re best off reaching out to them. Things can get a little backed up, so you’ll want to get in touch as soon as possible after you make your enrollment decision. 

Great to hear from you and feel free to reach out with any additional questions,

Adam Kristofferson

Department of Art History

Director of Graduate Studies

Associate Professor of Art History

New York University

From: Andrew Carmichael <A.Carmichael@Bc.edu>

To: me <K.grady87@gmail.com>

Sent: 10:28 AM, March 1st

Subject: Fellowship decision

Dear Christopher,

Congratulations again on your admission to the Department of Art, Art History, and Film Studies at Boston College! As you may be aware, your application was nominated by your prospective department for a number of Morrissey College of Arts and Sciences fellowships. I am happy to share that on the merits of your application essay, previous academic performance, and impressive record of community volunteer work you have been awarded the Leslie Bedford Fellowship in Museum Education. Well done! 

See attached your letter detailing your full award and other relevant financial aid. If you have any questions, please contact your prospective advisor.

We look forward to receiving your admissions decision by May 15th via your Boston College student portal.  

Kind regards,

Andrew Carmichael,

Dean of Admission and Financial Aid

Boston College 

From: Veronica Sinclair <V.Sinclair@BC.edu>

To: me <K.grady87@gmail.com>

Sent: 11:30 AM, March 1st

Subject: Fw: Fellowship decision

Hi Kip (if I may),

I hope you have seen the email from Financial Aid. Congratulations! We were very confident in putting your forward for the Bedford Fellowship and we are thrilled with the result. As I mentioned on our Skype call last week, this also puts you in a great position to apply for our new GA position in the Programming and Outreach department at the Museum of Fine Arts Boston. You are exactly the kind of candidate we were hoping for our recent grant funding to benefit and Kerry Sheffield at the MFA is very excited for your application! 

I wanted to follow up on a few of your concerns regarding accommodations. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve given your contact info to one of our department senior students who can give you the full picture of campus resources for Deaf and HoH students based on their own experience. Tamryn will have a lot of great tips for you. That said, I want to reiterate my full commitment to ensuring your full access and participation to our department events and courses should you choose to pursue your M.A. here. I’m sure you have plenty of experience as a self-advocate, but you will not be flying solo at Boston College or the MFA. We have resources for you and practice implementing them (even if some sharply worded emails on our end are required to get the ball rolling). 

I look forward to welcoming you as a student and colleague to Boston! Once you make your final decision we can plan a meeting to set you up for success integrating into the department. 

Cheers,

Veronica Sinclair 

Associate Professor of History of Art and Education

Boston College 

From: Tamryn Jones-Casey <T.Jonescasey@BC.edu>

To: me <K.grady87@gmail.com>

Sent: 4:12 AM, February 25th

Subject: hello and accommodations support

Hi Christopher, 

Congrats on the fellowship! Vera passed me your email so that I could fill you in on some of the accommodations process here from an inside perspective. (Vera is great, by the way. Her signing is getting better all the time). I’m wrapping up my MA in June (sorry we won’t overlap!) with a certificate in film studies, so if you end up in Boston you’ll take a lot of the same core classes and seminars. As far as I know I was the first Deaf grad student in the department, so hopefully I’ve worked out the kinks for you. 

Why don’t we set up a video call? I can give you my contacts in Disability Services and run you through some of my experiences with Typewell transcription (which if you’re used to CART is a bit of an adjustment but overall is great for lectures). I also had an in-person interpreter for discussion focused seminars which was huge and I can talk you through the process of getting that set up in advance for the semester. The department has been pretty committed to having interpreters at all our public lectures (I have some friends in the city who showed up for some of them, I’d be happy to pass you some numbers), so don’t worry about that.

Anyways, don’t let me overwhelm you here. let’s chat! Let me know a time that works for you.

-Tamryn 

BFFElena: !!! Babe of course you got the fellowship! This is perfect

BFFElena: I know how excited you are to work with Veronica and now you’ve got the money side locked down

K: Yeah 

K: It’s huge

BFFElena: Did you accept yet? We can get drinks to celebrate

K: Not yet

K: I just want to think it over

BFFElena: What is there to think about? You want to be an online grader at NYU instead? 

K: Hell no lol

K: Idk it’s just a big decision 

K: Leaving the city 

BFFElena: …

BFFElena: Is this about Scott?

They haven’t not been seeing each other on purpose, at least since after Christmas. It was only that January was dedicated to locking in points toward the playoffs and February the Olympics. Scott had touched down on Manhattan soil exactly long enough to sleep off the worst of the jetlag and immediately been dragged out again on a ten day roadie. 

It’s the first Tuesday in March when Scott gets in at one AM after a weather-delayed flight from Toronto. His game day suit is in a pile on the floor and the only light in his bedroom is the glow of his phone screen. Scott swipes past several emails from his publicist about the exact wording of his Wikipedia page update and finds his text thread with Kip. 

K: My shift doesn’t start tomorrow until 11

S: No practice til 12 :). Get over here as soon as you wake up

*K loves this message*

Scott sets his alarm for seven AM and conks out, too exhausted to overthink.

Being lonely is stupid when you’re two attractive people in love who want to fuck. 

The first thing Kip says, looking impossibly gorgeous in Scott’s entryway as he drops his bag, is: “I thought maybe you’d be wearing the medal.” 

“I’ll get it out later,” Scott promises. Then, thinking on the fact of Kip being here, the first time he’s been back to the apartment since the gala: “Unless…is it weird? Do you need a minute?” 

“No.” Kip finds the baggy hem of Scott’s sleep shirt and tugs him closer so that he can sign in the hot space between their bodies. “No. It’s good right now. Can that be what this is? Good for right now?” 

“It’s great right now.” Scott stumbles to a sit on the arm of the couch, and then Kip is between his thighs and scrubbing his knuckles against Scott’s scruff until their mouths find each other like magnets clicking into place. 

It’s enough, for longer than Scott expects, to make out. It’s shivery good—twenty minutes, maybe—sucking on each other's tongues and petting hands under shirts on the couch. Kip is flushed, so pretty, hard when Scott rocks into the cradle of his hips but not in a rush to do anything about it. He’s heavy—thighs, arms, the humid puff of his breath—in every way that Scott has been missing. 

“I missed you, too,” Kip finds the space to sign between them. It’s like he’s reading Scott’s mind, or maybe he’s just that obvious, smoothing greedy hands over Kip’s pecs with every intention of burying his face there next. He tugs Kip’s buttery soft t-shirt over his head and rolls him on his back against the couch cushions so gravity is pulling them into each other’s tender animal spaces. 

They’ve been good—so good, giving each other enough space. It’s like stretching out a muscle until it finally releases and coming back together is like relaxing instead of snapping back. 

“Take your shirt off,” Kip eventually demands one handed. His other arm is slung around Scott’s neck, and Scott thinks he could die happy here caged in by the swell of Kip’s bicep and dark scratch of hair on his forearm. “Tell me what you want.”  

It could be anything, Scott muses, pulling off his shirt and then getting back to the business of kissing Kip’s mouth and jaw and throat until he’s buzzy and sore from stubble burn. I could take cock; I could give it. I could have you in my mouth; I could come from the stroke of your hand. I could fit between your thighs or come from you fucking into the crease of my hip. Anything. Anything. 

Kip, taking in Scott smiling at him like a dope, just pets his hands slow through Scott’s hair and then goes for the waistband of his sweats. And that’s it. Scott wants to come, and he wants Kip to be the one to make him do it. He wants to give that pleasure right back to him. They strip off clothes because skin-to-skin is better. It’s simple and right, the warm slick rub of their bodies together until Kip is panting into Scott’s mouth, eyes slitted with need. That’s when Scott licks his palm and fits their cocks together in one hand. 

Kip comes first, fucking hard and fast into Scott’s grip. The sound of it—bitten off between Kip’s teeth—is better than most music Scott has heard. Scott feels Kip’s pleasure in the seize of his hands and the curl of his toes, his whole compact, solid body contracting and pulling Scott in. Scott savors being trapped and kisses Kip through it, unable to stop the glance of his mouth off Kip’s cheeks and forehead and the dimple in his chin as his grip goes wet with come. 

Kip’s lashes flutter as he comes down and his breath comes out as a laugh as his solid square hands find the back of Scott’s neck and shake him a little. 

“How is it always this good?” The signs weave between their smiling mouths, desire and relief damp on their skin.

It’s just loving, Scott doesn’t say as they fall off the couch in a tangle of limbs and giggles, Kip’s weight settling on Scott like it’s meant to be. It’s knowing besides all the bullshit that this is still easy and true. 

Kip pins Scott down and jerks him off. It’s a foregone conclusion at this point, Scott is so close to the edge is barely a minute before he shoots. Scott is pretty sure Kip wipes a handful of spunk on his area rug so that he doesn’t have to wait a second to get his hands back on Scott’s chest, ducking his head to suck the sweat out of the hollow of Scott’s throat. Scott just holds on, palming the solid muscle of Kip’s ass in his lap, not a thought in his head except the slack relief of coming and the eager teasing of Kip’s mouth at his pulse. 

Kip dares a harsher nibble, and every nerve in Scott’s fucked-out body lights up.

“Again,” he pleads, the pleasure tingling in his fingertips and over his scalp. 

“I’ll leave a mark,” Kip reminds him, eyes dark and heavy. 

“I don’t care.” Scott’s breath shakes out of him. “Let them think I took my gold medal out and fucked some puck bunny. I’ll know the truth.” 

Kip's chest rises and falls heavily for a long moment, mouth wet, and then he cups Scott’s jaw in one hand, forcing his head back and exposing his throat. Scott’s moan buzzes against his palm, cracking when he feels the second scrape of Kip’s teeth against vulnerable skin.  

Kip gives him a perfect hickey. Scott can’t stop touching it, after, admiring the reddish bloom of it against the base of his throat and the slight ache every time he turns his head in the bathroom mirror. Tomorrow it will settle into a dusky violet and the guys will tease Scott about it in the showers. Cap got laid! Guess he’s not a monk after all. 

Scott likes that. He likes other people seeing the mark of Kip’s desire on him, even if their assumptions end up in the wrong shape. 

Kip rests his hands on Scott’s hips, going up a little on tiptoe to kiss the back of Scott’s neck just at the edge of his hairline. His hair is still towel damp from the shower they just shared. Kip has a lunch rush shift at Straw+Berry, and Scott has practice. Kip won’t be here when Scott gets home, but it doesn’t fill him with the same panic that it did in December. 

This isn’t stolen time. It’s a date. A sexy rendezvous, and there will be more while they figure out how to let their lives overlap at other points. They both have lives now. Scott has family and friends to share with Kip, not just the other way around. The thought brings a smile to his face, and Scott catches Kip’s eyes tracking him over his shoulder with a considering look.  

“What?” Scott asks, shaking his open hands. Kip kisses the back of his neck again, his hands sliding under Scott’s arms to sign where they can both see it in the mirror. 

“You look happy.” Kip’s eyes twinkle as he brushes the sign with two open palms against Scott’s bare chest. His hands just rest there after, one warm over Scott’s heart and the other against the rise and fall of his stomach. 

“Yes.” Scott signs his contentment in as many structures as he knows how. “Agree. True.” 

Kip gives him a squeeze, pressing his smile into Scott’s shoulder. 

“I’m excited,” Scott realizes. “I’m looking forward to what comes next.” 

“Same here.” Kip’s eyes find Scott’s in the mirror, his gaze thoughtful again. “Me, too.”

Chapter End Notes

Next: Scott tries out being a social butterfly

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Another! The working title of this chapter: Five Deaf people Scott meets in Manhattan (and the friends he already had along the way).

The overwhelm of Madison Square Gardens tends to reduce the crowd to a blur in Scott’s eyes and ears, even when he’s right up against the boards. That’s why it takes him a minute as he shuffles towards the tunnel after a bruising game against Buffalo to clock that there’s a kid in one of the aisle seats just over his head whose hands are synced up with his shouted “Hi! Over here! Great game Cap!”  

Scott blinks, and stops, getting jostled by a couple of the guys. The kid looks young, with a well-loved Admirals hoodie and a mop of curly brown hair. 

Scott steps over to the side of the tunnel by the stands and tucks his gloves under his arm so he can sign back, looking up where the kid is leaning over the edge of the railing. He waves off team security, and at a couple of the other fans crowding in for a high-five to give the kid space.

“Hi,” Scott says, giving his media smile. “Hope you had fun tonight!” 

“I saw your video at the Olympics,” the kid says, hands moving with the speed of a native and the enthusiasm of a kid. “We’re the same! I’m hearing, but I sign. Like you!” 

“You’re a CODA?” That gets Scott’s real attention. “Are you here with your mom and dad?” 

“My dad. It’s my birthday so we came to see your game.” The kid points to a guy a little older than Scott further down the row, who gives Scott a slightly embarrassed wave and a quick signed Thank you. 

Scott waves back. “That’s awesome. What’s your name?” 

“I’m D-A-N-N-Y,” the kid—Danny—signs, fingerspelling out the letters and then giving Scott his name sign, a letter D shaken near his ear. 

That gives Scott a great idea. 

“Hi, Danny. I’m Scott.” Scott shows his name sign twice, and Danny signs it back to him, eyes round. “Do you like to play hockey?” 

“I love hockey. I’m going to play on my school team next year.” 

Danny can’t be older than ten, but already old enough that he’s late starting to be a serious youth player. That idea enters Scott’s mind in the gruff tenor of his grandfather’s voice.

Scott shakes it away. 

Danny doesn’t have to be a serious player. He just has to love the game and have fun with his dad, and Scott wouldn’t take that away from him for anything. 

“If you’re going to play, you’ll need this.” Scott passes up his stick, with a stern look to the enthusiastic fans around to make sure it reaches its destination. Danny grabs the long end, and it’s almost as tall as him. He’s speechless with the kind of innocent excitement Scott used to feel about all things hockey. 

“Happy Birthday, Danny,” Scott says, in response to the kid’s faint “Thank you.” “If your friends ask, tell them I gave it to you, okay? Show them how to sign my name. Tell them you and I are in the same club.” 

“I will,” Danny promises, and races back to his dad brandishing his prize in a way that makes Scott’s chest ache. They both wave as arena security subtly nudges Scott into the tunnel. The last thing Scott sees is Danny’s dad ruffling his hair, his face lit up with affection for his son. 

The concrete dampens the roar of the stadium, and Scott finds Eric waiting just inside the dimness, helmet tucked under one arm, having watched the whole thing. Scott walks, and Eric follows him toward the locker room, staff milling around them with the usual post-game buzz.  

“Seems like that was pretty cool,” Eric observes after a moment. 

“...yeah, man,” Scott replies when he’s sure he’s not going to cry.

Scott sniffs, and scrubs his hand over his face. Eric just pats him on the back, always giving his steady presence where it’s needed. 

“Listen,” Scott says just before they reach the locker room, where the thud of celebration music on Vaughny’s pod speaker is already leaking through the door. “How are you?” 

“I’m good,” Eric replies, a little nonplussed. 

“I just—I know I’ve been in my own shit for a while.” Scott shuffles awkwardly. “If you ever want to talk—about Holly, or anything—I don’t know, man. I’m here for you.” 

Eric is silent for a long moment, and Scott thinks maybe he’s misread. But: 

“That would be really great.” Eric’s breath leaves him in a long sigh. “It’s, um, it’s been hard at home, you know? I think once I retire, it’s over.” 

“Yeah.” Scott claps his friend on the shoulder. “Yeah man, that sucks. Lemme get through press, and let’s get out of here. You can fill me in, and I’ve got a couple things I want to tell you, too.” 

Eric looks relieved, and Scott wishes he’d made this suggestion a long time ago. 

“Sounds good, Cap.”

~

S: So what’s step one, if I wanted to meet some people in the city? 

K: Babe I know the season is crazy, it can wait til summer

S: I’ll always be busy

S: I don’t want to wait

K: Okay

K: I have some ideas

Darryl reaches out after Kip adds Scott to the listserv for the CUNY Deaf running group. He’s the kind of guy who works out exclusively in ratty freebie shirts but wears $500 sneakers that were custom fitted to his arches. He also recognizes Scott from his Gillette ads but doesn’t follow hockey, which strikes the right balance of preparing the group for Scott’s celebrity but minimizes any awkward fawning. 

“Hey, man, welcome.” Darryl has nearly white-blonde hair that hangs almost to his shoulders and a bright smile when he gives Scott a bone creaking handshake the first time Scott shows up to Central Park Lower Loop. He’s almost as tall as Scott but probably weighs about 170 pounds soaking wet, all ropey muscle. “Sorry Kip couldn’t be here today. He’s got a shift.”

“No worries. I’ll see him next time.” 

“Super. So is this, like, a rest day for you, or what?” 

Actually, Scott’s been overtraining, and is under threat of death from his physio not to run more than 10 miles a week until the offseason. “I’m just looking to meet some new people.” 

“Awesome, dude. Let’s get you introduced to everybody.” 

Scott catches on quickly that Darryl uses a lot of filler signs, not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing but as a kind of seasoning on his otherwise rapidfire sentences. He’s also low-key churchy, in that harmless non-denominational way the religious guys in the locker room too rarely were. 

“Yeah man, if you’re into sports, we can hook you up,” Darryl says as they take their turn at the front of the pack crossing the Bow Bridge. He’s got perfect running form. It hardly bounces his signs at all (Unlike Scott, who is learning that running and signing is a lot like running and talking—it can leave you out of breath.) “Some of the ladies are on the Deaf basketball team outta Hell’s Kitchen—you know, beer league—and we, like, show up for their Tuesday games when we can. Root for the home team, you know.” 

“Cool. I’ve got a lot of evening work stuff, but I’d love to see a game.” 

“Right, hockey at MSG and all that. Totally crazy, man. I’ll have Patty add you to the GC anyway, and you can just show up whenever.” Darryl turns around and jogs backwards to wave and get the attention of a stocky woman who can’t be more than five foot but with thighs that would make Scott’s trainer weep. Darryl signs broader and slower, like a shout across the gaggle of a dozen or so runners: “Yo, Patty! Scott; basketball chat; add him?” 

Pleased with Patty’s thumbs up. Darryl flips back around, and slides back into their semi-private conversation. “Awesome. The girls are killer, man, you’ll love it. And yo, sometimes after a game I hit up the ASL evening Bible study at First Presbyterian off Eighth Ave. It’s super lowkey. Like, you’d be so welcome.”

“I think basketball will be more my speed than Bible study, but I appreciate the invite.”  

“It is all good, bro.” Darryl tosses his blonde hair, somehow not sweaty at all. His resting heart rate must be insane. “So, you ever try any competitive distance stuff? I’m trying to get a spot in the Marathon this year with the nine plus one program, but it’s tough with the work schedule, man…”

~

S: I guess I’m going to a basketball game next Tuesday. It would be so crazy to run into you there

K: Wouldn’t miss it. Go Mephits ;) 

S: We can hit up Bible study with Darryl after 

K: LOL 

Benny: Hey, word in the goalie email thread is Robbie Shaughnessey is going to the Nomads.

S: No shit. Really? 

Benny: Yes he’s wondering if you’re up for a favor. It’s a signing thing. Says he’ll give it back to you in beer next time you’re in St. Paul. 

S: Sure, I guess. Give him my number 

Benny: Cool, thanks man. And, you know, for the talk the other night. It meant a lot. 

S: Anytime brother

~

Eugenia is an arthritic Signed English user and the grandmother of Robbie Shaughnessy (until three days ago a backup goalie for the Brooklyn Scouts. The transfer to Minnesota had been sudden and tragic, right before playoffs). As a reward for his offer to check in on Rob’s poor, lonely, hard of hearing grandmother all alone in an assisted living center in Battery Park, Scott is getting his ass handed to him at cribbage while Eugenia tears the Admirals defensive line apart. 

“You wonder why you never make it past the second round,” Eugenia signs around her hand of cards. Reading her signs is like reading a novel translated from Swedish: legible but a little more roundabout than necessary. “Meanwhile you’ve got Juarez puck watching when he should be scoring and your—hm, what’s the word, P-A-S-S-I-V-E-B-O-X?”

“Passive box,” Scott supplies. 

“Right, well, yours is no good,” Eugenia purses her papery lips. “Too jumpy. Bennett’s taking a beating on P-O-W-E-R-P-L-A-Y-S.” 

“‘Power play,’ and don’t I know it.” Scott lays down a twelve-point hand and scoots his pegs across the looped board. “Anyways, Rob wanted to make sure things were going okay with Nicole?” 

Eugenia rolls her eyes. “Robbie’s a good boy but he worries too much. I don’t need a full-time nurse just because he can’t come for lunch twice a week.” 

“I think he wanted to make sure you had someone available who signed.” 

“I can talk just fine when I bother to turn this thing on,” Eugenia says with a cackle, tapping the small device in her ear. “But Nicole signs all right. She goes a mile a minute and she’s teaching me LSM curse words. The hearing aid brigade at bridge think she’s a hoot.”  

“I’ll let Rob know.” 

“You do that, and you tell him not to get any crazy ideas about dragging me out to the middle of nowhere. I love the kid but I’ve got a full calendar here and I’m not giving it up for whatever village he’s stuck in until he gets traded again.” 

“I hear the Twin Cities are nice,” Scott says diplomatically. Eugenia’s scathing expression makes him laugh out loud. She lays down her cards, counts out twenty points on the board and Scott loses again. 

Carter Vaughan [verified]

@vaughny_19

Assistant Captain for the New York Admirals. Future Cup Champ. 

[A slideshow of three photos. Photo 1: A black woman in her mid-twenties with long box braids and a red and white jersey hangs off the rim of the basket in a local community center’s indoor court, having just dunked. Slightly blurred in the background, supporters in the moderately filled bleachers cheer. 

Photo 2: A selfie on the court with Carter grinning between Scott and the basketball player from the first photo. Scott is throwing up a peace sign and the player holds her hands in an M-shape with an exaggerated wink at the camera. Carter is wearing a red T-shirt with a grinning cartoon monster and “Midtown Mephits” in what looks like a locally screenprinted design. In the background of the photo are Kip, Maria, and Darryl all in mid-signed conversation.

Photo 3: A selfie over Carter’s shoulder shows a large group filling a table at a nearby Mexican restaurant. Party lights fill the warm space with pink, green, and gold and the table is littered with novelty shaped cocktail glasses and plates of chips and salsa. Several Mephits players are in the group still in their jerseys. Sat on the booth end of the table with a gap on his left where Carter must be sitting when he’s not playing photographer, Scott is leaned close in ASL conversation with Kip and Maria. He’s laughing, wearing a backwards Mephits cap.]

Carter_Vaughan Partied all night in Hell’s Kitchen😈 with my boy @ScottHunterAd and Deaflympics 2013 Team USA pointguard @YolaBeatz. You want to see some real ball 🏀, you gotta check out the Midtown Mephits ✨! (link in bio to get some of this 🔥hot merch🔥 and support NYC-based Deaf athletes!) 

Scott puts his phone away when he catches the flutter of Kip’s hands emerge from under the bedspread. His head is fully under the covers, blocking even the faint traces of morning light bleeding into Scott’s bedroom. All Scott can see is his two fists knocking together over his head as Kip signs “Tequila. Never again.” 

Scott just kisses the lump under the covers that approximates the top of Kip’s head and goes to make coffee. Carter is sleeping it off in the living room, his long legs hanging over the edge of the couch. Scott starts the coffee pot and starts rifling through his cupboards for his protein plus baking mix. 

It’s a pancakes kind of morning.

Scott is saying yes to everything his schedule will allow, and so in the week leading up to playoffs he’s meeting Kip and a big chunk of the running group chat for a hang in Prospect Park on the first really warm spring day of the year. It’s Patty’s neighborhood, so she brings a couple of blankets and a big cooler that they all contribute to fill up with seltzer and Diet Coke and a couple of Shock Tops for the people looking to drink at eleven AM. Patty also brings her younger brother Logan, who is fourteen and carries himself with the continual hunch of a kid in the middle of a growth spurt desperate not to be perceived. 

He’s also a big hockey fan. It takes him some time to work up his nerve, but eventually Logan gravitates toward Scott where he’s chatting with Kip on the picnic blanket, a sweaty soda can in his hands that he puts down to sign with the supreme lack of nonchalance only possible for a teenager: “Um, your overtime goal against the Islanders last week was really cool.” 

Kip tosses him a lightly concerned look, but Scott waves him off. “Thanks man. Did you catch the game?” 

“Yeah my friends and I watch. I don’t play, because of my implant,” Logan says, showing the cochlear device hidden by his shaggy hair, “But, uh, I like to follow the stats.” 

“Sounds like you’re an expert. What do you think about our conference chances?” 

Scott doesn’t mind talking shop for a while, and Logan seems like a good kid. Most teenagers just want a chance to talk about themselves, and it passes a relaxing twenty minutes while more friends trickle in to the gathering. To the surprise of no one in the universe when Darryl arrives he produces a frisbee, and a couple of trees are designated as goalposts for a pick up game of “Ultimate” that Patty seems to take on with the gravitas of a Roman centurion preparing for battle. She tries to get Kip to even out a four on four game, which he begs off on account of not wanting to take a frisbee in the face since his sunglasses aren't prescription. 

“Scott, come on, bro. You game? I know you got that tender wrist action,” Darryl tries, which makes Kip snort into his Diet Coke.

“Sorry,” Scott says from his comfortable spot on the blanket. “If I twist my ankle two days before playoffs my coach will trade me to the North Pole. Maybe Logan here will sub in for me.” 

Scott thought that would be an easy assist, giving the kid a chance to hang with the grownups, but to his surprise Logan’s mouth slants into a skeptical grimace. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda gay.” 

Scott carefully does not stiffen. It’s the kind of thing he hears in English all the time. It’s his first time seeing it, and from a fucking kid. Scott hears Kip’s sharp intake of breath, though luckily neither of his conversation partners are likely to. 

Scott should just laugh and change the subject. He should get up and sit somewhere further away from Kip, where no one might analyze their conversation, where on Kip’s gorgeous sun-kissed body Scott is looking and for how long. He should check his phone and announce he has a last minute team meeting he forgot and he has to go, right now. 

For some reason he doesn’t. 

“Sorry, what does that sign mean?” Scott asks, tapping the shape of the G on his chin. “I’ve never seen it before.” 

It happens enough to Scott for real, having to ask for clarification on a sign he missed from years of not using it, that hopefully what he’s doing isn’t too obvious.

“Uh, nothing.” Logan signs in a hurry. He clearly didn’t expect Scott to have any reaction. “I meant lame. Dumb.” 

“That’s not what you said though. I know those signs.” Scott also knows for a fact that Patty has a girlfriend, and Logan came in their car. It’s a disconnect that Scott is really used to, and really tired of. He’s not about to take out all his frustrations with passive homophobia on a fourteen-year-old, but he’s not going to send him off with the Scott Hunter seal of approval either.

“He said G-A-Y,” Kip supplies innocently after waving at Scott to get his attention. With his shades on, Scott can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed with Scott’s play at naivete. “Like ‘queer’” —Kip does the more politically correct sign, pulling his fingertips in the arc of a rainbow— “but it’s an older sign. It can be disrespectful—like P-E-J-O-R-A-T-I-V-E—if you don’t use it right.” 

The way Logan just did is left unsaid. Logan looks like he’s deciding whether to pick a fight, and whether Scott would be on his side.  

“Okay, thanks.” Scott addresses Logan as though this information must certainly be new to both of them. “Sounds like you should just say what you mean, kid, not throw around words you don’t know the history of.” Scott nods out toward Patty, who is sharply critiquing Darryl’s short pass game in rapid signs. “Seems like you have people in your life who would find that kind of language really hurtful, and I’m sure that’s not what you want.” 

Scott’s never tried to use his “Captain” voice in sign, and he’s not sure if it translates. He just tries to remember the look he’d caught on his mom’s face when he’d watched her dress Josh down on the ice for poor sportsmanship one time in 1992 and does his best. Logan looks properly dumbstruck, so Scott’s authority must count for something. 

Scott flaps his hand at Darryl and Patty and signs big so they can see: “Logan is going to give it a try, after all!” 

Scott turns to the kid. “You don’t have to play if you really don’t want to, but I think if you tried, you’d have fun. Give it a shot.” 

Eventually Logan gets up, and stumbles with a lanky gait out to the game, where Darryl gives him an encouraging slap on the back. 

“Cute,” Kip says once the game is in motion, passing Scott a seltzer from the cooler. “You okay?” 

Scott schools his breath and realizes now that it’s slowing down how fast his heart had been racing. He has no idea what Logan might go home and say on Twitter about him, and it’s not in his control and it’s terrifying and somehow fine at the same time. 

Scott said the word gay. He tapped it right on his chin in public and it doesn’t mean anything. 

It’s fine. 

“I’m good,” Scott says, after a ponderous moment. He half believes it, even. Admits: “Maybe a light freakout later. Let’s see how it goes.” 

Kip laughs, and they spend the morning enjoying the sun.

Chapter End Notes

Next up: All roads lead to Bay Ridge.

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

It's been a long time, so here's a beefy chapter.

It’s going to be hard for Kip to leave New York, and not just because of Scott (no matter what Elena thinks). He’s carved out little spaces for himself across the boroughs: the places he fits because he’s Deaf, because he’s gay, and the precious places where he fits because he’s both. It hasn’t all been his work, either. Kip found the Village, but he was born in Bay Ridge. Day-by-day and year-by-year dozens of would-be strangers between 77th and 86th Street have made the little efforts that let Kip hold himself freer in his own neighborhood. 

Kip was eight years old the first time his dad sent him into the corner bodega with gentle encouragement to buy a pack of dishwasher tabs and some Twizzlers all by himself. Since then, the countertops frequented by Gradys had become populated by notepads and pens. Wonky register displays were adjusted so Kip could read the numbers without having to read lips. Laminated menus appeared where Kip could point and the workers could see. Phones and screens have made everything easier, but Kip (and his dad) remember the places that were good to him when a little effort made all the difference.

Bay Ridge is full of people different from Kip, who see his difference, but believe in certain unalienable rights: to run a business or be a customer. To get errands done. Have a bagel. Do laundry. To live in the city on top of all the other cultures and languages and try not to make life more difficult for each other. 

Kip wants to show these places to Scott one day. Scott has amazed him, working past his grief and his fear to make himself part of Kip’s world. Big steps. There are little steps, too. The ones that are easy when half the city doesn’t know your face from ESPN. The kind of thing harder to come by in a Manhattan loft: finding people who give a shit whether you live or die but also want to mind their own business. The brief conversations that make the city less lonely.  

Kip hopes he can find them in Boston. He hopes Scott can be there for some of them, too. 

“Kip, hello!” 

Like this one. Mr. Vlahos runs his father-in-law’s pizza place, one of the oldest in the neighborhood. He has a stern face but a laugh that moves his whole chest, and hands that never seem to get the flour all the way out of the callouses. He knows about ten signs and wields them with enthusiasm whenever Kip gets to the front of the omnipresent line leading to the counter of Sergio’s on 79th street. “Life good? George ok?” 

“Dad good, me too,” Kip replies, keeping it to single words. Mr. Vlahos knows ten signs the way he knows ten words of Arabic and is working up to ten words of Korean. “Gianna, school?” 

Kip babysat Gianna a few times during the sad summer after he’d been fired as a camp counselor. He’d been suspiciously offered a lot of odd jobs and opportunities in the neighborhood in those few months, a coincidence his dad swore he had nothing to do with. Gianna was nineteen now, and had written Kip a very shy note the last time he saw her to say she was going to minor in ASL. Mr. Vlahos was very proud of her major in Political Science at Stonybrook. 

“Yes, yes, good good.” Mr. Vlahos plucked a ticket from the thickly populated board behind the register. “Party order?” 

“Six pizzas, one salad,” Kip confirms, holding up the numbers English style. They don’t chat much after that, since Kip is weighed down with enough pizza to feed the dozen Deaf educators his dad is hosting tonight and Mr. Vlahos has a lot of orders to fill for the dinner rush. 

Kip watches the tongue of a little brass bell swing silently overhead as he backs out the doorway onto the sidewalk. It’s one of those idyllic New York afternoons. Spring is still around in mid-May. It’s warm and sunny but the garbage hasn’t started to stink up the block. It’s a nice day for the party. Kip’s dad is a fixture at the National Deaf Education conference, and his afterparty for the Saturday afternoon keynote even more so. It’s mostly Lexington staff, but everyone pulled in a friend in town for the conference until it became a bit of an exclusive ASL networking event. Kip had left the first early birds with George in the kitchen, and they’ll keep for a few more minutes while Kip enjoys the weather. 

He takes a leisurely stop at an intersection he could have jogged across and feels the buzz of a message in his pocket. He checks it in case his dad needs him to make another stop, and lets the walk sign pass him by a second time when he realizes it’s from Scott. 

S: hey so I might be stupid. Is your dad’s name George? 

K: yeah babe why? 

S: I’m putting something together here lol

K: ?? 

S: Kathy is in town for the NDEC and wants me to meet her friend’s son Chris

K: Who is that? 

S: …

S: I think it might be you

Kip squints at his phone in confusion until it buzzes in his hand again. 

Scott: Look left 

Kip does. At the end of the block, he spots the sweep of a familiar arm. Scott unfolds his frame from the driver’s seat of a parked Honda. Kip offers him a wave back and Scott’s smile is brilliant. He ducks back into the car and Kip sees the blur of his hands as he signs something to someone in the passenger seat. Then he’s jogging to catch up to Kip, stopping with the forward sway that means he’d wanted to duck in for a kiss hello and only remembered at the last minute. 

“Smells good,” Scott says instead, taking the stack of boxes in one arm so Kip can sign with both hands. “What’s everyone else going to eat?” 

“Um, L-A-S-A-G-N-A.” The joke slides right past him. Scott is here. He’s in the middle of Bay Ridge in an Admirals t-shirt with the shadows under his eyes that came with his playoff run and only started to soften after Toronto knocked New York out of the running Thursday night. 

Kip almost misses the flutter of hands to his left. 

Once spotted, Aunt Kathy is hard to miss. Nearly five-foot-eleven in practical flats and a navy pantsuit, Kip has a feeling she’d be more comfortable in a half-zip, or hockey gear. She and Scott could be blood relatives. They have the same laugh lines and the same set to their shoulders, and they sign with the same pause-and-swing. 

Aunt Kathy signs like she doesn’t have anything to hide. “Oh, Scott. He’s so handsome.”

Kip braces himself for Scott’s flinch. For his eyes to dart across the streets of Kip’s home looking for cameras or curious passersby. But things have changed. Scott takes breath, and leans into his aunt’s touch as she catches up to them on the sidewalk.  

“True,” Scott agrees one handed, his smile only a little more reserved. “Kathy, this is Kip.” 

Kathy’s name sign is a K placed high, where Kip would put the sign for tall, which seems appropriate, and her handshake is warm and dry. 

“I didn’t mean to surprise you,” Kathy promises, “The last time George was up in Rochester for classes we were still using flip phones, so I got some of my information mixed up. But I’m very happy to meet you. Scott has told me so much.” 

“Only good things, I hope.” 

“The best things,” Kathy assures him, giving Scott’s arm a teasing squeeze. 

This interaction is so normal. Kathy’s smile is broad and warm while Scott goes a little pink, scrubbing his free hand over the back of his neck. Happiness flutters behind Kip’s breastbone. 

His boyfriend has been talking to his family about him. 

“P-I-Z-Z-A’s getting cold,” Scott signs with one hand, gaze skating away from Kip in a way that looks happy for once, not resigned. Shy. Pleased. He checks the time, not on his phone but on his wrist. He’s wearing his dad’s watch. He doesn’t wear it every day. Scott worries that it could be lost or damaged in the hustle of games and travel. Maybe he’s wearing it because Kathy is in town, and Scott wants her to see her gift in use. 

In Kip’s experience, Scott wears the watch when he’s nervous, and needs to remember why he’s pushing himself. The twist of metal around Scott’s wrist has become a gesture of self-soothing that Kip is accustomed to catching in his peripheral vision. 

Kip likes that. It’s a sign that he can see and understand. He doesn’t mind that Scott gets anxious, only when he makes himself flat and hidden. Lately Scott is finding ways to tell Kip how he feels instead of retreating. 

“And hungry teachers are waiting,” Kip agrees. The house is just around the corner. Kip points the way with Scott beside him. They pass through a busy intersection, Kip waving to a few acquaintances and ignoring a few surprised looks that pass over Scott as they turn onto Kip’s block. 

“Is this okay?” Scott asks once they’re on the quieter street, Kathy conspicuously walking a few steps ahead to give them space. The pizza wasn’t exactly heavy to Kip, but Scott carries the boxes on one arm like they’re empty. “Me here? I can say ‘hi’ and go if not. Kathy will understand.” 

“I’m happy you’re here.” Kip bumps Scott’s shoulder. Nothing anyone looking would read too much into. “But people will know you. They’ll see what you sign. You’re Deaf famous now.”

Scott nods, serious. “Maybe too much. But I want to know Kathy’s friends. Your dad. Your house. I—” he fumbles for a second, and laughs. “Sorry. One hand.” 

Kip takes the pizza back so Scott can sign properly as they approach the familiar stoop. 

“I want to try,” he says. “If it’s too much, I’ll find a reason to leave. But I’ll tell you and say goodbye. I promise. I don't want to embarrass either of you.” 

“Okay. And you’re here with Kathy?” Do we know each other? 

“I’m here because of Kathy,” Scott replies after some thought, “but while I’m here I want her to get to know someone really important to me. And if it’s okay, I want to meet someone really important to you.” 

That’s a compromise Kip can live with. He gives Scott back the pizza boxes as his answer and pulls open the stiff-hinged screen door. A flick of the hall light lets his dad know Kip is home, and then Scott and Kathy are filling up the narrow entryway of the Grady house. Scott is looking around like a kid making their first visit to a planetarium. Kip flushes to remember the high school ribbons for wrestling and science fairs dotting the walls beside the timeline of family photos. Scott looks down at the wobbly ceramic dish Kip made in his first year of college that George still insists on using for his keys and grins at Kip in uncomplicated delight. 

Kathy watches Scott with a kind of aching happiness. Every time her gaze skims over Kip he’s washed in a knowing warmth that echoes Scott’s intensity. He remembers that Kathy lived with Scott’s silence much longer than Kip. Their relief over his presence now is shared. 

Kip’s dad appears in the kitchen doorway with a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder and a smile. 

“Looks like you found the pizza and some stragglers,” he says to Kip before pulling Kathy into a quick hug. “So glad you could make it. It feels like I was in your certification course about a century ago.” 

“It was long enough for these two to grow up,” Kathy replies with a laugh, gesturing at Scott and Kip. “I’m sure you remember I mentioned my nephew?” 

“I thought maybe you were pulling my leg, but sure, the guy I watch on ESPN is in my foyer.” Kip’s dad never lets the sting hang around, even when he’s ribbing someone. “S-C-O-T-T, welcome to our home.” 

“It’s Scott,” Kip corrects, only to see Kathy shape the name sign at the same time. Scott looks unreasonably happy between them, and something approving flits across George’s face as well as Scott shakes his hand. 

“Scott, then. Glad you could come. A lot of people here will be excited to meet you, I’m sure.” 

“Thank you for having me.” Scott only has one hand to sign, and Kip sees him shape a few words out loud to compensate. “I didn’t know I would be here today, but I’m glad I am. Kip talks about you a lot.”  

Scott’s hand lands on Kip’s shoulder, unexpected punctuation to his polite greeting. Kip jumps. It’s not the first time Scott has touched him in public, but it’s the first time it’s happened unshaded by several drinks or the bustle of a crowded restaurant. There’s no can of seltzer being passed to hide the brush of fingers. Scott, always physical, is establishing his connection to Kip, however vague the nature of that connection might be. 

Scott gives Kip a squeeze and a shake, the kind of thing he gives out for free in the locker room and never where it might be mistaken for intimacy (until now). A few heads pop out into the hall, signed greetings for Kathy filling Kip’s vision. Scott’s hand falls away naturally, fingertips just trailing against Kip’s linen shirt. Scott spots the food table in the living room and with another brief touch of his hand to Kip’s back he goes to deposit the pizza before hungry and curious party guests.

Kip’s dad watches this interaction intently. Kip narrows his eyes. 

“Lasagna’s almost done, Kipper,” his dad says, the picture of innocence. Kip follows him to the kitchen, ignoring the waft of steam and delicious melted cheese aroma as his dad pops the oven door. 

“Did you know?” Kip asks his dad sternly. His dad hefts the tray of lasagna onto the stove top, pulling off his oven mitts to sign again.

“Did I know that Kathy Anderson’s nephew was the captain of the New York Admirals, and then watch Scott Hunter sign your name on international television? Somehow I figured it out.” George nudges Kip’s shoulder fondly. “Give your old man some credit, kiddo.”

Kip crosses his arms. “Scott might not be comfortable here.” 

His dad shrugs. “I didn’t invite him. Kathy asked if he could tag along. Said he wanted to come.” 

“He didn’t know you were my dad.” 

“He does now, and he chose to walk in the front door.” George passes Kip the lasagna to add to the buffet. “As I recall, Scott knows how to turn down an invitation.” 

Kip gives his dad a sour look but since he is a good son he obediently shoulders the lasagna with the insulation of several dishtowels. Before he heads out to the porch, his dad flaps a hand. 

“I know it’s not a joke,” his dad promises. “I just wanted to get a look at him, and not from TV.” 

Kip ignores the heavy glass baking dish pressing a little too warm against his collar. “What does he look like?” 

“First impression?” His dad rolls a smile around his mouth, settling on something amused and a little relieved. “He looks happy to be in the same room as you.” 

And so he does. Kip delivers the lasagna to his dad’s hungry friends, and he feels the warmth of Scott’s attention even when his back is turned. They circle the room like opposed magnets, kept apart but linked by an invisible force. Kip is dishing pasta and pizza and checking that the drinks cooler remains full. He opens the backdoor to let in some air when the room fills up and lights a few citronella candles on the patio to keep the bugs away. He stays at the edges of things so his dad can enjoy the party for once. Kip learned the importance of a support network from watching his dad build one. These conferences were his dad’s chance to catch up with the friends and colleagues he’d been making since Kip was old enough to sign. 

Meanwhile Scott plays the humble Olympian in two languages. 

Even with all the progress they’ve made, Kip associates Scott with a kind of intimacy. His most meaningful moments with Scott are still the private ones. It makes it easy to forget that most people aren’t accustomed to the physical presence of a professional hockey player. 

Scott fills up the room. With his media smile tucked away, staying close to Kathy, Scott still catches the eye as he exchanges polite small talk with the cohort of Deaf educators taking the night off from their conference program to eat pizza in George Grady’s den. He’s a head above most of the people here, a Sports Illustrated model in a room mostly populated by middle aged women wearing sensible heels. Scott is currently giving Kip’s former fifth-grade social studies teacher the same attention he would give the MLH commissioner. He’s trying to diminish himself, as if he’s an inconvenient mirror catching a glare rather than a source of light.

Scott is a famous athlete.

Scott is a famous CODA. 

Scott is in Kip’s family home. He’s so fucking gorgeous. 

Scott catches Kip’s eye across the room and winks. It’s so much like the night Kip first saw Scott in his tuxedo that Kip has to busy himself getting more ice from the basement. The tug of suction and the wave of cold air as he cracks the lid of the chest freezer prevents Kip from pursuing his dearest desires, such as grabbing Scott’s ass. He satisfies himself with imagining the way Scott’s eyes would roll back if Kip managed to slide an ice chilled hand up the back of his shirt and tease fingertips all the way down his spine.

When he returns to the living room, Scott is talking to his dad. Kip turns his back to refill the cooler, flicking his eyes away from the conversation. He’s not overly concerned about the content of his dad’s shovel talk, and the time when his dad would have turned his back and spoken to Scott in English to make sure Kip didn’t hear is long past. His dad is signing so Kip can see if he wants and Kip trusts him enough to let their first real conversation be private. 

Two light taps on Kip’s arm make him jump a little, and he turns to find Kathy. Her gaze is also caught on Scott and Kip’s dad, but she focuses on Kip after a second.

“I didn’t see a recycling bin,” she signs, jiggling an empty seltzer can. “Maybe you could show me?” 

Kip shows her the bin on the back patio, and the back up cooler with Kip’s favorite hard seltzer flavors. 

“I am partial to these,” Kathy says with a wink, tucking a Passionfruit Breeze into the crook of her elbow. Kip likes her. Kathy styles herself that she’s comfortable showing her age and her height, like a softer Jane Lynch. That doesn’t mean she’s subtle—something she and Scott have in common. 

“Seems like Scott is getting along with George,” Kathy observes, lingering oh so casually. 

Kip’s cheeks warm. “It’s just a conversation. My dad doesn’t decide who I spend time with.” 

“No,” Kathy agrees. “George respects you too much to try and warn off boys he doesn’t approve of.” 

“I hope so.”

“Even when you were fifteen he was that way,” Kathy offers. “He always stood out in my classes because saw teenagers as people, not problems to be endured.” 

“He’s definitely had to endure my problems a few times.” 

“And look how you turned out.” Kathy tucks a fresh can of seltzer under her arm to sign: “I couldn’t be happier to find out how important you’ve become in Scott’s life. You brought him back to us, I think.” 

“Scott makes his own decisions,” Kip reminds her, though he sees the compliment she means. 

“Yes.” Kathy agrees. “But it’s amazing what decisions we can make with a little support.” 

That’s hard to argue with. “You were, um—” Kip hesitates, fingers fluttering. “You were close with his parents, right?” 

Kathy’s steady smile falters, like a faulty bulb, and returns just as quickly. “Melissa was my best friend, and Keith was the best partner I could have wished for her.” 

“Do you think they would have been okay with this?” With their son choosing a Deaf partner? With that partner being a man? 

“I won’t put words in their mouths—well, hands.” Kathy laughs. “I can’t speak for them. I shouldn’t. But they loved Scott very much, and wanted him to be happy.”

It’s a fair answer. 

“I talk to Scott often, now,” Kathy continues. “Every time I do, he seems happier.” 

So what will happen when I’m four hours away and busy? The thought plinks into Kip’s head like a heavy raindrop, and just as ominously. He tries to shake it off. He follows Kathy back to the party, where pizza gets eaten, light drinking takes place, and several embarrassing stories about Kip in elementary school get told, much to Scott’s delight. 

“Afterparty at Junior’s on 77th!” His dad announces with a big wave of his hands to get everyone’s attention. The sun is going down and only the New York crowd without panels to attend in the morning are still loitering. “My devoted and capable son has generously offered to do the first round of cleanup so the old folks can get silly around the corner.” 

Kip rolls his eyes, but graciously accepts the room’s teasing applause. Among the shaking hands his eye catches Kathy leaning in to whisper something in Scott’s ear. Scott raises his eyebrows, giving Kathy an are you sure? that transcends language. Kathy signs something fast in reply that Kip doesn’t have a clear line of sight on but is pretty sure contains the phrase young people. Scott smiles and gives her the kind of hug that actually makes Kip jealous of his height. 

“I’ve been volunteered for cleanup duty,” he confides in Kip as the stragglers gather handbags and name badges for the walk down the block. “Kathy is going to get a cab back to my apartment when she’s done at the bar.” 

“Good idea. We could be here all night cleaning up this mess.” 

Scott’s eyes twinkle. “What a nightmare.” 

They do clean, for all of fifteen minutes. Scott collapses the card tables dotted around the living room while Kip loads the dishwasher and does a quick round up of bottles and cans. He dumps their house recycling into the large bin around the side of the house and returns to find Scott sprawled comfortably across the patio furniture. 

“Have fun today?” Kip asks, collapsing next to Scott on the loveseat. “Sure you don’t want to catch up on the latest P-E-D-A-G-O-G-Y at the corner dive?” 

“No. It was good. I’m glad it’s over now, though.” Scott laughs at something in advance. “It’s like going running with Darryl but knowing I can turn down Bible study.” 

“Wow, sexy comparison.” Kip shakes out the sign and then rests his head in the crook of Scott’s neck. Scott’s arm settles around Kip’s shoulders and that’s about perfect. Pink and gold light settles into violet and blue around them as the night sets in.

“What did my dad say?” Kip asks eventually. He’s willing to sacrifice a few non-manual markers to stay pressed close to Scott’s side. 

“He said you’re a grown man and you don’t let anybody waste your time. He hopes any partner you choose makes the time worth wasting.” 

“Pretty mild shovel talk.” 

“Maybe. He loves you a lot. I think that’s what he really wanted me to know.” Scott’s chest rises and falls under Kip in a sigh. “He’s right: your time is valuable and you have options.”

Kip tips his chin up, asking for a kiss, and Scott gives him one, here in the fading light. It’s private, and somehow Kip feels like the whole world is watching them and approving. “I like this option.” 

“Me too. I loved this. I’ve never done it, the whole meet the parent thing.” A line of worry shadows Scott’s brow. “I hope it’s okay that it happened this way. I didn’t mean to make you pretend in your own home.” 

“Who’s pretending? You’re here. You met my dad. That’s a big step.” 

Scott gives his shoulders a squeeze, but says nothing.

“Hey.” Kip taps Scott under the chin. “Come upstairs.”

They come in from the patio, and the house is dark. Kip walks Scott through the snug doorways and they stop at each outlet to turn the lights on. First it’s a Liberty Bell in the kitchen, then a snowglobe at the bottom of the stairs, and an I Love NY sign at the top. They turn on the bubbling little aquarium in the bathroom, and the Statue of Liberty in the hall. In Kip’s bedroom—built for a twin and now cramped with a double bed—Scott clicks on the little plastic Virgin Mary, while Kip lights up the soft modern bulb of light in the power strip beside his desk. 

It’s dim, barely enough to sign to, but enough for Scott to touch Kip’s face. To kiss him in the safety of Kip’s family home. 

“Is this enough light, for now?” Scott makes the sign close between their chests. “Can you see?” 

Scott isn’t talking about the room. It’s poetry again. Scott has turned on all the lights he can. Aunt Kathy and Carter Vaughn. Central Park and Bay Ridge. Elena and Shawn and Maria. 

Too many more lights, and it's a beacon.

Kip closes his eyes and brushes his forehead against Scott’s. He clasps a hand to Scott’s jaw, and then brings his hands in to sign: 

“I have to show you something.” 

The double bed is almost comically large in Kip’s room but still small once Scott and Kip are seated on it. Scott’s knees nearly touch the opposite wall. He looks oversized and nervous as Kip hands him his acceptance letter from Boston. He tells him about Vera and the fellowship and the MFA position. He tells him too much, probably, about Hunter’s bad financial aid offer and NYU’s cold emails. Just saying it all makes his heart race. Waiting for a reaction from Scott makes his heart race, maybe in a bad way. 

“Kip.” Scott’s focus is a comfort as Kip’s hands finally still. He’s reading, not reacting. “What are you trying to tell me?” 

What is there to say? Scott has his thing. Hockey is non-negotiable. Games are games, practices are practices. Scott is so accustomed to prioritizing his career that it doesn’t even register to him. Kip has never had that, and Scott has never known a version of Kip who has that. Now he will, and there will come a time when the requirements of their jobs will refuse to neatly align. This moment is the first big crunch, and Kip doesn’t know how Scott will react. 

“Im telling you that I love you…and that I’m going.” 

“I love you, too,” Scott says, hand easing into the sign like he’s been waiting months, “and this is your dream. You’re obviously going.”  

Scott looks honestly confused by Kip’s trepidation. 

“It won’t be easy, anymore,” Kip reminds him. “I won’t be here when you come home from games. You’ll be more recognizable if you come see me in Boston.” Fear clenches in his gut, but Kip continues: “There will be easier men for you to love.” 

Something like hurt flashes across Scott’s face. “I don’t love you because it’s easy. Because you can always say yes to my schedule. If you want a clean break—” 

“No.” Kip’s fingers close around the sign and his fist closes in the worn cotton of Scott’s shirt. He can feel the breath of tension ping down Scott’s spine and ease just as quickly. It had only occurred to Scott now that this could have been a reason to break up. He presses his face into Kip’s hair and Kip feels the cool pull of air. Kip gets his own lungful of scent from under Scott’s jaw, and it’s like a Xanax, relief passing cool along his nerves. Scott’s hands follow the path, smoothing over Kip’s biceps, to his forearms, and passing over his fingertips before shaping words again:

“I love you,” Scott signs between them, “because I knew you from the moment I saw you.” A pause. “Like—“

“Like being struck by lightning.” 

Kip feels Scott’s nod. 

“I’m not easy either. We still made it this far.” Scott kisses him again, in the dim light, his handsome face serious. “I’m done saying maybe. If it ends one day then it ends, but I’m telling you: if you can take the waiting, then I can handle the distance.” 

How wildly things have changed, and yet how reassuringly they’ve stayed consistent. It feels so good to climb into Scott’s lap. To kiss him until they’re both panting, warm puffs of breath catching on each other’s skin. (Kip’s room never got the best of the AC unit chugging away in the hall. He doesn’t mind a bit of sweat now.) 

“It’s on you to notice if my dad comes home,” Kip warns Scott before peeling off his shirt, leaving the chambray in a heap on the floor. 

“I’m going to be a little distracted,” Scott replies before putting his hands where Kip wants them most. 

Let it be said, Kip has rarely had sex in his childhood bedroom. Teenage fumblings that his dad almost definitely overheard aside, Kip tends to take his sex life elsewhere. This isn’t to say he isn’t equipped for any situation, and as Scott rolls him onto his back to make out hot and wet and slow, Kip has a particular desire in mind. 

After a cold winter and a shy thaw in the spring, renewed intimacy with Scott had hit the hard wall that was play-offs. Now it’s May and God if Kip doesn’t miss getting fucked. 

“You want to?” He asks Scott, feeling a little thrill of the forbidden, the pair of them decadently filling up the full size mattress where he got his first handjob. Scott answers by climbing off him to lock the door. He skims his shirt off on the narrow journey back crawling up the mattress on his hands and knees until he has Kip pinned again.  

“Hot.” 

Scott’s eyes crinkle around his silent laugh, and he kisses Kip’s neck while he works them out of their clothes. It feels so good to be alone. Kip shared Scott all day and he’s glad he did, but now he wants this. He’s hard, and he can feel by the heat and weight that Scott is getting there, too. 

It’s good to be gay. Kip stretches to reach his bedside drawer. It shows off his triceps—a particular erotic zone for Scott, who promptly applies to greedy hands—and lets Kip fumble for what they need. He tosses a half-full tube of lube and a foil packet on the bed, ready to play pillow princess, when Scott knocks the condom away, and then looks at Kip with round eyes, like he can’t believe his own boldness. 

They joked about it. They flirted and implied the possibility. They never actually committed. 

“Yes.” Arousal fires through Kip like an electric current. “Scott. No more maybe.”

Thank god his dad isn’t home, because Kip can’t imagine they’re quiet after that. He knows he’s giving Scott sounds, desire and need leaking from his voice box as Scott impatiently fingers him open, but he doesn’t know what they are except they make Scott wild, breathing harder and holding tighter. 

Kip is ready fast. He wants the burn, and he savors the buzz in Scott’s chest as he pushes in. Kip loves the way they fit together like this. He can top or bottom and doesn’t feel any mystical way about it, but there’s something about the hook of his thighs over Scott’s hips, and the burn of Kip’s stomach muscles when he crunches up to kiss. It’s vulnerable, but it reminds him how strong he is, too. 

“Forgot,” Kip says, breath gasping and hands shaking as they ease together. “You feel so right. So good. Never before you. Never.” 

“My man.” Restraint furrows Scott’s brow, his teeth set into his bottom lip. The effort ripples across his shoulders as he signs one-handed: “I missed you. I want you.” 

“Yes. Mine.” Kip presses the sign heavy against his chest multiple times, a rhythm like a drumbeat. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“True.” Scott sighs hot and damp into the crook of Kip’s neck as he bottoms out. He covers Kip’s flat hand with his own to tap the mirrored sign. “Yours.” 

It’s beautiful the way Scott gives all his strength to finding pleasure. It’s so easy and natural, the way his hands fit to the mass of Kip’s thighs and the curve of his ribs. The flex of muscle under skin. The press and drag of Scott’s mouth to the hollow of Kip’s throat and the stretch of his cock splitting Kip open so perfectly. Scott’s body is perfectly under his control, waiting for Kip to be ready for more.

“You were made for this.” Kip has to tell him. He breathes through the ache and the tender tremor of Scott completely surrounding him, smiling helplessly. It’s as good as the first night. Just as beautiful. Just as startling. 

“Made to fuck you?” Scott asks, laugh thin through the strain of his desire. 

“Made to feel good,” Kip corrects him. “Made to love.” 

Kip has taken off his glasses, so Scott’s features are a little soft, but he can still see the brightness of Scott’s eyes. His happiness. His gratitude. Scott pets a flat hand over the hair dusting Kip’s chest. He kisses the thin skin under his eye, and then the heated blush of his cheek. All the while, Scott is looking at him like he can’t believe how lucky he is. 

Kip is so loved. It takes his breath away. 

They can do this. All of it. The wait, the distance, the scrutiny, all of it is possible if they can have this, and the community they’re building to keep them connected when they can’t. Scott has been soaking up connection, and the well of loneliness Kip had jealously guarded is being filled in. In its place one day, maybe a garden, a fountain. Scott. Sc-tt.

Kip can wait, if in the meantime they have this, and some way of being in the world where they can sign in the sun. 

Kip rubs his thumbs through Scott’s beloved scruff, rolling their foreheads together. Then: 

“Hard. Please. Fuck me like I need.” 

Scott, glowing as surely as the little bulbs that lit their way here, gives Kip all the love he has. Like his strength, his tenderness, and his poetry, it feels fathomless. 

Kip stirs in the morning to the press of lips to his cheek. When he opens his eyes, morning light is just barely bleeding through his blinds. 

“Sorry,” Scott circles on his chest, eyes tender. “You can go back to sleep. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” 

Scott is already dressed. He has to slip away, before the world is wide awake and wondering why Scott Hunter spent the night in Brooklyn without a change of clothes. It doesn’t sting the way it might, not after yesterday. 

“Okay. Love you.” Kip wiggles the sign a little, just to watch Scott glow with it, and draws him in by the chin for a real kiss. Scott catches Kip’s wrist as they part, tracing dry fingertips over the solid muscle and coarse hair of Kip’s forearm. 

Kip loves it when Scott does things like that, as if every little masculine part of Kip is worth Scott’s full attention. Worth admiring. 

Scott touches the bones of Kip’s wrist with the pad of his thumb, and his expression turns thoughtful. Kip stares, breathless, as Scott flicks open the clasp to his father’s watch. The metal glints dully as Scott slides it off his own wrist and onto Kip’s. The clasp closes as silently as it opened. 

Kip is wearing one of Scott’s only family heirlooms. The watch Keith Hunter used to time Scott’s first laps around the rink. The watch that lit up only a few weeks ago with a blinking calendar reminder of his parents’ wedding anniversary. “Sweetheart, don’t give me this. It’s too important.” 

“I trust you.” Scott thumbs over the smooth metal and the tender inside of Kip’s wrist. His signs are small and intimate between them. “I love you, and I trust that you’ll give this back to me, one day. Maybe because I’m able to give you something better. …maybe because I can’t, and you need a way to tell me you’re moving on.” Scott closes his eyes briefly, like he’s making peace with two futures. He bumps his nose into Kip’s as he opens his eyes and concludes: “Either way.” 

Scott taps the watch face once, kisses Kip again, and goes. Kip doesn’t fall back asleep.

The morning light glows brighter and brighter against the digital watch face as the sun rises. Kip touches each button and knob with a gentle fingertip, feeling strangely connected to another Deaf man that Scott had once loved very much, and still did. 

Such a fragile thing to be given. But this is what Scott has to give. His devotion. His fidelity. 

His trust.

We have time, Kip promises. He promises himself, maybe, and Scott, and the Hunters who should have had many more years to love their son. 

We can take the time we need.

Chapter End Notes

Next: Time passes. Scott gets to know George...and Margaret

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

A slightly shorter update than I had planned, because what I thought would be two halves of a chapter turned out a little less thematically related than anticipated. Nonetheless I give you: Pride.

June 26th, 2015. It’s 85 degrees and the sun is pounding the pavement of Manhattan. It’s NYC Pride. 

Scott isn’t there. 

He wants to be. He thinks about a few strategies. Carter sourced “Proud Ally” shirts, always ready to wield his rock-solid heterosexuality as a smokescreen, but putting that label on himself—the gulf between leaving a question unanswered and outright lying—made Scott break out into a cold sweat. Still, it’s a public parade, Scott spends a week trying to convince himself while Kip monitors him with growing concern. Anyone in Manhattan could be passing through and caught up in the rainbow glitterbomb working its way across the island. 

Scott makes soft plans to “run into” Kip and the gang near Greenwich Village. He lays out an outfit, spending a jittery forty-five minutes the night before deciding whether light gray or dark blue Under Armour will make his appearance in the background of any photos seem more coincidental. 

He can go. He can—even if it’s just for twenty minutes. Even if all he does is say hello and give out a couple of bro-y hugs (Scott is a hugger now, a carefully cultivated ritual to let him touch Kip in public). Scott can go. 

He can do this. 

(There will be so many cameras.)

He can. 

(So many people will speculate.)

He can. 

(No one has ever asked. If they ask, Scott will have to lie.)

Scott messages Kip with trembling fingers around one AM, breath tight in his chest. 

S: I’m sorry. I can’t. 

If Scott sleeps, it’s poorly, with self-loathing sunk like a lead weight in his belly.  

The message he gets back at eight AM isn’t what he expects. 

K: My dad is going to call in a couple minutes and ask you for a favor

K: please say yes

K: it would mean a lot to him

Scott is still puzzling that out over his post-gym protein shake when his phone buzzes in his hand with an unknown Brooklyn number. Based on context clues, Scott answers. 

“Hello?” 

“Scott, hi. It’s George. Kip’s dad?” 

“Hi, uh, Mr. Grady.” It’s a bit strange to be talking over the phone. Scott realizes it’s because they mostly signed at the party. This might be the first time Scott had spoken to Kip’s dad aloud. “What can I do for you?” 

“Just George is fine, bud. Anyways, I’m in a bit of a pickle over here. A couple of my back fence posts have rotted, and the neighbor’s terrier has been wriggling through the gaps and making trouble in my tomato patch. I wondered, if you had an hour or two to spare, if you might be able to save an old guy some back pain and help me dig the new posts.”

Scott understands, immediately, what Kip had meant by his message. George does not need help with his yard. Maybe he does, who knows, but it could have waited. George is offering to spend time with Scott because George is supremely kind and understands that Kip can’t stay home every time Scott has to. 

Kip can’t tell Scott it’s okay that he’s not coming to Pride. He understands, but it’s not okay, in the sense that it hurts them both. This is something Scott wishes they could share, and they can’t, and it’s Scott’s circumstances making it that way. 

The choice before Scott now is whether to accept a hand reaching out in the face of this setback, or whether he uses his shame as an excuse to slap it away and lick his wounds, alone. This is what Kip wants to know. Not whether Scott will come to Pride, but knowing that he can’t, whether Scott will help his dad dig out some fence posts. Whether Scott will isolate himself, or whether what they’re building to sustain them for two years is real.

“If you’re busy, I understand.” 

George’s voice startles Scott out of his eureka moment. 

“No,” he says. “It’s no problem. I’d love to help.” 

“Great. Well, whenever you’re free. I’ve got sandwich supplies and a six pack of Genesee on ice, so we’ve got provisions.” 

“Yeah. I’ll get on the train. Try to dodge the parade traffic.” Scott stands in his empty apartment for a long beat. “George. Um…thank you.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, bud. You’re doing me a favor. Now get on the road. The R is going to be crazy.” 

So Scott goes to Brooklyn and spends a few hours using a weird shovel to dig holes for new fence posts and listening to George’s stories about teaching high school English. They don’t know each other well yet but George is easy to be around and Scott isn’t worried about being overheard like he was at the party last month. It’s pleasant, and Scott can admit it makes him feel less anxious to have the East River between him and Pride. They eat sandwiches and crack a couple beers a little earlier in the day than recommended. Scott is enjoying himself, and he even sends hearts on a few of the blurry, sun drenched selfies Kip sends from the parade route. 

Then around 2pm they find out from a Google alert on George’s phone that the Supreme Court has ruled in favor of Obergefell. 

Scott is sure he imagines the swell of sound. They’re ten miles from Manhattan. Still, for a moment, looking at the news headline with a banner of the celebratory parade currently marching its way down the island, it’s like the ground shakes. Scott finds himself sitting, the squishy cushions of George’s wicker patio set catching him as the earth moves under his feet. 

“Uh, wow,” Scott says to the news that he can now legally get married in all fifty states.

George is near tears, smiling down at his phone. Scott’s is buzzing in his pocket. The running group chat is blowing up. The first direct message is from Carter and is just twenty-one rainbow flags. Another flurry is from Kip.

K: Omg Carly Rae Jepsen is on a float and I swear she is singing RIGHT AT ME 

K: these people don’t get it because they’re distracted by the music but i can see the TRUTH

K: Her outfit bngggg98&@

K: OMG sorry i just dropped my phone and it almost got stepped on by a horse. Did you see the news just now?????? 🏳️‍🌈🤵‍♂️🤵‍♂️💒🎉🎉🎉

Finally, from Kathy: 

Kathy: I just saw an amazing headline and I’m thinking of you! I hope you’re surrounded by friends today :))

Scott puts a heart on Kathy’s message and sends Kip a yes it’s awesome love you! Tell me more about CRJ’s outfit. 

The Admirals chat is silent. 

The whole world is different, and yet nothing for Scott has really changed.  

“I don’t really know what to do with this information,” Scott admits. George studies him for a moment, then holds up a finger and vanishes into the house. Scott can hear the scrape of a stool, and the clatter of a kitchen cabinet. 

“In 1998, Kip came home from fourth grade one day and informed me that he was going to marry Jonathan Taylor Thomas when he grew up,” George says, emerging from the house. He takes a seat next to Scott on the wicker couch. “I can tell you, Scott, I lost some sleep that year.” 

He sets a heavy bottle about half full of amber liquid on the wicker table before them next to two mismatched juice glasses. It’s a two-hundred dollar bottle of Macallan.

“In 2000, sexual orientation was included in the Hate Crimes Act and I went out and bought this.” George pours a slug into each glass and puts one in front of Scott. 

“I’m not a big drinker,” George continues, “but I drank the day that bill passed, enough that I had to call into work the next day. I drank in 2002 when SONDA made it so my kid couldn’t get fired or kicked out of an apartment for talking about his boyfriend, and I drank in 2011 when New York passed marriage equality, because god forbid Kip miss a bell ten years from now and a bike messenger can’t hit his breaks fast enough, at least somebody will be obligated to call his husband from the emergency room. Now, if Kip gets a job in Texas or Indiana, he’ll still have that. That calls for a drink.” 

“The law isn’t everything.” The words scrape soft out of Scott’s throat. The Admirals chat remains silent. 

“No,” George agrees. “But it’s a hell of a lot, compared to not having it.” 

George holds up his glass until Scott raises his own and they meet with an audible clink. 

“I love Kip, exactly the way he is. I didn’t raise him to be afraid. I’ve also earned my gray hairs worrying about the ugly things in this world that he wouldn’t hear coming.” George knocks his glass lightly on the table, like they’re at an Irish bar. “Here’s to the people we love enough to lose sleep over.”

Scott isn’t sure whether to sip or shoot, but George knocks his drink back and Scott follows suit. It’s smooth and smoky, not really the drink for a sweltering day in New York, but Scott lets it burn through him. 

George coughs, proof enough that he hasn’t had much scotch since 2011. He pours them both a little more. 

“Kip and I haven’t really talked about marriage.”

George almost swallows a sip backwards, coughing again. “Good god, I hope not.” His eyes go a little wide. “You didn’t think I was pushing for—“ 

“No,” Scott says quickly. “No, I get what you were saying. I guess I’m just feeling a little wrong footed. Like I haven’t earned any of this and now I have it and it’s not even something we’re ready for.” 

“Well, you have time. There’s no rush.” George is a little flushed from the alcohol already. “Maybe that’s the point. These laws aren’t to make you live a certain way. They’re just supposed to let you live the way you want.” 

Scott sips his scotch. Someday. 

A commonality between a professional athlete and a sixty-year old dad is the proclivity for naps. George invites Scott to get out of the sun for a bit and claims he’s just going to rest his eyes for twenty minutes before they tackle the gutters. 

Scott stretches out in sock feet on the couch and closes his eyes. 

He wakes up at five PM to familiar fingers combing through his hair. 

“Hi babe.” Kip signs with loose fingers, a little tipsy. His rainbow A-frame is dangling off his shoulders, showing off toned arms and lats. An impromptu airbrush tattoo stretches over one bicep spelling out G-A-Y in ASL letters. His neck is draped in Mardi Gras beads and glitter confetti sparkles in his hair like melted snowflakes around his pushed up sunglasses. 

“You look amazing,” Scott signs, words flowing easy from his hands after English seemed to catch on his tongue all day. Kip preens, pleased with the compliment. He dips down for a kiss, which Scott grants eagerly. Kip smells like sunscreen and sweat and the kind of body spray Scott remembers guys buying for their girlfriends in 2009. 

After, Scott remembers to glance at George’s easy chair and finds it empty. 

“Dad’s around the corner picking up Chinese,” Kip explains, climbing over the back of the couch couch—he’s wearing very short cut-offs—to plop himself in Scott’s lap. “I’m home for a shower and some dinner before I meet Elena and Shawn in Greenpoint at ten.”  

Scott slips his hands under Kip’s top to feel his warm skin. He can’t help but smile. 

“What?” 

Scott shakes his head, taking back his hands. “I just love you. Did you have a good day?” 

“I did.” Kip smiles, flushed. He looks a little like his dad and a lot like the love of Scott’s life. He’s gorgeous and brave. “Did you?” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, honestly. “I did. I like your dad a lot.” 

“Me too. Especially when he brings home General Tso’s.” Kip kisses Scott again. Things devolve a bit, what with Scott finding the edge of Kip’s cut offs barely meeting the top of his thighs and Kip enjoying Scott’s “handyman musk,” but after a few minutes Kip pulls back, nuzzling briefly at Scott’s mouth. 

“I had fun today,” he says, eyes serious. “I spent time with my friends, and screamed with like one million people about gay marriage, and made direct eye contact with Carly Rae Jepsen, for real.” He drags a slow hand through Scott’s hair, and Scott feels it tingle all the way down his scalp. “I didn’t feel like shit for going without you.”  

“Good.” Scott pulls the sign from his mouth to the palm of his hand. No more flourish, no excuses or apologies. “Someday, I’ll be there, too.” 

Kip beams. “Can’t wait. Now, come on. The shower’s small but you can help scrape the glitter off me before Dad gets back.” 

Scott’s never heard a better invitation.

Chapter End Notes

Next up: One year later, our dinner with Margaret

Chapter 20

Chapter Summary

The penultimate chapter, and one I've been working on since much earlier in the fic. I struggled in some ways to express in text how Scott, Kip, and Margaret are communicating, since it involves a lot of overlap between spoken English and ASL. When in doubt, always assume Kip is signing.

When interpreters "voice" things for their client, it means that they are speaking as if they were literally the person. For example "I study art history" not "Kip/he studies art history." There's a reason that d/Deaf people employ professional interpreters whose only role in the conversation is to communicate on behalf of their client, i.e. that trying to interpret and also participate in a conversation can get confusing. However, real life is never perfect, and neither are Scott and Kip. I hope the themes of the chapter are clear, even if the blocking isn't!

Enjoy!

Chapter Notes

A few blocks up from Alewife station—the end of the red line—there’s an Airbnb tucked in between the elegant attached row houses. Scott’s never spent much time out here, but he’s heard it’s nice, if you can tolerate living within fifty miles of Boston. He was mostly relieved not to immediately be confronted with any billboards of Ilya Rozanov’s face as he pulled off the Turnpike. 

Kip just submitted all his final papers, and he’s coming home to the city for a chunk of his summer vacation. First, he’s meeting Scott in North Cambridge for a few days of much needed time alone. They’re doing it out here so that Scott doesn’t have to meet Kip’s roommate, who Kip doesn’t trust. Next year he’ll be living with his friend Kaitlyn, who has already met Scott, and they’ll be able to meet at Kip’s apartment and Kip won’t have to schlep his roller suitcase all the way to the train. 

(Scott obviously offered to pay for a car service to get Kip to their end-of-semester weekend getaway. That’s a conversation to revisit at a later date. He let Scott pay for the Airbnb, which Scott considers a significant victory.) 

Scott pulls his rental car into the driveway, and finds the lockbox by the front door empty, the front hall light already shining through the charming stained glass transom window. 

The red line is running ahead of schedule today. Scott lets himself in, and flicks the first light switch he finds on and off. Kip appears from around the corner, where Scott can get a glimpse of an airy living room. He leans against the wainscotting, his eyes tracing Scott from head to toe as sure as a touch. 

It was a deep playoff run. They haven’t seen each other in two months. 

“Hi.” Kip is wearing his pretty striped linen shirt and a smile. 

“Hi.” Scott drops his bag in the entry way and kicks the door closed behind him. 

Seeing Kip makes Scott feel like a shaken bottle of Coke. Ready to pop, anytime. Their precious weekends, holidays, and away-game rendezvous have only made each reunion more effervescent than the last. Every time Scott swings Kip into a kiss—like now—he gets to feel it all over again. Yes, it’s you. You’re the one. 

Scott lays Kip out against a creaky hardwood floor and notices the lack of sticky vinyl under his hands just long enough to flick out “this place is nice” before he kisses his way down Kip’s body and gets his cock in Scott’s mouth where it belongs. Scott chokes himself blissfully as long as Kip can take it. When he comes, Kip squeezes his thighs around Scott’s shoulders and digs his heels into Scott’s shoulderblades, hips off the floor to fuck deep as Scott swallows and swallows. Scott licks the taste off the roof of his mouth, and licks the ripple of Kip’s abs as he eases him back down to the floor, spent and happy. Then he climbs up to straddle Kip’s chest, getting his jeans open with clumsy fingers. He touches himself and feels the groan from Kip’s chest right up his spine.

Scott needs Kip so bad. He’s here and he came because of Scott and Scott feels like an animal about it, like he has to mark what’s his. Kip’s eyes glitter, like he knows exactly what Scott is thinking. He signs “yes, Scott. Do it,” with the sharp motion of the imperative and Scott comes all over his chest.

The tension seeps out of Scott one vertebrae at a time, until he’s slumped on Kip close enough to kiss, and incidentally smearing his mess between them. He’s so happy. 

Kip wrinkles his nose between kisses. “Gross.” 

“Hot, too?” Scott asks, still grinning helplessly. 

“Hot and gross,” Kip concedes. He slings his arms around Scott’s neck and they stay there, kissing on the hardwood until Kip’s ass is numb and Scott’s knees object and there’s a real risk of them getting glued together with spunk. Scott would love to be glued to Kip, but he would never risk the negative impact it might have on Kip’s wonderful thatch of chest hair. Instead they lever Scott’s creaky ass off the floor and cozy up in the shower. Perfect. 

They pass the anonymous days in a similar manner. On their last evening, they order in expensive salads and eat al fresco in bathrobes. Scott entertains them by trying his best to describe the sound of the bamboo windchimes that dangle off the roof of their little private balcony. Kip has only ever encountered metal chimes and is skeptical that wood is capable of making a sound other than “thunk.” 

“It kind of is a thunk,” Scott admits, laughing. He reaches up and nudges the wind catcher so the bamboo gives out its short hollow notes. “A pretty arrangement of thunks.” 

“You’re a pretty arrangement of thunks.” Kip is comfortably seated across Scott’s lap, their empty takeout containers cluttering the table. They’re halfway through a bottle of white wine that Scott refuses to let Kip image search the label of.

“Listen,” Kip says as Scott pours their second glass. “This is going to sound like a big deal but it’s not: on the drive back, would you be up for lunch with my mom?” 

“Oh.” Scott sets the bottle on the table a little heavier than he means to. “Uh…really?” 

“Yes. It’s just a last minute thing. If we can’t make it it’s fine,” Kip says, eyes skittering away in a way that tells Scott it would maybe not be fine, and that earlier statements about this not being a big deal may have been false. “She lives in Connecticut, it would only be like twenty minutes out of the way.” 

“Okay. Does she already know about me?” 

It isn’t something they discussed. Scott didn’t think Kip and his mom were that close, and Kip has never told anyone without at least letting Scott know. 

“She knows I have a serious boyfriend, and that we’re being discreet because of your career.” 

Scott doesn’t reply in signs, but the look on his face is as good as words to Kip.

“She won’t tell,” He assures him, “I haven’t given her any specifics, but I trust her not to tell anyone.” 

“Okay.” Scott doesn’t know what to do with Kip’s energy right now. His hands are anxious, and Kip never is. “Do you see your mom a lot since you moved?” 

“No. This is kind of the first time. We’ve met up before, once or twice, when she was in the city and I could bring a friend,” Kip explains. “Because—” 

Scott suddenly understands. “Because she doesn’t sign. You need me to interpret.” 

Kip nods, his head falling onto Scott’s shoulder with its own pretty thunk. “It’s weird. It’s a lot.” 

“No,” Scott promises. “It’s fine. I would love to meet your mom. The rest…we can handle together.” 

“Okay.” Kip doesn’t seem entirely relieved. “Great. Thanks.” 

Scott first encounters Kip’s mom through her voice.

“The door’s open! Come on in, I’m just pulling this out of the oven.” 

Scott has to tap Kip to let him know. He holds the screen door open for Kip to go in first. Kip doesn’t enter with the ease of someone who’s visited much. 

Margaret likes art. Scott sees it immediately when he walks into the house, even in a split level ranch clearly populated by at least four people with divergent interests. George’s apartment had that warm but slightly haunted bachelor aesthetic that comes from a woman moving out and leaving the gaps of her decorative sense. Those things were all here: museum poster prints hung on the wall in professional frames, a bookshelf laden with coffee table books on Monet and Seurat and Renoir. A ceramic fruit bowl on the kitchen table looked handpainted, maybe at one of those businesses that fired the finished result for you. 

There’s also an upright piano in the living room, a book open on the music stand like it was played this morning. A slim built-in radio over the kitchen stove is playing a local light rock station, a tinkling voice singing about seeing things from both sides, now. A few photos in magnet frames cling to the fridge: one of Kip looking very sweet and young in a high school graduation cap, two other senior photos of lighter haired teenagers. The girl has braces and holds a clarinet in her picture. 

Scott taps the photo of Kip as they pass by. 

“Cute,” he signs with a wink, just for them. Kip gives him a tense smile, but squeezes his hand. 

Margaret’s house matches her. She’s a good deal shorter than Kip, with a pleasant round face and carefully styled chestnut hair cut just above her chin. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with a vase of sunflowers splashed across the front and her earrings match. 

“There you are, honey. Oh, I’m so glad you could come.” Margaret greets Kip with a careful hug and a kiss on the cheek when they step out onto the back porch. “And this must be your boyfriend. Don’t you two look handsome together.” 

“Hi, Mom,” Kip says, signing and shaping the words orally, though he doesn’t vocalize them. He turns, a hand on her elbow. He gestures, and Scott steps in to fill in the words. 

“Hi, I’m Scott. It’s nice to meet you.” 

There’s a bit of an immediate stumble, where Margaret says “How nice to meet you—” and reaches out for a handshake while Scott is still signing so Kip can see. 

“Right,” she says, self-deprecatingly. “Silly me. I always forget how these things work.” 

“It’s okay. This is kind of an unusual situation,” Scott replies, trying to be generous. 

“Just talk like you usually would, Mom,” Kip says. “Scott’s going to voice for me, that’s all.” 

“Oh my,” Margaret says as Scott repeats Kip’s first-person words. “It’s a little weird to hear my son talk through the guy from the Gillette ads, but I’m sure it will get easier as we all get to know each other. Now, why don’t we sit down?” 

It goes well, at first. They sit down on Margaret’s shady back porch to quiche and a tossed salad. The yard is spacious and private with well-trimmed hedges on all sides. Margaret is eager to know how Kip got involved with a professional athlete, and they give her the easy version of the story. Scott will never stop being nervous about sharing his personal life with strangers, but it seems the fact of Kip’s sexuality is entirely pedestrian to Margaret. Maybe here, in this nice Connecticut suburb, it is. Scott has rarely felt more distant from the hockey arena. Margaret’s husband is a devout follower of cycling, of all things, and so Scott’s celebrity is only a passing topic of conversation.  

“It was nice of you to cook, Mom,” Kip says when they’re a few bites in. 

“Oh, I just mixed a few things together and threw them in the oven,” Margaret assures them. “If you like it, I’ll text you the recipe later.” 

It’s…formal. Margaret is warm with Kip and polite to Scott, but it’s impossible not to compare Kip’s parents. George is Kip’s foundation of support. Kip sits across from Margaret and shares polite stories like they’re strangers.

Still, they try. Margaret asks after George, only a little stiffly, and then effuses for ten minutes when Kip asks how his stepsister is liking SUNY Purchase. Scott doesn’t eat much, doing his best to spare Kip lipreading and voice his occasional follow-up questions. 

He doesn’t regret offering to interpret, but he has to admit he’s surprised by just how little Margaret signs, or even understands. He can only assume that she knows more than she's willing to attempt when there's an easier alternative. But Kip looks happy so far, so Scott perseveres. 

“But how did your finals go, sweetheart?” she asks afterward. “I know you’ve been working hard this year and we’re all so proud.” 

Scott voices a few of Kip’s anecdotes about school in Boston and the new Post-Impressionism exhibition he’s assisting on the community engagement materials for. Margaret coos appropriately when Kip shows her a video on his phone of the ASL welcome he wrote and recorded to accompany the exhibition’s opening text. 

“You look so sharp,” she says, beaming. “They must like you there, to give you such a big responsibility.” 

“I really enjoyed my internship. I’m hoping I can keep doing some part-time work to build my resume.” 

“I’m sure they’d be lucky to have you.” 

“The exhibition is up until October,” Kip volunteers. “If you happened to be in Boston, I could show you some of the work we did.” 

“Oh, I would love that. Stacy and I have been talking about trying for a little girl’s trip in the fall. Maybe we could stop in Boston and you could give us a tour.”

Kip sits up a little straighter. “You could meet my friend Laura. She’s my interpreter at the office, but we’re friendly now outside of work. Scott met her with some of my New York friends at the opening.” 

“Laura is great,” Scott agrees, after he finishes translating for Kip. “And she’s great at her job. Much better than me.” 

“Don’t say that, Scott, not when you’ve been so kind to help us fill in the gaps,” Margaret says. “It’s hard to imagine how this all works in an office. I’m sure it has its challenges, going through an interpreter.”

“Sometimes,” Kip says through Scott. “But it’s how I talk to people who don’t sign.” 

Kip doesn’t put any particular non-manual markers on that, and Scott tries to convey it neutrally. If Kip means for his words to be pointed, the effect is lost on Margaret. 

“Oh, you must talk sometimes. I’m sure they want you to use all your skills, and I remember you worked so hard at speech therapy.” She takes a thoughtful sip of iced tea. “You can talk with me anytime, you know. I don’t want you to feel like you have to go through Scott because you’re self-conscious about your voice.” 

Margaret places one hand on Kip’s across the table as she says this, giving him a little squeeze. Kip has to slide his hand away in order to reply. The metaphor isn’t lost on Scott. 

“I do speak once in a while at work,” Kip concedes, still signing. “I don’t have to very much, but it’s useful in an emergency.”  

“Well, there you go. Practice makes perfect. And there are so many tools to help these days. It’s not like when you were a baby.” 

“Technology has come a long way.” Scott voices Kip’s reply, noting the slight rise of his shoulders. 

“Sorry,” Margaret says, putting down her fork as Scott finishes speaking. “I couldn’t tell if that was from you or Kip.” She laughs. “It’s hard for me to follow both of you talking and signing at the same time.” 

“It was Kip.” 

“Right, thanks. But what do you think, Scott? You’re so good at signing, but I imagine there’s parts of life that could be easier for the two of you, since you aren’t deaf.” 

Kip’s hands stir, like he wants to correct his mom, but Scott gives a tiny shake of his head. “I’m fully bilingual,” he says to Margaret, “so it’s really no problem.”

“That’s very impressive, but Kip isn’t always with you. Have the two of you talked at all how Kip might be able to move a little easier in your world?” 

Scott is doing his best to keep up translating for Kip, and Margaret is talking around the subject so much that it’s making the job difficult. Scott’s hands slow as he works through her words. He almost thinks she’s trying to segue into talking about Scott being in the closet when Kip taps his arm. 

“Don’t voice this,” he instructs, then explains: “She wants me to try hearing aids. It’s been a thing since I was a kid.” 

“Oh.” If anything that leaves Scott more confused. “Do you want to do that?” 

Kip points to his empty ears. “Obviously not.” 

Scott shrugs. “Okay. Great.” 

“I didn’t think she would do this in front of you,” Kip says, resigned. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Scott is quick to reassure him. “I’m just surprised.” 

Margaret is watching, eyebrows raised, like she’s waiting for Scott to voice what Kip just said. Clearly he isn’t going to do that. 

“Sorry about that,” Scott says. “I think I get what you mean now. And we haven’t discussed it, because I don’t consider it my decision.” 

“Oh.” Margaret looks genuinely surprised. “But Kip told me you two were serious.” 

“We are.” Scott and Kip speak and sign practically in unison.

Margaret looks between them, bemused. 

“I’m glad,” she says slowly. “But then—not to step out of bounds—but this sounds like a conversation you should have. Kip hasn’t been screened since he was a toddler. He could hear, and speak. He could work more easily. Meet your friends. He lives in these big cities and he could be so much safer—”

Scott cuts her off gently. “Hearing aids and cochlear implants are right for some people and not other people.” He shrugs. “It’s up to Kip, not me.” 

“You don’t think it’s even worth trying?” A note of genuine frustration leaks into Margaret’s words. “Don’t you want Kip to hear your voice one day?” 

Scott pauses, first because he doesn’t understand the question and then because he doesn’t want to repeat it to Kip. The latter impulse he shakes off. It isn’t for Scott to decide which of Margaret’s words Kip does and doesn’t see. He finishes signing, and watches Kip’s mouth thin, trying to hide his hurt. 

Scott squeezes Kip’s knee under the table for a second, because he doesn’t want to respond in anger and ruin the day. 

“Kip knows my voice,” Scott says eventually. “We talk all the time. I speak a little slower than he does, and I have an accent like my parents.” He nudges Kip with his shoulder, offering him a smile. “You told me that, the day we met. I didn’t know I still had them until you told me.” 

Kip manages a smile of his own, eyes soft, and Scott turns back to Margaret. 

“When there are sounds I want Kip to hear I tell him about them.” 

“Your poetry,” Kip signs, just for him, and Scott’s cheeks heat with a blush. 

“It’s not because he’s lacking anything,” Scott continues. “It’s just one part of the world I can share with him, like he shares so much with me.” 

“My real voice is here.” Scott taps his own fist. “Kip can hear it. He heard it better than anyone when I’d been silent and alone for a long time. So, no, I don’t want the sound of me speaking out loud to be a factor in the decisions Kip makes about his health and his body.”  

Scott is absolutely sure his voice is level. He can tell by Kip’s expression that his signing was more emphatic. Margaret looks lightly astonished either way. 

“That’s, um, how I feel,” he concludes. There’s a long beat of silence. 

“Well, that’s an interesting perspective, Scott.” Margaret rises from the table, smile fixed back in place. “Can I tempt anyone with dessert? There’s a new bakery in town and we’re just addicted to the lemon-poppyseed cake.” 

They eat dessert, and change the subject. Margaret asks Kip about his friends in Boston, and talks about her book club and the concert series she’s looking forward to attending with Kip’s stepfather. She even hazards a few well meant but generic questions about hockey, which Scott answers like he would a press conference. Yes, the training is challenging but rewarding. No, he doesn’t mind the travel, though now he has more reasons to enjoy being at home. Yes, he’s well paid, but he does his best to earn his keep on the ice. 

The conversation stays polite. It also starts, stops, and stalls. Scott isn’t a professional interpreter. Simulcom always comes at the expense of signing, and more than once Scott has to repeat himself to Margaret, or sign something again for Kip, who is likewise torn between watching Scott’s hands and reading Margaret’s lips. Scott is happy to do his best, and Kip puts the occasional warm hand on his back to reassure him when he makes a mistake.

He can’t help noticing every time Margaret’s brow furrows with impatience. Scott knows that Kip notices, too.

“Well this was so lovely, honey. We’ll have to do it again, soon.” Margaret doesn’t wait for Scott to finish translating before she pulls Kip into a hug on the porch, some half hour later. The afternoon sun is hanging heavy and they’re trying to beat the evening traffic. Scott hears the low buzz of Kip speaking aloud as they embrace, which seems to make Margaret happy. She shapes her hand into a clumsy “I love you” when they part, which makes Scott ache. 

“It was nice to meet you, Scott. It looks like you’ve made Kip very happy.” 

Scott thinks that Margaret has maybe never seen Kip happy, or she wouldn’t say that now. It churns in him as they say their final goodbyes, until he finds himself making a show of patting his pockets halfway down the driveway. 

“You know, I think I left my phone in the bathroom.” He passes Kip the keys to the car. “Do you want to get the AC running? I’ll just be a second.” 

Kip narrows his eyes, but accepts the keys. Scott lopes back to the door and knocks before he can lose his nerve. It opens only a second later.

“Everything okay?” Margaret asks, perpetually plump and pleasant. “Did you forget something?”

“No. I just wanted to say that I love Kip,” Scott says in his second language to Margaret Grady. “I love him so much.”

“I’m glad,” she promises. “And I won’t say anything, of course. About you. I wouldn’t want to make things harder for Kip.” 

“Thank you, but that’s not what I’m getting at.” Scott hesitates, still not sure that Kip would like him talking to Margaret like this. He loves Kip enough to try. 

“I’m not giving him everything he needs. Not yet. But I want to. I want him to have everything that will make him happy.” Right now that includes Margaret. Scott loves Kip for it, even after this strange hurtful lunch, because it’s so human. Kip wants his mother to love him, and here she is, alive and well and refusing to do it properly. It makes Scott’s blood boil, and it makes guilt curdle in his stomach beside the dry lemon-poppyseed cake. 

“You have so much in common with Kip. Anytime he wants, I’ll happy to be here, as much as I can, to make the communication easier. But I think you know what it will take if you really want to know him.” 

She says nothing.

“If it’s money or time that’s stopping you,” Scott continues, “I can help.” 

Scott really hopes that it is. That Margaret will blossom with relief and happiness, and take Scott up on his offer. 

Instead, Margaret’s face drops somewhere near unpleasant for the first time today. Irritated, maybe, like Scott has just stepped out of a play they’re all in and refused to say his lines. “That’s kind of you, Scott,” she says, still unfailingly polite, “but it really isn’t any of your business.”   

“I guess not.” Scott knows when to call a game a loss, and save his legs for the long run. “Sorry to presume.” 

Margaret’s smile returns, slightly more brittle than before. “Drive safe.” 

Scott has a lot of things he’d like to say as he slides into the driver’s seat, dropping his “forgotten” phone into the cupholder. Loud things, that would make the situation about himself. 

“You okay?” He asks instead.  

“Of course.” Kip’s smile is a shaky mirror of his mom’s. They look alike. Scott can see that, now that he’s had the time to make the comparison. Scott starts the engine, and waits a beat. 

A sigh rolls through Kip’s sturdy frame. “We talked more this year. Texting and emails. She likes hearing about the museum.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I thought things were changing. They are, I guess. Just not as much as I would like.” 

Kip adjusts his glasses, and Scott knows him well enough to see how the motion hides him wiping his eyes. His shoulders shake, once, but he waves Scott off before he can try to comfort him.

“It’s fine,” Kip promises, a little blotchy around the eyes. He gives one of his pantomime laughs. “I’ll keep trying. I have to. Otherwise—“ Kip’s fingers curl into silence, but the rest of the sentence left unsigned slices through Scott so sharply it only starts to hurt afterward, like a cut from a fresh razor. 

If Kip stops making the effort he won’t have a mom at all. 

Christ, Scott misses his parents right now, and not just for his own sake. He wants to put Kip in front of Melissa Hunter and say this is the love of my life, isn’t he a son anyone would be lucky to have? His mom would know what to say. She would see in Kip everything that Margaret refuses to. She would—Scott hopes—look at Scott with pride, as if to say what a man you’ve found to spend your life with. Good choice, Scott. 

Scott aches, for the mother Kip has to make the effort to have, and for the mother he wishes he could share with him. 

Kip breathes in quickly, and out slow. “Can we go?” He flutters a hand over his face. “I don’t want her to see and think that I’m upset.” 

Scott pulls out of the driveway holding Kip’s hand, and he doesn’t let go until he starts seeing the signs for I-95. Then he pulls into the first Dunkin’ parking lot he sees and kills the engine. 

Scott grips the steering wheel, hard. He breathes, eyes closed. 

He feels a tap between his eyebrows. Kip offers him a lopsided grin. 

“Intense thoughts.” 

Scott nods. “Too intense.” 

“No.” Kip pulls the sign sharply, knowing he’ll be heard. “Tell me. I’ll decide.”

It’s been eighteen months. It’s only been eighteen months. It’s been eighteen months. 

“I want you to live in my house again one day.” 

Scott stops. He corrects himself: “A house. A home we choose together.”

The first sentences sputter from his fingers, but then they start to flow smoothly.  

“I want to marry you—not that I’m asking right this second,” Scott is quick to assure when Kip’s eyes widen. “I just want—you’re so gorgeous, and I know you’re going to be gorgeous when you’re sixty—seventy—eighty. I want to be with you then, when I need a cane and you need stronger glasses and our hands are stiffer but we still make the effort because all we want to do is talk to one another. I want kids with you and I want them to be ASL first. I want to get my interpreter certifications.” 

The last one is a bit of a non-sequitor, but when Kip furrows his brow in a question, Scott explains: “I just want to make talking easier. With anyone important to you. Whether or not I like what they have to say.”

Kip has to blink quickly, his waterline bright and brimming. A group of teens pass in front of the car, laden with iced coffees. It’s Massachusetts. The place is busy. Scott has forgotten that, with the urgency of needing Kip to know how radically he has filled Scott’s once empty future. The promises Scott wants to make in return. 

“Are these the same intense thoughts from day one?” Kip asks eventually. 

“From the day I met you.” Scott gusts out a heavy breath, like he just finished speaking and not signing. He admits: “They’re more true now.” 

Kip traces his fingers down Scott’s arms, over the veins in the back of his hands. He grips Scott’s hand tight, for a long beat. 

“I want those things, too.” Kip pauses. “Scott, to have those things—” 

“Other things have to change. I know.” It’s still a chill down Scott’s spine. It still seizes his diaphragm in a fist, and puts a shake in his hands. 

It will still be worth it, and Scott is ready. 

“I’m going to call my agent. First thing tomorrow. To talk about a plan.” Scott shapes the words in the air and they feel fragile, like a bird’s wing. He looks at Kip. “Will you be there with me? It’ll be better if I can hold your hand.” 

Kip’s tears finally fall, and to Scott’s relief they’re from happiness. "Of course." 

They hold hands all the way back to New York.

Chapter End Notes

the final chapter: Scott and the ice

Chapter 21

Chapter Notes

It breaks my heart to post the final chapter of this fic, which has truly been a labor of love for the last nine months. This version of Scott and Kip have become very dear to me, and I hope this chapter, looking to the past and the future, gives them the satisfying ending (or rather, beginning to a long and loving story).

My special thanks go out to the Skip Smoothie Bar Discord, who has kept so much fuel in my creative engine. I feel very lucky to have found such a lovely corner of the fandom full of amazing creators.

It's hard to say goodbye (...maybe stay subscribed. Just in case), but with all my love, and as always acknowledging any mistakes, I give you: Skates on ice.

1995

Five days after the funeral, Scott is delivered to his grandfather’s house. 

(“I’ll see you soon,” Kathy promises him, eyes red in the driveway. “You’ll come visit so soon, sweetheart, I promise.”) 

Scott has some memories of the house. He vaguely remembers his grandma Irene, a tall, smiling woman who wore elegant coats to the rink and got sick when Scott was still too little to understand why his mom had to miss so many hockey games to spend time at a hospital. After that, they didn’t visit, but recently he’d seen his Grandpa Ray at his traveling games in Buffalo and Medina and Lancaster. Ray had come to Rochester for Christmas that year, the first time in a long time.

Now Scott lives with him. Ray shows him his room, and the trick to the fussy showerhead in the downstairs bathroom, and gives him a couple of easy chores “that would be a big help to me, son.” 

“I’ll give you some time to settle in.” Ray leaves Scott alone in his room, where he obligingly unpacks his suitcase. After, he crawls into bed and pulls the faded quilt over his head.

Scott doesn’t sleep. He picks at the food his grandfather puts in front of him. He can barely speak, his tongue frozen and his hands fisted tight lest he spill out words and have to face the fact that there’s no one looking who can see them.

After a week of near silence, Ray sighs, and levers himself up from the threadbare sectional sofa somewhere around 8pm. He reaches for a pair of broken-in workboots with the ice cleats already strapped on. He pulls on a Sabres fleece. 

“Get your hockey bag,” he says to Scott, pulling the landline phone off the hook. “Let’s go.” 

Ray makes a quick call, and then they’re driving out to a Buffalo suburb, snow lightly falling as they pull into the darkened parking lot of a local rink. A single sodium bulb reveals a back door, where Ray shakes hands with a janitor and accepts a set of keys. 

The ice smells the same as in Rochester. Scott drops his bag behind the boards and laces up his skates without having to be told. A thick knit hat protects his ears from the chill and a pair of cheap mittens protect his palms from the bite of the ice.

“Goal line,” Ray directs him, whistle in hand as Scott hops the boards. “Start slow. Just find your legs.” 

At twelve years old, skating is easier for Scott than walking. All the friction drains out of him, and it’s just the smooth glide of blades on ice.

(It’s imperfect ice, a little scored up from figure skating lessons and peewee league. It feels right under his feet, demanding a little extra attention. Forcing Scott to ball his mittened hands into silent fists and focus.)

The whistle blows, and Scott glides toward the first blue line in long loping pushes. Slow, like his grandpa says. Easy glide, hard stop, turn back. Blue line, center line, blue line. 

The rink is cold but Scott’s body warms up. It’s so familiar. If he can close his eyes, it’s almost like—

“Alright,” he hears after two more whistles. The wrong voice. Any voice at all is the wrong one. “Now show me what you can do.” 

At the sound of the whistle Scott launches. He leaves a pile of snow at the first blue line, and flies back to the start. More snow. Another gouge left behind in the ice. 

Headed for the center line, he’s almost fast enough to leave his grief behind.

Scott’s mom never made her team do a bag skate that she didn’t skate alongside them. His dad kept the playbook and statistics. He walked the kids through their first look at professional tape and how to take care of their gear. Mom was on the ice, smiling and breathless as she led drills and reffed scrimmages. She led conditioning, the first on the line, the most eager to race, to show her team—and Scott, when he was small enough to hang around practice like a mascot—they could do anything she could do.

Scott didn’t get to do Herbies with his mom, the last couple of years. They had to have their own practices, with their own teams. But they would play shinny in the winter. His dad would wait in goal while his mom met him at the face-off circle. She (and Aunt Kathy) chased after his breakaways and tugged off her gloves to chirp and ruffle his hair and correct his backhand. 

“I think you can do better.” 

Ray is right. Scott can fly. He shows him. He digs deeper. Pushes himself harder. 

He Imagines a second set of skates behind him. 

His mom wasn’t faster than him anymore, but she could stay fast longer. She’ll catch up to him, eventually. If Scott can keep pushing himself long enough. 

Ray sets him off four times total, with a slow lap in between. At one point he pulls out a stop watch. Eventually, after Scott is breathing hard and his hair is wet down with sweat, Ray puts the stop watch away.

“Good start. That’ll do for tonight.” 

“One more.” Scott’s voice cracks. There’s a long pause. The shrill call of the whistle sets Scott free for another forty-five seconds. He almost swerves into the boards as he crosses the goal line. He hasn’t been sleeping. He hasn’t been eating. His legs scream. 

He doesn’t want to stop.

“Let’s pack up,” Ray says again. 

“Again,” Scott demands, hands heavy on his knees. His eyes sting. His chest heaves. His heart is finally beating again.

“No.” Ray’s voice is a low boom in the vacuous space. “That’s enough.” 

“I’m not done.” The words are forced harshly past his lips just like his ragged breath. His mind is blissfully blank. If he can just go a little faster, Scott thinks maybe he’ll cross the blue line in time to see her.

His grandfather brooks no argument. “For today, you are.” 

He locks up while Scott packs his skates and forces his feet back into chilled winter boots. They stop at a twenty-four hour 7-11 where Ray gets Scott a Gatorade and a PowerBar and pours himself a black coffee from the carafe at the counter. 

Scott is starving, and wolfing down the protein bar he doesn’t notice when they’ve pulled into the driveway until Ray pointedly clears his throat. He leaves the engine to idle, and for a moment they watch the snow fall from the black sky onto the hood of Ray’s beige Toyota. 

“Your mother and I didn’t always see eye to eye.” 

It’s the first time his grandfather has referenced his parents directly. Ray had sat silent through the funeral while Kathy signed the eulogy. 

“I wish…well. I wish I could say I knew her better, towards the end. I don’t know you that well, either.” Ray takes a drag of his coffee. The smell of it is acrid. Focusing. Scott feels awake, maybe for the first time in a month. 

Ray continues. “What I know is this: your mom wanted you to have the opportunities she couldn’t have. She loved the ice. She loved the game, maybe more than anyone else I ever knew. It couldn’t change the way the world is. You understand?” 

Scott nods, the sounds washing over his ears. Ray’s hands are still and silent around his coffee cup. 

“You can do what she couldn’t. I can help you.” Ray coughs, a damp, soft thing from deep in his chest. “I know people. Programs. I told her that, and your dad. They wanted it to be your choice.” 

Ray meets his eye, maybe for the first time since Scott got to Buffalo. He has the same eyes as Scott’s mom, framed in age and grief. “It is your choice, Scott. It has to be. If you don’t want it, there’s nothing I can do to make you. If you do, then you have to commit. You have to be ready to make sacrifices.” Ray pauses. “You have to be disciplined.”

The lactic acid still burning in his legs, Scott thinks.

He doesn’t understand the world he has to live in now. It doesn’t speak his language. It keeps shifting from hands to mouth, and his mom and dad from present to past tense. 

There’s one place where things still feel the same. Where he can almost see his mom out of the corner of his eye. Where the echoing scrape of his edges could be her catching up to him and the glare of the lights on the plexiglass could be the glint of his dad’s watch as he cheers them on. 

As long as he can keep hockey, he won’t have to be alone.

Scott makes his choice.

“Can we go back to the rink tomorrow?” 

Ray studies him for a long moment, then nods. 

“We can do that, son.” He kills the engine. “Now get some sleep. An athlete needs rest.” 

Scott sleeps through the night. He dreams of skates on ice and the shape of his parents’ hands telling him proud proud proud.

2017

“What a show we have seen tonight in game seven. Top play from two teams who have been through hell on this play-off run. You can feel the energy in the crowd, wondering if the Admirals can hold their lead over the Boulders going into the third period.” 

“You certainly can, Rick. And speaking of the crowd, it looks like an impromptu sign language lesson is taking place on the Admirals side of the stadium, led by what I can only call a delegation from Rochester, New York.” 

“Pretty generous of them to leave their Sabres gear at home, John.” 

“Right you are, Rick. The signed chant—spreading quickly now—is no doubt in support of Captain Scott Hunter, whose late parents were prominent members of the Rochester Deaf community.” 

“So it is. I’m sure many of us remember Hunter’s touching tribute to his parents at Sochi after Team USA’s gold-medal finish. This must be quite the shout out from home as the 34-year-old center faces the real possibility of bringing the Cup to New York for the first time in decades. Have we got eyes on exactly what it is they’re signing down there?”

“I’m hearing now from our correspondent at center ice. Apparently it’s a favorite home chant from the youth team coached by Melissa and Keith Hunter: Our House, Our Ice, Our Team.”

“An amazing thing to see, John. Let’s see if Hunter and the Admirals can make it true in the final twenty minutes of regulation play.” 

***

The Cup is heavier than Scott imagined. Maybe he’s just running on empty, after the deepest possible play-off run. He hefts the gleaming silver overhead, breathing through the ache in his knees and his ribs. The pain feels earned. It’s just one of many sacrifices, and finally Scott has made them worth it. He lets the cup score his blades that much deeper into the ice as he takes a lap. 

The cheers booming through the stadium are taking clearer shape, with a new chant moving mouths and hands, transforming the words of Scott’s past into the triumph of the present.

Our Ice. Our Team. Our CUP.

Two languages. Two worlds. Both of them here, with Scott and in him. His hands are too full to speak back to the crowd, but the Cup is words enough right now. 

Scott passes the cup to an ebullient Carter and lets gravity pull his arms back down to earth. He accepts backslaps and hugs and helmet bumps. Music blasts in the arena, the organized chanting dissolves into raucous cheers, and the scraping of skates on ice is replaced with chatter as wives, parents, and children filter onto the ice to find their personal MVPs.  

It’s stupid, the brief thud of loneliness behind Scott’s breastbone. He has so many people in the arena. Kip and his dad, a cohort of his ASL friends from across Brooklyn and Manhattan, and even a few of his old teammates from Rochester. Kathy had enough people gathered in the RSD auditorium watching the game on livestream that the Admirals had sent press to cover it.

Still, there’s no one on the ice for him. Scott wouldn’t allow it. First, because he wouldn’t deny Kip by allowing a substitute, and second, because some part of him—the silent lonely kid still doing bag skates—still hoped that when the moment came, his mom would be there. That if Scott sacrificed enough, he would feel some presence, or see some sign. Scott waits, even now, to hear that particular scrape of skates on ice so he can tell her. 

Scott won the Cup for her. 

But the skates don’t come. She isn’t here. She’s moved on.

Now Scott has to move on, too. 

No matter how much of himself Scott gives to the game, it won’t let him skate with his mom again.

What are you hearing right now, Scott? 

Noise, mom. A lot of noise. 

Then let it go, baby. 

The loneliness aches sharp, and then fades. Scott doesn’t have to give up anything more. He has a life outside this rink. He has people. He has a man who loves him. Scott can play the game now because he loves it, and put Ray Lafayette’s ghost to rest. 

Even when hockey comes to an end, Scott won’t have to be alone. 

He knows exactly where to find Kip in the stands, sandwiched between George and Elena. In the glare off the ice Scott can just make out his fingers shaking with applause, and the glint of his father’s watch on Kip’s wrist. Scott can just make out the blotch on Kip’s cheeks and his reddened eyes. 

No more. 

Scott is ready to take his dad’s watch back. He’s ready to give Kip something more. Something that everyone, Deaf or hearing, will be able to see. 

Scott finds Kip’s eye. He skates toward the boards—towards his future. 

I love you, Scott thinks. To his parents and—yes, his grandfather, who wouldn’t know how to say it back. To his Aunt Kathy, and Paul and Jeanie and the baby, willing to welcome him back into a family. To George, who raised his son to be proud and brave. To Carter, taking a sign language course this year, and Eric, who can finally retire and find out who he is outside his marriage. To the CUNY Deaf running group, and the Mephits, and the Rochester Wildcats, past and present. To a stadium full of fans willing to speak to Scott in his own language. 

Most of all, to Kip, who gave Scott back the name his parents gave him. Who loved Scott enough to ask him to grow. Who helped him find his voice. 

The voice Scott is ready to use now. 

I love you. Please, let me show you. Let me show everyone. 

Scott raises his hands to sign.

Chapter End Notes

if you want to know what happens next, flip back to chapter 1 ;)

Much love to all my readers and commenters. If you're reading today, or a month from now, or a decade from now and this fic brought you closer Scott and Kip then I hope you'll say hello in the comments. Every person who has shared their response, favorite moments, or keysmashes has been like a warm little Virgin Mary nightlight to me, and will be treasured forever.

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