Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Elena Rygg, Scott Hunter & Carter Vaughn, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady, Carter Vaughn, Elena Rygg, Eric Bennett, Greg Huff, New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Roleswap, Rookie Scott Hunter, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter's Guide to Being Normal and Chill, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Scott Hunter is Not Old, Background Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad French, Bilingual Character(s), Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Featuring Scott Hunter as Connor McDavid

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-05 Updated: 2026-04-20 Words: 40,830 Chapters: 8/?

take it from the top

Summary

It's 2016. Scott Hunter is in his rookie year with the New York Admirals and at first glance his life is going great. He’s a generational talent slated to be Captain, a cinch for Rookie of the Year, and has just been named an MLH All-Star. Unfortunately, he’s also a closeted gay orphan with no swag, no bitches, and no friends.

But it’s fine. Scott just has to keep this one measly secret for another twenty or so years, and then he can retire and get a hot boyfriend and finally live his life as his true authentic self — whatever that means. Everything is going to be just fine.

Or: in which we are forced to contend with the hard hitting question of "what if Scott Hunter wasn’t old but Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were?" and also "haha wouldn’t it be great if everybody was about 50% more Canadian?"

Notes

So the genesis of this came from first watching Heated Rivalry and coming away from it shocked that more people were not talking about the ways in which Scott Hunter is a batshit character. Like, I get that his book came out first and everything else is an offshoot of it, but in the context of the tv show he is an absolutely insane side character. He is the most handsome man alive. He is a myth and a legend and one of the best hockey players on the ice. He comes onto Kip so incredibly strongly and suddenly that we can only assume that he is one of the most pathetically lonely people in the world. He is, randomly and tragically, an orphan. He is the most interesting character in the show and I wish I could force myself to actually read his book in its entirety but my dislike for the writing is so strong that it is doing things to my psyche and I just have to give it up.

Scott’s main character traits — at least in most HR fic that I have read, which is admittedly not a lot — is that he is tired and old. So this is me saying ok but what if he wasn’t old. Huh?? What then??

This is very deeply a role swap AU. The other guys will be in it, but they are not the focus. They are to Scott in most ways what Scott is to them in canon. It’s also AU in other ways. As you will learn in the first chapter, Elena is Quebecois in this, which is not really at all plot-relevant but happened anyways. This is mainly because I thought it would be funny, and also partly because I was putting off studying for my French midterm while writing this. She is also an actual part of the story. Win for women everywhere. (Plus I’m sick of writing fics set in New York City. I know too much about that place for someone who’s never been. Y’all know I’m Canada down.)

Chapter 1: Scott

Chapter Notes

It was kind of funny, Scott had always thought, the lengths people would go to for fear of sticking out. Take neck guards. Technically having been required in most junior hockey leagues since the tragic death of Patrick Benjamin, an eighteen-year old left-winger for the Erie Seals, in 2006, the MLH had yet to follow suit on enforcing mandated wearing of the gear until just that year. And even then, they were only really compulsory for players just entering the league, with the hopes of slowly phasing them into widespread use as veterans retired. It had been a huge thing, everybody making this giant stink of it all, like the gear regulations were some psychological play in the fascist rulebook of their oppressors and not a scientifically-backed safeguard against getting brutally slashed in the neck by a wayward skate blade. Even worse, they acted like it was lame, like you were lame if you went along gladly with the new league rules, even if you’d read the statistics and knew what it looked like for a sharp piece of metal to puncture the skin of your neck, to lacerate the carotid artery or jugular vein and leave you choking on your own blood, wide-eyed, terrified, your white-faced teammates gathered in panicked horror around your jerking body as gushing red spilled out onto the rink ice –

“Oh my god,” Carter Vaughn said, one plane seat over. “Scott, buddy, you gotta stop. I’m eating.”

Scott frowned at him. “This is important,” he said, stubborn. “Do you know how common this type of shit is?”

“My fucking sandwich is important, man. And no, actually I don’t, and I don’t particularly want to know—so why don’t we just stop while we’re ahead?”

Scott opened his mouth to make a retort concerning the actual importance of Carter’s half-masticated meatball sub, which was definitely not on the meal plan or nutritionist-approved, but was interrupted by Eric Bennett sticking his gigantic head over the back of the seat in front of them.

“Hunter,” he said, tsk-ing disappointedly, “Didn’t you agree to cool it on the murder talk?”

Scott blinked. “It’s not murder. It’s freak accidents.”

For a moment Benny just stared blankly down at him. Then he said, in a strangely fond tone, “You are such a little weirdo. Never change.”

“Uh,” Scott said, with no small amount of bemusement. “Ok?”

“You can change a little,” Carter told him, ‘cause Carter was a total asshole. Scott flipped him off, which Carter ignored in favour of confiding in Benny, “He’s being extra blood-and-gutsy right now ‘cause he’s freaking out about next week. Baby’s first All-Stars!” He leaned over to ruffle Scott’s hair, digging his knuckles painfully into his skull and cooing obnoxiously at him.

Scott scowled as he wriggled away from the other man, batting away the wandering hands and attempting to flatten down his surely now hopelessly messed up hair. “Dude, calm down. You’re literally two years older than me.” He didn’t mention that Carter had never been invited to All-Stars – ‘cause that would be mean. And Scott wasn’t mean.

“Playin’ under Shane Hollander, huh?” Benny sounded like he was holding back laughter. “You excited, kid?”

Scott narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious. “It’s a great honour,” he said slowly. “Hollander’s the best player in the league. I’m excited to learn from him.”

“They media-trained him good,” Huff piped up from his seat next to Benny. Scott startled. He’d thought he was asleep! Was the whole fucking plane listening to them? Huff leaned to the side, twisting to peak at Scott with one eye through the crack between his seat and the wall of the plane, a little creepily. “Don’t freak out too hard,” he said wisely. “All-Stars’ is a good time. It’s a big deal that you got picked your rookie year, yeah, but you gotta remember it’s all for laughs.”

“I know,” Scott mumbled, a little embarrassed. It wasn’t that big a deal. Not like it was the Olympics, or something. “And I’m not freaking out. Van’s just being a dick.”

Carter scoffed. “You’re seriously tellin’ me you’re not freaking out about being on a line with Shane Hollander? Yeah fucking right, man. Sixteen-year old you is totally creaming his pants right now.”

Scott felt the back of his neck go hot. Carter – he was just joking around. He didn’t actually mean it like that. He didn’t, like, know anything. Still, Scott was careful to keep his expression casual as he rolled his eyes and sniffed shamelessly, saying, “You’re telling me you wouldn’t be?”

Carter shrugged. “I was more of a Rozy fan myself, actually.”

“Wow,” Benny said, “Seriously? Where’s your national pride?”

“What?" Carter squinted at him. "Hey, I’m not Canadian, you dumb fuck.”

Benny blinked. “Wait, really? Huh.”

“Yeah, really. How in the fuck did you think I was –”

Scott turned to Huff, tuning the other two out as they started to bicker. The older man still had half his face squashed beside his seat, watching Scott like a total weirdo. “Are you excited for All-Stars?” Scott asked him, curious. Huff had been picked by a different team than him, led by Kubrak, San Jose's captain, rather than Hollander, but they’d still be seeing a fair bit of one another. It’d be something of a relief to have a familiar face, Scott hoped. He liked Huff. He had a calming presence.

“Sure,” Huff said, blinking sedately. He finally lifted his head up high enough that Scott could actually see his face, resting his chin on his seat back to talk to him. It was kind of funny – the two veteran players kneeling on their seats like kids just to chat with the rookies. Well. Rookie and Carter.

“You’re on a line with Dallas Kent, right?”

Huff hummed. “Guess so. That’s the kid from Toronto, yeah? You guys friends?”

Scott’s nose wrinkled involuntarily. “Uh, no.”

“Hm.” Huff seemed a little amused at Scott’s reaction. “Heard he’s a piece of work.”

“Yeah.” Kent was a real asshole. Drafted second that year, the other rookie seemed to have decided to make it his life mission to spin some sort of rivalry between the two of them in the media, the top draft picks, the next Rozanov and Hollander. It was a total joke, in Scott’s opinion. Especially ‘cause Kent was a total shitstain whose only redeeming quality lay in his slapshot. The guy had a fucking podcast. Total chud type shit.

Beside them, Carter and Benny’s increasingly physical argument ended with Benny reaching over the seat back to snatch the rest of Carter’s meatball sub off the tray, shoving it into his mouth and chewing furiously. “Ha!” he said triumphantly, spewing crumbs absolutely everywhere. “Ya snooze, ya lose, punk.”

Huff grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him back down to sitting before Carter could leap across the seat and attempt to pry the remains of the sandwich from Benny’s jaws. “You’re gonna be paying for that tonight,” he said, shaking his head in weary disapproval. “You know what mozzarella does to your stomach, man.”

Benny grinned, sauce staining his cheeks. “Worth it.”

“My sandwich…” Carter moaned, distraught.

Hockey players. Literal children.

Scott popped his earbuds in, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window as he turned up his flight playlist, an Alvvays song beginning to play. He told himself he was going to catch some sleep, but was foiled just a few minutes later by Carter bouncing back from his moping just in time to bully Scott into playing a game of Gin Rummy right as he was starting to doze off.

“Come on man,” Carter complained. “My PSP died, I’m bored as shit.”

They had been up in the air for literally 20 minutes, at that point. It was at least another hour until they'd reach Montreal. “Fine,” Scott said finally, annoyed. “One game.”

Carter fist-pumped, passing the deck to Scott to break. “Dope! Whoever wins buys drinks tonight, yeah?”

Scott paused in his shuffling of the cards, suspicious. “What?”

“What?” To Carter’s credit, he maintained the innocent act for a good few seconds in the face of Scott’s dead-eyed stare before caving. “Ok, so there’s this girl—“

“No,” Scott interrupted, emphatic.

“Come on! You don’t even know what I’m gonna say!”

Scott gazed at him flatly, beginning to deal the cards out with practiced motions. (Carter really like gin rummy.) “You’re going to say that you ‘really like this girl, seriously Scott, you’ve gotta see her’ — only problem is, her friend’s in town. And this girl can’t very well just leave her poor friend all alone, can she? Well, good thing old Carter Vaughan’s got a friend of his own!” Scott gasped theatrically. “My, is that Scott Hunter? It can’t be! Who could’ve foreseen it!”

After a moment, Carter said, “Ok, so you made a lucky guess.”

“It’s what always happens,” Scott said, irritated. “These girls get you all excited like they like you so much, and then they turn around and make me take one million photos with them and half the time you end up moping in the corner by the time the night’s over. Just tell her to book a photo-op with my agent like everyone else.”

Carter didn’t say anything for long enough that Scott stopped dealing out the cards to glance up at him. There was a look on his face that had Scott pausing, leery. Eventually, Carter said, “Fuck you.” – But there was little venom in it, and his voice rang quiet. He sounded, actually, a little hurt.

Shit.

Scott straightened in his seat. “Hey, I didn’t—“

Carter fumbled with his seatbelt buckle, lurching to his seat and sliding into the aisle. “‘S fine,” he said, not looking at Scott. “I’m just gonna —“ he jerked a thumb at the front of the plane. “Bathroom.”

Scott watched him go, helpless. “…Fuck.”

“So, that was bad.” Benny, finally done pretending that he hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time, popped his head back up over his seat. Huff elbowed him semi-discreetly in the ribs as Scott dropped his face into his hands. “What? It’s true. Kid could’a let him down gentle, at least.”

“I’m an asshole,” Scott mumbled, voice muffled through his palms as his stomach clenched nauseatingly with guilt.

“Ah, you’re fine.” Benny’s hand patted him firmly on the shoulder. “Dating’s hard, man, I get it. Especially when you’re young and famous.”

Scott huffed a half-hysterical laugh, peeling his face away from his hands. Yeah. You were fucking telling him. “It’s not just that,” he found himself confessing. “I just — I don’t like seeing him get hurt like that. He’s, like, my best friend. And I just – I don’t even want to date anyone.”

Benny hummed sympathetically. “Have you thought about telling him that?”

“Yeah,” Scott said. Then, “No. I don’t know. It’s just — I don’t know.”

Benny patted his shoulder again. “Stop worrying so hard, kid.”

“Ok,” Scott said. Great advice. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of that? His chronic neuroticism solved in one fell swoop, all because one geriatric goalie decided to tell him it was a good idea not to worry. World peace achieved on all fronts. “Are you guys ever gonna quit it with the kid stuff? I’m almost 21. ”

Huff shrugged. “We have to get it in while we still can — can’t exactly go around calling our captain ‘Kid’.”

“Haha,” Scott said, as something curdled quiet and ugly in his gut. It wasn’t exactly a secret, sure, that Scott was slated to take over as captain once the current one retired — he already had the A on his jersey and everything — but he generally tried not to think about it too hard. Everybody seemed to think Scott was captain material, and he had no idea why. He was good, sure, great, even, had been called generational more times than he could count — but that was just hockey. Being captain meant something else entirely. Captains didn’t send their players hurt and insulted to hide in the plane bathroom. Captains trusted their team. Captains told the truth.

Scott swallowed. “I think — I’m just gonna go check on him.”

As he stood to pass their seats, Benny reached out to grab his wrist. “Hey,” he said, an uncharacteristically sober look in his eyes. “There’s no need to rush the dating thing, okay? Plenty’a time for that in your future. You can tell Van to get off your back about it. He’ll live.” Beside him, Huff looked on with that sharp, lingering gaze of his, watching. Expression unreadable.

“Yeah.” Scott swallowed again, releasing an imperceptible breath of relief as Benny finally released him. “I know. I’ll just — yeah. Bye.”

He avoided eye contact with the rest of the plane as he made his way to the front, took a deep breath, and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Uh.” Carter’s voice came from inside, sounding confused. “Occupied?”

Scott cleared his throat. “It’s. Um. It’s me?”

There was a pause, and then the lock clicked green and the door swung open. Carter frowned at him. “Dude, you couldn’t hold it? What if I’d been shitting?”

He didn’t look like he’d been crying or anything, thank god — but his expression was a little drawn. Tight around the mouth, like he wasn’t all that pleased to see him. Scott commiserated. He wouldn’t be happy to see himself either.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, before he could lose the nerve. “That was a shitty thing to say, before. I’m just — this All-Star thing is really stressing me out, I guess. But I shouldn’t have said that. It was fucked up.”

Carter’s expression cleared a little. “Hey,” he said. “It’s fine. You should’a said something earlier. We can hang out in the room tonight, watch a movie or something, no sweat. I didn’t mean to stress you out more.”

Fuck. And just like that, all at once, Scott was entirely forgiven. He could be so fucking kind, sometimes, Carter. What the hell had Scott ever done to deserve it?

“No,” Scott said, shaking his head, guilt churning in his stomach. “You’re right — we should go out.”

“Seriously?” Carter sounded skeptical, but it was clear he was perking up at the prospect. “We don’t have to.”

“No, really,” Scott said, newly committed to the digging of his own grave. “I want to.”

Carter grinned, surreptitiously pumping a fist in celebration. “Fuck yeah! You won’t regret this, bud, I promise. Man, this girl is smoking, you’ve got no clue. And she’s an actress, can you believe it?” Carter was beaming now, properly psyched-up, and he looked so happy that Scott couldn’t even bring himself to regret it.

“Wow,” he said, laughing a little at the hearts in Carter’s eyes. “Um. Tell me about her?”

Carter led them back to their seats, chattering away about this girl and her friend — super hot, trust bro, even if she’s not as hot as the other one she’s totally in your league — while Scott hummed and nodded at appropriate moments, trying to seem happy and avoiding the look Benny was shooting him, bemused and interrogating and almost, Scott imagined, a little bit sad.

It was fine. It would be fine. Scott could survive one fucking date.

Scott could not survive one date. He should probably never be let out of the house again.

Ok, so – maybe that was a little dramatic. Technically, the night was going well enough. Carter and his date were getting along pretty well, dancing in the throng of people in the center of the club, and the friend, a tall-ish, tawny-skinned girl in a stylish black sequin top named Elena, didn’t seem too annoyed by Scott’s discomfort at the prospect of dancing, happy to sit by the booth they’d requisitioned and chat. Scott liked her accent. She had a tooth gap, was studying engineering at McGill, and seemed to find Scott’s clumsy, stumbling French more charming than off-putting.

And when Scott inevitably brought up the 1999 Québécois serial killer he’d recently watched a video essay about, Elena didn’t run screaming, or act like he was a psycho freak. She just laughed a bit and said, “Are you a big true crime guy or something?”

“Kind of,” Scott admitted, trying not to grimace. And he’d been doing so well, too! Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last gin and tonic. “It’s weird, I know.”

“A little.” Elena smiled at him, to show there were no hard feelings. “But I get it. My last girlfriend was super into that stuff too, actually. It’s about like, evolutionary instinct or something, right? I feel like I read that somewhere.” She sat back and sipped her own drink, completely at ease, genuinely seeming interested in his thoughts.

But Scott could only blink at her, still caught up on what she’d said, completely bewildered. “Wait — you’re gay?”

Elena’s eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, no,” she said, with a confused little laugh. “I like men, too. I’m bisexual.”

She pronounced the bi- in bisexual like bee, so it took Scott a moment to figure out what she was saying over the thumping bass of the house music. “Oh.”

He had…forgotten about bisexuals. Scott took this information in, mulling over it. Had he ever met a bisexual before? Surely he had. Actually — come to think of it, hadn’t that guy in Berlin been bisexual? He’d tried to talk Scott into a threesome with a girl — that seemed like a pretty bisexual action to him.

“Does that…bother you?” Elena seemed a little wary, like she was bracing herself for something, lips pursing into a slight frown.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Scott blinked again, and then quickly said, “Oh! No, of course not. Why would it?”

Elena relaxed a bit. “Good. Sorry. Just, you know —“ she waved a hand in the air. “Hockey guys.”

“Uh,” Scott cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“No offence.”

“Right, no, for sure.” Scott nodded rapidly, trying his very best to resemble nothing so much as a Good Ally™️”It’s, y’know. A problem. Definitely.”

Elena raised an eyebrow, a teasing sort of smile playing on her lips. “You mean the rampant toxic masculinity and homophobia inherent in the whole of hockey as a culture?”

Scott cleared his throat again. “Um,” he said. “Yeah.”

“Sorry.” Elena laughed and patted him on the hand. Scott tried not to flinch away from it. “I’m being mean.”

She was, actually, a little — just not for the reasons she thought. If she was speaking to someone else — literally anyone else — Scott would probably even think it was funny. As it was, here and now, he just tried a smile that probably came out more like a grimace and said, “It’s fine. I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“Yeah, but — oh, hey, look.” She jerked her chin across the dance floor, where Carter and his date were holding hands and making their way back towards them, the both of them with grins on their flushed, sweaty faces.

“Hey, man,” Carter said, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the music. The coloured lights in the club painted his face in bright blue, his jawline shadowed and shining with sweat. Scott wanted, very abruptly, to lick him. Probably he should stop drinking. “So,” Carter continued, “me and Amélie are gonna head out, I think. That all cool with you?” He shot a quick glance over at Elena and then back to Scott, eyebrows raised a little in hopeful inquiry.

Scott smiled at him, as genuine as he could and trying very hard not to look like he was wondering what Van’s skin would taste like, as Elena said, “I think I’m gonna stay for another drink. Scott?”

Scott nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“Alright.” Carter clapped Scott hard on the shoulder, grinning, before smacking a wet kiss on his cheek. “See ya, baby!” If Scott hadn’t been sitting down, he’d surely be receiving a slap on the ass in farewell.

It was only an entire lifetime of immersive hockey player experience that kept Scott from reacting to the overt display of what in literally any other context would seem incredibly gay, but in this one more or less just read as borderline homophobic. Judging by the look Elena shot him as Carter pulled her friend giggling out the door, he was not the only one who thought so. Scott didn't let himself dwell on it. As soon as Carter was safely out of sight, Scott turned to Elena and said, all in one abrupt breath, “I’m sorry but I don’t think this is going to work out.”

Elena’s face fell. “What?”

Scott tried not to wince too visibly. “I’m sorry. It was a lot of fun, and you’re really nice. I’m just not looking for anything right now.”

She blinked at him. “I mean…me neither? I thought — you know. We were just having fun?”

“Right,” Scott said, incredibly uncomfortable. “Um. Yeah.”

“Wow.” Elena shook her head, huffing out a surprised little laugh. She seemed confused, a bit like maybe like she was irritated — but mostly she just looked hurt. “Bein, did I, like, do something?”

“No, definitely not,” Scott said hurriedly. God, he fucking hated this. This was all Carter’s fucking fault. “I’m really sorry, Elena.”

“Can I ask why?”

Scott hesitated.

“Laisse faire,” Elena said hastily, shaking her head with a bitter scoff of amusement. “That’s stupid. You don’t actually have to explain yourself — it’s fine to not be attracted to me. I mean, it would’ve been nice if you’d let me know a little earlier — but. You know. Whatever.”

Ah, fuck. “It’s not that,” Scott protested, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Or, well — it is. I mean, I’m not. I mean —“

“Ok.” Elena looked incredulous now, like she couldn’t quite tell whether to be affronted or hurt. “Wow.”

Shit. Ok. Scott could fix this. He just needed to say something nice and normal, let her down gently. Everything was just fine.

Elena gathered her jacket up in her arms. Her cheeks were incredibly pink, clearly embarrassed, and she didn’t seem able to look him in the eye. “I think I’m gonna —“

“I’m gay!”

Well. Fuck.

Elena paused in shrugging on her purse to stare at him. “Uh,” she said. “What?”

Scott’s face started to flame. He felt a little abruptly like he was going to throw up. “Um. Nothing. Ha. Never mind.”

Elena dropped her jacket back on the table and leaned in close to him, frowning deeply. “Are you joking?”

Scott hesitated. Swallowed. Thought, fuck it. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

Elena blinked. “Oh. Oh. Ok. Huh.” She looked like she was running the entire night over again in her head, trying to make this new information fit. A little terrifyingly, she seemed to be succeeding. “You’re serious?”

Scott nodded, miserable.

“Huh.”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Scott begged. “Please.”

“Woah, hey.” Elena slid back into her seat beside him, turning to face him, eyebrows drawn. “I’m not going to do that, câlisse. I’m literally queer. Also, this is Montreal, man. If I outed someone I would never be able to show my face outside my house again. Not that I would, obviously. But still.”

“Ok.” Scott hunched his shoulders, trying not to glance nervously around at the club’s inhabitants, telling himself he could afford to believe her. It was fine – the music was loud, nobody could hear them talking, nobody was close enough. And anyway, this wasn’t New York. Montreal wasn’t a hockey town so much as it was a Habs town – if you weren’t on the Voyageurs, pretty much nobody in the city gave a rat’s ass about you. The only other place with a team in the league that Scott had been recognized less in was Vegas.

Still, though – he couldn’t help the way anxiety coiled tightly in his chest, just at the thought that someone could be filming, that his words could be recorded. It was terrifying – but Scott was used to being terrified.

“Do your teammates know?”

Scott shook his head, grimacing. “God, no. That would be – no.”

Elena kissed her teeth. “C’est poche.”

“Yeah.”

“Does – anyone know?”

Scott laughed a little wildly, running a hand through his hair. “Um. You know?”

“Crisse.” Elena shot back the rest of her drink. “Ok. Tell you what,” she said, thumping the empty glass onto the table and levelling Scott with an intent look. “Do you wanna go somewhere else?”

What? Had they not literally just had the ‘Scott’s gay’ conversation?

“Uh,” Scott said.

“I’m serious.” Elena leaned in closer, grinning at him. Her eyes were bright and a little glassy with the sheen of slight intoxication. “There’s a gay bar literally one street over. No reason why either of us have to go home alone tonight.”

Scott was shaking his head vehemently before she’d even finished talking. “No way. That’s, like, a really bad idea.”

Elena raised her eyebrows. “Why?” She gasped a little, delighted. “T’es un virgin?”

Scott scowled at her. “No! I’m not.” He wasn’t. Scott had had loads of sex. Trust. He dropped his voice, instinctually scanning their surroundings. “But I can’t go to a gay bar.”

“Why the hell not?”

Scott gestured down at himself, like hello? Famous hockey player?

Elena snorted. “Ok, diva, relax. Nobody’s gonna recognize you, t’es pas Shane Hollander. Plus, it’s not like we’re not in le Village already.”

They were? Well, shit.

“Let your hair down,” Elena said. “Relax! C’est l’fun.”

“I really doubt it,” Scott said, but for some reason he was letting her nudge him out of the booth, stumbling a little as he stood and tried to wrestle his jacket onto his body with his head swimming. “I think I – might be a little drunk. Woah.”

“Ouais.” Elena giggled to herself. “That’s what the drinking age will do to you, mon chum Américain.”

She seemed to be getting increasingly French – it was stressing Scott out. He’d only spent a year in Quebec, and that was ages ago. He could only barely keep up with the slurring Franglais. He paid the tab for the both of them and followed her out into the night.

Winter in Montreal was a frigid, brittle thing, the sharp of the air so cutting it settled in your lungs like glass. Your nose didn’t run so much as freeze solid, eyelashes clumping, fingers gone stiff where they where shoved deep down into coat pockets. Elena shivered a little and leaned into him. Scott eyed her uncertainly, but she only grinned and said, “Y’know, this is kind of nice. Maybe it’s, like, a sign.”

“Of what?”

“That I should stick to girls?” She giggled. “No, j’sais pas. I just mean – it’s nice, you know? You find community in weird places.”

“Yeah.” Scott didn’t really know what that meant — but he nodded along like he got it, head on a swivel as he let her lead him down the sidewalk.

“You want a smoke?”

“Uh,” Scott said. “Sure.”

Elena lit a cigarette and passed Scott the pack and lighter. Scott stared a second at the image on the front of an infant in a hospital bassinet, tubes all over its body, La fumée de cigarette nuit aux bébés, before pulling out his own and passing it back. Coach could never learn about this.

“You’re being really nice,” he found himself saying thickly, trying not to cough as he inhaled the first heady rush of nicotine. He hadn’t smoked since the summer. “I mean, that was kind of a shitty thing to do, leading you on like that.”

Elena waved her hand through the air, brushing off his concern. “It’s fine. I get it. Well, actually – I really don’t. ‘S why I can’t be mad.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I don’t know you,” Elena said simply. “Like – you’re famous, yeah? But I don’t know anything about hockey. J’sais pas ta vie. You seem like a nice enough guy. I figure whatever you’ve got going on has to hurt a hell of a lot more than getting turned down by one hot gay guy buying you drinks.”

Scott swallowed roughly. His throat hurt – some unholy mix of smoke and guilty, awful fear. “I’m lying to everyone,” he said suddenly, with no idea why, staring down at the faint burning ember pinched between his two fingers. “They made me an All-Star. They’re gonna make me captain. They think I’m this great big thing, the Next Great One, and I’m just – I’m lying to them.”

Elena stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, Scott following suit, and looked at him for a long moment. Then she blew smoke out of the side of her mouth and said, “Well.”

“Sorry,” Scott said. “I don’t why I said that.”

“Hm.” Elena took a drag of her cigarette. “That’s kind of tragic.”

Scott frowned at her. “Oh, ok,” he said, failing not to sound sarcastic about it. “Thanks. That’s helpful.”

Elena scowled back at him. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Sorry.” Scott hunched his shoulders, glancing away. He was pretty sure his cigarette had gone out, but it was nice to have something to do with his hands as he fiddled with it and wished for the ground to swallow him up.

“Ugh,” Elena said. “Don’t do that. You’re so…sad. Calisse.”

“And you’re kind of mean,” Scott retorted, stung.

“Yeah.” Elena shrugged. “Can’t really turn it off.” She started walking again. Scott hesitated a moment before giving up and following her. What else was he meant to do? Elena said, “It’s not lying. Ok? It’s not. You do what you can to keep yourself safe. That’s it.”

They’d rounded the corner of a narrow street, walking up to an old brick building with a rainbow sign. There were people lined up outside, people of all genders grouped together, holding hands and kissing and spilling out into the night. Scott tried not to stare too hard at the two tall young men groping each other wildly against the wall next to the bar’s entrance. One of them was wearing a Montreal Voyageurs hat, bright blue and red over black curls. The other man had both hands in the back pockets of his tight jeans, palming the guy’s ass. Wow.

“I know the bouncer,” Elena said. “We won’t have to wait in line.” She took a few steps forward then stopped, noticing Scott wasn’t following, rooted to place on the sidewalk. “You good?”

Scott licked his lips. His gaze bounced between the bright, garish rainbow of the neon sign and the horde of people lingering around the entrance. The music that spilled out from inside, each time the door swung open. Flashing lights and throbbing bass. The men kissing against the wall, unabashed and shameless.

“I don’t think — I can’t do this. I don’t think I can do this.” Scott’s voice sounded faraway to his own ears, his heart pounding wildly in his throat. He needed to go. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be here.

Scott was —

Scott was so fucking scared.

Elena’s mouth turned down at the edges. For a moment Scott thought she might protest — but then she just said, “Alright.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Fuck.” Scott’s eyes started stinging, and he blinked rapidly, face tilted up like gravity could prevent the tears that wanted to form. “Fuck..”

Scott didn’t know what was wrong with himself. All he knew was he was 19 years old, right that moment he was 19 years old and he was staring down the rest of his life and knowing exactly what it would look like, knowing that it was all right here, that this was all there was and all there’d ever be, that Scott had a huge, beautiful career in front of him and none of it mattered at all because it was always going to end up with this moment right here, Scott unable to make the leap, Scott unable to step over the threshold, Scott frightened and unloved and bitterly, horribly lonely.

“It’s fine,” Elena said again. She looked a little worried, like she thought Scott might suddenly start throwing up all over the sidewalk. It was, Scott could admit, not entirely out of the question. He felt very nauseous.

Scott wrapped his arms around himself and tried to breathe deeply and levelly through his nose. “I’m just – I’m gonna go. Yeah. I’m –” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder and took a stuttering step back.

“Are you gonna be ok?” Elena asked.

“Yep.” Scott turned to leave – then hesitated, that same old guilt creeping up on him. He turned back around and said, “I’m really sorry about this.”

Elena just shook her head. “Go to bed, Scott.”

“Can I have your phone number?”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Scott jerked his shoulders up and back down in a stilted, helpless shrug, feeling stupid, feeling disgustingly desperate. “I just – can I text you?”

For a moment Elena just looked at him, an unreadable expression across her face. But then her mouth softened, her eyebrows drawing in, and she said, “Alright.” It was the expression someone made when they came across a video of a baby animal in distress, like a duckling with its feathers covered in tar, like something small and helpless and tragic. Scott would take it anyways.

He gave Elena his phone and waited for her to press her digits into the cracked screen. He kept forgetting to take it out of his pants during practices and had never before now wondered to be embarrassed at the state of it. But he’d also never asked someone for their phone number before – usually he just wound up on team group chats with no idea how the hell his lineys had even gotten his number in the first place.

So maybe it was fine that Scott wasn’t going to a gay bar, because he was still doing something new. He didn’t want meaningless sex, anyways. (Well, he did a little bit. But nevermind that.) What Scott wanted, above all, even more than the Calder and Olympic Gold and – forgive the blaspheming – even the Cup, was just to have a friend. Someone who was his. Someone who loved him. Not a teammate, or a coach, or a billet family, but someone who really loved him and who’d let him love them in turn, who would be in his corner and who’d be there for him, who’d choose him, who’d –

Jesus Christ. Scott was pathetic. Pathetic and maudlin and drunk. Elena passed back his phone and Scott projected the chillest vibes he knew how to emulate. He was so fucking chill. Nobody was as chill as —

“We should be friends,” Scott blurted out.

Jesus Christ.

Elena seemed not to know what to make of him, her mouth ticking up confusedly at the corners. “Sure,” she said after a moment. “We should.”

“Ok,” Scott said. He thought about shaking her hand, or giving her a hug or something. (Did girls dap each other up? Never mind — that was stupid.) But it ended up that he just nodded at her, very stiffly, said “Bye,” and then turned around and left, walking hastily away from the music and the bar and the man in the Voyageurs cap kissing his lover in plain view of all to see and Elena, who was his friend now — who would have to be his friend, because she was the first person in the entire world to know he was gay without a cock and a mouth involved and if that didn’t mean something then Scott didn’t know what did — heading back the way they’d come, alone now, once again.

It was 1am, Scott was three blocks away from his hotel room, and he was playing the Montreal Voyageurs tomorrow. And everything was going to be just fine.

Chapter End Notes

CanCon compliant songs 4 this chapter:
Belinda Says by Alvvays - (on the plane)
My Moon My Man (Grizzly Bear Remix) by Feist - (in the club)
I Felt My Size by The Microphones - (on the sidewalk)

A/N: You may have noticed that the All-Stars draft functions differently in this universe than it does in the NHL. This is true. If ever you notice an inconsistency such as this one, please assume it is because I do not have but a passing interest in hockey, and could not care less about logistical consistency. Thank you and good night.

Chapter 2: Scott

Chapter Notes

ok so i tried to start reading another one of the books from the game changer’s series but then they mentioned the neighbourhood i grew up in and it freaked me out so bad i had to dnf again. anyway idk what is going on with this but here you are

Scott was not a closet case. Ok? He wasn’t. He was not, actually, technically in the closet at all. Scott had known he was gay pretty much since the moment he knew what being gay was. It had never really seemed like a big deal, when he was a kid. He’d had a boyfriend in the fourth grade, had kissed him chaste and dry under the playground slide, but all he could remember of the kid now was the fuzzy mess of his blonde hair, the two teeth missing from the front of his smile. But then Scott’s parents died, and somewhere around the same time he started to pay attention to what the other kids were saying about him, without anyone around to tell him it was fine, that he was normal, that he wasn’t wrong just for existing. These days, Scott would wake up in a cold sweat a few times a month, stomach a rock as he tried to figure out what he’d do if that boy from fourth grade one day got dug up by the hungry paws of the press — but that was stupid, and he knew it was stupid. It wasn’t like anyone would ever believe it.

And, really, therein lay the issue. ‘Cause Scott had never in his life, not once, not ever, told a single person that he was straight. So it kind of wasn’t his fault at all that everyone just assumed, and by going along with it Scott was simply taking the past of least resistance. And alright, he could correct them, sure, — but why the fuck would he do that? That would be crazy. Might as well let everyone believe it.

It wasn’t as though Scott was ashamed of being gay, though. Not really. It was like — he heard a lot of shit, right? He’d spent the last 7 years entirely immersed in a rancid miasma of hockey culture, without even the backdrop of any sort of familial unit to temper the hive-mind of casual bigotry, and it was kind of impossible not to internalize some of the casual comments thrown out in locker rooms and team dinners as verifiable truth rather than wild accusation.

But Scott was a better player than pretty much anyone he’d ever heard say anything, and he was also gay. So it was a little hard to keep believing that gay people were pussies who couldn’t play sports when he had, like, straight up concrete evidence to the contrary. And obviously there was other stuff, too, the kind of stuff flung around that Scott was a little worse at ignoring, but he was good at not letting it fester into doubt about his own character.

Scott was woke as hell. He went to college. For two years, sure — but still. Playing hockey and not having parents to give a shit about his grades meant Scott had been able to study pretty much whatever he wanted, which mostly came out to a schizophrenic mix of animal biology classes — because animals were dope — and stuff that sounded easy and interesting, like ‘Witchcraft in Medieval Europe’ and ‘Contemporary Science Fiction.’ Sort of accidentally, this meant Scott ended up taking a lot of Gender and Women’s Studies classes he could believably pass off to anyone who gave a shit as stuff he just figured would be an easy A. (Which they very much weren’t. Scott never wanted to see the Jstor logo again in his life.)

The point was, Scott knew about stuff like the waves of feminism and intersectionality and the fluidity of sexuality throughout history. He was very educated about toxic masculinity and modern day gender-related insecurity. When Carter first started calling him Honey — sometimes Honeybear — as an alternate nickname to the more respectable, commonly associated Scooter, he only spiralled for a couple days about how faggy it was before deciding there was nothing to do but bear it with dignity. Scott was super PC like that.

Anyway. What was he saying?

Oh, yeah. So Scott wasn’t a closet case. He didn’t hate himself for being gay. That would be ridiculous. There were loads of better reasons Scott had to hate himself than where he liked to stick his dick.

But sometimes it was just hard. Sometimes Scott just got angry.

They had been playing the Long Island Chargers, current score at an even 2-2 in the second period — Scott having scored both goals and feeling relatively pleased with himself — when Mark Lassiter cross-checked Roddy into the boards.

“Dirty play,” Scott had admonished, skating over as the whistle blew to check on Roddy groaning on the ice.

Lassiter had scowled at him, and said, “Go fuck yourself, Hunter.”

Scott, who was admittedly not very good at chirping, said “wah-wah” (because Lassiter was a baby?) and called him a pigeon. Classic stuff.

Lassiter retaliated by getting in Scott’s face and telling him he was a cock-sucking little bitch — also a classic — to which Scott, a little testy for reasons that should be apparent by now, shoved him away, replying that maybe if Lassiter spent a little more time on his game and a little less time cheating on his wife with OnlyFans models in Barcelona, he’d be better at playing.

Lassiter called him a cock-sucker again, and then followed this up by saying something very inflammatory and uncreative about Scott’s mother. His eyes were going wide a split-second later, as his brain presumably caught up with his mouth and he registered who the fuck he was talking to, but by that point Scott had already dropped his gloves, lunged forwards, and punched the other square in the face.

He got seven minutes in the box and a black eye courtesy of Lassiter’s freakishly sharp elbows, and spent the rest of the game stewing in his own embarrassment. It was so stupid. He’d overreacted. But Scott had heard “cocksucker” and “mom,” thought, What would she think about— and maybe freaked the fuck out a little bit.

Look, alright, the thing was – Scott didn’t, like, like fighting. Really. It was just that it pretty much came naturally to him. He was good at it, had learned early on in life – miserably lurking under 100 pounds soaking weight until he finally hit his growth spurt in ninth grade and got freakishly huge practically overnight – that a great way to get people to stop talking about how small he was, or his dead parents, or the fact that Scott was quiet and artistic and prone to frustrated tears, was to punch them in the kisser about it. Thus he had been kind of a violent kid, right up until they had threatened to kick him out of school if he didn’t get his act together – and then he’d gone to the boarding school in Quebec, where nobody knew him as Little Orphan Scott from the trailer park with a tendency to bite, and Scott was left to get his aggression out with hockey as the only outlet. It was something of a miracle he hadn’t ever been pegged as a goon.

At least he’d ended up scoring another goal once he got back on the ice. Unfortunately for Scott, a hat trick on top of a fight meant he got pulled for a post-game interview, which Coach Murdock sent him out for with nothing but an unsympathetic pat to the shoulder.

Scott hated talking to the media. This was mostly ‘cause he sucked at it. His face got really hot, every time, and he had a tendency to forget what question had just been asked the moment he opened his mouth to start talking. Everyone said it would get better as he got used to it, but Scott had his doubts. He still hadn’t even figured out what camera he was supposed to be looking at, and it’d been months. Also, he disliked being sweaty and his hair looked stupid right after a game.

Scott scrubbed a hand over his head and replied to a question he was pretty sure had been about the power-play or something, saying, “Yeah, I think we did a good job of getting in the zone. Uh. We were pretty snappy on the break-ins. Had some good passes out there. Got pucks to sticks. Yeah.” He sniffed a little and eyed the clock. Hopefully this would wrap up soon. The team was planning on grabbing dinner and their reservation was for an hour from now. Scott still needed to shower.

Someone piped up, saying, “You had your first career hat-trick today right alongside your first major penalty. Can you tell us how that felt?”

“Well,” Scott said, “the eye was a little painful.” That got a few chuckles, and Scott grinned waveringly back at them. Nailed it. “No, but, uh – yeah. The hat-trick felt great, but it really was a team effort out there. Real filthy pass from Van.” Scott sniffed again and glanced once more to the side. The media liaison caught his eye and made a ‘keep it going’ gesture. Fucking fantastic. “Uh,” he said, wracking his brain for something else to say. “I guess I’m pretty stoked about the hatty, yeah. I wasn’t really expecting it. So it, uh. It feels pretty good. The fans are, you know, the fans are amazing. They’ve been great this whole first year, really welcoming. And it was just – yeah. The response was great. The lights, and cheering and everything. Thought Van was gonna cry.”

There were another few chuckles for that last comment, which hadn’t really been a joke. Van cried a lot. Although – Scott might’ve even thought he himself was going to cry for a second there, seeing all that support from the stands. People Scott didn’t even know, people that were at the game to see him and happy that he succeeded and thought he was a good player, and thought he should know that.

Obviously he didn’t actually cry, though. Scott hadn’t cried since, like, 2002.

A different reporter, a guy Scott actually recognized mostly for his irritating tendency to barge into the locker room and try to pester the Admirals into answering questions even while they were still stark fucking nude, said, “And the fight?”

“Yeah,” Scott said. “Feel a little less good about the fight. But, you know. It’s the game.”

“What did Mark Lassiter say to you before you dropped the gloves?”

“Nothing huge,” Scott said. The sweat on his back was starting to dry between his shoulder blades, tacky and cold, sticking the fabric of his undershirt uncomfortably to his skin. Why the hell couldn’t they let the team shower before this stuff? “He was just chirping, you know. Maybe got under my skin a little bit.”

The reporter hummed. His microphone was really very close to Scott’s face, almost bumping into his nose. Didn’t that affect the sound or something? “Do you think you reacted appropriately?”

“I dunno,” Scott said. He caught the gaze of the media liaison again, who widened her eyes and made a slashing motion across her throat. Scott scratched an eyebrow and frowned. What, she wanted him to say yes? Yeah fucking right. That was bullshit. He wasn’t going to lie. He’d reacted fine! So what if he dropped his gloves? That was the game. You either played it or you got buried. And Scott was great at staying above ground.

He looked back to the small crowd of reporters again, worked his jaw, and said, “I think if Lassiter hadn’t planned on getting decked then he should learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.”

The next morning, Scott’s name was plastered across all his favourite hockey blog sites and some guy on a podcast was apparently calling him contumelious, which he looked up the meaning of as he drank his morning protein shake over his kitchen counter and scrolled through his twitter mentions, which were numerous. His agent called to chew him out for a few minutes, Scott saying, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” every few moments but mostly just standing there in his socks and boxers looking contrite with no one to see, before she calmed enough to say, “Well, now’s a good a time as any to tell you I’ve got a photoshoot with Sport’s Illustrated booked for you in two days.”

“Okay,” Scott said slowly, a little suspicious. Wasn’t it a little late in the season for that? Scott had already done that whole GQ thing when he’d first been drafted, which the team had only just quit chirping him for. Also, All Stars was literally in a week. “Why?”

“They want a hockey player for the body issue. Luckily Ilya Rozanov dropped out at the last minute and I was able to get you in there. Say, ‘Thank you, Amy.’”

“Thank you, Amy,” Scott said, on auto-pilot. Then, “Wait, what? No, no, no. What?”

“Yeah, I was surprised too. Now the man gets shy?”

That wasn’t what he’d meant and she knew it.

“Amy,” Scott said, voice a little high. “I’m not doing a nude photo shoot.”

She made a noise of dismissal. “It’s not technically nude. No full-frontals.”

Ok, but still? Scott stared blankly at his socked feet, trying to absorb this, giving it some real thought. Usually he just went along with everything his agent suggested, because Amy was amazing and she kind of scared him. But this was…a lot. Right? He couldn’t really tell what he was supposed to feel. “Why would they even want me?” Scott wasn’t exactly Ilya Rozanov, okay. He was 20 years old and he had way more hair than he knew what to do with, an over-expressive face, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow that made him look older than he was. He knew how to work with what he’d been given, sure, but seducing older guys in the back of European clubs was a little different than trying to look good posing for Sport’s Illustrated.

Amy was silent for a very long moment on the other line. Long enough that Scott had to pull the phone away from his ear a second to make sure he hadn’t accidentally hung up. But eventually she said, “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer, Hunter.”

Scott frowned. Alright?

“Three days,” Amy said again, voice firm. “Usually you’d be a little more involved in the process of preparing for the shoot, but they’re supposedly cutting it quite close to the deadline. We’re lucky we could get you in at all.” Lucky wasn’t quite the word Scott would use, but sure. “I’ll shoot you the details – it’ll be in Jersey City, and I’ll be sending a driver.”

Ok, what the hell? When exactly had Scott agreed to this?

“I have a black eye,” he tried desperately, beginning to pace tight circles around his apartment. “Like, pretty bad. May as well have gotten a puck to the face.”

“I’ve been told that’s part of the appeal,” Amy said, unmoved. She was such a fucking shark. “This issue is all about vulnerability, seeing athletes authentically, that kind of stuff. It’ll be good for your image. The league doesn’t need another robot to eat, sleep, and shit hockey 24/7 without ever displaying an ounce of personality.”

Ew. Scott was not about that authenticity shit literally at all. But it was kind of starting to sound like he didn’t quite have a choice. Which was — you know. Fine. It was fine. Scott hadn't had a choice in anything in a pretty long time.

“Great,” he said finally. “Personality. Whatever.”

“Wonderful,” Amy said dryly. “Glad to have you on board. Three days.”

“Yep,” Scott said, and hung up on her. Maybe a little rudely, but whatever. He’d send her a gift basket or something.

After the call, Scott stood there in silence and stared at the wall of his empty apartment for an embarrassingly long time, trying to figure out if he was making the worst decision of his career or just being melodramatic again. Eventually though, he gave up on thinking, decided fuck it, it wasn’t like he had any family that would be embarrassed by him getting what pretty much amounted to public, professional nudes — no matter what Amy said — and left the house for practice, determined to tell absolutely nobody about this before he had to.

When Elena heard about the nude photoshoot thing, she sent Scott a six-second Snap of her wheezing with laughter.

…Ok, so when Scott had said nobody, he’d really meant nobody on his team. Elena obviously didn’t count, although he hadn't initially planned on telling her. But they’d been maintaining a steady Snapchat streak over the last week and a half, and she’d responded with a grossed-out face to the close-up picture he sent her of his slowly yellowing bruise, so Scott, offended, had been moved to inform her that he had concrete proof some people disagreed with her sub-par assessment of his roughed-up visage.

Apparently she thought it was really funny.

After they’d parted at the bar that first night, Scott had immediately texted her upon getting home, worried that otherwise he’d lose the nerve and still embarrassed about leaving her like that. Elena had sent back a photo of herself with what looked like some random lady’s arms around her, winking somewhat sultrily at the camera, and then her Snapchat handle — since apparently only old people and perverts used Kik these days. Since then they’d been keeping up pretty much a steady stream of correspondence, and Scott was patting himself on the back for his newfound ability to say that he regularly talked to at least one non-hockey-related person every day.

He tried not to text her too many times a day, because they didn’t really know each other and he didn’t want to come on too strong and freak her out, but it was a hard thing to do. He wanted to know everything there was to know about her, and as soon as he physically could. Possibly the reason Scott did not have many friends was because of the way he went about making them, which was all or nothing, ride or die straight from the get-go, unable to bring himself to bother ever with the expected pleasantries of casual acquaintancy. Elena had luckily been a good sport about all of Scott’s…Scott-ness so far, but he had a suspicion that was likely born mostly out of pity. Too bad for her — Scott was a desperate, hungry, selfish man, and he would take what he could get.

What he could get right now was apparently very little sympathy.

The actual photoshoot ended up going fine. It was less awkward than Scott would’ve guessed, at least, and everyone involved was incredibly professional the whole time. They got it all set up in some random rink in Jersey, the familiarity of which Scott could have almost been grateful for if it wasn’t for the cold. He did a bunch of push-ups and bicep curls until they were satisfied with his muscle pump, then they got his stick in his hands and skates on his feet and sent him out to pretty much just fuck around on the ice for half an hour. By the end of it, he could almost understand how nudists did this shit. Not that Scott was about to go and change his lifestyle anytime soon or anything. He was still hyper aware of everybody’s eyes on him at all times, on the lookout for wandering gazes — but it also just kind of felt like being in the locker room, if Scott was the only one who was ever naked. The Zamboni part was a little surprising, and he hoped for whoever usually operated it’s sake that they thoroughly cleaned the seat after, but he mostly didn’t feel like he was about to star in a hockey-themed porno. Well. Except for the popsicle part, kind of. That had been weird.

The interview had been short at least, barely fifteen minutes in total. He’d gotten to cover up with a robe and they didn’t ask a single question about his dead parents, which although probably had more to do with fear of Amy’s wrath than any sense of concern towards Scott’s feelings, he was still appreciative of.

Scott’s phone chirped with another Snapchat from Elena, and he swiped his phone unlocked and opened the app to a string of text.

‘lmao but actually how the hell did you land that’

Scott sent her back a picture of him looking offended. ‘I’m famous?’

Elena: ‘sure lol but that famous??’

Scott: ‘I’m on a plane to the MLH All-Stars literally right this second.’

Elena sent back a rolling eyes emoji. ‘ok bigshot is that supposed to mean something to me’

Scott irately jabbed his thumbs at the screen of his phone. ‘I have 700k instagram followers and I was literally in GQ three months ago.’

Elena: ‘txt me when u get on xtra mag’

Scott frowned, confused, before opening google and typing in a search for ‘Xtra’. Huh. Xtra Magazine is an LGBTQ-focused—

“You texting Van-man?”

Scott startled hard, slamming his phone face-down onto his lap and ripping his earbuds out in his panic. “Um,” he said, heart hammering in his chest. “No?”

Huff blinked back at him, pausing halfway lowered back onto the seat beside him. Scott totally hadn’t even noticed him start to come back from the bathroom. “Ok,” he said slowly, clearly wondering what the hell was up with him as Scott’s cheeks flamed red.

Scott’s phone chirped in his lap with another Snap from Elena. Noticing the notification pop up on Scott’s screen as he turned his phone back around, now safely revealing only a lockscreen of the Admirals logo, Huff said, “Wait, did you pay for in-flight wifi?”

“What? No, it’s included in our seat tickets.” Grateful for the distraction, Scott showed Huff how to get onto the wifi so he could stream the Mets game. He waited to open Elena’s snapchat until the older man was paying full attention to the game, carefully angling the screen of his phone away just in case.

‘sry,’ the Snap read. ‘i didnt mean anything by that i was jk’

Scott: ‘It’s fine.’

He sent her a goofy photo of him sticking his tongue out so she knew he really wasn’t upset, before setting his phone to the side, shoving his earbuds back in and turning his music up. Hopefully he could get a few hours of shut eye before they landed in Tampa Bay.

Scott felt like he was going to vibrate out of his fucking skin. He’d changed his shirt at least three times, and he was currently struggling to knot his tie around his neck. It’d been months since he’d started wearing suits all the time for games, and he’d been pretty sure he was adept at it by now – but clearly not. (It’d taken him an embarrassingly long time and a lot of youtube videos to get it tied correctly for that first game, but he’d made it there eventually. Nobody had to know that the only time Scott had ever worn a tie before then was at his parent’s funeral.) Eventually Scott just decided fuck it, and went sans tie, irritated with himself and his nerves. It was the All-Stars. There was literally no reason at all for him to be nervous.

He left his room five minutes before he was supposed to meet the rest of the team in the lobby, not wanting to cut it close but also afraid to linger awkwardly waiting for people to show, and bumped into Ilya fucking Rozanov waiting for the elevator. Rozanov was on his phone, head down, and he only looked up when Scott made a really embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and froze in place.

Rozanov just looked at Scott for a moment, face blank, before abruptly breaking out into a shining grin. He was wearing a button-up shirt with, like, five of the top buttons left undone. Scott felt very overdressed all of a sudden, and incredibly glad he’d ditched the tie. “Hello,” Rozanov said. “You get lost on way to middle school dance? I think there is curfew in Florida for minors.”

Scott blinked rapidly at him. “What?” Was that a chirp? Was Scott getting chirped right now? For being…young?

Rozanov waved a hand in the air flippantly, grin somehow widening even further. His teeth were, like, crazy white. “You are rookie, yes? New Shane Hollander?”

Scott continued to stare at him. “...I’m Scott. Um. Hunter.”

“Scott Um Hunter?” Rozanov shook his head, kissing his teeth. “That is tough luck. New Shane Hollander I think is better name.”

Was Scott having a stroke? “Uh. No? It’s just Scott Hunter.”

“Just Scott Hunter?” Rozanov pronounced the whole first bit together so it sounded like one name, Justscott. “That is even worse. What were your parents thinking?”

“My parents are dead,” Scott said.

Rozanov stared at him.

Hm. Ok.

Now why in the ever-living fuck had he said that?

The elevator dinged. After a second, Rozanov stepped inside. Scott followed him, cursing his entire life up until that point.

It was very silent for a moment, as Rozanov pressed the button to take them to the lobby and Scott stared very intently at his feet. They were on the 15th floor. Literally kill him now.

But then Rozanov said, “I did not know this, about your parents. I am sorry. I would not have said anything if I knew.”

And at that Scott had to look up, surprised. Not at the fact that Rozanov wouldn’t knowingly chirp him about his dead parents – he figured the guy couldn’t actually be as much of a dick as people made him seem, or else his team wouldn’t like him that much. But – “You really didn’t know? People talk about it all the time.” Like, seriously all the time.

“I am not really online.”

“You tweet like seven times a day.” Scott would know. Rozanov’s Twitter was pretty funny. One could almost forget he was old as shit.

Rozanov shrugged. “I only read ones that say my name in them.”

Scott thought about that for a second, before deciding it made sense. “Okay,” he said. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that before. I didn’t mean to make it weird. I’m not, like, grieving or something. Well, like, I am, obviously, ‘cause they’re dead – I just mean they’ve been dead a long time. Well. Eight years. I mean, I know your parents are dead, so you probably get it–” Scott pressed his lips tightly together, forced himself to stop talking, and wished desperately for the elevator to plummet them both to their deaths.

For a long time Rozanov just looked at him, almost seeming a little disturbed – probably rightfully so – before he shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Sounded a little like ‘New Shane Hollander.’ But that couldn’t have been right. Then Rozanov said, louder, “You are going for dinner with team?”

Scott sagged a little in relief, grateful for Rozanov for offering him the out. Probably better if they just pretended he hadn’t said anything. Scott was a big fan of that strategy.

He had time to nod and give Rozanov the name of the restaurant they were eating at before the doors dinged open to the lobby, absolutely milling with hockey players.

“Rozy!” Someone said, and a chorus of cheers went up, as Rozanov spread his hands wide and stepped into the lobby to be mobbed by his All-Stars team. Scott made to move around them, spotting Shane Hollander and a few others he recognized as his teammates for the weekend, but was stopped by Rozanov grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him closer.

“This is Scott Hunter,” Rozanov told the other guys. “Apparently he is big deal. Who knew the league was recruiting from Boy Scouts?”

Scott waved a little awkwardly as they laughed and introduced themselves. He knew them already, obviously – McTaggart, Hatosy, Smith and the Laurent brothers – but he’d never met any of them off the ice. “I’m 20,” he told Rozanov, in case he didn’t know.

“What, 20? Really? I thought you were 12.”

“Rozanov.” Scott spun around, heart rate ratcheting up, but the newcomer wasn’t even looking at him. Scott allowed himself a moment to just stare. Shane Hollander, it was possible, was somehow even more attractive in person. Even with the way he was glaring at Rozanov right now.

“Hollander!” Rozanov’s grin widened. “What a pleasant surprise! They invited you back to this, even after dismal showing last year?”

Hollander scoffed. “Why are you bothering my rookie, Rozanov?”

“I am not bothering him, I am making friends. He is New Shane Hollander! I thought it good to meet my new competition. You know – now that you are old and decrepit.”

Scott sweat-dropped, darting an anxious glance at Hollander. Why the fuck would Rozanov say that? Now Hollander was going to hate him!

But it was like Scott wasn’t even there. Hollander just kept glaring at Rozanov, cheeks a little red with anger, as Rozanov stared back at him, his own eyes sparkling with mirth. It was…very intense. “We’re the exact same fucking age,” Hollander said, lip curling. “Too many hits to the head this season, Rozanov?”

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “I am not the one who broke his hip.”

“It was a fucking knee surgery, and you know it.”

“Too much wear and tear, yes? Being on your knees all day…” Hollander’s eyes went wide, “Praying to win cup!”

Hollander's face was really very red. He must’ve been pretty mad. “And yet somehow I’m still faster than you.”

“Yeah, they do this every time.” Scott turned to see Hatosy had sidled up to him, looking weary. The older player offered Scott a commiserating glance. “You should’ve seen them as rookies.”

“Huh,” Scott said. “You know, I kind of thought the whole rivalry thing was played up for the media.”

Hatosy sighed wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Then, raising his voice to be heard by the others, “Rozy, I’m fucking starving, man, we’re gonna leave without you.”

Rozanov flapped a hand at him. “Yes, yes, alright. Goodbye, Scott Hunter. …Hollander, say hello to your mother for me.” Then he was gone, strolling out of the hotel lobby, fist bumping and dapping up players as he walked. He was really well-liked, wasn’t he? Scott hadn’t really realized.

Hollander blew a harsh breath out through his nose, watching him leave. “Such a fucking asshole.”

“For real,” Scott said as a gesture of solidarity, feeling a little like he could kick himself. The very first opportunity to meet Shane Hollander and he decided to come in practically hand in hand with the guy’s sworn enemy?

Hollander startled a little, like he’d forgotten Scott was there. His face twisted into a rueful smile and he turned to face Scott fully, but not before casting one last quick glance in the direction Rozanov had gone, like he fully expected the possibility that the guy might sprint back and sock him in the face if he wasn’t on the lookout. “Sorry about that,” Hollander said, sounding genuinely sincere. So maybe he wasn’t declaring Scott an enemy for colluding with his rival? “It’s nice to meet you. Shane Hollander.” He stuck his hand out.

Obviously I fucking know who you are, Scott wanted to say. Instead he just shook Hollander’s hand and tried to look very very casual about it, and not like he’d had the man’s poster up on his wall literally all throughout high school. “Scott Hunter.”

Hollander smiled at him. It was a very nice smile — straight and white, like Rozanov’s, but a little softer around the edges. A little less crooked. It was very possible the man still had all his teeth. “Let’s go meet the team, yeah?”

And what else could Scott do but follow him?

Chapter End Notes

for some reason the song in my head this chapter:

Dramamine - modest mouse

Chapter 3: Scott

Chapter Notes

Scott skidded to a stop in a spray of ice, quickly checked the scoreboard, and gave a small whoop of celebration before skating back to the bench, trying his best not to smile too widely as he went.

Scooting over to allow him space to sit, Shane Hollander greeted Scott with a grin and a tap of his stick against the boards. “Nice skating, rook.”

Scott beamed back at him, and blurted out, before he could stop himself, “I beat your record.”

Great. Fantastic work once again, Scotty.

Luckily, Hollander just laughed. “Sure did. You planning to keep that up for the rest of the competition?”

Scott stalled a little. Was he supposed to say yes? Act cocky? Chirp a little? Finally, deciding he might as well just be honest, he said, “I dunno. Your stick handling’s way better than mine.”

“My stick handling’s better than everyone’s.” Hollander scooted down a bit more as space opened up on the bench. For a second Scott just blinked at him, bemused at the blunt, dismissive honesty, before shaking himself and following suit down the bench. Probably if you were Shane Hollander you could get away with saying stuff like that. It’s not like it wasn’t true. Hollander continued, saying, “You might have me beat on accuracy and the obstacle course. That’s what Rozanov won our first year, and you two are similar players.”

“We are?”

Hollander side-eyed him, like he couldn’t tell if Scott was being serious. Scott, for the record, was mostly just confused. Rozanov had the hardest shot in the league, hit like a giant, gleeful wrecking ball, and had made a career off of being, at any given moment, the biggest pest on the ice. If he and Scott shared any similarities, it was the first Scott was hearing of it. Hollander, registering Scott’s genuine bemusement, took pity on him, saying, “You’re both incredibly reactionary. You’re fast, yeah, but you’ve also got the awareness on-ice to back it up, make plays on the fly. Your PPG’s up on his in his rookie year, and you somehow got to 50 before him, which I imagine he’s not psyched about. Plus, you’re both your own enforcers. That hit you got on McCreedy in September, that was—“ Scott had a feeling like Hollander could’ve kept going, probably for quite a while, if he hadn’t just then pressed his lips tight, stopping himself mid-sentence with a rueful little shake of his head. (Part of him wished Hollander would keep talking. It had been a good hit, all told – McCreedy had gone flying head-first over the boards and into his team’s bench, spinning once mid-air, like a dreidel, in such a way that the broadcast had caught Scott laughing wild and a little deranged at the ridiculous motion, the screencap of his face since become something of a meme on twitter.)

Scott was left reeling. “Wow,” he heard himself say, slightly faint. “How much hockey do you watch?”

Hollander snorted. “Enough. What’ll you do if you win the money?”

“Uh,” Scott said. “I don’t know. Probably donate it, I guess? I haven’t really thought about it.”

Scott tried not thinking about money a lot. It didn’t always work. The problem, which happened to be a ridiculous one, was that Scott had a shit ton more of it than he could possibly know what to do with. Up until that year he’d spent his whole life as a scholarship kid, subsisting entirely on his ability to play hockey and accept cheques from the government, and now suddenly he’d been thrust into millionaire territory with no clue how he was supposed to conduct himself differently. He had a moderately-sized apartment that most other players in the league would consider way too small, but was in New York so still cost an absolutely absurd amount of money to rent, a motorcycle he hardly ever drove, and literally nothing else except a handful of summer trips to foreign places with lenient laws concerning homosexuality to spend his money on. Mostly he just let it sit in his bank account, taunting him, and argued once a week with his accountant — who considered Scott’s habit of handing out hundreds of dollars in cash to pretty much every homeless person he encountered to be ‘irresponsible’ and ‘bad spending habits’ — about why he couldn’t just give it all to charity and be done with it.

“Not a house? Or — a cottage, or something? Summer home?”

“No.” Scott liked his apartment. What was wrong with his apartment? It was in, like, one of probably three buildings in the entirety of New York without a rat problem. It had a dishwasher. He was living in freaking luxury.

Most everyone donated their winnings from the All-Star’s tournament to charity anyways, he was pretty sure. It was probably expected. Hollander definitely had — something concerning mental health support, if he recalled correctly. Scott was lucky, for want of a better word, in that he had a charity locked and loaded for whenever he needed to donate money and didn’t care if his name was attached to it, what with the life he had lived and organizations he owed. (It didn’t stop him, of course, from anonymously donating thousands of dollars to the Trevor Project every time he got even a little bit tipsy. But that didn’t mean anything.)

Hollander made a noise of acknowledgment and nothing more, going back to watching the ice. Scott tried to surreptitiously study the man’s side profile. Jesus. He was so hot it was unfair. Almost pretty, really, what with the freckles and all. He had a habit of chewing on his mouth guard, the rubber dangling half out of his lips, dark blue against the flash of white teeth – something about it made Scott’s face heat embarrassingly.

“Hunter!”

Scott jumped, startled, and whipped his head around. Rozanov waved from the other team’s box, his body half hanging over the board so Scott could properly see him. He couldn’t quite interpret the look on his face.

“I think he’s talking to you,” one of the Pittsburgh defenders said dryly, from the side of Scott closest to the team, leaning back a little to allow him a clear line of sight of the Russian.

“Uh,” Scott said. After a moment, he waved back. Sitting beside Shane Hollander, saying hi to Ilya Rozanov. Both of whom knew him by name. His life was fucking surreal.

“You had fun at dinner with your team?” Rozanov hollered.

Scott stared at him a second. Then, tentatively, he said, “Yeah?”

Rozanov nodded a bunch of times. “Did you get Hollander drunk?”

Scott heard a derisive scoff from his other side, but when he glanced over Hollander was still resolutely staring at the ice, pretending like he completely hadn’t noticed Rozanov speaking. That was…weird. Right? Scott turned back around and, to Rozanov, said, “No?”

Rozanov blew a raspberry. “Bo-ring.”

“Did you drink?” Scott couldn’t help but ask, intrigued. Wasn’t that kind of setting a bad example for his team, or something?

But Rozanov sounded altogether unashamed as he answered, “Of course. It is All-Stars weekend! Time to have fun, make new friends, beat geriatric and washed-out hockey player’s records.” He pronounced the word geriatric slowly, with much relish, like he’d been practicing and wanted to be sure to get it right.

“We haven’t done the accuracy contest yet,” Scott said, the chirp slipping out on auto-pilot. “But I appreciate your faith in me.”

Rozanov barked out a laugh and shook his head, grinning as he forewent the gate to hop over the boards and onto the ice. It was his turn for the fastest skater competition, and though it was obvious he wasn’t about to beat Scott’s newfound record, it would honestly be pretty fucking funny if he did.

As he skated by their bench, Rozanov slowed to a stop in front of Scott and Hollander, leaning a hand against the board. “Hollander.” When there came no reply, Rozanov said it again, loud and sing-song. “Hollander.”

Finally, Hollander deigned to look over at him, his face twisted into a scowl. “What.”

“Aw.” Rozanov arranged his handsome, angular features into an expression of distressed concern. “Are you cranky that teenager is faster than you? It is okay, Hollander, I am sure there are some things you are still good at in your advanced age. Like bingo, maybe. Or crib.”

“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”

“Rozanov!” The ref at the starting line blew his whistle, waving the man over with impatience. “Stop terrorizing them and get your ass over here!”

“Yes, yes, coming!” Rozanov waved back at him, dismissive. Then, one last time before he left to go line up, he turned back to Hollander — always to Hollander, Scott had noticed, like there was a magnet drawing his gaze to the other man’s face, like something supernatural and unexplainable was pulling his attention that direction, whatever it was that kept him poking and pushing, incessant, a kid pulling at the tail of the beloved, stressed-out family cat — and said, winking outrageously, “Just wanted to be sure you are watching.”

And, finally, as a flushed expression of fiery rage dawned on Hollander’s face, Rozanov skated away.

Scott didn’t end up setting any more records that day, but he did win the obstacle course and narrowly missed first place in the accuracy competition, coming only twenty-four milliseconds behind Hollander. It was more than a good showing, for his first Skills competition. In fact, it won him one million bucks.

He was still riding that high two hours later, freshly showered and finally done with media, grabbing some lunch with Huff and a couple of guys he’d never met but who Huff had played with in Edmonton before he’d got traded, when he realized he’d left his phone in the rink’s locker room.

Scott quickly scarfed down his chicken pita before doing anything about it. Before the Skill’s Competition Hollander had bought Dunkin for the locker room, a big cardboard jug of black coffee and a box of pastries, and Scott had inhaled three cups and a Boston cream before realizing that nobody else was really eating and it had probably been more of a symbolic gesture than anything, flushing at the look some of the guys were giving him when he started eyeing up a honey crueller and ultimately dejectedly limiting himself to the one donut — so he was still pretty hungry.

He left Huff with a promise to meet them half an hour later for a game of Super Smash Bros in one of their rooms – they needed four players, apparently, or else it just wasn’t as fun – before jogging back to the rink, intent on grabbing his phone from the locker as quickly as possible. He slowed to a stop in front of the doors leading to outside, enjoying the dry warmth of Florida, so different from winter in New York, before pushing his way inside and towards the locker room.

The first sign that the room wasn’t as empty as it should’ve been was the faint echo of running water coming from the showers. The second sign was a bitten-off, grunting moan that had Scott stopping in his tracks halfway to his borrowed locker, eyebrows furrowing with disbelief.

Was somebody jacking off in the communal showers? That was just – so wrong. There weren’t even stalls.

The moan came again — whoever it was was obviously making an effort to muffle themselves, but clearly not having much success.

Scott needed to stop listening to this, like, yesterday. Face burning, he briefly considered just leaving his phone and booking it, so as not to hear anything more than he already had, before remembering his room’s key card was tucked inside his phone case, and resigning himself to quietly manoeuvring through the locker room so as to not announce his presence and make the whole moment incredibly awkward for anyone involved.

He was almost at his locker, reaching out in preparation to noiselessly yank it open, when the low-level grunting resolved itself into words, a familiar, rumbling russian accent causing Scott to stumble in his tracks.

“Блядь. You were so good, on ice. So hot. So, so good, моя любовь.” Ilya Rozanov’s voice was breathless, hitching with clear pleasure, low and gravelly.

Scott felt his entire face scrunch up in incredulous disgust. Rozanov was jacking off in the communal showers…and complimenting himself? He didn’t even win a fucking competition! That was so weird. And to think Scott had respected the guy. Even after hearing from everyone and their mom that he was a total jackass.

“Fuck,” Rozanov hissed. “Yes, sweetheart, just like that.”

Scott…should probably leave now. This was way past weird, and also incredibly gay. So what if Rozanov’s voice was, like, kind of super hot? He was clearly a freak — and, even worse, Scott was a total perv for just standing there and listening. He shook himself, going back to his mission, intending to get his phone and get the hell out of there, to not hear anything else and to definitely not get a proximity boner, to leave Rozanov with enough dignity to be able to look the man in the eyes the next day, and Scott with enough innocence to ever sleep again —

“Ilya. Fuck, Ilya, God.”

What. The fuck.

Scott froze in place, heart skipping a beat in his chest. His eyes blew wide, his ears straining for any further noise, sure he couldn’t have been hearing this correctly. But again it came, “Ilya,” soft and moaning, and in a voice familiar enough that Scott almost didn’t need further confirmation — but got anyways, because a moment later Ilya Rozanov was grunting out “Shane,” in a voice rough with pleasure, and Shane Hollander was —

Scott snatched his phone out of his locker, turned on his heel, and sprinted out of the locker room.

Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

Scott speed-walked out of the arena and directly to his hotel room, head firmly down, not wanting to risk anyone catching his eye, only bothering to send a quick text off to Huff that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to play Smash before making a bee-line directly to his room’s ensuite bathroom, locking the door and curling up fully clothed in the dry bathtub, curtains closed and lights dimmed. His breaths were coming fast, heart hammering against his ribs, hands shaking. Scott unwound his earbuds from around his phone and jammed them into his ears, swiping into his music app with trembling fingers, the lit-up screen blurring almost incomprehensibly in his vision, and chose something at random. Only then, with an almost comically ill-suited MGMT song blasting in his ears, did Scott finally allow himself to freak the fuck out.

The first time Scott had sex with a man, he was 18 and on vacation in Mykonos. It was the first time he’d ever left North America, and he’d had doubts about his ability to get with a man even at a notably queer establishment, having had until then only a few fumbling make-out sessions in high school, a handful of hurried, awkward handjobs, and one noteworthy but ill-advised attempt to experiment with a girl in his intro to acting class, which had perhaps foreseeably gone embarrassingly badly, ending in Scott’s number blocked and with what seemed to be the entirety of the NYU theatre program out for his blood. He needn’t, however, have worried — it turned out ‘I’m a gay virgin who desperately wants to get laid’ was a universal message that transcended language barriers, and Scott didn’t end up needing any Greek or his partner any English to get invited back to his place.

The guy had been relatively older, pleasantly handsome, and surprisingly nice. Scott had been drunk enough to not be awkward but not too drunk as to not enjoy it, and he had been a fan of the way the man had filled him a glass of water upon entering his apartment, before placing his hand upon Scott’s knee and looking him in the eyes, smiling in a gentle, honest way that had his gaze crinkling at the edges, and kissing him soft and unhurried.

Afterwards, the guy had kissed Scott on the forehead, pushing his hair back and smiling at him, and he had said something to him in a sweet, low voice that Scott hadn't understood but had known from the tone of his voice must have been impossibly kind — and something about the whole thing had spooked him so terribly that he’d fled at once, hurriedly pulling on his clothes and leaving the stranger far behind, alone in bed and in startled, post-coital confusion.

The next time Scott picked up a man, he made sure they could speak English — or at the very least understood enough of the language to comprehend the words, ‘Harder,’ and, ‘You can be rough.’

Things were easier like that. And Scott no longer had to worry about getting attached.

The real fucked up thing, the thing that kept Scott up at night, the thing that made him genuinely wish he could just be straight, that sometimes made him bitter and angry and mean — was knowing that right under being outed, Scott’s worst fear in the entire world was falling in love.

If that ever happened to him, if Scott went and managed to fuck up that badly before retirement…

Well. Then he genuinely did not know how he’d be able to keep going.

It took an hour and 45 minutes before Scott felt he could leave the bathtub without the fear of having to fling himself out a window, and that was mostly just because his phone had been for some reason looping the same song for the past seventeen minutes and it was really starting to bum him out.

Once out of the bathroom, Scott stood in the middle of his hotel room, hands on his hips, and tried to think reasonably.

Okay. So. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were fucking.

…Right?

…No, yeah, they were definitely fucking. Scott had heard them. There wasn’t exactly a lot of other stuff they could’ve been getting up to. Which meant — Scott wasn’t the only one. He wasn’t just not the only gay MLH player — he wasn’t even the only gay All-Star. Hell, he wasn’t even the only gay first-round draft pick.

…Except — what if that wasn’t true? What if — what if straight guys just did that sometimes? What if it was some weird, strictly heterosexual display of masculine dominance? What if other hockey players got up to that sort of shit all the time, and Scott was the weird one for never having gotten his rival off in the shower, and in fact he was being gay for thinking it was gay?

Except. Rozanov’s voice, the murmuring Russian, the way he said Shane —

Scott could not imagine, ever, in a million years, somebody saying his name in such a tone. It was almost incomprehensible. It definitely, assuredly was not the voice a straight man used to talk to his straight rival. Especially when said rival was touching his dick.

Eventually, Scott just decided to Google it, then, when that didn’t prove all that fruitful, started to text Elena. ‘Do straight guys ever —‘

Then he stopped, kicking himself, and quickly deleted the half-crafted text with an irritated huff of breath. It was unlikely she’d know any better than him, and plus — how the hell was he supposed to explain a question that out-of-pocket? What — ‘Oh, I just think maybe the two greatest hockey players in the world are fucking each other and was wondering if that was normal straight-person behaviour. … What was that? Were their dicks out? Well, they were naked in the shower…’

Yeah. She’d definitely laugh at him, and then Scott would have to live with the knowledge that he’d outed his greatest hero and the most talented hockey player alive. And also Ilya Rozanov. Who, on second thought, had been seen with, like, one million women. No way that guy was gay. And hadn't Hollander dated Rose Landry? It had been a million years ago, sure, and nobody had heard anything since about any other partners, but Hollander was notoriously close-lipped about his personal life.

Which, actually, would make sense, if he was gay. Except, again — Rozanov had hella bitches, and all of them female. So how did you explain that? Was this just Scott forgetting about bisexuality again?

Whatever. All this to say, at this point Scott was about 75% sure that what Rozanov and Hollander had been getting up to in the showers was not a straight-guy activity. As a percentage, that would just have to be good enough. Now it was time for him to make a choice.

Rozanov’s hotel room was right next door. He had likely gotten back in at some point during Scott’s period of going insane in the bathtub, which meant it would be incredibly easy to get him alone to talk. And then…

And then — what? Scott would say hey, heard you’re gay, I’m gay too, let’s talk about it?

Scott dropped his head in his hands, groaning. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t—

He wasn’t the only one.

…You know what? Fuck it.

Scott strode towards the door. He was going to go over there, he was going to knock on Ilya Rozanov’s door, and he was going to say—

There were footsteps in the hallway.

Scott yanked his hand away from the doorknob, hastily pressed his eye to the peephole, and watched in faint disbelief as Shane Hollander, head down and looking nervous as all hell, walked very quickly past his room. A moment later, there came the faint sound of knocking on the neighbouring door. It swung open, then shut.

Scott stepped away from the door, back into his room, and sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

Okay. So. It was possible that whatever was going on between Rozanov and Hollander was maybe not a casual, one-time thing. Were they…together? Like, really together? Scott thought once again about the care with which they had said each other's names, in a moment of thinking no one could hear them, the tender, awful intimacy of it. He thought about the way Rozanov poked constantly at Hollander, seemingly desperate for a reaction, the way the other man’s face reddened in response as he refused to even look at him.

They had been rookies once, like Scott. Gay, like Scott. Had they been alone like him, too? How long had they been doing this?

Out of the blue, Scott felt overcome by a sudden, violent wave of anger he couldn’t fully explain. Just one more way that Scott would never be Shane Hollander. Because Shane Hollander got Ilya Rozanov, rival and lover and second-best player in the league — and what did Scott get? A rival in Dallas fucking Kent? Screwing old, violent men in foreign countries, while Hollander and Rozanov got to fool around in the communal showers like they didn’t give a shit that anyone could walk in on them? They got to play together. Against one another — whatever. They got to share a hotel, and sleep in a bed together, and never have to worry that their partner might sell them out to the press for 15 minutes of internet fame.

And Scott got this. Alone and bitter and afraid. Paralyzed by the mere thought of going inside a random gay bar in Montreal.

Just so fucking typical.

And, even more, behind that — was this really what Scott had to look forward to? This private, half-acknowledged dream of his, to fall in love, to have a husband, to build a home, to have and to hold, in sickness and health — was that really such a pipe dream? In ten years, was this where he would end up? Like Hollander, nervously knocking on his lover’s door, knowing there was always a chance he could be seen, knowing that he was doing something conceivably life-ruining, and yet doing it anyways, because it was the most either of them would ever be able to get — was that all Scott could ever hope for? Was all of this just the best he would ever get?

No. Fuck no. Scott couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t live with that.

Scott wanted more.

Chapter End Notes

ok so this cancon thing is way harder than i thought (who the hell was gonna tell me the microphones aren't canadian?? wtf??) but i am trying my best to assemble music jacob tierney would be proud of. so. for your ambient reading:

Breathing Underwater - Metric

Chapter 4: Kip

Chapter Notes

Elena came to town on a Thursday, which meant Kip was able to skip his afternoon English class without the usual guilt—it being a good cause, seeing as he hardly ever got a chance to see her anymore—and pick her up at LaGuardia by way of the subway.

He found her by the luggage carousel, still suitcase-less but clearly having landed a while ago, her head down and looking at her phone.

Kip snuck up behind her and dropped his voice low and ridiculously nasal, saying, “Excuse me, lady…” And watched as she turned and, her face lighting up all at once, shrieked, “Kip!” and threw herself at him, limbs akimbo, very nearly whacking him straight across the face with her fancy leather tote. Kip, laughing, picked her up and spun her around for a solid seven seconds before placing her back on her feet with a noisy smack of his lips to her cheek.

“Oh, how I missed you!” Kip swooned theatrically, gathering her hands in his and pressing them close to his chest, the bag dangling like a pendulum from their conjoined grasp. “My darling husband, back from war!”

Elena affected a smoulder and a severe slouch. “I ain’t ever leavin’ you again, baby mama.”

Kip guffawed. “What the hell?” he said, breaking character and dropping her hands. “Is that Elvis?”

“It’s butch, bitch.” Elena slapped him lightly on the shoulder, pouting. “But forget that – Regarde-toi! You’re glowing!”

“Penses-tu?”

“Girl, you better be joking. Your fucking biceps!”

Kip couldn’t help but preen, flexing a little in his short-sleeve shirt. He was getting pretty big. “It’s that free NYU gym, I’m telling you, it’s a game changer. You look as radiant as ever, obviously. The new hair slays.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Elena tossed her hair smugly, before dropping the charade and once again gathering him in a tight hug. “Tu m’as manqué, Kip.”

Kip squeezed her back just as hard, allowing himself a moment just to breathe in her familiar scent, the whiff of hair oil and citrus and vanilla perfume. “God,” he said, embarrassed to find himself a little choked up. “I missed you too.”

Five days. Kip had no idea how it would be enough.

He had no idea how he’d even survived this long—now over half a year of him in New York and Elena in Montreal, ever since Kip had gotten the bright idea to cash in on that dual citizenship of his and transfer from Concordia to NYU for the last two years of his undergrad, leaving his friends, family, and the city he’d known all his life far behind.

They didn’t have to wait too long by the carousel for it to start spitting out luggage. Elena, as usual, had packed unnecessarily excessive amounts of her shit for an under-a-week-long trip, and made a stink about taking the subway before calling for a taxi, ignoring Kip’s protests about how much more expensive it would be.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” Elena said, waving him off. “Just let me do this. If you try to make me walk these bags any further than I already have then I will legitimately push you onto the tracks.”

Kip, knowing he had never in his life won an argument with Elena and probably wasn’t about to start now, begrudgingly acquiesced to the ride.

Thirty minutes later they were settled in Kip’s tiny apartment in Bushwick, which Elena was making a token effort at pretending to be impressed by.

“It’s nice,” she said. “It has…character.”

Kip rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to bullshit, I know it’s crappy. But I’m working on a smoothie bar salary here, it’s kind of the best I could afford.”

“How is the job?”

“Eh.” Kip’s nose wrinkled against his will. He sighed hugely and slumped his entire chest over the table, wallowing in his own melodrama. They were sitting in his cramped little kitchen, drinking these hipster IPAs Kip got for free from this craft brewery twink with a giant crush on him. “It’s fine. I get tips, which is nice. Better than dishwashing, but not exactly a—what the hell do you do again?”

“Not explaining this again,” Elena said. “It’s just a co-op, anyways. They probably won’t want me to stay on after the semester’s over.”

Kip was entirely certain that wasn’t true. Elena was by far the smartest person he knew. They’d be stupid not to want her—anybody would.

They were two beers in and giggling over a story about Marie, this crazy mutual friend of theirs that had apparently gotten consecutively kicked out of three clubs on the Main in Montreal in one night, Elena laughing so hard beer was practically spraying out of her nose, when Josh got home.

Kip got himself under control enough to say, “Hey, Josh. This is Elena. Elena, this is my roommate Josh.”

Elena waved, still a little consumed by her giggles. “Hi Josh.”

“Uh. Hey.” Josh was dressed like he’d just been working out, shirt drenched in sweat and headphones around his ears. His eyes were wide. “Are you…Kip’s girlfriend?”

Elena snorted. Kip swallowed a groan. “Still gay, Josh.”

Josh nodded his head a bunch of times. “Right, right.”

“Elena’s visiting for the next week. Remember? I’ve been telling you for the past five weeks? I put it on the calendar?”

“Right.” Josh did not appear to be listening. He was staring very intently at Elena. “So you’re single?”

Kip groaned for real this time. “Oh my god,” he said. “No. No.”

Josh put up his hands. “I’m just asking!”

“Well, stop asking. She’s not interested.”

Josh turned back to Elena, in search of confirmation. Elena shrugged. “Sorry,” she said, not really all that apologetic.

But Josh didn't seem offended. “Aw well,” he said. “Worth a shot.”

Josh was a pretty nice guy, all told. A little scatter-brained most of the time, but never malicious. He was just also pretty much the straightest man to ever live—hence why he and Kip would probably never be best friends. They made okay roommates, though, seeing as how they more or less couldn’t care less what the other got up to in his personal life.

The three of them chatted for a bit, making small talk—mostly Elena, who could make friends with absolutely anyone, a perk of being the most wonderful person in the world—before Josh said, “So, what are your guys’ plans?”

Elena looked to Kip, eyebrow raised. “Oh, I don’t know,” Kip said. “Mostly just hanging out? I want to show her the MoMA, I know that for sure.” He felt a little bit bad for not putting together a more robust itinerary, but it wasn’t as though Elena would care all that much to see the usual go-to tourist destinations. He’d take her to the Kingfisher, show her around the NYU campus, tag along while she checked out all the overpriced vintage shops on the Lower East Side. Maybe they’d snag some same-day tickets to a Broadway show for half the usual price—that would be fun.

But then Elena told Josh, “We’re going to a hockey game tomorrow.”

Kip blinked at her, and said, “Uh, what? We are?” at the same time as Josh said, “You are?”

“Did I forget to tell you?” Elena tilted her head, blinking innocently. “Oh, well. I already found us tickets.”

“Hold on,” Josh said, putting up a hand. “You mean the Guardians v. Admirals game? That’s been sold out for weeks.” He turned to Kip, incredulous. “You’re going to an Admirals game?”

Kip thought he should probably resent the insinuation in that tone—but, actually, Josh was right. Kip, like, did not care about sports at all. “Uh, yeah,” he said, making a face at Elena. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

“Aren’t those tickets, like, hundreds of bucks?”

Kip intensified the face. Elena rolled her eyes and flapped a hand at him. “It’s fine,” she stressed, “They were free. It’ll be fun!”

“...Sure,” Kip said, unable to keep the skeptical tone from his voice. Fun. Hockey. Right.

“Alright,” Kip said, as they finally arrived at their seats, after having waded through a sea of mostly drunk and excitedly chattering fans, raring for the game to start so they could start roaring and throwing shit all over the place. “Now will you finally tell me how the hell you scored these? And, uh, why?”

They were, Kip was pretty sure, really fucking good seats. He’d been to enough games with his dad, way up in the nosebleeds, to know that much.

Elena blew out a breath. “Okay,” she said, turning in her seat to face him, “So. I’ve been talking to this guy—”

Kip gasped.

“—Shut up, not like that. Really not like that. But, I mean—he is…maybe…on the team?”

Kip stared at her. After a long moment, he said, “Shut. Up.”

Elena shrugged, like, sorry?

“Shut up,” Kip said again, even more excitedly, beginning to crack up a litte. “You’re banging a fucking hockey player? An MLH fucking hockey player?”

“I’m not!” Elena smacked him on the shoulder. “Ugh, you’re so annoying. I told you it’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh,” Kip said, disbelieving, trying his best to contain his laughter.

“C’est pas!”

“Sure, it—Ok, ok, Jesus, stop hitting me–”

A little while laters the players began to stream out onto the ice for warm-ups. They were skating around, lobbing off easy shots at the goalie, stretching in creative and unconventional ways against the ice. Kip could make out, like, four people doing the splits in full hockey gear, and was reluctantly impressed.

One of them, #21, was taking tight turns in the corner, weaving in between pucks, somehow moving faster than anyone else on the ice, his feet a blur beneath him. Kip squinted at the back of his jersey, getting a better look at the name printed above the number.

Hunter.

Kip knew about Scott Hunter—obviously he did, just because he was gay didn’t mean he was living under a rock—and it was only because he was paying attention to him, somehow captivated by the fluid movement on the ice, wondering if perhaps it was not only the young man’s pretty face that had seemingly everybody in the city obsessed with him (as well as having Kip’s dad, who was a diehard Brooklyn fan, cursing at the television every time he popped up on the screen) that had Kip noticing when Hunter skated in a wide arc across the ice, closer to them, and very obviously waved.

Kip narrowed his eyes. “Did Scott Hunter just wave at us?”

“No,” Elena said immediately.

Scott Hunter, skating in the opposite direction, waved once again.

Kip's jaw dropped. He whipped his head towards Elena, who was slowly slumping down in her seat, like it might be possible for her to disappear from view, and then back to the player on the ice. “Holy shit. You hooked up with Scott Hunter?”

Elena shielded her face with a hand and sunk even lower. “Oh my god.”

“Elena!”

“We didn’t hook-up, tabarnak. We’re friends. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

Elena shrugged, helpless. “J’sais pas, man, he’s weird!”

Kip squinted at her. “Weird,” he repeated, suspicious. “Weird how?”

Scott Hunter did a strange spin on the ice, drawing Kip’s attention once again, and then waved, for the third time. He was grinning big enough to see from the stands. Kip blinked. “Is he just going to keep waving at you until you wave back?”

“Uh-huh.” With a grimacing smile, Elena waved begrudgingly back at Scott Hunter. The hockey player pumped his stick in the air and did another spin, something strange and graceful almost like a figure skating move, before skating off once again, seemingly placated.

Kip and Elena silently watched him leave. Huh.

“I told you he was weird.”

After the warm-ups wrapped up—with Elena having excused herself for the remainder to use the bathroom and buy the both of them beers as recompense for keeping the gigantic secret of her and Scott Hunter’s torrid love affair from him for so long, while Kip tried his best to look at anyone but #21, who spent the rest of the warm-up alternating between stretches (by way of which Kip continued to learn against his will that hockey players were way more flexible than one would think) or else frowning up at Elena’s empty seat, dopey-eyed and sad, like a puppy whose owner had abandoned him—the players cleared off to let the Zambonis on the ice. Then, with a beer in hand and Elena once again beside him, Kip watched as, with the lights flashing all over the stadium like the intro sequence to a drag show and the opening notes to what he was pretty confident was a remix of Baba O’Riley playing, the pre-game show started. Kip, who had been starting to get bored, cursing the city’s transit system for somehow getting him to something early the absolute only time he couldn’t care less about being on time, found himself sitting up straight. As the players appeared, the crowd around him went wild—Elena was smiling a little herself, even letting out a short, piercing whistle when Hunter’s name and picture flashed onto the ice by way of gigantic projector. When Kip shot her a look she just shrugged, unashamed, and went back to watching the ice.

The game itself was good enough.

…Okay. Fine—it was incredible. Fucking sue him.

There was just something about watching a hockey game in person that could have even the most sport-ambivalent people invested by the end of the first period—something captivating about the brutality of it, the awful, crazy speed, even the slight nip of cold air. It made you want to jump to your feet, adrenaline pumping, and scream at the top of your lungs. In some beautiful, shining moments, Kip could almost understand how someone might dedicate their entire lives to this.

Scott Hunter was on fire. He was New York’s star, and they loved him. He was a rookie, first year in the league, starting centre and assistant captain. He scored twice before the end of the second period, assisted on two other goals, and got in a full-out, fists-up brawl with a Toronto player, Dallas Kent, during the start of the third period—a fight that ended with the both of them in the box, bloody-faced and panting, still fuming with rage, camera zooming in on Hunter licking blood from his mouth and baring his teeth in an angry grin, Kent yelling across to him from his own bench.

Kip found himself saying, almost against his will, his palms sweating and heart racing, “Holy fuck.”

Elena grinned at him, eyes alight with the both of their shared awe over how ridiculously hot Scott Hunter was. “I know.”

With a tone full of wonder, and unable to help himself, Kip said, “I can’t believe you fucked that guy.”

“I swear to god, Kip, I’m gonna fucking –”

5-3 for the New York Admirals.

“That was so cool,” Kip gushed, bouncing a little in place as they made their way out of the arena, following the stream of people into the still-cool March night. “Like, way fucking cool. Oh my god.” A thought occurred to him and he spun to face Elena, walking backwards, a little manic with the infectiousness of the game's adrenaline. “Do you think we should be into hockey now? I think I might be into hockey. Aw, jeez, my dad’s gonna freak.”

“Uh-huh.” Elena, a master of walking and texting, did not look up from her phone, and barely appeared to be listening. Kip glanced over her shoulder and watched as she opened a snap from one Scott Hunter, a photo of him with absolutely insane helmet-hair and text overlayed reading words he couldn’t quite make out.

A little louder than he meant to be, Kip said, “How’s Scott?”

Elena finally looked up. “He wants to meet for dinner. What do you think?”

“Oh.” Kip shook himself, trying to force his hurt frown into a wavering smile. What the hell? “That’s fine. I have some leftovers from last night, so…” He cleared his throat. “Are you still gonna sleep at my place?”

Elena stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and squinted at him for a long moment. “Oh my god,” she said finally, incredibly exasperated. “You idiot, I mean all three of us.”

Kip flushed. “Oh.”

“You really think I’d ditch you like that? And how many times do I have to say I’m not fucking this guy?”

At least a few more times. He was definitely not buying it. “Where does he want to go? Wait—hang on. We’re actually eating dinner with Scott Hunter?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s literally insane.”

Elena started to walk forward again, grinning. “Yep.”

Kip jogged to catch up to her, thinking about this. “Is he going to hate-crime me?” Weren’t hockey players, like, notoriously total jackasses? The jocks to end all jocks? Maybe this was a bad idea, actually. Kip had a pretty bad track record when it came to interacting with straight guys. And Conservatives. And Americans who seemed too invested in their own americanness. And he had seen Scott Hunter's game day outfit. The guy could've been the fucking poster child for the Young Republicans.

For a long moment Elena said nothing. When she spoke, it was only to say, “I can pretty much guarantee to you that he will not.”

“Okay,” Kip said slowly, skeptical. How, exactly?

“Give him a shot,” Elena said. “It’ll be fine.”

Kip felt a little offended by this. “Of course I will. I’m not, like, judgy.”

“Uh…" Elena side-eyed him. "You’re a little judgy.”

Kip huffed. Whatever. That wasn’t a bad thing. He was just looking out for himself! Sue him. He figured he had a right to be judgy, anyways—forty more years of being gay and bitter, and then he’d start carrying caramels around in his pockets or whatever, embrace the kindness of life, etc, etc. But fine. He’d try to reserve his judgement. How hard could it be?

So. Pretty fucking hard, it turns out. Especially when it came to gigantic, disgustingly pretty hockey players with stupid hair and huge hazel doe eyes.

Scott Hunter was weird. He was twitchy, laughed like a nervous horse, and stared directly into your eyes when you talked, incredibly intensely, like he was trying to look right into your soul. It could only be some strange endeavour towards alpha male posturing. Kip wouldn’t be swayed by it. He was stronger than that.

He’d been waiting for them at the restaurant when they got there, a little Mexican place not too far from Kip’s apartment, and had stood up upon their arrival, giving Elena a quick hug and shaking Kip’s hand, all official, greeting them smiling in a voice that seemed much too solemn for his expression. After they’d all sat down he’d proceeded to skip his gaze between Kip and Elena so quick it almost made Kip nauseous, asking Elena about her flight and time in New York and the last few days of school before reading week like he knew everything there was to know about her life. He seemed smaller in person, slightly lanky and long-limbed without all that gear, and the aforementioned stupid hair was still damp from a shower, dark and thick and curling faintly over his forehead. He looked like the member of a boy band. He and Elena would probably make the world’s most beautiful couple.

Kip was pretty sure he hated him.

As they waited for their food, Kip watched Scott Hunter from across the table with narrowed eyes, supplying one word, monotone answers to the other man’s attempts to pry information out of him. Elena, who clearly gathered what was going on, kicked Kip under the table. After a few seconds of eye contact in which she mentally told him to knock it the fuck off, she was actually starting to get annoyed, she loudly announced she was going to go to the bathroom and left the two of them alone at the table.

Kip, feeling weirdly chastised and a little embarrassed, but mostly just betrayed, pretended to be very invested in the wine menu. “Should we split a bottle for the table, do you think?”

“Uh, I can’t drink,” Scott said, apologetic. “I’m 20.”

Kip looked up at that, squinting. Was he really? For some reason he’d imagined the other man to be older than that. Older than Kip, at least, who was 22. It was likely the scruff. Scott was very scruffy.

“Look,” Scott continued, before Kip could say anything. “Do you have a problem with me, or something?”

Kip, who had been expecting this for a while now, did not shrink from the accusation. “No.”

Scott was unconvinced. “Ok. But. Did I, like, do something to you, man?”

Ugh. Man. “No,” Kip said again. Then, because he couldn’t help it, “I just think Elena can do better.”

Scott stared at him. After a moment, insanely, he seemed to relax a little. Running a hand through his hair, he even let out a quiet laugh. “Oh. No—you got it all wrong, man. I’m not interested in Elena like that, really. She’s all yours.”

If anything, that made Kip glare harder. “‘She’s mine’? Are you serious?”

Scott blinked, startled. “Uh, yeah, man. I mean—“

“First of all, man: I’m gay. Second of all: Elena’s not yours to fucking give away, so you can fuck off with that weird chauvinistic bullshit. She’s not anyone’s. Got that?”

Scott opened and closed his mouth a few times, and Kip took satisfaction in the way his face flushed red. Finally, he said, voice a little strangled, “You’re gay?”

Kip tried very desperately not to groan out loud—only half succeeding, letting out a huff of exasperated breath even as his stomach fluttered tightly with nerves. “Yeah. I’m gay. Who cares?”

“I don’t care,” Scott said quickly. “Sorry. I don’t care.”

“Well. Great. Good.”

“Good,” Scott repeated. He looked a little lost. Kip momentarily almost felt a little bad for him—it was something about the split lip, slowly purpling cheekbone and mussed up hair alongside the general demeanour of a dog who just couldn’t understand why all these people kept throwing stuff at it. He had to remind himself that Scott Hunter did not need his pity. Scott Hunter was an MLH superstar, a millionaire, a 20 year-old generational talent—and, apparently, a misogynist. As well as, judging by the truly uncomfortable look on his face, at least marginally homophobic.

When Elena returned to the table, looking suspicious, Kip tried his best to pretend to have decided to like Scott. This was a little difficult now that Scott had apparently decided it was impossible to look Kip in the eyes, all his previous intense staring now just a quick, darting gaze every once in a while before going back to looking anywhere but at Kip’s face, like he figured it was possible to catch the Gay from prolonged eye contact. So definitely homophobic.

Whatever. Kip wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t like he’d expected anything better. It just sucked, was all. The reminder that there’d always be people like Scott Hunter who’d hate people like Kip.

The night didn't last much longer, after that. Scott got quiet, and somehow even twitchier. Kip told himself he couldn’t care less.

He had four more days left with his best friend. He was going to enjoy the shit out of them, make the most of every minute, and definitely was not going to spare a single fucking thought to Scott Hunter.

It was a Tuesday morning, Kip had no classes, and Elena had left two days prior. He was at work, half-dozing into a pile of readings for his Lust and Desire in Renaissance Artwork class, when a throat clearing startled him fully awake to the sight of Scott fucking Hunter lingering uncomfortably by the register.

“What,” Kip said, “the fuck.”

Scott’s face was flushed and drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly like he’d just got done sprinting. He gave a stupid little wave, a motion that, if done by literally anyone else, Kip might find adorable, but here just served to annoy him. “Hi.” His shirt, a long-sleeve, grey, under-armour compression top, was so tight that Kip could make out each individual ab.

“What the fuck,” Kip said again, snapping his eyes back up to Scott’s face. It was a little bit harder than he would've liked. “What are you doing here?”

Scott glanced around the shop. “Uh. Getting a smoothie? Do you work here?”

Kip looked at him. Then he looked down at himself, on the other side of the counter, dressed in a stupid pink apron and ball cap.

Scott said, “Stupid question, sorry.”

Kip took a deep breath. Okay. Whatever. This was fine. He plastered on a bland, close-lipped customer service smile and said, in a droning monotone, “Welcome to Straw+Berry. What can I get you?”

Scott glanced up at the menu board, looking like a deer in headlights. “Um.” Was it this guy’s first day on earth or something? “What’s good here?”

“Blueberry banana.”

“Thats—Blue Moon Over Brooklyn?”

Yeah, the names were stupid. What-fucking-ever.

Scott said, “that sounds good.”

Sort of to be an asshole, Kip said, “Would you like an extra scoop of protein powder in that?”

But Scott just lit up in response, like Kip had just offered him Gretzky’s lucky jockstrap or something. “Sure!”

“It’s 3 dollars extra.”

“That’s fine.”

Scowling down at the register, Kip punched in the order.

“Long night?”

“What?”

Scott jerked his chin towards where Kip’s head had been laying five minutes prior. He hoped he was imagining the spot of drool on the papers. Quickly, Kip said, “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Ok.” Scott was smiling, just a little, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

Kip’s cheeks heated. “I was just resting my eyes.”

“Sure.”

Maybe if Kip glared hard enough, the guy would finally get the hint and leave him alone. Loudly clearing his throat, he said, in a blank monotone, “Your smoothie will be ready in a few minutes.”

The minutes passed slowly. Scott stood at the register, peering around the shop like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, occasionally sending quick, darting glances over at Kip while he worked, expression unreadable. Kip kept his head down and pretended not to notice. Over and over, he tried to tell himself that Scott was not that attractive, that he was making things up—unfortunately, each time he caught a glimpse of the guy in his periphery quickly proved that false. Ugh. That was so fucking annoying, when they were as hot as they thought they were.

“Here.” Kip thrust the finished smoothie into Scott’s hand. Their fingers brushed, and Kip quickly snatched his arm back. Scott’s skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He probably smelt terrible. “Have a fantastic day.”

“Thanks, Kip,” Scott said. “I’ll try my best.”

Then he was gone, the bell on the door jangling on his way out, and Kip was left with nothing to scowl at but the twenty now stuffed into the tip jar and his coworker, Stoner Jeff, finally emerging from his twenty-minute long dump in the employee bathroom.

“Holy shit,” Stoner Jeff said, rubber-necking as Scott disappeared down the sidewalk and out of view of the windows. “Was that Scott Hunter?”

Kip took a deep breath, turned to him, and smiled a very bland, empty smile. “Who?”

Kip needed a new job. He was pretty sure he was starting to go deaf from the sound of blenders, and half his clothes now sported juice stains. Also, Scott Hunter had apparently decided Kip’s workplace was his new favourite spot to be—presumably only to torture him, because it certainly wasn’t for the smoothies, which were watery as hell.

“You’re kidding,” Kip said, the third time Scott Hunter walked into his place of employment. (The last time, Kip had pretended to be very busy in the break room until Maria took pity on the man and came out to take his order, which resulted in a very strange conversation with her afterwards about Kip’s phobia of professional hockey players, and Scott walking out of the shop with his tail between his legs. This time, unfortunately, Kip was working alone. Fucking Stoner Jeff hadn't even bothered to send a text. It was a wonder he hadn't been fired, yet. Probably it had something to do with how Kip kept covering for him, not wanting to have to find a new plug.)

Scott was dressed in an indecently tight shirt once again, clearly having run there. He was smiling, unfortunately just as stupidly hot as the last time Kip had seen him. He was also, to Kip's eternal and enduring distress, wearing shorts. It was insane. It was totally not shorts weather. The guy had probably flashed, like, one million middle schoolers while running in those things.

Scott said, “Hi Kip.”

Ugh. “It’s Christopher. Only my friends call me Kip.”

“...But.” Scott’s eyebrows drew together. “It’s on your name tag.”

Kip narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to slap his palm over the tag on his apron. “Can I take your order?”

Scott looked at the menu for a moment, like he was genuinely contemplating it. Then he said, as expected, “I’ll have a Blue Moon Over Brooklyn, please. With an extra scoop of protein powder.”

Kip fought not to roll his eyes. Punching in the order, he said, “Is there a reason you’re stalking me?”

“I’m not stalking you.” Scott looked genuinely offended. “I’m just buying a smoothie.”

“Uh-huh. Buying a shitty smoothie. At my job. Where I work.”

“It’s not shitty. I like it.”

Kip actually did roll his eyes this time, unable to help it. Yeah, right. “Sure you do.”

Scott seemed a little huffy. “I didn’t even know you worked here until the other day,” he complained. “It was literally my first day coming in.”

Uh-huh. Sure. And every time since then? Kip turned to start on the smoothie, determining that he would make it even more watery than usual.

Apparently now done being offended, Scott said, “Did you watch the game yesterday?”

Kip paused, confused at the non-sequitur. “What?”

“The game.” He seemed almost bashful about, scratching at his nose and glancing away. “I scored a couple’a times.”

Kip had, actually, watched the game. On the tv, of course – and though it hadn’t measured up to watching the thing in person, Scott had still played irritatingly incredibly, always the fastest on the ice, the most reactive, the least predictable. But it wasn’t like Kip was about to say that. “No, I didn’t watch your game.”

“Oh.” Scott deflated a bit. “Well, I scored.”

“You mentioned.” At that, Kip finished turning around and hit the button to start the blender. If Scott had anything more to brag about, he couldn’t hear it.

When Kip handed Scott his smoothie, the other man managed a good three seconds of eye contact before dropping his gaze to the counter. New record? “Thanks.”

“Yep. Have a fantastic day.”

“You too.” But despite the obvious dismissal, Scott did not leave. He just stood at the counter, hesitating, shifting his weight from foot to foot with a really watery smoothie in hand.

Kip impatiently started to tap his foot. He hoped it was audible. “Will that be all?”

“Yes. Or – no. I mean. I was.” Scott inhaled. Kip, intrigued despite himself at this train wreck in progress, patiently waited as he finally seemed to figure out what he was saying, and blurted out, in practically one breath, “Do you believe in fate, Kip?”

What. “What,” Kip said.

Scott barrelled on. “In my experience most of the people who believe in common superstitions also tend to put stock in fate. I don’t think I do, really, but I don’t necessarily think I don’t. And some superstitions are just common sense. I mean, obviously if I do one thing and then I score a bunch of goals the same night I’m gonna keep doing the same thing. It would be totally stupid not to.”

Blankly, Kip said, “What the hell are you saying to me right now.”

“Do you want to go out with me?”

Kip stared at him. Scott stared back, making very intense and clearly intended eye contact. Kip imagined perhaps this was what it felt to be one of the opponents at a face-off. Finally he said, “Was that a joke?”

“No.”

“‘Cause if it’s a joke I’m not sure I understand the funny part.”

Scott looked a little distressed. “It’s not a joke.”

There was another long, silent period of staring before Kip said, “Is it a prank.”

Scott blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m doing this wrong,” he said with contrition. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

“You like guys.” Kip had meant it to be a question, but it somehow came out sounding more like a very severe accusation. He was just — he couldn’t believe it. What the hell was happening?

Scott paused. He looked at Kip, really looked at him, and an expression of vague constipation slowly dawned over his face. “Elena didn’t tell you.”

Kip was going insane. “Tell me what?”

Silently, Scott got out his phone and opened Snapchat, scrolling up through his and Elena’s messages before wordlessly passing the phone over.

Kip took it the way one might accept a live grenade, and, suspiciously eyeing Scott, began to read.

Elena: good to see u boy lmk when ur in montreal

Me: Elena your friend hates me
Me: What the hell
Me: I think he wants me dead for real

Elena: lol why

Me: He thinks we’re dating?? Or at least that I’m secretly in love with you or something??

Elena: LMAO

Me: You didn’t tell him I was gay???

Elena: ofc i didnt jfc
Elena: i told you i wouldn’t tell anyone

Me: Oh.
Me. Well, thank you
Me: I don’t mind if you tell him though

Elena: AGAGAHAHAHAHAH

Me: Hello
Me: What

Elena: he’s hot right

Me: …
Me: I hate you

“Um,” Scott snatched the phone out of Kip’s hand. His cheeks were red. “It’s only the first bit.”

Kip, who was an incredibly fast reader, stared blankly back at him. “You’re actually asking me out.”

“Yes.” Scott threw his hands up in the air with great triumphant relief. “Thank you.”

“Why?”

Scott did not have to think about it. “Because you’re hot. And I can’t stop thinking about you. And I think you’re funny. And cool. And —“

“Oh my god, stop.” Scott snapped his mouth shut, hazel eyes wide and entreating as he stared across the counter at Kip, who momentarily placed his forehead against the vinyl top. “Oh my god,” Kip said again, with a terrible, dawning horror. “I have been—so fucking mean to you.”

“This is true.”

“Do you hate yourself?”

Scott appeared to genuinely consider it. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for that.” He sounded a little apologetic.

Kip pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars and tried to rearrange his entire worldview to fit this sequence of events. Then, marginally calmer, he said, “Give me your phone.”

Scott scrambled to obey, handing it over without comment. Jesus. Kip was power-drunk. He felt insane. He added his number into Scott’s contacts, saving it as Kip🫐, before handing the phone back. Scott looked down at the screen and then back at Kip, a goofy smile dawning on his face.

Kip’s cheeks heated. “Shut up.”

“It’s a blueberry. Because of the drink.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” But Kip somehow found himself smiling too, an expression tinged with an edge of disbelief, maybe a hint of hysteria. “Just text me. Jesus.”

“Do you want to come to my game tomorrow? You can have two tickets. Bring a friend.”

Problem with that—Kip didn’t have any friends. At least not any that would enjoy watching a hockey game, or else not know immediately upon looking at Kip’s face that he was nursing a massive crush on the star player. “Counter offer. I’m off work in an hour. If you come back I’ll get coffee with you?”

“Really?” Scott beamed, but a moment later his face fell. “Wait—but I totally stink.”

“You can’t get home and change in an hour?”

“I live in Manhattan.”

“What? Then what the hell are you doing running in Bushwick?”

Scott glanced away, embarrassed. “I really didn’t know you worked here the first day,” he said. “I was in the area for a meeting.”

And the other two times? “Okay,” Kip said, not at all believing him. He still wasn’t quite sure what was going on. Scott liked him? Like, like-liked?

“We can get dinner? Tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Scott beamed at him. “I’ll text you?”

“Sure.”

They made plans to meet up at a burger place halfway between their apartments, Kip stumbling a little shell-shocked through the conversation, and then Scott was gone with a noticeable skip in his step, leaving Kip alone and reeling with a date later that day with one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen. A man who up until that moment he’d figured to be a total asshole. At least this was going to be interesting.

Chapter End Notes

guys is the franglais too much je ne sais pas si les readers peut le comprendre...je suis anglo...je refuse d'utiliser google translate ou de verifier ma grammaire...alors c'est peut-être pas correcte...mais je m'en fous we ballin

Chapter 5: Scott

Chapter Notes

I did not read this over so warning for that

very short chapter. sorry? nothing happens

Scott was not freaking out. Honest.

He’d just…never been on a date before. With a man. A very handsome man, who maybe hated him, but still, for whatever reason, had nevertheless said yes to going out on a date with him. In — Scott checked his watch — three hours. Fuck.

What the hell was he going to wear?

He called Elena.

“Allo.”

He decided to skip the pleasantries. “You still didn’t tell him?”

“No, I didn’t.” Elena scoffed derisively. “I’m not your wing man, Hunter. You’re a big boy, you can figure it out yourself.”

Okay, rude. “For your information,” Scott said primly, “we are going on a date tonight.”

Once he thought it safe, Elena having run out of breath to screech with, he pulled the phone back to his ear.

Elena gasped out, “Tell me everything.”

“Uh.” Scott thought for a moment. “I got his number?”

“Oh my god, you’re bad at this. Give me details! Did your crazy stalker thing seriously work out?”

That was so offensive. “I wasn’t stalking him. Is it a crime for a man to want a smoothie?”

“Scott, I’ve tried Kip’s smoothies. They are indescribably bad.” …Yeah. That was true. Scott, who as a rule did not waste food, had had to resentfully choke them down. “That boy thought you were going to murder him.”

Scott gazed blankly into his closet, which was mostly workout clothes, Admirals-branded apparel, and random PR merch. A worn Hollander sweater hanging carefully in the corner, a gift from his host family in Quebec. His game day suit, which fit a little big on him this late in the season. A lot of hoodies.

“Scott?” Elena’s voice sounded a little worried.

The Hollander jersey, red white and blue, seemed to stare accusingly back at him. Scott said, “I can’t do this.”

Elena was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, she said, “Is that an ‘I’m a closeted hockey player terrified of being outed’ I can’t do this, or an ‘I’m going on a date with a guy I really like who thinks I’m a whackjob’ I can’t do this.”

Scott pondered this, still staring emptily into the void of sweat-wicking fabric. “A little bit of both?”

For a moment, he was certain that she was going to ask why the hell he was even doing this, then, if he was really so afraid — in which case he would be forced to hang up on her — but when she finally spoke, it was only to say, “It’ll be fine. Kip likes weirdos. His last relationship was this fucked up sort of polycule thing with a bunch of writers.”

Scott said, “What?”

“Tu sais. Comme…ethical non-monogamy. Man, you really know nothing at all, huh?”

Scott frowned. “I’ve heard of polycules. I just didn’t realize normal people actually did that.”

Immediately he felt bad for saying ‘normal,’ and hoped Elena wouldn’t call him out on it—luckily, she just said, like it explained everything, “Well. They were super into Magic the Gathering.”

Blankly, Scott said, “I don’t know what that is.”

“See? You’re already a step up. Kip only hated you because he thought you were a boring chad hockey player. Just show him you’ve got depths.”

There was only one problem with that. “What depths? I am boring. I’ve got no hobbies, no friends —“

“No motion, no hoes. No, sorry, sorry. Ok, calisse, am I seriously giving you a pep-talk? You’ve got half a million followers on instagram, you loser.”

It was 700k — but who was counting? “I don’t think this counts as a pep-talk,” Scott grumbled. “And didn’t you say my instagram was the most basic thing you’d ever seen?”

“Yeah, and I stand by that. But that shit’s not real.” But it was? Wasn’t that what everyone was always trying to get Scott to understand? Elena said, “Look, okay — I’m only going to say this once: You are an interesting person, Scott. You’re thoughtful, and kind — and yeah, really fucking weird in a lot of ways I don’t think you quite understand. But you’re certainly not boring.”

“Wow,” Scott said, after a very long stretch of silence in which he tried to digest this. “I think that’s the nicest thing someone has ever said to me.”

“Oh my god,” Elena said.

Scott may have been getting a little choked up. “I’m serious.”

“Get help. I’m serious. Your life is so sad — you’re, like, horrifying to talk to.”

Scott was barely listening now. “I’ve never had a friend like you before.”

“Please stop,” Elena said, desperate. “You’re gonna give me depression by-proxy or something.”

Scott didn’t think that was particularly fair, but fine. “What am I supposed to wear?”

Elena jumped on the change in subject with obvious relief. “No Under Armour.”

Well. That ruled out about half of Scott’s options. He had a brand deal. Maybe he should wear his game day suit? But, no – that would be a little too un-chill, probably.

He walked Elena through his closet, switching begrudgingly to FaceTime once it became clear that Scott had no idea how to describe clothing.

“Oh my god!” Elena screeched, her face disappearing from Scott’s screen the moment he started shucking his clothes off to try on the outfit option. “Scott!”

Scott blinked down at his phone where it was propped up inside his closet, a little perplexed, shirt half-off. “I’m wearing underwear?”

“So not the issue.” Elena picked the phone back up, her face slightly flushed. “But ok, fine. Continue. Slut.”

Well, now Scott felt a little self-conscious. “Sorry. I wasn’t really thinking.”

“It’s fine.” Elena seemed slightly distracted. “Do you seriously have a fucking eight-pack?”

Scott held his shirt to his chest in a ridiculously virginal attempt at modesty. Was he being objectified right now? Should he, like, feel something about that?

…Whatever. Half of New York had probably seen him shirtless by now. Hell, whenever that Sport’s Illustrated thing finally came out, they’d all be seeing a whole lot more. (Though Scott was trying not to think about this too much, he knew the magazine issue was coming out that summer. Sometimes he laid awake at night thinking about it. He’d so far had little success in convincing himself the photoshoot could only be the behaviour of a completely straight man. Perhaps that’s why Ilya Rozanov had dropped it.)

The first outfit ended up being a bust, for whatever reason. The second, too. Scott wasn’t asking questions. He trusted Elena to figure it out for him. Girls knew that kind of stuff, he was pretty confident. Carter always brought his sister with him when he went suit shopping, ‘cause he said women just naturally had an eye for it. (Was it feminist or anti-feminist to trust a woman’s opinion on his dress just because she was a woman? Scott suddenly wasn’t sure. Maybe he should’ve considered staying in college.)

“That one,” Elena said, after Scott had tried on the third outfit, his good jeans (the ones he wore when he wanted to get laid somewhere that wasn’t a resort bar — they fit his ass and his thighs, which was practically unheard of) and a knit sweater he hadn’t even known he had.

He looked down at himself, a little dubious. This was not a Scott Hunter-approved getting laid outfit. You couldn’t even see his nipples through his shirt. “Are you sure?”

Elena was sure. “Just trust me,” she said.

Alright. His life in her hands. They didn’t speak for much longer after that, giving Scott a good few hours to kill after they’d hung up. He turned in restless circles around his apartment; he scrolled mindlessly through his phone; he prepped himself with a hopefully not completely unwarranted level of optimism. Some random equipment start-up had sent him a balance board, so he fucked around on that for a bit practicing his stick handling on a sheet of fake ice—the apartment was open concept, which was beneficial to Scott’s predilection to try random, obscure workouts while waiting for the microwave to finish heating whatever was inside (he’d used the oven a total of four times since moving in)—until he almost ate shit against his kitchen counter and sheepishly retired the contraption to his spare bedroom.

He briefly considered cleaning his apartment after that, as the bedroom in question was still mostly full of boxes of stuff Scott hadn’t unpacked, stuff he’d finally been able to move from storage, the meager remains of his mother’s belongings passed onto him after his grandmother’s death two years ago. But the thought of doing something about the jumbled mess of boxes (most of which whose contents he was in the dark about) freaked him out so much he temporarily forgot the reason for his initial stress – that is, the date with Kip – and so he ultimately decided to do what had been serving him pretty well ever since he’d moved all the stuff out of storage and into his apartment in the first place, ie: ignore it and hope it inevitably somehow went away.

Scott lay down on his couch and tried to think of something to do for the next hour. He could play Chel – but he didn’t actually care all that much about video games, only really played with Carter, who he couldn’t exactly invite over only to kick out an hour later with no explanation. So that left…scrolling on his phone, he supposed. Hadn’t Scott used to have hobbies? Didn’t he enjoy anything at all? Well – hockey. That was something. Working out. …Sex? Yeah, ok, sure. Sex. That was three. Was that really all Scott’s life amounted to?

In college he had had a journal for a little while. It had been something of an experiment—to see if Scott could build a world in which he did things worth writing about. He had joined an art class, remembering the love he’d had for it in his youth, and had made good friends with the teacher, an older guy named David with white hair and big, blocky glasses like a cartoon character, who seemed somehow to see something in Scott’s work that had merit. He’d drawn and journalled and gone to parties, talked to the people in his classes, made friends outside of his hockey team (which, at the time, had been full of assholes, misogynistic, bigoted meatheads who hated Scott for being what he was, top point-scorer in the NCAA, a consensus number one draft pick for the show since age 15, good at playing the guy’s guy but never able to convince himself into letting ‘harmless’ comments slide) and for a while it had worked. He’d had stuff to say – he’d gone out of his comfort zone, and it’d sucked but it’d also been weirdly exhilarating, had him somehow looking forward to getting out of bed each day—and then Scott’s painting class had their art show. Friends and family invited.

And, in an entirely foreseeable and totally unsurprising turn of events, nobody had shown up. Well—ok, people had shown up to the show itself, sure—just not to see Scott. Obviously. Because Scott had nobody, absolutely nobody—and he could still remember the way his teacher, David, had asked about it, Scott standing silent and stiff in the corner next to his oils of the Brooklyn skyscape, awkwardly edging around the question of how the hell a guy managed to go 18 whole years without finding a single friend or family member willing to come to this shitty little art show in fucking Bushwick—

Scott pulled out his phone and opened Instagram. Whatever. Journaling had been a stupid idea. And he hadn’t pulled his art supplies out in months—everytime he did he got stuck painting the same shit over and over again; hunched over figures tightening worn skates, white landscapes broken up by blobs of red and white, players gliding across blue planes of ice, pink-cheeked, bundled in scarves, caught mid-motion.

He scrolled through Instagram boredly for a bit; liked and commented something banal and inoffensive on a picture Carter had tagged him in of them mid-celly at last night’s game, having scored his first hat-trick off of Scott’s assist. Realizing he hadn’t posted in a while, and refusing to come up with something interesting to say for Twitter, Scott threw a random gym selfie from a week ago up onto his Story. Then, inspired, he went onto Elena’s account—he’d followed her a couple weeks ago, after considerable threats on her end—and scrolled through her page until he found a photo @kip_grady was tagged in.

Heart beating a little faster, Scott tapped on the profile.

It was…a pretty gay Instagram. There was a rainbow flag in the bio, for Christ’s sake. It was also a lot more artistic than Scott’s, which was mostly promo stuff, some videos he’d done for Under Armour with the rare couple of vacation posts scattered across his feed. Kip’s, on the other hand, seemed aesthetically purposeful and clearly intentioned in a cool, casual sort of way, with candid shots of pigeons in Times Square, some pictures of museums, photos of him and his friends clearly overlaid with a filter where they looked flamboyant and messy. He was following Ilya Rozanov, which Scott frowned at—but, to be fair, the guy did post a lot of shirtless photos. Hell, Scott was following him. And it wasn’t like they were friends.

Kip had a Story highlight dedicated to screenshots of the music he was listening to, and Scott spent the next twenty minutes going through and downloading each featured song, adding it to a playlist on his phone with a little blueberry emoji as the title. (He had, at the first possible moment, deleted Kip’s name from the contact he’d made, leaving only the blueberry. Just in case—though he’d felt a strange pang of guilt about it that he’d had to forcibly brush off.)

Kip didn't post his face a lot. Scott went through every single photo there was, zooming in and staring, stomach fluttering with giddiness, until he realized he was being kind of creepy and begrudgingly made himself stop.

He was pretty sure he’d never felt like this before. Even the long-term unrequited crush he’d harboured on his high school roommate hadn't come on so suddenly, rather being the result of extended proximity as well as one excruciating instance of walking in on the guy jacking off in their room completely naked.

It was probably ridiculous. He hardly even knew Kip. Bu, for some inexplicable reason, try as he might, he just couldn’t stop thinking about him. Ever since that first night, at dinner with him and Elena, the guy so obviously unimpressed by Scott’s reputation—and then Scott, fumbling and idiotic, and Kip saying, I’m gay, actually, in that tone of voice, totally bitchy and completely unashamed. Not afraid at all. Like it didn’t matter if Scott turned out to be a homophobic asshole, because his opinion didn’t mean anything to Kip whatsoever. Like nobody’s did. Like he didn’t care one lick what anybody thought about him—like he was proud.

Scott wanted that. He wanted that so badly he felt like he was fucking starving for it. Had been for years.

It didn’t hurt that Kip, as well as being brave and catty and Elena’s best friend, was also hot as shit. Dark features, curly hair—cute, in a way Scott had never really looked for in the people he fucked. Kip was almost as big as him, insanely, probably worked out an unusual amount for an Art History undergrad working at a smoothie bar. Scott had always been under the impression that gay New York millennials were all, like, effeminate white twinks that listened to Lady Gaga and shit—but clearly he’d been unjustly stereotyping. After all, Scott was a gay New York millennial. And he was pretty much ambivalent to Lady Gaga. But Kip was cool. Kip listened to obscure indie bands from Montreal, and wore wire-rimmed glasses, and read post-modernist literature about queer people. Scott still used the word gay sometimes as an insult, and the only books he read were about true crime or the lives of professional athletes.

Scott was boring. Kip was verifiably the opposite.

It was six o’clock, thirty minutes before they’d agreed to meet, which meant Scott should probably get going.

Before leaving, Scott took one last look at his outfit in the bathroom mirror. He brushed his teeth, spritzed himself with some body spray, and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to make his hair look presentable. (There was just too much of it. He needed, honestly, to buzz it—but having a shaved head made him look like a delinquent, and the Admirals had a thing about it being bad luck to have a buzzcut that wasn’t bleached. Which Scott was very much against.)

At All-Stars, Shane Hollander had at one point made a very strange, yet weirdly rousing speech about the importance of positive affirmation on the ice. Apparently he made all the Metros recite nice things about themselves before every game—and, being the absolute only person in the MLH that actually took his captaining duties seriously for All-Stars, had earnestly entreated the rest of them to do the same over that weekend. (He did this at the Olympics as well, according to Huff. They’d roomed together in Sochi, and were not friends.)

Now, in his apartment’s weirdly shiny bathroom, Scott made very deliberate, intense eye contact with himself in the mirror. “You are enough,” he said firmly. He was pretty sure that’s how it was supposed to start—though the tone of voice came out a little more threatening than reassuring. He took a deep breath and tried again. “You are…hot as shit.” Okay. Better. “People want to fuck you. You are incredibly normal. You are not a serial killer and you do not behave like one.” That was…five? Shane Hollander said seven positive affirmations was the ideal number. (Huff said this was because Shane Hollander was a total spaz, are you kidding, don’t listen to anything that little psycho tells you—but Huff was not a two-time Stanley Cup champion. So.) Scott wracked his brain. Finally, he came up with, “You’ve got mad beej skills and you are very personable. Okay. Um, amen,” and then left, speedwalking out of his building and in the direction of the meeting place, which he had carefully poured over the directions for before leaving, intent on not having to take the subway and hoping he wouldn’t get too sweaty on the way and that Kip wouldn’t be early as well, so he could have time to settle into his skin and figure out what the hell he could order at a burger joint that would fit his macros.

Chapter 6: Scott

Chapter Notes

who ever heard of a consistent posting schedule?

Scott woke up at the usual time to sunlight streaming through his window, the beep of his alarm clock chirping from his bedside table, and the warm, unfamiliar weight of an arm flung across his shoulders. He panicked, flailing in startled, half-awake confusion, and practically flung himself out of bed to land with a thud against the hardwood floor. He lay there, groaning, until Kip’s face appeared over the side of the bed, hair mussed and eyes wide as he stared down at Scott on his back on the floor.

“Uh,” Kip said. “You good?”

Rubbing his smarting shoulder and incredibly embarrassed, Scott levered himself to sitting. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’ve never, uh. Slept with someone before.”

Kip’s eyes widened even further. “You were a virgin?”

Scott frowned, taken aback. “No! What—did I seem like a virgin?” He was supposed to be good at sex! He’d thought it went well!

“Jesus.” Kip put a hand to his chest, breathing out a sigh of relief. “No, obviously not. Are you saying you’ve never, like, slept in a bed with someone?”

Scott shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, and pulled himself fully to his feet. “Not really.”

“Huh.” Literally what was that noise about? It wasn’t like Scott and the boys were cuddling up together on road trips. Fortunately, Kip let it drop. Unfortunately, his next move was to slide out of bed and begin to put his clothes back on.

“Are you leaving?”

KIp looked up from buttoning his pants. He must’ve seen something on Scott’s face because he paused, eyebrows drawing together. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

“Oh.” Scott’s heart fell. “Do you…have to?”

Kip licked his lips and glanced towards the door, then back at Scott. After a second, he said, “I’m not working today, if that’s what you mean.”

“No classes?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Oh. Right.” Scott scratched the back of his neck. “You don’t have to go. I mean—at least stay for breakfast.”

“Okay,” Kip said quickly. He seemed immediately a little taken aback by his own enthusiasm, shaking his head ruefully and clearing his throat. “I mean—sure. Whatever.”

“Awesome.” Scott grinned. “I’m gonna go shower but there’s a bunch of takeout menus on the fridge—choose one you like and I’ll order us something after I’m done.”

“Alright.” Kip blinked rapidly. “You don’t have stuff to make something?”

“Not…really. Okay. Um, bye.” Before he could talk himself out of it Scott gave Kip a very quick peck on the lips and then hastily made his exit, disappearing before he could witness the other man’s reaction. Once safely inside the bathroom and out of sight, Scott sat on the closed lid of the toilet and smacked himself on the side of the head with a closed fist. Idiot. Jesus fucking Christ. He was so fucking lame.

Partly, Scott was freaking out because of being a total loser, but he was also admittedly kind of worried at having had sex the night before a game. He’d never done that before. What if it messed up his play? Routines were important. Not in, like, an obsessive way—just a realistic one. Technically Scott knew that his saying, doing, or even thinking certain things wouldn’t actually have a tangible effect on things in the world that were out of his control—but he’d also never gotten real concrete evidence to the contrary. So, really, he was just being safe.

Under the pounding rush of the best water pressure Scott had ever lived with, he lathered up his hair with his fancy 2-in-1 Bath and Body Works shampoo and unwittingly let his mind drift. If he fell in here, hit his head on the tile and knocked himself out, Kip would probably hear. He’d left the door unlocked. If he knocked himself out Kip would hear, and he’d come running, and there was therefore a much smaller chance that Scott would ultimately drown in his own shower, naked and water-logged and alone.

Hunter, Scott thought to himself, in a voice sounding uncannily close to Carter’s, you are being insane again. And not in a cute way.

Yeah. Scott told himself to stop being a pussy and a freak, and thought instead of the way Kip had touched him last night, the hot, searing press of his hands against his skin, the weight of him against Scott’s back. The way their skin stuck sweaty against one another’s, their bodies reluctant to pull apart, melding and blurring into one. Then he made himself stop thinking about that, because he had already taken longer than he’d meant to in the washroom and he could not afford to take care of a boner right now. They hadn’t even fucked, really. Just hand stuff. Mouths. Probably for the best, considering the burgers—but still. Scott had, like, hopes. For the future.

Scott showered off as quickly as he was able, dithered over putting his clothes back on, and ultimately landed on free-balling it in a pair of relatively clean shorts from his laundry basket. He’d do a load later.

He found Kip in the kitchen, pouring a blueish-green concoction from the blender into two glasses. “I hope you don’t mind,” Kip said, when he noticed Scott in the entrance way, staring. “It’s just—you, like, mentioned superstitions yesterday? And doing the same thing over again if you played well? And, well—I thought. Before those other games you’d gotten a smoothie. So.” He gestured with one of the glasses towards Scott, appearing to flush a little with embarrassment. Scott was gobsmacked, and incredibly endeared. He hadn’t really thought Kip was capable of awkwardness—but maybe that’s what mornings after did to you. Also—Kip knew whether or not Scott had played well? What?

Kip cleared his throat, glanced away, and said, “Anyway. Sorry for, like, ransacking your kitchen. You’ve got the fridge of a serial killer, by the way.”

Scott managed to unstick his feet from the ground in order wordlessly round the island. Deciding to let that comment about his fridge slide—he wasn’t the one who stocked it, and he was kind of fond of how well-organized it was—he plucked the cup from Kip’s grasp and placed it on the counter behind him. Kip let him. Scott crowded him back against the counter, bracketing his hips with his arms, caging him in. Kip let him.

When he kissed him, Kip allowed it for a good five seconds, right up until Scott tried to slip some tongue, at which point he pulled away with a chuckle. “My mouth tastes like ass. I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

Scott said, “I don’t care,” and kissed him again. Kip’s mouth did taste pretty bad, the sour stink of morning breath—but Scott wasn’t lying. He really didn’t care. His skin felt like it was on fire. There was something growing in his chest like a balloon, pressing into his throat and making him struggle to breath, something huge and terrifying. He wanted to crawl inside Kip’s clothes, his mouth, his ribcage, to press their bodies so tight together that they melted into one mass of flesh and bone. He wanted to stay like this, right here, and never ever leave.

Kip’s teeth caught a little on his lower lip—Scott made a high-pitched, terrible, desperate noise, almost a keen, and pressed even closer. He wanted Kip to break skin, to lap at his blood, to taste all of Scott and tell him it was good. He felt firm pressure at the back of his neck, Kip’s hand snaking around his throat and gripping him at the nape, and his knees almost buckled right there—Scott made another incredibly embarrassing noise, his hips bucking forwards without his consent as Kip’s strong, absurdly muscled thigh nudged between his legs. He could feel himself growing hard, heat simmering deep inside his gut, panting into Kip’s hot mouth, wet and eager and—

Scott’s phone went off in his pocket with a blaring alarm, causing the both of them to jump and break apart. Scott scrabbled for it, cursing. It was his ‘leave in fifteen’ alarm. So much for ordering breakfast. When he’d turned it off and looked back up, Kip was biting his lower lip, eyes bright, cheeks slightly flushed. Gently, he pushed Scott away by the hips and slid out from between him and the hard edge of the counter.

Scott closed his eyes, briefly, and wrestled his body under control. Damn. “Practice,” he said regretfully, by way of reluctant explanation. “Sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Kip said. “I should get going, anyways.” He pressed one of the smoothies into Scott’s hand with a close-lipped, inoffensive smile.

Scott blinked. “I thought you didn’t have work or anything.”

Kip blinked back. “I…don’t,” he said slowly, clearly bemused.

Scott tried to think of a normal way to say this. To bide time, he took a halting, trepidatious sip of his smoothie. Then blinked rapidly, startled. “Wow,” he said a little unthinkingly, caught off-guard. “This is, like, actually good?”

Kip frowned. “What? Girl, it’s just a smoothie.”

“Well, yeah,” Scott said. “But, like.” He shut his mouth, took another sip, and glanced away. Uh.

Kip said, “Oh my god,” in a tone like he was completely offended. “Did you seriously think I had no idea how to make a smoothie?”

Scott sensed he had made a mistake somewhere. “Well.”

Kip rolled his eyes. “It’s a vegan smoothie shop, you idiot.” Despite the harsh words, he was smiling now, shaking his head in amusement at Scott’s fumbled, sheepish embarrassment. Hopefully in a charmed way. “All the drinks are like, half juice. And pea protein tastes horrible, everybody knows that.”

“Sorry I doubted you,” Scott said. “My mistake.”

Kip sniffed imperiously. “Just don’t do it again. I’m a career woman, you know. I take the smoothie business very seriously.”

Scott grinned back. He kind of liked it when Kip did that—the gay thing. Career woman. Girl. Limp-wristed, effeminate, every action some clever little performance that wasn't for Scott to understand. It made him a little uncomfortable, to be sure, stressed out at the idea that someone could just look at Kip and know, could hurt him—but there was also something weirdly appealing about that sort of flamboyance. Maybe it was just that Kip seemed so unafraid about being too much.

Scott couldn’t imagine that kind of courage. That kind of freedom.

“I should go,” Kip said again. Scott wondered if it meant something, that this was the third time he’d said it without having actually left.

The thing was—he really didn’t want Kip to leave. He really, really didn’t. Scott took another sip of his smoothie and tried to be strategic about this. Then, knowing that he was running out of time and that he had to just get it out there or else die unfulfilled and regretful, he threw that out the window and said, “Can I ask you something and have it be kind of a lot for a moment?”

Kip visibly parsed that sentence through. “Sure,” he said after a second. “Hit me.” He leaned back against Scott’s counter, arms crossed, and levelled him with an expectant, if slightly wary, look.

“Okay.” Scott took a deep breath, and looked Kip directly in the eyes, so there was no chance of his sincerity not coming through. “I’d like it if you stayed. Here. In my apartment.”

Kip stared at him. Scott tried to figure out if he looked freaked out. Maybe? Kip said, “...Like, forever?”

Would it be crazy if Scott said yes? It would probably be crazy if Scott said yes. “No—I mean, like, when I'm at practice.”

Kip chewed on his lip. His eyes, slightly narrowed, flicked across Scott’s face. Scott held his breath. Eventually, Kip said, “I have schoolwork…” But it didn’t sound all that resolute. It sounded like he was tempted.

Scott wrestled down the urge to whoop with joy. “You can use my laptop,” he said quickly. “And I’ll leave my card here, you can order any food you want.”

Kip blinked rapidly. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh my god.” Kip shook his head, letting out a wondering huff of air. “You are way too trusting. How often are you leaving random guys in your apartment? How have you not been robbed?”

“I told you,” Scott said, a little frustrated at how much needling this was taking. “I don’t really do—” he waved a hand between the two of them, then gestured around them, and lamely finished, “—This. It’s new for me. But I trust you.” Shit. Was that too much? Scott attempted to casually deflect. “Anyway, what would you even steal? Half the stuff in here I got for free, I don’t care. What, you gonna take my Hobey Baker? Go for it, man.”

A little blankly, Kip said, “I don’t know what that is.”

Exactly. Scott, who was not good with words but whose body had never failed him, grabbed Kip’s face with both hands and kissed him squarely on the lips. Kip made a huff of surprise into his mouth, but gamely went along with it until Scott finally pulled away and said, firmly, “Stay. Please.”

“Okay,” Kip said, after a moment. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

Scott was bad at keeping things at arm’s length. Okay? He could admit it. It was so pathetic—he tried so hard. Each time he met someone, each time he joined a team or made a friend, he made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t get attached. That he would be nonchalant about it, that he wouldn’t let himself get too close. He’d keep it all at a distance. He’d stay above it all—he’d stay safe.

But it never worked. He just couldn’t cut it. Scott was real pathetic like that. Real desperate.

If ever there was a good thing in Scott’s life, he dug his teeth into it. He didn’t let it go. He had loved hockey, so he had turned it into everything. With nothing else in the world, he had tried to make it enough. Scott wasn’t a greedy man—but he was a hungry one. He could admit that much. And who wouldn’t be? Everything good he’d ever had had been ripped from him. Time and time again, he’d been rendered destitute. He subsisted on little. He kept his head down, he did what he was supposed to do, and he did it well.

He was the best.

So, then, how the hell was it that his life was so fucking shitty? Didn’t he deserve more than this? Didn’t he—even he, selfish and hungry and ungrateful as he was—deserve this one basic human thing?

“Scooter!”

Scott felt a towel snap against his bare ass and yelped, jumping. He pressed his hands to his smarting rear and quit staring emptily into his locker in order to turn, scowling.

Carter grinned at him and feinted with the rat tail again, cackling and ducking away as Scott ripped it from his grasp and smacked him over the face with it. They tussled for a bit, until Scott tripped over a wayward gatorade bottle and almost took them both down against the locker room tile, at which point Breezy hollered over at them to quit it before they cracked each other's skulls open.

Carter let Scott pull on a pair of boxers and sit down on a bench to tug on his socks before rounding on him again. He clapped his hand against Scott’s shoulder, and said, with a very earnest expression for someone slanging hog at eye level, “The fuck’s up with you today, man? You’re like, zoned the hell out.”

Scott shrugged the hand off, and resumed pulling his other sock on. “Nothing’s up,” he mumbled.

“If you say so.” Carter’s shrug was audible. “Hey, you wanna play some Chel before the game?”

“Can’t,” Scott said, standing up and rifling around in his gear bag for his pants, trying very hard to produce an air of complete casualness. “I’ve got plans.”

Carter said, “What? What plans?”

Scott glanced over at him. Carter looked seriously surprised, which was just—so unnecessary. Scott did stuff, okay? He wasn’t a fucking hockey playing robot. “Dentist appointment.”

Carter’s face scrunched up in disbelief. “Dude, you went to the dentist last week.”

Scott squinted at him. “How the hell do you know that?”

“You tweeted about it, like, seven times.” Oh. Right. He’d had to get a root canal. It had sucked. “What the fuck’s up with your teeth?”

“Nothing,” Scott said, possibly a little cagily.

Carter looked suspicious. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird!”

“You are so.” Then Carter gasped, his eyes widening. “Oh shit,” he said, drawing out the word obnoxiously. “You got laid!”

Scott said, “No I didn’t,” very quickly. Unfortunately, he was a terrible liar.

Carter said, delighted, “You dirty dog. What about that chick in Montreal? You got a side-piece in New York now? She waitin’ at home for you?”

“Elena’s not my chick,” Scott protested, for what was just about the millionth time. “We’re friends, I told you.”

“Dude, you snap her like a trillion times a day. But fine, okay, tell me ‘bout this new girl. She hot?”

“There’s no girl, Van, fuckin’ hell. Drop it.”

“No way, man.” Carter bullied himself into Scott’s space, throwing an arm around his shoulders and grinding his knuckles into his scalp. “My boy’s finally gettin’ laid! Hey, hey, ya hear that Brisebois? Our little Honeybear popped his cherry!” He made an obnoxious cooing noise and ruffled Scott’s hair, while Scott tried somewhat unsuccessfully to wrestle out from under the guy’s still mostly naked body. Carter might’ve been smaller than him, but he was squirrelly as shit.

“The hell you talking about Scoot’s cherry for?” Breezy hollered back.

“Yeah, Vaughny,” Scott said, finally succeeding in pushing him away. “Leave my cherry alone, you freak.”

“C’mon wifey, don’t do this to me. I need details!” Carter put his hands in front of his chest, hands cupping invisible breasts, and began to pull them slowly outwards. “Say when.”

Scott slapped his hands down, actually a little irritated. “Fuck off.”

Carter rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Come on, man. Why you gotta be so gay about this shit?”

Scott didn't flinch. “What, it’s gay not to tell you how big the girl I slept with’s tits are?”

“Aha!” Carter said. He actually said, aha, the loser, complete with triumphant finger point and everything. “So you admit there’s a girl!”

“Hypothetical girl,” Scott amended. “Ugh. Whatever. Dude, just fuck off about it, I’m not gonna tell you anything.”

“Fine,” Carter said, huffing. He crossed his arms over his chest and squinted at Scott menacingly. “But don’t come crying to me for hook-up deets the next time I get some action, ‘cause I’m not telling you shit.”

Thank fuck. Scott would much appreciate it if that sentiment rule stayed in place for a very long time. “Sure,” he said, tugging his t-shirt on with a bit too much force. “Great.”

Scowling faintly, Carter said, “Great.”

They stared at each other, the both of them slightly angry and simultaneously confused about what the other had to be mad about.

After a long, awkward stretch of this, the silence was finally broken by a hesitant inquiry of— “Hey, so, were you really a virgin?”

“Fuck off, Breezy!”

When Scott got home from practice, Kip was hanging half out the open window of his apartment, smoking a cigarette. Behind him, the mid-afternoon sun blazed against the clear blue sky, and the space around him seemed to glow, the light catching on the wisping halo of dark brown curls framing his face. Scott was caught almost painfully in the chest by the beauty of him. Suddenly and all at once, the worry—Carter and locker rooms and the game that night—just melted right away.

Kip startled a little when Scott stepped into the apartment, hastily stubbing the cigarette out on the outside sill and pulling himself away from the window. Now facing him, Scott could make out that he had changed into the same pants from last night, but was wearing Scott's shirt, a red Admirals tee that clung tight around his upper arms. Scott felt—something about it.

“Hi,” Kip said, awkwardly holding the extinguished butt in one hand. “Sorry. I didn’t know if the door locked automatically or something, so I didn’t want to go outside.”

“It’s fine.” Scott was just happy he was still here. He dropped his bag of gear on the floor and stopped a few feet away from him by the window, hesitating. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Kip said again, before he stepped forward, seemingly without thought, and kissed him.

Scott melted into it. He palmed Kip’s hips, crowding into his space until they were pressed up against one another, deepening the kiss quickly, hungry for it. Kip tasted like cigarettes and the lingering artificial sweetness of those weird electrolyte drinks Scott kept getting sent in the mail, and he wanted to devour him whole.

After a few seconds, Kip pulled back, chuckling a little as Scott unconsciously chased his mouth. There was something fond and faintly patronizing about the sound, like he thought Scott was being cute. For some reason, instead of it embarrassing him, it just made Scott feel even more insane. His skin was buzzing.

“Where should I put this?” Kip asked, waving the butt of his cigarette.

Scott blinked, sluggish with want. What? Why the fuck should he care? “Just leave it on the window sill,” he said, eager to get back to kissing. “You can smoke there, I don’t care.”

“Really?” Kip raised an eyebrow. “Well, in that case…” He stepped fully away from Scott, pulling a pack out of his pocket.

Scott narrowly managed to bite back a groan, teeth meeting his bottom lip as Kip proceeded to light another cigarette like he had all the time in the world, back to Scott as he stuck his head and shoulders once again out the window.

When he joined him by the windowsill, Kip glanced over his shoulder with a look on his face like he knew exactly what he was doing. Scott narrowed his eyes at him. Kip said, innocently, “Do you want one? Or — probably not, right? Hockey player.”

“Yeah,” Scott said. Another few seconds passed in silence, with Scott thinking of asking for a drag of Kip’s anyways, to wrap his mouth around the same place the other man’s had been, to feel the slick of his saliva wetting the paper. Probably that was gross. Was that gross? Trying to distract himself from the way Kip looked, the way the smoke curled around the square angles of his jaw, Scott said, “Ilya Rozanov smokes.”

Kip raised his eyebrow. “I know.” He glanced away momentarily, then back to Scott, almost bashful. “I had a bunch of pictures of him on my wall in high school.”

Scott was hit by a massive, burning wave of jealousy.

Kip continued, ignorant to Scott’s seething emotional state. “I was going through a rebellious phase, and my Dad hated him. I mean, not as much as he hates you, but—” Kip stopped. “I mean.”

Scott almost laughed. “It’s fine.”

“He doesn’t hate you, like, as a person. Just, you know. Hockey.”

“Hockey,” Scott echoed, amused. Kip seemed genuinely contrite for a guy who up until the night prior had also hated Scott, and felt no qualms about letting him know it. His eyebrows were furrowed, expression entreating, like he was actually worried about hurting Scott’s feelings. It was sweet. Scott took pity on him. “It’s really fine. A lot of fans hate me. I’ve gotten used to it.”

He felt a little absurd burst of pride about it, actually, in this specific case. If Kip’s dad hated him more than Rozanov that meant he thought he was a better player, right? You only hated guys you thought were good. And it was, like, super important to make a good first impression towards a boyfriend’s parents. Scott had seen that in a Buzzfeed article. In that regard, he was clearly ahead of the curb.

Not that him and Kip were boyfriends. Obviously. But—still.

“Have you really?”

Scott blinked, and took a moment to remember what they’d been talking about. “Yeah?”

“Okay.” Kip didn’t even try to sound convinced.

Scott narrowed his eyes at him. What? What the hell would he even know about it? “I have. It’s not a big deal. Like you said — it’s just hockey.”

“Well, sure,” Kip said. “But hockey’s, like, your life, right? It’s not exactly just a job.”

“I guess,” Scott said grudgingly. He couldn’t really argue with that.

Kip waved a hand at him, like, there. You see? “And you’ve been famous since you were a kid. That has to suck, right? Having adults say that type of shit about you just because you’re good at a sport.”

He said it so casually—so matter of fact. Scott swallowed. Yeah. It did suck. Had really fucking sucked, back when he was sixteen and the best in midget, and parents on opposing teams would scream at him from the stands, saying crazy stuff, threatening to kill him and wild shit like that. Not that Scott was ungrateful. It was just the game — it came with the territory. You just had to learn to live with it. Feeling a little weirded out by the topic of conversation, he said, with a nervous sort of chuckle, “I thought you didn’t care about hockey.”

At this, Kip managed to look a little embarrassed. “I, uh. Googled you.”

“Ah.” Scott wondered if that had been before they’d slept together, or after. Wondered if it mattered, and then wondered what Kip had read about him. But he didn’t want to ask. Didn't really want to talk about this anymore, actually. To redirect to safer waters, he said, “I had a poster of Shane Hollander.”

Thank god he’d gotten rid of that.

Kip laughed. “Dude, pretty much every single gay Canadian below the age of twenty-five had a poster of Hollander growing up.”

“But not you?”

“Well,” Kip said. “I’m special like that.”

He really was. Scott thought about Carter, against his will, thought about everyone chirping him for his weird Rozanov thing, and wished suddenly and desperately that him and Kip could meet. And he was caught off-guard—as he still somehow so often was—by the brutal, casual unfairness of it all.

Scott cleared his throat. “Are you almost done?”

Kip raised an eyebrow and blew smoke out the window, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Why? Do I have somewhere to be?”

“Inside of me?” Scott suggested.

Kip barked out a laugh. “That was horrible. Has that worked for you before?”

Scott shrugged, unoffended. (He was kidding, anyway. No way he’d mess up his play by getting fucked right before a game—also, it wasn’t like he’d been about to whip out his fucking douche in the training facility’s communal showers when he was hosing down.)

Kip stubbed his cigarette out and turned fully around, leaning back against the sill so he was facing Scott, only a few feet between their bodies. There was a measuring sort of look on his face, eyes scanning Scott from head to toe. “What if,” Kip started, slow, “I said I want you to suck my dick.”

Well. Then Scott would say that that sounded like a grand plan.

Scott began to sink to his knees without further prompting—or really much higher thought at all—but Kip grasped him by the chin before he was halfway to the ground, bringing him back to standing.

“Jesus.” Kip’s eyes were wide, full of wonder, flicking across Scott’s face as he let out a surprised hiss of air from behind his teeth. “You’re kind of a real freak, huh?”

Scott could only nod dumbly. His head was starting to get fuzzy again, the heat of Kip’s fingers against his jaw searing. He wanted to close his eyes, to press his face into the man’s palm—he forced himself to stay steady, to maintain eye contact. It wouldn’t do to come off as too desperate. He needed to be strategic. Play it cool.

Kip’s fingers tapped an idle, thoughtful drumbeat against Scott’s cheek. “What if,” he said again, and Scott was already nodding, not caring what it was, willing for anything, despite what he’d literally just said, “I said I want to get to know you better.”

Scott stopped nodding. Um. “…What?”

Kip dropped Scott’s face. Scott tried not to look too pathetic about it. “Last night, you asked me a lot of questions about myself. I barely got the chance to learn a thing about you.”

“But — you googled me?”

Kip squinted at him. “I don’t want to know what your Wikipedia page says, Scott. I want to know about you.”

Scott stared blankly back at him. “You do?”

Kip squinted harder. He seemed to find Scott’s confusion as baffling as Scott was finding the topic of conversation. “Yeah. Look — if you're just looking for sex, that’s fine. But I think it’s pretty clear that's not what you want. Right?”

Kip was waiting for an answer. Glancing away, embarrassed, Scott said, “Yeah.”

“Good. So do I.”

Scott whipped his head back around so quickly he was surprised something didn’t crack. “Really?”

Kip bit his cheek, trying to conceal a smile at Scott’s obvious eagerness. “Yeah. You think I would’ve stayed four hours in the most boring apartment in the world if I didn’t?”

It wasn’t that boring. He had a playstation. “I’m pretty good at sex,” Scott pointed out.

“Humble, too,” Kip said. But Scott noticed he wasn’t denying it.

“I really like you,” Scott said. “I know I come on too intense sometimes—a lot of the time—but I just don’t think there’s any point in wasting breath about these things. Life is—short.” It was more than that, of course—but Scott didn’t know how else to word it. He didn’t know how to explain the way he could look at Kip and just know, know for sure that if he let him go right now then he would regret it the rest of his life.

Scott was just—he was so sick of being alone. He was so sick of playing everything so safe.

“I feel like you’re a little young to be talking like that.”

Scott shrugged. Maybe. But— “I don’t feel young. People are always saying that—that I’ve got so much time to figure things out, like I should just enjoy my youth and not worry so hard about shit. But my life doesn’t work that way. It never has. I know the way the rest of my life is going to go—it’s all been planned out for me. I can’t control that. But this, I can control. I get a say in this.”

Kip was silent for a long while, just watching him. Then, when Scott was starting to shift impatiently on his feet, a little distracted by the way Kip was chewing on his bottom lip, he said, “I can’t date someone who’s closeted.”

Briefly, Scott closed his eyes. Yeah. He wasn’t exactly surprised—but it still fucking sucked. “I can’t come out.”

“I figured as much.” Kip blew out a frustrated breath. “Fuck. This fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” Scott said — but the truth was that he felt barely anything at all about it. He was disappointed, obviously, but also — it was just so typical. Of course Scott didn’t get good things. “I really can’t, though. It’s — not right now. There’s too many people counting on me. I’m a rookie. I can’t just fuck it all up.”

“There’s really no other queer people in the MLH?”

Scott thought about Rozanov and Hollander — but no. He’d already made a promise to himself that he’d never say anything. And anyway, that was clearly different. He shook his head. “It’s not like that. I know it’s probably hard to understand. I mean, it’s 2016. But there’s a reason no pro hockey players have ever come out. It would be—career suicide. It just wouldn’t work.”

Kip kissed his teeth. He was frowning a little, gaze on Scott’s face a familiar sort of pitying understanding. He wasn’t used to seeing it about this. “That’s…a lot,” Kip said. “And you’re right, I don’t really understand. But I’m sorry.”

For some reason, the sincerity of that, the simple I'm sorry, struck Scott entirely off-guard. How many times had he wished that he could just tell someone? Someone who didn’t care about hockey, who would look at Scott and not see the up-and-coming newest saviour of hockey, the next Shane Hollander? Who wouldn’t see him either as some anonymous guy on his knees in a club’s men’s room stall? Somebody who would see the mess of it all, the way Scott could never hope to escape these disparaging parts—the way he truly didn't want to?

It came spilling out then, Scott unable to keep it inside. “I thought it would be fine,” he said. “That I could wait it out, or something. Just until hockey was over. And then, when nobody was watching, I could—I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” Scott shook his head. “Can we—can we still hang out? Just…keep it casual?”

Kip looked at him for a long moment, his lips pressed together, like he was having some internal debate with himself. Then he said, “Okay. Yeah. Casual.” He poked Scott firmly in the chest, stern. “That still means you have to tell me about yourself.”

Grinning, Scott caught his arm around the wrist and squeezed gently. “Sure,” he agreed. “Can I suck you off first?”

Kip laughed and let Scott pull him forwards, until he was speaking practically right into his mouth. “Sure,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “Why the hell not.”

And this time, when Scott went to his knees, he didn’t stop him.

Casual. Alright. Yeah. Scott could do casual.

How hard could it be?

Chapter End Notes

songs for this chapter:

All We Want, Baby, Is Everything - Handsome Furs
Closer - Tegan and Sara

story time is that i met tegan and sara when i was a gay middle schooler and there is a photo in which i am awkwardly cheesing with them and they look so beautiful and i am at least a foot taller than the both of them in such a way that i look like slenderman. also, i have faith that if Jacob Tierney can put a Wolf Parade song in HR we can get more Boeckner and Krug next season

Chapter 7: Kip

Chapter Notes

another short chapter! Sincerely sorry for the sporadic uploading schedule—I wish I could blame this on finals week but unfortunately I have been possessed by the devil (writing Hayden pike/Cliff Marleau fics)

this one is kind of a weird one. sorry about it?

“—and it’s true that the Admirals have had a great season—“

“Thank god for Scott Hunter.”

“Ha! That’s right, thank god for Scott Hunter. Just last night he surpassed Shane Hollander for most points in a rookie season, tallying in at a whopping 109.”

“Jesus, this kid’s on fire! And with Grant retiring next year, it’s seeming more and more likely that Hunter will be a cinch to step up as New York’s next Captain.”

“Speaking of Grant—this is the last chance the man has at leading his team through the playoffs. The Admirals have secured one of the wildcard spots for the Eastern conference, but we have to remember that they haven't made it past the second round in the last twenty years. How likely is it they’ll make it any further this time?”

“That’s a good question, Steve, and one that’s difficult to answer. I think if we look at—“

“Kip?”

Kip rolled to a stop on the rowing machine, chest heaving with breath, and tugged his headphones out, glancing up at whoever’d interrupted his workout. It took him a moment to place the blonde-haired man outside the dim lighting of the Kingfisher, but once he did, he smiled. “Hey. It’s, uh, Kyle, yeah?”

“That’s me.” Kyle was dressed in shorts and a workout tank, holding a water bottle. He didn’t look too sweaty—he’d clearly just gotten here. Kip, on the other hand, was probably a total mess. Kyle said, “It is Kip, right?”

Kip nodded, wiping a hand over his forehead and pushing his sweaty hair off his face. He caught Kyle tracking the movement. Huh. “What’s up, man?”

“Not much. Sorry, I just recognized you and thought I should say hi.”

“I’m glad you did! I almost didn’t recognize you without a drink in your hand.”

“I was gonna say the same thing.” Kyle grinned good-naturedly, his eyes falling on Kip’s phone. “What’re you listening to? I totally need new music, my workout playlist sucks.”

“Oh.” Incredibly sheepish, Kip showed him his Lock Screen. “I, uh. Would not recommend it.”

Kyle blinked. “Wow. I don’t think I would’ve pegged you for a hockey fan.”

Kip snorted. “Yeah, no. Definitely not.”

Kyle looked confused—until realization steadily dawned on his face, and he said, wisely, “Ah, I see. Guy you like, huh?”

Kip hastily tucked his phone away again, flushing. “He’s got bad taste,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Kyle gave Kip another one of those looks, the tip of his tongue poking out from his teeth.

Kip smiled back, a little bemused. Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket—Kip perked up embarrassingly quickly, whipping it back out to check. He deflated a little when he saw it was just a text from his sister—probably another photo of her dog (who was called Homer, on account of Megan being an even bigger nerd than Kip) wearing a stupid hat. Kip resolved to send the photo to Scott, later. He got a real kick out of those. Every time he got a text from Megan while at Scott’s, he would hook his chin over Kip’s shoulder, see that it was her, and then say, very seriously, “And how’s our homeboy getting by? Any new drip?” This really cracked him up. Kip, embarrassingly, was quite endeared by it.

When Kyle next spoke, Kip startled a little. He’d almost forgotten the guy was still standing there. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Kip. See you around?”

Kip waved goodbye, watching him leave. Then he shook his head, popped his earbuds back in, and started back up on the rowing machine.

“—the goal differential between the Admirals and the Paladins—”

It took until Kip was leaving the gym, done with his workout, pleasantly sore and hitching a subway ride to the Upper East Side, that he was arrested by the realization that Kyle had probably been flirting with him. And that Kip, too busy trying to wrap his head around what the hell plus-minus was, had not even considered the possibility of flirting back.

Within that first month of keeping things casual, here was what Kip had learned about Scott Hunter: Firstly, that—despite his best efforts—Scott was very bad at it. The distance made things at once easier and more difficult—on the one hand, that Scott was forced on several day- and even week-long road trips at regular intervals generated a veneer of taking things slow, with him unable to ever spend what seemed to be his desired amount of time in Kip’s presence (which was, ideally and more than a little bafflingly, apparently every moment of every day.) On the other hand, these same circumstances made it much easier for Scott’s intensity to hit full-force in those short, blissful periods in New York, like he was making up for the time spent apart; a backed up dam bursting all at once. Kip, unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it, was not not into it.

The truth was that Kip was a romantic, hopelessly so, and that he had always been drawn to this sort of all-encompassing passion. Kip himself was not a very intense person—he was, truth be told, terribly insecure, and had a bad predilection towards flightiness. It’s not that he was bad at commitment—he was quite good at it, actually—but only that his last relationship, (which had not been so much a relationship as a period of his life which he really did not like to talk about, which even Elena didn’t know the details of) had gone so poorly that he had genuinely resigned himself, at the age of 21, to never allowing another man into his heart again.

But Scott, damn him, was very insistent.

This insistence of course was not helped by the fact that Kip was almost criminally attracted to him. It wasn't just physical, either—Kip simply liked Scott. He couldn’t help it. Scott was earnest, and kind, and ridiculously strange. Sometimes, when Kip caught glimpses of the man’s face on billboards and subway ads—which happened now more than ever, Kip’s gaze snapping to the side every time he caught that specific swoop of hair and scruffy jaw in the corner of his eye, magnetized by the familiarity, or else constantly on the lookout—he found himself brought close to tears at how endeared he was by the very sight of him, by the knowledge that he was out there, right then, making stupid, probably offensive jokes with lumbering jocks, filming dramatic and nonsensical promotional campaigns for Under Armour and CCM, sliding against the ice with a spray of snow and a wide grin, mouthguard dangling ridiculously from his teeth—

It was so idiotic. Kip was foolish and lovesick and stupid.

(Here was something he would never admit. Though Kip had sworn off men, not two years prior, and had meant it with violent sincerity—if Scott came out, right then, then Kip was adamantly sure that he would break that pact with himself, and would give him everything. Every single part of him.)

“Can I tell you something?” Scott’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

He’d played a game earlier that night, had texted Kip to meet him at the apartment two hours after it’d ended, sloppily drunk at a bar with his teammates—then Venmo’d him 30 bucks for a cab, which had made Kip so fucking mad he had almost considered not showing up at all, until Scott had followed it up with a blurry, poorly zoomed in photo of his fisted, half-hard cock, clearly taken in a bathroom stall, his suit pants dangling open at the fly—and so Kip had taken the subway, made a detour to buy a bouquet of 30 dollar flowers from a supermarket on the way, and Scott had been mad and a little hurt, opening the door half an hour later than he’d expected and having continued sullenly drinking at home once Kip hadn’t shown up, Diet Coke and rum, which Kip, being legal, had bought for him, and which never failed to make him maudlin and strange. He’d gotten even madder when he’d seen the flowers, had figured it for some kind of mean joke for losing, shut-out to Tampa—which it had been, admittedly, right up until Kip had seen Scott’s flushed, bleary-eyed face in the doorway, at which point he decided it was a nice gesture, actually, a gift, and if Scott could send him money to come over like the world’s cheapest hooker, then Kip could very well bring flowers to the guy he was sleeping with, and expect at least a smile and a thank you. So they’d fucked, obviously—Scott bottoming, which he didn’t do often because of the difficulty regarding logistics of having usually to be back on the ice the next day—fucked right up against Scott’s kitchen table, and once Kip had come he’d eaten Scott out until he cried and thanked him, delirious with pleasure and at Kip’s prompting, for the flowers, at which point Kip had finally very graciously let him come as well.

Now Kip’s eyes were closed—he was half asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness, well-fucked and a little tipsy himself after swallowing down the rest of Scott’s rum, which he’d seemed to get a kick out of pouring straight from the bottle into Kip’s waiting mouth, even if it didn’t do much for Kip himself besides the way it made Scott bright-eyed and shivery when he swallowed with steady eye contact. “Mm.”

“I think I want to be happy.”

Kip opened his eyes. He turned over, to face Scott on the bed. The room was dark, the only light filtering in from the cracks between the drawn blinds and the windowframe. He could only just make out the other man’s face; the jut of his brow, his strong, slightly crooked nose, his eyes, big and shining. He was so beautiful. Kip couldn’t understand it, sometimes. The art of him. A little more awake, not quite understanding, but sensing something in Scott’s voice that meant it was important, Kip said, “Of course you do. Everyone wants to be happy.”

Scott’s brows drew together. He had this way of looking at Kip, sometimes—like he was being tortured. Like Kip was sliding a knife between his ribs. Kip had a guilty fondness for the Baroque, for Caravaggio in particular, had ever since first year of undergrad, and sometimes, when he looked at Scott, he saw nothing so much as the Entombment of Christ—the body, rough and muscled, lovely even in death. John the Evangelist’s fingers digging into a bloodless wound, prodding at the ribs, inadvertently re-opening the holy site of injury. This beautiful young martyr in his arms.

“I didn’t think I did,” Scott confessed, still at a whisper. His fingers drew a pattern on the surface of the pillow between them, something incomprehensible. “But I think I was probably wrong. I think I really want to be happy.”

Kip pulled himself closer, angling his body until he was half hovering over Scott’s. “I want you to be happy too,” he said, thoughtless but intent, dizzy all of a sudden with the abrupt certainty of it. “I’ll make you happy.”

Scott looked up at him, pale eyes big and searching, mouth open. Pliant and human. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Kip’s voice was rough. For some reason, he felt his throat get tight, his diaphragm starting to ache the way it did when he cried. Without totally thinking it through, not sure why but wanting to anyways, he said, pitching his voice sweetly, “You’ll let me, right baby? You’ll let me make you happy?”

Scott swallowed in a breath of air, something halfway between a hiccup and a gasp, and trembled under Kip’s palm. “Kip,” he said. “Please.”

The shape of him beneath Kip, in the dark and without the sharpening of contacts, was fuzzy and indistinct. Half-real. Kip felt suddenly that it was somehow possible that if he stopped touching Scott just then, the man might just sink right down into the mattress and out of sight, swallowed up whole by the cushions and the hardwood and the earth—or else float away, carried up and out and into the big blue void of night, leaving Kip cold and alone in that horrible soulless hockey player apartment.

Kip said, his voice now a whisper too, mouth so close to Scott’s that their lips were almost brushing, “Will you let me make you happy?”

And Scott said, voice cracking with want, and fear, and something huge and terrible and unnamably frightening— “Yes. Yes.”

Here was what else Kip had learned about Scott Hunter (in the form of a list, in keeping with the spirit of the man himself, who was fond of nothing so much as organizing his thoughts, ever since his first concussion back in 2010 had left him with a predilection towards forgetfulness):

1) As mentioned previously, but true enough that it bore repeating—he was bad at keeping things casual.

2) He was verse, which had been surprising, considering the…everything of him, the hockey and the straight guy voice and the bulk—and which he apparently had not had a word for until Kip had explained it. He had lost his ‘butt virginity’ (his words) to a nameless, faceless man in Greece, and had spent the following summer, at 18, sleeping his way across the better part of Europe, a fact that he was almost bewilderingly blase about. Kip, who was an arts major from Montreal and considered himself quite sexually liberated, was often quietly perplexed by the ways in which Scott seemed to have invented his sluttishness out of whole-cloth, completely detached from the influences of any outside, twenty-first century North American conceptions of gay hook-up culture. It was then even more impressive how kinky he tended towards being, somehow without even registering it. It was very fascinating, to Kip. Also very hot.

3) He was incredibly lonely. If he ever mentioned his parents, which was very rarely and always only as a fleeting, stiff remark, purely informational, he seemed to speak about them as if they had died very recently, only days ago, and he had not yet had time to process the grief. Sometimes he started to speak about them in the present tense, my mom is—and then went quiet, embarrassed at the pathetic slip-up, angry with himself at allowing it still to linger so fresh in his mind.

4) He still had all his teeth. Probably? Kip hadn’t asked, but he also hadn’t noticed any suspicious gaps in Scott’s mouth. And he was pretty well-acquainted with Scott’s mouth, by now. He had a slightly stiff right hip that he went to weekly physio appointments for, owing to a slight curve in his lower spine, as well as kind of fucked up feet. His hands were less-callused than Kip’s, softer — Kip had spent his time at Concordia on the rowing team and regularly weightlifted, so had relatively rough palms — but his knuckles were big, littered with scars and often bruised, and at least half of his fingers were slightly crooked from breaks. His body, a machine. He wasn’t ticklish, but had a tendency to squirm delightfully when Kip put his mouth to a specific patch of skin behind his ear. He was entirely un-selfconscious about his body, and did not seem to understand Kip’s frequent moments of disgusted irritation regarding his own—which he had always found too short, too thick, too hairy.

5) He liked music and listened to it frequently, but didn’t seem to have any kind of established taste, or any feel for what made a song good. If it made him feel something, he simply listened to it. Kip, sort of as a psychological experiment, introduced him within the first two weeks to Sufjan Stevens. Scott, in response, had not spoken to him for an entire day, and then, pretending as if nothing at all had happened, asked very casually if Kip wouldn’t mind making him a playlist of some more songs.

6) He liked (in no particular order): playing hockey; documentaries/books/youtube videos about serial killers or else tragic, freak accidents like shark attacks or plane crashes; mexican food; dogs; watching hockey; motorcycles; sucking dick; talking about hockey; and Kip.

7) He disliked: leaving the house; being seen leaving the house; seeing Kip outside the house—you get the picture. He had strange beef also with both avocados and Ilya Rozanov, the latter of which Kip had discovered after finding Scott’s copy of some PS4 EA Sports game from 2015, with the stone-faced Boston Raider on the cover having been covered up by a hasty but surprisingly well-rendered doodle of a cock and balls. (“He’s a dick,” Scott had answered by way of simple explanation when Kip had asked, refusing to look the least bit ashamed about the juvenility of it.)

8) He did not have a wide breadth of friends, and appeared at times quietly ashamed of his teammates, whose existences he seemed to hold as emblematic of some wider truth about himself that Kip would no doubt find repulsive—this being the inseparability of his identity from hockey, and hockey from the baffling, circle-jerking cesspool of the sport’s manosphere, which Kip imagined at times was not so different from induction into a fraternity house, if to be in a fraternity meant to sign away the rest of your life to the service of this monolithic, almost cult-like ideal of single-minded, idiotic heterosexuality. (Everything was gay. Reading was gay. Cats were gay. Soccer was gay. The players on every other MLH team were gay—gay if they were bad, and especially gay if they were good. The list of things that were gay kept growing—Kip kept track by the pinched, guilty look Scott got on his face when encountering any such object of gay-ness, the initial aversion and immediately following shame, the quick, nervy glance over at Kip.)

Despite seemingly having made a point the last ten years of his life to forcefully shoe-horn himself into the caricature of ‘Hockey Player Extraordinaire,’ Kip was often somehow surprised to find that Scott, by virtue of being a human being with likes and dislikes, fears and desires, was capable of an incredible amount of diversity of self. Even Kip’s initial recognition that he would have to shift the Scott in his mind from the archetype of Straight Asshole Jock to that of Closet Case did not manage to hold up under even minor scrutiny—Scott was not, as previously suspected, all that two-dimensional. Kip was thus forced to face the possibility that he had likely written off a great deal of people in life without allowing that he might possibly be making ill-informed snap judgements about the relative interiority of strangers.

Rather than demoralizing, though, this discovery had been strangely invigorating. Kip was humbled by Scott, who was so different from him, so ludicrously, intriguingly singular, and obsessed with the process of learning from and about him. This was, to be fair, not necessarily a new predicament for Kip, but while he had reason to worry about his tendency to place an undue amount of faith in the people he liked’s ability to grasp the parts of the world that he could not understand—something that often got him in trouble (not least of which because people, as a rule, did not usually enjoy being placed so quickly atop a pedestal)—Scott was so affable, so charmingly disarming, that it was difficult to keep himself from seeing even his poorer qualities as pointing towards some greater, impossible to understand depth of spirit Kip was incapable of.

Possibly, if it hadn't been for his last relationship, with what went down before he’d left Concordia, Kip might be completely in the dark about how much a person could feasibly disappoint him. As it was, he felt somewhat that he was going into ‘The Scott Thing’ with eyes wide open—if anything, a little overly defeatist, which he often felt bad about but also found something of a relief, considering his track record.

Scott, for his part, was of course unaware of Kip’s wariness—he seemed to think that any hesitance on Kip’s side of the equation had to do entirely with Scott as a person, rather than the circumstances of their relationship (not relationship relationship, obviously, but you get the gist) and so often overcompensated by being overly generous, in that kind, nervously fumbling way of his, and expecting very little from Kip in return but his time and discretion.

They were, Kip often found himself thinking, the both of them blindingly insecure in very contrasting ways.

“Scott,” Kip called, picking up the painting and examining it. “Do you know who this is?”

Scott popped his head up from where he was rustling through one of the many boxes in his guest bedroom. Kip had made the mistake of mentioning that he knew how to play the harmonica, and Scott, delighted by this, had remembered that he had one packed away somewhere in the sparse mess of boxed up, seemingly entirely random personal effects from his childhood, and so had set them on a scavenger hunt to find it, allowing Kip to rifle through his belongings with only an offhand mention not to touch the shit pushed up against the far wall, which were his mother’s and not relevant to the search at hand.

“What?”

Wordless, Kip held up the painting. It was done in oils, and featured a small figure ice skating on a frozen pond, towering pines in the background and slashed marks where the blades of the skates had carved along the surface of the ice. Kip, who was usually quite good with the Impressionists, didn’t recognize it, and so assumed it was a smaller contemporary artist—maybe one of Scott’s mother’s belongings, mixed in with the rest of the stuff.

Scott squinted, then said, “Oh. It’s just some random kid skating. It’s not, like, a friend or anything. Where’d you find that?”

Kip laughed a little. “No, I mean—who painted it? And it was next to this box of winter gear.”

“Oh,” Scott said again, thoughtful. “Well, I guess that makes sense. Winter scene.”

“Scott.” Kip was endlessly patient. “Do you know who painted it?”

Scott proceeded to look a little confused as he levered himself up to standing. “Uh, I did?” Hands on his hips, he glanced around, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know about this harmonica, man, I think it’s a lost cause. Damn.”

Kip stared at him. “You painted this?”

“Yeah,” Scott came over, taking the painting from Kip’s slack, shocked grip and running a critical eye over it, head cocked. He seemed entirely ignorant to Kip’s total surprise. “I think I was trying something with the lighting, but it came out looking a little kitschy. Way too much purple. I think I found a recorder? Would that work?”

“What?” Kip shook his head. “No—that’s not—you paint?”

“Not really.” Scott shrugged, casually tossing the canvas back into the box of winter boots. Kip twitched a little. “I took a class in sophomore year but it was kind of a bust. And I don’t have a lot of time lately for hobbies.”

Kip continued to stare at him. Scott, finally registering the expression on his face, said, warily, “What?”

“Scott. That’s really good.”

“Oh.” Scott blinked, surprised, and a little bit pleased. “Well, thanks. Sorry about the harmonica. I can buy a new one.”

Kip could literally not give less of a shit about the harmonica. “Why didn’t you tell me you paint?”

“I don’t, really—I told you. Also, it’s kind of embarrassing. Like, it’s totally—“ He stopped.

Ah, Kip thought. There was that guilt again. Dry as anything, he said, “Gay?”

Scott looked towards the ceiling. “Um.”

“You know I study Art History, right?”

“Yeah.” Scott winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I am gay. I like being gay.”

“I know,” Scott said earnestly, eyes wide. “I like that you like being gay.”

“Yeah. You just don’t.”

Scott was silent for a moment, chewing on his lip. Eventually he said, “I’m trying?”

“I know.” It was true. He was trying. He’d even let Kip show him RuPaul’s Drag Race. He hadn’t cared for it, really, but to be honest neither did Kip. It’d been more of a symbolic gesture than anything. Scott did like To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar, though. He’d almost cried. Kip had definitely cried.

“Do you like painting?”

Scott appeared to think about it. He always really thought about it, when Kip asked him a question, no matter how simple it was. Like he wanted to give each one the proper consideration, like they were all equally as important to answer truthfully. Kip, as always, was hit by a wave of uncomfortably intense fondness at the gesture.

Slowly, Scott said, “I’m not really sure. I guess so. But it’s more like—something I have to do? Like, even when I’m not drawing, or painting or something, I’m thinking about it. If I see something beautiful, or sad—I always end up thinking about how it’d look on paper.” He darted a glance at Kip, almost nervous. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Kip said. He stepped forward and grabbed Scott’s hand. Pressed a kiss to the base of his thumb, which never failed to make Scott blush, and smiled. “I think that’s really cool, Scott. I love art but I’m really shit at it, you know. Haven’t got the patience. You should paint more.”

Scott glanced to the side, shy, then back to Kip again. Big wet eyes on that scruffy, boy-ish face. “You think?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Scott said. Happy and unguarded and true. “Maybe.”

Chapter 8: Kip

Chapter Notes

writing about playoffs during playoffs...

On the same night that the Admirals played the first New York game of the play-offs, Kip and Scott had their first real fight. It was finals week, and Kip was stressing about submitting his papers on time. He’d been up until 4am studying for his Russian exam that morning, and had gone straight to Scott’s house afterwards to nap on his couch and then write a paper about Anishinaabe pictographs while the game played in the background, Kip glancing up every time Scott’s name was mentioned by the people talking during the plays. Announcers? Whatever.

Now Scott was back, smelling of generic rink soap and the usual fuck-ass teenage boy body spray Kip kept meaning to get him to ditch, sprawled out on Kip’s legs. He’d done his customary vault over the back of the couch and onto Kip’s lap, immediately attempting to devour his mouth without a single hello.

Kip had long since given up on trying to teach Scott how to kiss without throwing his entire being into it, urgent and starving, and was more or less going along with the whole eating each other's mouths thing when Scott broke away to ask, breathlessly, “What are you doing this summer?”

Kip pulled back a little, to look at him properly. “What?”

“The summer,” Scott repeated. “Are you staying in the city?”

“I was planning on it,” Kip said, blinking. Usually Scott was pretty single-minded about getting straight to it after a game—Kip had his suspicions about the psychosexual implications of the whole burly men throwing each other around thing, the way Scott never failed to get fired up and horny after playing, but was keeping it to himself for now. “I’ll go home for about a month, though, in June. How ‘bout you? What do you guys even do during the summer?”

Scott shrugged. “Go abroad. Workout. There's a training camp in Toronto, but I dunno if I'm getting an invite." He thought for a second, then said, "A lot of golf." At the face Kip made at this, he laughed. "Yeah, pretty much my thoughts exactly. Anyway, we should do something.”

Kip pressed his lips to the ticklish spot behind Scott’s ear and murmured, “We are doing something.”

Scott huffed a laugh, pushing him away. “No—hey, stop distracting me. We should do something during the summer. After playoffs.”

Kip pulled back again. “Okay. Like what?”

“Like go to Ibiza.”

Kip squinted. After a moment, grinning, he said, “Scott.”

“Or New Zealand, or something. Somewhere with a beach, and no Americans, where nobody cares about hockey.”

Kip huffed a laugh. “Sure, baby. Let’s go to New Zealand.”

Scott tilted his head a little, studying him. Then he said, “Do you think I’m kidding?”

Kip stared at him. Helpfully, Scott said, “I’m not kidding.”

“Scott,” Kip said, with another laugh, this one tinged with disbelief. “I can’t go to Ibiza with you.” Scott opened his mouth. “Or New Zealand. Are you kidding?”

“No.” Scott’s mouth twisted mulishly. “What’s so weird about that?”

“Putting aside the fact that I’m 22 and broke?” Kip demanded. “Uh, how ‘bout: What the hell would I tell my parents?”

Scott frowned, uncomprehending. “What do you mean? You’re a college student, right? College students do that sort of thing.”

Kip’s eyebrows flew up. “Girl, this isn’t Spring Breakers. I can’t just, like, disappear off to Ibiza by myself, my dad would have so many questions.” Like, how the fuck are you affording this, you are in so much debt type of questions.

Scott clenched his jaw and looked away, trying his best to conceal his disappointment. Kip, sighing, placed a hand on the nape of Scott’s neck. “Scott.” When Scott refused again to look at him, Kip scratched at the short hairs at the base of his skull and said, cajoling, “Baby.”

Scott glanced over, meeting his eyes briefly. Then away again. Pouting mulishly, like a child. “What?”

Kip said, not unkindly, “This isn’t very casual of you, Scott.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then Scott wriggled suddenly out from underneath him, causing Kip to tumble into the couch cushions with an ‘Oomph,’ and made his way, obviously fuming, to the kitchen. Kip watched him go, a little perplexed.

“Scott?”

Scott wrenched open the fridge and stuck his head inside. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? I’ve got leftovers, I can make that sweet potato bowl-thing you dig.”

Kip sat up. “Scott.”

“Uh-huh?”

With emphasis, Kip said, “Seriously?”

Scott finally quit rustling through the fridge in order to look over, expression blankly expectant. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I told you,” Scott said patiently. “I’m hungry.”

Kip shook his head, incredulous and starting to get a little irritated. “Are you seriously mad right now?”

Scott stuck his head back in the fridge. “I don’t know, man.” His voice was slightly muffled, and Kip could no longer see his face. “Why would I be mad? You’re right. We’re keeping it casual. It’s fine.”

“Scott, you’re the one who said casual in the first place.”

“I know!” Scott slammed the fridge door shut and thumped a bunch of pyrex containers on the counter. Kip jumped. Scott took a deep breath, and said again, calmer, “I know. I’m not saying anything about it, okay? I’m being casual.”

Gently, not wanting to make things worse but unable to help himself, Kip said, “You’re really not, baby.”

Scott scowled, and scoffing, derisively muttered, “Oh, I’m not. Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Kip frowned, feeling an increased spike of annoyance at the passive aggression. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott pulled two plates from a drawer with sharp, jerky movements, and began to spoon sweet potato and cooked ground beef from the containers. “I don’t know, baby. What do you think it means?”

Kip crossed his arms tightly across his chest and clenched his jaw, face heating. That wasn’t his fault. It kept just — slipping out. And it wasn’t like Scott had been complaining, so far.

Scott slammed the door of the microwave shut, heating the first plate of food, and said, speaking quickly and without looking over, just watching as through the door the plate slowly spun, “You know, you can be kind of a fucking hypocrite, Kip. I mean — you pretend like I’m your fucking boyfriend all the fucking time, and then you go ahead and act like I’m crazy for wanting to, like — spend some time with you.”

Kip swallowed. Boyfriend. “Okay,” he said. “So maybe we’re both bad at keeping things casual.”

Scott let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah.” The wind had been taken out of his sails—he just looked tired, now. The microwave beeped; Scott pulled the plate out, and put the other in. For a long while, he just stood there and watched the food heat up. Kip picked at a loose thread in his sock and watched him watching, feeling something curdle in his stomach, wondering if he should leave. Once the food was done, Scott said, “It was a stupid idea, anyways.”

Kip accepted the plate of still-steaming food and made room for Scott on the couch. “It wasn’t stupid,” he said, feeling abruptly a little guilty. “It was a nice idea. It’s just…not feasible right now.”

“Right.” Hunched over his bowl, Scott shovelled food into his mouth like a man who hadn’t had a meal in days. The first time Kip had watched him eat in this fashion, he’d been genuinely worried the guy might choke to death and die. Scott shoved almost an entire sweet potato in his mouth and said, “It’s fine, anyway. I’ve never spent the summer in the city.”

“Ugh, chew before you speak, you degenerate.” Scott opened his mouth to show the mashed up remains of orange starch, winking. Kip pinched him in the side in retaliation, and said, half-joking, “You’re disgusting, you’re a caveman, I have no idea how I tolerate this.”

Scott swallowed and said, smug, “You love it, dude, don’t play. You’ve got the caveman hots for me. My manliness is irresistible.”

“Oh, is that what that is? I’ve been wondering about the smell.”

“Remind me to show you my jockstrap,” Scott said. “You’ll never complain about a smell again.”

“Ew,” Kip said, nose wrinkling, laughing despite himself. “Don’t talk about your jock while we’re eating, you total freak.”

Scott gasped, hand to his chest in theatrical affront. “I’m the freak? Oh, I’m the freak?”

“Yup,” Kip said, gasping out a giggle as Scott pulled his plate away and clambered onto his lap. “Hey, I was eating that!”

“Too bad,” Scott said, “I’m seducing you now. See how easy it is?”

So they were going to pretend nothing had happened. That was fine—Kip was cool with that.

“Oh, you are, are you,” Kip said, in a faux-haughty tone, “with what? With your irresistible caveman wiles?”

“That’s right.” Scott licked a stripe up Kip’s cheek and grinned against his jaw when he shrieked in offense. “Try to resist, buddy.”

Needless to say, their food was more or less cold by the time they got to actually eating it. Afterwards, Kip sat on the couch trying to write his paper with Scott’s head pillowed on his thigh. He was watching highlights of the other games played that night, flipping between them and making comments to himself under his breath as Kip absentmindedly ran his fingers through his hair, either about the plays or, occasionally, about the other players.

“Carter says we should do our hair like this for the playoffs,” Scott said at one point, referring to a photo on the screen of some guy Kip was sure was probably important to somebody out there, sporting a truly horrific strawberry blonde mullet and racing stripes.

“Cool,” Kip said easily, “Just don’t expect a single blowjob until it’s gone.” The not-shaving was bad enough. Kip had sensitive skin, and beard burn was a bitch.

Scott snickered quietly. Then he sat up very abruptly, throwing his hands up as on the tv the Toronto Guardians scored another goal against the Tampa Bay Thunderstorms. “Oh, what the fuck? That fucking bitch-ass motherfucker!”

Kip said, “Woah, okay,” and caught his computer before it could tumble off his lap.

“That tit-fucking little bitch!”

“Yikes,” Kip said mildly. He made a mental note to inform Scott later about the misogynistic implications of calling someone a bitch as an insult, even when it was another guy. “That a friend of yours?”

Scott shot Kip a wide-eyed, horrified look, before he seemed to realize he was kidding and rolled his eyes outrageously. He thrust a hand at the tv. “Didja fuckin’ see that play?”

When Scott got riled up, he tended to lean really heavily into the whole Hockey Guy shtick, always managing to end up sounding quite a bit like one of Kip’s red-neck cousins from Alberta, despite being a born and bred upstate New Yorker. Kip found it strangely hilarious every time.

From the tv: “Dallas Kent with another Michigan-goal, his second this season!”

Scott, fuming: “It’s not a fuckin’ lacrosse game, Jesus Christ.” He reluctantly settled back against Kip’s leg, arms crossed and a grumpy look on his face.

Kip patted him consolingly on the head. “I’m sure you could do that too.”

Huffing, Scott said, “Obviously I could. Ugh,” and switched the channel from the Toronto v. Buffalo game to Montreal v. Ottawa. “Oh, those poor bastards.”

Kip caught himself smiling down at Scott, and considered that something was probably seriously wrong with him that he somehow managed to find even this charming. He cleared his throat. “Ottawa’s bad, right?”

“Yeah, they suck,” Scott agreed distractedly. “Jeez. It’s a fucking miracle they clinched the playoffs.” On the screen, Number 24, Shane Hollander, scored a break-away goal beautiful enough that even Kip winced in sympathy, while the announcer made an idle comment about the Centaur fans booing their own team.

“Do you actually like watching this?” Kip asked, struck suddenly by a thought he’d had a few times now.

Scott glanced up at him, curious. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, it’s kind of boring, right?”

Scott sat up again. “What?”

“Like, look at this.” Kip waved a hand at the tv. Shane Hollander had just scored another goal. A teammate skated up and patted him on the back, but mostly everyone just looked kind of bad about it. The Metros were up 8-1. That was a lot, right? Seven goal difference? Onscreen, the Centaurs goalie appeared to be praying. “Why does everybody care so much? I’ve never understood it. I mean, it’s just a game. It’s not, like, real life.”

Scott was silent for a long moment. Then he said, in kind of a flat, quiet voice, “But, like. It’s my life.”

Kip couldn’t quite parse the expression on his face. A little hastily, sensing that he might’ve misstepped, he said, “I know. I get it—it’s your career. But—”

“No.” Scott shook his head. His eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth a thin, down-turned slash across his face. “Kip, it’s my fucking life.” He pointed at the television, where Hollander was half-assedly skating backwards away from an angry-faced guy in a Centaur’s jersey, gloved hands out and placating while the other player tried his level best to grab him by the jersey and/or punch him in the face, and said, “That’s my life. It’s not a job. It’s fucking—it’s everything.”

Incredulous, glancing between the television and Scott, not really sure if he was being serious, Kip said, “Scott, it’s a game. It’s not everything. It’s not—“

“Then what is?” Scott stood up. He looked angry, genuinely angry in a way Kip had never seen before, and his voice was raised almost shrill in response. “Huh? What the fuck else do I have, Kip?”

Me, Kip didn’t say. You have me, you fucking idiot. He spluttered, caught entirely off-guard, then said, “What, you think hockey’s the most important thing in your life?”

“Yes,” Scott cried.

Now Kip stood up too. “Why? Scott, it fucking hurts you. Like, it fucking physically hurts you, yeah—but look at yourself. You can’t even leave the fucking house with me! You want to go to fucking—Tijuana or whatever, because you think thats the only way you can even be a little happy, because you’re so fucking scared of people figuring out, what—that you’re gay, like it’s not 20-fucking-16—“

“I’m not being crazy! Okay, you don’t get it—“

“No!” Kip yelled, he was yelling now, he was so fucking mad and it was boiling out of him, this horrible mess of frustration and anger and a deep, roiling well of hurt that he had no idea he’d been building up. “I don’t get it, Scott! Of course I don’t get it! I don’t get why the fuck you would hurt yourself like this. It fucking kills you—“

Scott groaned, rolling his eyes, like Kip was being ridiculous. “No, it doesn’t! Okay, it’s fine—“

“The fuck it is! Ostie de crisse de—” Kip scrubbed his hands over his face, frustrated as all hell, “Okay, I get that your parents—”

Scott reached out, both hands, and shoved him.

Kip stumbled, tripped, and just managed to catch himself on the arm of the couch.

Scott’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his face flushed angry red, breathing harsh in the sudden, ringing silence. Kip stared at him, mouth open in shock, and saw as it began to dawn on him.

Scott said, strangled, “Kip—”

Kip stood up, took a step away from him, and said, very evenly, “Fuck you.”

“Hit me back,” Scott demanded. He looked wild around the eyes—he looked terrified. “Fucking hit me back, Kip.”

Wordless, Kip turned and began to gather his stuff. He felt, strangely, somehow entirely calm. When he had his laptop in his bag, he slung it around his shoulders and looked back at Scott, who was still frozen in place with his fists clenched at his side, eyes huge.

Kip said, still in the same calm, level tone, which he heard as if from very far away, “I am going to go.”

Voice cracking terribly, Scott said, “Kip.” Small and scared.

Kip inhaled shakily and continued to stare at a spot just above Scott’s left eyebrow, holding tight to the strap of his bag. “You are going to go to bed,” he said stiffly, as if Scott hadn’t spoken. “And if you need to talk to someone you are going to call Elena, or—” Kip suddenly realized that he did not know the names of any of Scott’s teammates, didn’t really even know if they were actually friends, or something more like coworkers, or what, and finished, quite lamely, “Someone else you trust. And we’re going to talk later.”

Then he turned and, without waiting for a response, walked to the door. Scott didn’t follow him, still rooted to the spot on the carpet in front of the tv, where the Montreal Metros were utterly humiliating the Ottawa Centaurs in the first game of the playoffs—but when Kip’s hand was on the doorknob he said, “Kip,” again, and then, “Please.”

Kip’s shoulders came up to his ears. He didn’t turn around. He said, “If you hurt yourself because of this, Scott, I will never forgive you.”

Then he turned the doorknob, opened the door, and left.

Kip sat down at his usual barstool, nodded at Kyle behind the bar, and opened his mouth to say—

Shawn groaned loudly. “No,” he said, pointing a finger very close to Kip’s face. “No more fucking hockey. I swear to god.”

Kyle laughed at the affronted look on Kip’s face, and said, grinning, “Well. In his defence, it is the playoffs.”

“Yeah, Shawn.” Kip sniffed. “It’s the playoffs.” The Admirals weren’t playing tonight—had played their second home game yesterday. But it was good to stay informed about the enemy.

Shawn snorted, unconvinced. “Like you give a crap about the playoffs. Girl, you astound me. How you managed to find the one gay man in all of New York who apparently gets off on hockey trivia, I will never understand.”

“Oh my god,” Kip said, “How many times do I have to say it’s not like that?” To Kyle, with a polite smile, “Can I get an Irish Red, please? Thanks.”

“And he drinks beer,” Shawn said, aghast. He was practically swooning. “When did we lose you?”

“Oh shut up. You didn’t lose me, you diva. It’s finals.”

“And yet, every time I check Snap maps, are you at the library? No. That’s right. Because you’re at—”

In a sudden rush of panic, Kip slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” he hissed.

As bewildered as he was, it took Shawn a moment to peel Kip’s palm from his face. “Bitch,” he said, once he was free. “What the hell?”

Kip flushed, glancing around in embarrassment. Kyle slowly slid his glass of beer across the counter to him, eyebrow raised, and Kip slouched in his seat, attempting to disappear from view as he accepted it with a mumble of thanks. To Shawn, he said, “Uh. Sorry. Panicked.”

“Uh, yeah,” Shawn said, eyeballing him. “Again: what the hell?”

Kip rubbed his eyes. “It’s a long story. God.” He felt, horrifyingly, his eyes well with tears for no apparent reason. “Fuck,” he said, swiping at the wetness of his face, incredibly embarrassed. What was wrong with him. “Fuck.”

Shawn looked worried now, as well as confused. “Kip,” he said, running a hand along his back, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. “Honey, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Kip sniffed violently and took a long drink of his beer. “It’s nothing,” he said thickly. “Sorry. Ignore it.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” To Kyle, Shawn said, “Can I grab some napkins? And a water?” Kyle, who was doing a very chivalrous job of pretending not to notice Kip breaking down five feet away, shot him a thumb’s up. Turning back to Kip, Shawn said, sort of hushed, “Is this about Hockey Guy Closet Case?”

Kip rolled his eyes—which was probably not as effective as usual on account of the tears still rolling down his face—and said, “He’s not a closet case. Not really.”

This was, of course, pretty much a total lie. But Scott was adamant about it—he was not closeted. Closeted would mean hiding, and Scott didn’t hide. That was pussy shit.

Shawn said, aghast, “He’s straight?”

“No. He’s just—” Kip stopped, unsure what he could even say. He sniffed again, disgustingly, and dropped his head onto the counter, pillowing his forehead with his arms. “Ugh.”

“Thanks Kyle.” Shawn nudged Kip’s hand until he accepted the preferred napkin and blew his nose.

Cringing a little, Kip mumbled, “Thanks Kyle.” Trying again, a little more composed, a little less teary-eyed, he said, “He’s not a closet case. He’s just…complicated.”

He was grimacing as soon as it left his mouth—in a deeply skeptical tone of voice, Shawn said, “Uh-huh.”

Deciding to double down, mulish, Kip said, “He is. You don’t know him, okay?”

Shawn threw up his hands and said, “You’re right! I don’t know him. Maybe if you told me literally anything about him—“

“I can’t,” Kip interrupted, suddenly exhausted. “I’m sorry, I know—I just can’t.”

Shawn said, “Because he’s a closet case.”

“Because it’s complicated.”

“It’s complicated, he’s complicated, is there anything that’s uncomplicated?”

“Totally procrastinating finals work to get drunk on a Thursday night?” Kip suggested hopefully. Shawn was an Arts major. If anyone was going to be down to blow off academic responsibility in favour of substance abuse, it was him.

Sure enough, Shawn snapped his fingers, pointed at Kip, and said, very solemnly, “We’re finding a party, and we’re finding you some ass.”

Okay, he was definitely up for one of those. Kip said, “We’re not doing coke again.”

Shawn slung an arm around his shoulders and said, in a sing-song voice, “We’ll see!”

Kip woke up the next morning to a pounding headache, an incredibly dry mouth, and a missed video call from his father. Also, six texts from Scott. So, pretty much business as usual.

“Jesus,” Josh said, when Kip made his way into the kitchen, squinting against the blinding light of the sun shining outside the apartment windows. “You look rough, man.”

Kip wordlessly flipped him off and began the arduous, Sisyphean task of brewing a shot of espresso for his first latte of the day—almond milk and sugar-free vanilla over ice, obviously, because he was a stereotype with a sweet tooth who’d put in too many hours at Barry’s to waste 200+ calories on real sweetener first thing in the morning.

Josh, sipping a Rockstar and laid out on the couch presumably scrolling Reddit or something, said with idle curiosity, “Long night?”

Kip blinked slowly at him, finished making his coffee, and left the room, ignoring Josh’s holler of, “Good talk, roomie!” as he lumbered painfully back to his bedroom.

He scrolled on his phone for half an hour in bed, slowly drinking his coffee and checking his Instagram feed, until he finally felt human enough to FaceTime his dad back.

He answered on the second ring, big, cheerful face filling up the screen. “Hey, Kipper!”

Kip smiled back, unable to help himself, a genuine, easy happiness lighting him up from the inside as he felt a small bit of the weight he’d been carrying lift off his shoulders—as it always did, talking to his dad. “Hey dad.”

“What’s up, buddy? You just wake up?”

Kip yawned hugely. “Pretty much. I was out with Shawn last night.”

“Ah, how is Shawn?” His dad said, lighting up a little. “Still single?”

Kip rolled his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“I’m just asking! What’s wrong with asking?”

“You know what,” Kip said, groaning. “Yes, he’s single, and yes, so am I. No, we are not together. Gay people can be friends.”

“Well, I know that,” His dad said, sheepish. “But you’re right, you’re right. Eh, so you are still single, then?”

“Oh my tabarnac de fucking god—“

“Hey, language!”

Kip gasped. “Je ne peux pas parler en francais, en plus? Oh, t’es un ostie anglophone, mon dieu—“

“Haha,” His dad said dryly, “I’ve surely never heard that one before.”

Kip grinned and relented. “To answer your question,” he said primly, in English this time, “Yes, I’m still single. No, I’m not on the prowl for men.”

“I’m not telling you to be on the prowl,” his dad denied. “I just think you should keep your options open!”

“My options are fine the way they are,” Kip said. “Did you seriously call me to lecture me about my dating life.”

“Of course not! Can’t a man miss his son on a beautiful Friday morning? We haven’t spoken in so long, I was beginning to suspect you’d forgotten all about me, poor and elderly as I am in these French-Canadian woods.”

He was 56, and in Trois-Rivières. Also, they’d talked yesterday. Kip said, “I missed you too, papa.”

“Huh?” His dad cupped his hand around his ear, squinting with overdramatic confusion at the camera. “What’s that? I don’t understand that one, you know, on account of me being an ‘ostie anglophone’.” He pronounced the o- in ostie like the one in toast.

Kip huffed. “You’re literally so annoying,” he said—but he was grinning still, phone propped up on his chest and his father’s beaming face a bit too close to the screen.

“How’s school going, buddy?”

Kip made a face. Ugh. “Fine,” he said. “Busy.”

“Oh, riveting stuff. Do tell more.”

“Really busy.”

George bobbed his head. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. And how’s Elena?”

Kip said, “Fine. She’s good.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Don’t tell me you kids are fighting again.”

Kip looked skyward for a moment, cursing perceptive parents. Then he sighed and said, “We’re not. Again?”

“I was around last year, you know,” his dad said wisely, probably wagging a finger. “And wouldn’t you believe it, I got eyes and ears and everything, too.”

“We weren’t fighting,” Kip said. “It was just, like—whatever. Kid stuff. It was nothing.”

“Okay,” George said, clearly not believing him but willing to go along with it anyways. “And now?”

“Now…” Now Kip and Elena were locked in what could only be termed a battle of wills. But admitting that would mean having to explain why, which would mean informing his dad of the fact that Elena had sort of inadvertently set him up with a famous, secretly gay NHL player, thinking that they’d have one interesting, formative hook-up and go their separate ways, forgetting to take into account that the both of them were crazy people who’d probably fall in love about it and now was sincerely regretting ever have introduced them.

Not that Kip was in love. That would be crazy. It’d been, like, two months.

Anyway—Elena did not think the Scott thing was a good idea. She thought Kip was being an idiot. She thought Scott was being an idiot, and felt guilty both about leading the two of them to one another and the knowledge that when it blew up—as she was so sure it inevitably would—she would naturally, no question about it, choose Kip’s side. This of course made Kip considerably angry. There was not going to be sides, he’d told her huffily, and anyways Scott had no one, no one at all, and so if they really did end poorly Kip would likely resent her for ditching him once again, after he’d finally gotten the taste of a friend who’d choose him, who he could talk to and cared for him outside of his worth on the ice.

They were stuck in a stalemate. Elena wanted them to stop seeing one another, very adamantly, while at the same time refusing to speak badly about either one of them to the other, and silently, secretly resenting Kip for constructing a situation she saw as one in which she would inevitably have to end up hurting Scott, despite knowing that this was the last thing Kip wanted. It was a weird, tense situation.

To his dad, in the present, Kip said, “We’re fine.”

“Well,” his dad said, clearly not really believing him but willing, thank god, to drop it at least for the moment, “I hope that’s true. I’m heading down to Montreal this weekend for work, so her mom’s sending me with some stuff for her. I was gonna take her out to lunch.”

Kip cringed. He’d have to tell Elena not to say anything to George about Scott. She was definitely not going to like that. Elena’s own father was pretty much a total asshole, and she’d long since adopted Kip’s as something of a pseudo-father figure. She hated when Kip kept stuff from him.

“Alright,” Kip said, sighing. “I should probably head to the library. The grind never ends.”

“Alright, buddy. You keep on keeping on, yeah? Remember to eat well, try to get some good sleep. Don’t go too crazy on the schoolwork.”

“Sure,” Kip said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, papa.”

“I love you too, Kip.”

They hung up. Kip lay in bed for another few minutes, staring at the ceiling. Then he got up, showered, got dressed and made some breakfast. Josh was gone—probably to work, or else the library himself. Kip ate his eggs and toast sat at the table like a gargoyle, knees to his chest, idly watching an episode of New Girl on his phone.

Once he was done, he finally bit the bullet and opened the texts from Scott.

Scott: Hi
Scott: I’m really sirry.
Scott: *sorry
Scott: Are you ok?
Scott: Please text me back
Scott: If you want

Kip sighed. He placed his phone down, rubbed his face, then picked it back up again. Typed back, scott i told you im fine. Then, you already apologized we’re both stressed out lets just drop it.

Scott had apologized. He had shown up at Kip’s apartment the very next day, twitchy with nerves, and the neurotic, terrified certainty that he was being followed—but he’d shown up anyways. To be honest, Kip could barely recall what they’d actually talked about. He’d been angry, and confused, had cried and maybe yelled a little—and Scott had sat on the edge of Kip’s bed, hands in his lap, cringing like a kicked dog and saying barely anything at all, practically shaking with a fear Kip couldn’t understand. But he had shown up anyway. And so Kip had forgiven him.

The reply was almost immediate.

Scott: Ok but I’m still sorry
Scott: How are you doing?

Kip: a little hungover i went out w shawn last night
Kip: how r u?

Scott: Fine
Scott: I’m on the plane to Philly
Scott: How’s Shawn? Is he back in Utah for the summer?

Despite having an absolutely terrible memory and having never met them, Scott never failed to ask about the lives of Kip’s friends and family, seeming genuinely interested whenever Kip mentioned any of them, even offhand. Kip had a running theory that Scott kept a note on his phone filled with information about Kip’s life, just so he wouldn’t lose it. He found himself grinning down at his phone as he typed, warmth filling his chest.

Kip: nah he’s staying in nyc which is slay asf
Kip: werent u literally just in philly?
Kip: also how tf r u texting me from the plane

Scott: inflight wifi 😎
Scott: slay

Kip: bougie bitch

Scott: 😁

Kip: 🙄
Kip: r u playing tn?

Scott: Yeah
Scott: You gonna watch?

Kip: idk…
Kip: heard boston is playing tn…
Kip: might only have time to watch one…

Scott: 😡

Kip: lol of course im watching
Kip: break a leg

Scott: ???
Scott: I already broke my finger
Scott: Oh wait thats like a joke right
Scott: Like theatre

Kip: you BROKE UR FINGER???

Scott: Yeah
Scott: Don’t tell Deadspin
Scott: Secret

Kip: oh my god scott
Kip: wtf
Kip: how??

Scott: Got slashed

Quickly, Kip googled ‘slash hockey meaning,’ watched three seconds of a youtube video, then pulled the texts back up, wincing in sympathy.

Kip: ouch

Scott: It’s not so bad
Scott: You can kiss it better

Kip: gay
Kip: shit how the hell are you gonna jerk me off with a broken finger

Scott: Ok thats way more gay

Kip: 🍆💦👅

Scott: Van pulled his groin at least I’m not there yet

Kip frowned, then typed out, guiltily, remind me which one is van again

Scott: Carter
Scott: Vaughn

Google said Carter Vaughn was a right-wing for the New York Admirals. He was 22, pretty cute, and there were a lot of photos of him and Scott together. Kip got distracted watching a random video of them playing a mini-stick game with what looked to be a bunch of random kids, where Scott looked the most awkward Kip had pretty much ever seen him and kept having to throw his body around wildly, yelping and contorting in crazy ways to avoid bowling over any of the dozen small children whacking at his ankles with their plastic weapons, while Carter Vaughn laughed at him and ran around making airplane noises with a conglomeration of five-year olds clinging to his back. It was, in a word, adorable.

Kip: you guys are pretty close huh

Scott: Yeah he’s my best friend

Kip blinked rapidly down at his phone, startled. What?

Kip: really?

Scott: Yeah

He was his best friend, and he didn’t know Scott was gay? Kip chewed on his lip, brows furrowed. Jesus. That was sad.

Kip: why do u call him van?

Scott: Idk just how it be
Scott: Same reason they call me
Scott: Ignore haha didnt mean to send

Kip: scott
Kip: what do they call you

Scott: Doesnt matter

Kip: scott
Kip: please
Kip: i need to know hockey nickname

Scott: Ugh

Kip: please im begging
Kip: on my knees

Scott: On your knees?

Kip: 😛

Scott: Ugh
Scott: Fine
Scott: ...Scooter

Kip made a face down at the texts like, Aw.

Kip: thats not actually bad
Kip: kind of cool

Scott: Sometimes they call me
Scott: Dont laugh ok
Scott: Honeybear
Scott: Because of Hunter
Scott: Or something idk

Kip: LMAO

Scott: I said dont laugh!
Scott: 😡

Kip: not laughing not laughing
Kip: thats cute

Scott: Ugh
Scott: Wtv
Scott: What are u doing right now

Kip: just lying in bed
Kip: i gtg to the library soon

Scott: Boo
Scott: I’m bored

Kip: poor baby 😢
Kip: in flight wifi not enough for u?

Scott: Nope
Scott: Send nudes
Scott: KIDDING DONT ACTUALLY
Scott: Tight quarters here

Scott sent a photo of himself making a goofy face, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed beneath his wild mess of hair. What Kip was pretty sure was Carter Vaughn’s head was smushed against his shoulder, eyes closed and mouth open in sleep.

Cute, Kip texted, grinning. He felt something inside him soften, knowing Scott had a friend on his team—while simultaneously, his gut curdled slightly at the reminder once again of Scott’s total anxiety, his inability to confide in anyone at all.

He could send a photo back, but Scott would just delete it. Too paranoid of his phone getting stolen, he deleted all their incriminating messages. Kip…didn’t feel anything about it.

Kip: ur cute
Kip: k i rly gtg now
Kip: love yo—

Kip abruptly stopped typing. What the fuck? He backspaced quickly, totally freaked out at his almost slip-up. He hesitated a moment, and then wrote, good luck tn! Scott sent back a string of fire emojis and Kip tossed his phone across the bed, falling back and covering his face with his hands. He let out a long, low groan of despair.

Fuck. He was really screwed, wasn’t he?

Chapter End Notes

number one Scott song is I Can and I Will by Searows, it is not at all accurate to the times but idc it is so perfect I could not keep it inside. Searows is apparently Not Canadian but in my mind was totally from Vancouver, so whatever.

Another Scott song (also not historically accurate but at least can-con):
Moondog - Leif Vollebekk ("tired of living in the pouring rain" are you kidding me??)

And 2016 accurate can-con this chapter songs:
Ce charmant coeur - Julie Doiron
Iodine - Leonard Cohen (because I just couldn't help it and trust that I am trying so hard not to put Joni up in here)
Loyalty - The Weather Station