Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, POV Kip Grady, Sex, Grief, Minor Medical Event, Big Adult Feelings, WAG Kip Grady, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-11 Words: 15,300 Chapters: 3/3

like a song with no end (get right back to it) 

Summary

Kip is hit with a wave of relief when he sees Scott at the front of the crowd, sweat-dried hair a mess from everyone rubbing his head. He’s out of his pads and jersey, in a black Under Armor shirt Kip has only ever seen in the laundry. The charge of seeing Scott like this, sizzling with energy and salty with sweat, surrounds Kip like a net and pulls him under.

He is not used to this feeling, the thrill that courses through him that this Scott—team captain, public figure—can be claimed as his. He wants to do so, but has no idea how to negotiate this new world and new arrangement. Scott scans the room and sees him, eyes bright.

---

Scott and Kip have only been back together, properly, for three months when Scott comes out. Now it's the summer after.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

When your whole life changes in one dramatic, highly-televised minute, you still have to live out all the normal minutes that come crashing after it. School, his parents’ divorce, falling in love with Scott—those took months to transform him. 

When the Jumbotron of Madison Square Garden cuts away from Scott and Kip kissing and goes back to showing shots of the fans, Kip is still standing in his boyfriend’s arms, still in the aftershock of that moment. He is one wrong move away from slipping on his ass on the slick ice, underdressed in a jean jacket. 

“So, uh, what now?” he says up to Scott, who still has one steadying hand between his shoulder blades. 

“You know, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Scott glances around for the first time, like he’s suddenly remembering where he is and what he has just done. The look on his face is suddenly self-conscious. 

There is a cameraman less than five feet away from them, still filming them. Kip glances up and can just barely see that the Jumbotron is now panning through the crowd, showing another Admiral putting his kid over his shoulders. He will confirm later what he can only guess at now, based on the eruption of noise, that their kiss didn’t exactly go unnoticed. 

“C’mon, I want you to meet everyone,” Scott says, pulling Kip into the crowd behind them. 

“Okay, let’s do this,” says Kip, partially to Scott and partially to himself.

The plan, ten minutes ago and also two months ago when they got back together, was a little more understated. No statement, no gesture: Scott would slowly introduce Kip into his world. When someone asked or when they were spotted together, his agent’s PR would confirm to the press. So much for that—Kip meets them all, at once, on the ice, with the world watching. 

Scott pulls him into the crowd, most of whom are just now learning what has happened. A minute of rushed introductions later, Scott can no longer avoid the scrum of press. The team has more photos to take, so Scott leaves Kip with a cheerful blonde woman who introduces herself as Jennifer, whose husband is on the team. She and a handful of other women are in matching '90s-style windbreakers that say Admirals across the front and their partners' names across the back. She helps Kip figure out where to go, leading the way to a room deep in the arena’s underbelly that has a paper sign on the front reading Wives Room on the door. It is not a fancy suite: it reminds Kip more of a rec center than anything else. 

Jennifer pushes a beer into his hands, “So, tell me everything. About Scott and you. I’m in, like, shock right now.”

“Um, what do you want to know?”

This is a brand new environment for Kip, and he has no idea what anyone expects of him or what they assume already. 

“Are you kidding?” she says with enthusiasm. “That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen! I watched you come down from the stands and get your man. How long have you been together? Tell me the story! I totally didn’t even suspect Scott was—y’know,” she smiles. 

“Gay?” Kip supplies. 

“Okay! You said it,” she laughs again. “Sorry, I know I’m not supposed to, like, assume.” 

She is so earnest, open, clutching her beer with Admirals-themed nails, that Kip cuts her a break.

“You’re good. Safe to assume,” he says. 

He gives her the short version: they met a couple of years ago at his old smoothie shop job, dated briefly, and broke up soon after, overwhelmed by the pressure. They stayed in touch—that’s how he phrases it to Jennifer, because torturously and non-exclusively hooked up on and off for three years to the chagrin of all my friends is a little much for this woman he doesn’t know. 

“And then three months ago, you probably heard, Scott got injured right before the playoffs. He needed some help, and I, um, stepped in. Which led to us getting back together properly. So, here I am.” 

This also sounds a little better than the truth: my ex-boyfriend called me, terrified on painkillers after fucking up his meds schedule, and when he calmed down, we finally had a frank conversation.

“Oh my god, three months ago? That’s crazy!” Jennifer says, and Kip can only nod. “Well, okay. You’re officially invited to the Admirals WAG chat. Give me your phone number. And we need to get you a jacket, obviously. Can I tell Madison to send it to Scott’s? I’m sure she has his address. She’s our main organizer for stuff like this. There she is,” she points to another blonde woman wearing a similarly vintage Admiral's jacket. Madison looks like she’s holding court, while gently swaying to calm the toddler on her hip. “Let me introduce you.” 

Kip has the sudden thought that he should ask Maria what being in a sorority is like. He’s heard her talk about it, how much she loved it, and how important it was to her. He’s pretty sure he’s being inducted into one right now. Greek life was not common at Columbia, his alma mater for both undergrad and now grad school. The depths of his new world are opening up beneath his feet. 

Madison, as he predicted, is no nonsense, but he likes her intensity right away: “You,” is how she starts, pointing with the hand not holding a baby. “Are the man of the hour.” 

The room is chaos, names are being called every few minutes as people try to coordinate and celebrate. 

“I think Scott is probably the man of the hour, right?” Kip says, sort of hopefully. 

She wags her finger, “Maybe to everyone else. But Scott, I know. You are new. It’s Kip, right?” He nods. “Great name. Very memorable. Are you from New York?”

“Brooklyn.”

“Okay, chic. I’m from outside of Toronto, Jay and I have been together since high school, so I know the ropes. Do you have Instagram?”

“Um, I do, but it’s not public?” he answers, trying to remember who Jay is. 

She rolls her eyes, “Okay, well, you want to control the narrative, don’t you? You and Scott are like, crazy hot, and there are so many opportunities there. Do you have your own job? My job is this one,” she bounces the toddler on her hip, “Making sure my husband doesn’t collapse mid-season, and Instagram. Are you thinking of doing sponsored content? I could hook you up with my reps.” 

“Madison, you’re about ten steps ahead of me,” Kip says, laughing dryly. “I’m a bartender at the moment. I just finished grad school a few months ago.” 

She sighs and looks at Jennifer, who has been standing next to Kip the whole time, “Ugh, men. No planning. Well, we’re going to take a photo in a minute—let me know if I should tag you.” 

Moments later, the room coalesces to a common goal: a large group photo. Someone hands Kip her Admiral's jacket, which fits over his broad shoulders as long as he doesn’t put his arms into it. He is instructed to squat in the center of the group by Madison. Someone snaps a dozen photos, and Kip does his best not to look completely overwhelmed.

The group dissolves, and Madison walks back up to him, now without the toddler. 

“I’ll post it later. But, what’s your Insta handle?” she asks, phone in hand. 

Kip flushes, “Uhh, it’s.” He closes his eyes, realizing what he’s about to say out loud: “I’ll have to change it. You don’t need to tag me. Right now it’s foreshorten_me.” 

Her fingers don’t move above her phone, and instead she looks at him with eyebrows raised. He clarifies, “It’s an art term.” 

“I have so many questions. But you should probably just use your name,” she says, voice amused. She taps his username into her phone. “This is going to be great.”

He’s saved by the loud, unambiguous noise of the team, staff, and handlers thundering down the hallway. Madison grins at him and says, “Welcome to the club.” 

Later, Kip will watch the clips of him and Scott on the ice. Later, he will see Scott’s interviews, in which Scott desperately tries to keep the interviews focused on the game and on talking about what it means to win the Cup, what it took to get here. Over and over again, Scott is asked: “Can you tell us about that kiss? Who was that? Do you have an official statement? Can you confirm on the record that you’re coming out?” and Scott will say the same message in a few different ways: “The win was all the team. I wanted to share the win with the person who is most important to me in the world, just like all my teammates.” 

For now, Kip is hit with a wave of relief when he sees Scott at the front of the crowd, sweat-dried hair a mess from everyone rubbing his head. He’s out of his pads and jersey, in a black Under Armor shirt, Kip has only ever seen in the laundry. He is used to seeing Scott post-shower and change, back at home. The charge of seeing Scott like this, sizzling with energy and salty with sweat, surrounds Kip like a net and pulls him under with lust and possession. He is not used to this feeling, the thrill that courses through him that this Scott—team captain, public figure—can be claimed as his. He wants to do so, but has no idea how to negotiate this new world and new arrangement. Scott scans the room and sees him, eyes bright. 

They cross toward each other and both pause: kissing on the ice was pure adrenaline release. Kip has always been a PDA-y boyfriend; he likes to touch and be touched, but he has no idea what Scott is like—will be like. Scott probably doesn’t know either. He’s never had a chance to find out. The pause only lasts a beat before Scott pulls him in for a hug. 

“God. I’m sure I smell like hockey pads,” he says, his voice close, deep against Kip’s cheek. He does, in fact, smell like locker room, beer, stale sweat. It’s new, and it’s Scott. Kip shakes his head, burying his face into the side of Scott’s neck for more. Scott’s voice rumbles against his nose as he continues, “I can’t believe you’re down here. You’re coming out with us after, right?”

“No, I figured I’d go home… quiet night in, nothing to celebrate for me here.”

Scott pulls back, a private grin on his face. “Mouth guard in by 10? Nice balanced meal?”

“Something like that,” he looks up at Scott. “Can I kiss you? Are we doing that now?”

Scott’s smile turns wolfish, “Yeah, baby, I think we’re doing that now,” and he kisses Kip again—chaste, and then once on each cheek, right at the top of his cheekbones, high by his eyelashes. 

“Hunter,” calls a voice. “You bringing your boy to the locker room? They found another case.”

Scott looks at Kip, “So, the guys’ wives normally avoid the locker room, for the most part. Boys club superstition stuff, I guess? But everyone kept asking for you. I think we found a gay loophole.” 

Kip laughs, “I guess I’ll sneak in then?”

Scott pauses. “Leave your jacket here. I have a feeling I know what’s about to happen.”

Kip is back in his own jean jacket, which he folds onto a chair. He shivers in his t-shirt as Scott pulls him by the wrist down a series of hallways—sure enough, they enter a room where they are showered in champagne, fizzing like rockets, to the sound of We are the Champions. Kip played enough sports growing up that nothing surprises him: one guy gripping two Coronas by the neck in a single hand, another guy pouring most of a full bottle into his teammate's open mouth, three guys taking turns jumping on a table that looks at risk of collapsing. The Cup is here, and they’re taking turns drinking out of it. 

Scott moves into Hockey Captain mode, telling them what to do, asking whose turn it is, and telling them to change the music when it plays Queen again. All the while, he keeps Kip by his side. More guys come up and introduce themselves, staff and support staff, people he’s been hearing Scott reference for years. Kip sees the gentle confrontation of how Scott is doing this. He did not come out in the abstract, as an idea. Here Kip is, evidence of a fact. Scott is saying, if you have a problem, say it to my face. There’s no room to discuss or whisper about it. This is the thing that Scott has always been good at: taking up space unobtrusively. If you want to go around him, you’ll have to go through him.

The party continues, guys slowly filtering in and out of the showers. Scott leaves him to get changed, and somehow it turns into Kip being involved in an arm wrestling competition after they find out how much he benches. His size, his athleticism, seems to ease them into this fact. The guys call him “Scott’s boy,” never boyfriend, and he does his best to butch it up. It’s a whole new world. 

Scott returns, clean in a brand-new Admirals Champions 2017  t-shirt, signifying the next phase of celebrations. Kip is buffeted along through the rest of the evening: on the sidelines for more official photos, dragged into the middle of a party bus to shotgun a beer, and a long, drunken evening at a club with Scott’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. 

By the time the party bus rolls into a club, Kip is drunker than he has been in years. He is not even confident where they end up. Somewhere dark, some VIP section. He’s on the edge of full black-out, to the point where the evening starts to blur. One minute, he is desperately trying to follow an argument about defense strategies, balanced against a silver railing near the edge of a dance floor. The next thing he’s falling into Scott’s lap as he, Kip, brings a pitcher of water. Some of it splashes on his shirt and he laughs. Someone makes a comment that sounds like, “Guess we’re going to have to get used to that,” and he hears Scott say, “Got a problem?” 

If there is a problem, Kip doesn’t follow it. 

The next thing he remembers, he and Scott are stumbling out of the club to a bodega. Scott is grabbing three bottles of Gatorade when Kip crowds him by the fridge, wrapping his arms around Scott. Scott bristles on instinct. 

“Guess what?” Kip says, his tired, drunk tongue tripping over the S’s. 

“What?” Scott asks. 

“Welcome to the rest of our life,” and he kisses him. 

────────────

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

It’s just past 8 pm, a lull in between customers at the Kingfisher, when Kip pulls his phone out from the shelf he keeps it on at work. He flicks through his notifications and then notices the red dot that indicates he missed a call. There’s a voicemail notification from Scott from three hours ago. 

He and Scott never speak on the phone. They broke up three years ago. Mostly. Minus all the times they’ve had sex. Since breaking up, they’ve texted in fits and bursts, sometimes regularly, and sometimes months without speaking, especially now, at the height of hockey season. He hasn’t seen Scott since January, two months ago. His brain stutters around the memory, typical of the last three years: showing up late to Scott’s apartment after a game; fooling around on the couch, bathroom, bed; sitting on the kitchen counter in the morning to eat cold protein pancakes with his fingers. They last texted a few days ago when Scott was benched with a shoulder injury. 

He picks up the phone and listens to the voicemail:

“Kip, hi sweetheart. I’m just calling because I wanted,” there’s a shaking, slow gasp of breath. “We don’t say it anymore. Maybe you don’t want to hear it. But, I love you. You probably know that. I hope you do. Every time I’m with you, I feel like I have returned to myself, like the best version of me—without, everything else. And that’s because of you. You do that,” there’s a sniff, “You do that for everyone around you. Make them better—fuck.” Another gasp of breath. “I just wanted to say it. I love you,” another beat, “I love you. Take care—goodbye.” 

Kip’s stomach falls out from under him. He has no bearings, no sense of how to interpret this message. They have spent three years in a careful dance around this thing in between them. The trajectory of their relationship was that they both fell hard and fast. They both asked for more: Scott wanted all of Kip in private, Kip wanted all of Scott in public. They were both holding a bad hand, and Kip called Scott’s bluff. After a few months apart, the middle ground they found was tentative, infrequent, rationed out in palatable doses. The unspoken agreement was that it remained unspoken—and here is Scott, saying the truth at the heart of it out loud. 

He calls Scott back, and it rings to voicemail. He counts to three and tries again to no response. Kip’s whole body is on high alert, a primal fear ringing in his joints. Something is wrong. 

“Hey Kyle,” Kip calls down the bar. “I’m really sorry—-something has come up. I gotta go. Can you cover for me?”

He asks this as he’s already closing out, pocketing his phone, and walking to his jacket. Kyle looks up, worried. 

“Yeah, no problem. Everything okay?” Kyle asks. 

“I’ll let you know,” Kip calls, vaguely. He can’t begin to explain. “Thank you Kyle,” he adds, but his heart isn’t in it.

It’s twenty minutes on the F to Scott’s, which Kip spends listening to the message over and over until it’s burned into his memory. He texts Scott several times.  Their innocuous last conversation is there: jokes about his injury, needing to ice his “good arm.” By the time he gets to Scott’s building, the worry is making his teeth ache and his ears ring. He is avoiding thinking about why Scott would call like this, about the desperation audible in his voice. 

In Scott’s lobby, he goes straight to the doorman and tells him he needs to be buzzed up to Penthouse Four, to check the list of approved visitors for Kip Grady. Kip has been coming and going for three years, and this same doorman has seen him and never raised an eyebrow. One of the many people in the periphery of Scott’s life who don’t ask questions. The driver of the car service who has picked Kip up at home past midnight multiple times. Scott’s housekeeper who comes and goes without question. Meal plan couriers that Kip has accidentally crossed paths with in the morning. The doorman doesn’t even ask for ID: he recognizes Kip by face, he nods and waves him to the elevator. 

The elevator opens into Scott’s foyer, immaculate as always. 

“Scott?” he calls. 

He crosses the room divider and is surprised to find that Scott is not alone. He’s on his couch, and there’s a woman with a stethoscope listening to his lungs. A doctor of some kind. 

“Kip?” Scott answers, looking confused. He looks awful: grey and pale, his lips cracked and dry, his finger is clipped into something. An oxygen mask is on the couch next to him. He screws his eyes shut and then opens them again.   

“Dr. Nguyen,” Scott says, his voice is scratched and groggy. He is using the calm captain’s voice that tells Kip he’s trying to regain control of a situation. “This is a friend of mine. I called him before I called you. When I was having trouble breathing—Kip, shit, I’m sorry. I mixed up my meds schedule and—It was bad for a minute, I panicked. Dr. Nguyen says I should be fine. I should have called you again, but, um, I’m having trouble with my arms.”

Relief washes over Kip like cold water. He wants to rush to Scott, but it feels like all the wind has been knocked out of his body. His brain feels like static. The first thought that comes to him is that now he has to live with the knowledge of what Scott wanted to say when he thought he was going to die. That Scott called him first, before he called for help. That Scott didn’t want to worry Kip with the details: just deliver a message. There’s a digital record of Scott’s potential last words sitting like a haunting in his pocket. 

Kip reflexively takes his phone and hides it on the shelves before crossing into the living room. He desperately wants to touch Scott, who is looking at Kip with wet, ashamed eyes. 

“Can I do anything?” Kip says to the doctor. “If he needs to be monitored, I can stay.”

“I’m just wrapping up,” she says, smiling appreciatively at Kip, and then turns to Scott, “Mr. Hunter, before I discuss next steps, is it all right if I discuss medical protocols with your friend here?”

Scott looks at Kip, and says, looking at him and not the doctor, “Yes, that’s fine.”

“You had an unexpected extreme adverse reaction between your pain management protocol and normal sleep aids, which was likely exacerbated by an anxiety response. But the good news is you’ve stabilized, and your oxygen has returned to a range I’m comfortable leaving you in. I’m switching you to an NSAID,” she turns to Kip now. “No more meds tonight. Keep an eye on him, and keep him awake and upright for the next few hours. If his breathing changes at all, call me and then emergency services. Don’t wait.”

Kip nods. The doctor turns back and begins to unclip Scott, pack up. Kip takes off his shoes and jacket, wrings the shakes out of his hands by pouring two tall glasses of water. He sets them down on the coffee table as he sits down next to Scott, finally within reach for the first time. He presses his hand into the couch, letting just the tips of his fingers touch Scott’s. 

As Dr. Nguyen is leaving but not out of eyesight, Scott wordlessly shuffles to him and drops his head onto Kip’s chest, wraps a heavy, inelegant arm around Kip’s middle. Dr. Nguyen does not react, just leaves a paper on the console and presses the elevator button. Another person on the periphery of Scott’s life, another staff member, who knows about Kip instead of any of Scott’s friends. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” Kip says when the elevator doors close. 

“I’m sorry. I… I’m really embarrassed right now.”

Scott, who is always so careful with medication, with food, or anything near his body, explains in a clipped, ashamed voice that he took a sleeping pill in the middle of the afternoon in a desperate bid to rest. Within an hour, he was sick, short of breath, and disoriented. He brushes past the specifics and keeps apologizing to Kip, until Kip asks: “When you called me, did you think something really bad was going to happen to you?”

“Yes,” Scott says, simply. 

Finally, something breaks in Kip. He cries in earnest, in a way he has not in a long time, not since the breakup. The strength of his tears comes as a surprise; slow mounting waves, and he has to hold himself back from the outright sobs that threaten to shake out of him. Scott keeps his head on his chest, one arm draped across Kip’s chest to hold him. 

“I love you,” Kip says, feeling Scott’s arm tighten around him, “I really do. You know that already. I can’t stand the idea of something bad happening, and the only people in your life who even know I exist are people you employ, who don’t even know my name.” 

“I know,” Scott chokes. 

“I’m not asking you to come out, or any kind of big gesture. I… Can you please tell a few people? List me as an emergency contact. Just as a safety protocol.”

Scott looks like it takes some energy to confess, “You’re already one of my emergency contacts. I have to redo all those forms every year, and I added you last season.”

Scott’s head is still on Kip’s chest, his whole body curled toward him. Kip can only think of everything in between then and now: they have seen each other sporadically. Maybe a dozen times. Every time has had this same easy slip into physical contact and intimacy, and then an unraveling back out of it. Like the only way they can safely be together is through touch and not language. Kip has dated other people, a desperate bid to lie to himself that he is keeping his options open. No one has made it to a third date. Scott took summers off to travel god knows where, and fuck god knows who. 

Now Kip has to confront the fact that throughout this tenuous connection, while Kip was busy with friends, school, and novelty, he was still one of Scott’s only people. It feels like a lot of pressure and yet—not enough. He wants more of it, all of it. He wants to prove he can carry the load, to prove to Scott that he, Kip, is strong enough and that Scott is worth the burden. Like everything to do with Scott, Kip’s feelings are too big to name. 

“Who else?” Kip asks, finally. “Who else are your emergency contacts?”

“My aunt Therese. My agent. Carter. You,” Scott answers, sitting up to take a sip of water, still not making eye contact. 

“If something bad happened to you, what would happen if I had shown up?” Kip asks, as delicately as he can, not trying to say it as an admonishment, but a genuine question to this man who plays a violent contact sport for a living. He wonders what he would say to those other contacts, how he would tell them who he is. The thought is so unspeakable, he shakes it off, a physical shudder. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead. Jalo had just spent a week in the hospital, and his parents found out from the press, because no one had their number, and it wasn’t on his forms. I didn’t want that to happen to you. I’d want you to know so you could… decide if you wanted to come.”

“Decide to visit you in the hospital?” Kip says. 

Scott nods, breathes a noise of confirmation, and sits back, no longer against Kip but with his back on the couch, looking ahead 

“Scott. I’m here right now. It only took one call.” Kip says, leaving out what Scott said on that call or why. “I’m not asking for a lot. But maybe. Can you tell your other emergency contacts?”

“Okay,” agrees Scott. 

Kip kisses him, softly on the cheek, and then grabs the remote. He puts on Titanic, places a cushion on Scott’s lap, and lies down. He grounds himself with the feeling of Scott’s breath, shaken but not struggling, through the rhythmic touch of his stomach on the back of his head. Scott rests a hand in his hair, nails grazing lightly. Titanic is Kip’s sister's favourite movie, so he distracts Scott by telling him every detail he can remember about it throughout all three hours, making sure Scott is not asleep. His breath and pulse remain steady. 

When the movie is over, they crawl into bed, and Kip settles into Scott’s arms to sleep. Scott is better in the morning, more himself. In the quiet morning light, the smell of the room still stale with Scott’s sickness, something has come out of its shell between them. Finally acknowledging it, saying I love you out loud was like breaking down a dam they cannot ignore. Scott promises: after the playoffs. Meet everyone. Quiet but personal. Easy. The rest will fall into place. 

They speak this hope out loud in quiet voices. Kip shuffles to Scott’s side of the bed and kisses him. Scott rolls onto him, pressing Kip into the mattress, moves their chaste, sealing-a-promise kiss into something open and needy. He slides his thigh between Kip’s and rocks into him. 

Scott pulls far enough away to look Kip in the eye when he says, as earnest as can be: “Fuck me and tell me you love me.”

They unspool and have the kind of sex that would have ruined Kip in the last three years when he was pretending this could be easy—slow, indulgent, in the light of a new morning. Scott on his back, legs over Kip’s shoulders as Kip takes his time with his hands and mouth, working him open, until Scott is subvocal, desperate, writhing with cries of want, ready to take him. 

Kip sits up and folds Scott’s legs up, slowly, dragging the moment out. They’re too far apart to kiss, but far enough apart that Kip can watch Scott, holding Scott’s calf and pushing into him deliberately slowly. Scott’s breath hitches, needy beneath him. 

“Harder?” Kip asks, and Scott nods, his eyebrows knitted in concentration, pleasure. Kip admires Scott’s overwhelmed face, parted lips and unfocused eyes. Kip picks up his pace into a steady momentum. Watching him, the feel of him, the heat, buried inside him, is undoing Kip. He moans, “I love you so much, I-I,” he pauses to gather himself, and then commands: “Touch yourself. Let me watch you.” 

As Scott takes himself in hand, Kip changes from the slow, gentle rhythm of letting himself relish the feeling, to a hard and fast pace, the sound of skin on skin. Scott matches him with the pace he is jerking himself off, making low noises that sound more like pants of: oh, oh, oh. 

“I love you like this,” Kip says, pressing his thumb into the pulse in Scott’s ankle. Kip is so close, he feels the pleasure coursing through his body, blooming from the center of him, where Scott is so tight, to the prickle of his skin, hot in his blood. He gives Scott all he can offer for now: the vulnerability that comes with safety. 

He holds himself back from the edge until finally, like a gift, Scott tenses and comes with a whine, his neck straining, body arched. Scott comes across his own stomach, his abs. Kip is careful, shaking as he pulls out and removes the condom. He crawls up Scott’s thighs, until he is kneeling over Scott’s stomach. He locks eyes with Scott’s half-lidded face, a face still coming back to earth, breathing heavily through the nose. Scott watches him, a captive audience, as Kip strokes himself quickly; once, twice, three times, and then comes all over Scott’s still panting chest. 

The silent moment after, the comedown: they are both catching their breath, and Kip is still looming over him. Scott opens his eyes, the look passing between them that says: it’s you, it’s you, thank god for you. Scott grabs Kip’s forearm and forcibly pulls him down, kissing him and smearing the mess between them into Kip’s chest. 

For the first time in three years, Kip does not leave right after. For the first time in three years, he stays. They shower and get back into bed, watch TV with their legs hooked together. Kip skips class. In the afternoon, Kip goes to his apartment, packs a bag, and stays at Scott’s for the week, until Scott is well enough to return to practice. 

Chapter End Notes

title from waxahatchee's right back to it.

this story is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my fault.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

The morning after the Stanley Cup final, Kip helps Scott compose a text as they wait for their breakfast delivery to arrive. After some discussion, Scott texts his Admirals group chat:

Morning Champions. Looking forward to seeing you all soon. We’ve got a million events coming up, and I’m not looking to distract from the team or what we did this season. But I will be bringing Kip as my +1. If you haven’t already, please say hi to him. If you have any questions, I’m happy to chat. 

Kip makes Scott take out an apology and emojis. Scott wants the message to be simple, no room for debate. Scott has explained that in hockey, the name on the front of your jersey matters more than the one on the back. Scott is expecting homophobia to be hidden behind that expectation of conformity. Kissing Kip, coming out, makes him a spectacle. His best bet at a comfortable future is to make it clear that he does not want that. 

What Scott does want is not clear to Kip now, in this moment after it all. The last three months have been a blur of playoff brutality and travel. Kip has never been around during this time of year. They have always picked back up whenever the Admirals drop out of the playoffs—which they have been in every year, advancing ever closer to this moment. Truthfully, it was awful to watch up close for the first time: ice baths, careful pain management, new meds, sleep hygiene. Kip, meanwhile, is in the final months of his degree. In early May, he submits his thesis on the same day the Admirals clinch round two of the playoffs. He tells his dad he and Scott are back together the day before his commencement. He leaves the ceremony and brings his dad to the apartment, where Scott, nursing bruised ribs, has a catered lunch waiting for them. 

After that first morning, they began to make more plans. Their lives are too chaotic for anything more than that right now. Kip tells his friends, who roll their eyes, ask if they need to be surprised. This summer, they’ll tell Scott’s friends. This summer, they’ll go on a vacation together. Summer, summer, summer. 

Kip has an apartment in Harlem that he paid rent for in April, May, and sleeps in only a dozen times. His lease ends in June, and he gives notice. 

“Save money,” Scott promises. 

It feels like a foregone conclusion to the card trick they set up three years ago. Last time, they were both holding bad hands. This time, they were counting cards and setting up the deal in their favour. 

And now—well. That plan is out the window: Scott rushed the whole thing. Typical, really. Once he decides what he wants, there’s no holding back. Kip should have known, Scott is a go big or go home kind of guy. 

There are responses to Scott’s text immediately: some thumbs up, some lighthearted responses (tl;dr? to which someone answers, scotty’s boy is coming to games and we’re all gonna be nice to him). Some more serious answers (a few variations on: Proud of you man; and one good on ya bud that took balls). Kip jokes that he should reply “yeah it did ;)” to the last one. 

Kip, meanwhile, finally checks his phone. He’s been avoiding it since yesterday. As he expected, he has dozens of texts—it’s overwhelming, he’s not sure if he can possibly read them all. So he doesn’t. Right at the top, actively buzzing with new texts, is the new group chat he has been added to: Admiral WAGs 👯‍. He scrolls it idly. There are a slew of welcome greetings, some coordination of plans last night that he missed, a discussion if the chat should be renamed, and now the women are chatting about Scott’s text. Clearly, the married guys have shown their wives, and now the wives are saying things like, “@Kip I made sure to tell him we support you guys 100%,” and “Can’t wait to see you at games!” 

“We’ve got the wives on our side,” Kip tells him, showing him the chat and completing the circle. 

“Well, thank god for that,” Scott says and pulls Kip to him, forcing him to drop his phone. Kip is thinking of the mountain in front of him that needs to be climbed to find life on the other side, a version of life he can recognize. His thoughts are drowned out by Scott’s lips on his throat, kissing up his neck. 

“Get out of there,” Scott says and presses his lips to Kip’s temple, three soft little kisses, “Come back to bed with me.”

“I’m right here,” Kip laughs, a grin spilling out of him, unexpected and easy. 

“Good,” huffs Scott, his mouth is a matching smile as he kisses him. 

He has a hand down Scott’s boxers, Scott’s hand pulling at his hair, when the buzzer sounds for their breakfast. 

“Hold that thought,” Kip says and rolls out of bed to find a robe. Once, he would’ve thought twice about letting a meal delivery courier see him, one that’s just from an app and not the expensive, discreet service Scott uses. Now, he doesn’t care. A whole lifetime ago: yesterday. 

────────────

They never make it back to bed. By the time Scott has finished his sandwich, hands still greasy, he has a million calls to field. There’s a parade in a few days, media appearances to make, and questions to answer. The regimented structure of their lives is being pulled apart into something new. 

Scott looks up from his phone and says, “My agent wants me to go on Good Morning America.”

Kip blinks and asks, “Is that a good idea?”

Wasn’t the whole point to stay a team player?

“I don’t know,” Scott says, scrolling on his phone. “It’d be pretty typical, I’d think. In other circumstances, I’d probably be on just to talk about what it means for the city. But I know they’ll just be asking about me. About us.”

“Do we need to talk to your agent? Do we put out a statement?” 

“I guess that’s a good idea. He wants to call in 15 minutes.”

They shower and get dressed, all the soft intimacy of the morning evaporating with Scott’s nervous energy, the reality of the day. Scott’s attention is usually on one thing at a time: he’s good at not overthinking, at pushing out distractions. Now it’s off Kip and back on the problem at hand. 

The call with his agent is long and boring; a lot of the details go over Kip’s head—contracts, brand deals, both impacted by the day before and ongoing. In the end, they decide Scott will not do any individual press. He will put out a statement, one that the team and the league co-sign. His agent already has it drafted; it just needs Scott’s approval. 

Last night, the Admirals accomplished the greatest honor of my career. Winning the Stanley Cup is every player’s dream, and I shared that victory with someone very important to me, my partner, Kip Grady. I’m grateful for the support of my teammates, my friends, and this organization. I’m proud of what we’ve built and what we did together, and I’m looking forward to continuing to represent the Admirals with everything I have. See you at the parade.

Kip bristles at the word partner in this context. It feels impersonal, a word they have never used. And then, his name. He wants to be Christopher to strangers, keep Kip as his real name. A middleground: Scott’s boyfriend, Christopher Grady. “Can we say boyfriend? And change my name to Christopher?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Scott says, typing a response. “Are you okay with your name being there? I want to, but I understand if you’d rather stay out of the statement.”

“No, I’m in,” Kip says, knowing that it’s true, it’s always been true, and it still scares the hell out of him. One of the earlier texts was from his friend Shawn, telling him that clips of their kiss are all over the internet. A viral sensation. He doesn’t want to be Scott’s nameless partner. A place in Scott’s life comes with costs, and he’ll have to sell his anonymity to pay for it. 

────────────

In a month of hard-to-forget days, being part of a parade that stops the island of Manhattan is certainly near the top of the list. Madison makes good on her promise: an Admiral's jacket with HUNTER written across the back arrives at the apartment just a few days later, “Rush order xoxo - M” on the card.

Their lives are a whirlwind, but Kip tries to savour the small moments, like when he tries on the jacket while Scott is on a call and Scott drops a full protein shake on his own lap. 

At the parade, the players, their wives, girlfriends, kids, and Kip all share the top of the bus. The bus snakes down Broadway. It’s a long, slow ride of near constant sound: the blaring sound system and the screams of thousands of people. It is a true out-of-body experience, the surreal fact of no longer studying history, but being part of it. Pictures of himself today, on the ice a week ago, will be in textbooks. The crowd is large, larger than usual, studded with rainbow flags. Later, he will learn that well over a million people crowded the streets they passed. 

It’s not even his last parade of the month. A few weeks later, Scott and a handful of other Admirals carry the Cup as they walk New York City Pride to a screaming crowd. Bringing the Cup to Pride is suggested by someone on the Admiral’s PR team. They want to make the Admirals’ position clear. 

At home, in the quiet moments in between everything, Scott confesses that he does not know how far this will go or how well they will protect him when the new season actually starts. But for now, Scott wears the mantle of being the MLH’s new Gay Ambassador with the same intensity he brings to being team captain: a serious job that he has been tasked with upholding. 

For the team parade, they were on a bus. For Pride, they’re on foot. The shouts of the crowd are not ambient noise but specific: block after block, when people see the Admiral’s red, they see Scott and they shout “Good for Scott Hunter!”, the viral phrase from an announcer during their kiss. Scott and Kip walk hand in hand, surrounded by half the team and their partners, the ones who are local, the ones who want to make their stance clear as well. 

Scott is overwhelmed, emotional, a raw nerve the whole day. His face, usually a mask of composure, is an open book. Kip feels protective and proud. He has loved Scott so closely for so long that he has no frame of reference for this reality. He looked forward to holding Scott’s hand in public, but maybe, if he’s honest, he did not imagine it as such a spectacle. The simple fact of his place in history. For the rest of his life, he will be Scott Hunter’s boyfriend. No matter what he does with his newly-earned degree, what he accomplishes, this will be the first line of his obituary. There are worse fates for better men, Kip thinks. He watches Scott, waving to a crowd he could never have imagined a year ago. 

Hours, parties, greetings, and thousands of strangers later, they finally get back home. Two parades in two weeks. More attention to come. Scott collapses onto the couch, exhausted. Kip crawls on top of him, a dead weight. He shoves his hands under Scott’s shoulder blades, Scott lifting himself just slightly enough to give Kip room to hold him. 

June is so full that Kip can barely keep up. It passes in a stage of constant bare-bones maintenance, like he’s treading water to keep afloat. Scott gets an award at the MLH Awards and makes a statement with it. It is the first time anywhere that Scott has actually said the words I’m gay, and he does it in front of everyone who matters in hockey. The future, once a flame Kip kindled in his heart over the three years dancing around each other, hoping the spark would hold, is now a light on the horizon. 

────────────

In the aftermath of that whirlwind, they finally go on their first vacation together. Scott won’t hear otherwise: he books them first-class tickets to Paris. Kip spends a week dragging Scott to art galleries, huge state ones and smaller ones recommended by friends. They walk 20,000 steps every day. They spend a second week in Paris with fewer plans, just walking when they feel like it. In an antique shop, Kip gushes over a beautiful, crystalline lamp that Scott buys behind his back, telling him only after. They abandon their careful diets, eating flaky croissants in bed on a dozen perfect mornings. Scott has told everyone in his life, his handlers, managers, and friends, only to contact him in an absolute emergency. 

The vacation feels like a bridge in between: out in public, no secrets, but also outside of the storm that has somehow become their everyday life. Kip is grateful for the lack of plans or expectations. It’s a moment to breathe, reconnect. 

Scott has one season left in his current contract; he’s committed to it, he wants to play, he’s proven he is as good as he ever was, and now, there’s something bigger. Scott got the dream; he finally won a Cup, but he has something else to play for. 

“No matter how this year goes, if I retire, it’s … too easy. They can’t pat themselves on the back that it’s fine, that they got one high-profile, out player through a season,” Scott says when they finally talk about it over lunch in Paris. 

“So you want to keep playing to rub it in their faces?” Kip asks. 

“I want to play really, really fucking well to rub it in their faces,” Scott clarifies primly. “As a team player.”

“So the goal is to be absolutely perfect and never make any mistakes. I see no potential problems there,” Kip says with an exaggerated sigh. It feels easier to joke about this here, so far away from the scene of the crime. 

Scott nods, “Yeah, that sounds about right. I’ll just win all 82 games, with you in the stands for all the home games. Easy.” He is smiling, finishes off his sentence by shoveling a mouthful of steak tartar. 

“Oh? I’m there too? I’ll clear my schedule.”

“How many games do you think you’ll come to? You can sit in the box now—it’s more comfortable. Some guys’ girlfriends do come to most games. But that’s probably a lot.”

“I’ll have to figure it out with my shifts. As many as I can, I have a new jacket to wear.”

“Oh. Are you going to keep working at the Kingfisher? Obviously you can!” Scott adds the last with a rush, seeing Kip’s face. “I just thought… maybe I could help, be a safety net.”

“I think… I don’t know. That’s a generous offer, and I know you mean it. It’s been a lot, the last month. I’m still adjusting. I wasn’t fully ready, but I’m getting there,” Kip says, eyes on his plate. 

“Was it too much—the kiss? Coming out like that? For you?” Scott asks, voice suddenly small. They haven’t spoken about this directly.  

“No, I mean. It was a lot, but it was also everything I had been hoping for from the moment I first saw you. And it was unexpected. Maybe inevitable. We spent all that time pretending we could just sort of—crash into each other sometimes and make it work so… it feels inevitable that we crashed into this part too,” Kip confesses. “But I don’t think I could have ever been ready for this. It’s a big adjustment.”

“That’s fair,” Scott agrees. “I never knew you were such a Dave Matthews Band fan, though.”

“What?” asks Kip, bewildered. 

“Crash into me?” Scott says with a laugh. “Like, the song? By Dave Matthews?”

Kip shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak hockey bro.”

“Thank god for that,” Scott says fondly. “I’ll have to be your interpreter.”

“Yeah, you will,” Kip says, a little suggestively. They’re sitting across from each other at a small marble table, and Kip slides his hand along Scott’s forearm to run his fingertips along the delicate skin by his elbow, marred by a shallow scar. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

Scott leans across the table and kisses him. They haven’t exactly resolved anything: coming to games, Kip’s job, Scott’s expectations about the season ahead. But it feels a little clearer to have spoken them out loud. 

────────────

Scott visits Rochester once a year. Usually, he does the whole trip as quickly and painlessly as he can. This time, he brings Kip. They rent a car, and Scott does the driving, splitting up the trip into something closer to a vacation instead of Scott’s usual fly-in, fly-out of obligation. 

They spend a night in a creaky bed and breakfast in the Catskills. It’s postcard-cute, aging hippies and new hipsters. It’s Scott’s first time on vacation like this—somewhere he could be recognized. Kip is expecting an adjustment, a learning phase, but like anything, Scott rushes in. The first time he is recognized, at a gas station just north of the city, there is a brief freeze, an instinctual panic. Scott, off the ice and out of gear, has spent so long aware of every move, any tell. But then the woman who asks for his photo looks at Kip and says, “Wait oh my god, is this your boyfriend? I recognize you! From the TV!” with such enthusiasm that it’s like a release valve in the sudden height of Scott’s shoulders. 

After that, Scott holds his hand everywhere; he sits on the same side of the table, taking bites off Kip’s plate. Kip overhears Scott saying, “No, I’m just waiting for my boyfriend,” to someone who asks if he needs anything while Kip is shopping. He says it with a sort of unrestrained enthusiasm that makes Kip’s stomach flip with butterflies. Kip thinks of the bad cards they were dealt, the reshuffling of their lives. Being together in the world is like laying out a royal flush—smug and confident. 

They stop in the Finger Lakes, close to Rochester, putting off the inevitable. Scott follows a marker he has pinned on Google maps and parks the car on the side of the highway, leading them down a barely marked path to a waterfall. It’s an unnamed spot Scott used to come to with his cousins, a small cascade of water falling from a rocky mass, creating a small, deep swimming hole that shallows out into a riverbed. The waterfall and riverbed are hidden from the path by folds of jutting rocks. They abandon their clothes, change into bathing suits and Scott leads Kip through the rocks to the water, teetering carefully before gracelessly diving from knee-high water into the dark pond formed by the 5-foot waterfall 

They tread water together, their breathing and splashes muted by the crashing water. Kip is not used to being in a car for such long stretches. The ice-cold brace of the water makes his head feel clearer, present. Scott swims over and points to a spot in the higher rocks that jut from the fall, which he says is deep enough for cliff jumping, but Kip forbids him: 

“I watch you risk your neck all year, give me a break for one day!” he argues.

He swims under the falls, the strength of it is surprising. He treads in place as Scott does lazy laps. 

Scott is restless, nervous. When they get out of the water, Kip shuffles bent over the slippery rocks, keeping his center of gravity low to stop himself from falling. Scott is behind him, playfully swatting his ass. It’s silly at first, but then he’s hauling Kip into the slot of two rocky outcrops, pushing Kip until his back is pressed against the hot rock. Scott leans into him, hips first, and licks water off his neck. Kip cards his fingers into Scott’s hair, pulling his face to him so he can kiss him with an open, needy mouth. Scott responds by pressing a knee up against the rock behind Kip to show Kip how hard he is already. 

Kip pushes him back against the rock on the other side and kneels in the dust. He peels Scott’s bathing suit down to his ankles and uses one hand to hold Scott’s hip, pressing his palm firmly against the bone, his fingers into the flesh of Scott’s hip. He wastes no time, he holds Scott’s dick with his free hand and uses his mouth, open and mostly tongue, along it, rubbing his closed lips along the sides, lavishing him before he sinks his mouth down in one motion, as far as he can, nearly to the back of his throat. Scott’s hand comes to his hair, runs through the strands, and Kip sucks him off properly, hollowing his cheeks, noisy and obscene. 

The sound is loud and unambiguous if anyone is near. Kip uses a firm grip to hold what his mouth can’t take. He presses Scott against the rocks, setting a fast pace with his mouth and hand. He wants it hot, quick, dirty. Soon, Scott’s hands are grabbing for Kip’s jaw, scratching at it, the way he does when he’s about to come—and then he is, loudly, vocally, there in the woods where anyone could find them. Kip stands, pulls Scott’s bathing suit back up, and kisses him. Lake water, sweat, and cum on their tongues as they kiss in the hot July sun. The wet print of Scott’s body on the rock dries quickly, leaving no trace, as he returns the favour. 

After they cool off in the river, dress, and head back to the car, speaking just enough to find their way back. Some of Scott’s nerves are finally burnt off, Kip can tell, in the way he hums tunelessly along to the music in the orange sunset as they make the drive to Rochester. 

────────────

Scott has only spoken briefly about his aunt Thérèse over the years: she is a no-nonsense woman who already had six children when Scott’s parents died. She did not have a lot to give a broken child, but she stepped up to fill in the gaps between boarding school. His father’s family, farther afield in Ohio, came out of the woodwork when Scott was drafted to the MLH. Scott keeps them at arm’s length. Thérèse, for her part, has asked very little of Scott over the years.

As they crunch up her suburban driveway, she comes out of the large bungalow to greet them both, wrapping Scott in a hug and then turning to Kip and saying, “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, hello there,” and she shakes his hand.  

Scott has filled Kip in on the usual agenda: he stays for two nights, has dinner with whoever shows up. It’s a strange evening. Two of Scott’s cousins are there along with a gaggle of children. There’s the distinct feeling of something unsaid in the air that Kip is not used to. He is from a loud, chatty family, one that has never let a single emotion go unsaid. He wants, so desperately, to bridge this gap. He gives them space by taking the kids to the adjoining living room while Scott, his aunt, and cousins prepare dinner in the kitchen. Kip sits on the floor and has Pokémon explained to him for nearly an hour straight. 

“We caught the game you won against Buffalo in March. 5-1. Brutal. Sabres never recovered,” Scott’s cousin Andrew says. 

“Yeah,” Scott laughs. “Sorry about that. We really mopped the floor with them. But, it was one of those games. A few goals went in early, and it snowballed.”

Kip, in the other room, bristles. Scott scored a hat trick in an away game that night. A week later, he was out on injury. He wants to ask Andrew if that’s the only game he watched, wants to ask why he can’t root for the team his cousin is the Captain of, where his cousin has played center for almost fifteen years, where his cousin won the Stanley fucking Cup. None of this is rational. But he wonders if Scott coming out was a surprise, or just another detail in a life they don’t care to understand. 

Meanwhile, Scott’s aunt continues asking about the hockey season with the delicacy of a medical examination. What Kip recognizes is neither resentment nor entitlement to Scott’s life, but something with its own cruelty: apathy. 

The day before the Admirals’ parade, Kip’s dad came to the apartment for lunch, begrudgingly making the long hike to Manhattan—his words—because they didn’t have time to go to him. His dad had been in tears from the moment he’d stepped off the elevator, had squeezed Scott into a hug and kissed both of his cheeks, telling Scott that he was so proud and so happy for them. At the time, Kip had felt a little embarrassed at how over the top his dad had been. Now, he is grateful for it. 

Here, everyone is very polite to Kip, but no one has asked him a single question about himself. Kip expected this—Scott fielded a phone call from Thérèse two months ago in which she called him to congratulate him on “his big news.” 

They play cards into the evening, several rounds of euchre. His aunt and Andrew are quiet, even when they win and even when they lose. Kip keeps the conversation going as best he can until eventually they all retire to bed. He and Scott have at least been given the same room. Their indifference isn’t outright prejudice, just confusion mixed with obligation. In bed, Kip curls up against Scott, hooking a leg over him. 

“I can see what you’re doing,” Scott says, his head turned into Kip’s, his mouth against the side of Kip’s forehead. “But it’s okay. Really.”

“I just want to make it better,” Kip says.

“There’s nothing to fix,” Scott mumbles. “I accepted that a long time ago.”

Kip clings a little tighter. He wants Scott to expect better for himself, but Kip knows the only way to show him that is to lead by example. 

The next day, they go to Scott’s parents’ graves. Scott asks for music to cover up the silence, and Kip scrambles to find something appropriate for this drive. He lands on quiet folk music. At the cemetery, Kip waits in the car and lets Scott go first. He can see that Scott is saying something, talking out loud. It feels too intimate to watch, so Kip watches the swaying trees across the cemetery. A full song later, a blur catches his eye. Scott is waving for him to join. 

He comes to Scott and puts an arm around him. Scott leans his head against Kip. The closest person is a hundred feet away, and Kip has a moment of gratitude that they came here in this era of their lives, when he can hold Scott and not measure the distance of strangers. 

“I’m never really sure what to do here,” Scott finally says. “It feels good to come, though. Like a way to remember them. But. I don’t feel any closer to them here than anywhere else. The ritual of doing it feels good, though.”

“That makes sense,” Kip murmurs. “It’s nice here.”

The cemetery is grassy with a soft summer breeze gently grazing Kip’s hair. He listens to the wind filling the silence as Scott breathes against him. 

Finally, Scott says, “My whole life, it’s always felt like, this was the big before and after. Everything split in two when they died. And now,” he turns and presses a kiss into Kip’s shoulder, “It feels like I have a new one, a new before and after—but a good one.”

“I bet they’d be proud of you,” Kip volunteers. 

“I hope so. I’ll never know. I wish, maybe more than anything, I did. Maybe it would’ve been easier—hockey, being gay. Maybe I would’ve quit. Or not. I spent so long trying to accept all these things I’ll never fucking know. ” Scott pauses, the emotion raw in his voice, and then continues, “On the ice that day, when we won the Cup. I was so sure of how proud they’d be—it would have been a dream come true. I wanted them to be there, to see that I fucking did it, so badly.”

He swallows, and Kip can feel him shift against his shoulder before he speaks again, “But you were there when we won, and for everything before that. Everything that mattered. Maybe that was part of why I did it. I’ll never know what would have been, with them, but I am certain about you.”

Kip closes his eyes and runs his fingers through the short, bristled hairs at the nape of Scott’s neck. “I’m certain about you, too.” 

Scott hums appreciatively and steps away, resting his hand on the gravestone itself. Kip takes the moment to walk back to the road and grabs two rocks from the side of the road. He comes back and places them on the top of their gravestone. 

“This is what my mom’s family does. It’s a Jewish ritual. To show that someone has visited,” Kip says. He pauses, unsure of what’s appropriate. Turned away from Scott, he takes in the solemnity of the moment and closes his eyes. He tries to think of what he would want to say to them and doing so makes the weight of it hit him, the fact and feeling of it, not just the idea: he will also never get to meet them or know them. Never know these people, who were so essential to the love of his life. It is a grip around his throat. His voice is quiet and he says, trying to keep steady for Scott,  “I love your son very much. I know you must have been wonderful, because he is so wonderful. Thank you for him.”

There is more he wants to say, but it feels like too much. When he turns back, Scott’s eyes are wet with tears, but he has a small, brave smile on his face. Scott turns and walks to the road as well, where he picks up a stone. Scott holds it in his hand until it’s shiny with all the dust rubbed off, warm from his hand, and only then does he put it on the gravestone. 

Chapter End Notes

thank you, specifically, to epexegetical whose thoughts on scott's grief informed part of this chapter.

also: the swimming hole in this chapter is more in keeping with one in the adirondacks. forgive me, i rewrote geography for the sake of vibes.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

By the time they pack the car a day later, Scott is itchy to leave. As they say their goodbyes, Scott’s aunt hugs Kip for the first time and says, with more emotion than he’s heard in the last two days, “You take care of him. He can be hard on himself.”

Kip agrees. Scott drives all day, nearly eight hours, insisting he needs to be home, to get back to routine. They arrive late, Scott powering through on sugary energy drinks he never normally indulges in, and when they finally get home, he collapses wordlessly into bed. Three weeks is the longest Scott can go without lacing up his skates, he says, before it feels like something is wrong with his body, his brain. The end of August is a transitional season when training and bulking begin in earnest. 

Back home and settling back into their respective schedules, Kip works exactly one shift at the Kingfisher. He is recognized repeatedly, in a way that holds up the regulars, people ask for selfies, and that winds up with photos of him working online. There’s an article on some shitty website he does not visit, under the headline “Hockey Star’s Bartender Boy Toy.” 

It makes him feel hemmed in and angry by the balancing act of choosing Scott, which he’d do every day in every lifetime, and accepting the cost of it. He does not want to quit his job, does not want to rush into something, and Scott doesn’t ask him to. But he can see the fear in Scott’s eyes, and he hears Scott’s agent saying, “PR thinks it’s not a good look.” So he asks Kyle to cover his remaining shifts and quits. 

Madison invites herself over. Well, more specifically, she texts Kip that she wants to discuss the “pre-season party schedule,” followed by her availability the following Tuesday. She arrives with salads for both of them, shopping bags, and an air of familiarity to Scott’s apartment that disorients Kip. He knows, abstractly, that Scott hosts team events. He has seen the giant stack of paper plates, alcohol Scott doesn’t like, and serving platters stacked neatly on the top shelves of his cabinets. But he has never been able to picture other people here. And yet, after Madison hugs him in greeting, she already knows to take off her shoes and doesn’t need to be told where the guest bath is. 

“It’s so nice to see this place with a little life in it,” she says, walking out of the bathroom. She turns and focuses her attention on Kip, “So, you do live here.” 

When Kip moved in, he started rearranging things immediately. It was part of the promise that Scott would come out, made manifest in the changes Kip brought to the apartment. Kip rearranging the space meant Scott would have to explain it to visitors. Kip has stuffed the wall divider with his own books, their mismatched spines alone changing the entire shape and feeling of the room. He made Scott get rid of the placeholder art he never even liked and hung his own prints. One day they’ll buy originals. He brought some actual kitchen supplies to cook real food: tongs and functional spatulas, a cheese grater Scott somehow doesn’t have. He has taken over the desk in the living room, putting up a pin board for post cards and ideas. 

“Yeah. I do,” Kip answers, looking at the Keith Haring print he brought from his own apartment. 

“Okay, that changes things,” Madison says with a nod. “Will you be helping with social stuff? Charity work? What’s your level of involvement?” 

Kip blinks and has the distinct feeling he is being assessed for a job he doesn’t necessarily want, but that his competitive streak doesn’t want to lose. 

“Still figuring that out. Yes, I can help with social stuff,” Kip says. This much he and Scott talked about: hosting parties feels doable. “Like parties. I don’t think I’ll be doing much online, though. I’m applying for jobs, so I don’t know about… the rest. What does it involve?”

Madison goes on to list a long string of events: parties, games, girls' trips, and charities they support. She breaks it down by month. Kip thinks back to the sorority feeling and wonders if he’s been hazed. 

“Well, wow. That’s more than I expected. I’m still getting used to this,” Kip says. “To be honest, it’s been pretty overwhelming. I’m—we’re still adjusting.”

Back in New York, no longer in the whirlwind of June, he’s adjusting to getting recognized. He kept Instagram for a few weeks until he found himself reading comments. Scott, practiced in this, makes him delete the app. Kip is learning to play chess on Duolingo instead. 

Madison puts her hand on Kip’s arm and says with great solemnity, “It can be really isolating, I totally get it.”

“I have a pretty good idea of how lonely it can be,” Kip laughs. 

“Oh, right,” she says, and looks around the apartment. “But you have us now! Both of you!” 

“That’s very nice of you to say,” Kip says. 

Kip doesn’t have a lot of faith in the team, in the powers behind it, their investors, owners, and advertisers. He doesn’t trust the system that kept Scott small and quiet, that is being good to Scott so far because he has an unvarnished record, reputation and trophies. At the back of his mind, Kip knows that the kindness of the league extends as far as Scott’s revenue potential and little further. He doesn’t even have a lot of faith in other players or in Madison, however nice she is being. 

But the only thing that has ever gotten him anywhere, the thing that guided him through school and the last three years, has been other people, accepting the outstretched hand where it’s at. His friends, his dad, Scott. 

“So,” he puts down his fork. “What do I need to know about the pre-season party?”

~~~

This is how Kip learns that Scott’s building has had a rooftop terrace this whole time. Scott hosts an afternoon season kick off party there. The terrace has a gleaming industrial barbecue in a fancy, built-in outdoor kitchen. A couple of the guys commandeer the barbecuing, crowding around the burgers. Kip helps Scott set out trays of catered food and greets people as they filter in. It’s the first time he has seen most of them since the victory parade. He can tell he’s being assessed—a hockey boyfriend: a novelty.  

For Kip, the novelty, the thing that will never get old, is discovering and being in the presence of new versions of Scott. Before, he watched Scott in interviews, on the ice, and he’s heard him talk on the phone with teammates. It’s still just like that moment months ago, when he saw Scott in the depths of Madison Square Garden and felt the thrill that his boyfriend, the man in his bed, the one who smiles into every kiss, who has listened with interest to him for three years, that’s the same man here, respected by a whole team. He hopes, desperately, that this respect lasts. That it means what Scott thinks it does. 

Watching Scott, Kip does his best to mirror him—he introduces himself to people. Kip plays with kids. He takes photos and is in them, still not sure what to do with those photos, not sure where they’ll end up. He tells people about their summer trip. He hosts. He helps Madison set up a “Get to Know the Rookies” game. Whatever he can do to be part of the moment and not be subsumed by it. 

He and Scott spend most of the evening apart. After the food and games have mostly conlcuded, Kip is kneeling to put more beer on ice in a cooler when Scott comes over. Kip stands and smiles, and Scott slides a hand around his waist. 

“Hi,” Scott says. “How’s it going?”

“Good, I think,” Kip answers, placing his hand over the one at his waist. 

“You think?” Scott says, twisting to get a better look at Kip. 

“I’m getting used to it,” Kip admits. 

Scott laughs, “You’re doing great. Have people been nice? Have the guys talked to you?”

“Yes, I think everyone has said hello and told me about their summer. Did you know that every single one of your teammates went golfing?”

Scott laughs again, “Yeah, I believe that.”

“Can you make me a promise to never, ever play golf?” Kip says sweetly, twisting as well to look him in the eyes. 

“Well. I have golfed before,” Scott admits with mock penance, like he’s admitting to a crime, hanging his head.

Kip places a hand over his heart, “That pains me to hear.” 

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I golfed before we met,” Scott says, mirroring him with a hand on his own heart. 

“Did you… like it?” Kip asks, continuing his melodrama. “Will you miss it if we stay together?”

“If, huh? Well, I’m happy to give up golf for you, baby,” Scott says, and kisses him on the cheek, the first time he’s kissed him all night. “But, honestly? It was fine. It’s boiling hot and slow. Not my thing, really.” 

“Thank god for that,” Kip says and nudges him with his hip. “Cold and fast only.”

“So, if we stay together,” Scott says, drawing out the if dramatically, “What are you giving up for me?”

“Hm, I can give up tea.”

“You don’t like tea,” Scott scolds. 

“Doesn’t sound like you like golf either.”

“Mm, a fair trade. I’ll probably be at events where people are golfing in the future. Sponsors love it. But I’ll be brave.”

Scott is still smiling at him as Kip sees one of Scott’s teammates approach with a question. They break apart and return to hosting duties. By 8 o’clock, the sun is setting, and the crowd is dwindling; players who live farther out of the city and those with babysitters to relieve are gone. Scott rallies the remaining stragglers to help them carry the leftovers and garbage down to their apartment. 

Kip is loading a tray of potato salad into the fridge when Scott’s friend Carter approaches him. Carter is the only guy who asked for his number, who has texted him a few times. 

“This was really nice, dude,” Carter says, sounding a little drunk from the beer and the sun. Kip turns to him to say thank you, but Carter is already hugging him. “It’s so nice to see Scotty happy. Welcome to the family.”

Kip hugs him back, mumbling “Um, thanks,” into his shirt. 

Scott appears over Carter’s shoulder, eyebrows raised, “I see Vaughny’s in his end-of-evening hug mode.” 

“Just happy you’re happy, dude,” Carter says, turning and hugging Scott as well. Scott gives him a firm pat on the back and then hugs him back properly. 

“Thanks,” he says within the hug. 

Twenty minutes later, everyone is gone. The quiet in the apartment feels different; now it hums with the contrast of how noisy it was before. Scott asks Kip to put on “the cleaning music,” a shared playlist they’ve built over the last few months. Scott cannot go to sleep with a messy apartment, even if his housekeeper is coming the next day. It drives Kip a little crazy, but music makes it a game and a ritual to embrace. 

They bag and carry out the recycling and garbage to the chute and they load the dishwasher as best they can. ABBA is playing at a distracting volume as Scott turns and wraps his arms around Kip. Their height difference puts Kip’s face at Scott’s shoulder. He turns and lets his face find home: his nose pressed into the shallow groove where the hard arch of Scott’s trapezius muscles meets his collar bones. 

~~~

The following Monday, practice begins again, and they settle into a new rhythm. Practice is long and exhausting, but Scott is excited about the rookies they’ve brought up and the way everyone is playing with the simmering enthusiasm of last year. They’re a winning team now, most of the roster unchanged. 

Kip, meanwhile, is at home. He has worked in some capacity, often more than one job, since he was fourteen years old. Part of him wants to settle into what is being offered to him. To tuck himself neatly into Scott’s life as a pillar of support, to embrace the feeling he’s had since June: not just being known as Scott’s boyfriend, the guy in the jean jacket on the ice, but letting himself be that in totality.  

But, watching the group chat of the other players' wives, girlfriends, he can see that they aren’t that either. The day after the party, Jennifer, the first woman to talk to Kip back in June, chimes in the group chat that her husband was traded, right before the season begins, to Winnipeg. They’re moving to a new country, climate, and city, effective immediately. It’s a fact of hockey that Kip vaguely understood but now sees so differently: this trade means an entire family is selling their house, that children have a new school, Jennifer has a new life. Choosing to be that pillar of support for someone like this, someone spending the prime of their lives playing hockey, means creating your own moving island. It’s a choice to make home something you carry. 

Scott, Captain, face of the franchise, the first out hockey player, is not going to be traded. When Kip tells him about Jennifer, her sad goodbye to the chat, Scott reassures Kip that he will retire before he leaves the Admirals or New York.

Kip is all the more restless by the fact his degree—his two degrees—are a bet he made and is still waiting on the dealer to flip over the cards. The limbo between choices makes him feel weak. 

Two weeks into training season, Kip is on the couch alternating between a job application and following a minor drama in the WAG chat about the family box for the season-opening home game, when Scott gets home. 

“Hi,” Kip says in greeting, closing his laptop and tossing it aside. “How was practice?”

Scott drops his bag in place and, without saying anything, walks around the couch and bodily falls onto Kip with a huff, knocking the air out of him. 

“Good,” Scott finally answers, mostly into the couch cushion below his face. He shoves his elbows on either side of Kip on the extra wide couch, leveraging himself up and again. He pushes a hand under Kip’s shirt to curl around his sides, trace the grooves of his lats. “I’m never going to get over coming home to you like this.”

“Do you like having me here, waiting for you?” Kip asks. 

“Mm, yes,” Scott answers, ducking his head and kissing his jaw, right at the edge. “More than anything.”

“What if I’m… not?” he ventures. 

“What do you mean?” Scott props his head on his elbow, still so close. “You don’t have to wait for me. That’s not what I mean.”

“Will it be the same, for you, when I have a job?”

“Of course,” Scott says, eyebrows knitting. “Where’s this coming from?”

Kip closes his eyes and then looks away, into the distance: “Sometimes I feel like all I have to offer is that I’m … around. Like that’s your favourite part.”

Scott reacts like he’s been struck, head jerking back into the cushion behind him. “Well, first off, you have so much more to offer—I think that’s a given.

“And second: that’s pretty insulting to me. If I just wanted a warm body in my bed, I could have had that. I’m not some kind of—caveman dragging the first cute boy I saw to my house,” Scott says, without the true heat of anger but it is clear he’s genuinely offended. “Maybe—at first, that was part of it. Because that’s all, that’s everything I could even imagine having. But that’s not enough. That’s not what I want. That’s not what this is.”

“Okay,” says Kip. “No, of course I don’t think that. I’m just feeling—I hate waiting. I hate having nothing to do.”

“Well, okay,” Scott sits up, straddling Kip. “I’ve been thinking about this. Let me finish before you say no. I know people. I know people on the Board of Directors of the Met, and I think some smaller galleries. I’m going to reach out—they can’t get you a job but I bet they can get you an interview.”

“Scott,” Kip starts to say, but Scott leans over and puts a hand over his mouth. 

“Wait. Don’t be noble about this. You and I both know that half the people they hire are someone’s nephew or whatever. I can’t hand you a job—I mean, I wish I could. It’s my fault you can’t go to your old one. But I can get you in the door and then you’ll crush the interview.”

He says all this with his hand over Kip’s mouth. He lets off and sits back, eyebrows raised. 

“Did you know the definition of nepotism—nepo means nephew,” Kip finally says, drumming his hands on Scott’s thighs. 

Scott narrows his eyes,  “Okay, Columbia, is that a no?”

“Fine. Go ahead,” Kip says. 

He has, not once in three years, used Scott’s connections to his advantage. It feels like a slippery slope: this summer’s vacation, living in this apartment and paying nominally for groceries, and now this. But, on the other hand, maybe it’s not a slippery slope. Maybe it’s playing the game with all the cards in the deck. If he gets the job it will be his alone. He put himself through school and he has the debt to show for it. 

“Good. Um, the Morrison Gallery is about to hire a Curator to expand their painting catalogue,” he says sheepishly. “I just spoke with Veronica Morrison yesterday for a call about the St Thomas fund. That’s what reminded me.”

“Huh, and that job information came up on your St. Thomas call?”  Kip says. 

“I asked, but I didn’t even say your name. Honestly she was very confused, I think she was surprised to learn that I know the Morrison Gallery exists. Or what a curator is.”

“Or what a painting is?” Kip says, drumming his fingers on Scott’s knee.  

Scott picks up Kip’s hands from this thighs and interlaces their fingers and then slowly, with the restraint of an athlete’s core muscles, leans forward inch by inch dragging Kip’s hands above his head, until Scott’s face is hovering an inch above Kip’s, arms trapped over him. 

“So, that’s a yes, right?” Scott asks. 

Kip wraps a leg around Scott, brings him in closer, and says, “Fine. Yes. Do you want the definition of a painting now or later?” 

Scott pulls Kip’s hands higher, stretching Kip’s upper body into one taut, long line. The gentle strain of muscles, Scott’s weight against him, sings through his body with a note of pleasure. Scott rolls his hips against Kip. 

“Okay,” Scott says, voice gaining a lower, gravely tone. He drags Kip’s hands together above his head and then pins them both with one hand, “What is a painting, Columbia?”

“Well, a painting is a type of art made,” Kip pauses. In the short time he’s spoken, Scott has slid his hand along his stomach, down into Kip’s sweatpants, underwear, and has cupped Kip with the flat of his hand, rolling his hand heel to fingers. 

“Made with what?” Scott asks, innocently. 

Kip valiantly starts again, trapped with his arms above his head still, “Made, with paint—,” Kip is hard already as Scott pulls his hand free, spits in his palm and then slides his hand around Kip’s dick.

“Oh wow,” Scott says, beginning to stroke him in long beats, “A painting is made from paint?”

“Or mixed media,” Kip adds, closing his eyes to focus on continuing to speak. “On canvas, paper, or—ah, wood.”

“Wood, huh?” Scott says, lifting off long enough to push down Kip’s clothing for better access and pick up his pace. Kip’s back arches slightly, straining his shoulders pleasantly. 

“Scott,” he gasps. Scott’s weight is mostly in his knees around Kip’s thighs, one arm pinning Kip in place, the other working his dick, his face hovering out of reach to kiss, smiling into Kip’s open mouth. Kip writhes, pleasure building. 

“That’s it?” Scott teases. 

“You’re a menace,” Kip stutters, arches again. “Take me to bed, at least.”

Scott lets go of him and unfolds himself off the couch. Kip is flexing his shoulders as Scott squats low and pushes his arms under Kip’s knees, behind his shoulders and stands, lifting Kip with him, like a blushing bride. Kip squawks indignitally as Scott carries him across the living room. 

“I take it back, I am a caveman,” Scott says, adjusting the angle of the arm around Kip’s shoulders to bring him closer so their mouths meet. He carries Kip into their bedroom and tosses him down, not hard but not gently, into their bed, to fuck him in the new sheets they bought together. 

~~~

Kip is nervous in the family box of the first home game as player introductions start. The noise during warmups has already been colossal, fans cheering every moment, everything. Now, the stadium lights have lowered, whipping blue and red lights across the rink as every player is introduced. The crowd erupts with each name, the energy of a winning team, a shared celebration. The fans are twirling white towels above their kids, creating a hypnotic wave everywhere he looks. Kip feels it building, feels the energy begin to rise from the moment Carter finishes his skate out as the Alternate Captain, as the announcer begins the first sound in “Aaaaand,” to introduce Scott. It’s a wall of noise, deafening, as Scott appears on the ice.

The stock techno music is impossible to hear, hard even to hear the rest of the announcers shout of, “your Captain, Number 21, Scott Hunteerrr.” The last syllable is drawn out as the noise continues. Scott skates, looking up awe-struck into the noise, hand holding his stick aloft to the crowd. The women around Kip all grab him, hugging. 

Madison says, “Look, look!”

Kip follows her finger to see that an entire section just to the right of the goal has changed their towels from white to a coordinated rainbow, the full colour spectrum across a whole section. The colours move, a swirling kaleidoscope. The cheering continues to deafen as Scott skates into his spot in the circle at center ice. Later, he will learn it was a coordinated fan effort, a group of queer fans who handed out hundreds of towels outside. In the moment, Kip’s eyes feel hot, bright with held-back tears as the jumbotron pans to the rainbow section of the crowd. He hopes Scott sees it now, before the game starts, before Boston arrives on the ice. He’s glad it’s on camera, documented forever. 

~~~

THREE MONTHS LATER 

Scott arrives late to the opening: it coincides with a longer travel day from Anaheim. Kip tries to tell him it’s okay to miss it, there will be more in the future, but Scott insists he’s coming. Kip has only worked at the museum for six weeks, just long enough to help in the final run up to mount a showcase of Raphael paintings. In the end, Scott’s connections came through: Kip was put in the running for a job as a Curatorial Assistant for the Met’s European Paintings department. His CV, thesis, and archival internships during school got him the job. 

As a very recent junior hire, he doesn’t have much to do with the new exhibit. He has spent the last six weeks cross-referencing collection details from other galleries and private lenders for the gallery’s placards. It’s eye-crossing minutia, but the thrill of having this job, of having a path ahead for himself, has not worn off. He worried that people will know how he got the job, but it never comes up. The collections specialist with whom he works the most is thrilled by him and his work ethic, joking that they finally hired a local. His boss, a curator specializing in Italian Renaissance paintings, could not care less. Deep in storage one day, a technician asks Kip how Scott is doing after a tough loss on the road. Kip has to clarify to his confused boss that his boyfriend does not play rec sports but is an actual professional athlete. 

“Oh, that sounds familiar, that was you—on the ice?” he says. 

Kip laughs, relieved to be reminded of all the rooms in which Scott is not famous. To the rest of his coworkers, it’s a novelty, a particularly fun fact to share as an icebreaker. When Kip attends games, when he’s shown on the Jumbotron in a Hunter jersey, they tease him good-naturedly. 

These are just the facts of his life now, somehow: dream job, dream boyfriend. And tonight, he’s invited his dream boyfriend to the pre-press preview of the exhibit, a black-tie gala for members and donors. Attending is part of the job for curatorial staff. He is expected to be there to answer questions, make patrons feel involved and excited. Kip remembers the party he hosted in September with Scott, thinks of the one they’ll probably have to host soon for Christmas. His life is going to have a lot of parties now. The Admiral WAGs 👯‍ chat has already said they want to organize a visit to see the exhibit, once it’s open to the public. 

Kip is aware of Scott’s arrival before he sees him. He has been cornered by a donor who wants to know all about the curatorial decision to place this  painting in this spot in the gallery. His coworker, Ann, on the other side of the donor, suddenly nods at him, mouths Scott. 

He can’t help himself; he turns and sees Scott. He is in a tux, hair pressed back, still wet from his post-plane shower. Eyes alight on him. Another thrill: not Scott the captain or the public figure, Scott his boyfriend at his event. It still makes Kip’s heart clench. A promise answered. 

“My apologies,” he says to the donor he had been speaking with. “My guest just arrived, but my colleague Ann—“

“Oh, Scott Hunter is here?” the woman asks. She is older, maybe 50s, in an expensive Issey Miyake dress; Kip is startled to hear Scott’s name. He is still adjusting to the reality that people may know who he is without an introduction and may not even tell him as such. He has to abandon the expectation of being mutual strangers. “Well, you better go say hello,” she continues with a conspiratorial smile. 

He thanks her and crosses the room to Scott, kisses him on the cheek, and says, “Thank you for coming. How was the flight?”

“Fine,” Scott answers, pleased but distracted. He looks down and asks, “Are you wearing the tux I bought you?” 

Kip smiles up at him, “I only have the one. I may need another? But I thought, you and I, we’re rewriting history, so let’s give this tux a better night out.” Unspoken: the last time Kip wore this tux, the evening ended very badly. 

“At least I have very fond memories of the last time I came to an event you were working at. We don’t need to rewrite that part.” Scott says. 

“Are you planning on inviting me out for Mexican food this time?” Kip asks. 

Scott shakes his head and leans in, “No, I have something much better to eat at home these days.” 

“Oh my god,” Kip says, glancing around, but there’s no one nearby. 

“I know you’re working, but can you show me around the exhibit?” Scott asks. 

“Yeah, of course. You’re a patron of the arts now,” Kip says, and leads him to the very opening of the gallery. Scott asked, so he’s going to show him the whole thing, this big show he had a small hand in. He knows that Scott will listen to every word. He has collected all the decisions leading up to this, the slippery slope he accepted, the deck of cards they shuffled together, all the big moments—televised, documented, shared to strangers—and the small, into the mountain they’re climbing together.  

Chapter End Notes

a profound shout out to the skip discord, blessings upon you all.

find me on tumblr as @fringe-problems. if you enjoyed this, please leave a comment, it makes the validation-engine that powers my body run more smoothly.