Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Elena Rygg, Kyle Swift, Shawn (Game Changers), Maria Villanueva, George Grady, New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), POV Kip Grady, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Humor, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, but also fun and shenanigans, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, what happened during The Three Year Gap™, 5 minutes of angst and then it’s mostly a romcom

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-18 Updated: 2026-03-20 Words: 23,745 Chapters: 5/15

Your Voice, and Your Ghost

Summary

Sometimes, Scott feels Kip’s absence like a ghost.

It’s a brush of fingertips down his spine, a soft exhale of breath that sends goosebumps across the back of his neck.

But when he turns, Kip is never there.

—

Or- what happened in the three years between the end of Ep3 and the on-ice kiss.

Notes

This is my explanation for what went down during the three and half years between The Fight™ and The Kiss™.

As much as it hurts my soul to think of Scott and Kip being apart for that long, I do think some time (and distance) would have strengthened their relationship and made Scott's decision to come out more realistic than the 6-month timeline in the book.

The chapter count might change slightly but I currently have this outlined for 12-15 chapters, and I plan on updating weekly.

I'm mostly following the show timeline, but some details will follow the book instead. I'll mention any discrepancies at the start of each chapter for clarity.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

As in the book, Kip lives with both his parents but is closer to his dad.

Leave your ghost, I'll let you haunt me

I know how this goes, oh, I know

If it's inevitable, my heart breaks

And by the mornin' you'll say your mind's changed

If I can't find you a reason to stay

And my heart's gonna break, then at least I can say

I was broken by you

broken by you - Alexander Stewart

December 2013

“I’m gonna go home tonight. I need to.”

Scott nodded even though it was the opposite of how he felt, even though alarms blared inside his head, declaring that this was wrong, wrong, wrong. The same alarms that had filled him with a sense of dread since Elena uttered those cursed words:

“He’s also miserable. Are you miserable too?”

The thought of Kip being miserable because of him was what kept his gaze solidly on the counter in front of him as Kip slid off the barstool. He slowly walked to the front door, as if he also expected Scott to stop him.

But Scott didn’t move, didn’t dare say a word. Partly because he didn’t trust himself to speak around the lump in his throat, but mostly because he couldn’t speak the words that Kip wanted to hear. Anything he could have said wouldn’t be enough, or, worse, a lie.

So he didn’t move at all until the front door opened, when he looked up just in time to see Kip disappear into the hallway. Time seemed to stand still for a minute as Scott fought the overwhelming urge to run after Kip. He’d get on his knees and beg, he’d cry, he’d make all kinds of empty promises he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep.

But then time started back up, and Scott heard the faint but unmistakable ding of the elevator. And then silence, and Scott was alone again.

He took in a shuttering breath before picking up his whiskey and knocking it back in a single gulp. It was smooth, smoky and eye-wateringly expensive, but it could have been battery acid for all he cared at that moment. He picked up Kip’s untouched glass next, tried and failed to forget the quiet devastation on Kip’s face as he had pushed it away.

When Kip’s glass was also empty Scott grabbed the bottle and went to sit on the couch, marveling that his limbs still worked, his body somehow unaware that it was now functioning without a working heart. He knew the tears would come later. But for now all he had the energy for was to sit, and drink, and stare at the spot on the couch that Kip liked best.

He wasn’t usually one for drinking alone, but he did it now, with a purpose. If he drank enough then sweet oblivion would eventually take him, and then he wouldn’t have to feel so much. It was too much, the familiar mix of guilt, shame and fear mixed with something new that felt suspiciously like heartbreak. He’d never gone through a breakup, but even he could tell that Kip leaving had a finality to it that he didn’t want to observe too closely. Not yet.

Maybe when he woke up tomorrow this would turn out to be a terrible misunderstanding, and he’d look at his phone to find one of Kip’s Good Morning texts, accompanied by a sleepy selfie of him in bed. Maybe this would even turn out to be a fever dream, and he’d wake wrapped up with Kip, as he should be now, instead of sipping $500 whiskey while wearing a $6,000 tuxedo on a $20,000 couch.

Alone.

—

Scott didn’t remember going to bed, but when he woke to a pounding head and throat the texture of sandpaper, he was sprawled on the right side of his bed. Kip’s side.

Kip’s water bottle sat on the nightstand, the giant banana sticker that Scott had bought him as a joke on proud display.

He groaned, sat up, immediately regretted it as the world tilted and spun. Jesus. How much whiskey did he have? And how was Kip already awake?

He opened his mouth to call out his name, maybe lure him back to bed, when it hit like a brick.

The gala, the talk with Elena, the fight. Kip walking out.

Had it been a fight? Or simply a dissolution of something that had been precarious in the first place? God, he had no idea. He was so bad at this. All he knew for certain was that Kip had left, and now Scott was alone again.

The banana sticker mocked him like a giant middle finger.

Kip woke up the next morning to the smell of cinnamon and the feel of a heavy body sitting at the foot of his bed, crushing his toes.

“Get off,” he grumbled, struggling to push Scott off him.

His weak effort earned him a soft chuckle- a familiar one, but one that most definitely didn’t belong to Scott Hunter.

His eyes flew open, and for a moment he was almost dizzy with disorientation. He had been spending so much time at Scott’s that it took his brain a minute to remember that he was in his creaky twin bed in his childhood bedroom, and not in Scott’s king bed. In Scott’s arms. And that the man sitting on his feet was not his boyfriend but his father, wearing flannel pajamas and a concerned frown.

“He lives,” his father exclaimed in mock surprise. “You’re lucky, I was about to dump some water on you to see if that’d do the trick.”

Kip huffed, hiding his face under his pillow. He had no idea what time it was, but his head throbbed and his eyes felt heavy as if he hadn’t even slept. Last night his father had tucked him into bed like a child without asking a single question after letting him sob into his shoulder for what was probably a ridiculous amount of time for a grown man to cry. He still wouldn’t ask any questions if Kip didn’t want him to, and that knowledge made him feel weepy again. Kip was surprised there was any liquid left in him at all.

“I made you coffee. Cinnamon, with the vanilla creamer you avoid because you think it’s gonna ruin your abs or something.”

Kip poked his head out from under his pillow and took another sniff, like a bear testing the air after hibernation. “It will ruin my abs,” he grumbled even as he grabbed the mug. Not that anyone will be seeing them anymore, he didn’t add.

He took a sip, unable to stop himself from humming in appreciation of the rich, sweet, slightly spicy liquid. The cinnamon coffee was a George Grady specialty that was usually reserved for when someone was sick or upset. Kip felt like both applied to himself at the moment.

He kicked his feet again until his father relented and moved to sit on the floor instead.

“Alright, alright, sheesh! Making his old man sit on the floor. Kids these days!”

Kip chucked his pillow at him, unable to stop himself from chuckling at his dad’s clownish yelps of affront. For some reason it made him think of Scott, who would be waking up alone in his beautiful apartment. Alone, without a single soul to talk to about Kip. Because Kip had walked out.

A part of his brain still couldn’t believe he had actually done that. The same part of his brain that he had had to fight on his way home last night as it argued that Scott hadn’t done anything except be honest. He had laid all his cards out from the start. It was Kip who had decided he didn’t like the game anymore.

His phone was plugged in on his nightstand, probably also courtesy of his dad. It looked as menacing as a live grenade. Had Scott texted? Should he text?

He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering how long he could just lie here like this, safe in his tiny twin bed while the world kept on spinning.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, it’s just cinnamon powder and an espresso pod, hardly had to move a muscle.”

Kip snorted, shaking his head. “And thank god for that, your old bones probably can’t handle anything more strenuous.”

“Who raised you?!”

“You did.”

“Ahh. That’s right. I did that.” The warmth in his father’s voice made Kip’s throat tighten.

“I’m not gonna ask anything,” his dad went on, “I just need to know you’re alright.”

Kip sighed again. “No, I’m not alright. Not really.” Not at all.

His dad’s lips tilted down at the corners. “Are you in trouble with the law? Is there a body?” A pause. “Body parts? Could be easier to hide that way.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying.”

“There’s….there was…” Past tense? Present tense? “A…guy.”

His dad’s face turned serious again. “Kinda figured. And…is there no longer a guy?”

“I mean, he's alive, no body disposal needed.”

His father sighed in relief. “Well thank god for that, my old bones definitely couldn’t have handled that.”

Kip snorted, picturing his father burying Scott Hunter’s bones in a Bay Ridge cemetery. His grief was making him delusional. Was this what losing your mind felt like?

“But you’re no longer…” His father trailed off.

Kip shook his head, grabbing his pillow off the floor and hugging it to his chest. “No. I don’t know. It’s…so complicated.”

“Will you tell me about him?”

What to say? “He’s…so great. Way out of my league, really.” A scoff from the foot of his bed. “No, like, we live on completely different planets. He’s so generous, and loving, and funny in this really dry, quiet way. Open about his feelings and what he wants, unlike literally every other man I’ve ever dated.”

“But?”

“But, he’s…not out.”

There was a heavy silence as he watched his dad process the information. He was usually so easy to read, but just then Kip couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“You forgot the part about him being very, very good at hockey. And also very, very handsome, might I add.”

Kip’s blood ran cold. He sat bolt upright. “What? How did you…”

His dad smirked. “I didn’t know for sure until now. But I had my suspicions.”

So much for being subtle. “But how…”

“You’ve been MIA since going to that game that he gave you his personal tickets to. And anytime I’ve seen you since then you’ve had this dopey look on your face. You think I don’t know my son enough to know when he’s in love?”

Kip dropped his head in his hands. “Does mom know?”

“She doesn’t. Thought I’d keep that one to myself for now.”

That was a small relief. As much as Kip adored both his parents, his mom’s brand of fretting was very different from his dad’s. She wouldn’t have been able to have any chill about this.

“So, should I no longer expect any more free tickets, or…?”

Kip kicked him lightly in the shoulder. Then the whole series of events tumbled out of him, as if desperate to be let out into the world. The sneaking around, the gala, the Talk. It was oddly freeing, talking about it out loud with someone other than Elena. It made it more real, unlike the fantasy he felt like he’d been living in for the past two months.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered dejectedly. “He was honest from the start. I knew what I was getting into. I just…didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

“Nobody ever expects to fall in love.”

Except that looking back, falling in love with Scott Hunter had been the easiest, most predictable thing he’d ever done.

“So what now?”

“Now nothing, I guess. I can’t…I don’t think I can do it anymore. I can't keep sneaking around. It’s too hard.” Kip swallowed hard. “I just hate knowing that he’s so alone. I want him to be happy.”

His dad placed a warm hand on his knee. “You can’t force him into what you think will make him happy. That needs to come from him. But you also shouldn’t deny yourself happiness for his sake. That’s not love.”

“Then what is?”

His dad smiled sadly, as if certain that Kip already knew the answer.

—

Later, when Kip finally found the courage to look at his phone, he saw three texts from Elena, a bunch of messages in a group chat with Maria, Shawn, and Kyle, and…his heart skipped a beat.

A missed call from Scott at 12:16 am.

His fingers shook as he tapped on their message thread. His eyes landed on their latest texts from earlier the night before.

Scott - 7:28 pm: On my way. Can’t wait to see you in that tux

Kip - 7:29 pm: Likewise, sweetheart ;)

Then, another notification, sent a few minutes after the missed phone call.

Scott - 12:24 am: message deleted.

December 14th
Scott - 12:24 am: message deleted.

December 17th
Scott - 9:23 am: Happy Birthday :)

Scott had been staring at his phone all day, as if by staring at the two offensive messages hard enough he could erase them both from existence and from Kip’s memory. He’d been staring at them so long the messages had begun to loop through his mind like a sad mantra:

Message deleted

Happy Birthday :)

Message deleted

Happy Birthday :)

Message deleted

Message deleted

Message deleted

Message deleted

Carter had noticed him checking his phone incessantly while getting dressed for practice, which had led to a round of taunting from his teammates.

“Don’t worry, Scotty, she’ll text you back!” Carter had joked.

“Look at how worried he looks, though,” Bennet had chipped in, “must be quite the catch he let slip away.”

Oh, if only they knew.

The catch in question was currently in his direct eyeline, with only the width of a sidewalk and a window separating them. Kip couldn’t have seemed further away if he had been on the other side of the world.

When Scott had eventually checked his phone again after practice he’d seen that Kip had replied to his Happy Birthday message with a single red heart. How did one respond to that? This was why he preferred talking on the phone. There was less opportunity for meaning to get twisted behind crisp black & white text, no emojis to decipher.

The brick facade he stood in front of looked, as Kip had described, like any other bar. Warm light spilled from a large window, offering a view of cozy booths, rows of liquor bottles behind a long mahogany bar, and tvs playing sports highlights. A little dingy, maybe, but from what he could see of The Kingfisher from this angle, it looked no different than dozens of other pubs he’d been to in his life.

What was different was that the man he loved was inside this bar, celebrating his birthday with his friends and family, and what stood between him and Scott was Scott’s own indecision and paranoia.

Scott could see Kip through the window, wearing a black t-shirt and the glasses that never failed to drive him crazy. He wanted nothing more than to say fuck it, walk into the bar, and kiss him silly, so that everyone gathered knew he was Scott’s. He wanted to look his parents in the eye and tell them what a wonderful son they had raised.

He wanted to tell Elena that he was tired of the dark, too.

Realistically he knew there was no way that could happen. But what he could do was to just go inside.

He kept breaking it down into a list of easy-to-follow steps, like an instructions manual for bare minimum boyfriend behavior:

1- Walk towards the bar.

Easy enough, even though his feet currently felt like they were cemented to the sidewalk. He was a pro athlete- putting one foot in front of the other shouldn’t be that much of an issue.

2- Open the door.

Slightly more difficult, more intentional movement required, but harder to abort once it began.

3- …?

This was where things became dicey. What would actually happen once he walked in there? Could he really stand there and chat with Kip’s friends and family, some of whom knew about them, and pretend to just be a customer from the smoothie shop? Could he shake hands with his mom and dad and pretend he wasn't madly in love with their son? Could Kip pretend?

And what would happen if he couldn’t?

He unsuccessfully tried to shush the nagging voice that had brought him here in the first place. What would be so bad if the people most important to Kip found out he was his boyfriend? They were hardly likely to leak it to TMZ. Besides, it was a frigid mid-December night, and the bar looked half empty. The chances of a stranger spotting him within the cozy bubble of Kip’s loved ones was slim.

Slim, but not nonexistent. Never nonexistent, that was the problem.

He stole another glance at Kip. He looked adorably flushed in the glow of the birthday cake that had been placed in front of him, pink-cheeked and smiling. And happy.

Scott knew then, with devastating finality, that there was no way he could walk into that bar. Kip deserved this type of happiness- easy, safe, familiar. What he didn’t need was his messed-up boyfriend crashing his party and making it all about himself by looking over his shoulder every two seconds, flinching like a spooked cat anytime someone looked his way.

Scott drank in the sight of Kip smiling and happy, in case it was the last time. Then he forced himself to turn and walk away.

—

He was halfway down the block when he heard footsteps behind him. Too quick to be a stranger walking down the sidewalk, but still hesitant. Familiar enough that Scott stopped walking before his brain had even processed his decision to stop.

“Scott?”

Sure enough, when he turned around, there he was. Kip Grady in the flesh, no hazy glass window separating them. Scott couldn’t think of a single thing to say, or how to explain his presence here. It was somehow worse that Kip had found him here than if he had thought Scott had never shown up.

“Hi,” was the only thing his brain came up with.

Kip smiled, almost shyly. “Hi. I thought I saw…”

A light snow had started, blanketing the street with an almost eerie hush. Kip was still only wearing a t-shirt, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Scott resisted the urge to go to him and envelop him in his arms.

“Happy Birthday,” he said, at a loss for what to say. “And congrats about grad school.”

Kip looked at him curiously. “How do you know about that?”

Scott shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I heard Elena say you got a full ride.” While I was standing outside the bar like a creep. “That’s amazing. You should be proud.”

“Thanks,” Kip said with another almost-smile.

Scott had no idea where to go from here.

“What are you doing here, Scott?”

What was he doing here, indeed? “I…I wanted to see you.”

Kip’s face softened slightly.

Scott let out a deep sigh, his breath fogging in front of his face. “I just…I hate the way we left things. I wanted to call you, but I didn’t know what to say, or if I should even call…”

“I’m sorry,” Kip said softly. “I shouldn’t have just left. I’ve been feeling really bad about that.”

“No, you were right. About everything.”

They stood there for a beat, staring at each other like there was an ocean separating them. There might as well have been. Kip shivered then, rubbing his arms in a futile attempt to ward off the goosebumps.

“You’re cold,” Scott said, stupidly. “You should go back inside.”

“You could…come inside with me? You came all this way.” Kip searched his face as if he wished to look right into his soul. His eyes were so tentatively hopeful that Scott couldn’t stand it.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. He hated himself for not being able to give Kip this one thing, after everything Kip had done for him, all the sacrifices he’d made, all the lies he’d been forced to tell. All the more reason why Kip deserved better than him.

Kip hung his head, clearly having seen enough on Scott’s face, and not liking what he saw.

“Here,” Scott crossed the space between them in two quick strides, wrapping his own jacket around Kip’s shoulders before Kip could stop him. “You’ll catch your death.”

Kip smiled. “Ok, mom.”

Scott couldn’t stop his own lips from smiling back. It was so easy, being with Kip. So why was it so damn hard?

“Do you think…” He wanted so badly to ask Kip to come over later, even though he knew, deep down, that would only be delaying the inevitable. He shook his head. “I should go. I’m sorry, you should go back inside to your friends. I’m sure they’re wondering where you went.”

Kip glanced back up the road towards the glow of the bar. “Pretty sure Elena is playing bouncer at the door.”

Scott wondered if she’d even let him through the door if he tried.

“She’s a good friend,” he choked out. “You’re lucky to have someone like that.”

With some horror he realized that Kip’s eyes were filling with tears. “Scott. Please come inside.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, and the pleading in his voice made Scott feel like his heart was being ripped clean in half. He had never hated himself as much as he did at that moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, dropping his gaze so Kip wouldn’t see his own tears. He turned to leave.

“Wait! Your jacket…”

“Keep it,” Scott said. “There’s something in one of the pockets for you.” Kip’s hand drifted towards the pockets, fingers closing around the envelope inside. “Don’t open it until you’re alone, please. It’s…it’s for you. Happy birthday.”

Kip didn’t protest again as Scott walked away, letting the dark, quiet night swallow him whole.

—

Scott tossed and turned for what felt like hours before finally succumbing to a restless sleep. When he was awoken, the first thought that crossed his mind was that it felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. The second was that it was still dark out.

The third was that someone was sitting on the bed next to him.

His stomach lurched until his eyes adjusted to the dark enough to make out the edges of the man he loved. Kip was still wearing his jacket, his curls damp with snow, cheeks and nose pink from the cold. He was adorable. Scott wanted to drag him under the covers and never get out. He didn’t dare move, he barely breathed in case this was a vivid dream, and any movement would make Kip’s ghost disappear.

“Are you real?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Kip responded by poking him in the ribs. Hard. Real Kip, then.

“Ow!”

“Scott.” Kip’s eyes were bright with a mix of emotion Scott had never seen from him before. Irritation, surely, but something else that looked like desperation. Either way, Scott would take this over the closed-off Kip that had walked out of his apartment after the gala.

“Kip.”

“You cannot give me fifty thousand dollars for my birthday!”

Ah. That.

“I told you not to open that until you were home.”

Kip took a deep, rattling breath. He looked like he was bracing himself for something. “Scott. I’m not cashing that check.”

Scott cleared his throat. He figured he might encounter some resistance on this front. “It’s for your student loans. Once school starts you’ll have less time to work…this way you can start fresh. Focus on your studies, not worry about your loan payments.” And live here with me, he didn’t dare add.

Kip was shaking his head. “No, Scott. It’s too much. It’s…it’s insane.”

“If it’s less than that I can write another check, or we can go to the bank together…”

“No, Scott!” Kip’s voice was harder than Scott had ever heard it, shutting him up mid-sentence. “You can’t…” He raked his hands over his face, looking so lost that Scott suddenly realized how badly he’d fucked up. “You can’t just give me fifty thousand dollars!”

“I can, though,” Scott replied, aiming for a gentle tone but landing somewhere probably closer to petulant. “Easily. You know that.”

Kip was silent for a moment, his eyes roving over the room, anywhere but on Scott.

“It feels like a bribe, Scott.”

It landed like a punch to the face. Scott shook his head. “No, what? No, what are you…”

“‘Sorry I can’t come to your birthday, here’s fifty thousand dollars?’”

It was Scott’s turn to become angry. He grabbed Kip’s arm, pulling him close. He reached out with his other hand and tilted Kip’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “If you think that,” he said evenly, “then you don’t know me at all.” Even as he said it he knew how it looked, knew that from Kip’s perspective he probably would have thought the same.

I can’t go to a gay bar and have a beer with your friends, here’s a check for more money than you made last year.

Kip’s eyes were suddenly unreadable. Scott hated that more than anything. Kip usually wore all his emotions on his sleeve, but the man in front of him suddenly looked like a stranger.

Kip shook free of his grip and shuffled further away from him, breaking eye contact to stare at the window.

Scott took a deep breath, aimed for a different angle. “You know how much I make. My salary, plus all the endorsements and brand deals, it’s…” He swallowed hard. “I donate to charity, and I travel a little in the summers. But other than that… I have nobody to share it with.” Kip looked up at that, his eyes sad. “I want to share it with you. I want to share my life with you.”

Kip was quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. Scott had always loved that about him, his willingness to let Scott be intense, his ability to respond objectively instead of freaking out at what was probably way too much, too soon.

“On your own terms,” Kip finally replied, after what felt like eternity. “Behind closed doors.”

“For now,” Scott said, slightly desperate. “Not forever.”

Kip was silent a long moment. And then he turned his gaze away from Scott and made to stand. Scott grabbed his arm again, heart racing. This couldn’t be it. Not like this.

“Kip,” he said softly, “come here.” He didn’t think he could survive it if he tried to pull Kip towards him and he flinched away from him again.

Kip didn’t come to him, but he didn’t move away either. He only looked at Scott with that stubborn, unreadable expression.

“Please,” he said.

Kip’s expression crumbled. The blank mask fell, revealing all the love and sadness that Scott was sure was mirrored on his own face. In the blink of an eye he was crowding Scott, their lips pressing together, his familiar, spicy scent filling Scott’s lungs. Scott’s hands were touching Kip wherever he could reach- tangling in his thick curls, grabbing fistfulls of his shirt, cradling his jaw.

Scott paid attention to every exhaled breath, every moan, every change of expression on Kip’s face. He memorized the taste of him, the salt of his sweat and tears, the musk of his skin. His hands roamed every inch of his body, the ridges of his lean muscles, the sensitive spots that made Kip squirm when he licked them. Scott mapped Kip’s body until he was certain he could have drawn him from memory with his eyes closed. He wanted everything ingrained into his brain with enough detail that he could come back and relive this moment again and again.

When he had drawn it out so much that they were both shaking and panting, tears mixing with their sweat, incoherent words falling from both their lips, he didn’t so much as blink as he watched Kip fall apart in his arms.

Later, when Kip was tucked into him, Scott tried to pretend that this wasn’t the last time. He told himself that when he woke in the morning Kip would be looking up at him with a sleepy, cheeky grin. Or, more likely, sound asleep next to him.

Instead, he focused on Kip’s heartbeat against his chest, and the taste of his neck under his lips. Kip made a sleepy, contented noise that Scott promised himself he would never forget.

He was drifting off to sleep when Kip’s voice pierced through the haze of sleep, barely more than a whisper.

“I wanted this to work so badly.”

It was so eerily close to what Scott had texted him after the gala that it almost cracked his heart in half.

—

When he woke, his lungs were full of Kip’s scent, his body loose and relaxed. He turned his head to the pillow and inhaled, reaching out to pull Kip closer.

His hands closed on empty air.

Scott’s eyes flew open. The other side of the bed (Kip’s side) was rumpled, confirming that what had happened hadn’t all been in Scott’s head. But where Kip had been there was now only Scott’s jacket, carefully folded and placed on the edge of the bed.

Scott lunged for his phone on instinct. He ignored his emails and messages from his teammates, his eyes immediately zeroing in on a single notification.

Kip- 6:18 am: I’m sorry.

Scott’s gaze drifted to the nightstand. The water bottle with the banana sticker was gone, replaced by a slightly crumpled envelope with a check cleanly ripped in half placed neatly on top of it.

Message deleted

Happy Birthday :)

I’m sorry.

Message deleted

Happy Birthday :)

I’m sorry.

Message deleted

December 14th
Scott - 12:24 am: I wish so badly that this could have been enough.

Chapter End Notes

I promise not every chapter will be this angsty!

Thank you for reading <3

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Kingfisher shenanigans ; what happens in Sochi stays in Sochi.

Chapter Notes

Every corner of this house is haunted

And I know you said that we're not talkin'

But I miss you, I'm sorry

I don't wanna go, think I'll make it worse

Everything I know brings me back to us

I don't wanna go, we've been here before

Everywhere I go leads me back to you

i miss you, i’m sorry - Gracie Abrams

February 2014

“So,” Kyle said, slapping his hands on the bar in front of Kip. “What are we drinking?”

Shawn gasped. “Kyle! It’s barely noon! What kind of people do you take us for?”

“Thirsty people at a bar?” Kyle replied dryly.

“Well, if you insist.” Shawn let out a mock sigh.

“And don’t let anyone change that channel!” Maria added.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kyle’s eyes lingered on Kip for a second longer as he said it.

Kip squirmed on his barstool. He was unreasonably nervous, and uncomfortably hot.

“Kyle, can you turn the heat down? Are you guys hot? I’m hot.”

“Jesus,” Shawn drawled. “You need to relax.”

“I don’t know,” Maria added with a grin that meant trouble, “Scott didn’t get his smoothie today. Who knows what will happen without his good-luck charm.” She said smoothie the same way someone might say yes, give it to me.

“Oh fuck off, both of you.”

Shawn and Maria only snickered in response.

“Sorry,” Kyle said apologetically as he set down a pitcher of beer and three glasses in front of them. “The heating’s ancient, it’s basically an on-off situation.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Shawn cut in, “he’s just fretting over his boyfriend having a good day at work.”

“You mean winning an Olympic gold medal?” Kip asked, ignoring the first part of Shawn’s comment.

“Notice how he didn’t deny the boyfriend thing?” Maria asked, right on cue.

Kip raised his hands in annoyance. “Will you guys please give it a rest? He is not my boyfriend!”

For all the times he’d said those words, this was the first time he actually meant them.

The truth was, he was nervous. For Scott, yes, but also because this was the first time they were all hanging out since his birthday. He’d acted strangely all night after talking to Scott, and he could tell everyone had noticed. Kip had claimed that he had run outside to take a phone call, and thankfully nobody had called him out on his bluff.

Nobody except for Elena and his dad, whose pitying eyes he’d avoided for the rest of the night.

With the rush of the holidays and Maria announcing that not only was she quitting Straw+Berry, but was also applying to the police academy, and Shawn busy with catering gigs, they’d hardly had a chance to see each other. Kip missed his friends, but he also had no idea how to act.

He wished he could tell them. Not about Scott, obviously, even though that was what he really wanted. But if he could just tell them he’d gone through a breakup, he could stop pretending to not be heartbroken. The pretending was almost worse than the heartbreak itself. How was someone supposed to act like their heart hadn’t been broken by someone that he wasn’t supposed to have been dating in the first place? It was making his brain hurt. He took an extra-large gulp of beer.

“That’s the spirit!” Shawn exclaimed. He went to reach for his beer but paused mid-movement. “Kyle!” He waved his hand dramatically. “Volume up! The boyfriend’s on TV!”

Kip looked up to find, as promised, Scott Hunter’s perfect face filling the TV. Where most players' photos showed them awkwardly glaring at the camera, Scott’s official MLH mugshot was a work of art. His face was serious, unsmiling, his eyes so intense it seemed as if they could see right into your soul. But there was a sparkle in his eyes and a slight uptick at one corner of his mouth that made him seem more challenging than angry. It made Kip’s toes curl, because he had seen that look directed at him many times. While Scott had been wearing much less clothing.

Maria sighed deeply. “God, that man is so fine! I keep forgetting.”

I don’t, Kip thought miserably.

“Eh,” Kyle shrugged dismissively. “Not my type.”

Even Kip froze at that.

“Begging your finest pardon?” asked Shawn.

Kyle stared at the tv over the bar, his face set in a contemplative frown. “He’s too…he’s not enough…” His eyes drifted to Kip.

Kip squirmed again, for a different reason this time. He was self-aware enough to realize that Kyle’s gaze often lingered on him, but that meant nothing. Kyle flirted with everyone.

“You know what, fuck it,” Kyle declared, pushing away from the bar. “I’d fuck him.”

“Does he not seem more toppy, though?” Maria asked, eyes fixed on Kip as she rested her chin in her hand.

“You know what,” Kip said, “I’m not even mad you abandoned me at work.”

“Liar.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Also, that’s a gross stereotype,” Shawn added. “He clearly has power bottom eyes.”

“I don’t even…” Kip’s phone buzzed, saving him from the hell of having to participate in this argument.

A single notification lit up his screen.

Scott: 12:27 - image

Kip almost dropped his phone as his fingers fumbled to open the photo. Even in the split second it took, his brain had enough time to come up with ideas of what the photo could be. If they had still been dating, it might have been a selfie, Scott smiling shyly at the camera in a way that was so earnest it melted Kip right into the floor. Sometimes it might have been a photo from an ad campaign, as a joke. Kip had always liked those.

And sometimes, very rarely, they might have been shots of Scott’s abs, perhaps with a hand splayed to the south of where the camera pointed. Never anything spicier, however much Kip had told Scott that a dick pic from him would never be unsolicited.

He clicked open the photo, angling his phone so Shawn and Maria wouldn’t see. What he saw almost made him drop his phone again.

Banana printed blue socks, with the caption,

Still my lucky charm.

Kip couldn’t breathe. He hurriedly shoved his phone back into his pocket, taking what he hoped was a casual sip of beer.

“What’d I miss?” A voice called out.

Kip sagged in relief as Elena slapped her handbag down onto the bar and unbuttoned her coat.

“Don’t you have a big-girl job?” Shawn asked. “With big-girl hours?”

“Yes, well,” Elena replied, “once you get to a certain level, you get big-girl privileges.”

Her gaze landed on Kip, immediately clocking his internal panic.

“Kip,” she declared, “I have to pee and I need help getting out of this jumpsuit. Come help me?” She flashed him a big, fake grin that he recognized as meaning there was no use arguing with her.

“Yup.”

“You guys are weird,” Shawn mumbled.

“Didn’t know we had women’s bathrooms,” Kyle quipped from behind the bar.

Elena flashed him the middle finger as she walked past.

Inside the dingy women’s bathroom, Elena checked each stall while carefully avoiding touching anything before planting herself in front of Kip and crossing her arms.

“Spill.”

Kip held out his phone silently. He watched as Elena typed in his passcode, her eyebrows raising as she beheld the banana socks on his screen. She held the phone away from her, as if it was on fire.

“Oh, Kip.”

“Yeah.”

“You two are so bad at breaking up.”

“I know!”

Elena was silent for a long moment, and it took Kip a moment to realize she was scrolling up his message thread with Scott.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Looking for a dick pic.”

“Oh my god Elena, stop that!”

He swiped for his phone as she scurried away from him, her face lighting up in delight at what she saw on his phone. She’d found one of the ab pics, then.

“Jesus,” she whistled appreciatively.

“I know!” he said again, face in his hands.

“So. What are we gonna do about this?” she asked, just as the door to the bathroom swung open.

“What are we doing about what?” It was Maria, standing with her hands on her hips and looking between them suspiciously. She spotted the phone Elena was holding and grabbed it before Elena could react.

“Oops,” Elena said, not sounding at all sorry.

“Maria,” Kip said carefully, “it’s not what it looks like.”

Maria’s eyes had grown wide as saucers, her face splitting in a delighted grin. “Kip.”

“Maria.”

“You’re telling me this isn’t a picture of Scott Hunter’s abs on your phone? A picture he apparently sent to you?”

Kip fiddled with the strings on his hoodie. “No, that’s pretty much exactly what it is.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god! Is that…is he holding his…”

Kip grabbed the phone, putting it safely back in his pocket.

Maria pointed a finger accusingly at him. “I knew you two had a thing, you little liar! Tell me everything.”

Kip sighed. “There’s nothing to tell. We had a thing, and the thing is no longer a thing.”

Maria’s face fell. “What? Why not?”

“Well, you know, he’s not…out. Obviously. Which was fine at first, but…”

Maria’s eyes were wide. “It was that serious?”

Kip swallowed hard. “Yeah. It was.”

“And now he’s texted Kip a picture of his feet,” Elena said. “A full two months after their last conversation.”

Maria blinked. “You have a thing for feet?”

“No! I do not have a thing for feet. It’s…I bought him these stupid smoothie socks as a joke. Here.” He brought the photo back up on his phone and thrust it at Maria.

“Well, that’s fucking cute,” she said with a grin.

“It’s pretty cute, yeah,” Elena agreed, slightly reluctantly.

“And you’re supposed to be broken up?” Maria clarified.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well, you have to say something! You can’t just leave him on read when he’s about to go play in the Olympics! He’s probably tweaking out waiting for you to say something!”

“Shit,” Elena said. “Maria’s right. You can’t be the reason Team USA loses. Imagine having that on your conscience?”

Kip knew she was mostly kidding, but his stomach was suddenly roiling with dread. They were right. What if Scott was staring at his phone, waiting for Kip to reply? He could picture him sitting there on the bench, in one of those cursed skin-tight under armour things, anxiously waiting for a reply.

“Fuck. What do I say? ‘Good luck with the game, by the way how’s life?’”

“Should we ask Shawn what he thinks?” Maria asked.

“No!” Elena and Kip exclaimed at the same time.

Maria raised an eyebrow.

“He’s the biggest gossip in town,” Kip explained. “If we tell him half the town will know by dinnertime.”

“Hmm. Ok, I’ve got this, leave it to me.” Before Kip could process what was happening, Maria was furiously typing.

“Maria? Maria, no!” He swiped for the phone but she pressed send before he could reach it and handed it back to him triumphantly.

“Done.”

Her answer stared back at him from beneath the banana sock photo.

Kip: 12:41 - No luck needed when you’re the best. I’ll be watching ;)

“Maria!” Kip complained. “It’s flirty!”

“Exactly. No chance he’s losing now. He’ll be on fucking fire.”

Kip hid his face in his hands.

“We don’t have to stay and watch, you know,” Elena said gently. “We can go eat pizza on my couch instead.”

Kip sighed. “I love you, but no, it’s fine. I’m a big boy, I’ll figure it out.” Elena’s expression indicated she wasn’t so sure about that. She linked her arm through his, squeezing reassuringly.

“So,” Maria said brightly, “can we circle back to the part where Scott Hunter sent you a picture of himself-”

“Maria!”

She raised her hands defensively. “Ok, ok, jeez! Just tell me one thing.” She brought her palms together. “Tell me when.” She slowly moved her hands away from each other, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Maria!”

Scott couldn’t stop smiling.

He’d led Team USA to Olympic gold, defying all the bleak predictions the sports channels and podcasts had been spewing since he’d been announced as captain. The second he had skated out onto the ice, he’d known they would win. He’d felt unstoppable. It had been easy. It had been fun, in a way that hockey hadn’t been for a while.

And, on top of that, Kip had replied to his stupid sock photo. He had descended into a deep anxiety spiral as soon as he had sent it, truthfully not expecting any sort of answer, much less one tinged with flirtation. He had no idea what it meant, but he didn’t really care. He was just happy, and he’d let himself be happy as long as it lasted.

He was still wearing his gold medal around his neck, not even having had the energy to remove it after making it back to his room post team celebrating. He’d planned on getting as much sleep as he could before their flight tomorrow, but now he was wide awake, a combination of adrenaline and the loud sex his neighbor was having threatening to keep him awake all night.

He reached for his phone, audibly sighing at the amount of emails, messages, and phone calls he’d studiously ignored all night. His agent Todd was probably popping champagne bottles all over town right now. No doubt he’d find some new, creative ways to exploit this moment of glory. Scott groaned, almost as loudly as the couple going at it on the other side of the wall.

He scrolled aimlessly for a while, skimming emails, flagging things that would need his attention later. Eventually there was a respite in the cacophony next door, and he’d decided to at least try to sleep, when something caught his gaze. A single red notification bubble next to his home security app, hidden deep in the bowels of a useless folder also containing the Calculator and Files apps.

Scott frowned. The security system had come with the apartment, the technical details of which he’d mostly glazed over when it had been explained to him. He wasn’t that concerned about a break-in, much less than he probably should have been considering the seven million dollars he’d spent on the place. Still, there was a doorman, and the elevator required a code to reach his floor. Scott figured if someone did manage to break into his apartment, they probably deserved whatever they decided to steal.

There was a single camera (that he’d never once checked) that encompassed most of the main living space, as well as a motion detector that triggered every time the front door was opened. When he set the system to Home he only received notifications for a forced entry, or if the wrong code was entered in the keypad more than three times. When the system was set to Away, as it was now, he received notifications for every entry, forced or not. Meaning someone was currently in his apartment, or had tried to get in. The cleaning crew had their own separate code for the front door, so that their entries would be flagged in the system as separate from Scott’s (again, not that he ever checked.) But for some reason Scott didn’t think it was the cleaners at all.

He clicked open the app, heart suddenly racing. A quick scan of the door-entry log confirmed that someone had indeed opened the door to his apartment using his personal code at 4:37 pm, EST.

Scott did some quick mental math, factoring in the time difference. Someone had walked into his apartment two hours ago, and, if the system was correct, was still currently there.

There were only two someones who had that code, one of whom was Carter, who Scott had personally deposited upon an extra-long twin bed down the hall before stumbling to his own room. The other someone…

Scott’s finger hovered over the camera icon, heart in his throat. He shut his eyes, stupidly, and clicked. He waited a moment, unsure of what he wished to see when he opened his eyes. What did he want? Kip would be better, but honestly, a burglar might be easier to deal with.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was greeted by a shockingly high-res view of his apartment. And there, tucked into his favorite corner of the couch, was Kip. He was cuddled under a blanket, a bowl of popcorn on his lap as he seemingly scrolled through the options on tv.

Scott was surprised his smile didn’t split his face in half. Kip was there, in his apartment, cuddled up on the couch as he had done dozens of times before.

Before. When they had been together.

What did this mean? Scott had no idea, but he couldn’t pretend to be anything but thrilled at the sight of Kip in his apartment.

His fingers moved of their own accord, finding the call button, then hovering over Kip’s name. No. He definitely should not. He should let this go, pretend he had never seen.

He clicked the call button, pressed speakerphone, and quickly switched back to the camera feed. A real-time version of Kip paused mid popcorn bite to look at his phone. Scott clocked Kip’s surprise, complete with him looking around the room surreptitiously. God, he was so cute. Scott wanted to eat him.

Then, Kip answered the call. Scott honestly hadn’t thought he would.

“Hi!” came Kip’s slightly breathless voice, the oceans between them somehow making him seem even further away.

“Hi,” Scott answered.

Right on cue, his neighbors started on round number two, even more loudly and enthusiastically than before.

“Um, congrats!” Kip said, seemingly (thankfully) unaware of Scott’s pornographic housing. “Wow, I can’t believe it! I mean, I can, obviously, but…”

Scott could only laugh. He loved it when Kip got nervously chatty like this. His whole life he’d been told that he was too serious, too intense. Witnessing someone be as unapologetically themselves as Kip managed to be everyday of his life was both healing and eye-opening.

“Thanks,” he said eventually. “It’s…” he picked up the medal, still resting heavily on his chest, “weird.”

Kip chuckled. “Ah, the hardships and tribulations of Olympic winners.”

There came a hard thump from next door.

“What was that?” Kip asked.

Scott winced. “Some really athletic, quite impressive sex from next door.”

Even without the camera feed, Scott could have felt Kip perk up as that.

“Your neighbors are fucking? Do you know who it is?” A slight pause. “Of course you know who it is, it’s your teammate, right?” A longer pause. “Tell me who it is.”

Scott chuckled. “What happens in Sochi, stays in Sochi.”

“Damn it!”

A comfortable silence fell. Scott tried not to look too closely at Kip, feeling slightly like a creep, but of course as the throw blanket slipped down his body Scott couldn’t help but notice the red Admirals hoodie Kip was wearing. His hoodie.

Kip was sitting on his couch, in his apartment, wearing Scott’s hoodie.

“Um,” Kip said awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Scott said.

“I mean…”

“I’m sorry I called,” Scott blurted suddenly. “I just…” I saw you on my home security cam? “I wanted to hear your voice.”

Phone-Kip audibly exhaled a breath, at the same time as camera-Kip threw the blanket off his legs and started pacing around the living room.

“This is weird,” Kip said with a shaky laugh. “Right?”

Scott laughed. “I just won an Olympic gold medal. My scale for weird might be off for a while.”

Camera-Kip was heading to the kitchen, holding up a cup against the fridge's water dispenser. Scott could hear it, even through the phone. There was something wrong with it. He’d been meaning to mention it to his building manager. It made a weird, beeping noise, screeching out its discontent at having to spew forth water.

It was distinctive and annoying enough that Kip had joked about it all the time. Scott heard it now, a metallic squeal followed by the sound of running water.

“What was that?” he couldn’t help asking with a grin.

Camera-Kip froze, realizing his mistake. He took a step back, as if the water dispenser had personally offended him.

“What was what?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Thought I heard a weird noise.”

“Oh, I’m just getting a glass of water. Anyway, um…”

Scott watched Kip walk back to the couch, glaring at his traitorous water.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked. He couldn’t help making Kip squirm.

“What?” Kip was nervous now. Scott could tell by the way he was looking around the apartment again, as if, in fact, looking for a camera. He wouldn’t find it. It was embedded within the smoke detector.

“What are you up to?”

“Oh. Um. Just hanging out. Looking for something to watch.”

“At home?” Scott asked, barely able to keep the laughter from his voice.

“Yup,” Kip lied, popping the P. “In my room.”

“You have a tv in your room?”

“Oh, no. On my laptop.”

Scott hummed. “Send me a photo.”

Kip sputtered a laugh. “What?”

“I want to see your room.”

Kip dissolved into what could only be described as nervous giggles. “What? No, I’m not sending you a photo of my room, you creep.”

“I want to see it,” Scott said again. He did actually want to see Kip’s room. “I bet it’s cute.”

“It has four walls, a door, and various memorabilia from my childhood. Including a certificate from a spelling bee.”

“Hot.”

“Yup. It’s my greatest accomplishment. Who needs Olympic medals when you have plaques from elementary school?”

Scott laughed. He never wanted this phone call to end.

“Where are you going to put it?”

“My spelling bee plaque?”

Camera-Kip rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”

“Where do you think I should put it?”

Kip looked around the apartment, head tilted in contemplation. “You could hang it on the door like a wreath.”

“Nothing screams humility like hanging your accomplishments on your front door.”

Kip chuckled. He was fiddling with the strings on his hoodie, a nervous tick Scott recognized.

“This is nice,” Kip said softly after a beat.

Scott’s throat tightened. There were so many things he wanted to ask.

What are you doing in my apartment?

Does this mean you miss me too?

What did that flirty text mean?

“It is,” he said instead.

Another pause.

Scott cleared his throat. It was his turn to be nervous. “Do you think…do you think a world exists where we could be friends?”

Kip stopped messing with his hoodie, hand dropping to his lap. His chin dropped to his chest. Scott wanted to reach through the camera and tilt his chin up.

“According to Hugh Everett, yeah, there is.”

Scott frowned. “Huh?”

“Hugh Everett? The Many-Worlds Interpretation?”

“You lost me. Dumb jock, remember?”

Kip huffed a laugh. “Basically, it’s this theory that anything that can happen will happen, in a separate, parallel universe to ours.”

“Hmm. So, yes, pretty much?”

“Yes. Yes, pretty much.”

Scott smiled.

He was pretty sure he smiled as he slept, and he smiled during the endless plane ride home. He smiled all the way to his apartment, which was, he was disappointed but not surprised to find, empty of Kip.

Everything was exactly as Scott had left it. The blanket Kip had used was folded and draped on the back of the couch, the popcorn bowl and water glass washed and put away. It made Scott feel strangely empty.

His phone pinged.

Scott looked at it absently, his pulse increasing as he saw it was a text from Kip. A photo.

He clicked it open faster than he’d opened any text in his life, and laughed out loud at what he saw.

It was a photo of Kip’s bedroom. There was a desk facing a window, a bookshelf overflowing with books and trinkets, an Edward Munch poster, and a twin bed. It was adorably Kip.

His fingers flew over the keypad.

Scott: 8:58 - You sleep in a twin bed?

Kip’s reply was instant.

Kip: 8:58 - Fuck you.

Scott was still smiling.

The next day, Kip’s phone rang as he was walking home from the subway. It was his dad.

“Hey dad, I’m just on my way home-”

“Did you buy furniture?” his dad interrupted.

“What? No.”

“Why is there a giant Ikea box on our front porch? The label says it’s…hang on.” Some rustling as his dad seemingly inspected the box in question. “A double bed?”

Kip paused mid-stride. And then laughed out loud.

Chapter End Notes

Up next: Ilya Rozanov enters the chat ; inappropriate usage of home security cams.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Ilya Rozanov enters the chat ; inappropriate usage of home security cams

Chapter Notes

Eyes on me, how you like that?

Just like this, here for the night

You ain't buying in?

Just keep watching

Just Keep Watching - Tate McRae

May 2014

Scott bent down to take the faceoff against Rozanov. The Admirals were winning 4-1 against the Boston Bears in the second round of the playoffs, and their hometown crowd was loving it. The energy in the arena was electric. The Bears had pulled their goalie in a desperate attempt to score, to no avail. Bennet was probably bored back there at the net.

Scott grinned as he came face to face with Ilya fucking Rozanov. The Bears captain had his mouth set in a thin line, his whole body coiled with tension. Scott almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“Alright, Rozanov? You look upset about something.”

“Oh shut up, old man. You need a ride back to the old people home after this? I bring you on my way back to the hotel.”

“What’s your room number again?”

Ilya frowned. “What, you want to come over? I don’t fuck ancient dinosaurs.”

Scott chuckled darkly. “Ah, that’s right. It’s one-two-two-one.”

The puck dropped. Ilya fumbled the play, and Scott zoomed away from him with the puck, grinning as he lobbed a quick pass to Carter.

He probably shouldn’t have said that. He definitely shouldn’t have said that, but, honestly, fuck that guy.

He didn’t even know anything for sure. It was so weird that he tried not to think about it too hard. But, what he thought he knew was pretty fucking obvious from his perspective. Honestly, he was shocked nobody else had clocked their shit yet. Besides, if both Shane and Ilya knew that he suspected, maybe they wouldn’t go around dropping their room numbers for anyone to hear.

He was doing them a favor, really. A warning from one deeply closeted player to another.

–

“Shit.” Scott swore as his dart went wide, landing in the outer ring of the target.

He was celebrating their win with some of his teammates at a darts bar known both for their hot wings, and for the frequent patronage of hockey stars. No less than seventeen people had asked him for a photo so far. Scott had taken each one with a huge grin on his face. Not even mildly annoying fans could bring him down tonight. His team had won the game, Ilya Rozanov could eat shit, and Kip had texted him an adorable selfie of himself giving the camera a thumbs up.

Successful day at the office! the caption had read.

Scott had unwisely opened it in the locker room after the game, and had suffered a minor heart attack as Huff had (unsuccessfully) tried to look over his shoulder at his phone. Thank god the guy was barely five eight.

In retrospect, he should probably start following his own advice and, you know, not look at selfies of his ex in the middle of the locker room.

He hated using the word ex to describe Kip. One, because it was a reminder that they were no longer together, but also because it just felt…wrong. Too small to contain the vastness of their relationship.

He threw another dart. It landed right next to the first one.

“Wow, you are very bad at that,” drawled a familiar, unwelcome voice behind him.

He turned, and sure enough, there was Ilya fucking Rozanov, casually leaning on a booth with his arms crossed and a single eyebrow raised sarcastically.

“Hey!” Carter called from across the room. “What the fuck is that guy doing here?”

“I’m surprised the bouncer let you in,” Scott said, truthfully. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ilya picked a piece of lint off his shirt. It was horrible, something silky and patterned that made Scott think of smoke-filled boudoirs and bearskin rugs.

“And what the hell are you wearing?” Scott added, just for fun.

Ilya glowered. “Is fashion. Clearly you have never heard of this concept.” He looked Scott up and down disdainfully.

Scott was wearing the suit pants he’d worn to leave the arena, with a red Admirals hoodie (the one he secretly thought of as Kip’s) that he’d thrown on as soon as he’d ditched his jacket and tie. It was, admittedly, kind of a weird outfit.

“These are normal clothes. You look like you belong in a porno from the seventies.”

Ilya’s face brightened in delight. Scott groaned, bracing for the jokes he knew were coming. Why had he set Ilya up like that?

“You watched lots of pornos in the seventies, yes? You were much younger then. Could probably get hard without any pills.”

“Yup. Especially the ones with you in them.”

Ilya cackled darkly. “I knew you were obsessed with me. Don’t worry, I make a video special for you. Be careful though, don’t want you passing out.” He made a lewd jerking-off motion as he said it.

Scott was getting annoyed. “And will you be performing alone, or with someone else?”

Ilya’s gaze darkened, mouth forming a tight line. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Cheap shot maybe, but at least that had shut him up.

“So,” Carter asked, coming to plant himself in front of Ilya. “What the hell do you want, Rozzy?”

Ilya leaned to the side to look around Carter, completely ignoring him. “Hunter is coming with me to the shitty diner next door.”

Scott’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“I want waffles. You come with me.”

“You want Scotty to go have waffles with you?” Carter asked, looking equal parts baffled and angry.

“We have things to discuss.”

“Hoping to get some tips from him? Maybe learn how to play hockey?”

“Captain things,” Ilya said, finally glancing at Carter disdainfully. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Hey! I’m an alternate-”

“Exactly. Alternate.” He turned back to Scott. “Let’s go.”

With that he turned and walked away. Scott had to admire the confidence.

“What was that about?” Carter asked.

“No idea,” Scott said, even though he very much had an idea. “But I kind of want to find out.”

Ten minutes later he was tucked into a booth at the mostly deserted (and extremely grimy) diner, across the table from Ilya fucking Rozanov. Their waitress, who had introduced herself as Bernadette, looked like she’d probably worked here since the fifties, and, thankfully, didn’t seem to know or care who they were. Ilya waved his finger between Scott and the counter where she was now very carefully attempting to balance a tray on her forearm.

“You should date her. You are close in age. Would have lots to talk about.”

Scott let out a deep-suffering sigh. “Why are we here, Rozanov?”

“Waffles first.”

“Jesus.”

Ilya motioned to Bernadette, who (very slowly) made her way over.

“What can I get for you, dears?”

“Buttermilk waffles with a side of bacon, extra syrup. Thank you so much, Bernadette.” Ilya winked.

Scott snorted. Bernadette looked slightly flustered but pleased.

“I’ll have the avocado toast on rye with a poached egg.”

Bernadette took their menus and ambled slowly back to the counter.

“Of course you eat fucking avocado toast.” Ilya made a face as if Scott had asked for a steaming bowl of cow shit.

“What’s wrong with avocado toast?”

“Is so…” Ilya waved a hand. “American.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, I’m afraid the fork was found in the kitchen.”

Ilya frowned. “What this means?”

“Nevermind. And speaking of forks found in kitchens…” He looked at Ilya expectantly.

Ilya stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Why you talk to me about forks?”

Scott huffed a laugh. “So. What captain things did you want to discuss? Pretty sure I can’t give you actually hockey tips even if I wanted to. Probably goes against my contract.”

“Oh fuck off. I do not need tips from geriatric players.”

“Big word.”

Ilya looked pleased. “I learn it last week. Is good. More opportunity for Scott Hunter jokes.”

Scott crossed his arms and waited. Ilya grabbed his straw wrapper and started tearing it to little pieces. Scott grinned. He was making Ilya fucking Rozanov squirm.

Deep down he felt like an asshole for why he was making him squirm, but still.

“I think that you think that you know something,” Ilya started carefully, clearly testing the waters.

“All star weekend three years ago,” Scott said drily, cutting to the chase. “My room was next to yours. I heard you give you know who your room number.”

Ilya winced. “Ah.”

“The walls were very thin.”

Bernadette chose this moment to appear with their food. Ilya thanked her profusely, and she swatted at him playfully.

“Bernadette,” Scott asked before she could leave. “Do you know anything about hockey?”

“God no,” she drawled. She waved a hand towards an ancient tv precariously resting on top of the jukebox. “Sorry love, that tv hasn’t worked since the nineties, but I could put on some music if you’d like?”

When she had disappeared again, Ilya was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Scott asked. “Aren’t you, like, at all worried?”

Ilya’s eyebrow raised even higher. “Jesus. You are paranoid. Almost like you are the one in the closet.”

Scott snorted, perhaps a bit too dramatically to seem natural.

Ilya’s eyes narrowed. “You have problem with queer people?”

“What? No!”

“Lots of hockey players have problem with queer people.”

Scott was sweating. “Yes Rozanov, I am aware. I’m not one of them.”

“Hmm.” Ilya took a giant bite of waffle, still eyeing him suspiciously.

“How can you eat junk like that and stay in shape?”

Ilya shrugged. “I am young. My metabolism is fine, unlike yours.”

“I walked right into that one.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Here is what’s going to happen,” he added, switching gears, "You know something about me, now you will tell me something about you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It is like…” he waved his fork around as he searched for the right words. “When my country decided not to bomb your country in case you bomb us back.”

Scott sputtered a laugh. “You mean mutually assured destruction?”

“Yes. That.”

“You want me to tell you a secret so that I won’t tell your secret?”

“Yes. You finally understand. God, you are old and idiot.” He considered. “And boring.”

Scott took a careful bite, ignoring the jabs. Could Ilya tell he was sweating? He probably could. The fucker had eyes like a raptor. One wrong move and he’d pounce.

“I don’t have any secrets,” Scott said sweetly. “I’m a good boy.”

Ilya scrunched his nose in disgust. “Probably, yes. So boring.”

“I thought you liked good boys?”

The look Ilya shot him was nothing short of murderous.

“Look,” Scott added, more seriously. “For the record, I really wished I didn’t know. But I’m not going to tell anyone. And you guys should really be more careful.”

“We are,” Ilya said angrily. “You are just nosy old man, putting your nose in other people’s business.”

“Well, it’s hard not to when your nose is put in the business!”

Ilya rolled his eyes.

Scott’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen to see a text from Kip, catching himself just before a stupid grin could erupt on his face.

“Who is Kip?” Ilya asked. He pronounced it like Keep.

“A friend,” Scott said simply, as his phone buzzed again. He and Ilya looked down at it at the same time.

Kip- 11:52: image

Scott flipped the phone over, schooling his features into neutrality.

Ilya narrowed his eyes at him. “You have friends who don’t play hockey?”

“Yes,” Scott said defensively, even though, technically, Kip was his only non-hockey friend. “Don’t you?”

Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “Not ones who are not girls.”

“That’s kinda sad, Ilya.”

“What do you even talk about with this Kip?”

Scott cleared his throat. “Speaking of girls, how does that work?”

Ilya looked delighted. “You want me to explain how to please a woman, old man?”

“Oh Jesus. No. I meant, with you and…” he waved a hand. “You know.”

Ilya shrugged. “Is not like that, between us. Is…casual.”

“You have casual sex with your biggest rival?” It made Scott’s head hurt. God, he wished he didn’t know.

Bernadette reappeared, refilling their water glasses from a pitcher.

“Sounds like a party,” she drawled.

Scott grimaced. Ilya winked. “We invite you next time, Bernadette.”

She giggled girlishly and then turned to shuffle away, cheeks pink.

Scott stared at him.

“Oh, relax. You think she is calling People magazine? She looks like she probably doesn’t know how to use telephone.”

Scott’s phone buzzed again. Ilya smirked at it.

“Another dick pic from Kip?” he asked innocently.

Scott felt a flush rise up his neck. I wish.

“Fuck off, it is not- you know what? Nevermind.”

“What is your friend sending you photos of at midnight, then?”

“Something that’s none of your business.”

“If you don’t show me I will assume is dick pic.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, then picked up his phone.

Kip- 11:52: this is becoming a problem

Then a photo of Kip’s outstretched arm. He was lying in bed and could almost touch his desk. Scott laughed. The double bed might have been slightly too large for the tiny room.

Then another message a few minutes later:

Kip- 11:54: not that I don’t appreciate it :)

Scott turned his phone around and flashed Ilya the photo. Ilya squinted in confusion.

“Weird.”

Scott placed his phone in his pocket, eager to end this ridiculous conversation so he could text Kip back. No way he was doing it in front of Ilya Rozanov.

“Are you not going to answer that? Poor Kip, probably waiting for a reply to his bed photo.”

“That was not a-”

“You should send Kip a photo of me, make him jealous a little bit.”

Scoff huffed. “Are we done here?”

Ilya gave him a long, searching look as he polished off his bacon.

“How come you are never seen with any women?” he asked suddenly.

Scott’s blood turned to ice. “What?”

“How come you don’t date?” He waved his fork vaguely towards Scott.

“Who says I don’t date? Maybe I’m just better at being discreet than you.”

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tell me the name of one woman you dated.”

“Go Fuck Yourself,” Scott said angrily. “Also her cousin, None of Your Business.”

“In the same night? Not so good boy after all.”

Scott reached for his wallet.

“Is one of them named Kip, maybe?”

Scott fumbled as he reached for a hundred dollar bill. Ilya noticed. His blush was intensifying, and he knew that Ilya would notice that too.

“What? No.”

A wide, manic grin was spreading across Ilya’s face. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and then stood with a groan.

“Well, I have what I came for.”

“What? No you don’t. What are you-“

“Wish I could say it was a pleasure but I don’t like to lie.” He turned towards the counter. “Bernadette, it was a pleasure.”

With that he turned and walked towards the door.

“Rozanov? Rozanov!”

Ilya flashed him the middle finger and then disappeared into the night.

Scott dropped his face into his hands.

Mutually assured destruction, indeed.

Kip knew he had to stop doing this. It was fucked up, sneaking into Scott’s apartment when he wasn’t home, but he couldn’t stop himself.

What he had brushed off as a moment of weakness after the Olympics had turned into a regular enough occurrence that his father had tactfully asked him if he was once again seeing someone in the city. Kip had profusely denied it. He didn’t think his dad believed him.

Still, he wasn’t hurting anyone (other than maybe himself) and it wasn’t like he could keep it going forever. The Admirals had been knocked out of the playoffs tonight after a brutal loss to Boston, which meant tonight was probably Kip’s last night secretly squatting here like an unwelcome ghost.

It made him absurdly sad. Being here felt like putting a soothing balm on a wound that hadn’t yet healed, even all these months later. He liked touching things that Scott had touched, sleeping in sheets that Scott had slept in. He always put things back the way he found them, and nobody had to know.

Realistically he knew this was unhealthy, and probably not conducive to getting over Scott, but it wasn’t like it would be a problem after tonight, anyway.

He was sitting on Scott’s couch, deciding between two dumb reality tv shows, when his phone rang. Kip’s stomach lurched.

It was Scott.

They’d only spoken on the phone a few times since the Olympics. Their communication these days consisted mostly of the occasional text or random photo. But each time they had spoken had been nice. Comfortable. It made Kip feel like maybe they could eventually be just friends, even though that wasn’t what he really wanted. He didn’t think it was what Scott wanted, either.

He answered the call.

“Hi,” he said, trying (and probably failing) not to sound too eager.

“Hey.”

Scott’s deep voice sent a shiver down his spine.

Get it together, Grady.

“Sorry about the game. You guys fought like hell.”

Scott sighed. “It’s alright. I just wish it had been anyone but Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

“He did seem particularly cocky tonight.”

That was an understatement. Every time the camera had zoomed in on the Boston captain, he’d had what could only be described as a maniacal grin on his face.

Scott grumbled something unintelligible that definitely involved the words asshole, next season, and revenge.

“Enough about me. How was your day?”

“I, um. It was my last day at the smoothie shop.” Kip didn’t know why he felt nervous telling Scott this, but it felt like he was letting go of something they shared. Not that Scott had been showing up lately.

Scott was silent for a long moment. “Oh. Why am I weirdly sad about that?”

Kip chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t be jealous if you get your smoothies from some other guy.” That was a lie.

“Where are you working now?”

“My friend Kyle- he’s a bartender at the Kingfisher. The bar where I hang out with my friends?” The one where you wouldn’t come inside. “He got me a job there.”

There was another long beat of silence. “Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s still a food service job but I’ll take the late nights over the early mornings. Plus the money will be better. Good tips.” Kip cringed at his rambling. Why was he explaining himself?

“No, yeah, for sure. Congrats. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Maybe you can visit me there sometime.” It slipped out before he could hold his tongue.

Scott laughed, a little sadly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Kip took a deep breath, unsure how to broach the topic he’d been avoiding. “Plus, a bartending job will fit into my schedule better once I start school. If I have prior experience it’ll be easier to find something once I get to Boston.”

It landed like the bomb he knew it would be. There was absolute silence on the other end of the phone. Stupidly, Kip burrowed deeper into the couch, hiding his face under the blanket as if that would prevent him from hearing Scott’s reply.

“Once you get where?” Scott asked.

“Um, Boston. I’m going to BU.”

“Oh. But I thought…You didn’t tell me that.” Scott sounded both confused and slightly accusatory. Kip would never admit it, but secretly that was exactly the reaction he had been hoping for.

“Didn’t I? Sorry…I guess I thought you knew.”

“But you hate Boston.”

Kip huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. I’ll still cheer for the Admirals, don’t worry.”

Scott was silent for so long that Kip started to feel bad.

“Scott?”

“So, that’s it, then? New job, new school, new city?”

“Yeah…I guess so,” Kip said defensively. Some nasty part of him might have hoped to hurt Scott a little, but he hadn’t expected this level of vitriol. “Is that a problem?”

A scoff. “It just seems like you’re moving on pretty easily, and I’m…”

Stuck in a prison of your own making?

“We broke up, Scott. Five months ago. What else am I supposed to do? Wait around for you to change your mind?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

Kip frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Scott laughed darkly. “Do me a favor? You see that white box on the ceiling? Near the window?”

Kip felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down his back. He looked up slowly, as if he was facing a firing squad.

“That’s not just a smoke detector, is it?”

“Nope.”

Kip had never more wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He was frozen with mortification.

“Oh.”

“You should probably also know that there’s a motion detector on the front door.”

One that probably sent notifications right to Scott’s phone. Kip wanted to die.

“Oh my god. Oh my god! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You’re mad at me? You’re the one who’s been breaking into my apartment!”

Kip wanted to run out of the apartment (and possibly join a hermit community and never speak to anyone he knew ever again) but he was rooted to the spot. Embarrassment has rendered his limbs useless.

“So what, you like to sit there and watch me mope in your apartment? Does it make you feel better?” Kip knew he had no ground to stand on, but his humiliation made him want to lash out at Scott. He felt tears prickle his eyes and angrily wiped them away.

“No, Kip. It’s not like that, I-"

“You like watching me waiting for you in the one place you allowed yourself to be gay?”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“Don’t be cruel? You let me sneak around here thinking you didn’t know!”

Scott sighed. “I’m gonna hang up now. You can keep that hoodie if you want.”

Kip looked down at the Admirals hoodie he was wearing. He wondered if the camera could pick up that he was flushing as brightly red as the sweatshirt. He tore it off and tossed it to the floor, even though it was his favorite and he very much would have liked to keep it. After a beat he tore off his t-shirt, too.

A very bad, no good, terrible idea had just taken root in his mind.

Scott inhaled sharply. “What are you doing?”

“Where are you right now?” Kip asked innocently.

“My hotel room…”

“Hmm. Where’s your roommate?”

“Out,” Scott said tightly.

Kip felt slightly unhinged. And a little turned on, to be honest. He and Scott had never really fought while they were together. He’d never understood the concept of angry sex before now, but suddenly he thought he might get the appeal.

“What’s his name?”

“What?”

“Your roommate. What’s his name?”

Scott huffed. “Sam Larochelle.”

“French?”

“Yes. Why are you-“

“He cute?”

“He’s nineteen,” Scott said tersely.

“Hmm. Hot.” Kip switched to speakerphone and lounged back into the couch, propping one leg up on the coffee table. He rested one hand on his stomach and the other behind his head.

“Kip. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Just making myself comfortable. I thought you were hanging up?”

Silence. Kip might have thought he actually had hung up if it wasn’t for the heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

He picked up his phone and googled the rookie. He was cute, in an innocent puppy dog kind of way.

Kip whistled. “He is hot. Bet he’s real obedient in bed, too.”

“Stop it.”

Kip’s hand drifted lower. “Do you think Sam will be upset that he missed the show? Bet he would have liked to sit on the bed next to you to watch.” He undid his belt buckle.

“I’m hanging up now.” Scott’s voice was gratifyingly strained. Kip grinned.

“Uh huh. You said that before.” He reached into his pants, palming himself through his underwear. He wished he had worn nicer ones.

“I could call security on you, you know.”

“And how would that phone call go? ‘Excuse me officers, my ex boyfriend is jerking off on my couch to pictures of my roommate?’”

“Will you stop talking about the fucking rookie!”

“Nineteen, huh? Bet he’d come as soon as I wrapped my mouth around his dick.”

Scott made a choked sound.

“You like that, huh? Are you getting hard thinking about your pretty roommate?”

He pulled his dick free off his underwear, not breaking eye contact with the camera. Scott made a sound that was more growl than anything else. It sent a jolt of heat right to Kip’s balls. He started palming himself slowly in long, lazy strokes.

“Jesus, Kip.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No. I’m getting hard thinking of ways to put that nasty mouth of yours to better use.”

Fuck. This was a truly bad idea, but there was no going back now.

“Oh?” Kip asked, his own voice a little less even than he would have liked.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I came home and fucked your pretty mouth until I came down your throat?”

A weak moan slipped out before he could bite it back. His hand sped up. He had meant to draw this out, torture Scott for as long as possible, but when Scott talked like this Kip was as good as putty in his hands.

“I could be waiting for you on my knees, if you’d like,” he said, voice breathy. “As long as you brought Sam.”

Scott choked. “Shut up.”

“Are you touching yourself, Hunter?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Kip could tell from the cadence of Scott’s breathing that not only was he very much touching himself, but he was already close to finishing.

“What else would you do?”

“What?”

“If you were here. What else would you do other than shut me up with your cock?”

Scott made a pained sound. “I’d spread you out on my bed wearing nothing but that hoodie and fuck you so hard you’d feel it for days.”

Kip’s breathing hitched. He could already feel his orgasm building. He forced himself to slow down.

He looked up at the camera from beneath lowered lids. “Been a while, huh, Hunter? Think you’d last long enough to make it good for me?”

“Probably not. Just like you deserve, you brat.”

Kip laughed.

There was a change in Scott’s breathing then, as if he’d paused. Kip did the same, breathing heavily.

“Have you…” Scott cleared his throat. “Have you been anyone? Since…”

Kip considered lying. Then he considered where he was, and what he was doing, and realized there was nothing to be gained from that.

“There was a guy,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “I went dancing one night and…”

“And?” Scott’s voice was hard. It was his Scott the Captain voice. A voice Kip usually only heard on tv. A soft whimper escaped his lips.

“I took him to the bathroom and let him blow me.”

“Let him?” Scott’s tone was a mixture of anger and amusement. And by the sounds he was making, he had resumed jerking off. Kip followed suit.

“Mmhmm. He was pretty eager for it.”

“And did you return the favor?”

“Nah. He liked my dick so much he jerked himself off while he sucked me off.”

Scott let out a deep moan.

“You picturing it? Some dude on his knees for me in a bathroom?”

“No. I’m picturing how much better I would have done it.”

It was Kip’s turn to moan. He could picture it- Scott, on his knees in some dirty club bathroom, enthusiastically sucking his dick while stroking himself.

“You like that?” Scott asked huskily. “Thinking of me on my knees?”

Kip couldn’t reply. He’d lost control of his voice, and, if he was honest, of the situation.

“I do,” he choked out. “Fuck, I’m-“

“Look at me.”

Kip looked up at the camera.

“Come for me, baby.”

Kip did, powerless to do anything but obey that tone. Release barreled through him as Scott cursed and moaned on the other end of the phone.

They were silent for so long that Kip grew almost sleepy, his limbs heavy, brain sluggish. He was in no state to process what had just happened, and to be honest, he was glad to put that off for as long as possible.

The silence was broken by a sniff on the other end of the phone.

Kip frowned. “Scott?”

“I have to go.” Scott’s voice sounded choked, but in a different way than the past several minutes. “Keep that hoodie. Bye Kip.”

Kip didn’t have time to say goodbye before the call ended.

He looked up at the ceiling camera. The tiny red light looked back at him accusingly for another minute.

And then it went dark.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! <3

Up next: Halloween shenanigans

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Halloween 2014, pure shenanigans

Chapter Notes

Look at the floor, or ceiling

Or anyone else you're feeling

Take home whoever walks in

Just keep your eyes off him

Miss Possessive - Tate McRae

Halloween 2014

“Scotty! You coming out tonight?”

Scott was busy staring at his phone, and didn’t see Carter until he was right in front of him.

“Hey- when did you get Instagram? I thought you hated social media?”

Scott hurriedly shoved the phone into his gym bag. “Oh. Uh, I do. I just like to scroll sometimes.”

In truth he’d made an anonymous account using a fake email mostly so he could creep on Kip.

His profile was a mix of art installations, paintings, selfies with friends, and drink creations from his bartending job. There was even a shirtless gym photo that was Scott’s personal favorite.

In his defense, if Kip didn’t want people lusting over his photos, he should have made his account private.

He’d just been staring at Kip’s latest post, a promotional ad for a Halloween night at a local gay club with the caption see you there!

Kip was in town for Halloween weekend. He was here, but about as reachable as if he was on the other side of the world.

Scott had been warring with himself ever since Kip had posted that photo a week ago. Should he call? Should he text? Would Kip text him back if he did?

They hadn’t spoken at all in five months, and it was killing him. Scott was desperate to make contact. He wondered if Kip was as afraid to reach out as he was, or if he just didn’t want to hear from him.

“I seeeee,” Carter said, bringing him back to the present. “You like looking at the ladiesss. I know some accounts you should follow.”

Scott rolled his eyes and didn’t bother replying. His friends usually respected his privacy when it came to his love life, but lately they’d been relentless. Since the season had started Carter had tried to set him up with no less than five models. Even Bennet had made some vague hints about a friend of his wife’s. Scott needed to get his shit together and stop moping around like a lovesick fool, apparently.

It didn’t help that the one year anniversary of his meeting Kip had recently gone by. Scott had of course remembered. He’d even gone to Straw+Berry as some fucked up form of self-flagellation. The barista had been neither cute nor good at his job. The smoothie had been watery and bitter, and he’d even been charged extra for adding a banana.

“So,” Carter said, coming to stand in his direct line of sight. “What are you dressing up as?”

Scott blinked. He’d lost track of the conversation. “What?”

Carter rolled his eyes. “Get your head in the game, man! What’s gotten into you? You’ve been a space cadet since you got back from Mexico last summer.”

His annual hedonistic pilgrimage to a sunny destination had been a disaster. He’d spent the first week roaming the local gay pubs, only to shut down any and all advances from interested men. Then, one night, he’d been served a beer by a cute bartender with brown curls and dimples. Not quite Kip, but close enough, if he squinted. He spent the time it took to finish his pint staring at the bartender and rearranging the man’s features in his mind until it was Kip. Scott had stared at him so long that the bartender was blushing by the time he shyly asked if Scott wanted anything else.

Scott had wanted something else suddenly.

He’d taken the bartender to the bathroom, where the man had enthusiastically gotten on his knees for him. From that angle it had been easier to pretend it was Kip.

Scott sighed. “Sorry, I’ve just been…distracted.”

Carter poked him in the chest. “Exactly why you’re coming out tonight, and not going home to mope on your couch.”

Scott winced. That was exactly what he had planned on doing.

“Whoever this girl is that’s got you down in the dumps, we’re gonna make you forget all about her!”

“Even Benny’s coming out!” Huff threw in. “If his old ass can handle a few beers then yours can too.”

Scott raised his hands, knowing when the battle was lost. “Fine. But only if we wear costumes with masks. I don’t feel like being Scott Hunter the hockey player tonight.”

“Oh shit! That’s what I’m talking about!” Carter whooped.

—

The Zorro costume he’d chosen from Carter’s ridiculously extensive Halloween costume collection was admittedly a little cheesy, but the large black mask covering half his face was working so far. He laughed as Bennet’s big red clown nose bumped against his glass as he tried to take a sip.

Carter had disappeared onto the dance floor, and Huff had gone home to his wife after the first round. Scott had surprised himself by staying and by actually having a good time. It felt good to be out with his friends instead of at home, alone. To be fair though, the anonymity afforded by the mask was part of it.

“Do you ever wish you weren’t famous?” he asked suddenly. “I can’t remember what it’s like to just be, like, an anonymous person in the world.”

Bennet considered. “Sometimes,” he conceded. “I’m not exactly Scott Hunter level of famous, though. Honestly, Holly enjoys the fame more than I do.”

Scott chuckled. “Where is Holly tonight?”

Bennet took a long drink from his seltzer water with lime. “Out with friends.” A wary look entered his eyes as he said it. He heaved a deep sigh, his earlier good humor replaced by sudden melancholy.

“You doing ok, Benny?” Scott asked in concern.

Bennet sighed again. “Things are…not great, with Holly.”

Scott’s stomach sank. Had he been so concerned with his own sad love life that he hadn’t noticed his friend was having problems with his marriage? Did Carter and Huff know? They probably did, because they asked people about their lives like friends were supposed to. Scott was so used to keeping his private life private that he was always surprised when people deliberately chose to share details of their lives.

“Oh. Shit, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Bennet waved a hand dismissively. “It’s alright, I haven’t exactly been advertising it. It’s just…sometimes I come home and it’s like I have a roommate instead of a wife. We didn’t even talk about making plans together tonight. Is that weird?”

Scott thought he was probably the last person on earth to have an opinion about what made a relationship weird.

“If you’re looking to spice things up, maybe keep the clown costume on when you go home,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Bennet dipped his fingers into his water and then flicked them at Scott. “Idiot. I’m sharing my woes here.”

“I know, I’m sorry. You know you can always talk to me. I’m just…not great with this stuff.”

Bennet was quiet for a long moment, assessing him.

“You ever going to tell us who it was?” he asked suddenly.

Scott shifted uncomfortably, flushing red as he always did when the conversation turned to his love life.

“Who was what?” he asked innocently.

Bennet gave him a hard look.

Scott sighed, preparing to launch into his usual denials, but then stopped himself. His friend just admitted something to him about his life. Would it really kill him to admit to what was clearly plainly obvious?

“There was someone,” he said, avoiding Bennet’s gaze. “It ended last year, and I’m still hung up on it. There. Happy?”

Bennet’s eyebrows raised.

“Yes, I know I need to get over it, I just-"

Bennet shook his head. “No, no. I’m just surprised you admitted it at all, to be honest.”

Scott let out a breath. “Honestly, it was kind of nice to say it out loud.”

Bennet smiled sadly. “Why did it end?”

“I wanted to keep it private. The feeling wasn’t mutual.”

Bennet took a sip of his water, observing him carefully. Scott felt as exposed as if he was on an operating table. At the same time though, every word he admitted to his friend felt like a weight being lifted off his chest. He wondered not for the first time what it would feel like to come out to his friends. Not the whole world, not yet, not even the whole team, just his best friends. The guys who always had his back. Surely they’d have his back about this?

The problem was that there was really only one way to find out, and Scott could never bring himself to say the words.

“And is there no way to meet in the middle?” Bennet asked. “No concessions you can make? If you’re still hung up on this person, it sounds like it’s worth a try.”

Bennet’s choice of gender-neutral words did not go unnoticed. Scott’s heart was suddenly beating so fast he thought he might throw up.

He looked down at the table, avoiding Bennet’s increasingly knowing gaze. His face felt like it was on fire. He was probably as brightly red as Bennet’s clown wig.

Had Bennet just figured him out? Was Scott not going to correct him? He was so tired of lying. Suddenly it felt easier not to.

“You know,” Bennet went on before Scott could think of something to say, “sometimes I regret getting married young. There’s…things, I would do differently, if I could go back.”

Scott looked at him curiously. “What, like, you’d have dated more?”

Bennet gave him a long look. “Yeah. Different types of people.”

Bennet was looking at him so intensely that Scott understood he was trying to tell him something. He thought he might have an inkling, but, like a coward, he also didn’t want to examine it too closely.

“Anyway,” Bennet went on, “what I’m trying to say is that before you know it, you’ll be old and boring and stuck in a rut like me.”

“Hey you're not-”

“Don’t wait for your life to start, Scott. It’s already happening. Live it the way you want to.”

Scott’s throat felt tight. A probably very bad idea had started to take hold in his brain.

“You know what? I think there is a concession I could make.” He knocked back the rest of his beer for courage.

Eric saluted him with his water.

Scott grabbed his teammate in a crushing hug, and then, for the first time in his life, looked up the directions to a gay club in Manhattan.

“Stop squirming!” Elena admonished, her hand hovering precariously near Kip’s eyeball as she wielded a kohl liner. “You want me to poke you in the eye?”

“I don’t understand why eyeliner is necessary for a Jay Gatsby costume,” Kip grumbled.

Elena lifted a foot, showing off her towering stiletto heels. “Yes, well, Daisy Buchanan wasn’t wearing these, either. We’re going for hot, not accurate.”

“You know this is a gay club we’re going to, right?” Shawn drawled. “Looking hot won’t help you.”

Elena flipped him the middle finger before refocusing on Kip’s eyelids. Kip kept very still.

“I don’t need help,” Elena said breezily. “I already have my after party lined up.”

“Oh?” Kip perked up. “Do tell.”

She fixed him with a wry look. “Just because you’re terrible at keeping your love life a secret doesn’t mean I am too.”

Kip rolled his eyes.

“Speaking of that,” Maria said as she scrolled on her phone, “Admirals just won.”

Kip shrugged, earning himself another reproach from Elena.

“Don’t care about hockey anymore,” he said breezily.

His friends all looked at him dubiously.

“It was a silly crush,” he went on, for Shawn’s benefit. “And the crush has been…crushed.”

Along with his heart. He hadn’t spoken to Scott since the disastrous phone sex incident, but that didn’t stop his insides from twisting whenever he thought of him.

The mayhem of finding a place to live in Boston and starting classes had momentarily distracted him, but now that he’d fallen into a rhythm, his brain once again had room to roam. And roam it did.

Even just being back in New York for Halloween was making him nostalgic. Over a year had passed since Scott had walked into Straw+Berry. Ten months since he’d left him sleeping peacefully and walked out of his apartment like a ghost. Five months since they’d last spoken.

More than once he’d found himself typing out the words What happened to staying friends? before chickening out and deleting the message.

He knew it was ultimately for the best, but damn he wished those wounds would hurry up and heal.

Maybe he just needed to get laid.

“There!” Elena declared.

“How do I look?” Kip asked, peering at himself in the mirror over Elena’s vanity table. The eyeliner was subtly smudged into his lash line, framing his eyes and making him look dark and mysteriously. He had to admit Elena might have been on to something.

“Scrumptious!” Elena said.

“Positively fuckable!” Shawn declared.

“Not bad,” said Maria. She looked at him appraisingly. “You knowww, Kyle is going to meet us at the club later.”

“I know, I’m excited to see him. Haven’t seen him since he left for his summer program.”

“Well, he’s very excited to see you.” She gave him a pointed look.

Elena and Shawn were both making faces like we’re not getting involved here.

“Maria. I’m not hooking up with Kyle.”

“But whyyyy? He’s cute, you’re cute, you’re both available.” Her emphasis of available was unmistakable. Available meaning not a closeted millionaire hockey star.

And why shouldn’t he hook up with Kyle? He knew Kyle had a crush on him, but it could stay casual.

“You know, Maria, just because two guys are gay and cute doesn’t mean they should fuck,” Shawn said.

“I’m not talking about fucking,” she shot back. “I’m talking about making sweet looveeee.” She gyrated her hips as she said it.

Kip groaned. “I hate you guys. I’m going back to Boston.”

“Come on, Mr. Gatsby,” Elena said, smacking her lips as she touched up her lipstick, “let’s go break some hearts.”

“Preferably ones that don’t belong to hockey players!” Maria added.

“You know what, scratch that. I’m transferring to Stanford.”

“Oh sweetie,” Shawn tutted. “I love you but you are not smart enough for Stanford.”

Kip heaved a long-suffering sigh.

—

The club was a pulsing mass of sweaty bodies, loud music, and strobing lights. The air was thick with a mixture of sweat and cologne, and the floor was slightly sticky with spilled drinks. It was exactly what Kip needed.

The two shots of tequila he’d done with a cute guy in a vampire costume, mixed with the drinks he and his friends had downed pre-gaming, were making his limbs loose and his decision-making skills even looser.

He was dancing with Elena, whose Daisy Buchanan outfit had actually been turning a few heads, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and lips near his ear.

“Hey, Kip.”

Kip turned and came face to face with Kyle in a head to toe cowboy getup.

“Hey!” Kip threw his arms around his friend. When he pulled away Kyle’s cheeks were slightly pink.

God, he really was cute. Blonde, with grey-blue eyes like a cloudy winter sky, and a slim, athletic build. The complete opposite of Scott in so many ways.

The sight of him made Kip feel a little reckless. What would be the harm in a casual hookup, anyway? Maybe this could scratch an itch for both of them. Maybe if he got laid properly it would rewire the part of his brain that was still hung up on Scott.

Maybe.

Kip grabbed Kyle by his fringed vest and pulled him deeper onto the dance floor. Kyle grinned devilishly, looking delighted.

“You look really hot,” Kyle said, bringing his body close to Kip’s as they danced.

Kip grinned, running his hands down the front of his tuxedo jacket. He was sweating profusely, but there was no way he was entrusting his custom Hugo Boss tuxedo jacket to the coat check. Besides, he didn’t want to ruin his outfit.

“What, this old thing?” He pulled Kyle closer by a belt loop. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Kyle was a great dancer, his movements easy and confident, lips quirked in a sexy smile.

“I missed you this summer,” Kip said, feeling bold. “The Kingfisher wasn’t the same without you.”

Kyle’s cheeks pinked. He tentatively ran a hand up Kip’s side, his grip turning firmer when Kip didn’t pull away. Kip looped his arms around the taller man’s neck, tilting his head up. Kyle’s tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Kip was considering the wiseness of what he was doing when something made him look over Kyle’s shoulder. It was a force field, pulling his focus and attention like a magnet.

A man in a Zorro costume was staring at him from the edge of the dance floor with the singular focus of a searchlight. Kip knew that gaze even from across the room, would have known if from behind any mask. He recognized the cut of those shoulders, the crossed arms over that broad chest. He could even sense Scott’s irritation and jealousy, knew if he went closer he’d be able to make out his clenched jaw.

Something erupted in his chest at the sight of him. He felt like he’d just been plugged into a fast charger, his every neuron firing on all cylinders. The music dimmed, the writhing mass of bodies becoming a distant blur.

Scott Hunter was in a gay club, staring him down with the intensity of, well. Of a serial killer, honestly.

“Are you ok?” Kyle’s voice was a vague buzz in his ear. Kip became dimly aware that he had stopped dancing.

Scott started moving towards him, and Kip couldn't breathe. He wanted to run away from him and towards him at the same time.

The dancefloor parted for him like the red sea, heads turning to look him up and down appreciatively as he stalked towards Kip. With the flat brimmed hat casting his features in shadow, and the large mask covering half his face, Kip knew the looks weren’t people recognizing him as Scott the hockey player. It was just people having eyes and recognizing the Adonis that walked among them.

Scott didn’t even spare a glance at Kyle as he brushed him aside as if he were a pesky fly. Kyle looked too stunned to react properly. Kip knew his friend would know exactly who this was, even if the rest of the dance floor didn’t. Kip didn’t care.

He didn’t care about anything at all as Scott’s large hands came to rest possessively on his hips as he brought their bodies flush. Kip was powerless to do anything but melt against him, his arms snaking around Scott’s neck as he breathed in his familiar scent. It felt a little like coming home.

“That was rude,” Kip said, looking up at Scott from beneath lowered lashes.

Scott smirked, bending his head until his lips brushed the shell of Kip’s ear.

“Nice tux. Who are you supposed to be?”

Kip shivered, even in the sweltering heat of the club.

“Jay Gatsby. Makes more sense when Elena is standing next to me.”

He tried not to dwell on the last time he’d worn this tux. That night he hadn’t been able to dance with Scott, but tonight he could. He moved against Scott, giving in to the rhythm of the music and the feel of the familiar, strong body in his arms. He willed his brain not to overthink this, recognizing what it meant for Scott to even have considered coming here.

He reached up to trace the outline of Scott’s Zorro mask. “Makes sense. You do love a serial killer.”

Scott gaped in mock offense. “How dare you. He was a vigilante!”

Kip grinned and shook his head. He pulled Scott’s head towards him so he could speak directly into his ear. “What are you doing here?”

Scott looked at him for a long moment. “Someone told me I should learn to make concessions.” He considered. “Plus, I’ve always wanted to dance with a bootlegger.”

With that he turned Kip around and pressed against him, hands roaming up and down Kip’s sides with a familiarity that betrayed the fact that the last time they’d touched had been ten months ago. Kip closed his eyes, leaning his head back against Scott’s shoulder. He could have this, if only for tonight.

It wasn’t long before Scott’s lips found his neck, and then Kip was craning his neck so he could kiss him. The first press of Scott’s lips against his almost made his knees buckle. He didn’t care that they were putting on a show for anyone to see, or that his friends would probably (definitely) know who was behind that Zorro costume. Truthfully he didn’t care about anything at all except the feel of Scott pressed against him.

When Scott’s tongue dragged against his bottom lip, Kip decided it was time they left before they truly caused a scene.

“Please tell me that car service of yours is nearby?” he asked. He felt drunk with desire for this man.

Scott’s eyes blazed with heat. “Always.”

Kip grinned and practically dragged him out the door, laughing as he spotted Shawn and Maria at the bar, gaping at him open-mouthed.

The cool night air was a relief after the heat of the club. Scott inhaled deeply, his breathing slightly ragged. Kip was glad to know he wasn’t the only one unraveling. The glow from the streetlights was casting Scott’s features in sharp relief, making him look like an avenging god.

Kip took a step back to keep himself from pouncing on Scott right there on the sidewalk, but Scott only grabbed the front of his tux and tugged him into a fierce kiss.

Kip laughed against Scott’s lips. “Jesus. What’s gotten into you tonight?”

Scott grinned wickedly. “No one yet, but hopefully, you, soon.”

Fuck.

A black SUV pulled up, and something about the sight of it was sobering. Kip couldn’t help but remember the last time they’d been in a car service together, when he’d had to get in half a block away from the gala venue. The same night he’d walked out of Scott’s apartment. The apartment he’d then haunted like a ghost for months.

Scott was looking at him in concern. “You ok?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Do you not want to-”

“No! I mean, yes, I want. I just…” Kip shook his head, dislodging the bad memories. “Do you still want to see my room?”

“What?”

“My parents are out of town…”

Scott’s grin lit up his face. “I would absolutely love to see your room.”

Scott spent the entire ride with his hands clasped in his lap, as if to prevent himself from reaching for Kip. His knee was bouncing up and down with such obvious nerves that Kip kept expecting him to ask the driver to turn around.

Then it was Kip’s turn to be nervous as they reached his house. He tried not to show his nerves as Scott peered around his family home with blatant curiosity. It was uncanny, watching an MLH star peering around his living room, carefully not touching anything as if he was walking around precious artifacts and not the everyday detritus of Kip’s family.

“It’s not much,” he said, feeling defensive, “but-“

He cut himself off. Scott was looking at some family photos on the mantle above the fireplace. There were graduation photos of Kip and his sister Megan, a couple candid selfies from family vacations, and the classic 90’s family portrait of them all wearing jeans and white t-shirts. Normally Kip would have blushed, but the look on Scott’s face was so raw with grief and longing that Kip forgot to be embarrassed.

He grabbed Scott by the hand and dragged him upstairs, and both of them stopped thinking so hard, at least for a little while.

—

They were lying in a tangled heap of sweaty limbs, exhaustion taking hold, when Scott whispered into the dark.

“Why Jay Gatsby?”

Kip propped up his chin on his fist, trailing his fingers along the hard panes of Scott’s chest. Scott’s hand was pressed to his lower back like a heated blanket.

“He’s the poster child for the American Dream. Proof that you can become whoever you want to be, if you want it badly enough.”

Scott’s eyes were bright, even in the dark. “Do you really believe that? That we can really decide who we want to be?”

Did he? Not really, if he was honest. But he knew what Scott, whose entire life had basically been decided for him since he’d gotten that hockey scholarship at the age of fifteen, would want to hear.

“I do.”

Scott was quiet for a beat. “Sometimes I wonder who I would have become if my mother hadn’t died. If I would have had the courage to be honest with her about who I was. Maybe she would have encouraged me to do something else. Something where I could have been myself.”

Kip had no idea what to say to that. It was rare for Scott to talk about his mother. Kip knew she had loved to give back to the community in any way she could, and had helped to shape Scott’s passion for charitable work.

“You would still be Scott from Rochester, and she’d be proud of you either way. But maybe she’d tell you to let people in sometimes. Let them see that big, giant heart of yours.”

Scott smiled sadly. “And what if they break it?”

Kip considered. “But what if they don’t?”

Scott’s hand dipped lower, and suddenly Kip wasn’t that tired anymore.

—

In the morning Kip half expected Scott to have escaped in the middle of the night, but he woke with his face tucked into Scott’s chest, a heavy arm draped over him like a blanket. His room was a disaster- the sheets were a sweaty, damp mess, books were strewn on the floor from when Scott had shoved him up against the bookcase, and every inch of floor space was covered with their discarded clothes. Kip was exhausted, but also happier and lighter than he’d been in months. He smiled against Scott’s chest, filling his lungs with his scent.

“Good morning.” Scott’s voice rumbled against his ear.

“Mmm.”

Kip nuzzled closer as Scott’s fingertips started tracing lazy circles on his back. They lay there for a long time, evidently neither of them in a hurry to leave their cozy bubble, or discuss the events of the previous night. They would have to eventually, but Kip was happy to keep his head in the sand for a little while longer.

He was drifting off to sleep again when he heard the sound of the front door, followed by the unmistakable sound of his parents’ voices. Kip sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake.

“Oh no.”

“I thought you said they were out of town?” Scott asked, blinking up at him sleepily.

“Their train wasn’t supposed to get in until later!”

Kip jumped out of bed, throwing on a t-shirt and sweatpants. Scott grinned at him in amusement as he gathered his discarded costume with less hurry than Kip would have expected.

“Are you not allowed to have boys up here?” he teased.

Kip huffed a laugh. “Trust me, they would love nothing more than to find Scott Hunter in my bedroom.”

Kip hurried to the window above his desk, sliding it open and deftly undoing the latch to slide out the screen.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, face lit up with amusement.

“The shed is right under my window,” Kip explained. “It’s not a far drop.”

Scott stared at him, mouth open. “Kip Grady. Are you suggesting I sneak out through your window?”

“I mean…”

“How many boys have you snuck out your bedroom like this?”

Kip blushed. “To be fair, it was mostly me doing the sneaking out.”

Scott chuckled. “You’re trouble.”

“Well, unless you have a better idea, it’s either the window or you hide here until they leave.”

Scott looked at him silently for a moment. And then he turned and walked out of his bedroom.

Kip hurried after him down the stairs, heart hammering at a full gallop. He could tell the moment his parents saw Scott enter the kitchen. Their idle chatter stopped mid-sentence, replaced by a sharp gasp of surprise from his mother. Even the coffee maker seemed to have stopped percolating.

“Good morning!” Scott said brightly.

His parents stared at him, dumbfounded. Kip skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

His father seemed to master himself first. He cleared his throat. “George Grady,” he said, coming around the kitchen island to shake Scott’s hand. “And this is my wife Margaret.”

“Scott.”

“Indeed.”

Kip still hadn’t moved from the bottom of the stairs.

“Sweetheart,” his mother said, “why is Scott Hunter in our kitchen?”

Kip thought he might pass out. “Um. We’re friends, and he was in the area, so I was just, um, he wanted to see where I lived…”

Scott grinned. “I think they probably know that’s not true,” he said in a loud stage whisper.

Kip’s mouth dropped open, as did his mother’s. His dad busied himself with the coffee maker to hide his smile.

Kip couldn’t breathe. Scott was in his house, talking to his parents.

“I’m so sorry to run out like this, but I have to go, I have a flight to catch…”

“Oh! Of course dear,” his mother said, as if he was a neighbor and not Scott fucking Hunter.

“It was really nice to meet you both. Kip talks about you all the time.” Scott took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “You should both be really proud. You raised a really wonderful son.” With another polite smile he was walking to the front door.

His mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh my.”

Kip stood there in a daze for another moment before hurrying after him.

“Are you crazy?” he hissed as soon as the front door had shut behind them. “What am I supposed to tell them now?”

Scott shrugged, nonchalant. “Whatever you want.” He seemed to reconsider. “Just, you know. As long as they keep it to themselves…”

Kip’s astonishment must have shown on his face.

“Kip,” Scott said, more seriously, “I want to apologize for what I put you through last year.”

“You didn’t put me through anything,” Kip protested. “I was a willing participant.”

Scott let out a long breath. “Maybe, but…I didn’t realize what I was really asking of you. I’ve been alone for so long that it’s hard for me to fathom having people know you like that. Lying to people isn’t a big deal for me- most of the time I can get away with telling people to mind their own business. I didn’t really consider that it wasn’t like that for you. And I’m sorry.”

Kip swallowed around the lump in his throat. He had platitudes ready on the tip of his tongue, assurances that Scott had nothing to apologize for. But he understood the magnitude of Scott not only coming to this realization but also saying it out loud to Kip.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“I know we can’t go back to the way things were,” Scott went on, “I wouldn’t want to anyway, not now that I understand how hard it was for you. I also don’t want to just cut you out of my life. But if that’s what you want, then I’ll stay away.”

Scott’s gaze was so earnest that Kip couldn’t stand it. He stared at the ground, suddenly fascinated by the peeling paint on the porch steps.

“Too much?” Scott asked.

“Entirely too much for the morning after Halloween, before coffee.”

Scott huffed a laugh. “Sorry.”

Kip remembered what Scott had said the night before, about learning to make concessions. He knew that what to Kip seemed like normal things (going to a gay club, telling his parents about someone he’d been dating), were anything but normal for Scott. He understood that Scott was reaching out to him in whatever way he could, or knew how.

“Next time you’re in Boston,” he said, tentatively, “you could text me, if you wanted?”

Some tension seemed to leave Scott’s shoulders. “Oh?”

Kip shrugged, aiming for nonchalant but probably failing.

“And would it be ok if I texted you some other times, too?” Scott asked shyly.

Kip forced himself to meet that earnest, intense gaze, felt it hit him like a brand.

Hugh Everett had it wrong. Many-world interpretation or not, there was no universe in which Kip could say no to that after everything Scott had just said and done.

“Absolutely.”

Chapter End Notes

Listen, I never said they would be smart about this!

Thanks for reading <3

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Ilya Rozanov re-enters the chat.

Chapter Notes

December 16th

Scott: Happy Birthday :)

Kip: Thank you! I’m so old

Scott: if you’re old, I’m ancient

Kip: wellllll…

Scott: hey!

December 24th

Kip: Merry (almost) Christmas!

Scott: you too! Are you home?

Kip: yup, just had second dinner, told my mom I needed to digest before third dinner

Kip: it’s like she thinks I don’t know how to feed myself in Boston

Scott: do you? :p

Kip: hah!

January 4th

Kip: a 4 hour lecture on the first day back after the holidays should be illegal

Kip: I’d give anything to be in bed drinking hot cocoa

Scott: alone?

Kip: …

Kip: no

February 2015

Kip: you’ll never believe this, but I’m pretty sure Ilya Rozanov just walked into the bar where I work

Scott: what??? Actually?

Scott: don’t talk to him

Scott: seriously, the guy’s an asshole

Scott: Kip?

Scott: Kip???

Scott: are you there? Kip?

Scott: please call me back

Kip felt his phone buzz in his pocket and had to force himself to keep the smirk off his face and his attention on the drink he was making. He slammed the top of the shaker down and raised it over his shoulder to shake vigorously, using the theatrics as an excuse to glance down the bar. His stomach lurched and he almost dropped his grip on the icy shaker as he met the stare of the man sitting at the furthest stool at the bar.

Not only was the man in question definitely Ilya Rozanov, he was also staring directly at Kip. There was no denying it, even as out of place as he looked in this setting. Kip had heard Scott complain about him so often that he didn’t even need to hear the man’s accent to know it was him.

He poured the drink for the customer in front of him, and then took an obscenely long time cleaning the shaker and wiping down the bar top, hoping another customer would appear out of thin air to save him from actually having to face Ilya Rozanov. Kip usually enjoyed the weeknights shifts at the bar, which were slower and meant he could go home early, but right now he’d love nothing more than a crowd of customers fighting for his attention.

When he couldn’t put it off any longer, he finally returned his attention to the lone figure staring daggers at him. Kip felt a little foolish for being so nervous, considering he’d dated an MLH captain, but something about seeing Scott’s biggest rival in the flesh made him feel aggressive, defensive, and shy all at once. He wondered if that’s how he would have felt meeting other hockey players, in another universe where Scott was out and had introduced him to his teammates.

Ilya was the picture of haughty boredom as Kip approached, his posture loose and relaxed, as if going to a gay bar by himself was something he did every Tuesday night. It very well could be, as far as Kip knew, but Ilya’s infamous womanizing tendencies certainly told otherwise.

Kip’s phone buzzed again, and he had to tamper down a smile. He could just picture Scott’s face when he found out his nemesis had indeed walked into Kip’s bar.

“What can I get you?” he asked, trying to hide both his amusement and dislike.

Ilya looked him up and down in what looked a lot like an appreciative once-over. Kip couldn’t help but flex a little, on instinct. He could have sworn Ilya’s eyes flashed in response.

Interesting.

“Vodka,” Ilya said coolly, his accent coming across even with that one word. If Kip had had any doubt before, he certainly didn’t now.

Kip smirked and slid a lowball glass onto the counter before reaching towards the glass bottles lining the mirrored wall. He heard a tutting sound behind him.

He turned to see Ilya playfully wagging a finger at him. “Good vodka,” Ilya amended.

Right. Hockey player salary. Kip reached for a higher shelf.

Another tut. Kip raised an eyebrow, arm still raised.

“The actual good vodka.”

Kip let out a laugh and ducked down to reach into a low cabinet. He plonked the bottle of Russian vodka onto the bar with a flourish.

“Will that do?”

Ilya wrinkled his nose in response.

Kip rolled his eyes. What a princess.

“I don’t know what kind of establishment you think this is, but you should count yourself lucky we even have that.”

Ilya took in the dimly lit bar with a lazy sweep of his gaze, eyebrow raised. It wasn’t unlike The Kingfisher, which is what had appealed to Kip in the first place. It was all dark mahogany and cracked leather booths, slightly sticky floors and eclectic, quirky wall decor. At first glance, it looked like any other Irish pub in Brighton. It was tucked into a quiet side street and was frequented mostly by BU students. Kip wondered if Ilya even knew what kind of pub he’d wandered into.

“That will have to do, then.”

Kip poured the vodka neat and left the bottle next to Ilya’s glass.

“Good boy.” Ilya winked and took a sip of his vodka.

Kip almost choked. He rested his forearms on the bar and looked at Ilya inquisitively. He might as well milk this encounter for all it was worth so he’d really have a story to tell Scott later. Kip wondered how much he could get Ilya to talk without revealing he knew who he was.

“Sooo,” he drawled, “come here often?”

Ilya quirked an eyebrow. “That is your best pick up line?”

Kip scoffed. “No. Just wondering why someone I’ve never seen in here before would even know we have Russian vodka.”

Ilya shrugged. “I take a guess.”

“Hmm.”

Another sip. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Hah! So you do come here often!”

Ilya shrugged, the portrait of nonchalance. “Sometimes. Is quiet. I like to come here to think.”

Kip’s surprise must have shown on his face.

“What?” Ilya asked with a frown.

“Nothing,” Kip said quickly. “Just- you’re not what I was expecting.” He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Ahh. So you do know who I am.”

“What? No, that’s not what I-”

“A bit of advice? You are terrible at getting information out of people. Don’t quit your day job.”

“Sorry,” Kip said sheepishly. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. In my experience, hockey players don’t exactly love hanging out in gay bars.”

Ilya cocked his head at him. Shit. He’d said too much. Suddenly Kip felt like the tables had been turned, and he was now under the microscope.

“You have experience with hockey players, do you?”

“No, no, what?” Kip scoffed. “I just…” Movement down the bar caught his attention. “Customers!”

He hurried away, Ilya’s low laugh following him as he took much longer than necessary to fill a pitcher of beer. When he was done he chanced a quick glance at his phone, ignoring the gaze still fixed on him.

Scott: missed call

Scott: I’m serious, I don’t know what he’s doing there but it can’t be good

Scott: seriously, DO NOT ENGAGE

Kip turned back to the lone figure at the end of the bar. Ilya had his chin propped on his fist and was looking up at the TV over the bar slightly forlornly. Honestly, Kip thought he looked a little sad. That, combined with the fact that he apparently casually visited local gay pubs didn’t exactly match up with the picture Scott had painted of Ilya.

Kip: honestly, he looks a little lonely

Kip: like a lost puppy

Scott’s answer was immediate, like he’d been waiting for Kip to reply.

Scott: a lost demon puppy, maybe

Kip chuckled and shook his head. To be fair, the Scott people saw on the ice wasn’t the same Scott that had danced with Kip on Halloween and casually introduced himself to his parents. It was entirely possible there was an entire side to Ilya Rozanov that Scott didn’t know about.

When he looked up Ilya was staring directly at him again. He crooked a finger and beckoned to Kip in a come hither gesture.

Kip shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Can I get you something else?” He glanced at the vodka. “A water, maybe?”

Ilya scoffed. “This is practically water. Talk to me, I am bored.”

“And here I thought you came here for peace and quiet?”

Ilya looked him up and down again, and if Kip hadn’t known better he could have sworn Ilya’s gaze snagged on his biceps. Kip might have flexed again, just a little bit. For science.

“And because I like to flirt with the bartenders sometimes.”

Kip’s jaw dropped open. Ilya only laughed darkly. “What? That doesn’t fit with the experience you have with hockey players?”

“I don’t, I mean…” Kip sputtered. Of all the ways he had thought this conversation would go, he honestly hadn’t considered Ilya flirting with him to be a possibility. “Aren’t you worried about people knowing that?”

Ilya frowned. “Last week People magazine said I am the secret lover of one of the Jennifers. Lawrence, maybe. Or Aniston. Whatever, the week before that they say I am Russian spy. Maybe next week they say I am gay. The week after, they will say I am homophobe. Who knows if any of it is true.”

Kip stared. That mindset was probably as directly opposed to Scott’s as it was possible to get.

“And…are you?” he couldn’t help asking, slightly shyly.

“Am I what?”

“Literally any of those things?”

Ilya grinned. “Nope.”

“Huh.” Kip considered. “What about Lopez? Or a secret assassin? Or…” he drummed his fingers on the bar top nervously, “bisexual?”

Ilya sipped his vodka slowly. “Like I said, you are very bad at getting information from people.”

“Damn!”

Ilya was quiet for a beat. “What did you mean, when you said I’m not what you expected?”

Kip flushed. “Oh! Well, you know. The media loves to play you up as this huge asshole.” He shrugged. “But I know there’s more to famous people than what the tabloids write about you.”

“And you think I’m not huge asshole after talking to me for five minutes.”

“Well. Maybe just a medium asshole.”

Ilya chuckled and pointed at Kip. “I like you.” He extended a hand over the bar. “Ilya Rozanov.”

Kip laughed and shook his hand. “Kip.”

Ilya cocked his head, his eyes brightening with something like recognition. “Kip.” His accent dragged out the name into Keep. “You are second person I’ve heard of with that funny name.”

Kip perked up. He’d never met anyone else who went by Kip. “Oh yeah? Who’s the other?”

Ilya smiled mysteriously. “Trust me, you would not believe me if I told you.”

His gaze drifted up to the tv above the bar, currently silently playing a sports highlight reel.

“Ugh,” Ilya said suddenly, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Why are they always talking about that old man?”

Kip looked up to see, as expected, Scott’s sweaty, handsome face speaking to a reporter. Kip felt the same slightly winded reaction he got every time he saw that face, as if he’d somehow forgotten how beautiful Scott was. He wondered when, or if, his body would stop reacting like that. He suspected probably never.

They’d been texting almost every day since Halloween. Most of it mundane; friendly chit chat, dumb selfies, pictures of random things that made them think of each other. And some not so mundane; Scott venting his insecurities about what the podcasts were saying about him, Kip worrying about his future job prospects.

It was a new dynamic between them- it felt more like two people who had just met getting to know each other rather than two former lovers still hung up on each other. Kip didn’t really know how to feel about it, but it was nice. Safe. Harmless, or so he told himself. At least for now.

“Because he’s hot?” he answered Ilya, unable to keep himself from poking the bear.

As expected, Ilya’s face distorted in disgust. “He is one thousand years old!”

“Hey! He’s not that old. And he’s actually a nice guy.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know? Because tv make him look sweet and innocent? I thought you didn’t trust what tv says about people?”

Ilya had him there. Kip scoffed, probably not very genuinely. He became aware that his hands were currently violently wringing a hand towel. He set it down, only to start nervously drumming his fingers on the bar top. Jesus. He needed to get a grip, but he’d always been a terrible liar.

“Why you like him anyway?” Ilya pressed. “This is Boston. You are not allowed to like any hockey player but me.”

Kip burst out laughing. “Oh? Is that how it works?”

“Yes, yes of course.”

He might not be a total asshole, but he certainly was full of himself.

Kip leaned toward Ilya, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well in that case I should probably tell you, I’m from New York.”

Ilya’s glass paused halfway to his lips. Something strange was happening to his face. His eyes had narrowed and he was again giving Kip the once over, though this time it was in calculation and not appreciation.

“What did you mean,” he said, very slowly, “when you said in your experience, hockey players don’t walk into gay bars?”

Kip unconsciously reached for the rag again, wringing it between his fingers in what he hoped looked like nonchalance but probably didn’t. Ilya’s gaze tracked the motion.

“Oh! Just, you know. Macho pro athletes aren’t exactly known for being open minded, that’s all.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed further. Then he whipped his phone out and furiously typed out a text. When he was done he slapped his phone down on the bar and looked at Kip expectantly. The next moment, Kip’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it and saw Scott had texted again.

“You should open that,” Ilya said.

“What?”

Ilya nodded to the phone in his hand. “Is that a text from Scott Hunter?”

Kip dropped his phone. Ilya laughed as Kip ducked down to retrieve it, almost smacking his head on the bar in the process.

Scott: why is Ilya Rozanov asking me if you work at a bar called The Black Pearl?

Kip slowly stood as if getting ready to face an executioner.

Ilya was grinning like a cat. “You like crab rangoons?”

—

An hour later, in a series of events that felt like an out of body experience, Kip was following Ilya Rozanov into a Chinese restaurant in the South End. The tiny, ancient woman behind the counter brightened up when she saw him.

“PORK FRIED RICE!” she bellowed, face angled towards the open kitchen in the back. “BEEF AND BROCOLI! CRAB RANGOONS!”

Ilya turned to Kip. “Anything else?”

“Uhh...” Kip had apparently lost his grip on the intricacies of speech.

“Some spring rolls too, please, darling,” Ilya asked the old woman.

“SPRING ROLLS!”

When they were seated at a sticky booth with trays filled with enough food to feed the entire Raiders team, Ilya dug into his meal with a nonchalance that threatened to send Kip into a fit of hysterical giggles. He gestured to Kip, and then the food.

“Eat,” he said, mouth full of rice, “difficult conversations are easier with food.”

Kip reluctantly picked up a crab rangoon, dipped it into the sauce, and took a bite.

“Mmmm.” The noise came out of him before he could stop it.

Kip filled his plate, choosing to ignore the stickiness of the booth and the fact that from his seat he could clearly see one of the cooks picking his teeth with a toothpick as he lounged against a stove in the open kitchen. 

“So,” Ilya declared, “you are dating Scott Hunter.”

Kip took a bite of spring roll, mostly to have something to occupy his mouth with. To his surprise, it was crispy, just on the right side of hot, and the perfect balance of filing and wrapping.

Another moan escaped his mouth.

Ilya smirked. “Is the best Chinese food in Boston. And not just because I own it.”

Kip almost choked. “You…own this place?” He looked around the restaurant suspiciously. The wallpaper was faded, the tabletops stained, the sanitation standards….dubious.

“I thought you didn’t like to judge things by how they appeared?”

Kip raised a crab rangoon in a toast. “Fair enough.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until Kip’s anxiety couldn't stand it any longer.

“How did you know about Scott?”

The implications of someone in the MLH (Ilya fucking Rozanov, no less) knowing Scott’s most closely guarded secret made Kip feel ill.

Ilya chuckled. “Stop making that face. He knows that I know.”

Kip stared. “He…does?”

“Is ok. He found out something about me I don’t want people to know, I find out something about him he doesn’t want people to know. Now we are equal, and neither of us will tell.”

Kip relaxed, if only marginally. “Do I even want to know how that happened?”

“Probably not.”

“Does the something about you have anything to do with…”

Ilya looked at him expectantly.

“You liking to flirt with bartenders in gay bars?”

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe.”

Kip sighed. This bastard certainly didn’t make anything easy.

“Why are you dating old man like Scott Hunter anyway? You are young and fun, you should be with someone your own age.”

Kip flicked a piece of broccoli at him. “Shut up. And we’re not…dating, per se.”

“Oh? Fuck buddies then?”

Kip flinched. That was a wildly crass way of diminishing what he and Scott had, but to be fair it wasn’t completely inaccurate to their current dynamic.

“We were dating, but…”

“You broke up?” To his credit, Ilya didn’t seem like he was getting ready to make a joke about it, as Kip would have thought. He almost looked disapointed, if that was possible.

“Kind of? Not really? I don’t know, we’re figuring it out. It’s…”

“Complicated? Yes, I can guess dating a hockey player would be.”

“Why am I even telling you this?”

Ilya laughed. “I imagine because it feels good to talk about out loud.”

Kip gave him a long look. He imagined the reason Ilya had brought him here was probably along similar lines.

“Yeah. I mean, my family and friends know, and that’s been great, but…I don’t know, I feel like they don’t fully understand what it’s like, you know? The whole secrecy thing. And the thing is, I get it, I really really get why Scott can’t come out. I just…I don’t know, sometimes it feels like I’m living two different lives, and I wish they could be one and the same.” He let out a long breath, surprised by how relieved he felt saying that out loud. “Does that make any sense?”

Ilya was quiet for a long minute. “It does. Keeping a secret like that can be…difficult,” he said carefully. “Lonely. Is good you have people to talk to.”

“Do you? Have people?”

“Not so much.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but Kip noticed the frown tugging his eyebrows together. “It would be big, if Hunter came out,” he went on. “Like, really really big. He would not be able to keep it quiet. Not with how famous he is, even though why he is famous, I don’t know.”

Kip threw another broccoli at him.

“People would care. They would have opinions. About him, but about you, too. There would be interviews, posts, articles, photos. Some you agree to, some you don’t. Everything you do, anything you post online, anything you say, will be criticized. Picked apart for flaws. You would become famous overnight for being Scott Hunter’s boyfriend. The media would analyze your relationship the way they analyze hockey games.” He looked at Kip intently. “Would you be prepared for that?”

Kip squirmed uncomfortably. Whenever he thought about the implications of Scott coming out, his focus was always on Scott. The media attention he would get, the way his teammates would react, the possible setbacks to his endorsement deals and brand opportunities. The risk to the legacy he was creating, the judgement of people who had previously respected and relied on him. Somehow, the fact that he would also be thrown in the limelight had never really occurred to him. Something about it reshaped his view of the whole situation.

Ilya seemed to read Kip’s spiraling thoughts. “Like you said, is complicated.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Kip hid his face in his hands. “Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with my friend Elena instead?”

“Hah! Is she hot, your friend Elena?”

Kip glowered at him. “That’s for you never to find out.”

Ilya took out his phone. “She has instagram?”

Kip yanked the phone out of his hand and smacked it firmly face down on the table. “No.”

Ilya chuckled. “I like you,” he declared. “You are fun. Way more fun than boring old Hunter.”

Kip ignored the jab.

“Why you live in Boston anyway? You didn’t say.”

“I’m doing my master’s at BU.”

“Ah! And you like it here?”

Kip shifted, humming noncommittally.

The truth was, although Kip loved his program, he didn’t totally love his life in Boston. He had packed his schedule with so many classes and lectures that combined with his bartending job, he barely had any free time, and any free time he did have was spent in the library. A couple of his college friends lived in Boston, but apart from them stopping by the bar once in a while, they had barely seen each other. He missed the routine and familiarity of his friends back in New York, and as much as he appreciated living alone for the first time in his life, he missed his family. Weirdly, his newfound independence was only emphasizing all the good parts of his life that he’d been taking for granted for so long. And as nice as Boston was, it wasn’t New York. Kip missed the familiar rhythm of the city, it’s sounds, it’s smells. And, yes, although the distance was helping with this new dynamic between him and Scott, he missed him, too.

It had felt oddly embarrassing, admitting all this to Scott, almost as if he’d been expecting him to be happy about it. But far from saying I told you so!, Scott had simply listened, and made space for Kip to share his feelings. It had been validating, somehow, to be allowed to not be completely happy about a choice that he had made.

Ilya read into his silence. “How surprising,” he said drily, “the New Yorker hates Boston.”

The bastard really was quite perceptive, Kip had to admit.

“I don’t hate it,” Kip said defensively. “It’s just…not home.”

“And not where Scott Hunter lives.”

“That, too. Although, the distance kind of helps, in a way? What we had, back in New York…it was intense, but it wasn’t really working. Not being able to see him because we live in different cities changes things. It becomes about distance, and not…you know. Being in the closet. If that makes any sense?”

Something passed through Ilya’s stoic mask. Kip could have sworn it looked a little like longing. The seriousness of his expression made it clear that he understood perfectly well what Kip meant.

“Anyway,” Kip said, flushing under the intensity of Ilya’s gaze, “I’m rambling…”

Ilya held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone. I give you my number. We will be friends.”

Kip exhaled a laugh. Trust Ilya Rozanov to make friendship sound like a business transaction. “You want to be my friend?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ilya shrugged. “We need to change your opinion about Boston. I show you around, you will change your mind. You will never want to go back to dirty New York City.”

“Oh yeah? You think you can change the mind of a born and bred New Yorker?”

“I like a challenge.”

Kip laughed as he handed over his phone.

“You know,” he said, carefully, “what you said earlier, about not really having people?”

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“You could…talk to me, if you wanted. If there’s things that you can’t talk about with other people.”

Ilya avoided his gaze, frowning as he typed his phone number into Kip’s contacts. A slight shift of his shoulders was the only other indication that Kip had hit a sore spot.

“How much time you have?” he finally asked, giving Kip’s phone back.

“What time does this place usually close?”

Ilya grinned. “We will need more crab rangoons.” He turned towards the front counter. “Min!”

The old woman angled her face towards the kitchens. “CRAB RANGOONS!”

Chapter End Notes

Ilya just really wants to be friends with all the gays, ok?

Apologies for the lack of Scott in this chapter, he was busy having a panic attack. He'll be back next chapter in full force!

Thanks for reading! <3