Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), George Grady, Elena Rygg, Carter Vaughn, Kyle Swift, Maria Villanueva, Eric Bennett, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Original Child Character(s), Todd Wheeler, Harv Murdock (Game Changers), Greg Huff, Aram (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov, Shawn (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Canon Compliant, Male-Female Friendship, Secret Relationship, Bridge Between ep 3 and ep 5, Light Angst, Anxious Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Kip Grady, Good Parent George Grady, Hand Jobs, So many kisses, Awkward Dates, Successful Dates, Soft Hockey Boys, Personal Growth, Group Dates As Cover, Gotta Love The Neighbors, Good Friend Eric Bennett, Good Friend Elena Rygg, Hurt/Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Hockey Injuries, Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Enthusiastic Consent, Anal Sex, Developing Friendships, Blood and Injury

Language:

English

Series:

Part 6 of Incremental Gains

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-05 Updated: 2026-09-20 Words: 77,323 Chapters: 24/?

Long Change

Summary

Three years isn't that long, really. It's long enough to get a Master's Degree in Art History. Long enough to build the foundations of a relationship that could last the rest of their lives. Long enough for a professional hockey player to figure out how to tell the world he's gay.

What happened between episode 3 and episode 5, with our sweet boys and all the people who helped them get there.

Chapter 1: Three Years

Chapter Notes

This fic picks up about two weeks after The Morning After and attempts to bridge the gap between the end of episode 3 and the end of episode 5. There will be some details taken from the books, but this fic is based in the universe of the show.

Long Change – In the second period, the goaltenders change ends, meaning that the players’ bench is closer to the offensive zone rather than the defensive zone. The “long change” can be a factor when a tired line is stuck in the defensive zone and cannot come off due to the increased distance to the bench.

“Three years.”

Kip looked up from where he’d been wiping down the counter to see Scott standing on the other side of the kitchen island, his hands braced against the granite in a wide, determined stance.  “Three years…what?”

“We agreed to make a plan.  When we…talked about things.”  Scott’s cheeks pinked as Kip grinned, remembering the things that had come after all that talking.  Serious questions that had led to reassuring touches that had led to laughter as Kip tumbled Scott into his own bed.  Their bed, once again.  But Scott had his serious face on today, even with the faint blush.  “A big part of making this work was the agreement that I wouldn’t stay in the closet.  I have to…come out.”  Scott’s tone softened, just a touch.  “Because you deserve to be loved in every room we’re in.”

Kip reached across the counter, his hand forming a loose fist between them instead of taking one of Scott’s hands.  A show of support without destabilizing his determined-to-be-brave boyfriend.  “You deserve it, too, babe.”

Scott’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, but that wasn’t a surprise.  Kip had believed him when the other man had said he would come out.  That he wanted to, and that he wouldn’t wait until his career was over to do it.  That Kip was worth the risk and the fear of being the first, and possibly last, openly gay hockey player in the NHL.  But that didn’t mean it wasn’t as terrifying an idea as it had been all of Scott’s life; something Kip hadn’t really understood the last time they’d tried to talk about this.  The night he’d tried to invite Scott to his birthday party and wound up back home, crying on the couch as his father silently handed over tissues and a can of beer.

So while Scott had insisted that he wanted this, too, Kip had agreed to smaller steps first.  He wouldn’t push for Scott to announce his private life to the world before the next news cycle just because Kip had always been surrounded by supportive people who loved him as he was.  Kip had been lucky enough to grow up with a solid foundation of support.  Scott…didn’t know what he had.

Scott was risking the life he knew for the life he could have.  And Kip wouldn’t be worth that risk if he couldn’t be a little patient and a lot kind about that.

Scott took a deep breath, keeping them on track.  “I’ve been thinking about how…to do this, and I’ve decided the longest possible version of this plan takes three years.”  He nodded sharply to himself, like he’d just decided which play the Admirals were going to try next and was convincing himself of his team’s ability to do it.

Kip felt like he was missing something important.  “Why three years?”  It wasn’t really that long - most of a standard bachelor’s degree - but something in his chest twisted at the idea of having to hide for all that time.

Scott's eyes found his.  “My contract with the Admirals is up for renegotiation in three years.”  He swallowed.  “If things…go badly…then it’ll be an easy out.”  Straightening up, Scott rubbed his hands together in a self-soothing gesture.  “So, whatever plan we come up with, it can’t take longer than three years.”  He offered Kip a smile, one that reached his eyes this time.  “But we can look at a shorter timeline, of course.”

Kip watched the man he loved convince himself of some much shorter window of time, the fear they were trying so hard to beat flickering back to life in those usually warm brown eyes.

“If things…go badly…”

“Alright,” Kip said, cutting Scott’s next comment off with a nod of his own.  “Three years, then.”

Scott froze for a moment, mouth open with the beginnings of his next idea, before asking, “What?”

“You’re getting ready for the beginning of the 2014 season,” Kip said.  “Three years from now will put us, roughly, at the end of the 2016 season.  So sometime in early to mid 2017.”  It felt so far away, but as he said it out loud, the part of his mind that had always been so good at planning began filtering the information differently.  Thinking about it the way he did his bachelor’s degree, and now his time in grad school.  Figuring out what jobs to apply for that had schedules that were flexible enough for his classes.  Determining how he could help Shawn with his catering gigs and Elena with her outreach weekends and his dad with DIYs neither of them ever managed to finish without at least an hour on YouTube.  He smiled, reaching for warmth and understanding and courage as he spoke.  “After the 2016 season, anyone who cares about the sexuality of NHL players will find out that the amazing and accomplished Captain of the New York Admirals is gay.”

He’d meant it as a statement of support, saying it out loud as a way to prove it could be done, but somehow it had come out sounding demanding.  Almost…mean.

The tension lines around Scott’s eyes were more pronounced than they’d been a few minutes ago, but he didn’t back down.  Instead, he asked, voice uncertain, “You’d wait that long?”

Picking the damp paper towel back up before putting it back down two inches to the left, Kip sighed.  “I want this to be a good thing, Scott.  I want…I want your friends to love you.  All of you.”  It was his turn to smile hesitantly.  “I want your team to be as proud of their captain as they’ve always been.  I want the NHL to prove all those locker room stories wrong.  But…”  He dropped his gaze from Scott’s, eyeing a spot on the counter that always looked like a stain but was really a flaw in the stone.  “But I know…that might not happen.  That when you come out, it might cost you your career.  Your friends.  Your family.”  Kip felt his face twist with an expression of distress.  “You could lose…everything.”

“Not everything,” Scott said, very quietly.

Kip shook his head and looked back up.  “Scott, do you really think our love could handle you losing the only life you’ve ever known?”

Scott’s expression - the set of his brows, the straight line of his mouth, the way his head lowered barely an inch - said that he did.  With his whole heart.  But even this early in their relationship, he’d learned enough to know not to say the words out loud.  Not tonight, at least.

Pulling his shoulders back, Kip took his own deep, steadying breath.  “If I’m going to ask you to risk all that, I think it’s only fair…you get to finish out your contract.  You get to stay with the team you love until you might have had to leave them anyway.”  And Scott had the choice of coming out as something other than an Admiral, if he felt like he really couldn’t be gay and a professional hockey player, in the end.

It sounded so lame, but it must have been enough, because Scott was moving again.  Walking around so that he could pull Kip into his arms and bury his nose in Kip’s curls.  Holding him tight like Kip was the one risking everything he’d known and loved to be with a man he’d known for less than a year.  For, truthfully, barely three months, because while those morning smoothie days might count, those painful not-a-break-up months in the middle didn’t.  Not when it came to getting to know each other.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t come find you sooner.”

Kip huffed and buried his face in Scott’s shoulder.  “How do you do that?”

Scott’s voice was quiet.  “You were never in this much pain before.”

He loved Scott.  So much and so fast it scared him sometimes.  But he could feel it right down to his bones: he was supposed to meet Scott Hunter, and fall in love with him, and stay by his side for the rest of his life.  And unless Kip was unbearably cruel and forced him away, Scott would stay by his side for the rest of his life, too.

But those months still hurt, for both of them.  He could feel it in the way Kip spent half his nights sleeping at his dad’s house, even though he knew the apartment was now equally his.  He could see it in the way Scott’s gaze would find him throughout the day, like he was worried he’d look up and realize Kip had never really been there.  It was impossible to miss in the way that every night they did spend together, Scott buried his nose in Kip’s neck and Kip would fist his hands in Scott’s sleep shirt and neither one of them let go until they absolutely had to.

It was the same kind of feeling that was holding them so tightly together now.  Like maybe enough time spent holding on meant the other person would never go away again.

A tiny part of him worried he’d end up sobbing on the bathroom floor the first time Scott had to travel for a game this year.

“Kip?”

Pulling back just enough, Kip found Scott’s mouth with his own.  Eyes closed as he lost himself in the way Scott kissed him back.  Scott’s arms around his waist, Kip’s hand coming up to cradle the back of Scott’s head.  Easy and sweet and when Kip pulled back the second time, Scott’s hand came up to wipe away the tears chasing each other down Kip’s cheek.

Kip’s voice shook as he leaned into the touch.  “I almost called you so many times.”

Scott’s thumb traced a path back and forth over his cheek, but he said nothing.  Letting the dust settle as Kip’s breathing evened out and the sharp tang of unhealed wounds lessened for the day.

Finally, Kip took a deep breath through his nose and said, his voice almost steady, “So…what happens now?  How do we get from here to…three years later?”

He stopped, not sure where to begin, but of course Scott already had a few thoughts.  He’d probably been thinking about this the whole way back from the gym.

That wasn’t true - this was Scott Hunter.  He’d probably been thinking about it since Kip walked around the kitchen island and kissed him two weeks ago.

“I need to tell my agent.”  Scott grinned at Kip’s surprised laugh.  “He’s a good guy.  He’s been with me almost since the beginning and he doesn’t deserve to hear news like that from some asshole headline.”

Kip nodded.  “Learning important facts about someone you’ve known for a decade usually goes better when it’s not from some stranger on the internet.”

“Right.  And,” Scott went on, “I want to…tell some of my friends.  Before I tell the team.”  He bit his lips nervously.  “Vaughn and maybe Bennett.  Anyone who will…hurt worse if they take it badly.”

That made sense, but there was a risk to telling individuals first.  “If they take it badly,” Kip said, as gently as he could, “you might not get all three years.”

Reporters weren’t the only people who posted stories online.

“If Carter Vaughn looks me in the eye and calls me a faggot, I won’t want all three years,” Scott said, and his voice was so hard Kip felt his heart wrench for the alternate captain.  For the amount of pain the man didn’t know he had the power to inflict.

“Carter would never do that.”

Scott looked at him for a long moment.  “I don’t think he would, either.  But it’ll be the rejection that hurts the most if it happens.”

Kip stepped back into the hug, doing his best to soothe the threat of pain.  Thinking of how crushed he would have been if Elena had said such a thing back in their freshman year of college.  “He’s your best friend, Scott.  I’m going to have faith in him.”

Scott laughed, somewhere between genuine and aching, and hugged Kip back.  “Me, too.”

It was an easier hug this time.  Scott’s cheek resting against Kip’s temple, Kip’s nose tucked into the crook of Scott’s neck.  Easy and sweet.

After a few minutes, the quiet peaceful around them, Scott spoke again.  “I’d also like to meet your friends.  As your boyfriend.”  Kip could hear the smile in Scott’s voice.  “At least the ones who already know.”

Maria pushed off from where she’d been leaning against the counter, her face a mask of sympathy.  “Do you really think this is a secret?”

It was the part of this plan Kip didn’t enjoy thinking about.  “Scott…my friends already knew about us.”  When Scott didn’t answer beyond a confused look, Kip looked down, asking his question of Scott’s chin.  “What if…I can’t keep us a secret?”

“You didn’t tell them.”

Kip rolled his eyes.  “Well, you weren’t the one giving the game away.”

Scott smiled.  “What, all your smoothie customers didn’t give you free seats to their games?”

“I couldn’t even tell you which of our customers had seats to a game.”

Scott winced a little at that.  “Ah.”

“And even if I could,” Kip went on, “it wasn’t you that made Elena or Maria think we were…doing more than flirting.”  Kip tugged on the hem of Scott’s shirt as an excuse to continue avoiding eye contact.  “I was the one acting like I was in love.”

Scott’s lips pressed against his forehead in a soft kiss.  “I’m supposed to mad about that?”

Feeling suddenly irritated, Kip looked up with a frown.  “How are we supposed to go out places together if I can’t pretend that we’re just friends.”

“Well,” Scott offered, his arms very much wrapped around Kip’s waist in a way that said they were more than just friends, “we can pretend we’re best friends.”  He grinned as Kip rolled his eyes.  “Old friends.  Two guys who know each other well enough to be comfortable around each other.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Scott said, and he was smiling so fondly that Kip thought he might stop breathing from it, “and I trust this man that I’m so helplessly in love with to fool strangers better than he fooled his friends.”  At that, Scott laughed.  “And Carter hasn’t even noticed yet.  Maybe my friends don’t like me as much as I think they do.”

“You don’t know that,” Kip said, but he was smiling now, too.  “Carter might have his suspicions and he’s just respecting your privacy.”

Scott hummed, unconvinced.  “In which case it might be me that can’t keep a secret, from strangers or otherwise.”

“You’ve kept the fact that you’re gay a secret for your whole life,” Kip said, his light tone weighing down as he reached the end of his sentence.

“True,” Scott allowed, “but I’ve never had to hide that I was in love before.”

Because Scott Hunter was the kind of man who just said things like that.  

“OK,” Kip said, more to himself than to the man looking at him like he was the best part of his whole world.  “OK.  We’ll both do our best to keep our private lives private for the next three years.  And we’ll figure out how to tell the people that matter.  And we’ll, somehow, figure out how to go out on dates without giving the whole game away in front of some museum employee who doesn’t really care anyway.”

“And we’ll deal with whatever happens along the way,” Scott agreed.  “Together.”

Together.

“It wasn’t fair that I asked you to do this by yourself.”  Scott’s voice was soft, filled with the kind of pain that comes from regret.  “To hide like that, just because it was easier for me.”

“Was it?” Kip asked.  “Easy for you?”

Scott watched him for a moment, and then shook his head.  “Maybe at first, but every time I saw you.  Every day I came home to your smile.  Your clothes in my closet.  Your newest pasta salad attempt in our fridge.  I can’t tell you how badly I wanted people to know how lucky I was.”

“As much as I love hearing that,” Kip said, letting his voice drop just to watch Scott’s eyes darken, “how about we start by dealing with what we’re having for dinner?”

Scott gave the counter a knowing, if amused, look.  “You do only use this many paper towels when you cook.”

Scott was endlessly amused by Kip’s inability to remember that dish towels existed.

“Well,” Kip grinned and pulled his boyfriend toward the fridge.  “Tonight, I assembled.  Pasta salad: chicken, no feta.”

“A classic.”

“It’s delicious.”

Scott hummed, happily unconvinced, and tugged Kip in for another kiss before opening the fridge to see for himself.  “Everything you make is delicious.”

It wasn’t true - his attempt at enchiladas last week had been a disaster - but if thinking that made Scott kiss him like this, made them both smile like they were embarrassed the other might notice like this, then the last thing Kip was going to do was correct him.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to ladyamesindy for the beta, and to my friend, Lexi, for helping with brainstorming and putting up with all my questions <3

Chapter 2: Chriping and Beer

It was one of those days that was so beautiful it was almost disgusting.  The temperature was warm enough that the breeze felt nice.  The sun was shining as it played tag with clouds determined to be fluffy.  There were birds chirping.

“Why do they call it chirping?”

Scott looked over at him, caught off guard by the abrupt return to conversation.  “Why…the birds?”

Kip laughed.  “No, in hockey.”

“Oh.”  Scott looked up as birds too small to be making such a racket took off from a nearby tree, flapping and chirping as if someone had insulted their mothers.  “It’s meant to mimic birds.  Short and fast, mostly harmless.  Though chirps can lead to fights.”

Kip hummed, unsure why Scott looked suddenly uncomfortable.  “I guess birds do chirp at each other when they’re defending their nests.”  Then it was his turn to look up, giving his boyfriend a sly grin.  “Or when they’re trying to find a mate.”

Scott’s blush was visible now, but he did his best to pretend it wasn’t.  “I don’t know a lot of guys who are flirting on the ice.”

“You never know.”

Clearing his throat, Scott looked pointedly around the neighborhood.  “So, your house is around here somewhere, right?”

“Nah,” Kip said, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets and pretending to be nonchalant.  “I just wanted to drag you through a part of the city I figured you’d never been to.”

“Kip.”

Kip laughed and nodded up ahead with his chin.  “The light blue one.  Third on the right.”

It wasn’t too far from the subway to his house, and no sane human being voted to drive in New York City if they didn’t have to.  With the weather this nice, there was no way Kip could have convinced Scott to cram his long legs into a car anyway; not with all these sidewalks that needed walking on.

That, and Kip was still reveling in being out in public together.  The sun was nice and the day off was a relief, but walking down a street with Scott by his side was still a little intoxicating.  Especially because, unlike that disastrous first attempt that was going to see that art show back in November, Scott wasn’t trying to hide.  No hat.  No shades.  Nothing about his lightweight jacket that made it harder to recognize the Captain of the New York Admirals if someone knew who he was.

As if sensing Kip’s thoughts, Scott’s arm brushed against his.  Light and easy, mistakable as anything.  But it was a touch, where anyone could have seen it, and Kip knew his smile was too bright for a couple of friends walking down the street on a nice day.

“Beep, beep!”

Stepping apart at the shout, Kip and Scott backed up to the edge of the sidewalk as a kid in a dark blue helmet wobbled his way down the middle of the sidewalk on a bicycle that was a little too small for his growing legs.

He glanced up as he passed, shooting Kip an uncertain grin.  “Hiya, Kip!”

“Hey, Mikey.”

As he wobbled past, his tongue now sticking out in determination, Mikey kept himself upright as he bumped over a rough patch outside of the Wilson’s front gate.  A major accomplishment, given this time last year.

Scott watched the boy go, a pensive look on his face.

“That’s Thomas,” Kip said, stepping back onto the sidewalk.  He waited for Scott to fall in next to him, smiling to himself at the confused look.  “He’s big into Ninja Turtles.  His favorite is Mikey, so when he’s outside doing ‘rad stunts’, he likes to be called Mikey.”

Scott blinked, looked back at the boy doing his best to ride in a straight line, and then nodded.  As if the whole thing made sense.  “Makes sense.”

Kip laughed, but he loved that Scott hadn’t questioned it.  “Does it?”

Scott shrugged.  “Hockey is full of guys with nicknames.  If Thomas needs one for his rad stunts: good for him.”

It was a common movement, but the first time they’d gone for a walk downtown, Kip had thought Scott’s shoulders would never un-tense again.  There was a far better chance of him getting recognized in his own part of the city, but then again people there were used to seeing him.  It was just Scott Hunter going for a walk or a run or whatever it was he did on his days off.  Assuming it was more than just “tall guy headed left”.

Cities could be useful that way.

When Scott stopped walking, it took Kip a minute to recognize why.  The subtle nod toward his own house had the happy butterflies filling up Kip’s chest suddenly zooming around anxiously.

Which was stupid, because George Grady already knew who his son was dating.

“Hey…”  Maybe there’d been some annoyance in his father’s voice when he’d first walked  in the door.  For the prodigal son who’d up and disappeared for most of two months.  But it was gone now; gone in the moment his dad looked up and saw his face.  “Hey.”

Kip could feel the shock that had gotten him all the way home starting to fade.  Starting to crumble.

And like always, his dad was right there when he needed him.  “My boy.  Come here.”  Pulling him into a hug and holding Kip like he could protect him from the whole world as the tears started and wouldn’t stop.  “What’s up?”

It had been a bad night.  Everything felt raw and broken and like he could never be happy again.  The stakes felt so high, and something as important as telling the truth had felt like being betrayed.  Nevermind the part of him that had wanted, so naively, for Scott to come after him.  To stop the elevator or find him in the lobby or chase him down a New York street.

Kip could understand all of that later, but that night on the couch, with his father handing him tissues and another cold beer when Kip finally stopped waving around the empty bottle of his old one, everything had hurt.

And in the middle of everything it hadn’t occurred to him to be careful what he said.  But then it hadn’t mattered, because George Grady was not a stupid man who only ever paid marginal attention to his son.  He’d put a lot of pieces together on his own - all Kip really had to do was confirm it.

“Usually you watch hockey with me because I like it.”  His dad’s smile was kind, his hand on Kip’s arm a grounding point in this storm.  “These last two months you’ve watched hockey because you wanted to.  And you paid a lot less attention when a certain someone wasn’t out on the ice.”  The hand on his arm squeezed gently.  “Nevermind the night their captain got slammed into the boards by Detroit.”

The reminder of Scott’s still healing right knee brought new tears and another beer.

Today was a formality, one Kip had put off for nearly a month, and yet for the first time in his life, he was afraid of his own front door.

Scott’s arm brushed against his, a little more deliberately this time.  “We don’t have to start with him.”

Kip let out a shaky laugh.  “He already knows.  At least about before.”

Scott’s eyebrows were raised, somewhere between amused and a fading frustration.  “Was there ever anyone who didn’t know who you were dating?”

“Kyle,” Kip offered, smiling a little at his own apologetic tone.  “The bartender at the Kingfisher.”

Scott sighed, but only for show.  “I suppose one out of four isn’t bad.”

“Two out of five.”  Kip lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  “The guy catering the party the night we got together gave me endless shit for dating you, but I’m pretty sure to this day he’s not sure it ever actually happened.”

Scott squinted at him.  “One point five out of five.”  Then he grinned at Kip’s laugh.  “Pretty sure this won’t take three years.”

That was sobering.  “Scott, I promise -”

Kip stopped as Scott put an arm around his shoulder, hugging him out here where any of his neighbors could see.  “We’re gonna try.”  He exhaled slowly.  “And if neither of us can keep a secret, then…well.”  Scott ran his tongue over his teeth.  “I guess I’d better tell my agent sooner rather than later.”  He offered Kip a lopsided smile.  “Man likes to plan.”

It was wonderful to see Scott smile, and Kip couldn’t help but lean into the hug.  But he also caught the lines of tension that still framed Scott’s eyes when they talked about coming out publicly.  Wrapping his arm around Scott’s waist to return the sideways hug, Kip squeezed a little too hard.  “I can do this.  I swear I can keep secrets, too.”

“Only for a little while,” Scott said, softly.  Regret coloring his voice.  “And only because you are far too kind.”

This was a discussion they were going to have to finish another time.  Because if Scott wanted to look at him that way, smiling shyly and watching Kip like his risking Scott’s career was actually kinda sweet, Kip needed him to do it somewhere where Kip could pin his idiot boyfriend to a couch and kiss them both breathless.

“Come on,” Kip said, pulling out of the hug.  “Let’s go introduce you to my dad.”

Scott had to wonder how much of their hesitation Kip’s dad had seen through his front window, because he opened the door almost as soon as Kip knocked.  And he didn’t seem to think it weird that the son who lived with him was knocking instead of using his key.

“Hey, kiddo.”  George Grady was a little shorter than his son, his hairline abandoning him in a way that winning smile never could.  “Wasn’t expecting you home so early.”

“Hey, dad.”  Kip stepped inside, accepting his father’s hug with the mix of fond embarrassment and actual happiness that always made Scott’s insides twist.  As Kip pulled back, Scott watched his shoulders tense up as he talked.  He also watched as George kept his attention very purposefully on his son’s face.  “Are you busy today?  There, um…there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

And just like that, the old fear was back and Scott had to force the soles of boots into the porch floor so he didn’t do something stupid like bolt after Thomas-rad stunts-Mikey.

Kip stepped to one side of the hallway, and to Scott’s surprise, George stepped forward and offered his hand like he didn’t already know the identity of the man standing on his front porch.  “Hello.  I’m George Grady.  Kip’s dad.”

On autopilot, Scott accepted the handshake.  He hated that he could hear tension in his own voice.  “Hello, Mr. Grady.”

“Oh, that has to stop right now.”  George’s smile shifted into a familiar, mischievous grin.  “My son’s in grad school.  Surely I can have my first name back.  George, please.”

Scott surprised himself by laughing, and he felt a little bit of the terror crawling up his spine recede.  “OK, George.”

“Scott,” Kip said, a little shyly, “this is my dad.  Dad…this is Scott.  My boyfriend.”

An entire montage’s worth of things flashed behind George’s eyes, but his smile never faltered.  “Scott, huh?  I always liked that name.”  Kip rolled his eyes as his dad stepped back.  “Well, come in, Scott!  Not very polite to start the interrogation on my own doorstep.”

“Interrogation?” Scott asked, following George inside and closing the door as Kip toed off his shoes.

“He’s kidding,” Kip said, then called down the hallway.  “He’s kidding, right, dad?”

“You kids want a beer?” was the only reply.

Kip sighed.  “Oh, I might owe you an apology after this.”

Darting a glance down down the hall that appeared to lead to the kitchen, Scott leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Kip’s cheek.  “I’ll be OK.”  The look of shock on Kip’s face was worth any barrage of questions.  “I did break his son’s heart last December.”

“And now you’re stealing kisses in his foyer,” Kip whispered, but the shock was giving way to joy.  “Scott - “

“We’ve only got the one type of beer, so I hope it’s a kind you like,” George called, in a voice that suggested he knew they were stalling and was enjoying his role as Scary Dad far too much.

“We have to go,” Kip said.  “Take off your shoes.”

Maybe it was the nerves, but Scott’s mouth had definitely decided to have a mind of its own.  “You know that’s the same tone you use to tell me to take off my pants.”

Kip spun, eyes wide and mouth open, and Scott couldn’t help it.  He laughed.

Then Kip’s expression changed and he leaned in close while Scott tugged off the boot he’d half unlaced.  His voice quiet and unfairly low.  “That is not how I tell you to take off your pants.”

“I deserved that,” Scott muttered to himself as Kip laughed and walked into the dining room.

It took him another minute to get the other boot off, so by the time Scott had wandered through to the dining room, George was grinning over a half drunk bottle of beer while Kip glared back at his dad over an untouched one.  Apparently, Scott had missed some kind of silent conversation while he was losing a fight to his own shoe laces.

Taking the seat next to Kip, Scott nodded his thanks as he took a sip from the third beer.  He hadn’t even glanced at the label - his mouth mostly tasted of nerves and tenacity, anyway.

“So,” George said, jumping right in.  “Start with the classics?  How did you two meet?”

“Dad,” Kip groaned, and Scott shot him a confused look before answering.  “We, uh…we met at Kip’s old job.”  In his confusion, it came out as a question.  “At the smoothie shop?”

George nodded.  “Mediocre smoothies with deeply stupid names.”

Kip picked up his beer to take a long drink while Scott barked out a laugh.  “Yeah, that was the place.”

George nodded.  “And what did you think?”

“Of the smoothies?” Scott asked, before his mouth went on.  “Or of your son?”

And as George grinned, Scott felt his shoulders relaxing back into their usual position.  Kip had talked about his dad before: about how he was endlessly friendly, always supporting people and lending a sometimes less-than-helpful hand.  The way they’d lived here all of Kip’s life and his dad was loved by everyone in the neighborhood and not just because of his dedication to superior Halloween candy.  Even when Kip had been complaining about something, it had been with a smile and a shake of the head, and Scott’s heart had twisted with memories and something that wanted to be jealousy but was too grateful that someone else had gotten to keep their good dad for so long.

“We’ve established the smoothies were mediocre,” George said by way of answer.

“And we both know your son is anything but,” Scott replied.

Beside him, Kip set his beer down quietly, watching Scott with a small smile that his father didn’t miss.

“And what about you, Scott?” George asked, his tone just a little bit less playful.  “Are you mediocre?”

Kip’s eyes widened, but Scott had seen it coming.  Would have been more concerned if it hadn’t.

Leaning forward to rest his forearm on the table, he held George’s gaze.  “I’ve been pretty mediocre, Mr. Grady.”  He caught the flicker of a smile at the faux pax.  “But part of the reason for coming here today is to prove I can be better.”  It was Scott’s turn to smile, just a little.  “To prove that I can be…intense and…afraid…but what I want to be,” he turned to look at Kip, saying the last part to his boyfriend, “is good enough.”

Kip’s expression was soft and encouraging as he reached over to take Scott’s free hand.

Giving them the moment by taking another sip of his beer, George said, not unkindly, “I didn’t really understand all of that, but I understood enough.”  He smiled at Scott, knowing and willing to meet him halfway.  “You gonna break my son’s heart like that again?”

Scott met that gaze as seriously as he’d met anything in his life.  “No.”

George nodded, letting the promise settle between them.  Then he finished off the last of his beer.  “Then how about you two come in and help me finish making dinner, and your boyfriend here can tell me how he’s planning to explain Boston’s ungodly winning streak.”

“Scott doesn’t really cook, Dad,” Kip said as they all got to their feet.

“I set a mean table, though,” Scott corrected, grinning as Kip rolled his eyes.

“Surely the captain of the Admirals can work a can opener,” George said as he led the way deeper into the house.  “Dinner was gonna be tuna fish sandwiches and chips, anyway.  It’s Wednesday.”

“Can you eat that?” Kip asked, quietly.

Scott shrugged.  “Technically I’m still in recovery.  I can eat anything I want.”

“Then we’re going for ice cream after!” George called back from the kitchen.

“See what you started?” Kip asked, with a warning tone Scott didn’t understand and a look that he did.  “We’ll be lucky to get back home before midnight.”

Scott grinned, happy to let Kip think it was because of whatever his dad was planning.  But Kip had called the apartment “home” for the first time since they’d patched things up, and for that, Scott would risk any ice cream parlor.

“How does your boyfriend feel about bar-b-que potato chips?”

Scott’s smile faltered as Kip’s grew.

An ice cream parlor, yes.  The worst flavor profile to ever blaspheme a fried sliver of potato?

It seemed this really was true love.

Chapter 3: Date at Duncan's

It was the faded kind of scuffed linoleum that everyone expected in a diner.  Off white from years of every kind of shoe imaginable.  The black marks so ingrained no one could tell if the floor had come that way or been stained into submission.  Only the seasoned employees could tell if the place had been mopped yet; something at least one newbie a season tried to get away with skipping.  And yet, if the floor had been as impeccable in appearance as the counter was, nobody would eat here.

Can’t trust a diner with a shiny floor.

The bell Martha had put up over the door forty years ago did its best to tinkle as the next customer walked in.  Some cheap, tin thing that had been his Father’s Day surprise, it never could decide what sound it wanted to make.  But for sure, it had never “tinkled” a day in its life.

Dropping a menu she wouldn’t read in front of Maggie and a mug of already cold coffee in front of Reggie, Duncan rapped his knuckles on the counter in front of Marge as he went by.  Checking the old woman was still breathing, even though she’d outlive them all before she’d admit she was the oldest person in the room.  Just shy of five feet, she never took that coat off no matter what the weather did.  And yet she only ever smelled of thyme.

Grabbing a pair of plastic-peeling menus out of the bin, Duncan plastered on a customer smile before spotting the table in question.  A real smile took over as he approached, the two young men settling in oblivious to his presence until he dropped the memorized reading material between them.  “Welcome to Duncan’s.”

Scott looked up, smiling like it wasn’t something a few of them were worried the kid didn’t know how to do.  “Morning.”

“Morning,” Duncan nodded back.  “Coffee?  Milk, no sugar?”

“How do you drink it without sugar?” asked the kid across from him.  Dark curly hair and dimples for days, Kip looked as confused as Marge had the one time Duncan had told her he was out of havarti cheese.

Scott answered with a shrug.  “It doesn’t taste like coffee if you put sugar in it.”

“It tastes like better coffee if you put sugar in it.”

“Should I bring you both coffee, so you can bicker with evidence?” Duncan asked.  The way Scott’s shoulder didn’t hunch so high this time was a good sign.  Kip shook his head, opening his mouth to answer, but Duncan had been doing this job longer than either of these boys had been legal to drive.  “One heathen coffee, one orange juice, then.”  He rapped the table with his knuckles.  “I’ll be back.”

“How does he already know what I order?” Kip said as Duncan walked off.  He didn’t catch Scott’s answer, but he did catch the laugh.

Thank God.

Marco came out of the back holding a wash tub that was dripping soapy water everywhere.  Somehow, they’d made it three weeks and the faded blue tub with a tiny hole in one corner still hadn’t been thrown out.  It was starting to feel like a curse, and no one in this establishment believed in such nonsense.  “Hey boss, looks like we’re out of tomatoes.”

“I’ll alert the media,” Duncan deadpanned as he headed behind the counter to get the coffee pot.  He’d always hated the funny red plants, and the endless arguments about fruit vs vegetable had not improved his disposition.  “Orange juice for table four.”

“Orange juice for table for four,” Marco repeated, like he wouldn’t forget the order by the time he got to the fridge.  Turning, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the tub, he paused.  “Scott’s guy likes orange juice.”

“Scott’s friend,” Duncan corrected him.

“Friend?”

Marco was a good guy, and a great cook, and sometimes Duncan thought the Lord had left out the common sense to make room for the goodness and the cooking.  “Friend until we’re told otherwise.”

Marco was staring absently at the wall, the dial-up sound of a 1993 modem all but audible as the information tried and failed to log in his memory.  “Got it.”

“Orange juice,” Duncan called after him as Marco headed back into the back and shook his head.  He grabbed the coffee and a mug, then stopped in front of Marge on his way back out.  “Made any decisions this morning?”

“Could be the Admirals just need a new equipment manager.”

Duncan scoffed.  “Feathers get ruffled when you talk shit about the equipment manager.”

“Not shit,” Marge said, her eyes never moving from the handle of the latte machine someone had purchased eight years ago and nobody ever learned how to use.  “Just considering all the options.”

“Consider something that won’t wind up the boys,” Duncan said as the bell didn’t tinkle again.  “Ivan just walked in.”

“Tell him to grow a spine,” Marge said as Duncan walked away.  “I’ll take eggs with havarti.”

“Of course you will,” Duncan muttered, raising the hand with the mug in greeting as Ivan and Jose sat down at the counter, leaving a good two seat gap between themselves and Marge.

Only the twins ever had the nerve to sit directly next to Marge.  The nerve or the lack of social awareness.

Taking one step into the cramped kitchen space, Duncan called, “Orange juice.”

He was greeted by Lydia’s confused green eyes and Marco’s, “oh shit” before a glass of freshly poured liquid was thrust into his hand half a minute later.

“Marge wants eggs with havarti,” Duncan said by way of a parting shot.  Behind him, Marco swore again as Lydia said, “I’ll text my mom”.

Headed back into the main room, Duncan slowed his step enough to take in the expression on Scott Hunter’s face.  He still remembered the day the teenager had walked in for the first time.  His face a blank mask that hid confusion and hurt and anger, looking for a place to stay out of the rain.

He’d been a bad liar back then, too.

It had taken two bacon sandwiches and the worst version of chocolate milk Duncan had ever made to get the kid to trust him.  A gesture that had proved to be exactly the right one, because instead of stopping at the confession that he was skipping practice for the day, Scott had proceeded to dump everything he was carrying on that ugly pink and blue counter.  His friends, his grades, his frustrations about the school team’s new captain.  About how it was nice not to be alone, but then why did he feel alone.  Lots of people lost their parents - surely it had to stop hurting some day?

Duncan had bundled the wounded teen up in the best bear hug he had, holding the boy through a storm the kid hadn’t known he was carrying around inside himself.  And after that, they’d talked about the neighborhood and the dorm rooms and Duncan’s wife who was currently out of town.  Duncan switching them from bastardized dairy to proper chocolate milkshakes and Scott pretending that he had something in his eyes from time to time.

He’d sent the kid out of there with all the bacon sandwiches he had, and when Scott had reappeared two weeks later with an uncertain smile around his eyes, Duncan had started to learn when he could say things and when he had to let Scott say them first.

And nine years later when a drunk driver took his Martha and their fifteen year old daughter away from him, Scott Hunter had showed up with four kinds of liquor and a six pack of piss-water beer and offered the only kind of emotional support hockey players were supposed to know about.

He’d drunk the bourbon while Scott sipped the beer, feeding the kid bacon sandwiches until he passed out on Duncan’s couch, and the next morning they’d bandaged each other’s wounds over scrambled eggs and coffee with milk, no sugar.

Scott was not the son Duncan had never gotten to have, but he was a special kid and Duncan had wished for years that he’d meet some boy worth being brave for.  That he’d be signed to a team that wanted that for him, too.  And now, as he watched Kip balance his chin on his fist and Scott roll his eyes at whatever his friend had just said, Duncan hoped this time it would work out.  That the fact that Scott had brought someone here meant what Marge and Jose thought it did.  And that Ivan would owe Reggie that twenty bucks one of these days.

Setting down the orange juice and coffee, Duncan took a step back and pretended to be reaching for the notepad he hadn’t needed in a decade.  “So, what’ll it be?”

Scott opened his mouth to finish the joke, then paused.  Duncan raised an eyebrow as the kid ran his tongue over his lower teeth, then the other eyebrow when Scott finally answered.  “A BLT.  No tomato.”

Kip’s eyebrows were up, too.  “For breakfast?”

Scott raised one shoulder ever so slightly.  “Nobody cooks bacon like Santa’s brother.”

It was an old joke, and Duncan had given up and given in to the mustache maintenance required to keep up his appearance.  He was never gonna lose the weight anyway.

But a BLT - no tomato, add mustard - had become a celebration of sorts over the years.  The happier version of the sandwich that got them all, even Marge, through the bad days.

Trying his best to keep his voice normal, Duncan asked, “Mustard on that?”

Scott looked at him, brown eyes a little wide, but the smile hadn’t faltered.  “Please.”

“You know, the first time you brought me here, you ordered normal food,” Kip observed dryly, and Duncan noted the lack of recognition of the order.

Not yet, then.  This guy, with his curls and his dimples and his cute taste in shoes, hadn’t found all the secrets yet.

But he’d met Duncan, and at this rate the twins were an inevitability.  Ivan and Jose and Marge would follow in their own time.  Assuming of course that Marco didn’t spill soapy water all over the guy and forget to keep his mouth shut.

“Even I can only eat so many eggs for breakfast,” Scott said, unapologetic.

Kip nodded.  “Though you can eat more smoothies than any man I’ve ever known.”

Catching the moment, Duncan made a note to see if they still had a blender.  Ever since Marco had discovered the joy of the immersion gizmo, the poor beast had been relegated to the Shelf of the Forgotten.

Not that he was going to step on anybody’s toes.  Experience had taught him that sometimes, people needed to borrow an outlet or a toaster or a hair dryer.  And if Scott had developed a love of breakfast smoothies, then maybe there would come a day when Kip needed to grab one on the way home.

You never knew.

“BLT, no tomato, add mustard,” Duncan repeated, quirking an eyebrow because he couldn’t risk a wink.  “And for the guy who puts sugar in his coffee?”

“Uh…” Kip glanced at the menu, then back at him.  “You got anything that’s delicious and will take four years off my life?”

“Kip!” Scott said as Duncan laughed.  “I do indeed.”  This time, he did wink.  “Four years, specifically.”

Those dimples were gonna be Scott’s downfall.  “Thanks.”

He left them to their morning conversation.  Kip’s easy way of doing the talking for both of them and the way Scott’s expression softened more than either of them seemed to know.  He gave Marco Kip’s order before watching the cook light up at the challenge while Lydia ducked out the back door in search of cheese Duncan was sure Marge had only chosen because her hearing was better than an owl’s.  He’d make Scott’s sandwich himself - after so many years, not only would the kid notice that it was someone else’s bacon, he’d be hurt that Duncan had passed it off.

And that wouldn’t do.

Not for Scott.

Ivan was chastising Jose in some mix of German and Estonian, the neighborhood accountant pretending to be annoyed by the words he didn’t understand as he meticulously arranged the flatware the way Ivan always insisted it should be.  Marge was glaring at the latte machine now, muttering something about bulls and bears.  Maggie was peeling her cheap nail polish off one pinky while Reggie blew on his stone cold coffee; he shot Duncan his traditional cheeky grin while he did it as Duncan grabbed napkins and forks from their plastic container under the counter.  And across the room, in the same booth that he’d sat at since his second visit on that sunny day, Scott chatted with a cute boy they all pretended they wouldn’t be able to identify if a reporter ever took a hard enough blow to the head to try walking into Duncan’s Diner.

Chapter 4: 10:39

Scott Hunter was calling him.  At ten-thirty at night.

Rolling out of bed, Todd Anderson picked up his phone and padded out into the hallway.  Thirteen years of a second marriage had taught him that no woman, no matter how wonderful, appreciates being woken up by the shenanigans of the athletes he represented.  Not even Iliza, and the fact they’d made it past that first shitshow date showed she was a woman who could tolerate anything.  And if the likes of Scott Hunter was calling him, gods alone knew what he’d be dealing with tonight.

Swiping his thumb to accept at the last possible moment, Todd swallowed to clear the cotton from his mouth.  “What’s wrong?”

There was a pause.  Then, “Why would something be wrong?”

This was the thing about players like Hunter.  They were great about regularly scheduled meetings.  They forwarded any and all relevant e-mails.  They complained far less about sponsorship requirements that they were legally bound to participate in; to his recollection, Todd had never once needed to remind this man that half his salary came from companies paying him to advertise.  They were good about answering when he called, didn’t give him too much attitude, and were generally low maintenance clients.  It was a nice break from the guys who regularly called at three am with gods knew what kind of personal crisis this time.

Honestly, he’d take the police over another messy divorce.

“It’s ten-thirty at night,” Todd muttered, keeping his voice low as he moved down the hallway toward the kitchen.  He sensed a midnight coffee in his future.  “Pre-season hasn’t even started yet.  Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking why I’m not out getting drunk?”

“If it was anyone but you,” Todd shot back, flicking on the kitchen light before cursing at the sudden brightness and remembering it was the third switch on the panel, not the fucking first.  “You get drunk with your team.  You don’t do tequila shots off a co-ed and call me about it six minutes before you pass out.”

Another pause.  “That’s…very specific.”

Lightswitches switched, Todd stopped by the kitchen sink and sighed.  “What is it, Hunter?  Why are you calling me three weeks before we’re supposed to chat?”

He could picture the younger man running his tongue over his lower teeth.  “I need to tell you something.  Warn you, I guess?”

Shit.

“Warn me?”  Todd backed up a few steps and opened the freezer, searching for the chocolate fudge ripple Iliza always hid in the back.  He kept his voice even to the point of bored while he did it.  “About what?”

He listened to the steadying breath.  “I’m….gay.”

Todd considered the microwavable spring rolls.  “You sure?”

This time, it was less of a pause than a halt.  “Really?”

Todd fished out the fudge ripple and closed the door with his shoulder, eyes already on the utensil drawer.  This was not a night for bowls.  “Hunter, we’ve known each other a long time.  You wouldn’t tell me this now if you weren’t planning to do something about it.”

He imagined that Hunter was probably at home.  The guy lived in an apartment downtown, which had always surprised him since Hunter had “two kids and a dog in the backyard” vibes if Todd had ever met one.  But the guy was chronically single, never socialized much, and had done a solid job of perpetuating the image that NHL players were oddballs who enjoyed a little privacy with their fame.  If he was being honest, Todd had wondered once or twice - this wasn’t his first ten-thirty phone call - but he’d been happy to live and let live.  Let Hunter be a lone wolf, or whatever idiot phrasing the internet buzzword listicles were using this week.

He supposed he could be kinder about this.  The guy was probably pacing, oblivious to the fabulous view he paid for, worried that his agent was going to drop him like the problem child he wasn’t.

But Scott Hunter made a neat dozen, even if unlike Todd’s other clients, there was something in that earnest voice that meant Scott Hunter wasn’t going to be satisfied with a little late night confessional and a promise from Todd to keep his unconsecrated mouth shut.  “I guess that’s…true.”

Sitting down at his own kitchen island, Todd popped the cardboard lid off his wife’s favorite ice cream flavor and dug out a spoonful.  “Please tell me I won’t be waking up to any headlines.”

And because it was Scott Hunter, the man chuckled and gave him the answer he needed.  “No, no headlines.  Not tomorrow, anyway.”

Thank fuck.

Savoring the forbidden chocolate delight, Todd considered his next question.  As an agent to a professional athlete, his job was unofficially to convince his clients to stay in the closet.  It would almost certainly hurt their career to do otherwise.  But it was 2014 and rainbows weren’t about leprechauns anymore and he’d always hated this part of his job.  If the guy wanted to stay closeted, Todd was happy to help.  But if the guy didn’t…

Todd took another spoonful of the ice cream.  “Tell me what you’re thinking.  In that too serious brain of yours.”

Another sound of amusement, so at least Todd was doing a good job of making his client feel safe and his privacy respected.  “I was thinking that I want to come out.”  A pause, the kind that with another man Todd would use to start the conversation about how he didn’t need to.  How he probably shouldn’t.  “But not yet.  Not for a few more years.”

Cold spoon pressed to his tongue, Todd considered the weird painting of a plant that was hanging in a currently stygian alcove of his home.  “Not for a few more years.”

“Right.”

“But you’re calling me tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Even though there won’t be headlines tomorrow.”

“Y…es?”

Todd sighed through his nose.  “You met someone.”

Hunter’s quiet sounded like surprise, but Todd had been playing this game for almost as long as his client had been playing hockey.

“You met someone and you’re worried that, while your plan is to come out in a few years, someone will notice something and I’ll wake up to headlines.”

It was an impressed snort.  “Basically.”

Laconic, Scott Hunter.

Dragging out the enjoyment that was his third spoonful, Todd appreciated the way some of his clients could be on the phone without needing to speak.

Though a full two minutes was pushing it, even for Hunter.  “Can you…think out loud?  Please?”

Todd put his spoon down.  “You said you want to come out in a few years.  Why?”

“My contract with the Admirals is up for renegotiation at the end of the 2016 season.”

Clever boy.  “And if things go badly, you aren’t tied to a bunch of assholes who’ll probably bench you over a threat you don’t pose.”

He could see the wince.  “I’m…hoping they’ll be the guys I’ve always known them to be.”

Everyone did.

“Why not just retire?”  Putting the lid back on the ice cream, Todd returned it to the freezer, put the spoon in the sink, and moved over to the coffee pot.  He wouldn’t be making panicked phone calls all night, but there was no way he was getting back to sleep before two.  “Rozanov keeps reminding everyone how old you are.  Finish out 2017 and be gay in your old age.”

“Ilya Rozanov doesn’t dictate my career,” was the irritated answer, and for the first time tonight, Todd grinned.  Mostly because it was the irritation of an older cousin who knew Thanksgiving dinner would be fun, but also that someone was getting brussel spouts dumped down their khakis.

“My question still stands.”

A thoughtful silence this time.  “Because I don’t think I’ll be done yet.”

Todd fished a mug out of the dish drainer currently taking up the left half of the sink.  “Even though you’re old.”

“Fuck you.”

His second grin of the night.  “Sounds like I had more of a shot than I thought I did.  Too bad I met Iliza.”

It was a risk, but he needed to know how Hunter would react to teasing from a friend.  Because there was a lot of coverage on friends turning out to be assholes, but sometimes the wound was so old and so unhealed that the person coming out ended up doing the hurting.  Scott Hunter wasn’t the only Admiral Todd represented.

A considering hum, then, “No, I think your odds were always pretty bad.”

So much to unpack there.  A diplomatic response.  A friendly tone.  But also the knowledge that Hunter hadn’t made this choice on a whim.  Because, as much as Todd liked the guy, he was pretty sure if he’d asked Hunter last year if he was gay, the man would have been able to hold a needle in his ass for the next ten hours.  Those shoulders could get real tense when Hunter was unhappy - they’d been to enough miserable charity dinners together for Todd to know.

But that joke had almost been casual, and that was, “Good to know.”

Hunter laughed and Todd filled the coffee machine with grounds and water and his wishes for Hunter’s sponsors to not all be the homophobic assholes he knew the main company was going to be.  Maybe he’d see if there was a way to get Hunter out of that contract early.  Deprive the fuckers of the chance to publicly drop him for their own benefit.

“So,” Todd said as the coffee began to percolate, “you met a guy.”

Hunter’s voice went soft.  “I met a guy.”

“We like the guy?”

Obviously, but he wanted to hear it.  Wanted to hear the way Hunter said it.

“Yeah.  We like him a lot.”

Oh, the poor bastard.

“I’m gonna have to get a little nosy about his life,” Todd said as the coffee finished.  Hooking the carafe out of the port, he poured the dark liquid straight into the empty cup.  Hunter’s tone of voice was sweet enough for six cups.  “Not tonight, but I assume this guy’s the reason you’ve suddenly felt the need to be public about your private life?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Hunter began, but Todd cut him off.

“Save it for the speech.”  Taking a long, scalding sip, Todd went on.  “You can be noble and civic minded when people are looking to skewer you alive for dating a man hotter than they are, but tonight, it’s just me.”  Another sip.  His tongue was positively numb.  “This the guy?  The one you change your whole life for?”

It was a solid minute, and Todd wondered if Hunter was looking at the guy in question.  Tracing the lines of his face or the way his hair curled around his ears.  Maybe there was a tattoo visible because Handsome was walking around without a shirt on.  Or maybe Hunter had really lost his mind and got a dog along with a boyfriend and the pair was being the kind of cute that made Hallmark movies go “that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”.

“I had a moment in Sochi where I realized I could have the career I’ve worked all my life for, and all it would cost me was the man I loved.”

Oh, gods above.

What Todd said was, “You cannot say that in your announcement speech.”

Hunter’s laugh was a little strained this time.  “I shouldn’t tell people life is better when you’re loved?”

“Not on day one,” Todd said, even as he caught the movement of Iliza’s robe in the corner of his eye.  He looked over, mouthing an apology as the love of his life waved a hand dismissively.  He kept his voice that carefully cultivated level of professional disinterest as she made her way over to the fridge.  “On day one you want this to be about you.  If you’re too sappy, they’ll focus on your guy, and believe me, whatever he thinks he’s ready for, he’s not.”

“But you’ll help him.”  It was a question, phrased as a statement because Hunter wasn’t sure.

“Of course.”  Todd let the promise land as he took a proper drink.  “You decide to stay in hockey after this, I’m there for the both of you.”  He watched as Iliza fished out her chocolate fudge ripple and fetched a spoon from the drawer, setting them both next to him on the counter.  “That’s why I’m gonna be nosy about him in the next few weeks.  Gotta know what kind of man you went and fell in love with.”

“I’m guessing you don’t want me to be sappy about him tonight, either.”

Pressing a kiss to his cheek, Iliza squeezed his arm in support of a phone call he couldn’t give her details about and headed quietly back up to bed.  Damn, he’d never been so happy to have an ex-wife.  “Oh, you’re already driving my insulin through the roof with that goofy smile you’re wearing.”

“How did you -”

“It’s been a decade, Hunter.  I know your smiles.”  A pause.  “Even the ones I’ve never seen before.”

And maybe that was the thing of it.  Yeah, Hunter was gonna risk his career for this, and maybe Todd should take the noble road and argue that Hunter should come out either way because lying about parts of yourself was a terrible way to have to live.  But the harder truth was that if Hunter went through all this and the guy didn’t work out, Todd was gonna have to deal with one hell of a heartbreak.  And he didn’t wish that on anyone.

Not even Ilya Rozanov, the Cup winning bastard.

But Hunter was calling him at ten-thirty at night.  He was telling Todd a thing that he’d never once even hinted at in the last ten years.  And more than anything, there was a happiness in Hunter’s voice that Todd had never heard there before.  In other people’s voices, sure, but never Hunter’s.

Because the listicles would never admit it, but lone wolves are sad creatures looking for a pack.  If you’re a solo soul, you’re better off channeling some sort of fish.

Another voice came over the line, speaking quietly because he knew he was interrupting.  “Everything alright?”

And oh, Todd was gonna have to work on Hunter about that much affection in front of an audience.  “Yeah, just talking to Todd.”  Some kind of soft, affectionate moment.  “Go back to sleep.”

A hum Todd barely heard and the shift in Hunter’s voice as he turned his attention back to the phone.  “Listen, I’m sorry I called so late.”  As if.  “Is there anything else you need to know tonight?”

Todd drained half his mug to buy himself a moment and then abandoned the caffeine for the power of theobromide.  “No, I’ve got what I need.”

“OK.”

“Hunter.”  Todd popped the lid off the carton once more.  “I’m happy for you.”

A much more acceptable kind of affection this time.  “Thanks.”

But there was gonna be a lot of work to do if any of them was going to successfully keep this love-struck dork under wraps for the next three years.  Todd would bet his entire annual bonus that there was already a list of people who knew.

Digging out his fourth spoonful of now allowed chocolate, Todd made his voice as light and dismissive as he could stand.  “Go to bed, old man.  It’s a bad first impression for me to be keeping you out late like this.”

Hunter laughed.  “Kip doesn’t mind.  He’s decent like that.”

Kip.  Probably shortbus for Christopher.

“Night, Todd.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

Hanging up the phone, Todd gathered his coffee and ice cream and made his way to his home office.  Hunter had said no headlines, which meant it was time to comb the gossip rags and fan threads to see who was taking “but it’s not stalking” photos of his clients again.  See if there was anyone new showing up with recent regularity.

Tomorrow he could tackle which sponsors would be difficult about this.  Who to keep, who to rework the phrasing of a contract with, who might actually surprise him and be excited to be associated with the first openly gay hockey player in the NHL.

He’d put off till Friday dealing with who in the NHL was going to be a dick about this.

And maybe sometime next week - or next month - he’d allow himself to feel a little proud for his self-destructive client.  For the mad man who was willing to risk a stellar career for a man he thought he loved.  Who’d decided being a role model of inclusivity and happiness was more important than being the highest paid player in his division, because that pay raise was all but shot in the face once this happened.

“Make the money, don’t let the money make you,” Todd muttered to no one as he booted up his computer.  His ex-nephew still sent him song recommendations, and for all that Todd didn’t understand rap, he’d liked that one.  He liked the idea of it, even if he didn’t know a lot of guys who’d make that choice.

Well, as of ten-thirty-nine tonight, he knew at least one.

Chapter 5: No Matter Where The Fuck We Are

Skating to a stop by the goal, Scott scanned the rink around him.  The herd of unusually short opponents was starting to tire; even the kid in the Ghostbusters sweatshirt was starting to wear down.  It looked like whoever had decided four hours was a long enough event had known what they were doing.

To his left, Eric Bennett glided slowly past, looking as tired as Scott felt.  “I’m glad we don’t play these kids every week.  They’ve got way better stamina than we do.”

“Maybe we should practice more,” Scott answered absently.

A few years older than Scott, Bennett had already been the Admirals’ goalie for six years before Scott joined the team.  Both on the quiet side, they’d made friends quickly.  No doubt helped by the fact Scott insisted the team include Bennett when they went out after games; in return, Bennett never gave Scott the usual shit about not having a girlfriend.  Going on seven years, Benny was still one of the best friends Scott had ever had.

Bennett barked a laugh.  “No way.  I already have a hard enough time explaining to my wife why I’m never home.”  His slow arc took him around to the back of the goal, the toes of Bennett skates bumped gently against it.  “Speaking of which, where did your friend go?”

Scott’s spine locked in place at the casual question, his voice coming out just shy of choked.  “My friend?”

“The guy you were here with.”  Bennett’s voice held no insinuation.  It really was a harmless question.  “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Scott forced himself to look at his friend - at Bennett’s easy smile and the concerned lines around his eyes - before the question really registered.

“Where did your friend go?”

Looking around, it took only a moment to realize the audience only held parents and that all the adults on the ice were either NHL players donating their time or event chaperones trying to keep kids from sword fighting with their sticks.

Where was Kip?

“I…don’t know,” Scott answered, dread finally beating out the fear that had been gnawing at the back of his mind since he’d first heard someone call his full name.  “Scott Hunter?  They got Scott Hunter, too?”

“I thought I saw him heading back toward the check-in desk,” Bennett said, and that easy smile had faded a little.  Dark eyes reading Scott the way only Eric Bennett ever had.  “You…weren’t here for hockey day…were you.”

It had felt like such a big gesture.  Kip asking if Scott would help him learn how to skate.  “Or remember, anyway.”  Kip laughed as he dug a sweatshirt out of the back of their closet.  “I’m pretty sure I could at least skate forward when I was a kid.”  Scott’s schedule was about to kick up a notch, the intensity of the pre-season a warm-up for the insanity that was the six months that came after, while Kip was about to be juggling grad school with a mostly full-time job.  He honestly wasn’t sure which of them was going to be busier.

So they’d picked a day when Kip didn’t have a shift at the Kingfisher and Scott wasn’t scheduled for morning practice.  They’d gotten breakfast at Duncan’s, Kip blinking in polite astonishment when Marge shuffled past their table with a rare “Good to see you both”, and then headed out to one of the local ice rinks.

Walking in the door, it had taken minutes for their plan to fall apart.  All because somehow, somehow, Captain of the Admirals Scott Hunter had failed to realize that the reason there was no morning practice today was because a number of his teammates were slotted to appear at a local outreach event.

Hockey Day, with actual NHL players, to help inspire local kids to skate after their dreams.

Kip had smiled, rolling with the change in plans better than Scott ever did, happy to chat with kids and preteens instead of getting a semi-private skating lesson from his secret boyfriend and -

Scott winced, guilt flooding in to mix with the dread and the fear.  “It’s fine.”

“Scott,” and Scott didn’t think he’d ever heard Eric Bennet take that tone of voice with anyone.  Not in six years of locker room fights and lost games and drunken teammates who’d left their manners in their other pants.  Not even when Toronto kept slamming into Bennett like they didn’t know goalies were off limits.  “Don’t fucking lie.”

“You’re not supposed to say that word,” chirped a little girl as she skated past, firmly ignoring the adult trying to get her attention.

Scott watched her skate to the far side of the ice before meeting Bennett’s gaze.  He was so used to the warmth in those eyes, it felt like a slap to see the glare.  “Whoever he is, you should go find him.”

A dozen half formed answers knocked between his teeth, but whatever Bennett had finally noticed, he was in no mood for Scott Hunter’s excuses.

Finally, Scott asked, already skating for the nearest entrance to the ice, “Think you can handle the kids for a while?”

“I can handle anything,” Bennett shot back.  The glare was still in full force, but his voice had softened, just a touch.  Just enough to remind Scott that his best friend was being a hardass because he loved him.  “Fix this, Scotty.”

Stumbling a little as the floor changed from frozen water to rubber mats, Scott found a bench and stripped off his skates faster than he had in years.  A voice in the back of his head shrieked as he left his gear unattended on a bench - pranks from his teammates, theft from an especially eager fan - and jogged toward the rental desk.

Kip was nowhere in sight.

“Fuck,” Scott breathed, turning in a circle in the vain hope that he was wrong.  He’d screwed today up, he knew that, but maybe he could still fix this.

“Fix this, Scotty.”

“Scott?”

Spinning the last quarter turn, Scott felt the smile he didn’t deserve flicker onto his face.  “Kip.”

Brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down, Kip was doing his best not to look upset.  And failing spectacularly.  “Hey, I was just headed out -”

“Don’t go.”

Kip tilted his head, watching Scott intently.  “Why wouldn’t I go?”

“Because -”  Because why?  “Because…I don’t want you to.”

There was a long, painful pause, and then Kip did the worst possible thing he could have done.

He sighed.  “Scott…”

“I screwed up.”  Stepping forward, reaching to take Kip’s hands in his, Scott sat on the panic climbing up his chest.  The thing inside him that howled at the physical contact that wouldn’t read as “just friends” if anyone walked in.  That wanted him to step back, put on the mask, nod at Kip’s reasonable reaction and tell him they could meet back up at home.

Kip looked up with a frown.  “How are we supposed to go out places together if I can’t pretend that we’re just friends.”

“Well,” Scott offered, his arms very much wrapped around Kip’s waist in a way that said they were more than just friends, “we can pretend we’re best friends.”  He grinned as Kip rolled his eyes.  “Old friends.  Two guys who know each other well enough to be comfortable around each other.”

“You know what I mean.”

Gripping Kip’s hands in his, ignoring the way Kip glanced toward the ice, Scott forced himself to speak.  To focus on what he wasn’t willing to lose, even if he blew up his life doing it.  “I screwed up today, and I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know -” Kip began, but Scott cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know.”  Kip was looking at him again, but his expression hadn’t changed.  Scrunching up his nose to fight his feelings, Scott pushed on.  “We could have left.  I could have suggested we leave.  Told Bennett I was busy, signed some kid’s helmet, and we could have gone back home.  Or to the park.”  Kip always seemed to find it funny to take walks in the park.  “Or I could have stayed and…and…and actually talked to you more than once in the last four hours.”

The more he spoke, the worse it sounded, and the ache in his chest was threatening to rival the pounding in his ears.  But he had to do this.  He had to try.

“Fix this, Scotty.”

He didn’t realize his breathing had changed until Kip’s fingers touched his cheek.  “Hey, it’s OK.”

“It’s not,” Scott gasped, suddenly aware of how rapidly he was inhaling.  How short his breaths really were.  “It’s not.  I’m not.  I’m…I’m sorry, I -”

“Come here.”  Kip’s arm was around his waist and something deep inside him screamed at the kindness.  “Come here.  Sit down.”

Thin padded benches lined the edges of the room.  He didn’t really register dropping on to one, but Scott did note, with distracted relief, that he was still holding on to Kip’s other hand.  It was a death grip - the tips of Kip’s fingers were noticeably red - but against the emotions that were fighting to overwhelm him, it mattered that he hadn’t let go.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Kip said.  “Just breathe for me, OK?”

Prying his grip loose so he could rub the feeling back into Kip’s hand, Scott tried.  Tried to force the breath in and hold it.  Tried to let it go without it shaking.  Tried to let it be an automatic thing and not the focus of his whole attention.

Tried.

After a long minute of trying, Kip leaned forward, his voice quiet and reasonable.  “If I leave, will it help you calm down?”

Scott’s head snapped up, gaze meeting Kip’s.  “Yes.”  One of his hands locked around Kip’s wrist as the other man made to stand.  “Don’t do it.”

“You’re gonna pass out if you don’t calm down,” Kip said, but something shifted behind his eyes.  Something important.  He smiled, just a little.  “I really don’t want you to do that.”

“Please don’t leave,” Scott said, and took the biggest breath he could and held it.  Thought about how hard it had been to stand outside the Kingfisher and know he wasn’t brave enough to go in.  How hard it had been to walk into that stupid smoothie shop when he didn’t know if Kip would even want to see him.  Thought about how long it had taken his shoulders to unclench after that first, ten minute walk together around his own neighborhood.

Thought about the way Duncan never quite hid his smile and how Todd had exhaled once before immediately accepting Scott for who he was and how George had looked at him, kind but firm, and asked such a simple question.

“You gonna break my son’s heart like that again?”

Letting the air out slowly, Scott relaxed his hold on Kip’s wrist.  He focused on Kip’s face - brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down again - and how much he hated that today hadn’t gone as planned.

It’d be months before their schedules lined up like this again.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you all day,” Scott said, and his voice came out just about normal.  “I’m sorry I…disappeared into Captain Hunter and pretended like you were just another person at some event I was taking part in.”

Kip blinked at him, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry it took my best friend calling me out on my shit to even notice how badly I’d fucked up.”

Kip’s lips quirked, but he stayed silent.

Holding Kip’s hand, Scott rolled his shoulders.  Forced air in and out of his lungs.  Closed his eyes long enough to realize it didn’t help and opened them again.  “I’m sorry I made you feel like a secret again.”

“We’re both secrets,” Kip said with a tentative smile.  “But…I appreciate that it bothered you.”  He squeezed Scott’s hand in his.  “Thank you for apologizing.”

It was what he wanted.  For his screwing up this afternoon to not be so bad that they couldn’t move past it.  Try again, with Scott handling kids and friends calmly instead of panicking into himself.  But the speed with which Kip let it go…nagged him.

“You’re allowed to be mad.”

Kip gave him a funny look.  “I…know that?”

Scott shook his head.  “We made plans to spend the day together, specifically because we’re both about to get really busy, and I’ve been ignoring you since we got here.”  It was his turn to give Kip a look.  “You’re allowed to get upset and want an apology.”

“You literally just apologized.”

Scott scowled.  “Could you please want me to feel bad for being an ass and hurting your feelings?”

“I don’t want you to feel bad,” Kip said, but to Scott’s relief, his boyfriend did finally wince.  “But…you were kind of an ass.  And it did hurt my feelings.”

“So, how do I fix it?” Scott asked, a different kind of fear starting to bloom.  “How do I…just…not be scared anymore?”

“Oh, ba-,” Kip cut himself off, eyes glancing over Scott’s shoulder before trying again, “Scott.  I don’t think it’s that easy.  I don’t think this was ever going to be easy.”

“You’re not afraid,” Scott argued.  “You’ve never been scared of being yourself.”

“I grew up with a father who loves the hell out of me and friends I had a lot in common with,” Kip pointed out.  He bit his lip, considering something.  “I can’t know, but…maybe if you’d grown all the way up with your parents, you wouldn’t be scared of this either.”

“My parents didn’t know.”

“But one day they might have.  And they would have loved you anyway.”

Scott felt his shoulders drop.  “Maybe.  Hopefully.  But they were hockey people, too.”

Kip’s free hand reached for his face, then dropped to rest over his heart.  “No one could hate a son like you.”

Scott knew for a fact that wasn’t how this worked, but it was a nice idea.  Since he’d never know what his parents would have thought about their gay son, either.

“It really is OK,” Kip went on.  “About today.  I know you didn’t plan any of this and you were…caught off guard.  By being recognized.”  The laugh slipped out, Kip looking ruefully apologetic about it.  “By a roomful of excitable kids, to make things worse.”

“I still handled it badly.”

“You were terrified.”

“I was cruel.”

Kip sighed.  “Not on purpose.”  He squeezed Scott’s hand again.  “You’d never hurt me on purpose.”  Holding Scott’s gaze, he spoke over him, finished, “And that does matter.  That it would never be on purpose.”

God, he wanted to kiss Kip.  Pull him close and snuggle into this man whose heart was so big, Scott couldn’t figure out how anybody could be so kind.  So compassionate.  So patient with someone else temporarily ruining their life.

Kip tapped a finger against his chest.  “You’re thinking mean things about yourself again, aren’t you.”

Scott pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth.  “Feels like I deserve them.”

“Please don’t.”  Dropping his hand from Scott’s chest to where Scott was already holding Kip’s other hand with both of his.  “Not on my account.”

“I have to fix this,” Scott said, and the words came out almost pleading.  “I have to fix me or this will never last.”

And it had to last.

But Kip’s small smile had dissolved into an angry frown.  Leaning as far into Scott’s personal space as he could while still maintaining eye contact, Kip’s voice was fierce.  “If you ever suggest that you need to ‘fix’ yourself again, Scott Hunter, I will kiss you no matter where the fuck we are.”

He couldn’t help it.  Closing his eyes, Scott dropped his head, resting his forehead against Kip’s.  “OK.”

“Say it.”

“I do not need to fix me.”

Kip’s grip on their hands was starting to hurt, so maybe Scott wasn’t the only one who wished he was brave enough to kiss Kip right now.  No matter where the fuck they were.

The high-pitched murder scream of an excited child cut through the air, forcing them apart.  At least close enough that someone would have to notice the way Scott was still holding Kip’s hand, even if it was on the seat now, instead of in his lap.

They watched as people started to file out of the ice rink.  Kids bouncing happily or draped, unconscious, over an adult’s shoulder.  Parents checking backpacks or equipment bags, older siblings holding the back of a younger kid’s sweater while looking at their phone with the other hand.  A cacophony of shrieks and chastisements and praise, underlined by overlapping discussions about where to get dinner.

Watching an exhausted employee flop dramatically to the floor behind the rental counter, Scott turned his attention back to his boyfriend.  The one he’d been great to this morning and thoughtless to this afternoon.  “Should…we also go out for dinner?”

Kip shook his head.  “I wanna go home.”  He leaned back against the wall and gave Scott a knowing look.  “I’m going to have to pry the rest of those bad thoughts out of your head tonight, and I can’t do that if I can’t kiss you whenever you need it.”

Scott blushed.  “I don’t -”

“You’re going to continue to insist that today happened because you’re a bad person and not because what we’re doing is hard,” Kip interrupted him.  “And I’m going to argue that emotions are bitches and you didn’t mean for today to happen like this and I already forgive you.  And then you’re going to say something about it not being my job to put up with your emotional needs because you should just be a better person.  Which, a) is a bullshit form of logic.”  Kip sat forward again, watching Scott intensely even as he grinned.  “And b), Scott Hunter, ignores a very important part of this relationship.”

“What’s that?”

“That I want to take care of you.  The same way you want to take care of me.”

Kip had been balled up on the couch, pretending like Scott’s go bag by the front door wasn’t the cause of his bad mood.  “Have fun in Detroit.”

“Things are gonna be hard sometimes,” Kip said.  His smile twisted as his voice turned quietly pleading.  “Please let me help you.  Because I’m gonna need help, too.”

Scott wasn’t entirely sure he believed that.  Kip Grady seemed to have his shit together in a way Scott never had.  Being an accomplished athlete and a good liar wasn’t the same as knowing how to handle life when things got hard.

That’s what bacon sandwiches were for.

“This is,” Bennett said, as gently as he could, “the worst version of meatless bacon I have ever had.”

Carter grunted and bit into his meat-inclusive sandwich.  “Probably because it’s basically dyed coconut.”

Making a mental note, Scott had started to apologize, but Bennett beat him to it.  “I appreciate the effort, Scotty.”  He gave Scott a wink.  “Next time, I’ll bring my own.”

Focusing on Kip’s hand in his, Scott took a breath.  “Alright.”  He looked up, and Kip’s smile could have blinded the sun.  “I’ll…”

“We’ll,” Kip corrected, and it was one moment of kindness too much.

They were still laughing when Bennett walked out, brows furrowed in his search for his missing teammate.  His expression shifted to smile as he watched Scott wipe at his eyes.  “Everything OK, Scotty?”

Scott nodded.  He watched Bennett nod in return before being knee-tackled by a pair of twins Bennett must have met on a previous Hockey Day.

“He’s a good friend,” Kip said, quietly.

Scott nodded.  “He sent me out here.”

Kip smiled.  “Someday I’ll buy him a giant cupcake and never tell him why.”

Scott laughed and stood up.  He held out his hand, patient as Kip looked surprised, and then pulled his boyfriend to his feet when Kip took his hand.  His head hurt and his chest ached and his feet were freezing from where he’d walked through some melted ice in his socks, but all of that was fine.  Good.  Great, even.

He could feel the lifelong fear prowling around inside him, but something had changed.  Some, maybe small, shift.

Incremental gains, as Coach Murdock would call them.

“Help me collect my stuff?” Scott asked Kip as he reluctantly let go of Kip’s hand.  “Then we can see how that marinade worked out on the pork.”

Kip winced.  “It…didn’t.”

At the sudden look of guilt, Scott felt another laugh bubble up.  The kind earned him that oddly disapproving look that young kids give adults who are having too much fun.  “Alright, then.  Pizza from Palagio’s?”

“I thought you couldn’t eat pizza anymore?” Kip teased as they made their way back to where, hopefully, Scott’s stuff was waiting for him.  Unmolested by the curious or the light-fingered.  “Something about proper nutrition and unbalanced macros?”

“It’s a mental health day,” Scott said and Kip laughed, earning his own disapproving look from a kid too young to care if the adults enjoying their day were friends or lovers or soulmates.  Because maybe Kip’s optimism was what would win out and, in three years, most people wouldn’t care that Scott Hunter had never wanted to kiss a girl.

“If we’re going for emotional recovery, we might need some ice cream, too.”  Scott smiled at the feeling of Kip’s fingertips tapping his back.  “And exercise.  Endorphins are great for recovery.”

Spotting his stuff, Scott picked up his pace.  “Or we could just head straight home.  It’s New York - somebody delivers food.”

Kip hung back, grinning, and it was probably for the best.

Scott was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from kissing Kip this time.  No matter where the fuck they were.

Chapter 6: Good Morning

He woke to the kiss that landed on his knee.  Inhaling at the realization of consciousness, smiling at the feeling of large hands running over his calves, it still took a long moment before Kip could force his eyes to open.  A good night’s sleep was a hell of a drug.

But so was the way Scott was looking at him.  Hair messy, eyes locked on Kip’s own, his gaze intense with the kind of focus Kip sometimes had trouble with when he recognized it on the ice.  Had trouble with because he’d seen it here, in their bedroom.  There was only so much a bag of popcorn could hide from whoever’d come with him that night.

Licking his lips, Kip’s eyes closed on him as Scott shifted.  Those same soft, lingering kisses trailing back up along Kip’s thigh, pausing at his hip, before wandering across his stomach and up until they hit the rucked up hem of his sleep shirt.  Scott nosing at the soft fabric for a moment, his breath tickling and summoning a sleepy laugh, before he moved onward.  Kisses pressed to Kip’s chest through the worn cotton fabric before reaching the hollow of his throat, the underside of his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

Kip hummed as Scott’s lips found his, feeling like he was still on the edge of a dream.  “Hi.”

Scott’s smile was so soft.  “Hi.  You said to wake you first.”

Pressing himself back into the pillows, Kip tucked one hand behind his head as he studied his boyfriend’s handsome face.  “I did.”

Scott kissed the corner of his mouth once again.  “Are you awake?”

Was he?  “Yes.”

Scott’s head dipped, and Kip’s chin lifted on instinct as he sighed at the kiss pressed a little more firmly to his throat.  “Can I continue?”

He’d never had a partner so determined to ask for everything.  Maybe it was supposed to get old, but the way Scott breathed his requests into Kip’s skin, his voice full of desire but his hands still on Kip’s body, was the sexiest fucking think Kip hadn’t know he was into.

His hips lifted in a response all their own as Kip answered.  “Please.”

And there were more kisses.  Scott’s hands wandering farther afield now.  The hem of Kip’s sleep shirt pushed as far up as it could go.  He started to sit up, to take it off, but Scott’s mouth found his left nipple and Kip gasped softly as he fell back against the pillows.  Head pressed back into the plush support as his chest lifted, eager for Scott to keep going.  Desperate for him to stop so Kip could think.

His hands found their way to Scott’s back, one sliding higher to thread uncoordinated fingers through that dark hair, the other digging gently into those hot as fuck muscles.  Earning an approving groan for his efforts, Scott’s mouth finally abandoning one nipple to take its time finding the other.  The gentlest of bites before his tongue passed soothingly over it.  Slow and not quite firmly enough.

“Scott…”  Kip’s voice was rough from sleep and the desire pooling in his veins, his joints, the base of his throat.  Awake enough to want this, still on the edge of tumbling backwards if Scott were to stop or touch him with any more gentleness.  Kip’s mind happy to know this was real or to cast this moment as a dream.

The sex had never been a problem.  Even that first night they’d gone home together, near strangers who just thought they might maybe like flirting with each other more than they thought, Scott had been so very focused.  So determined.  Kip had kept up as much as he could, but he’d been so distracted by this gorgeous man and the way he smiled every time he looked at him - in the smoothie shop, at the charity gig, in his own bedroom - that it had been hard to do anything but let Scott Hunter have his way.  Which sounded terrible, but had felt amazing.  The first time.  The second.  The third, Kip’s brain buzzing from not knowing how much being carried across an entire apartment was the biggest turn on.

Sex hadn’t had anything to do with why Kip had walked out, and it hadn’t had anything to do with why he’d walked back in, but damn was it a nice bonus.  Even if a small part of him thought Scott was still trying to make up for their disastrous date last week.  Even though panic was an ambush predator and Kip knew - had known - that Scott was trying to keep it together, even as he failed and fumbled.  Even though he’d already apologized a dozen different times.

As Scott’s hand cupped him through his briefs, Kip shoved thoughts of apologies out of his head.  They were important - communication was important - but it wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to think about during sex.  Especially not the sweet, sleepy, morning variety.  A version Kip had always loved but most of his partners hadn’t wanted to wake up early enough to try.

These days Scott almost always woke up first, and Kip was rapidly concluding that coffee was an overrated way to start the day.

The hand in Scott’s hair tugged as Scott moved south again.  It earned him a satisfied chuckle for its trouble, but Scott didn’t stop.  Nips mixed with the simpler kisses, Scott stopping only when he’d reached the soft skin below Kip’s navel.  Pressing one long, unexpectedly chaste kiss there that had Kip’s pulse skyrocketing.

Scott’s voice was just the right kind of gravelly.  “Any requests?”

Kip’s back arched as he tried to think.  “Keep going?”  Scott laughed and Kip forced himself to sit up enough to see the grin that went with it.  “Anything, babe.  Anything you want.”

And then Scott was crawling over him again, pinning Kip to the bed with those intense brown eyes as effectively as he could with his hands.  “What I want…is to know…what you want.”

Fuck.  “Scott…”

And proving he was perceptive, Scott dipped down to kiss Kip’s throat again.  “Too much?”

Never.  “Keep kissing me.”  Pushing at Scott’s head until Kip could reach his mouth, he kissed his boyfriend like he needed it more than air.  “Anything else, Scott.  Just -”

“Kisses,” Scott repeated, nodding and kissing him again.  Then he grinned, one hand sliding up Kip’s inner thigh, and Kip’s eyes rolled back as it stopped just short of where he’d really like anything to be right now.  “And hands.”

Hockey players weren’t as big under their gear as all that padding might lead a casual fan to think.  But they were strong.  Muscles all the way down, and yeah, those delicious thighs got a lot of deserved attention.  But as Scott’s hands roamed over him, fingertips digging into muscles here and dragging teasingly over skin there, the heel of one hand pressing addictively into spot on Kip’s right leg that always got tense after a too long shift, Kip thought too many people were deprived of the knowledge of how strong those hands could be.  How much strength it took to hold onto that hockey stick while zipping around the ice.  Human hands inside oversized gloves, forces like friction and gravity and whatever the fuck Ilya Rozanov was actually made of making holding on to things harder than it looked.  Kip had learned exactly how beneficial all that wrist dexterity could be, so many years of fine tuning how to handle the puck meaning Scott could handle other things just as well -

Tossing Kip’s briefs aside, Scott’s arms wrapped around his legs, those wonderful hands bracing his thighs as Scott kissed every inch of newly exposed skin.  Everything except Kip’s very hard dick, which Scott was thoughtful enough to brush his cheek against once or twice, but which mostly went ignored.

Hands balled into fists where they gripped the pillow, Kip’s gasps gave way to whines.  “Scott…please…”

An apologetic nip, and then Scott was gone entirely, and Kip would have laughed at how his hips jerked at the abandonment except that he was too busy feeling bereft.

Not that it lasted - Scott was back almost at once, his own briefs gone as he settled himself back between Kip’s thighs.  One hand braced on the mattress for balance, the other hand slick and finally, finally reaching for -

Kip moaned, hips lifting, back arching, just from Scott taking him in hand.  As Scott's hand started to move, Kip’s whole body came alive.  The muscles in his legs flexed, his hands grabbed and let go of anything in reach, his spine couldn’t decide if it wanted to be flat against the support of the mattress or arched hard enough to lift Kip’s hips off the bed.

Fuck, he loved this.  Loved when his mind all but left him and he could just live in his body.  Feel everything.  Know nothing.  Nothing but how good it all felt and that he’d get to return the favor later, because he was so damn lucky to be in love.

He’d missed Scott moving, only catching the change when Scott’s lips pressed against his sternum.  His boyfriend now braced on his elbow, the muscles in his arm defined as they worked to keep Scott balanced above him, and if they’d gotten to this point a little faster, Kip would definitely have been enjoying the show.  But Scott had been slow and teasing this morning, and all Kip could think about was that beautiful face that was so close to him, but not close enough.

Letting go of the pillow, Kip tugged at Scott’s shoulders until the other man finally moved.  Kip kissed him once, twice, his mouth falling open to say something sweet or stupid or nonsensical before he kissed Scott again.  But then Scott shifted again, and suddenly it wasn’t Scott’s hand wrapped around Kip’s dick alone, but both of theirs.  Scott’s fist loose enough that they could move but still enough to hold them together, and Kip’s brain went fully offline at that.

Scott’s hips between Kip’s thighs, rocking steadily in counterpoint to his hand’s faster pace, Kip’s dick very much along for the ride.  Scott’s warm, solid body above him, that voice Kip loved making approving sounds as Kip ran his hands over everything he could reach.  Scott’s mouth gently demanding, teasing him with kisses until Scott’s tongue slipped through to caress his own.

Fuck, coffee was never gonna beat this.

His arms wrapped around Scott’s shoulders like he’d fall off the Earth if he let go, Kip lost track of the sounds he was making as Scott worked them closer to the edge.  Gasps as Scott kissed his cheek, moans as Scott trailed down his neck, something high pitched and desperate as Scott pressed a kiss to his shoulder.  Kip felt more than heard his voice cut out as Scott pressed a gentle kiss to his ear.

“Show me?”

It was like someone had cut a rope.  Suddenly everything let go at once.  Kip’s breathing, his hands digging into Scott’s back, his hips jerking into Scott’s fist as his release cascaded through him.  Overwhelming and wonderful and all the better for the way Scott shuddered against him, muscles tense and his voice in Kip’s ear as he found his own satisfying ending.

The room settled around them, sunlight dancing with dust particles as their breathing came back to normal.  The pulse pounding at Kip’s neck slowly lowering to something almost like resting.  The enjoyable feelings of sex swapping places with things like affection and contentment and a profound sense of how lucky he was.

Draped over him like a blanket, oblivious to the mess they’d just made, Scott eventually let out a deep, happy sounding sigh.  His legs tangled with Kip’s, one hand pressed against his side as if he wanted to feel Kip’s lungs expand when he breathed, it was a longer moment still before Scott pushed himself back up on his elbow.  Hair messy, gaze tracing the lines of Kip’s smiling face, that intensity still there, because his boyfriend was just an intense kinda guy, but softened into the kind of expression Kip thought he might be able to spend the rest of his days looking back at.  “Good morning.”

Kip laughed and pulled Scott back down for a kiss.  “It really is.”

Chapter 7: Cat Nap

It had been his dad’s idea.  Scott had already been to the house, so it was familiar territory.  More helpfully, they’d walked there, so if anyone looked out their windows and saw him, it wouldn’t be the first time.  Or even the third.  But after the mess that had been their aborted date at the ice rink, Scott had been chafing to prove he could do more than breakfast at a diner without losing his nerve.  And while it wasn’t “out in public” in the sense that they were surrounded by strangers in a place where there was a limited expectation of privacy, it was also not having a nice dinner in their own apartment.

Given his son’s propensity for exploration, George Grady had bought a house with a fenced-in backyard.  At the time they’d moved in, the neighbors had wondered if this single father and his young son would be antisocial and were pleased to be proved immediately wrong.  In fact the Wilsons thought the Gradys could perhaps be a little more standoffish, at least on the average Tuesday.

With the Admirals back to training at least four days a week, they’d been forced to pick a Saturday.  Which meant more people were at home and that they couldn’t stay too late because Kip had a shift at the Kingfisher.  But it was still a late summer day,  with that slightly-too-hot attitude that August loved so much, and Kip was fascinated to find that when exposed to fresh air and sunlight, Scott Hunter behaved remarkably…like a cat.

Curled up on the wood slate bench near the maple tree that loomed lovingly over the space, Scott was doing his very best not to blink slowly.  The fact that the half empty bottle in his loose grip represented his second beer probably wasn’t helping.  And the ambient soundtrack of birdsong and neighborhood kids tended to prove weirdly soothing after a long week of exercise and tactics and media training.

Sipping his own beer, Kip smiled as he watched Scott shake himself and pretend like it was working.  “You can take a nap if you want.”

Scott frowned half-heartedly.  “That would defeat the purpose of spending the day together.”

“We spend most days together.”

The half-hearted frown morphed into a no-hearted glare.  “That’s not what I meant.”

Through the open kitchen window, Kip could hear his dad gathering up supplies.  Chopped lettuce, diced onions, sliced tomatoes – all the basic toppings for the burgers he was excited to use as his maiden meal on the new grill he’d bought last week.  Grilling was not George Grady’s strongest skill, but he’d never under cooked any food using it.  So at least the potatoes wouldn’t be crunchy in the middle.

“Both our schedules are only going to get busier from here on out,” Scott was saying.  He was studying the grass in front of his shoes while he did it, though.  A passing breeze making the longer blades sway.  “Passing each other in the hall isn’t the same.”

“Really sure I’ll see you more often than that,” Kip teased.  He took another sip as Scott squinted at him, giving his sun-sleepy boyfriend a chance to work it out before explaining.  “We do sleep in the same bed.”

Scott hummed.

Kip had the passing thought that if they ever bought a house, it had to have a backyard.  One with a tree so leaves could dapple sunlight over napping hockey players.

“Either of you boys feel like lending a hand?”

Scott looked up, but Kip was already on his feet.  Darting across the grass, he met his dad at the bottom of the short set of stairs that led from the back porch to the “patio” – a modest off-rectangle of poured concrete that was about the right size to house a grill and risk skinning a distracted young boy’s bare knees.

His dad grinned.  “Thanks, buddy.”

“Any time.”  Taking the over stacked tray of toppings from his dad, Kip waited while his dad rebalanced burgers and buns and grill tools before walking ahead.  He dropped the deconstructed salad on the little table next to the grill as his dad set up his usual conveyer belt of items on the other side.  Scanning the immediate area, Kip grinned.  “Should I run back in and grab your beer?”

“Nope!”  Triumphant, his dad fished a bottle out of one of the side pockets on the khaki-colored cargo shorts he’d insisted on buying this year.  His smile could only be described as smug.  “And you thought I bought these for fashion.”

“No one would ever accuse you of buying those shorts for fashion,” Kip replied.

His dad laughed.  “At least I didn’t get the camo ones.”  Glancing over Kip’s shoulder, his dad nodded with his chin in the direction of the tree.  “Though you could rescue your boyfriend’s beer, if you wanted.”

Turning around, Kip felt his insides melt a little more.  Scott had braced his elbows on his knees, but it had been inevitable.  Head bowed, Kip could almost hear the even breathing.  He could definitely see the failing grip on the beer bottle’s neck.

He made his way over, snatching the beverage just before it fell, and setting it over on a nearby metal table.  The sort of rusted white, did-we-actually-buy-this? variety that seemed to pop up in every backyard.  Much like mushrooms and racoons.

Considering his options, Kip jogged back inside, trying to remember where they’d stuffed the beach bag after their vacation.  It took a few minutes of rummaging – and the certainty that this was not where they’d put the thing away originally – before Kip found what he was looking for.  Reemerging on the back porch, he held up the red and yellow towel in response to his dad’s questioning eyebrows.

“He’s going to fall over if we leave him like that,” Kip said, walking past and shaking open the slightly musty fabric.

“Burn the shit out of the back of his neck, too,” George opined.

Laying the red and yellow fabric out on the grass – it was based on some art print Kip had loved as a preteen, but the image was too faded now for him to be sure which one it was – Kip considered the best way to get his boyfriend off the bench.  Since if Scott woke up, he’d object to napping on the grass even more strongly than he’d objected to nodding off on a bench.

“Just tug.”

Looking over his shoulder in the direction of the west fence, Kip considered the boy draped halfway over it.

Thomas considered him in return.  “When I fall asleep, my dad just picks me up.”  He shrugged.  “I never notice.”

“Maybe adults notice more things.”

Thomas pursed his lips, unconvinced.  “No…I’m pretty sure adults notice less.”

Over by the grill, his dad laughed.

Turning back, Kip tried to think of an alternative.  But since the only thing he could come up with was trying to pick Scott up – which would not work – it looked like tugging was the play.

Wrapping his hands around Scott’s upper arms, Kip tugged.

And immediately fell on his butt as his unresisting boyfriend tumbled forward.  Still asleep.

“It’s ‘cause he trusts you,” came the wisdom from on high.  Wisdom that was currently in the middle of the dubious choice that was clambering unassisted over the Grady’s fence.

“You want help with that?” his dad called.

“No, I got it,” came the reply, followed shortly by a thump and a grunt.

“God, I miss the days,” Kip’s dad muttered as Thomas scrambled to his feet like a six foot drop meant nothing.

Walking over to where Kip was gently pushing his boyfriend off his lap and onto the towel, Thomas took in the operation with far more seriousness than was due.  Once Scott was sprawled, mostly on the towel, Thomas nodded.  “You should put a hat over his face.”  When Kip didn’t move, he added.  “So he doesn’t burn.”

“We’re not worried about his hands, though?” Kip asked.

Thomas shook his head.  “The human head has thinner skin.  That’s why head injuries bleed more, even when they’re not serious.”

Who wanted to bet Thomas’ mother didn’t care about thin skin when her boy came home with blood on his face?

“I’ll grab it,” his dad called.  He held up his empty beer to Thomas.  “Iced tea, neighbor?”

“Yes, please.”

Pulling himself to his feet, Kip found his way back to his chair while Thomas plopped himself down on what had been Scott’s bench.  “You stop by for a reason?”

Thomas investigated something on one of the arms of the bench with sincere intensity.  “Just doing my rounds.”

Kip fought a smile.  “Your rounds?”

“Something’s been irritating the local dogs.  I got in trouble for doing my rounds at night, so now I have to check things out during the day.”  Thomas looked up.  “Which is stupid, because whatever it is is happening at night.”

“Could just be racoons?” Kip offered.

Thomas nodded.  “Probably.  But if we’re gonna tell Mr. Wilson he’s got raccoons, we’re gonna need proof.”

And riot gear.

Picking up his beer, Kip actually took the conversation seriously.  “Found any proof yet?”

“None that suggests racoons.”

Kip frowned.  “If it’s not racoons, what else could it be?”

“Mr. Kumar thinks it’s petty vandals.  Mrs. Nakamori thinks it’s some kind of bird.”  Thomas squinted up at the roof of the Grady home.  “Leo thinks it’s aliens.”

Well, Leo would.

“What would the aliens want that would be irritating the dogs?”

“Stealing dog toys.”

Finishing his beer, Kip reflected that it was an ill omen if one of Leo McGarry’s theories made sense.

“Racoons could steal dog toys, too,” Thomas said.  His gaze dropped to watch Kip’s dad exit the back door.  “The biggest issue with his theory is that none of the dog toys appear to be missing.”

“So non-existent aliens are stealing dog toys that are still accounted for?” Kip summarized as his dad walked over with an old ball cap.

“Aliens exist,” Thomas said.  “They just don’t steal dog toys.”

“What do they steal?” Kip’s dad asked as he gently dropped the ball cap over Scott’s face.

Thomas shrugged.  “Probably whatever humans steal.  We’re all aliens to somebody’s home world.”

Kip and his dad shared a look.  Sometimes, kids could get a little too real.

“So intellectual property rights, then?” Kip’s dad offered.

Thomas pursed his lips.  “That would require psychic manipulation on a level I don’t think even Mr. Wilson would miss.”  A pause.  “Besides, nobody in that house has any imagination to steal.”

Kip snorted as his dad handed Thomas his glass of iced tea.  “Harsh.”

Thomas frowned, unrepentant.  “Have you seen the Halloween candy they give out?”

His dad headed back to the grill as Kip toyed with his empty bottle.  Legs folded under him on the bench, Thomas drained half his glass in a single slug, then squinted against the inevitable brain freeze.

“Ow.”

Kip laughed through his nose.  “You drank it.”

“You’d think I was old enough to know better.”

Ow, indeed.

Holding the sweating glass with one hand, Thomas gestured at the sleeping hockey player with the other.  “Any chance your friend likes to irritate dogs?”

“Not likely,” Kip said.  “Scott likes dogs.”

“Scott likes everybody.”

Kip thought back to a conversation about a certain nosy reporter Todd had e-mailed them about last month.  “Not…everybody.”

“Why’d you bring him to your dad’s house?”  Thomas took another, smaller slug of tea.  “Don’t you have a bed at your place?”

“Scott has a bed,” Kip said, keeping it vague.

He tried to ignore the flare of annoyance that he had to be vague.  But he’d agreed to this, and between the breakfasts at the diner and days like today, Scott was proving true to his word.  Small steps maybe, but steps, and it was Kip’s end of the bargain not to push too hard.  Because he knew if he told Scott he couldn’t do this and he needed Scott to come out next month, Scott was just self-harming enough to make himself do it.  And he’d do it by shoving all his emotions down into that pit he’d dug when he was young and scolding himself for having those emotions in the first place.

It didn’t count if Scott had to bleed for their happiness.  Kip didn’t want that, and in the end, he was pretty sure he’d lose Scott if he pushed him like that.  If he forced because he could, instead of helping the man he loved be brave about a thing Scott already wanted to be brave about.

“Do you have separate beds?”

Kip froze.  “Do we…what?”

Thomas shrugged.  “My sister and her boyfriend only have one bed.”  He stuck his tongue out and made a face.  “Don’t ask me how I know.”

Caught off guard by the one-two punch, it took Kip a moment to respond.  Finally, he said.  “She had to babysit you for a weekend and you got stuck sleeping on the floor.”

“I said not to ask,” Thomas said.  “And it was the couch.”

“I didn’t ask.  I guessed.”

Thomas waved his free hand.  “You’re avoiding my question.”

Slowly, Kip answered him.  “Scott…only has one bed.”

“But he doesn’t let you sleep in it?”

“He…does.”

Thomas studied him for a long moment, dark blue eyes unblinking.  Then, abruptly, he sat up straight.  “Oh!  This is supposed to be a secret!”

Kip exhaled.  “It…is.”

“For how long?”

Kip cocked his head.  “What makes you think there’s a time limit?”

Thomas gave him an exasperated look.  “Long term secrets are for bad things.  Having a boyfriend is not a bad thing.”

“Hockey players aren’t supposed to have boyfriends.”

“Has anybody told them that?”

The grin that spread across Kip’s face felt a little bit manic.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Thomas dragged his pinched fingers across his lips.  “If we’re not supposed to know about you two, I’m probably not supposed to know about anybody else.”

Kip felt his stomach dip.  “We’re?”

Thomas shrugged again.  “Like half the neighborhood knows.”

“That I’m dating someone in the NHL?”

“That you’re dating a guy who plays hockey.”

Now Thomas was being vague.  “Thomas…”

Thomas sighed.  “Your dad loves hockey.  He used to host watch parties.  He got other people to host them, too.  At least when the Admirals made the playoffs.”

Kip remembered.

Thomas gestured at Scott.  “The Admirals.”

It had always been a risk.

“He could –” Kip started, but stopped at the look on Thomas’ face and tried again.  “It’s…sometimes people aren’t very nice about professional male athletes who have boyfriends.”

“Or professional female athletes who have girlfriends?”

Kip nodded, though that did seem to be a little less scandalous.  “Yeah.”

In that way kids did sometimes when they came up against an idea that didn’t fit their understanding of the world, Thomas bounced in his seat.  Just the once.  “That’s stupid.”

“It is.”

“Scott’s nice.”

Kip smiled.  “Very nice.”

“And you’re nice.”

“Thank you.”

Thomas frowned.  “How are you supposed to get married and live happily ever after if nobody can know you’re dating?”

“You don’t have to get married to live happily ever after,” Kip said.

Thomas rolled his eyes.  “I know that, but he’s your boyfriend.”  Thomas gestured at Scott a third time.  “You really think he’s the kind of guy who won’t ask?”

Kip considered the fucking CIA super sleuth perched on his dad’s backyard bench.  “I…think he’ll ask.  Someday.”

“And the NHL will be nicer about a husband than it will a boyfriend?”

Kip hesitated, but Scott didn’t.  “I’m not planning on giving them a choice.”  Knuckling the brim of the ballcap up, Scott grinned at the kid who already knew everything.  “You’re pretty smart.”

“For a kid?” Thomas asked sarcastically.

“For a guy who fell over a fence instead of climbing over it.”

Thomas shrugged.  “Gravity, thou art a heartless bitch.”

Scott sat up, setting the ballcap properly on his own head.  “Only when you treat her wrong.”

Thomas gave Scott an appraising look.  “What does that mean?”

Scott shook his head.  “Can’t tell you today.  Dinner’s almost ready, and then Kip and I have to go.”

Thomas opened his mouth, realized something, and smiled.  “Guess you’ll just have to come by again.”

“Guess we will.”

“Even though you’re both bad at keeping secrets.”

Scott shrugged, and only Kip would have noticed the slight hitch in the movement.  “Some secrets don’t want to be kept.”

“But we’re keeping this one,” Thomas said.

“For now.”  Scott looked up at Kip, tone light and words serious.  “Only for a little while.”

“What’s a little while?”

Scott looked back at Thomas.  After a moment, Kip watched him reach a decision.  “Spring 2017.”

Thomas nodded.  “When your contract expires.”

What the actual fuck with this kid.

“Burgers are ready!” came the summons from the grill.  “We eating inside or outside?”

“Inside,” Kip called.  “Makes clean up easier.”

“Wimp.”

Kip laughed as Thomas and Scott got to their feet.  He didn’t bother to hide his smile as Scott held out a hand to help him up.

“Guess I should go,” Thomas said.  “Six more yards to check.”

“Which direction are you going?” Scott asked.  When Thomas pointed, Scott crossed over to the east fence.  When Thomas didn’t move, Scott said, “Well, come on then.”

Cautious for the first time, Thomas made his way over.  When Scott made a sling with his hands, Thomas put one foot gently into it.

“One hand on my shoulders,” Scott said.  “Grab the top of the fence with the other.”

Thomas grabbed Scott’s shoulder, and suddenly the boy was four feet taller and balancing with a startled laugh.  “Hey!”

“Plant your butt,” Scott said.  Thomas twisted until he could sit on the narrow, flat top of the fence.  Scott’s hands were now on Thomas’ hips, helping him balance.  “OK, now when you drop, try to land on your feet.  But let your knees bend so you roll with the impact.”

“Got it.”

Swinging his legs over the fence, Thomas patted Scott’s hands to signal him to let go.  When Scott did, Thomas leaned forward and dropped out of sight.

There was a slightly different sounding thump this time.  “Cool!”

“Good job, Mikey,” Scott called through the fence, before turning to Kip with a wide smile.  “Nice kid.  Way too damn perceptive.”

“Trained by the Feds,” Kip said, matching Scott’s smile.  But even as he did, he felt something cold brush the back of his neck.  “Scott –”

“I’m OK.”  The words came out sincere, almost…comfortable.  Scott looked startled, but the lines of tension around his eyes had faded away.  “I’m…I’m OK.”

“With my entire neighborhood suspecting that I’m dating you?” Kip asked, because he felt like it had to be said.

Scott paused, but only for a moment, before nodding.  “Yeah…I am.”

Well, then.

“It’s not like we could put that genie back in the bottle,” he went on, and the smile this time was almost shy.  “And…I’m not ashamed of you.”

“I know,” Kip said, but his heart swelled to hear it all the same.  “But…an entire neighborhood?  We’re going to fool the NHL but we can’t fool my neighbors?”

“Pretty sure your neighbors care infinitely more about your happiness than the NHL cares about mine,” Scott said, and Kip tried not to wince.

“Boys?”  His dad was standing on the back porch, mildly singed burgers patiently cooling on the plate.

“Coming,” Kip called.  He started to lead the way back to the house when Scott caught his elbow.  Turning back, Kip managed a delighted grin before Scott kissed him.  Outside, in his own backyard, where nosy kids could pop up at any time.

Pulling back, Scott’s smile was a different kind of shy this time.  “You know, that’s probably the biggest motivation I have to come out.”

“What is?”

“That I can kiss you anywhere.”

Grinning like an idiot, Kip kissed his boyfriend.  “You make that sound like a threat.”

Scott pulled him into a hug.  “You might get tired of it.”

“Never,” Kip said, and kissed him again.

“Boys, at this rate Kip’s gonna have to eat dinner on the subway!”

“Absolutely not,” Kip said and dragged Scott toward the house.  “You can kiss me anywhere, but I will not risk food on the New York City Subway.”

Chapter 8: Good Dog

The first game back in regulation always came with nervous energy.  Didn’t matter how many seasons a guy had played.  Didn’t matter which team they were on, newly traded or years-long entrenched.  It was Game One.  Day One.  And everybody could feel it under their skin.

Muller was needling Demeter, the two men winding each other up to try and relieve the pressure.  MacDow was running math problems in his head, muttering numbers under his breath like an 1800s seance.  Zullo was scowling into his phone.  Vaughn was listing dog breeds.  Coach Murdock was pacing out in the hall, unless someone asked, in which case he was definitely not pacing out in the hall.

It was a busy room full of distracted men, and Eric figured it was the best shot he’d get.  Because setting up a coffee date was never the way to catch Scott off guard.

Leaning in close, knocking their shoulders together to reinforce the image of two old friends talking each other down from pre-game jitters, Eric asked, “He got a name?”

Scott went rigid.  He knew it would happen, so Eric didn’t take it personally.  But he did wonder if he’d wildly misread his best friend.

But Scotty was his best friend, and nobody played Center if they were stupid.  Somewhere in the weeks that had passed since that Hockey Day, Scott Hunter had registered what his teammate and friend knew.  And had definitely spent too much time thinking about it.  And had said not one damn word.

One hand gripping his duffle with suddenly white knuckles, the other still inside, Scott peeked at Eric, brown eyes very wide.  His voice very soft.  “Kip.”

Eric felt the victory like adrenaline in his veins.  But he kept his reaction small.  Just a simple nod.  “Kip.”  Then he added a grin.  “Good choice.  Sounds like we’re talking about a dog.”

Slightly shorter than Scott, with black hair and an open, friendly face, Eric had clocked the man as soon as he’d walked into the community ice rink that day.  Had clocked the way he and Scott had been comfortably chatting before one of the kids had shouted Scott’s name.

He’d definitely clocked the way Scotty’s entire demeanor had changed after that.  Head up, shoulders tight, that easy smile replaced by a professional mask of polite interest.  And the man he’d walked in with doing his best to keep up with the abrupt shift in plans.

The chaos of the day had helped cover the awkwardness, but Eric had still kept track of the man.  Years of keeping his expression neutral on the ice helped hide the wince every time the man tried and failed to figure out how to interact with Scott in this space.  Eric watched as the hours ticked by and this very nice looking person slowly ran out of patience.  And as one of the nicest men Eric knew kept hurting the feelings of someone important enough for Scott to bring him to an ice rink.

He wondered at Kip’s influence when suddenly - if only for a moment - Scott’s pulse-pounding fear was replaced by mundane annoyance.  “Are you calling my -”  He stopped, bit his teeth together, and tried again.  “He is not a dog.”

“Are you calling my -”

Eric rolled the almost slip around in his head, marveling at what it implied.

What he said out loud was, “Nobody’s gonna use that name for their cat.”

The moment had passed; Scott had clearly remembered where they were.  The fear was back, but his knuckles weren’t bone white anymore.  The grip on his bag was still tense, but Eric didn’t think he was going to get checked by his own Captain tonight.  As if Scotty would ever do such a thing to someone on his own team.

Sitting up with the tape he’d been digging for, Scott said, voice almost casual.  “It’s a good name.”

“For a good dog,” Eric replied.  He let his grin show some teeth this time as Scott side-eyed him.  “What’s he like?”

“My dog?”

Eric cocked his head.  “Unless you got a bird to keep him company?”

Scott scowled, but Eric caught the smile it hid.  “What the hell would I do with a bird?”

“My sister always wanted a bird,” Eric said by way of reply.

Picking at the end of the tape, Scott took a moment to answer.  No doubt weighing the chances of someone overhearing and understanding that Scott had not suddenly felt the urge to own a pet.  Though nobody who’d been on the Admirals for more than a week would be surprised to find out Scotty was a dog person.  Honestly, Carter was still surprised their friend lived in a penthouse downtown and not a house with a yard and swingset out back.

“He’s smart.”  Liberating the end of the tape, Scotty didn’t look at him.  “He starts classes next week.  Probably be the best…um, the best of the bunch.”

This was the downside to his tactic.  Scott was likely to twist himself into knots over the phrasing instead of remembering how most people gushed about their pets like they were their own, human children.

Still, it was a start.  And more than Eric had worried he would get on his first try.

He’d really planned for a black eye and a long road back to being on first names with his Captain.

“Smart is good,” Eric said.  He tugged on the sleeve of his compression shirt, more for something to do than because it needed it.  He shot Muller a quizzical look, the Defenseman momentarily spaced out before Demeter leaned over and flicked his ear.  At the lack of twitch, Eric recognized the game, and went back to ignoring the pair.  “I remember him being pretty cute?”

Scott’s gaze snapped to Eric’s face.  “What?”

OK, maybe the locker room was pushing it.  But he really did believe Scott would have panicked worse in a coffee shop.

Maybe he should stop.  He could see Scott’s pulse in his throat, and while their lives were more important than any career, Eric really didn’t want to be the reason Scott kept skating into the boards tonight.  “Um…Hockey Day?”

“Oh.  Right.”  Scott went back to fussing with his tape.  “He is.  Cute and sweet and funny.”

“Gotta love a personality,” Eric said.

And son of a bitch, Scott actually smiled.  Mostly to himself, but it made Eric’s heart ache to recognize that he hardly ever saw that smile.  Sure hadn’t seen it recently.  Not since last Fall, maybe, with the stark exception of a few weeks ago.  At an ice rink full of kids, before either of them had noticed they weren’t alone in the lobby.

Scott spoke up, distracting him.  “You know, if anyone’s a dog around here, it’s you.”

Eric laughed.  “You think so?”

Scott glanced at him, pulling free a few inches of the tape before picking up his stick.  “Big, hairy, overly-friendly.”

“Not sure there’s an insult in there,” Eric countered, “but I’ll thank you for the compliment.”

Scott laughed, loudly enough to get Polaski’s attention, but not to keep it.

“I could be a Saint Bernard,” Eric continued.  “I help people, kids love me, I’m house broken.”

“You bring whiskey but you don’t drink it,” Scott added, and Eric’s heart swelled at the smile.  The way Eric had poked a spot he knew was sensitive, and not only was Scott still speaking to him, he hadn’t been consumed by terror while doing it.  Eric had known more than one guy in his career who would have pissed himself at such an attempted conversation.  Fifteen minutes ago, he couldn’t have been sure how Scotty would have reacted.

There was still plenty of tension in those shoulders.  The smile was still followed by an anxious frown.  Scott still wasn’t quite looking at him.  But he wasn’t avoiding Eric’s eyes, either.

“What about me?” Scott asked.  He gifted Eric another quick glance.  “What kind of dog do you think I’d be?”

A mutt, Eric thought, his throat closing up at the unwelcome bit of internal honesty.  You’d be the sweetest dog in the pound, sad eyes and a hopefully wagging tail.  Just happy to have a forever home.  “A chihuahua.”

Scott punched him.  “Benny!”

Eric grinned, swallowing the truth, and tried again.  “Hm…maybe a blood hound.  You’re pretty dogged when you think we can score.”

Scott rolled his eyes.  “Fine, Benny.  Be that way.  Bullshit your answer.”

“Hey, I picked Saint Bernard,” Eric said.  “What breed would you pick for me?”

Scott considered for a moment, the tape wrapped once around his stick briefly forgotten.  Then, “I think I would go with Saint Bernard.”

“Lazy.”

“You are big and hairy,” Scott went on, ignoring him, “but you’re loyal.  Good with a team.  Goalies are always guardians, not just of the net but of the other players.  You’re happy in what is often considered a support role, but no one could ever call you lazy.”  Scott looked at him properly this time.  “You are in fact good with kids.”

A point for Hunter; Eric couldn’t remember the last time he and Holly had discussed starting a family, but he knew they’d both elected to avoid the conversation until it was starting to feel too late.

“And everyone’s always happy to see you,” Scott finished, reaching over and giving Eric’s shoulder a shake.  “Crisis or otherwise.”

Even in an almost-crisis Eric had been the one to cause.

Grabbing Scott’s shoulder in return, reinforcing the image of teammates who’d agreed to something, Eric chose his words on purpose.  “Any dog would be lucky to be yours, Scotty.”

Scott’s breath caught, but his expression didn’t change.  Not a smile, but not a frown, and when he exhaled, his breath didn’t shake.  “I…hope so.”

Eric grinned, hiding his pride in his friend behind his pride in his team.  “I know so.”  He slammed Scotty on the back before raising his voice just enough.  “We’re gonna kill it out there tonight.  Start the season with a bang!”

“Blood on the ice!” Someone shouted.

“No blood on the ice,” Coach Murdock called from the hall.

Scotty shook his head and went back to the task of taping his stick.  They all trusted their equipment manager, but rare was the hockey player who didn’t tape his own gear.  And because he was worthy of that trust, Mallar didn’t take it personally.  Though he did expect all the sticks to be accounted for, and woe until anyone who misplaced a glove.

“Shit,” MacDow muttered to no one, looking around his space before standing and rooting around in his stall.

Eric watched Polaski tuck something behind his back with a smirk.  He watched Carter sit up straight and shake himself like the small dog he definitely was in a former life.  He watched Zullo stuff his phone into his bag while Cameron yawned, bored of his neighbor’s drama.  And he watched Scott tear the tape before finishing his stick, the anxiety around his eyes almost back to pre-game levels.

Dropping the tape back into his duffle, Scott made to stand, and then stopped.  He ran his tongue over his lower teeth, thinking too hard about something, and then asked, as casually as a man like Scotty could, “Would…you like to meet him?”

Eric nearly bit the tip of his tongue off keeping his reaction calm.  “Of course I would.”

Scott nodded and stood, making his way out to where Mallar was doing his own pre-game ritual.

Never able to resist an empty stall, Carter appeared next to Eric, face alight.  “I heard dog.”

“You have big ears.”

“Benny.”

“I will keep you posted,” Eric said, shaking his head as Carter wriggled with glee.  “I know they’re your thing, but damn.”

“There’s a betting pool,” Carter said.  “Straight theory these days, but I bet I can get Demeter to join in if there’s any real news.”

Oh boy.

“I will keep you posted,” Eric repeated, and because he was Carter, that was enough.  The younger man bounced back to his own stall, immediately giving Mosher an earful about something, and Eric wondered again at his choice of location.  If Carter had heard one word, there was always the chance someone else had heard two.

But he’d been careful, and Scotty was always careful.  Careful to the point of loneliness that made even Greg Huff keep track of how many nights Hunter did or did not go out with the team.  And truthfully, this bunch would believe a dog.  They’d even believe Scott was worried about getting said dog.

And Kip was absolutely a dog name.  High fucking praise, no matter what Scotty squawked.

“Gentlemen!  Get your gear on!  Time to warm up!”

“If this was a book, the man would speak exclusively in exclamation points,” Mosher opined, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest.

“I heard that!”

The team laughed and the room emptied, and as the last of them filed out, Eric caught Scotty checking his phone.  Smiling in that way Eric rarely saw, at what was definitely not a message from a dog.  Then tucking the phone away and shifting into Captain Hunter before following Goaltender Bennett out of the locker room and into the hallway that led out onto that all too familiar ice.

Chapter 9: Photographic Evidence

Aesthetically, his office looked a lot like his house.  The walls were the same darker shade of off-white, the wall-to-wall carpet bland and forgettable so that the oversized area rug looked more interesting without committing the faux paus of actually being interesting.  Tasteful, real but virtually unkillable plants tucked into strategic nooks around the room, the largest of which held pride of place on the sill of a window Todd looked out of maybe twice a day.

Someday he should probably think about why the most important spaces in his life were all decorated by women who hadn’t bothered to ask his opinion on anything, but he already suspected the answer was that Todd didn’t much care what the space looked like so long as it was functional.

And he did appreciate the plants.

The desk and the chair Todd had had a say in - he’d picked them out himself, years ago.  Back when he was young enough to still be vain but finally old enough to understand the threat of lower back pain.  And the value of a desk top large enough for small humans to work on coloring books in one corner without costing their ex-uncle any of his own working space.  It was dark wood, with enough decorative carvings to make the younger members of his industry think him old fashioned, and all the drawers opened with just enough force to make opening them feel like a choice and not a mindless habit.

Arranged before him on said desk was an intentional mess of papers.  A few looked legal in nature but weren’t, a few were and didn’t look it, and everything to his left was visual junk meant to hide the photographs underneath.

Flipping over one of the pieces of paper in the center of his desk, Todd considered once more what he knew about the man Scott Hunter had started dating.

Christopher Grady.  Went almost exclusively by Kip.  Both parents living, though all evidence suggested the mom had been out of the picture for most of his life.  Father, George Grady, currently taught high school History.  So the masochistic fruit didn’t fall far from the tree.

Todd winced at the unfortunate word choice, and even in the privacy of his own thoughts, tried again.

Masochistic father like masochistic son.

Any man who voluntarily dealt with a hoard of teenagers every day should probably be mentally evaluated.  But a career teacher and a single parent sounded like the exact kind of person who would have raised a resilient son, which was good.

Kip Grady didn’t know what he was in for, dating a professional athlete.  And it was Todd’s job today to try and make him understand.

His assistant stuck her head in through his office door, her hair 90% office approved black with a 10% streak of color, the currently neon green streak falling into her face today.  “Your 10:30 is here.”

Getting to his feet, Todd called a distracted, “Thanks” as she disappeared back into the outer office.  He scanned the rest of his note sheet as he fixed the front of his jacket, then tucked said page under one of the harmless looking ones covering his desk.

Undergraduate degree in Art History.  A continuous resume, if not a stable one.  Curse of the artist.  Worked at a smoothie shop until a few months ago.  Currently working at a bar called The Kingfisher.  A bar that Hunter was likely to visit, and where a presumed-straight hockey star might stick out.

Crossing his office, Todd stopped in his doorway.  He watched as his assistant made small talk with the man Todd had been researching since that late night phone call.  Slightly shorter than Hunter, with an athletic build and a magnetic smile.  It was easy to see how he’d turned Hunter’s head.  More interesting to Todd was how Hunter was standing behind his boyfriend.  Closer than mere friends, that polite mask cracked by the urge to smile he was obviously suppressing.  But what held Todd’s attention was the thing he wasn’t seeing.

Scott Hunter didn’t look stressed.

“Good morning,” Todd said by way of announcing his presence.  He offered Grady a smile and Hunter a nod.  “Thank you for agreeing to come in.”

“Some things are hard to do over the phone,” Grady said.  Behind him, Hunter looked like it had never occurred to him that Todd would request an in person meeting for something that didn’t require meeting in person.

Yet another reason to appreciate this particular client.

“Before we get started,” Todd said as his assistant slipped away, “I was wondering if I could chat with Mr. Grady for a couple of minutes?”  He watched the confusion and protectiveness flicker across Hunter’s face.  “Just so we can get an impression of each other.”

Hunter was hesitating, but Grady’s relaxed demeanor didn’t change.  If anything, he looked less concerned as he turned to grin up at Hunter.  “Worried he’ll tell me some embarrassing story he’d never repeat in front of you?”

“Todd would never,” Hunter said, and it was true.  Todd would never breach his client’s trust that way.

But he appreciated Grady’s tactic.

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Todd said, stepping to one side and holding his hand out in invitation.  “Mr. Grady?”

“Any chance I can convince him to call me ‘Kip’?” Grady said in lieu of a goodbye.  Hunter watched him go, considering something inside that intense head of his, then moved to sit on the couch and wait to be summoned.

No doubt the very edge of the couch.

Closing the door behind him, Todd led the way to his desk, gesturing to the chairs across from his own as they went.  He watched as Kip’s cheerful demeanor slipped just a little, the man doing his best to project friendly instead of nervous as he took a seat.  Even looking marginally uncomfortable, there was something reassuring about the laugh lines already carving themselves into this young man’s face.  Even if laugh lines had never stopped someone from being a problem Todd had to solve.

Kip shifted in his seat.  Posture correct, but not rigid.  Attention forward but not hyperfocused over Todd’s left shoulder.  He wasn’t afraid of Todd, but he understood that this was a formal meeting.

Good, good.

Resuming his own seat, Todd made a point to lean back a little.  Let his face relax into something just shy of a smile.  Professional approachability, even if Todd had only ever really been one of those things in his life.  “So, you prefer Kip.”  He let the smile widen just a smidge.  “Nice to meet you.”

Kip smiled in return.  “Nice to meet you, too.”

Todd nodded and ticked it off his mental list.  The cameras would love him.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries.  A shortened version than some people might expect but Todd had never understood the need to burn ten minutes on verbal nothingness.  It was a point in Kip’s column when the man appeared to be of a similar mindset.

Redirecting the small talk in a way that still clearly cut it off, Kip asked, “So…I’m here so we can meet?  Or is there paperwork I need to sign?”

“No paperwork,” Todd said.  Not yet anyway.

Kip nodded and shifted in his seat, some of the discomfort that comes with the beginning of a meeting starting to ease.  “Alright.  What do you need to know?”

Not offended by the nosiness of an agent.  Another point in Kip’s favor.

Folding his hands over his stomach, Todd considered the man before him.  In many ways this was day one, and Todd’s job did not include scaring off potential bad choices.  Only encouraging the active problems to leave, and even then that was sometimes beyond his purview.  And so far, he had no reason to believe Kip Grady was anything other than what Hunter had described him as.  So there was no reason to Fear of God this man into changing his mind.

Truthfully, Todd didn’t think he was that squishy.

“I know a great deal about Hunter’s life,” Todd began, “but he still has a private life.  This meeting - meeting you - is not about violating that privacy.  For him or for you.”

Kip nodded again, his head tilting to one side as he studied Todd in return.

“However, I cannot do my job as Scott’s representation, nor help either of you with potential future problems, if I know nothing about you.”  Todd smiled.  “Keeping that in mind, would you tell me how you and Hunter met?”

Kip rolled his words around in his mouth before he spoke.  “We met at my job.  I was…working in a smoothie shop.  Scott came in one morning during his run.  We talked, he came back…”  Kip shrugged.  Not apologetically but like he wasn’t sure how much more Todd needed to know.

This wasn’t about making Hunter’s boyfriend uncomfortable or about making Kip feel young, so Todd didn’t let the unfinished story hang in the air.  “How long ago was this?”

“Last October.”

That explained at least one of the photos.

“And you and Hunter have been together since last October?”

Todd noted the wince, the unconscious glance toward the door.  “No.  We, uh, took a break over the holidays.  Got back together in May.”

That explained the erratic behavior at the end of last season.

But Todd had more experience at keeping his face neutral than most FBI profilers.  “Before we go any further, I have to ask: Do you think this thing with Hunter is going to last?”

Kip looked a little surprised.  “Do I…I’m not sure I understand.”

He clearly did but he was annoyed at this level of nosiness.  And maybe that was fair.

Still.  “If I’m doing the math correctly, that’s two months on, four months off, coming up on five months on.”  Todd didn’t color his words with an emotion.  “Looking at the numbers alone, there’s not much there to make me think I need to worry about you long term.”  Beyond potential blackmail material against the Captain of the New York Admirals.

Something between anger and determination flashed across Kip’s face, and it made the thing buried deep in his chest that Todd refused to think of as worry relax a little.  Scott Hunter was a big boy - he could break his own heart.  But he was kind and generous and thoughtful, and Todd didn’t really want him to.

Kip opened his mouth to say something defensive, then closed it.  Locked his jaw as he thought about his words.  Squared his shoulders and tried again.  “I said break, but neither of us saw anybody else during that time.  And both of us were…busy trying to keep from being miserable.”

Ah…

“So you both start the clock back in October,” Todd said.

Slowly, Kip nodded.  “Yes.”

Good to know.

He’d expected the push back - hoped for it, really - so something pleased unfurled itself as Kip frowned at him for the first time.  “Do you vet everyone your clients date?”

“I’m not vetting you,” Todd replied.  “Hunter can date whomever he chooses.”

“Then why did you want to ‘chat on our own’?”

“I do not vet the people my clients date,” Todd repeated.  “But, when things get a little more serious, part of my job is to make sure that everyone knows what happens when you try to have a private life in the public eye.”

Kip nodded at this.  “Scott thinks I don’t know what I’m in for.  When he finally comes out.”

Todd agreed.  “You don’t.”

The set of his jaw, the way that perfect posture straightened up with a glare.  Somebody really should have recruited this guy for a sports league.  That much backbone could have gone up against the likes of Rozanov.

“You’re not ready,” Todd said, cutting off Kip’s combative retort.  “You can’t be ready.  Until you’ve had strangers tearing into your life because they have a face and a name and an interest, you can’t know how to be ready.  But I think you mean it when you say he’s worth trying.”  Todd let the intensity soften, just a smidge.  “And gods know Scott won’t let you drown.”

“Is this the part where you tell me not to break Scott’s heart?”

“No, it’s not. If you turn out to be trouble, or decide you don’t like dating an NHL star, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces when you’re gone.”

Kip looked a little like Todd had slapped him, and for a moment, Todd almost felt sorry for saying it.  But it had to be said.  It was indeed part of his job, but the first step was always to isolate the victim.  If Kip Grady was something other than the decent man he appeared through research to be, Todd needed to kill the idea of Hunter being reliant on him first and foremost.  Because Todd was years past sick of figuring out how to pry greedy claws out of his clients - and clients that couldn’t be convinced there were greedy claws that needed prying.

Taking a moment to recenter himself - why had no one snatched up this kid for a career that required a level head? - Kip chose his words carefully.  “I…have no intention of being trouble.  But I also have no intention…of walking away.”  He studied Todd’s face.  “And I am not here to convince an NHL star to out himself just to leave him to the wolves if this doesn’t work out.”

“If you and Hunter aren’t happy together, you should break it off,” Todd said.  “It will do far more damage to both of you if you don’t.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Todd knew that.  But it still needed to be said.

Sitting forward, Todd steered the conversation into the darker waters he’d called Kip here to discuss.  “I am not here to scare you off Hunter.  I’m certainly not here to plant scary ideas in your head about what’s coming.”  Todd waited until Kip nodded.  “The reason I wanted to meet with both of you today is because the invasiveness of dating a public figure doesn’t start in three years.”  Watching Kip’s expression carefully, Todd landed the blow as lightly as he could.  “You’re already in the public eye.”

Kip nodded.  “Social media’s a bitch.”

Apparently the blow had missed.

A shame.

Pressing a button on his landline, Todd waited for his assistant to answer before speaking.  “You can send Hunter in now.”

He waited while his assistant let Hunter in, the man thanking her with his usual politeness before shifting his attention to the meeting.  Brown eyes finding Kip immediately, sweeping over him as if Todd might have left bruises.

Sadly, that part came next.

He waited until Hunter was seated, watching without looking directly as Hunter covered Kip’s hand with his own.  Affection lacing his words in a way it hadn’t in front of Todd’s assistant.  “Everything OK?”

“I think so,” Kip said, but now Todd was the one being watched.  “But I think maybe Mr. Anderson has been saving the bad news for last.”

Touche.

Fishing a picture out from under the junk paperwork, Todd silently handed it over to the two men before him.  He watched as Kip took it, brows furrowing in confusion as he didn’t understand, then rising in distress as he did.  Hunter’s expression going through a similar evolution.

“Where did you get -”

“Social media is a bitch,” Todd parroted, “but it’s hardly the only place to post pictures of strangers people aren’t legally following around.”

The photo was of Hunter and Kip.  They appeared to be discussing which produce they were buying, but then they could have been discussing the greeting cards nearby.  Or waiting for the elderly lady near them to move so they could grab some milk.

There was nothing to suggest domesticity, but it was very clear they knew each other.  Well enough to keep a conversation going while buying milk.

Todd watched the feeling crawl across Kip’s skin.  The feeling of eyes he hadn’t known were there.  The anger at someone taking a piece of him, even just a small one.  The fear that was sparking to life at the idea that something so casual could be what ruined this three year plan, and neither of them had even known it was happening.  The cold of isolation and the hot of public embarrassment and the nervous energy of not being able to fight back against so many opponents.

It was an experience he’d watched happen to all of his clients.  Ten plus years ago, Hunter had been no exception.

“You’re not ready,” Todd said as Hunter let out a controlled breath.  Gentle on Kip because it wasn’t this young man’s fault that this was happening to him.  Falling in love should not be a thing a person felt punished for, and yet the price for loving Scott Hunter had just gone up.  Hoping to soften the blow, Todd glanced at Hunter as his client flicked his gaze from the photo to Kip to Todd himself.  “But Scott’s been doing this for years and he’ll help you get there.”

“Anything you need,” Hunter said, his own voice just as gentle.  Offering Kip a moment of softness before they continued.  But Kip didn’t take it.

“Who took this?”  Kip’s voice was surprisingly steady.  The anger was winning out.

“It doesn’t matter,” Todd said.  And it didn’t, because the site he’d pulled it off was full of casual photos of dozens of athletes and he’d need a court order to figure out who the humans were behind the internet handles.  “It wasn’t a journalist, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  Todd offered a shrug, testing Kip’s anger.  “Honestly, I’m kinda surprised Hunter agreed to go out in public. This sort of thing was always going to happen.”

“Don’t you mean it was always a risk?” Kip snapped as Hunter shot Todd a displeased look.

“No, Mr. Grady,” Todd said, focusing on the younger man before him, using the wrong name on purpose to make sure Kip was paying full attention.  “It was always a guarantee.”

Kip’s anger faltered, all the other emotions that came with the beginning of being potentially recognized mixing back in.  He didn’t look at his boyfriend next to him as he spoke.  “Scott didn’t…always want to go out.  In the beginning we never did.  Eventually we had a fight about it.  And I…left.  For a while.”

The aforementioned “break”.  Todd watched Hunter’s protective facade crack.  A hairline fracture, but the wound hadn’t healed just yet.

Kip reached forward, setting the photo back on Todd’s desk.  His voice hopeful and utterly unconvinced.  “But…one pic isn’t so bad…”

Todd unearthed the others and handed them over, Hunter’s eyes closing in recognition of the relentless work done by certain corners of the internet.

Kip made it through three more photos before he put them back down on Todd’s desk.  “I thought…”

“You two are doing an excellent job,” Todd said.  He’d had to dig for more than two minutes to find the first one, and they didn’t all link together like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.  It was deceptively encouraging.  “Honestly, I’d expected to find significantly more of these.”

“This is all of them?” Hunter asked, knowing it wasn’t.

Todd gave Hunter what he could.  “This is most of them.”

Kip looked expectedly ill.  “But…nobody even knows we…know each other.”

“Scott Hunter is an internationally recognized professional athlete in an age where gathering information about a person you’ve never met gets easier by the month,” Todd said.  Not unkindly, but without comfort.  “Even for a man who values his privacy, who’s built a career in one of the few sports where the players get to assume a level of privacy, there are complete strangers who could give you a disturbingly accurate summary of Hunter’s life.”

He watched Hunter grimace at the reminder.  A fact Hunter had learned to live with but had never truly made peace with.  And why should he?  Why should he have to?  Why was the reward for being a competent athlete, a successful part of the entertainment industry, someone who brought joy to millions of fans every year, a lack of privacy so pervasive that it often required therapy to really learn how to live with it?

Kip’s gaze had dropped back to the photographs.  The one on top of the pile was of Kip alone, standing on the sidewalk near a subway entrance.  He was looking at something on his phone, frowning a little at whatever it was, a backpack slung over one shoulder and his free hand tucked in the pocket of his jeans.

As part of an artist’s collage named Faces of New York, it would be funny.

As a man trying to date another man in private, it was terrifying.

“Why are they taking pictures of me,” Kip said, his voice faint.

“Because Hunter knows you,” Todd said, “and they don’t.”

They sat in silence for a long few minutes.  Things rearranging inside Kip’s head while Todd gave him the time and focus to do it.  Ideas changing and plans adjusting and emotions running wild before being wrangled back under control until they ran wild again.  Hunter sitting stone still while his boyfriend - his boyfriend, these trolls were going to have a meltdown when they learned about this fresh meat - worked through what he could alone, steadfast in his faith that when Kip needed his comfort, he would signal for it.

Once Kip took a deep enough breath, his hand finding Hunter’s and squeezing tight, Todd spoke.  Grounding the moment back into the moment.  “There’s nothing you need to do about this, Kip.”  Kip looked up at the use of his name, eyes wide before logic overruled panic.  Todd smiled, as reassuring as he could be.  Because he liked this man, liked the way in just this small window of time it was already obvious that he was grounding Hunter in ways even Eric Bennett never had.  “Part of my job is to keep track of things like this.  To make sure nothing catches either of you off guard or could come back to harm you in some way.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop.  “Like…if Scott had a stalker.”

Hunter glowered at an old memory as Todd nodded.  He could give a far better answer, but Kip already looked like he would need Hunter’s assistance to make it to the car to get home.  Vague as Todd had been, Hunter would have known better than to assume this sort of meeting wouldn’t trigger a panic attack if they took the subway.

“That’s why we’re meeting,” Todd said.  “So that you can understand what’s already happening, but so you know,” he stressed the word just a little, “that you and Hunter are not in this alone.  That he’s never been at the mercy of fame all by himself.”

Kip nodded absently as Hunter shot Todd a look of gratitude.  Because while Todd appreciated his client, he knew the feeling was mutual.  He hadn’t been Hunter’s first, but there was a reason he could feel confident he might be Hunter’s last.

Todd thought he saw that backbone rallying.  Trying to, at the very least.  Waited for Kip to speak once more.  “OK.”  Kip looked up at Todd; not looking at Hunter but still holding his hand tight enough to turn Hunter’s knuckles white.  “Is there anything else?”

There were a number of ways to take that question, but Todd thought he’d sown enough fear for one day.

Sitting back, he shook his head.  “Not today, Mr. Grady.”

“Kip.”

Todd smiled.  “Kip.”

For a moment, that backbone wanted to fight.  Caught the things Todd hadn’t said and wanted to get everything over with at once.  But Todd had been doing this a very long time, so it was a good sign when Kip flagged, that practiced posture slumping as his mind remembered how quickly he was going to lose the privacy he’d taken for granted his whole life.  The privacy he should have been able to keep taking for granted, except that five thousand years of human history said you couldn’t be famous and anonymous.  Even when you were dead.

“Go home,” Todd said.  A gentle shove.  “Talk to Scott.  Be upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

Kip almost laughed, and Todd thought this might all work out after all.  “Sounds like we’re both idiots.”

“Let’s go home,” Hunter said, and finally Kip looked at him.  Eyes wide and face pale, but nothing in his expression to suggest regret.  To suggest anything other than gratitude that Hunter had come to this meeting.  That if he was going to turn his life upside down, it was for a man like Scott Hunter.

“I promise I’m not upset,” Kip lied.

Hunter showed his teeth.  “Well I am.”

And a smile flickered around Kip’s mouth.

“Go home, Kip,” Todd repeated.  He met Hunter’s teeth with his own display of resolve.  “Be upset.  Be scared.”  Then Todd lifted his chin, Kip unconsciously doing the same.  “And then learn how to fight.  Because if you want Scott Hunter to change the NHL because he loves you that much, you’re gonna have to figure out how you two meet these nosy bastards head on.”

Kip still looked pale - probably would for the rest of the day - but he stood and held out his free hand for Todd to shake.  Todd wondered if he’d be able to let go of Hunter even knowing the risk someplace as innocuous as a sidewalk now posed.  “Thanks for the meeting.”

Todd stood, returning the shake, then shaking Scott’s left hand.  He wasn’t about to ask Hunter to let go first.  “I’m available any time.  You both have my number.”

“Thanks, Todd,” Hunter said.  Kip looked like he was fighting his way through another wave of shell-shock, so Todd didn’t take the lack of further dismissal personally.

He watched Kip leave, that impressive posture back in place before he left the office, Hunter at his side in more ways than one, and as sometimes still happened, Todd felt his insides squirm in sympathy.  He couldn’t afford to do anything with that feeling, but he counted it as a cursed kind of blessing all the same.  Proof that he was still human, no matter what his first wife said.

Looking back down at this desk, Todd tugged free the one photo he hadn’t been willing to show either man.  A shot of Kip and Hunter at the pier, the sunset doing beautiful things behind them.  Solidly upstaged by the smile on Hunter’s face as he watched Kip laugh.  The caption on the post simple and terrifying: Wish my boyfriend looked at me like that.

Hunter had always hated being famous.  Hated the photo shoots and the interviews and the idea that his face alone might make a product more desirable.  Hated having to be an idea that could manipulate customers.  Nevermind how much he hated having to tell the story of his parents over and over again at every hockey-themed charity event he signed up for.

Once he came out, all this would get so much worse.  Not forever, but for the first few years.  With a resurgence if any other players took Hunter’s actions as encouragement to do the same.  And since there were no openly gay NHL players, and precious few openly gay male athletes, they’d be pretty much writing the book on how to handle what came next.

“So you know that you and Hunter are not in this alone.”

Collecting the photos along with the rest of the actual paperwork on his desk, Todd tucked them all away in the correct file.  He dropped the file into the bottom right drawer of his desk, then set about clearing and resetting the desk top.  Junk into the junk drawer.  Pens into the middle drawer.  The random uncontainable paperclip back under his mouse pad, just to see where it would end up next.

Area reset, Todd pulled out a different file from the bottom right drawer of his desk.  A different client, with a different problem, and a stubborn streak that was going to get him fired in about two years.  Though he might well fire Todd first; he was an agent, not a miracle worker.

His assistant stuck her head in through the door, neon green streak now clipped back behind her ear.  “Your 11:00 is here.”  She grinned as Todd rolled his eyes.  “Can I get you more coffee?”

“Please,” Todd mouthed, and then scrunched his face up to look almost as irritated as he felt.  “Featherweight!  Get in here!”

Chapter 10: Conversations

There was too much traffic in New York City for anything to whiz by outside.  Between the congestion and the lights, even the best case scenario for this drive took twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes Kip was planning to spend staring out the window at nothing and no one.

“How important are radishes to this recipe?”  Scott didn’t look annoyed, but he did look hungry.  “Can’t we make dinner without them?”

“Hard to make a radish salad without radishes,” Kip said.  He looked back over the produce section of the corner store.  “The guy said they were down here, right?”

“The guy could have said they were in Timbuktu.”

That had been weeks ago.  Before both their schedules had gotten crazy and Scott had started traveling for games again.  Before Kip had needed to relearn train schedules to make sure he didn’t blow his second acceptable tardy for a professor who was more of a hardass than Kip had seen since middle school.  Before things like running out to grab groceries felt like genuine time spent together because other than that, it was mostly trying to go to bed at the same time.

“Found them,” Scott said.  He held up his prize.

Kip tried so very hard not to use a pet name.  “B…Scott, those are beets.”

“Kip?”

The car jerked as it inched forward, the shouting outside suggesting a pedestrian was the cause of the abrupt halt.

A hand touched his arm.  There, but easy to pull away from.

“Kip, please say something.”

“Is that too much?  You can say it if it is.  Um…”  Scott looked down, the vein in his forehead visible again.  “Do say something, though.”

Kip waited until the car started moving again before looking over at Scott.  At the man he was so in love with.  The man he’d been demanding share even more of his private life with the world.  The man Kip hadn’t fully understood before today barely had a private life at all.

“The reason I wanted to meet with both of you today is because the invasiveness of dating a public figure doesn’t start in three years.”  Watching Kip’s expression carefully, Todd ‘s words weren’t cruel.  Merely informative.  “You’re already in the public eye.”

“It’s just…a lot to process.”  He forced a smile he didn’t feel, which was convenient because Scott didn’t look like he believed him.  Kip reached over to pat Scott’s hand, the smile becoming a little more real as he felt Scott’s squeeze his arm.  “I’m not…I hadn’t really thought about it, I guess.  Strangers taking pictures of me.  Posting them online.”

That was the sort of thing Elena would have thought of.  Would have asked him about, had they still been having their weekly lunches.

But Elena had moved to California - maybe for now, maybe for ever - and she was chest deep in setting up her job’s new location.  Training people and problem-solving and learning the lay of the land in a new professional setting.  And hopefully learning the lay of the land in a physical sense, too.  Making new friends.  People she could be having her weekly lunches with now that Kip lived too far away to do more than call to catch up.

“We can talk about it,” Scott said.  “Todd’s right: I’ve been dealing with this since before I got drafted into the NHL.”  Kip watched the familiar anxious motion of Scott’s tongue running over his teeth.  “Unlike a certain Russian, I’ve never really enjoyed the cameras, but you do get…used to it.  Eventually.”

That had to be the least convincing argument Kip had heard about anything.

“So you’ve just been…putting up with this for years?”  Kip shook his head.  “People can just punch your name into Google and get so much more than your hockey stats.  Post their pictures and look-who-I-met moments and you just…have to live with that?”

“It won’t be so bad for you,” Scott said, and he sounded much more convincing this time.  “You aren’t the famous person, so while you’ll get…hit…they won’t focus on you long term.”  Scott dragged the tip of his tongue over one incisor.  “It’d be nice if they didn’t focus on you at all.”

It could have sounded incredibly vain, except that it was Scott.  So what could have been “I want the glory” came about “I’ll take the bullet”.

Which Kip didn’t really like, either, but it was Scott, and Scott never thought anybody should have to be in pain if he could be in pain for them.

“I appreciate you wanting to protect me from all this,” Kip said, “but there’s a flaw in your plan.”  He fought to keep his tone light-hearted.  “I’m not just the guy you’re dating - I’m the guy you’re dating.”  His smile felt fragile again.  “They’re gonna have more questions about that.”

“They can ask me.”

Kip let his head tilt in fond frustration.  “Scott…you know that’s not how this works.  For at least a little while I’m going to be ‘the guy who turned Scott Hunter gay’ and there will be people who are assholes about it.”  Nervous energy shot up and down his arms at the thought of someone sitting at the bar in the Kingfisher pulling out a recording device, or some not-student jogging up to him between classes.  “It’s gonna happen.”

“You didn’t turn me gay,” Scott said with a frown, and Kip laughed.

“No, I didn’t.”

“And the people who write about hockey don’t usually harass spouses.  That’s NFL bullshit.”

“The people who write about hockey have never had a gay one before.”

Scott shuddered at that and Kip did regret his phrasing.  Even if he wasn’t wrong.

Leaning across the seat, Kip kissed Scott.  Letting it linger when Scott’s hand came up to cup Kip’s cheek.  Letting the moment settle some of the anxious energy making Kip’s elbows buzz.

When he pulled back, Scott still looked concerned.  Those brown eyes watching Kip as if he was worried Kip might throw himself from a slowly moving vehicle or suddenly burst into tears.

It was possible there would be tears.

The feeling of the car changed as they turned into the parking garage under Scott’s building.  The rocking of the grates out front, then the distinct tilt as the car started downward.  And for all that the apartment had really begun to feel like home, Kip suddenly felt the events of the morning zing down his arms again.  And while he hadn’t meant to lie, the words came out anyway.  “Hey, I forgot that I promised to help my dad with something today.  Some long untouched closet he suddenly needs for storing winter coats.”  Kip rolled his eyes.  “Is it OK if I head straight out?  Shouldn’t be too much subway traffic this time of day but you never know.”

“Take the car,” Scott said, and Kip felt his insides squirm at the trust in that face.

“The car service is for taking you to and from games,” Kip said.

“The car service is for driving,” Scott corrected him, already taking his seatbelt off and leaning forward to knock on the partition.  “Geoffrey, change in plans.”

“Scott -” Kip started, but then the guilt silenced him.  Because he didn’t have any plans.  He didn’t even know if his dad would be home.  And Scott hadn’t so much as glanced at the phone Kip hadn’t pretended to check when Kip claimed he suddenly forgot he already had plans.

He sat there, quietly stewing, for the few minutes it took to reach the bank of elevators.  He kissed Scott goodbye and thanked him, again, for borrowing the car.  And he tried to mean it when he smiled at Scott’s insistence that Kip could use the car service whenever he needed, it was not just for hockey.

Kip watched Scott walk off through the window, his smile slipping away completely, until his maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a professional cough.  “We headed anywhere in particular, Mr. Grady?”

“Kip,” Kip said, absently.

Forcing himself back into the moment, Kip looked up at Geoffrey with most of a smile.  The driver returned it, the professional version of friendly, and waited while Kip finally recited his dad’s address, punching into the GPS on his dash.  Then the partition went back up and Kip was left alone with his thoughts for the drive out to his dad’s place.

Thomas was perched on the short decorative wall next to the mailbox as Kip climbed out of the SUV.  He was wearing sunglasses that were far too big for his young face, which made it hard to be sure, but the scrunched up expression suggested he was squinting.  He kept his peace though until the SUV pulled away, the sleek black paint job standing out on a street lined with cars that were all older than the kid currently pinning Kip in place with his obfuscated gaze.

Thomas’ chin rose almost two inches.  “Nice car.”

“Thanks,” Kip said, out of habit.  Then he added, “It’s not mine.”

“Figured.”  Thomas turned his head to look after the SUV, even though it was already out of sight.  “Not the kind of car a guy like you is going to drive.”

The cloud that had been Kip’s thoughts for the last half hour cleared, at least for the moment.  “I could drive a badass looking SUV.”

“You could,” Thomas agreed, “but you wouldn’t.”

This was true, but Kip wasn’t feeling in the mood to be told what he could or couldn’t do today.

Thomas turned his attention back to Kip.  “I’ve upset you.”

Kip sighed.  The kind that used his whole upper body, not just his lungs.  “I’m having an unexpectedly rough day so far today, Thomas.  Everybody’s upsetting me.”

“Even your boyfriend?”

A memory of Scott smiling softly at him in bed that morning, one hand brushing messy curls back from Kip’s forehead like he might shatter from anything but the gentlest touch, flickered through Kip’s mind.

This time, it was more of an exhale.  “No, not my boyfriend.”

Thomas nodded in thought.  “But he’s not here.”

“He had to work.”

“Liar.”

Kip twitched, looking at Thomas for a moment with actual heat.  Because there was always something mildly affronting about being called on his bullshit by someone too young to even be considering their driver’s permit.  No matter how correct they were in doing it.

Pushing off the decorative wall, Thomas dropped his gaze to the sidewalk, then looked back up at Kip.  His expression still half hidden by the sunglasses.  “Any chance a big hug could fix this?”

Kip had the sudden, frustrating feeling it might.  “Not really.”

Thomas shrugged.  “Probably worth a try.”

And then he was off, trotting down the sidewalk back to his own house, like handing out life advice to troubled adults was just what he did about this time of day.  A time of day, Kip noted with a frown of his own, when Thomas should have been at school.  “Hey, it’s a Wednesday.”

“I’m home sick,” came the careless excuse, and Kip wondered which family member was visiting this weekend.  Someone important enough for Thomas’ mom to have kept him home one day to help clean the house, even if she eventually remembered why she didn’t have her kid help clean the house.  And so here Thomas was, wandering the neighborhood instead of attempting a spelling test, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting grown ups with things they probably needed to hear but didn’t want to.

Watching Thomas run home - a habit most of the neighborhood had developed after learning their fearless kiddo was klutzy as hell - Kip twitched as he heard the familiar sound of a front door opening, keys jingling in the hand of its owner.  He finally looked away, trusting Thomas to make it home with unscraped knees, just as Kip’s dad noticed his own son was standing on the sidewalk in front of their house.

Jacket half on, keys in hand, his dad stared at him from their small front porch.  “Kip!  Did I know you were dropping by?”

The chaos of a kid outside of school on a weekday cleared as Kip remembered why he was home on a school day.  Even if today wasn’t a day he had classes.

Digging his hands into his pockets for something to do with them, Kip offered his dad an apologetic half-smile.  “Um…no?”

But George Grady was a good dad.  More than that, he was the kind of adult family member who could read his loved ones like a well-worn book.  And while he couldn’t read Kip’s mind, his dad immediately straightened up at whatever it was he saw in Kip’s posture and expression.  A man leaving the house with a plan turning into a father who was worried about his son.  “Well, come on in, then.”

Guilt of a different kind churned in Kip’s stomach.  On the ride out here, he’d felt guilty about lying to Scott.  Now that he was here, that same exact emotion was chastising him for interrupting whatever it was his father was so clearly in the middle of.  “Dad, you know what, it’s fine -”

“It clearly isn’t,” his dad cut him off.  He leveled a look at Kip that had resulted in more than one renewed attempt at focusing on his homework over the years and gestured to the not yet locked front door.  “Get in, son.”

Doing as he was told, Kip made his way up the excuse for a garden path, traipsing up the few steps to the porch, and stepping inside.  He toed off his shoes as his dad followed him in, shrugging off his jacket as his dad locked the door behind them and set about removing his own jacket and shoes.  In a rare moment of feeling like a guest in the house he’d lived in since he was seven, Kip stood awkwardly, waiting for his dad to finish.  A choice that didn’t go unnoticed by his old man.

Dropping his keys in the small dish on the thin foyer table, his dad raised his eyebrows in invitation of an explanation.  But he opened with, “Forgot where the kitchen is?”

Kip managed an awkward kind of breath that really wanted to be a laugh before turning and walking down the hall.  Away from his dad and his suddenly much less appreciated knowledge of why Kip might make such an unfortunate sound of distress.

Making it as far as the kitchen, Kip paused again.  Then, hearing his dad behind him, he crossed the small space and pulled open the ‘fridge, liberating two beers out of habit.

“I see you found the beer,” his dad said, and his tone was light.  Not joking, but not pushing.  Not prying.

Kip grabbed the bottle opener from its hook on the wall, popped the top off one bottle, stopped, then turned to face his dad.  “I…need some advice.”

His father nodded.  “Yeah, I got that.”

This time, Kip managed a real laugh.  Even if it was full of nerves.

His dad nodded at the two beers he was opening.  “Can I have the open one or did you have plans to even this exchange?”

Kip popped the top off the second beer and brought them both to the kitchen table.  He sat down, passing the first beer to his dad with a smirk that earned a chuckle, and took a long pull from his own as his dad started with a sip.  Then they both sat there, listening to the sounds of kitchen appliances and an old house as Kip tried to figure out where to begin.

Finally, his dad threw him a line.  “You mentioned a meeting this week.”  He titled the beer bottle in Kip’s direction.  “I’m guessing it was this morning?”

Kip nodded.

His dad nodded in return.  “You never mentioned what it was about.”

“It was a meeting with Scott’s agent.”  Kip took another drink.  His dad waited.  “Todd Anderson.”

His dad considered the name.  “I…have no idea who that is.”

Kip laughed through his nose.  “Dad, I know that.”

“Well you said it like that would explain the bad news.”

“There wasn’t any bad news,” Kip started, then cut himself off.  Because there wasn’t, but the meeting still hadn’t gone well.

Slowly working on his beer, his dad got about halfway through his bottle while Kip dithered.  Finally, he reached over and tapped the neck of his bottle against Kip’s.  “Come on, buddy.  Start at the beginning.”

So Kip did.  The unnecessary details of a normal morning, the mundanity of New York traffic, what little he knew about Scott’s usual driver, Geoffrey.  The words came slower as he got to the actual meeting, and by the time Kip got to the part about the pictures, it almost felt like pulling teeth.  Each word fighting to stay in his mouth, hidden from his dad’s patient, unwavering gaze.

When Kip was finished, George finished his beer.  “Well, that’s a shit way to start the day.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kip said.  His shoulders slumped and he toyed with his own, now mostly untouched beer.  “I don’t know how to…adapt…to all this.”

His dad stood up, fetching a new pair of bottles.  “Have you talked to Scott about this?”

Kip didn’t look at his dad.  “No.  I pretty much came straight here.”

He listened as his dad opened the new bottles, accepting the cold one with his left hand and holding onto the room temperature one with his right. 

His dad’s voice was not unkind when he spoke.  “Seems like maybe that would have been a better choice than talking to me.”

“But I trust you.”

“And you don’t trust Scott?”

“What?”  Kip looked up at that, surprised, and then frowned.  “No, of course I do.”  He waited as his dad took a sip of his new beer instead of answering.  “Dad, of course I trust Scott.”

“Just not with this.”

“Scott’s used to this,” Kip cried.  “He’s been dealing with being in the public eye for years!  What does he know about getting used to it again?”

“Scott was younger than you when he had to get used to it,” his dad pointed out.  “And Scott’s never been under the microscope for his love life before.  He’s only ever had to deal with what people said about him or his team.  Now, he’s going to have to figure out how to deal with people saying things about his boyfriend.  The one nobody knew Scott Hunter had.”

Kip felt the wind go out of his sails again.  “That’s what I mean.”

His dad sat forward, taking Kip’s left hand off the bottle and covering it with his own.  “Buddy…you’re scared, right?”  He waited for Kip to nod.  “And I’ll bet every piece of Admirals merch I own that Scott’s fucking terrified.  He’s drowning in affection for you, desperate to make things work this time, and seriously planning to risk his career to make both your lives better.”  His dad rubbed his thumb back and forth over Kip’s knuckles.  “And today he was shown proof that people will be bothering you in the not too distant future, and given his own experience with the public, I’ll bet he knows what kind of nastiness is headed your way.”

Hell of a pep talk.

“What I’m not sure I understand is why you’re sitting here, in this kitchen, talking to your old man, when the other half of this relationship is sitting in Manhattan, pretending like he’s not stress eating the last of this week’s pasta salad.”

“Scott doesn’t stress eat,” Kip said.

“So you fell in love with a weirdo,” his dad said.  “My point stands.”

His dad might have been planning to say more, but there was a knock at the front door.

Looking past Kip, his dad stood up.  “Shit, I forgot to call.”

Kip watched, mute, as his dad left their conversation, striding down the hall with a kind of nervous determination Kip…wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.  The front door opened, his dad’s voice quiet enough that Kip couldn’t make out the words.  But it was definitely an apology, and the person answering in a reassuring tone was…definitely female.

Kip stayed where he was as the front door closed, his dad making his way back down the hall and dropping into the kitchen chair as if nothing had interrupted them in the first place.  “Now, where were we?”

Kip pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.  “Who was that?”

“Hm?”  His dad glanced toward the front door and then shrugged.  “Oh, that was Ms. Winters.”

“Ms. Winters,” Kip repeated.

George nodded.  “From two streets over.”

“I know who Ms. Winters is.”

“Well, you asked.”

“Dad, I -”  Kip stopped, suddenly remembering the way his dad had been standing on the front porch.  Jacket half on, keys in hand, sneakers tied with the complicated knots.  Looking like he was getting ready to leave the house.  Like he maybe already had plans.

“Dad,” Kip said slowly, “was that…a date?”

His dad snorted.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh my God.”  Kip sat forward, grinning for the first time in hours as his own father squirmed.  “Dad, since when?”

“It was not a date,” George snapped, looking every inch the liar.  “And if it was, it doesn’t matter, because my son takes precedence.”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” Kip said, gleeful.

“It’s not fucking bullshit!”

“Dad!”

“Excuse me,” his dad said, “I believe we were discussing your relationship issues and not mine.”

Kip opened his mouth to press the matter, but the words blew away on the memory of a breeze.  Of pictures kept in a photo album on his dad’s bookshelves.  Of a day spent wandering around a field in a State Park, Kip full of so many questions his dad must have thought they’d never end.  Or school field trips and signed consent forms and one or two playground fights.

Softening his words, Kip said, “You still love her…don’t you?”

His dad sighed.  “Your mother is not an easy woman to get over.”

He wouldn’t know.  Kip had never met his mother.  He knew his parents had met in grad school and fallen for each other almost at once.  Two smart people, eager to start their lives and chase their dreams.  And then his father’s girlfriend was pregnant, and after some discussion they’d decided to keep it.  To see how their dreams might change if they chased them as a family.

And then something had changed, and George Grady was standing on his parents doorstep holding a one year old boy and a heart he pretended wasn’t broken.

It hadn’t been a forbidden subject growing up, but Kip had learned young that his father and his grandmother didn’t agree on everything, and Kip’s mother was pretty high up on that list.  “You know…I never did understand why you weren’t mad at her.  For leaving you.”

His dad studied him, green eyes that Kip had clearly not inherited taking in every inch of him.  Every moment.  Every decision, known and unknown, that his dad had made while loving Kip with everything he had.

Finally, leaning forward to brace both his forearms on the table, George Grady laid something on the table between them.  “There are hard things that happen in life, Kip.  And many times, your instinct is gonna be that you don’t want to talk about them.  And that’s normal, and that’s an OK thing to feel.  But,” his dad’s intense gaze didn’t give an inch, “when people matter this much to you, you have to let them be part of that decision.  It has to be their choice, too, if something goes unsaid.”

Kip didn’t feel small, but he did feel young.  “Dad…”

“I can tell you something about your mother.  It would answer that question you just asked.  I think.  But then you would know, and you can’t unknow.”

The moment felt eternal, but it had to end.  “Tell me anyway.”

His dad’s voice was even.  Neutral.  It didn’t try to be comforting even as it didn’t slap him in the face.  “Your mother didn’t leave me, Kip.  We’d been struggling for a while, after you were born, and unbeknownst to me, we’d both come to separate conclusions on the same day.  I came home with a ring.  And my girlfriend was waiting at the kitchen table, practicing how to tell me that she couldn’t be a mother anymore.”

It felt like he was holding his breath.  “She left…me?”

“She said we could keep trying, that she loved me very much, even if she couldn’t accept a proposal just yet.”  His dad’s voice softened now, just a touch.  “But she couldn’t be a mother, and so I would have to choose.  And she’d help anyway she could, no matter what choice I made.”

Kip sat there, stunned into silence, feeling moments of his childhood click into focus.  Things his grandmother had said or done that had always been a little confusing.  Times his dad had snapped at her, looking hurt but not in a way that made sense to a child’s uninformed eyes.

His dad’s hand was covering his again.  “There are things in your life that are going to be hard, Kip.  Harder than you’ll ever know.  Hard in ways you can’t plan for.  And sometimes they won’t even be your fault.  But that doesn’t mean there won’t be good things, or that the hard things won’t be the good things.”

“How can anything that hard be good?” Kip whispered.

And his dad smiled like he really, truly meant it.  “Because you are the best thing that ever happened to me.  No degree, no career, no love of my life will ever beat you.  And being a single dad…is hard even when it doesn’t happen between lunchtime and being an unexpected guest at dinner.  And it would have been hard even if I hadn’t lost my best friend by choosing it.”  His grip on Kip’s hand tightened, almost painfully.  “But I chose it, Kip.  I chose you, and every hard thing after that was a good thing in some way.”

Kip nodded, but he didn’t think he understood.

And because it was his dad, his dad saw that.  “This thing with the media.  With the pictures and the internet posts and the reporters.  It’s gonna be hard, buddy.  Some days it’s gonna make you cry until your face hurts.  And on the really bad days, it’s gonna make Scott cry like that.”

A flash of Scott, eyes red and expression crumpled, flashed through Kip’s mind, and suddenly he could breathe again.

“But if he’s worth it,” his dad went on, “buddy, if he’s worth it, he’s gonna be fucking worth it, and that’s more important.  If being with Scott is worth it, then that’s a good thing that makes all the hard stuff worth it.”

Kip gasped more than he inhaled, and turning his hand over, he gripped his dad’s tight.  “He’s worth it, Dad.  I know he is.”

His dad smiled at him, as convinced as Kip was.  “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

They’d started the day with blueberry-banana smoothies, so of course Scott wasn’t home when Kip got back to the apartment.  Wouldn’t be home for hours, between the pre-game prep, the game itself, the post game media requirements, if the team wanted to go out afterwards.  And for the first time in weeks, that didn’t bother him.

The chaos of their schedules.  The demands of Scott’s practices and away games.  Kip’s constant frustration with trying to get his commute right from campus to the Kingfisher to home.  The amount of time they were both spending alone, even with phone calls and constant texting.

Dropping his wallet on his side of the dresser and changing into a sweatshirt and the comfiest jeans he owned, everything hard suddenly seemed a little bit easier than it had this morning.

“But if he’s worth it, he’s gonna be fucking worth it, and that’s more important.”

As the evening passed, Kip kept himself busy with all the things he’d needed to do before this morning’s reality altering meeting.  Unloading the dish washer, updating the grocery list, chopping up the veggie sticks that Scott had taken to munching on (cucumber, celery, zucchini - anything but carrot these days).  Folding laundry and putting it away before curling up on the couch with his computer and slogging through the backlog of reading for a class so boring, he was pretty sure the school should be paying him tuition for still showing up twice a week.

After rereading page fifteen for the third time, Kip yawned around his surrender and closed the laptop, sliding it onto the coffee table along with his reading glasses and tugging the afghan off the back of the couch.  His breathing slow and even before he’d even managed to get comfortable.

He woke, partially, to a hand shaking his shoulder, Scott’s voice warm even as it was a little worried.  “Kip?  Hey, why are you sleeping on the couch?”

“Fell asl’p waiting,” Kip slurred, his eyes refusing to open.

But that was fine.  By now they’d both perfected the art of getting the other person into bed, half-conscious or otherwise.

As if to prove it, Kip felt the afghan lift off him, his legs swung off the couch before Scott’s strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him up and to his feet.  Holding him steady against Scott’s body as his boyfriend laughed softly as Kip buried his face against Scott’s shoulder.  “Hi.  I missed you, too.”

Kip hummed, already on his way back to sleep.  But he stumbled along to the bedroom, helpfully unhelpful in getting his jeans off, grunting as he flopped backwards onto the bed and earning himself another one of those quiet laughs.

Snuggling under the blankets, Kip sighed as he mashed his face into his pillow.

A gentle hand on his head, fingers carding through his hair, mindful of late night tangles.  “How’d things go with your dad?”

“Gre’t,” Kip mumbled.  “We talked.”

“I figured,” Scott said.  A few moments of quiet, Scott’s touch soothing things Kip somehow never realized needed it.  “And how’d the closet go?”

Kip frowned.  “What cl’set?”

“The one you were helping your dad clean out today?”

It took a couple deep breaths before he could marshall enough thought to respond.  “Didn’t clean a cl’set.  J’st needed to talk.”

The hand in his hair paused for a fraction of a second, then continued its gentle stroking.  “I thought you said your dad had asked you for help with a closet?  Something about winter coats?”

Kip shook his head, eyes still closed.  “Nope.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

“Oh.”

Something about that answer was wrong, but teetering on the edge of sleep, Kip couldn’t figure out why.

“Oh…OK, then.”

His limbs numb with sleep, Kip smiled into the pillow as he felt Scott stand from the side of the bed.  “L’ve you.”

“Yeah.”  Scott’s voice was wrong again.  “I love you, too, Kip.”

He’d have to figure it out in the morning.  Have to remember to ask what went wrong with the game.  Maybe somebody was hurt again.  It was early in the season, but it happened.

For tonight, though, the sheets were cool and the blanket was soft and Kip buried himself into his pillow, sighing contentedly.

Sometimes things were hard, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be good.  And tonight, things had finally been good.

Chapter 11: Blood on the Ice

The morning light glinted off the windows on the building across the street, doing its best to blind him.  As if Scott had any interest in opening his eyes when the other option was to stay where he was, head on Kip’s chest, feeling the other man breathe.

The lights glared off the white paint under the ice, freshly cleared of a period’s worth of scuff marks.

Kip yawned, not quite hiding it behind his hand.  Hair ruffled and his sleep pants rumpled as he leaned in to press his lips to Scott’s cheek.  Mindful of the late night phone call but unwilling to go to sleep without one last kiss.

Mosher shouted, skating too close in an attempt to deflect Boston’s Left Wing.

The blue house sat back from the street, the front yard messy but not a mess.  Evidence that Kip’s dad cared enough to mow but not enough to weed.  Something to distract Scott from the nerves running wild through his system, made all the worse by Kip’s hesitation as they stood together on the sidewalk.

Something was wrong.  Some instinct was making him hesitate.  But he couldn’t think clearly enough to figure out what.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Kip said.  His eyes on Scott’s, his expression calm, his voice intentionally soothing.  Completely ignoring the lobby around them.  “Just breathe for me, OK?”

Ahead, Boston’s goalie was squaring up, his shoulders rising and falling as he prepared to block the shot he knew was coming.  Even as Scott realized he wasn’t going to make it.

“I thought you said your dad had asked you for help with a closet?  Something about winter coats?”

“Nope.”

The whistle blew as Scott’s legs collapsed under him, his head slamming backwards onto the ice as pain exploded in the center of his face.  Nearby, he could hear shouting, the sounds of gloved fists slamming into chest pads before voices started shouting to try and break it up.  The crowd cheering in the background as another round of whistling came from the nearest guy in white and black.

Blinking his eyes open, Scott squinted into the bright overhead lights for a moment before Carter’s head mercifully got in the way.  “You OK, Hunt - shit.”

Pushing up on one elbow, Scott wavered as something too weak to be vertigo came and went.  He touched his face gingerly, coming away with red on his glove that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Shit.

“Boston, number twenty-seven.  Double minor for high sticking.”

“Come on,” Carter said, helping Scott to his feet as Mosher skated over.  “Let’s get you to the bench.”

Scott thanked Mosher as he handed Scott back his stick.  The pain from the hit was already changing into the more familiar pain of a headache, the taste of iron in Scott’s mouth as he licked his lips.

Shit.

“When I said I wanted blood, sweat, and tears, Hunter, I was speaking dramatically,” Coach Murdock said by way of check in as Scott reached the Admirals’ bench.  Teammates moved around, giving Scott room to step off the ice and out of their way once play resumed.  While the crowd booed around them, a young woman in the all black of staff walked over to where Scott’s blood still dotted the ice, tools of her trade in hand.

Dropping onto the bench, Scott tipped his head back so the medic could do their job.  Mallar took the stick from Scott’s hand, tugging his helmet off when the medic signaled it had to go.

“Any chance it’s not broken?”

The medic hummed, blonde bangs falling into their face.  “I think you might have gotten lucky, but someone in the back will have to make sure.”

Fuck.

“We’ve still got Third Period,” Scott said.  The medic ignored him, pressing their thumbs along the sides of his nose.  “Ouch!”

“You’ve been playing like shit tonight anyway,” came the unexpected chastisement from Greg Huff.  Taking a seat nearby, Huff watched the medic instead of the game.  “Maybe it’s a good thing you got hit.  This power play’s the most useful thing you’ve done all night.”

Mallar shot the NHL all-star a look while the medic leaned back and reached into the pack for some gauze.  Holding his head still, Scott glared at his friend.  “Fuck you.”

Huff didn’t respond right away.  Like Benny, Huff tended to think before he spoke.  It was part of why the three of them got along so well.  That, and his reliable ability to score a goal given three inches of visible net and half a second to aim.

He watched as the medic cleaned blood off Scott's face, instructing Scott to hold the gauze against the underside of his nose to help staunch the bleeding.  Skipping the usual concerning hum as they worked and opting instead for a much more concerning silence.

The crowd roared, signalling the end of the power play and Boston’s ability to hold off New York’s advantage.

“Rozanov must be slipping,” Huff observed.  “Usually a power play this close to the end of a Period is more than he can resist.”

“Maybe he’s having a bad night, too,” Scott muttered, his voice coming out nasally with the gauze pressed against his face.

“You think he’s having relationship troubles, too?”

It was a perfectly normal question, but Scott’s spine still snapped straight when Huff said it.  “What?”

Leaning back on one hand, the image of a veteran player conversing with his captain, Huff kept his eyes on the game.  “It’s the only thing I can come up with.  There’s nothing wrong with the team.  You’re not the guy to jerk around your sponsors.  And that wretched excuse for a reporter hasn’t come sniffing around for a story yet this season.  But you, Scotty, are having focus problems to rival Demeter when his pre-game gets interrupted.”

Murdock had dressed them all down for throwing around words like “autistic” when they didn’t know what they fucking meant, but Demeter had a very specific way of getting ready for games and he was borderline useless on the days that countdown didn’t go to plan.

“So it has to be my dating life?” Scott asked, the words choking him on the way out.

“I mean,” Huff said, and even through his panic Scott could admit the other man wasn’t being mean, “if you finally have one.”

The whistle blew, the crowd booed, and the guys started clearing the bench.  End of Second, and with the game still stubbornly tied at two-two.

“Fuckin’ ballerinas,” Burke muttered as he marched past.  Coping in his usual way by making bad jokes when he didn’t like numbers on the scoreboard.

Huff let them all pass, waiting as if he wanted to make sure Scott could get to the locker room on his own.  Or maybe he was considering the ice and the refs and the last third of the game.  Those sniper eyes taking in all kinds of details.

Scott swallowed, the taste of blood still in his mouth.  “Huff -”

“It’s called a private life,” Huff said, cutting him off but doing it gently.  “Hell, Vaughn didn’t thank any of us for admitting we knew about the last girl he was dating.  And this new one, this…Gloria.”  He finally looked at Scott, waiting for a nod before continuing.  “I know we all work hard to keep things casual right up until they’re not.  Especially because a string of one night stands makes a hockey player a slut, not the girls he slept with.”

Greg Huff was a different kind of guy for caring about the reputations of the women his fellow players were never going to see again.  Scott suspected it had been a thing Huff had worried about back when they were his one night stands; back before he had a beautiful wife and two kids he couldn’t quite stop himself from bragging about.

“But let’s be real, Hunter.  You don’t do casual.”  Huff offered a smile to soften the blow.  “You take ordering lunch seriously.”

Scott tried to breath through his nose and stopped when he felt something start to bleed again.

“I’m guessing it’s a girl.  And I’m guessing she means something.”

Close enough.

“And I’m guessing something went wrong.”

Curled up on the couch under one of the afghans that had migrated from Geroge Grady’s house to their apartment, Scott thought he might stop breathing at the sight.  Tousled curls and cheeks pink from sleep, Kip’s books scattered around him like this was his space, too.

Sleepy brown eyes that barely managed to stay open as Scott tugged his boyfriend to his feet and navigated their way to the bedroom.  Because it was a comfortable couch, but not big enough for two.

Letting his breath out slowly, Scott waved off the medic and got to his feet.  Amazed he didn’t sway on his skates even though it’d been years since he ever felt off balance wearing them.  Huff got to his feet, looking like he might be willing to leave whatever this was at that, but he was right.  Scott was playing like shit, and it was for basically the same reason that Demeter did last week.

“I can’t,” Scott started, then stopped.  Took a deep breath and let it out slowly as Huff turned back to him.  Tried again.  “She…” fuck, “she told a lie.  The other day.  About a thing that mattered.  And I…don’t know why.”

“Gotta ask,” Huff said.

Scott laughed.  “Really?”

Huff shrugged.  “Scotty, either she’s worth the fight you’re gonna have over this, or she needs to go before that serious heart of yours gets anymore attached.”  And all of a sudden, Huff looked sad.  “I’ve never been in your shoes, but I’ve been the friend of the guy who was more than once.  Don’t do this.  Don’t wait.”

Shit.

“You think Boston’ll notice if I don’t play Third?” Scott asked, following Huff down the tunnel.

“Doubt they’ll notice,” Huff said.  “Between the blood and your shitty game tonight, hardly anyone will be surprised.”

“Um…ouch.”

Looking up - because Greg Huff was 5’8” and only if measured when he was wearing his skates - Huff grinned.  “Pretty sure we just established you don’t like it when people lie.”

Again…ouch.

“You alright, Captain?”  Coach Murdock was waiting in the hall, dark eyes studying his two tardy veterans.  His question formal and his tone professional and the look on his face asking a separate question altogether.

Scott thought about it as Huff stepped past Murdock and into the locker room.  The gauze still pressed to his face.

Kip’s smile was brighter than the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom windows.  Open and happy, like he couldn’t believe they’d found their way back to each other, either.  Like this might be the best morning for a long, long time.  “I like scrambled eggs.”

“No,” Scott said, and if anyone asked, his face really did still hurt.  Technically, the bleeding had not stopped.

Murdock saw the bloody gauze and heard the thing in Scott’s voice and nodded.  “Support role it is.  This team still needs its captain.”

“This team needs to score a hat trick on Rozanov,” Scott said, and some of Captain Hunter bled into his tone.  “Bastard deserves a taste of his own medicine.”

“You hear that,” Murdock said, raising his voice as he turned to walk into the locker room.  “Your captain says payback’s a bitch.  Huff, you up for the challenge?”

Shouts and jeers came from the team as Scott pulled the gauze away from his face, checking it for fresh spots of blood.  Feeling something wet slid down over his upper lip, he refolded the material and pushed it back in place.  Resisting the urge to sniff and loosen any clots that were trying to form.

He didn’t really want to spend the rest of the game thinking about how he was going to ask Kip about all this.  If he’d done it because he didn’t trust Scott or if it was because he didn’t trust Scott after their talk with Todd.  If it was the first time Kip had lied at all.

Finally, Kip took a deep breath through his nose and said, his voice almost steady, “So…what happens now?  How do we get from here to…three years later?”

It had been a hell of an ask.  Especially for a guy who’d never had any reason to hide his life away.  And now here Kip was, hiding his life.

And it looked like maybe, he was hiding his life from Scott.

“You ready?”

Game face on, Carter tapped his stick on the ground as he took in Scott’s face.  A look on his own that suggested Boston was gonna pay for the wrong kind of red on an Admirals’ jersey.

Fuck, he wished his face was the thing that hurt the most tonight.  “Yeah.  Let’s do this.”

Stepping out of the way, Scott watched his team go first.  Eager.  Angry.  Determined.  A worried glance from Benny.  A quick look from Huff.  A calculating stare from Murdock as he handed Scott a baseball cap instead of his helmet.

Tugging it on, Scott followed the closest thing he had to a family back out to the ice.  Hoping desperately that Ilya Fucking Rozanov was the worst thing that happened to him tonight.

Chapter 12: Just Another Hockey Fight

It was a stupid thing to be mad about.  Did it really matter which cabinet the bowls were in?  Fuck, he hadn’t even noticed when the designer he’d hired moved them three separate times before she’d been satisfied, so what did it matter now?

Except that this was the fiftieth time he’d opened the door on the left side of the sink instead of the right side of the sink and why the fuck had he agreed to this gross ass soup recipe in the first place?

Kip looked up as Scott slammed the cabinet door shut, dark brows raised in concern.  “Everything alright?”

“The fuck is wrong with you, man?”  MacDow scowled as Rozanov skated past, fist up to run along the bench after his latest goal.  “You’re playing like you got dumped.  Which is bullshit because we all know you’re as single as Benny is married.”

The game had hardly been a disaster.  The first half, sure, but then Scott had voluntarily benched himself and things had turned beautifully around.  They’d only lost by one goal and it had taken most of an Overtime Period for Boston to get there.  But Murdock kept glancing Scott’s way, worrying about his captain, and Huff had tossed him a knowing look on his way out of the locker room at the end of the night.  Nevermind Benny’s well-meant, poorly-timed shoulder-nudge of encouragement when Scott said he wasn’t going out with the team tonight.

He’d come home.  Because he needed to come home.  And in hunting for a snack to delay having the conversation he didn’t want to have, instead he’d run into the most mundane bullshit of a landmine.  Because who really cared about the fucking bowls?

“Everything’s fine,” Scott muttered, convincing no one and least of all Kip’s eyebrows.

“You sure?”  Kip tried for a smile, and he almost made it.  “You don’t usually bang the cabinets.”

There was a joke there, if Scott had been in the mood for it, but as he yanked open the correct door this time, he found he didn’t really want to hear Kip laugh.

Something in his gut roiled at that, even as something in his chest squeezed and not for the first time he realized he was fighting back tears.

He loved Kip.  He loved him.  This wonderful, smart, kind, generous man who was putting up with so much just so Scott didn’t have to risk his career for them to be together.  Who had done the outrageously selfish thing of rearranging some of the dishes in the kitchen because he’d been tired of constantly opening the wrong cabinet looking for something.  A task Kip had undertaken only after asking if it was alright.  And Scott had said yes, because of course it was.

Except for the reason why it wasn’t.

Laughing as he shook his head, Kip opened the right door this time.  “It’s such a stupid thing, but my dad always keeps bowls and plates to the right of the sink.  I guess I’m having trouble remembering that you don’t.”

You don’t.  He didn’t.

Because this was still Scott’s place.

His apartment and his dishware and his furniture and his rules -

“The reason I wanted to meet with both of you today is because the invasiveness of dating a public figure doesn’t start in three years.”  Watching Kip’s expression carefully, Todd ‘s words weren’t cruel.  Merely informative.  “You’re already in the public eye.”

It had been an unavoidable conversation.  And he hadn’t expected things to go well just because things had been going better.  Even with a plan and Todd’s warnings, one day people wouldn’t even be subtle about the pictures they were taking and it had taken Scott years and years to get used to it.

Some days he still wasn’t.

That didn’t make being lied to any easier.

The game that night had gone well enough, and he’d expected Kip to be asleep by the time he got home.  Maybe not crashed out on the couch surrounded by homework, but their schedules were a mess right now and Scott had known they would be.  Had seen enough guys struggle to make a relationship work between practice and away games and the months where hockey had to come first, even as someone like Benny gently reminded them that hockey first meant divorce second.

Helping Kip to bed was never hard.  The one-sided conversations would have been kinda cute, if they’d had an actual conversation recently.  But the mumbled confusion hadn’t been.

It took a couple deep breaths before Kip responded.  Long enough Scott was starting to think he wouldn’t.  “Didn’t clean a cl’set.  J’st needed to talk.”

The hand in Kip’s hair paused for a fraction of a second, then continued its gentle stroking.  Scott feeling something terrible and unwanted settle around his heart.  “I thought you said your dad had asked you for help with a closet?  Something about winter coats?”

Kip shook his head, eyes still closed.  “Nope.”

George Grady had been nothing but kind to Scott.  Polite when they met, cracking jokes to make Scott feel welcome, specific in asking questions about hockey and not about Scott’s career.  At least until they’d known each other for more than a month.  It was easy to see why Kip loved his dad so much.  Easy to see why he talked to him, asked him for advice, went home when he was feeling overwhelmed.

Well Scott didn’t fucking have a home to go to, did he?  And he didn’t have a dad he could lie about needing to help because his boyfriend was too fucking much some days.  Scott couldn’t even remember which cabinet his mom kept the bowls in, in the house in Rochester where things made sense and where things were still easy and where Scott Hunter was just another boy on a team who couldn’t wait to tell his parents every little detail about his day -

“Scott?”

Scott twitched, realizing he’d been standing in the kitchen and staring at nothing for a while now, the bowl meant for the offensive soup empty in his hand.  Behind him, laptop open but ignored on the table, Kip was watching him.  Clearly waiting for the answer to the question Scott hadn’t heard him ask.

And because Kip was perceptive and not a complete moron, instead of asking the question yet again, he closed his laptop.  Getting up from his chair to walk around and stand next to Scott.  Brown eyes focused and full of concern.  “Hey.  What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t come find you sooner.”

Kip huffed and buried his face in Scott’s shoulder, and holding the other man close felt more right than things had felt in Scott’s life for a long time.  “How do you do that?”

Scott’s voice was quiet when he answered.  So many different emotions held at bay.  “You were never in this much pain before.”

Was Kip in pain again?  Were things really any better between them?  How would he know?

Scott had been trying - God, he’d been trying - but maybe it wasn’t enough.  Maybe three years was too long, and all the steps to get there were just making Kip hide behind his smile like he had been last November.  Pretending like what they had was enough even though it wasn’t.

If Kip was unhappy and telling George or Elena or hell, his coworkers at the bar Scott had still never been to about it, that must mean things were spiraling the way they had been last time.  Because Kip had been miserable and he hadn’t said a thing until it was too late.

Kip’s hand touched his arm.  “Talk to me.”

At least this time there were things for Kip to come back and get.

And the words were out, sharp and wounded, before Scott could stop them.  “What, like you talk to me?”

He knew it would hurt, but Scott made himself look up.  And understandably, Kip looked like he’d been slapped.  “What?”

And just like that time he’d been pissed in front of a scared hockey captain from Montreal, he couldn’t get control of his mouth.  He was pretty sure they were almost the exact same words, too.  “You heard me.”

Where Hollander had had a game and a tradition of insults to hide behind, Kip had nothing.  He was standing in a space that was supposed to be safe, being sniped at by a man who’d kissed him goodbye this morning before Kip had to actually run to make it to class on time.  Brows furrowed, the surprised “o” of his mouth morphing into a frown.  Something that could spark into real anger wrestling with confusion.

And unfortunately for both of them, that honest display of confusion just made Scott mad.

Kip’s voice wasn’t confused, though.  “What do you mean, ‘I heard you’?”  Anger clearly winning that internal fight, even as Kip kept it on a leash because he was the better person like that.

Setting the bowl down, Scott closed the cabinet door.  An obvious excuse not to look at Kip.  “Just feels a little one-sided these days.  Like I’m the only one who ever does any talking.”

Given his own attitude, he really had no reason to be offended by the scoff.  “I’m sorry, you’ve been doing all the talking?”

Fair.  Maybe.  Was it?

“You’ve been in a mood all week,” Kip shot back.  Shoulders squaring up for a fight he hadn’t seen coming.  “I kept waiting, because maybe it’s not my business, but whatever it is, you’ve been keeping that storm all to yourself.”

“None of your business?” Scott snapped.  He turned to Kip, far too much aggression behind his words.  “Why the hell wouldn’t it be your business?”

“Because maybe it’s a hockey thing?” Kip said.  “Maybe it’s a part of your life that doesn’t deal with me.”

Something was tangled up inside and it made it hard to breathe.  “Is that how this works?  There are things that we don’t share?  Problems that only get to belong to one of us?”

Kip frowned, the confusion rallying.  “No?  Yes.  Scott, if I was having trouble at school -”

“You’d tell me.”  He half shouted it at Kip, even as the fear slammed into him like a Defenseman.  Because would Kip tell him?  Or would Kip tell his dad?  Or Elena?  Or the other fucking bartender?

“Of course I would tell you,” Kip said, “but that doesn’t mean there’d be anything you could do about it.”

“But it’s not your business if I’m having trouble at work,” Scott finished.  At Kip’s huff, Scott felt his temper flare again.  “That’s what you said.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant you had someone else to talk to about it,” Kip said, hands on his hips as he glared.  “I meant you didn’t need to talk to me.”

“Who the fuck would I talk to?” Scott said, his voice too loud.  “My teammates?  The guys I’ve been lying to for my whole career?  My coach, who keeps reminding us he’s not our therapist?  Todd?”

“You have Duncan.”

“Great,” Scott said, throwing one hand up in the air as if Duncan’s friendship over the years wasn’t one of the most important things in his life.  “The diner owner.  Who doesn’t even know I’m gay.”

“Duncan is not just some diner owner,” Kip said.  “Don’t talk about him like he doesn’t mean something to you.”

“He can’t,” Scott said.  “Elena knew we were dating back when we weren’t even sure what we were.  Duncan only met you a couple months ago, and he thinks we’re just good friends.”  Kip opened his mouth to call Scott out on his cheap shot, but Scott didn’t let him.  “Fuck, Kip, I didn’t even tell Benny I’m gay, and he’s my best friend.”

“It’s not my fault you lie to your friends,” Kip said, and immediately his face went pale.  “Scott, I’m sorry, I didn’t -”

“It’s not your fault,” Scott said.  “And you aren’t the reason I do it.  But I can’t stay in the NHL if I don’t keep this mask on.  If I don’t play the part of hockey all-star.  There’s no room for guys like me to be themselves.  Not with the other teams throwing homophobic insults and the guys in your own locker room using sexism to mock each other after a bad practice.”

“Then quit.”

“And.  Do.  What.”

Kip shrugged, throwing his hands up to emphasize the point.  “I don’t know, Scott.  Anything you want.”  Then he sighed.  “You make it sound like hockey is all you have.”

“Maybe it is!”  Scott gestured at the apartment but not really.  “I have a career I’ve spent most of my life building.  And everything about me is tied to that career.  If I quit - when I quit - the amount of things that go away overnight is…is…”

“Really?” Kip asked, and he had the nerve to look hurt.  “Everything in your life is tied to hockey?”

“Tied to it or about it or influenced by it.”  Scott stopped, breathing hard, trying to organize his thoughts.  To say something useful.  “Even you.”

“Because I made you a stupid smoothie,” Kip said, voice dead.

Scott bit his tongue as hard as he could, but it didn’t help.  “Because hockey makes you lie to me.”

Kip’s eyebrows went straight up.  “I have never lied to you.  About anything, Scott Hunter.”

Bracing one hand on the counter, Scott asked, “And how did things go with your dad’s winter coats?”

Kip went very still.  Scott saw the realization in those eyes - those warm, wonderful, beautiful brown eyes - and he wished he’d never listened to Greg Huff and his stupid advice.

“I -” Kip started, then faltered.  His hands down at his sides.

“Last time,” Scott said, and finally his voice wasn’t loud anymore, “you didn’t tell me you were unhappy.  Seems like everyone else knew.”  The words felt sour in his mouth.  “The friends and family who’d figured out what was going on, walking around this city with my secret that I had no idea they knew.”

“My secret, too,” Kip said, quietly.

“And I know things aren’t what you want,” Scott went on.  “I know my life is hard to fit into.  I built it that way.  And that doesn’t take into account how many athletes are holding their marriages together with pre-nups and awkward conversations on the phone.  But I don’t think this relationship is going to work if we only talk to other people.”  Scott swallowed.  “Or if you do and I just…don’t talk to anybody at all.”

“I haven’t been talking to other people,” Kip said.  “I just…I needed to talk things through with my dad.”

“And I’m glad.”  And for the first time, Scott realized he was crying.  Wet tears sliding down his cheeks as the tangled up thing in his chest tried to choke him.  “I’m glad you have such a great dad and that you can talk to him anytime, about anything.  But I can’t.  I don’t have a home to go back to.  This,” he gestured again, this time at the apartment, “this is it.”

This high-end penthouse with its amazing view.  Paid for with his impressive paycheck, that he got by being good at a game.  One he’d played since he was a little boy, making friends along the way.  People who wished him well and sent him birthday texts and showed him pictures of their children and their pets and their wives.

Fuck.

“It doesn’t,” Scott started, one hand coming up to pull at his nose as he sniffed.  “It…I’m sorry.”  He looked down, unable to do anything else.  “I’m…fuck, I’m sorry, I…  Don’t listen to -”

He gasped as Kip touched his face, his hands far more gentle than Scott’s words.  “I’m sorry, too.”

Scott shivered, a sob forcing its way out.  “For what?  You…didn’t -”

“I’m sorry I lied about my dad.”  The tips of Kip’s fingers traced Scott’s face, catching tears before they could reach his chin and wiping them away.  “I’m not sorry for how things went back in the Fall.  We both…got that one wrong.”  And that was true.  “But I’m sorry for making you feel like this was Round Two.”

“But it didn’t feel like that.”  His voice was thick.  Forcing his head up, Scott looked at Kip.  At all that painful understanding.  “It didn’t feel at all like last time.  It felt like we were on the same side.  That it was hard, but it was working.  That I wasn’t the biggest problem in your life anymore.”

“You’re not,” Kip whispered, his words insistent.  “Scott, you’re wonderful.  I love you.”

It felt like his knees were going to give out.  “I love you, too.  But what if that’s not enough?”

One hand cupped his cheek, the other tracing a path down to cover his heart.  Covering the place that it felt like Kip plunged a knife into when he spoke.  “You’re right.  Maybe it isn’t enough.”

Scott closed his eyes.  He couldn’t breathe.

“But that’s what the work is for, right?”

Opening his eyes, Scott watched the smile pulling at Kip’s lips.  Small but hopeful.  Stubbornly so.

“Falling in love is easy,” Kip said.  “Being in love is a lot harder.  But it’s worth it, right?”  The hope grew.  “I’m worth it?”

“You’re worth everything,” Scott breathed.

“And I can’t imagine not fighting for you,” Kip promised.  “Every day, with everything I have.  We’re both gonna make mistakes, and most of them will be because we were trying to do the right thing, and then some asshole with a camera -”  Kip stopped, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.  “Some stranger on the internet will forget they ever had manners and make everything worse.  But it’ll be OK.  Because I love you.  And you love me, too.”

He should probably pull Kip into a hug, but Scott couldn’t actually feel his arms right now.  He couldn’t feel much of anything besides the weight in his chest and Kip’s hand on his cheek.  Thumb slowly moving back and forth to catch his tears.

“And I promise not to run off to my dad anymore,” Kip said, his smile a little smaller.

“I want you to talk to your dad,” Scott said.

Kip’s smile grew again.  “Just not only my dad.”

Scott wished his voice didn’t sound so small.  “Sometimes, could you talk to me first?”  It felt awful to watch Kip’s smile crumble.  “I know how much of an ask it is to date Scott Hunter, but sometimes, could I just be Scott from Rochester?  The…the hockey dork who had to work up the nerve to ask if you wanted to watch him play?”

“You are always Scott from Rochester,” Kip said and kissed him.  “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t be.”

“I’m sorry I was grumpy for a week instead of asking you about why y - about the winter coats,” Scott said.

“To be fair, that’s a hard question,” Kip said.  “Asking why someone you trust is lying.”

“Not about what they did with their winter coats?”

Kip laughed, quietly, and Scott caught him under the chin, tilting Kip’s head back up for another kiss.  Tears still tracking down his cheeks.

“You’re still crying,” Kip said as he pulled back.

Scott winced.  “It still hurts.”

“Your heart?”

Scott tapped the back of Kip’s hand where it was still covering his chest.  “It feels…like a weight inside me.  Even…even now.”

“‘A heart is a heavy burden’,” Kip said.

Scott managed a smile.  “I always loved that movie.”

Kip smiled, his hand pressing against Scott’s chest.  Then he looked up, surprised.  “Wait, you watched an entire movie?”

“It was a long time ago,” Scott said.

“But the whole thing.”

It was easier to smile this time.  “Yes, Kip.  I watched the whole thing.  I even watched it more than once.”

“The magic of Miyazaki,” Kip murmured.  Then he stepped in close, wrapping his arms around Scott in a hug.  “If memory serves, theirs wasn’t the easiest love story in the beginning, either.”

“This where you tell me you’re under a curse?” Scott asked, hugging him back.

“I can’t tell you - the curse won’t let me.  But I think we should make the NHL give you your heart back.”

“Only so I can give it to you,” Scott said.  He pressed his face into Kip’s hair.  “How are we feeling?  Did I make our castle fall apart?”

“It’s banged up,” Kip said into his chest, “but it’s still standing.  And we’ll build it back better this time.”

“With a hat shop.”

“And a beautiful meadow.”

Scott bit his lip, but didn’t let himself hesitate.  “That looks kinda like your dad’s backyard.”

Kip’s arms squeezed around him and it felt like things really might be OK again.  Like Scott’s nerves and fears and habit of keeping secrets hadn’t ruined everything.

“We need to come up with a better way to talk to each other about things.”  Kip sighed against Scott's chest.  “‘Cause I know you’ve been having a shit week at work.”

“Everything alright?” Muller asked.  He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Skating like you’ve got faerie wings to protect tonight, Cap.  Medic’s gonna shriek if you’re hiding an injury.”

“Things are…harder this season,” Scott began.

But Kip hugged him again.  “Later.  After ice cream.  And a movie.”

It wouldn’t be any easier to repeat the things that were said in a locker room or on the ice later.  And he didn’t think he’d feel much better about things getting to the point where he was yelling at the love of his life before Scott could talk about a problem they were having.  But it would be nice, watching a movie together for once.  Since he would actually stay awake for this one.  Kip curled up next to him, arms still wrapped around Scott.  Holding on for the both of them until Scott could hold on, too.

“I know it’s not why you were looking for them,” Kip said, “but it’s kinda convenient you were hunting for the bowls.”

And as he laughed, softly, lips pressed into Kip’s hair, Scott thought maybe this was just another hockey fight.  Blood and bruises, but nothing that didn’t heal with time.  Nothing to force either of them out of the game.  Just Scott in the penalty box for being an idiot, and Kip right there next to him, for being one, too.

Chapter 13: Thank You, Kyle

“You’re gonna miss your shot,” Aram said.  The other bartender was wiping down yet another glass, one of the few stereotypes that actually proved to be true.

Kyle sighed and leaned his hip against the back of the bar, arms crossing over his chest.  “You assume there’s a shot to be missed.”

“You’re not subtle.”  A grin broke across the big man’s face.  “Nor are you swift.”

Kyle made a face at the joke off his last name.  “Ha ha.”

“Seriously, though,” Aram said, grin fading, “Kip seems like a great guy, and the whole damn bar knows you’ve got a thing for him.”

“Not everyone,” Kyle muttered.  Because it was true; Kyle hadn’t quite made a fool of himself, but it was hard to keep his eyes off that cute smile.  The way those dark curls got properly mussed by the end of a long shirt.  The tight jeans and close fitting shirts, never mind how Kip never put up a fuss over holiday themed outfit requirements.

Endearing weirdo probably enjoyed them.

Setting the glass down and picking up a new one, Aram’s tone turned thoughtful.  “I’m not entirely sure he was single when he first started coming here.  Back, what, a year ago?”  Back when Kip had only been a customer.  “But I’m sure we would have heard about a boyfriend by now, you know?”  That big, optimistic grin back in place.  “Nobody’s that good at hiding a relationship, and Kip seems like the kind of guy who lights up when he’s got somebody special in his life.”

In Kyle’s experience, Kip lit up over anybody he knew.  His friends.  His coworkers.  Regulars who weren’t assholes.  He even got excited whenever there was a hockey game on the TV.  Which probably made some kind of sense.  New York was a sports-loving city, and it wasn’t like Kip was the only guy in the bar paying attention to the strangers zipping around on the ice.  Though, now that he thought about it, Kyle didn’t think he’d ever seen Kip pay attention to any other sporting event.

Maybe Kyle should consider watching some hockey.

But if he let himself be honest, inside the privacy of his own head, Kyle thought maybe he’d already screwed things up with Kip.  Not because he’d waited too long but because he’d somehow moved too fast.

Months of casual flirting.  Easy smiles and the occasional look that had felt lingering.  Kyle being as potently unsubtle as he knew how to be without getting fired.  And there’d been those few weeks after his birthday when Kip had been, by any definition, moping.  He drank more when he came in, regardless of which friend he came in with.  Never enough to be concerning, but certainly enough to support Aram’s theory that there’d been someone and wasn’t anymore.

Someone that Kip hadn’t been over, because when Kyle had walked him out one night, misunderstanding what he’d thought Kip was looking for and kissing him on the sidewalk, Kip had panicked.  Eyes wide, suddenly sober in the way only adrenaline ever did, Kip had fumbled an apology and literally run off.  Leaving Kyle more confused than hurt, but it had felt like a pretty hard ‘no’ either way.

He’d run into Kip a few days later, and after a slightly awkward conversation full of apologies on both sides, they’d made it back to friendly ground.  Friendly enough that when Kyle needed to hire a new bartender, Kip had been on the short list even before Maria had texted her soon-to-be-ex-coworker to ask.

So Aram could be right and Kyle’s window on asking Kip out properly this time was closing.  Or Kyle could be right and he’d already blown his shot.  Or neither of them could be right and there was some other reason that Kip Grady, even after being kissed, didn’t seem to notice that Kyle thought he was hot as hell and a nice guy to boot.

The momentary interruption of the outside world signalled a new arrival, the dark wood front door of the Kingfisher swinging closed behind Kyle’s new roommate as Maria sashayed her way into his workplace.  Short and fierce, she was everything Kyle could have wished for in a best friend, including that she’d quickly given up insisting she pay half the rent on their shared apartment.  Kyle’s parents paid the rent, and given the mandatory contact that maintained their contentious relationship these days, it was the least they could do, paying for the friend they didn’t know was living with him.  Especially since the other option was her moving back in with the three assholes she had been rooming with, and there was no way in hell that was happening.

Dropping her oversized bag onto a barchair, Maria hopped up on the seat next to it, brushing her hair back behind her shoulder with an intentionally dramatic sigh.  “Barkeep!  Another!”

“That joke was old six months ago,” Kyle said.

“That joke was old when my tío kept using it back in fourth grade,” Maria corrected.  Patting the bar like it was a good dog, she grinned.  “Alcohol, please.  Preferably more than one type in the same glass.”

Rolling his eyes to complete the interaction, Kyle turned to pull the components he needed.  He wasn’t in the mood to test some new concoction, but he’d forgotten how to make more cocktails than most people would ever know existed.  Two parts this, one part that, shaken because it had lemon juice in it.

Maria beamed when he placed it in front of her.  “Thank you, Kyle.”

The sing-song tone made him think of Kip again.

“So,” Maria said, picking her drink up and taking a testing sip, “oh my god, that’s good.”

“Thank you,” Kyle said.  As if there was a bartender in New York City who couldn’t make a sidecar.

“So,” Maria repeated.  “We.  Need.  To get you.  Laid.”

“Not you, too,” Kyle groaned as Aram laughed on his way toward the back.  “Maria, we talked about this.”

“We did,” Maria agreed, “We discussed many handsome celebrities and a few poor choices in our pasts.  But you really didn’t give me anything to work with.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s been months!”

“I am perfectly capable of finding my own one night stands.”

“But,” Maria said, splaying her hands out on the bartop and pushing them in his direction, “what if we didn’t find you another one night stand?”  She batted her eyelashes at him.  “What if he could be a two night stand?”

“You know my history with men,” Kyle said, feeling his mood dip despite the arrival of his best friend.  “I’m not really looking for Mr. Right.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m not.”

Maria’s head tilted to the side in her signature look of compassionate pity.  “Kyle…”

“I’m not,” Kyle repeated, more confidently this time.  “I.  Am quite happy.  As.  I.  Am.”

The sound of evening traffic again as the front door opened and closed.  “Hey, Maria!”

Spinning on her chair, Maria’s grin was all mischief.  “Hey, Kip!”

Kyle rarely felt the urge to dive under the bar, but between his coworker and his roommate, he didn’t feel particularly excited to see his crush.  No matter how good he looked in a black shirt and matching dark jeans.

Striding along the bar, Kip tossed Kyle a wave.  “Hey, boss.  Forgot my jacket in the back.”

Kip had indeed left his green jacket in the back, but after leaving it on the hook for a week, Kyle wasn’t sure what had spurred him to come in on a day off to finally grab it.

“Can you stay for a drink?” Maria called after him.

“What, I’m not company enough?” Kyle teased.  Maria grinned at him, saluting with her cocktail before looking back to where Kip had just reappeared.

“Sorry.”  Half-jogging on his way back, green jacket in hand, Kip gave Maria an apologetic smile.  “Already got plans.”

“Hence the green jacket,” and there was something to Maria’s smile that made Kyle’s insides squirm.

Kip’s smile was all sunshine.  “I’ll see you next shift.”

“Um…I don’t work here,” Maria said, turning to follow Kip as he passed.

“No, but you always come in on Wednesday!”

“No, I don’t!”

“Five o’clock!”

“I gotta switch up my schedule,” Maria said as Kip disappeared into the evening, door swinging quietly closed behind him.  “It cannot be a good thing that my friends know me when I’ll be at a bar.”

“It’s a pretty nice bar.”  Picking up the rag Aram had abandoned, Kyle twisted it between his fingers.

Finishing the circle she’d started when Kip was headed back their direction, Maria stopped, facing Kyle again.  “Excuse me.  You’ve complained about the fact that your boss won’t let you update this place for like a year.  You have a mood board about it!”

Kyle rolled his eyes, and Maria laughed.  “Maybe if I did something about this vampire coven lighting, Kip wouldn’t run out of here so fast, plans or otherwise.”

At that, Maria’s eyes narrowed.  “Kyle…no.”

Kyle raised innocent eyebrows.  “No, what?”

“Kyle.”

“Maria.”

“No.  We talked about this!”

Bracing one hand on the counter behind the bar, Kyle gestured with the towel in the other.  “Was this before or after we had the discussion about one night stands?”

“Kyle,” Maria said, and fuck, he hated those sad deer eyes, “girl, Kip’s not your guy.”

“I never said he was.”

Leaning forward, her arms crossed on the bar, Maria said, “Kyle…do you really think he’s got solo plans tonight?”

Kyle stared at her, the question not registering.  Right up until it did.  “Oh.”

Maria winced in sympathy.  “Kyle…it was never gonna happen.  Kip’s not even your type.”

She was right.  Kip was smart and sweet and kind.  Nothing like the guys Kyle had actually dated.

Hence the one night stands.

“Well,” Kyle said, leaning into the drama of a sigh to fail to hide how he was really feeling, “a guy can dream, right?”

“Dream, maybe, but isn’t it better to dream about things you can have?” Maria asked, her voice just starting to wheedle.

Kyle laughed.  “You seriously think my chances of getting Kip Grady to go on a date with me are that bad?”  When Maria winced again, Kyle’s smile dropped.  “Wait, seriously?”

Maria started chewing her lip.  The universal sign of not wanting to say something.

Kyle glanced at the front door of the Kingfisher.  The door Kip had just disappeared through.  The one that, apparently, someone else had probably been on the other side of.  Someone Kip was maybe…serious about.  Somebody Kip had gone out with enough that Maria, usually all too happy to bury Kyle in sass, was refusing to talk about.

Turning back to his friend, Kyle said, “Do I know the guy?”

Before Maria could answer, Aram reappeared, biceps bulging as he manhandled a new keg into place. “Boss just called.  Incoming bachelor party.”

“It’s a Monday night.”

“And yet.”

Tossing the rag into a bucket, Kyle turned to apologize to Maria, but she’d disappeared.  Her half-finished cocktail and the cash to pay for it were all that was left.  Which was stupid, because they lived in the same apartment and like hell this conversation was over.

Kip Grady - his Kip Grady - had a boyfriend.  Someone Maria knew about and thought Kip was into enough that she wouldn’t even joke about Kyle having a chance.

Which would be great, if it was the right guy.  Kip deserved the right guy.  Kip deserved back rubs and dirty texts and the kind of muscled chest that doubles as a pillow on movie nights.  And maybe that was never gonna be Kyle.  Maybe Kyle didn’t get to fall for a perfect guy who would love him back.

But that didn’t mean Maria got to know about Mr Right and keep that info to herself.

Dragging his hand over his face, Kyle groaned before reaching for the pad of paper they always kept behind the bar.  The register was more than capable of running a tab, but Kyle had learned the hard way that sometimes it was good to have a back up copy.  And graph paper scared drunk people, which meant they tended to pay what he asked and quit bitching about whether or not they had in fact ordered the more expensive version of a Canadian ale.

“You ready for what comes next?” Aram asked him, all confidence in the face of their impending doom.

Was he?  “Yeah.  Of course.”  At least as far as their impending doom was concerned.

Kyle was kind of impressed that a man he’d never met had the ability to break his heart.

Chapter 14: A Walk in the Woods

There was something about hiking trails that attracted breezes.  Kip was sure of it, and not just because he was grateful he’d brought a heavier jacket.  He pulled at the zipper, making sure it was all the way up, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Scott, the jerk, looked comfortable in the windbreaker he’d worn over one of his many hoodies.

Comfortable and very handsome.  Especially without the sunglasses.

Kip knew he had them.  Tucked in a pocket in case nerves got the best of him.  Or more than one person in a row recognized him.  But so far the trail running along the edge of the lake had been sparsely populated, a state park in southern New York proving conveniently unpopular with hockey fans on an early autumn afternoon, and the few people they’d run into had shown no sign of knowing who Scott Hunter was.  In truth, the only creature that had cared about Scott at all was a pomeranian who’d refused to let her humans pull her along the paved walking path until she’d sniffed every last centimeter of Scott’s right shoe.

Kip had wished desperately he had any kind of excuse to take a photo of the smile Scott had been wearing by the time the dog was done.

That had been why Scott had wanted to come out here today.  After the other night, even waking up the next morning sprawled out on the couch like they were teenagers who wouldn’t pay for sleeping somewhere other than a bed, they needed to talk.  And Scott hadn’t wanted to talk in the apartment.  Had been worried that they’d both come to associate it with keeping secrets.  So he’d called in sick to practice - something Coach Murdock’s tone suggested Scott would be paying for later - and Kip had traded shifts at work, and they’d taken the car service all the way out of the city.  To a park without a lot of tourist traffic, on a day when most locals would be in school or at work, so they could have a potentially hard conversation in a beautiful place.

Kip still wasn’t sure what to do with the fact that it was, technically, public and Scott didn’t seem to care.

His shoulders still did.  The way he glanced at the few people who’d passed them still did.  But there was…something…something different about the way Scott didn’t keep space between them when they walked.  The way he absently bumped against Kip from time to time.  Almost like he didn’t mind if a stranger who didn’t know the name Hunter thought that they’d passed a couple out for a stroll.

If the butterflies in his stomach hadn’t been riled up from nerves, they would have been fluttering.

But while Kip had enjoyed the lighthearted conversation so far - the kind that people had when they knew each other well enough and actually liked spending time together - he knew this wasn’t why they’d come out here.  It was a beautiful day, but it would be wasted in the end if they didn’t get the words out they both needed to say.  And so far, they hadn’t talked about anything they couldn’t have discussed on the subway.

Balling his hands into fists in his pockets, Kip took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry I went and talked to my dad first.  About the pictures.”

Face fully exposed, chin even tilted up to enjoy the sunshine, Scott turned to look at him, the confusion easy to read.  “You already apologized for that.  And I was the one being an ass.”

“Scott,” Kip said, “I know you were mad about more than me lying.  Which I shouldn’t have done.”  Kip winced.  “But I…didn’t want you to think I was as scared as I was.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you to be scared?”

“Because social media isn’t going to go away?  Because there will be more pictures?”  Kip shrugged, but it was more an excuse to hunch his shoulders toward his ears.  “What’s the point in being upset about it when it’s going to happen either way?”

“Kip,” Scott asked, an edge to his words, “how do you think I felt seeing those photos?”

Kip stopped for a moment.  “I…what?”

Scott stopped with him, one hand coming out to rest on Kip’s shoulder.  “Kip, this has been my life for most of my life.  And I’m barely used to it most days.”  Scott laughed without mirth.  “You can ask anyone - I am annoyingly private.  And yeah, part of that has to do with hiding this…part…of myself,” Kip caught the automatic glance around them, “but truthfully, I wouldn’t be doing all those interviews anyway.”  Scott glowered at nothing for a moment as he finished.  “What the hell does everyone want to know about me for anyway?”

“I think you’re pretty neat,” Kip said, and felt pleased at Scott’s real laugh this time and the return of something like a smile.

“You’re biased,” Scott said, and Kip’s insides squirmed at the urge to kiss him.  Out here, where there were so few people who might see.

But there were still people.

“But then I met this…great guy,” Scott went on.  “This amazing, smart, handsome, perfect guy…and from the start I know people are gonna bother him because of it.  That just being in my life means this big change in his.  And…”  Scott dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.  “And I could never decide if it was worse when they were taking unflattering pictures of me or when they took ones that felt personal.”

“And now there’s a chance they could be really personal,” Kip said.  He fought the sudden feeling of guilt, because it wasn’t his fault that Scott had to deal with the press.  That Kip might be a liability.

But Scott had that eerie ability of his these days, to read Kip when something was wrong.  He stepped in, closer than Kip had expected, and his hand dropped to Kip’s elbow as he spoke.  “Kip, if I’d known someone was taking pictures of you, I probably would have punched them.”

That surprised a laugh out of him.  “Scott, you can’t go around punching your fans.”

“They shouldn’t go around taking pictures of people without asking,” Scott said.

Kip gave him a look at that.  “That’s very 1980s of you.”

“Kip -”

“People take pictures of strangers every day.”

“This is not that and you know it.”

Kip sighed.  “I know.  And I…appreciate the protectiveness.”

Scott cut him off, affectionately.  “No, you don’t.”  He looked contentedly frustrated.  “You want me to let you handle your own problems your own way and to quit trying to be a…a…white knight about it.”

Kip’s shoulders had made it back down to their usual height.  “I wouldn’t have said it that way, but…yes.”  Leaning into Scott’s space, Kip smiled with as much mischief as he could manage.  “I wish you would believe me when I say I can handle this.  That I will learn to handle this.  Because I can and I will.”  The urge to kiss this man was almost unbearable.  “And we will deal with whatever comes for us.  Together.”

“And we’ll deal with whatever happens along the way,” Scott agreed.  “Together.”

That conversation had been months ago, and Kip had a moment to wonder if Scott remembered it as clearly as he did.

And then Scott was leaning in and kissing Kip.  Out here, where people might see.  Soft and lingering.  Not so long that it invited trouble.  But long enough that Kip forgot how to breathe.

Pulling back, Scott’s cheeks were pink from more than autumn air.  He glanced around them, but Kip didn’t mind this time.  Couldn’t, really.  Not with the trees and the breeze and the possibility of joggers coming up on their left.

“I’ll do better about believing in you,” Scott said, his hand still on Kip’s elbow.  “I mean…I’ll be better about proving it.”  A reporter would have sold their first born for a photo of that smile.  “I couldn’t believe in you any more if I tried.”

Why the hell had Scott dragged them all the way out into the middle of nowhere to say things like that?

Sliding his hand along Kip’s arm, Scott took his hand.  He started walking again, Kip falling into step beside him.  But he didn’t let go.  Even when a jogger came up on their left.

It was all Kip could do to remember his own reason for wanting to take today off.

“We need to come up with a better way to talk to each other about things.”  Kip sighed against Scott's chest.  “‘Cause I know you’ve been having a shit week at work.”

He let the moment linger, first.  Let the calm and the quiet wrap itself around them.  Holding them like Scott’s hand was holding his.

After they passed the next mile marker, Kip found the will to speak.  “You mentioned trouble at work.”  They were pushing their luck about as far as they could, and actually saying words like “hockey” outloud felt like an invitation for attention.  Instead, Kip looked up as Scott exhaled through his nose.  “Things people have been saying that are getting under your skin?”

“We knew it was going to happen,” Scott said, and he sounded resigned, which wouldn’t do at all.

Squeezing Scott’s hand, Kip said, “Tell me how I can help.”

“I’m not sure you can help.”

Kip thought about that for a moment.  Trying to find the core of the problem.  The thing that actually needed to be fixed.  “Well, then tell me how I avoid being collateral damage.”

Kip waited, listening to the occasional loose gravel or fallen leaves crunch under their feet while Scott considered the middle distance.  His tongue running over his lower teeth as he tried to think of some way to avoid the mess they’d found themselves in a few nights ago.  The one he knew Scott was blaming himself for, but Kip knew was both their faults.

Sure, he’d lied about why he wanted to see his dad, but more importantly he’d watched Scott pulling in on himself as the season progressed and trusted his boyfriend to tell him why.  His boyfriend who, by now, Kip knew needed to be coaxed away from his defense mechanisms like a fostered kitten from under a bed.

Which didn’t excuse Scott’s shouting, but Kip didn’t need to be mad about that.  He could see it in Scott’s shoulders and the careful way he’d been moving around their space; Scott was beating himself plenty already.

They’d have to work on that.

Turning to look at the sound of something rustling in the undergrowth, Kip almost missed Scott’s answer.  “I…I don’t know how to do that.”

Kip looked back.  “What did you do when that kind of language upset you before?”

“Before,” Scott said, “I’d just…ignore it.  Or I’d come home and growl at no one.  It didn’t matter…if I was mad.”

It had mattered a great deal, but Scott’s point was fair.  Being angry in an otherwise empty apartment was different than coming home to someone who loved you and sided with you, and who was obliviously going about their own evening activities.  Someone who would have to deal with Scott’s bad mood if and when it happened again.

“I could just…not talk about it,” Scott started, and he smiled just a little as Kip frowned.  “But somehow I don’t think you’d like that plan.”

“Because it’s a terrible plan,” Kip said.

“But I don’t want to fill your head with the things these guys say,” Scott went on.  “I don’t want your experience of hockey to become all about the bad moments.”  For the first time all day, Scott’s shoulders slumped, his athlete’s posture bowing under the pressures of future distress.  “I love hockey.”

Kip felt himself smile as the beginning of an idea sparked.  “Tell me about it.  Tell me what you love about the game.”

It felt like a good sign when Scott laughed.  Dismissing in the way of someone who thinks an answer is harmlessly obvious.  “What do I love about hockey?”

They’d slowed to a stop. Now it was Kip’s turn to nudge Scott onward, giving into the need to thread his fingers through Scott’s and hope nobody passing them noticed.

He enjoyed the quiet around them again as Scott thought.  That serious mind thinking serious thoughts about a not-quite serious game.

“I love ice skating.”  Scott’s chin lifted as he spoke.  The earnestness in his words demanding it.  “I’ve always loved it.  The way you move on the ice.  The feeling of gliding over the ice like…like that’s a normal way that people should move.  Forwards or backwards, the way it feels different to land a jump than when you’re on solid ground.  The spray of snow when you skid to a stop.”  Scott ran his tongue over his teeth, his gaze on something Kip couldn’t see.  “And I love the other players.  Suiting up with guys who are as excited as I am.  Practicing together.  Developing…strategies and tactics and dumb ideas that’ll distract the other team at a key moment.”  Scott grinned at a memory, and Kip thought he looked so much younger for it.  “Even watching tape of the other teams.  It feels like when you used to spy on your neighbors.  Or siblings, I guess, if you had them.”

“It feels like spying?”

Scott nodded, then gave a small shrug.  “It’s not.  But you want to figure out how to cause mischief.  To learn something the other person doesn’t want you to know so you can mess with them later.”

“I feel bad for your old neighbors,” Kip murmured, hiding his grin in the collar of his jacket.

Scott didn’t buy it.  “Says the guy who encourages Thomas ‘Rad Stunts’ Mikey.”

“Kids need to be encouraged.”  Bumping his shoulder against Scott’s, Kip let his grin show this time.  “What else do you love?”

“I love…Intermission.  I love the reset.”  Scott swallowed, another set of memories rushing over his face.  “Nobody really enjoys being yelled at by the coach, but rallying the guys back together.  Convincing each other we can turn a game around.  Or trying to figure out how to keep our big heads from costing us a three goal lead.”  Scott dragged his bottom lip between his teeth.  “Even…in a strange way…the kind of angry you get…when a teammate’s been injured.  The…defensiveness.  The way you walk back out to the ice, knowing you’re gonna Check a guy on the other team because it should be fair.  Not hurt them.”  Scott’s eyes flicked down to Kip’s, clarifying.  “Just…shove him hard.  Because injuries happen.  But also…fuck ‘em.”

Kip nodded.  He thought he understood.  Like when a kid pushed your friend down on the playground and you could go to the teacher about it.

“That last part doesn’t sound very nice,” Scott mumbled, and Kip laughed, earning a confused smile from Scott.  “What?”

“Slamming guys into the boards never looks very nice,” Kip said.  “Hockey’s a…not nice game, sometimes.”

“You’d never really hurt another player,” Scott said, insistent.  “No decent hockey player ever means to hurt the other guy.  A black eye, maybe, or a split lip.”

“Either of which would be high drama at my job,” Kip teased.

“But a real injury, that’s…”  Scott shook his head.  “That’s an accident.  Nobody does that on purpose.”

“Not even Rozanov?”

Scott nodded, suddenly very serious.  “He’s a mouthy little shit but I’ve never seen anything to suggest Ilya Rozanov would hurt somebody on purpose.”

For a guy everybody liked to call rude names, it was very important to Scott that Kip not think Rozanov really deserved any of them.  Well, maybe the occasional “motherfucker”.  When he scored yet another hat trick.

“Does…any of that help?”  Scott was watching him now, ignoring the beauty of nature around them.  “Knowing why I still keep playing a game that’s broken my bones and made dating almost impossible?”

Kip hummed.  “Maybe.”  He was turning the idea around in his head.  Trying to find the version of it that actually did something useful.  “You said you don’t want my experience with hockey,” Scott had used the word and no cameras had magically appeared, “to become a bad one.  My experience.  But…I don’t want yours to become worse, either.”

“It’s been a pretty great career so far.”

“But if you have to choose between me and the game,” Kip started.

“I choose you.”

Kip stopped, looking up into Scott’s face.  His expression painfully honest.  “It’ll kill this thing we have if you walk away from everything just for me.”

“I really don’t think it will,” Scott said, and Kip’s heart pressed against his ribs, desperate to believe him.  “I could be happy doing something else.”

But there was a truth here Todd hadn’t mentioned at their meeting.  “Scott…even if you retired.  Right now.  Today.  The press…will still hound you for being gay.”

Scott stared at him, uncomprehending.

Kip chewed the inside of his lip.  “Scott…if you walk away from a career as a superstar athlete.  As a darling of professional hockey.  Just…quit…they’re going to want to know why.  And then they’ll find out about me anyway.”  He tried his best not to look as sad as the idea made him feel.  “And then I won’t be the guy who turned Scott Hunter gay.  I’ll be the guy who cost Scott Hunter his career.  The guy…he threw his life away for.”

Anger flashed across Scott’s face, followed by the kind of defiance that comes from refusing to accept the facts as they are.  Kip watched his jaw clench, Scott’s throat moving as he swallowed, those warm brown eyes snapping with fire.  The kind that Kip suspected kindled to life when a teammate got hurt worse than a black eye or a split lip.

Finally, Scott said, “They wouldn’t dare.”

“Pretty sure Todd could prove right now that they would,” Kip said, quietly.

They stood there, more or less blocking the path, for a while.  Scott lost to his whirling thoughts, Kip fighting the sudden urge to curl into Scott’s chest.  Both of them suddenly feeling trapped, even out here in as wild a space as a person could find in southern New York.

Then Scott started walking again, his grip on Kip’s hand keeping him close.  The storm of emotions replaced by a simple kind of seriousness.  “Tell me what you were thinking.  When you asked me why I love hockey.”

“I was thinking that maybe it’s about focusing on the good things that happen,” Kip said.  “When you get home from practice or a game.  Listing off the good moments.  The things you’re proud of.  The…cool save Bennett made or the trick shot Huff pulled off.  The way you talked down a ref from a major penalty.  Or smaller things, like a sign you saw in the audience that was funny.”

“Ignore the negativity,” Scott said.

Kip nodded his head back and forth.  “Sort of…but not really.”  He blew out a breath.  “I think you still need to tell me about the asshole things people say.”

“Some of them are pretty bad.”

“Then maybe we skip the details,” Kip said.  “Maybe…you just tell me that Number 15 said something homophobic to Carter and it sucked because you couldn’t punch him for it.  Or that one of your guys said something that came too close to racist and you couldn’t figure out how to shut it down in time, and it really bothered you that some of the other guys laughed.”

“Those are very specific examples,” Scott said.

“I think the specificity matters.”  Kip watched a bird land in a nearby tree, chirping its opinion about something.  “How can I help you carry the emotional burden of having to pretend these things don’t bother you if I don’t know what these things are?”

“I don’t want you to carry that burden.”

Without letting go of Scott’s hand, Kip stepped in front of Scott, walking backwards as he glared at his boyfriend.  “I believe we already covered the white knight thing earlier.”

“You said you didn’t want to call it that,” Scott said.

“I don’t, but the principle still applies.”  Kip stopped walking, forcing Scott to stop, too.  “You’re going to believe in me to handle my half of our problems, and you’re going to believe in me to help you through the things that are hard.  Because if I told you I was being bullied at school,” and the absurdity of using that sentence again at this point in his life was almost enough to break Kip’s train of thought, “you’d demand to help me deal with it.  Even if all you could do was listen to me bitch.”

His little speech held for a moment.  Then Scott’s lips twitched.  “And here I thought we were done with school bullies.”

“Fuck you,” Kip said as Scott laughed.  “Focus, Hunter.”

“I am,” Scott said, but the giggle in his voice suggested otherwise.

“Scott -”

“You’re right.”  And there was that smile again.  The one Kip couldn’t wait for Scott to be able to use whenever he wanted.  “As usual.”

“This is not about me being right,” Kip said.

“But you are,” Scott said, and sighed.  “I’m being -”

“Don’t you dare say one single mean thing about yourself.”

Scott stopped talking, but he didn’t stop smiling.

Kip looked down at their hands.  “I want you to talk to me.  To tell me enough that I know how to be mad with you.  But I don’t…want you to feel like you’re bringing certain words into our home.”

“I can do that.”  Scott leaned forward, his forehead finding Kip’s.  “I won’t say those kinds of things in our home, but I can tell you what flavor of bad the words were.”

“And then you’ll tell me about Bennett’s cool save.”

“What, you’re not gonna watch the game?”

Kip lifted his head, forcing Scott to pull back, but only a little.  Not nearly enough to convince a passing stranger they were just good friends.  “You know that what I think looks like a cool save is not the same as what a career hockey player thinks is a cool save.”

“Once you meet Bennett,” Scott said, “you will know that all his saves are cool.”

It was the hardest thing Kip had ever had to do, not kissing Scott right then.  But he could hear the sound of footsteps coming down the path ahead of them.  A merciful hint right before a family came around the turn.  Just enough time for Kip to step away, dropping Scott’s hand just in case.

The parents were distracted - the mom hunting for something in the backpack, the dad watching whatever it is dads watch when they want their kids to think they aren’t paying attention - and the daughter seemed more interested in a stick she had recently found.  But the little boy, eyes wide and voice loud, spotted them immediately.  Spotted Scott, in specific, and bolted toward him with a shout.  “Hey!  It’s you!”

Kip took a step away from Scott as he felt his boyfriend breathe.  Reaching for Captain Hunter and that practiced, professional demeanor that could handle this better than Scott thought he could.

But then, things took a turn.

Stopping in front of Scott, the little boy pointed up at him, one lone finger aimed at Scott’s nose.  “I know you!”  He waited for Scott to smile before announcing, proudly, “You play football!”

Scott blinked.

“Dad!” the little boy shouted, turning to look back.  “Dad!  Dad!  Look who I found!”

“I can see him,” the dad called.  “What did Mom say about pointing?”

The little boy turned back, finger still in the air.  “You’re a football player!”

From behind the mask of Captain Hunter, Scott regarded the tiny shouting creature in front of him.  “I…don’t play football.”

“Yes you do.”  The little boy planted his fists on his hips.  “You’re on the blue team.  On the…the…Connecticut…Muskrats!”

“Muskateers,” came the correction.

“Pretty sure I’ve never played football,” Scott said, as politely as he could.  “I…don’t live in Connecticut."

The little boy looked affronted.  “Then who are you?”

Captain Hunter all but disappeared as Scott grinned.  “I play for the New York Admirals.”

The little boy squinted up at him.  “Who are the New York Admirables?”

The rest of the family had caught up by now.  The daughter gave them a passing glance and went back to her stick.  The mom, still digging in the backpack, said, “Sweetie, leave the nice man alone, OK?” and kept walking.  Catching his son’s collar with one hand, the dad held up one fist and mouthed “Go Admirables” before dragging his vocal and displeased youngest after the women in their lives.

Kip stood where he was, watching the family go, and waited for the sunglasses to appear.

Instead, after the family had passed safely beyond earshot, Scott burst out laughing.

Watching his boyfriend double over, Kip let himself smile.  With relief, with hope, with amusement at the ridiculous confidence of small children.

Straightening up, Scott rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.  “Well…I’ve had worse fan interactions.”

“You know you’re gonna have to get Elena a team shirt,” Kip said.

Dropping his hands, Scott was still grinning.  “Which one?  The Connecticut Muskrats or the New York Admirables?”

And then they were both laughing, Scott pulling Kip into a hug under the guise of not blocking the path, even though there was no one else around.  When they could get themselves back under some semblance of control, Scott took Kip’s hand again, and held it for the rest of their walk.  All the way up to the view at the end of the trail, where Kip fished out his phone for the selfie Elena had demanded.  Scott’s face fully visible and his smile as wide as his face could handle.  And then Scott held his hand all the way back to the first mile marker, dropping it only when the parking lot came back into view.

Chapter 15: Worth Waiting For

Scott's mouth was soft against his.  Eager, like all Scott's kisses were after they came home from a date.  Determined to make up for the kisses that hadn't happened earlier in the evening.  Not an apology - not anymore - but still something.  Something Kip didn't need so long as Scott kept him pinned against the wall, happy to let Kip's hands roam as they pleased.

It had been the closest thing to a fancy dinner they’d tried so far. The kind of restaurant that didn’t take reservations, chosen on Thursday night when there wasn’t likely to be a line. The dress code was a nice shirt, tie optional, and Kip had done most of the talking while they were being seated. In a last minute show of nerves, Scott had changed his hair three times before they’d left, until Kip had threatened to shave it all off. At the expense of his own happiness, he’d insisted as Scott finally found his anxious grin again, but Kip would do it if it meant he got to eat in the next hour.

The food had been good. The atmosphere had been trying too hard. The other patrons had been wrapped up in their own lives and so there’d only been a couple of glances that lingered too long on Scott. A flicker of recognition from one young man, but Kip hadn't seen him reach for his phone to confirm.

It was one of the risks of a dinner date: no sunglasses, no easy way to excuse this as a work thing or a casual bite. Dinner was, by definition, more formal, and a place like this was…just that little bit impressive. Not a first date - not necessarily a date at all - but looking around the room it was clear everybody here was here with someone they wanted to spend time with. Even when some of those tables were parents who’d brought their currently well-behaved kids.

It had meant, unlike the sandwich shop a few weeks ago or the hotdog stand they passed on their regular walks, that Scott had spent more time that evening on high alert. He’d been more conscious of where his hands were and of the expressions he made when Kip told a joke or talked about his classes. That his posture was better, because why would two friends lean into each other when the other person spoke?

It had almost hurt, when Scott started to reach for something on Kip’s side of the table and balled his hand into a fist instead. Almost been enough to make Kip write off the whole dinner date idea and suggest they eat exclusively at Duncan’s. Because maybe the older man would be disgusted, but Kip couldn’t shake the idea that nobody in that diner would care one bit. That maybe at least one of them already knew. That Scott could dip him in the doorway and kiss him like a 1960s musical and at best they’d get a nod from Ivan and the tiniest smile from Marge.

They’d skipped dessert because Kip didn’t think either of them could take it. He’d been doing so well, but there had been a tightness around Scott’s eyes that would be difficult to explain, and Kip himself had found the night sliding dangerously toward bittersweet.

He didn’t want bittersweet.

Wrapping his arms around Scott's neck, Kip yelped as Scott picked him up, the sound melting into a laugh before Scott kissed him again.  Kip's thighs squeezing Scott's sides even as strong arms held him up.  Scott's big hands braced against Kip's ass, and anatomy be damned, Scott could have fucked Kip right now and it would have been the best sex of his life.

Thankfully Scott had slightly less of whatever brain chemical made people stupid during sex thundering through his veins, so instead of trying to literally fuck Kip up the wall, he took a few steps back.  Kept Kip busy with kisses against his mouth and jaw and pressed against his neck as he walked, slowly, toward their bedroom.  Humming approvingly as Kip's hands started to wander again.  Utterly ruining the hair Scott had spent so many minutes worrying about.

Dropping them both onto the bed, Scott buried his face in Kip's neck.  Breathing in like Kip was the best thing he'd ever smelled.  His smile pressed against Kip's skin and even though he couldn't see it, that smile made Kip's heart sing.

Nothing bitter in this moment.  Only sweetness.  And maybe a little heat.

The ride home had soothed things.  Geoffrey's easy chatter always calmed Scott down, especially since the driver seemed to have figured out years ago that Scott Hunter was happy to listen without needing to respond and had long ago adjusted to a one-sided kind of conversation.  He'd also earned enough of Scott's trust that Scott had held Kip's hand the whole way home.  Fingers threaded together, unmistakable if anyone had seen them.  Kinda like how Bennett had seen them that day at the ice rink.  Dark eyes noticing and understanding and accepting, in a way Kip hoped everyone wearing Admirals' colors would be.

Scott's hands had found their way under Kip's shirt, tugging the hem free so they could reach abs and obliques and whatever else it was that made up somebody's middle.  Kip laughed as one brushed over a ticklish spot as Scott sat back, grinning.  "Hi."

Kip grabbed Scott's hands through the fabric of his shirt, grinning back.  "Hi."

"I had fun tonight."  Scott's grin turned a little shy.  "I'm sorry we couldn't stay for dessert."

“It's alright," Kip said.  He squeezed Scott's hands in reassurance.  "I’d pushed you as far as I could this time.”

Scott frowned.  “I pushed me.”   His hands under Kip's balled into fists, as if fighting back.   “I pushed me.”

“For me,” Kip argued.  "I'm the one who likes to go out."  Scott had never really gone out before they'd started dating, even with his friends.  Mainly after games, and even then it wasn't a guarantee.

“Well, that was the deal,” Scott said. He didn’t sound upset, though that frown hadn't disappeared. Mostly he sounded like he was stating a fact. “I have to do a better job. Prove that I’m worth waiting for.”

Kip blinked. “Waiting for?”

Scott nodded. “You could have…any guy, Kip. Three years of this bullshit, it’s gotta be for someone special.”

And now it was Kip's turn to frown, because how dare Scott refer to his own hard work as “bullshit”. All the planning Scott put into going out. All the days they’d spent at Kip’s dad’s house. All the late night phone calls when Scott was on the road, Scott blushing his way furiously through his descriptions as Kip gasped encouragement on the other end. The growing number of kisses Scott had risked outside of their apartment, just because he knew how much they would mean to Kip. Because Scott must have wanted to kiss him, but a lifetime of pushing down his own desires meant that Scott could have held back.

But he hadn’t. He’d kissed Kip on that path in the state park. And he’d kissed him in his dad’s backyard more than once. And he’d kissed Kip in the dark after that game last week. Certain no one could see them, but outside where it wasn’t guaranteed.

It could feel like the worst kind of hiding, but it didn’t. Every single kiss felt like bravery. At the park, at his dad’s, in the dark: every single kiss had tasted like hope.

“You are someone special,” Kip said, pulling Scott back down into a kiss. “You’re the guy worth waiting for.”

Maybe it was because they were coming up on the one year mark.  Not the good one, where a handsome hockey star had walked into a random smoothie shop and found an employee dozing behind the counter, but the sad one.  The night of the gala.  The night Scott hadn't said the right things and Kip had needed to walk out because if he did anything else he'd say the wrong things, too.

Maybe he had anyway.

It wasn't an anniversary Kip would let them remember, but the first year was always going to be hard.  It had been an ominous grey cloud at the edge of his thoughts for weeks as the months flew by.  Changing jobs, starting classes, introducing Scott to his dad and Elena and Maria, meeting Duncan and half-meeting Eric Bennett, who Scott promised he'd get to meet for real next week.  Going for walks and going out for lunch and risking more than Kip had thought they would by going out for dinner, because Scott in the kind of lighting restaurants used for dinner was so much more tempting than Kip had planned for.

The first time they'd tried it, they'd gone to a twenty-four hour diner with fluorescent lighting and cracked vinyl seats and Kip had still nearly had Scott's shirt off before he'd unlocked the front door.

Tonight had been so much better, and so much worse, and if Scott didn't take his stupid fucking shirt off right now Kip was going to explode.

Hockey wasn't one of those sports that resulted in athletes with gorgeous, sun-kissed tans.  Even if it hadn’t been a winter sport, most players spent their days inside, covered head to toe in protective gear.  At best, they might be able to get some color across their cheeks if they preferred to run outside instead of on a treadmill in a gym.  So when Scott did take his shirt off, it was miles of gloriously pale skin.  The color staining his cheeks was decidedly pink as Kip muffled a laugh.  "What?"

"Nothing," Kip said, his hands already pulling at Scott's belt.  "Just can't believe you're mine."

It was Scott's turn to laugh.  "You can't believe it?"  Scott kissed him, chaste but firm.  "I'm not sure I'll ever believe how lucky I got."

"Believe it," Kip growled.  "But believe it on your back, OK?"  He knew how satisfied his own grin must look as Scott's eyes darkened.  "I want to watch as I take you apart."

He laughed as Scott scrambled off him, stripping off the last of his clothes before sprawling out on the other side of the bed.  Kip made quick work of his own outfit, tossing each item of clothing with slightly more flare until Scott's blush was replaced by something dangerously close to giggles.

He was still laughing as Kip crawled on top of him, kissing him again.  "Maybe you should take up basketball.  Your socks almost made it into the trash."

"This house has enough athletes," Kip said, trailing kisses across Scott's pecks.  "Someone's got to read all those books."

"I read."

"Murder books, Hunter."  It was always worth it for the way Scott would stiffen when Kip used his last name.  "Police investigations and crime scene forensics and serial killers."  Sitting up enough to look Scott in the face again, Kip bumped the tips of their noses together.  "Someone's got to read about stuff like art."

"If you want to study a work of art," Scott said, "you could just look in the mirror."

Now it was Kip's turn to blush.  "I mean..."

But Scott wasn't having it.  He leaned up to kiss Kip, eager until Kip let his lips part, and then happy to let his tongue lazily explore Kip's mouth.  Not that Kip was complaining, or that he wasn't just as happy to return the favor.

By the time they parted, Scott's cheeks were flushed again.  "Kip -"

"As much as I love kissing you," Kip said, doing it again as if he needed to prove it, "I'd really like to fuck you now."

Scott nodded, already panting, and Kip didn't bother to hide how hot that was.

He pushed off the bed, grabbing the lube and a condom from the bedside table.  There was always a moment of consideration for the toys they kept there, but he decided tonight wasn't that kind of night.  He tossed his finds on the bed before settling himself back between Scott's legs.  "Ready?"

Scott nodded, but he wasn't looking at Kip.  Instead, he'd picked up the little foil packet, holding it between two fingers as if he wasn't sure what it was.  "Do..."  Scott's blush was back in full force, as was the shy tilt of his chin.  "Do we...still need this?"

Kip paused, one hand braced next to Scott's thigh, the other holding the small bottle of high-end lube.  "What do you mean?"

Scott ran his tongue over his teeth.  "I mean...I'm not sleeping with other men."  He wouldn't quite meet Kip's eyes.  "That's the reason I bought these.  It was all one night stands, um, before...you."

Kip felt himself smiling.  "Makes sense.  Protection is important."

"Yeah."

Dropping his head, Kip kissed Scott's knee, repeating his words on purpose.  "I'm not sleeping with other men, either."

Scott held the small packet a little higher.  "We can still use one, if you want.  It makes clean up easier."

Kip let his smile turn devilish.  "Maybe I want to make a mess, Hunter."

Scott's smile was devastating as he flicked the condom off the bed.  "Please do."

By now he knew how Scott liked it.  Knew how to tease to distract from the burn of stretching the other man open.  Knew what would push Scott too close to the edge, but also how often Kip needed to stop and let Scott kiss him for a while, hands buried in Kip's hair as his fingers thrust steadily in and out.  Curling occasionally to drag against just the right spot to make Scott break off their kiss with a whine.

"You're beautiful when you do that," Kip said, kissing his way along Scott's jaw as Scott whimpered again, his hips rocking back against Kip's hand.  "Fuck, I could listen to you all day."

"Any day," Scott gasped.  "Just say the word."

"You've got a job," Kip said, and he was proud of how even his voice almost sounded.  "And I've got classes."

"Play hooky."

"I feel like neither my professors nor your coach would appreciate that."

"Fuck your professors," Scott said, his voice going high at the end as Kip slowly dragged his fingers free.  "Kip, fuck, please -"

"We'll probably have to save the whole day for summer break," Kip said, any semblance of control vanishing as he shifted, lining himself up and pushing slowly against Scott's entrance.  "How about we - ah - see how loud I can get you tonight?"

Scott moaned, long and loud, head tilted back to expose that irresistible neck of his.  Kip growled as he sank the rest of the way in, taking a moment to remember how to breathe as Scott squirmed and squeezed.  "Fuck."

Kip huffed a laugh.  "You know...how you keep threatening me with public kisses...after you come out?"  Scott nodded, eyes hooded, expression confused.  Kip leaned in to nip at that beautiful neck.  "Once everyone knows how lucky you are to have me, you're gonna show up to every fucking game covered in hickies."

"Deal," Scott exhaled.  "I'm all yours."  He lifted his hips, making Kip groan as he did so.  "Now please move."

"Maybe I'm comfy," Kip panted.

He laughed as Scott snarled.  "Grady."

Acquiescing, Kip pulled back, thrusting forward again and earning a shout for his efforts.  He kept moving, Scott's enthusiastic cries changing into mindless chants of "yes" and "fuck" and "please, God, just like that" as Kip picked up his pace.  Pounding into the man he loved with everything he had, his own blood pounding in his veins as he watched Scott's expression almost relax with the pleasure.

"Am I...boring you?" Kip asked, his hips snapping forward again and again.

"Never," Scott breathed.  "Fuck, no, never.  God.  Kip."

One hand found the back of his head, pulling Kip down into the kind of messy kiss that always meant Scott was close.  Hot and desperate, with just enough teeth to make Kip speed up that little bit more.  Fucking Scott like the star athlete he was, and as Scott shuddered underneath him, Kip swore and grunted and followed him down.

He rested his forehead against Scott's shoulder as their breathing returned to normal.  Kip's hips still flush against Scott's, aware for the first time how much more of a mess this might be to clean up.

Not that either of them cared.  It was one of Kip's endless delights to know how close to feral it got them both to have Scott get Kip off, sprawled on his back and covered in his own release, only for Scott to finish across Kip's chest and stomach, too.

Fuck, he still couldn't decide which of them had looked more turned on that first time.  Or the last time.

"Feel like you made a mess?" Scott asked, his lips pressed to Kip's temple.

Kip smiled against Scott's shoulder.  "Yeah."  He pursed his lips, kissing the warm skin.  "But I think I can make a bigger one."

Scott shivered under him and Kip nipped the skin he'd just kissed.  Not enough to mark.  Just enough to feel impish.

"We should get cleaned up," Scott said, wrapping Kip up in a hug before pushing him gently toward the bathroom.  "I can't cuddle you like this."

"Bet you can," Kip said as he moved away, his breathing catching as it always did when he pulled free.  "But yeah.  Let's get cleaned up."  He helped Scott up off the bed and back into a hug.  "We could take a bath.  Cuddle and clean all at once."

Scott kissed him.  "This is why I'm the lucky one."

They could argue about this for months.  Years.  Maybe, some politely patient part of Kip's heart thought, for decades.  And what a wonderful, wonderful fate to be sentenced to.  Decades of being unable to agree which of the two happiest people in New York might be the luckier one.

Scott's mouth was soft against his.  Lazy this time.  Hinting at sleepy cuddles and mumbled words and the dangerous kind of affection that meant alarms forgot to be set.  Kip grabbed his phone as Scott pulled him toward the bathroom, checking his screen before tossing his phone back on the bed.

Scott would be fine.  Sunrise tended to wake him up anyway, and if the sun didn't rise in time, Kip was sure he could think of something to make Scott happy it was Friday.

Chapter 16: An Artistic Endeavour

The Saint-Georges Gallery was full of natural light.  Somewhere, buried with the rest of his high school homework, Scott had a memory that natural light was supposed to be bad for most kinds of art.  Something about UV radiation and the way paints broke down over time.  But then maybe whoever had set up this building as an art gallery had used special glass for the large windows, removing that threat for the pieces housed inside.  The same way that hockey rinks still had boards to get checked into but they weren’t the plain wooden varieties they used to be.  These days, the walls to a hockey rink were significantly more engineered with the goal of protecting the players.  A way to protect the at times fragile pieces inside.

Standing next to him, looking much more at home in a room full of paintings and sculptures and tiny metal somethings that probably counted as "installations", Benny was doing his best to pretend like this was a normal day off.  Like this wasn't the first time Scott had been in an art gallery, let alone this specific one.  Let alone with his best friend.

Stuffing his hands into his coat pockets at the memory of the last art show he’d tried to attend, Scott looked around, wishing desperately that he had anything remotely interesting to say about what was probably incredible skill on display in this room.  "I, uh...I like the one with the waves."

And because he was Benny, his friend smiled.  "No you don't."

Scott frowned.  "Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."  Benny's smile didn't falter.  "It's the piece in here you find the least confusing."

Well...that was fair.

"They're not really pictures of anything," Scott said.  He kept his voice low, like he was saying something he knew he shouldn't.  The way someone might say they thought soccer was boring when their friend had bought good tickets to an important game and wanted them to come.  "The paintings, I mean.  They're, um...they're...colorful.  But not...specific."

Benny nodded thoughtfully, which made Scott laugh.  "That's fair."

"Is it?"

"Art is in the eye of the beholder."

"Oh, don't say that.  It always sounds like code for ‘you’ll never understand’."  Leaning into Benny's space, Scott bumped their shoulders together.  "You can teach an outsider about a thing you love."

"Can you?" Benny asked, and Scott's insides squirmed a little at the sadness in his friend's voice.  At the old memory that was whispering in Benny’s ear that Scott might mean well, but he wasn't telling the truth.  That this thing that Benny loved so much was, ultimately, something Benny had to love alone.  Because what kind of person enjoyed hockey and art?  Goalies were weird, after all.

"Well," Scott began, determined to beat the voice only Benny could hear, "art takes skill, right?  How to hold a brush.  What paint to use.  How to...to mix colors to...evoke the right emotion."

Benny was giving him an appraising look, but there was a spark in those dark eyes that hadn't been there when Scott had met his best friend on the sidewalk outside the gallery.  Something like interest or gratitude.  Or hope.  Something that emphasized how little Benny had expected Scott to react to this place that was special enough to Benny that he’d offered up for today’s meeting.  The one that was important to Scott.  "Art does take skill, though most artists would probably call it honing a craft."

"And I'd call it practicing a drill," Scott countered.  "It's still repetition of an action in order to improve your ability, with the end goal of being able to intentionally enact a specified outcome."

The laugh earned Benny a disapproving look from a nearby employee.  But it also earned him a toothy grin from Scott.  "That has to be the most athletic description of an artistic endeavor I have ever heard."

"But he's not wrong," came a voice from behind them.  Silent even on stilettos, the woman maybe came up to Scott's shoulder.  But everything about her said champion, or whatever the linguistic equivalent was in the art world.  Someone who worked hard, got what she wanted, and used that unrelenting mindset to build up those around her.  Scott was willing to bet that while this gallery was full of impressive art, it was not exclusively from famous artists.

Turning to face the woman with a smile that spoke of years of familiarity, Benny held out a hand in introduction.  "Scott, this is Jeanette.  This wonderful gallery is all her doing."

"I can tell."  Scott held out a hand on instinct and felt a tiny moment of relief when the powerhouse in front of him shook it.  "I'm not nearly as informed as Benny but this place is amazing."

Jeanette smiled, one eyebrow arched.  "And because it is amazing, it must be my doing?"

"Blame a career of sizing up opponents and new teammates," Scott said with an unapologetic grin.  "You get good at spotting the ones who know what they're doing."

"That sounds like a compliment," said Jeanette, with the air of someone who was going to take it as one regardless of his meaning.

Honestly, Scott would come back here just for her.

"Thank you for letting us come by today," Benny said as Jeanette glanced over the work of the employee who'd side-eyed him for laughing.  "I know you're busy getting ready for a new exhibit."

"I am always busy, and there is always a new exhibit."  But she said it with affection in her voice.  Someone with a demanding job that she willingly gave her time and talent to.  "And what good is having friends if they can't ask you for a favor now and then?"

"I promise he can keep his mouth shut," Benny said.  At Scott's confused glance, he explained, "Since this exhibit hasn't opened yet, we can't tell anyone about the pieces we get to see today."

“Carter will be so disappointed.”

"Eric was happy to vouch for the both of you, but it is his reputation on the line," Jeanette said as Benny chuckled.  She glanced around the room and tiny frown lines appeared between her brows.  "Though...I do remember you saying you were bringing two friends today, Eric?"

"Kip's running a little late," Benny said, and there was a moment of free fall that replaced Scott's stomach at the casual way Benny simply said Kip's name.  "He's taking classes at NYU and you know how the subway can be coming that direction."

Jeanette rolled her eyes.  "I am not so New York born and bred that I don't abuse the hell out of my car service at every opportunity.  I haven't taken the subway in years."

"Then how will you understand the art meant for the masses?" Benny asked.

"From my ivory tower," Jeanette said.  She flipped dark hair back over her shoulder, then winked.  "Or at least the back of an SUV."

Watching the two old friends chat, Scott felt his phone buzz in his pocket.  A quick check confirmed it.  "Speaking of which, looks like Kip just arrived."

"Shall I go get him?" Jeanette offered.  She waited until Scott opened his mouth to be polite before adding, "Since I have the keys?"

"Are all your friends firecrackers?" Scott asked as the gallery owner walked away, her stilettos much louder this time.

Benny hummed.  "I would have called you a wood-burning stove."  At Scott's raised eyebrows, Benny shrugged.  "Warm, rugged, old-fashioned."  He grinned.  "Romantic."

"What do I know about romance," Scott muttered.

"There's a holiday in a couple of months that's gonna make you want to answer that question."

"And what am I supposed to do, buy something today to surprise him with?" Scott countered.  "Any piece of art in here would be immediately upstaged by the person I bought it for."

That set Benny chuckling into his coat collar as Scott's attention immediately slid away from every piece in the large, tastefully lit room to the other person in his life who would enjoy being in such a place.  Curls tousled by the winter wind, cheeks pink from the cold, backpack slung over one shoulder as he shook Jeanette's hand with the other.  A smile that could stop traffic, even in a city where traffic stopped all the time.

"You're planning to keep this to yourself for another couple years?" Benny asked quietly, tilting his chin in Kip’s direction in lieu of something as visible as a nod.

Scott nodded.  "Yeah.  Through the end of my current contract."

This time Benny did nod.  "You got a plan for explaining that expression on your face?"

Pressing his lips into a line, Scott watched Jeanette gesture to where they were standing before heading off in another direction.  Probably back to her office or to check on some other employee.  "I can be discreet."

"Scotty, they could see that smile from orbit."

"Good thing I'm not hiding anything from the astronauts on the International Space Station."

"Or the aliens on Mars," Benny muttered as Kip headed their way.

Scott ignored his friend in favor of meeting Kip in the middle.  "Hey."  He knew his smile was back; how could it not be with Kip looking like that?  Happy and excited and hopeful.  "Find the place OK?"

"Are you kidding?"  Kip looked around the gallery, taking in way more than Scott had about the paintings on the walls and the stone statue in the nearby corner.  "This place is amazing!  I never thought I'd find an excuse to come in here, let alone get a private tour."

"Officially, you still haven't," Benny said as he joined them.  "Jeanette’s happy to let us peek, but she will be very upset if there are Instagram posts before opening day."

"I can't remember the last time I updated my Instagram," Kip said by way of a promise.  But his attention had left the artwork lining the walls.  Now, he was looking at Benny the way Scott figured a much younger Kip had looked at new kids on the playground.  It made something in his chest squeeze in a suspiciously happy way.  "Um, hi."

"Hi."  Benny held out a hand.  "I'm Eric."

"Kip," Kip said.  Taking Benny's hand, he shot Scott a questioning glance.  "You…play for the Admirals?"

"Don't let the polite demeanor fool you," Scott said quickly.  "Benny's not the guy to play pretend with."  A glance of his own to confirm the mischief in those dark eyes.  "And he definitely remembers you from the ice rink."

Kip nodded, considering.  Then he turned back to Benny, all innocence.  "So, will you tell me about the scar on Scotty's ass?"

------

Kip Grady was the kind of guy who could have spent the entire day in a gallery like Saint-Georges.  Gushing about the difference between Italian influence in the 1740s and the effects of the abrupt shift in patronage from non-noble merchants in Denmark.  He certainly knew more about the metal statuettes that Jeanette had been coveting the right to premiere than Scotty ever would.  And there wasn't a moment of shyness about all that knowledge and interest, either.  Kip had bubbled over with enthusiasm, alternately spouting facts and asking questions at a rate that made Eric wish he'd brushed up a little himself before this meeting.

Even though art was not the point of this meeting.

The point was that Scotty's face had gone bright red as he'd sputtered about how the scar in question was near his ass, high up on his left thigh.  An off-ice accident Eric wasn't sure he should be the one to spill the beans on.  The point was the way Kip had met Eric's gaze unflinchingly, clearly comfortable with who he was and what that might imply about how close he was standing to Eric’s best friend.  The point was that Scotty was clearly madly in love - because only madness would drive a professional athlete to consider publicly coming out - but still the tactician that made him such a brilliant Center.

Today was about Eric getting to put a voice and a personality to the man whose hand Scotty had been holding in the lobby of a local ice rink.  And it was, clearly, about Kip getting to meet someone from Scotty's life.  Someone who mattered.  A lot.

"Am I the only one who feels like you're bringing him home to meet your parents?" Eric muttered under his breath as Kip circled one of the triptychs being displayed on a freestanding plinth.

"Come on," Scotty said, as Eric groaned as he caught his own mistake.  "You're not that old."

"Fuck you."

"Language."

"These paintings took a long time to create," Eric said.  "They heard far worse language as they were brought into being."

For the first time in the last hour, Scotty looked genuinely interested.  Because of course a hockey player would give a shit about swear words.  Eric ignored the look in favor of walking over to where Kip was now standing in front of the blue and purple triptych.  The three images encased in a single, foldable wooden frame - traditional, but far less common in this century.

Stopping to his left, Eric tilted his head.  "I'm not sure it counts as a real triptych if the three images are really just one painting cut up into pieces."

"Kind of how a real trilogy is three stand alone novels, not one story that has to be read all together?"

And again, Eric caught himself smiling.  "Scotty's got a thing about smartasses."

Kip beamed.  "He seems to think I'd be great at chirping."

"I've known you for an hour and I'd bet on you over Rozanov any day."

Kip laughed.  "What did that guy ever do to you to make you all hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him," Eric said.  "I hate his obnoxious habit of winning."

"Ah."

A moment of silence settled between them.  It wasn’t the first one, and the fact that neither of them rushed to fill it gave Eric a good feeling.  Dating a celebrity meant having to constantly meet new people; that Kip was comfortable letting the conversation ebb and flow would help him a lot when it was people far less friendly than Eric trying to chat him up.

“So, how am I doing?”  His chin lowered as he studied the bottom edge of the wooden frame, Kip didn’t look at him.  But his tone wasn’t aggressive.  Another good sign.

“In my eyes,” Eric asked, considering the bottom edge himself.  “Or his?”

The corner of Kip’s mouth lifted.  “I honestly don’t know.”  Now he did spare a glance in Eric’s direction.  “When Scott met my best friend, there were way more people in the room.  And Elena’s never been shy about sharing her opinion.”

“Sounds like Scotty did OK,” Eric said.

Kip nodded slowly.  “He did better than he thought he would.”

Sensing a still healing wound, Eric shifted right.  “I don’t know that I’ve ever been accused of sharing my opinion, but I think you’re doing great.”  He cocked his own grin in Kip’s direction.  “With both of us.”

“Yeah?”

Lifting his shoulders as he inhaled, Eric let them drop with his breath.  “I got married early on in my career.  College sweetheart.  So Holly and I got used to my success and fame together.  There were challenges that we avoided that way, but also challenges that come from marrying a guy who might never be anything but decent and then ended up being pretty damn good.”

“As opposed to being with someone who might be recognized in any major city in at least two countries,” Kip suggested.

“Reasonably certain no one would recognize him in North Korea,” Eric mused.

Kip snorted.  “Damn.  There go our vacation plans.”

“Are you going on vacation?” Eric asked.  He noted the surprise on Kip’s face.  “A lot of hockey players travel during the offseason.  Get the hell out of Dodge.  Go somewhere nobody cares about winter sports.”

“I…hadn’t considered it.”

Mm.  There was that wound again.

“You should talk to Scotty about it,” Eric said.  “He loves to travel.  I know he’s been to Europe a few times.”

Trips that held new meaning these days.  Even if Eric hoped he’d never need to travel for that reason ever again.

“Seems risky,” Kip said.  “Kinda hard to argue that we’re just friends, you know?”

“I keep reminding Scotty that he and Carter go out for lunch all the time,” Eric said, his gaze back on the triptych in front of them, “and he’s never once given it any thought that someone might think he was out…with someone.”

Kip’s voice was soft and full of a dangerous kind of happiness.  “I don’t think Scott looks at Carter the same way he looks at me.”

Eric smiled.  “No, he does not.”

He watched Kip out of the corner of his eye, wondering if Kip knew he could be as transparent as Scotty.  After a moment, he repeated himself.  “You should ask Scotty about a summer vacation.  I’ve seen small dogs get less excited about steak bones.”

Kip laughed at the mental image as Jeanette appeared at Eric’s side.  "I’m sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid I have to kick you and your friends out now."  Her green eyes were positively glowing so Eric knew she wasn’t the least bit sorry at all.  "There are some pieces I can't let even an old friend like you see ahead of time."

"Tease," Eric drawled.

Jeanette's laugh wasn't musical, but it wanted to be.  "Michelle certainly thinks so."

Following behind as Jeanette strode off to collect Scott, Kip asked, "Who's Michelle?"

"Jeanette's wife," Eric said.

It wasn't until he caught the look on Kip's face that it occurred to him that the gallery might have been a poor choice.  Not because it was more Kip's thing than Scotty's - Scotty's seemed relieved that he didn't have to handle the conversation.  He'd barely had to get it started.  But Scotty wasn't out yet, and while Eric was still learning all the bits and pieces, he did know that Scotty's staying in the closet for a few more years was a big ask for Kip.  That Kip hadn't been coy about his sexuality since long before he and Scott met, and that Kip hadn't been willing to play that level of pretend.  Not that Scotty had asked him to, but Kip clearly couldn't just tell people he had a fantastic boyfriend.  A detail that had to be weighing on both of them, even if the honeymoon phase was still evidentially going strong.

But Saint-Georges was owned by a woman who cheerfully told anyone who cared to ask that she was married to another woman, and that...might feel like Eric putting his thumb on the scale.

And not even on Scott's side of the scale.

"We've never met," Eric said, feeling himself fumble even without Kip's confused expression.  "Michelle and I.  I just know that she's...married," he finished lamely.

Kip nodded, and Eric watched far too many emotions play out behind those brown eyes.  "Oh."

Eric sighed.  "I...didn't think that detail all the way through."

"It's OK."  Kip smiled, but his dimples didn't make an appearance.  "I knew what I was getting into with Scott."

"Is it, though?" Eric asked.  "OK?"

He didn't know what had possessed him - Scotty was his friend, he should be on Scotty's side - but Kip was everything Scotty had said he was.  Smart, funny, confident, kind.  Eric had never wanted something to work out so much in his life, and after only an hour of casual chatting, he knew Scotty was going to have to do the insane to keep this man in his life.  Because Kip might think he could play pretend for three years - maybe he even could - but there was already a shadow around the edges.  A faint bit of shading that only stood out because of the generous use of light.  And Eric didn't want to know what happened to this masterpiece if it ended up relegated to some back corner of a proverbial closet.

"So..."  Scotty somehow managed to look both hopeful and apprehensive.  "How much trouble am I in?"

"He's a good friend," Kip said as Eric shoved his internal conflict into a box.  "I still don't know how you got that scar."

It was only a moment, but it was relief.  "Oh."

Kip huffed a laugh.  "What could you possibly have been doing that is this level of embarrassing?"

"Oh, you know athletes," Eric said, stepping in to drape a very intentional arm around Kip's shoulder as he steered them toward the front door where Jeanette was not so patiently waiting.  "Unlike artists, we make phenomenally stupid choices."

"Do you know how many artists died of syphilis?" Kip asked.

"Fewer these days," Eric allowed.  "But I'm sure there were at least two."

Then they were outside, standing on a New York City sidewalk in the brisk November air, ignored by the creatures around them, human and pigeon alike.  Ignored, but at an abruptly greater risk that someone might look up and notice a star athlete in their midst.  Eric would worry about his ego, but he was reasonably certain that without his gear, he could show up to an Admirals game and it would take the kiss cam for anyone to notice he was in the audience. Yet another perk of playing goalie.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Kip checked the time.  "I've got a few hours before work."  He looked up at Scotty, then over to Eric.  "So...I'll head out?"

"You could," Eric said.  He'd caught Scotty's increased nervousness, but he'd also caught something he hadn't expected to see.  Reluctance.  Like maybe Scotty wasn't as ready for this meeting to be over as the threat of a fan recognizing him right now would have made Eric think.  "Or," he gestured to a nearby collection of empty flower boxes.  The kind that kept metal tables and chairs company during the summer months.  "We could grab a bite."

"This one of your famous spots?" Scotty asked, the anxiety around his mouth already lessening.

"It might be," Eric demurred.

"I am hungry," Kip said.

Scotty looked at his boyfriend in a way that would be very hard to play off as casual acquaintances.  "You just want another shot at that story."

"Eric was very clear that it was not his story to tell," Kip said as Eric led the way to lunch.  "However, you are way too old for there not to be plenty of other stories for me to dig out."

"Even my dog thinks I'm old," Scotty muttered.  At Kip's raised eyebrows, Eric burst out laughing.

Chapter 17: Joining the Club a Mile High

Carter studied the blank wall at the front of the plane, stubbornly ignoring his surroundings as his captain and so-called friend dropped into the seat across the aisle from him.  He definitely did not return it when Scotty smiled at him, even if he did clock the guilt tugging at its edges.  Scotty’s voice was low enough that the rest of the guys wouldn’t hear them.  If they’d been paying attention in the first place.  “You know, usually we all sit together on the flights.”

Yeah, they did.  And they chatted like proverbial teenagers for the whole ride, driving Coach and players like Demeter a little nuts.  Except that lately, Carter had been starting to feel like the fifth wheel on a skateboard.  And that sucked, no matter how old you were.

Carter grunted, his arms staying crossed over his chest.  Gaze pinned to that plastic, grey-beige stretch of wall.

Scotty’s head tilted in that way it did when he was trying to figure something out.  His smile shrinking a little.  Carter refused to feel bad about that.  “Did…you want to solo this one?”

“Our most social Alternate?” Benny asked, coming up the aisle and stepping, without asking, across Carter’s stretched out legs so he could drop into the seat Carter had left his sweatshirt on.  The universal sign for “this seat is taken”.  And Benny just sat on the clothes and grinned.  “Not likely.”  All settled, he fished a packet of Carter’s favorite brands of nuts out of his pocket.  He opened it, ate a few, then held out the lightly salted mix.  “Want some?”

“No, I do not ‘want some’,” Carter said, very clearly lying.  He balled his hands into fists to resist as Benny continued to hold out the nuts.  “Sharing snacks is for friends.”

“But we’re friends,” Scotty said.

Carter cocked both his eyebrows at the other man.  Because that was totally a thing and better than being able to cock just one.  “Are we, Scott?”

“Hey, now,” Benny said, gently chastising as he ate some more nuts.  “Two minutes for roughing.”

Sensing that neither man was going to take the hint, Carter lifted his chin at the wall.  “Usually I sit with my friends on the flight.”  He allowed himself the tiniest glance to his left and immediately regretted it; it was not at all fair that Scott Hunter’s eyes could actually do that sad puppy dog thing.

Looking sad and puppy-like, and clearly not on purpose, Scotty asked, “But we haven’t been acting like friends lately.”

Switching the target of his eyebrows, Carter tried to glare past the treat he was stubbornly refusing to accept.  “No, you haven’t.  Usually, my friends talk to me about what’s going on in their lives.  Especially if it’s some big secret we’re all supposed to keep.”

Scotty was definitely looking guilty now.  Benny was doing his best to hide his guilt behind another mouthful of nuts, but neither of these guys was enough of an asshole to actually pretend they’d done nothing wrong.

And maybe that was what hurt the most.  His friends weren’t assholes.

“But since they’ve decided to have cool, fun secrets without me, it’s kinda felt like we’re not friends anymore.  And if we’re not friends, then you don’t get hockey nicknames.”  He tried to force out “Bennett”, but it just sounded too weird.  And his mouth already felt weird for cutting off at the end of Scott earlier.  A name he hadn’t used for his Captain in years.

“Carter,” Scotty began, and Carter scowled because he knew that tone of voice.  He knew, down in his skates, that he was gonna forgive these jerks even if they didn’t tell him what was going on.

Which would suck for a whole different reason.

“Any chance you could be specific?” Benny asked, cutting off whatever Scotty had been trying to say.  Looking, of all things, like he was working up the nerve to tell Carter the thing Carter already knew.  “What secret do you think Scotty and I are keeping?”

“Benny -” Scotty tried again, and maybe Benny was just trying to be a good friend, but enough was fucking enough.

“Like you don’t know,” Carter grumbled.  Then, before either man could say anything else upsetting, he went on.  “Whispering to each other.  Bumping shoulders for no reason.  Smiling.”  Carter leaned out into the aisle to glare at Scotty from up close.  “You smile so much these days and I had to be all sneaky to find out why.”

And there was Scotty looking guilty again.  But beyond that, this time Scotty looked…scared.  Like Carter was trying to hand him a live spider.  “So…you know?”

“He thinks he knows,” Benny said.

Carter’s temper flared, but a quick glance told him Benny had switched to crisis management mode.  He wasn’t correcting Carter; he was calming Scotty.

Which…didn’t make any sense.

Carter frowned.  “It wasn’t that hard.  You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you.  I’ll bet half the guys already guessed what’s up, too.”

And again, instead of making Scotty look apologetic for leaving Carter out of the loop, his friend’s face went a concerning kind of pale.  “You…they…”  Scotty bit down on the words, eyes wide.  “Really?”

“Bullshit,” Benny said.  The packet of nuts crinkled in his hand as he squeezed, a nervous reflex.  “Huff, maybe.  But no way Polaski’s clocked shit.”

Looking between both his friends, Carter felt a change of tactics might be in order.  “I…didn’t think it’d be that big a deal.”

Now it was Benny who was using both eyebrows, raising them in a serious kind of surprised while Scotty swallowed.  “It’s not a big deal?”

“Why would it be?” Carter asked.  He looked back at Scotty, his arms uncrossing at his friend’s distress.  “So long as you’re happy, right?”

Benny nodded.  “Right.”

“But,” Scotty cleared his throat and tried again, “but not everyone…thinks that way.”

Carter was back to frowning.  “Who wouldn’t want you to be happy?”

“Professional sports are notorious for having an opinion on players’ private lives,” Benny said.

“I could get fired,” Scotty added, and it almost came out a whisper.  And even with Carter’s change in tactics, he still looked so scared.

Which really didn’t make any sense.

Giving Benny a last, long look, Carter leaned back into the aisle.  “Scotty…who the fuck’s gonna fire you for getting a dog?”

Scotty stared at him, eyes wide, face pale.  And then he let out…a very strange sounding breath.  “A…a dog?”

Carter nodded.  “Yeah.”

“A dog,” Scotty repeated.

Next to him, Benny did the weirdest thing he’d ever done.  He burst out laughing.

“A dog,” Scotty mumbled.  His color was coming back, but now his breathing was uneven.  After a minute of not remembering how to breathe like a human being, Scotty leaned forward and put his head between his knees.  Carter could hear him counting quietly.

Leaning out of the aisle, Carter turned to Benny, who was trying to wrangle his guffaws down to snickers.  “Um…what the fuck is going on?”

Conceding to a chuckle, Benny pressed the packet of nuts into his hands.  “You’re a treasure, Vaughn.”

Carter stared at him, completely lost.

Behind him, Scotty sat back up, his breathing almost back to normal.  It was his turn to study the blank wall at the front of the plane, taking a couple deeper breaths before turning back to Carter.  His voice still came out a little strange.  “I didn’t get a dog, Carter.”

“Yeah,” Carter said, “you did.”  He nodded sideways at Benny.  “I heard you tell him.”  Carter let his confusion regress into hurt.  “Benny even got to meet him.”

Next to him, Benny’s success at controlling his laughter dissolved back into giggles.  Muffled, because Scotty was still taking deep breaths, but really, since when did Benny think things were so funny??

“Um…” Carter said, feeling a lot like he’d gotten something important wrong, “...Scotty?”

Glancing back behind them at the rest of the team, Scotty leaned forward into the aisle.  Voice very soft, holding on hand up to his face to hide his mouth, Scotty said, “I didn’t get a dog, Carter.  I got…a boyfriend.”

Looking between his friends, holding his gifted nuts, Carter tried not to let his disappointment show.  “So…no dog?”

Benny buried his face in Carter’s shoulder as Scotty covered his mouth, hiding something that wanted to be a smile finally breaking through.

Then the rest of the conversation snapped into focus.

His own eyes wide this time, Carter looked across the aisle at his friend.  His loyal, kind-hearted, scared friend, who probably hadn’t slept for a week straight after he told Benny that he…wasn’t…straight.  “Oh shit…Scotty.”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Scotty said, the almost smile now completely gone.  “Carter -”

“Bro,” Carter cut him off.  “Bro…no.  I don’t care.”  Then he tried to back pedal.  “I mean, of course I care.  Bro.  I can’t…I just mean…Like, I care but I don’t…”

“Breathe,” Benny ordered from Carter’s shoulder.

Carter took a deep breath.  “I…”  And then his face broke into a huge smile.  “Bro, you’ve been so happy.”

“Hence all the smiling,” Scotty said, but still quietly.  Still not smiling right now, because this was good news - great news - except for the abruptly ugly reasons it might not be.

“Bro…”  Carter stopped, thinking hard.  “What…OK…How…”

“A conversation that’s been had more than once in the past few months,” Benny said, sitting up.  He fished another packet of nuts out of his pocket.  He offered it to Scotty, who shook his head, before opening it for himself.

There were so many ideas banging around inside Carter’s head.  So much new information.  Moments he’d been obsessing over that he needed to recontextualize.  Things his friends had done that weren’t meant to exclude him, because there was stuff going on that made it hard to just tell a guy why you weren’t telling a guy.

But first things first.

Poking Benny in the side so he’d switch to the window seat, Carter picked up his sweatshirt and took up his usual spot in the middle one.  He patted the now empty aisle seat.  “Scotty, come.”

“Good dog,” Benny murmured to no one as Scotty switched seats, his knee knocking against Carter’s as the three of them resumed their usual travel locations for a flight to an away game they were maybe a little too cocky they’d win.

“Looks like the gang made up,” someone opined from farther back in the plane, followed by the sound of someone taking a can of soda to the head.

His shoulders tucked between his best friends, because even on a private jet the seats weren’t that wide, Carter popped two almonds and a cashew into his mouth.  “So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Scotty asked.

Carter nodded.  “You can’t string this guy along -”

“Person,” Benny said, firmly.

And all of the sudden, there was a taste in Carter’s mouth he didn’t like.  “This…person…”

He felt Scotty press against his shoulder, his voice apologetic.  “Downside to knowing.  Now it’s your secret, too.”

And so long as the NHL didn’t do anything to fix the way guys chirped or the way teammates talked to each other in the locker room, it would have to be.  Their secret.

But that couldn’t be how things stayed.  Not now that he knew Scotty could smile like that.

After a longer silence than he’d meant to happen, Carter nodded.  “OK, then.  This is what forechecking is for.”

On either side of him, his friends looked at each other like Carter had forgotten to lock in.  “Um,” Scotty said as Benny started, “Carter, what -”

“A plan,” Carter elaborated.  Trying not to roll his eyes.  “We gotta lay the groundwork.”

“Groundwork for what?” Scotty asked.

This time, Carter did roll his eyes.  “Bro.  You can not meet your…better half…and keep acting like nothing has changed.”

“No one’s ever -” Scotty started.  He stopped, then tried again.  “It’s not as easy as updating my profile on social media.”

“That would be a shitty way to tell people,” Carter agreed.

“And what if the rest of the team isn’t as cool with…dogs…as you are,” Benny said, and Carter felt a moment of vindication in his confusion.  Because he had heard his two best friends talking about Scotty and his new dog.  Even if it wasn’t really about a…dog.

“Then,” Carter said, dragging out the word as his thoughts chased each other around his mental ice.  “We…have to make sure that they - our team - is OK with…dogs.”

Carter frowned as Scott failed to swallow a laugh, shaking his serious head at the codeword that had been the heart of Carter’s confusion.  But Benny nodded.  Encouraging, like Carter was a student working out a problem on the board.

“Since when the fuck do you have a purple water bottle?” came Muller's voice from the back of the plane.  “Bro, that’s the gayest shit.”

“It’s really not,” Scotty whispered, giving them the smallest smile, and suddenly, Carter knew where to start.

“Step one,” Carter said, all confidence and determined grin, “this team has got to clean up its language.”

Scotty raised an eyebrow, but Benny was looking as deviously delighted as Carter felt.  “Just like that, huh?”

“Trust me, Cap,” Carter said, patting Scotty’s hand.  “New tactics take a few sessions to work, but we’ll get these guys to up their game whether they like it or not.”

“Don’t be a pussy, Woozer.  Fucking bet.”

“Won’t even give the game away,” Carter went on, “because if we’re gonna break one bad habit, we’re gonna break them all.  Sexist and racist comments, too.”

“Always thought it was a little weird our team could be racist with a black coach,” Scotty murmured.  He poked Carter’s brown wrist with a white finger.  “And that’s not counting our Alternate.”

It had been bullshit to hear some of the comments right after he’d started with the team.  All of them stupid.  Most of them mindless.  Just “stuff guys say”.  But it had sucked then, even if Carter knew how to shrug most of it off.  But now…now it was asking too much.

Some weird psychological thing where standing up for himself seemed like asking too much, but when it was his friend getting hit by the ugly words, suddenly he could fight his whole team.

“I’m sorry,” Scotty said, serious as ever.  “For the times someone said something racist and I didn’t correct them right away.”

Carter nodded.  “It happens less often than then anti-gay stuff.”

“Still.  Just because it’s common for the NHL, doesn’t mean it’s OK.”

“Our team’s pretty good about race,” Carter admitted.  “I mean, say that shit in front of Coach, I dare you.  But!”  He rubbed his hands together, feeling the same rush of adrenaline he had back when his sister had wanted to paint the neighbor’s tree house a slightly different shade of eggshell and see how long it took anyone to notice.  And how much shouting that little act of revenge would cause.  “We can be better.  We will be better.  About all the things we say.  Especially to our own brothers.”

“We should have told him sooner,” Benny said, giving Scotty a knowing grin Carter didn’t understand.  But that was OK.  This time.

What was not OK was -

Carter turned to Scotty, squirting hard.  “Wait…so Benny has met…your dog.”

Scotty blushed as Benny snorted.  “Um…yeah.  A couple times.”

“See,” Carter said, “now I’m hurt.”

“‘Cause you love dogs,” Benny said.

“I’m great with dogs.”

“You love going on walks.”

“I believe in treats.”

“You like to nap in the sun.”

“Hey,” Scotty said, cutting them off, quiet and teasingly annoyed, “I’m the only one who gets to nap with my…dog.”

The amount of cackling was going to earn them too much attention from a so far engrossed Coach, but Carter didn’t care.

He hadn’t done something stupid.  His friends weren’t pushing him away.  Scotty was so happy.  And now, they had a plan.  To make the Admirals even more of the best team to be on in the NHL.

“You can’t be that needy on defense, bro.  You’re not the goalie - get off your fucking knees.”

A plan that Carter was going to kick into gear as soon as this plane landed.

Chapter 18: Christmas

It was an old house.  Most houses in the north east seemed to be old.  Probably the result of some niche zoning requirement.  It meant, among other things, that the heating system was always a little strange, and in the house George Grady had bought nearly twenty years ago, strange came by way of radiators.  The kind that could and would burn the skin of a kid's arm if there weren't decorative gates blocking them until a certain little boy was old enough to stop being that flavor of curious.

His nose buried in Kip's neck, Scott smiled at the sound of steam hissing through the pipes.  Their house in Rochester had had radiators, but the heating system had been updated before the Hunters had moved in, so Scott had only ever known them as funny looking, not very useful, shelves.  A good place for playing jumping games with his toy animals, but a terrible place to try and balance a cup of juice between drinks.

His mom had laughed, bell-like, and his dad had sighed, looking momentarily as hopeless as Eeyore, and they'd all shoved paper towels in and around the painted metal construct in an attempt to make sure there wasn't enough left of the spill to attract ants.

Ants under the radiators probably weren't a problem in this house, though.  Not if the cloud of heat at the foot of Kip's mattress was any hint as the ambient temperature along the floor.  Still, the room itself was comfortably warm, the HVAC system that had been retrofitted at some point moving the hot air out into the larger, open space.  Making the bedroom physically comfortable, to match the emotions fluttering to life in Scott's chest as they snuggled under the multiple quilts piled on top of the mattress they’d dragged off Kip's bed after an ominous creak suggested two grown men couldn’t safely sleep there.  All of them made by someone, with love, for the man still sound asleep in Scott's arms.

Downstairs, something that sounded like music accompanied the noise of pots or pans being unearthed, as quietly as metal pots and pans could be.  A few minutes later, the scents of warm bread and fresh coffee snuck up the stairs and peaking under doorways.  Tempting sleepers to wake.

Face mashed in the pillow, Kip snored softly.  Untempted by caffeine or cinnamon-flavored gluten.

Delight doing a better job waking him than coffee ever had, Scott finally opened one eye.  More to make sure he really was where his brain told him he was.  Where his ears and nose and the warmth on his skin confirmed he'd been all night.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been excited to wake up on Christmas.

The Admirals had pulled the short straw, playing away games before and after the mandated holiday break.  Kip, kind-hearted as ever, had agreed to work the twenty-sixth.  Scott hadn't asked what he'd had to trade to get Christmas Eve off, but he'd done it, and to honor that unknown sacrifice Scott had readily agreed to whatever jam-packed twenty-four hours Kip had planned for them.  Mistaking, in his long absence from any real holiday cheer, how many people didn't like to go out and do things this time of year.

Most of Christmas Eve had been spent in their apartment.  Bundled up in sweaters and sipping hot chocolate on the couch, Kip talking through the Christmas specials he'd announced they had to watch in order to make sure Scott stayed awake.  Pausing them any time Scott's innocently chaste kisses lingered too long to pull Scott into a proper kiss, fully interrupting The Grinch for the kind of holiday affection Scott thought the grumpy green man would have approved of, had anyone bothered to ask the 2001 version of the character if he cared why someone might pause his movie.

They'd watched the rest of Kip's list with Scott's head in Kip's lap, Kip's fingers carding through his hair as Gonzo and Rizzo explained why Michael Caine was having such a rough time of things.  The dregs of their hot chocolate - orange flavored this time, which they'd both scowled at before Scott had chugged his own while Kip laughingly protested that they could just dump them down the drain - cooling on the coffee table.  Then they'd packed their overnight bags while Scott called the car service before heading out to George's house for the rest of the holiday.

Family tradition dictated accompanying Kip's grandparents to an evening church service, full of candlelight and songs Scott knew the first verse to.  They'd arrived early at George's insistence, which turned out to be wise because Kip's grandma had needed all of three seconds to ask a dozen questions.  Scott had barely stumbled through the answer to one before she turned to Kip, beaming, and said, "He's delightful.  Excellent choice, my dear."

Scott had blushed furiously while George laughed and Kip's grandfather quietly shook Scott's hand, saying it was nice to meet the man that was making his grandson so happy.

Kip's grandparents had gone back to their house for the night, his grandma cheerfully threatening a round two of this affection inquisition the next day over lunch, and the three of them had gone back to George's house.  There was more music, the radio quieter than it had been in the car, and a last round of hot chocolate, this one spiked with peppermint schnapps.  Then George had made his excuses and gone to bed, while Kip sat up, keeping Scott company as he tried and failed not to be overwhelmed by the decorations and omnipresent evidence of a house full of family and love.

Somewhere after midnight, Kip had taken Scott's mug from him, setting it aside as he wiped a tear Scott hadn't noticed off his cheek.  "Come on.  Time for bed."

The words were rusty with age, almost foreign in his mouth after so many years.  "Otherwise Santa won't come."

Kip had blinked in surprise, then smiled as more tears chased their way down Scott's cheeks.  "Oh, sweetheart."

Scott didn't need an excuse to wrap himself up in Kip's arms as they fell asleep, but the feelings that had been building slowly over the month had finally caught up to him, and two arms to hold him tight helped keep the memories happy as they'd fallen asleep.

Two arms that had abandoned their charge sometime during the night, when Kip had somehow managed to roll over on the twin sized mattress without falling off of it.  One now tucked up against Kip's chest, the other dropped over the side and resting on what had to be the cold wood floor.

Which was fine, because Scott had taken over the job of holding them close, even as the scents from the kitchen grew stronger.  The familiar sniff making him smile as something finally disturbed Kip's slumber.

Snuggling in closer, just because he could, Scott mouthed the words against Kip's sleep warm skin.  "Good morning."

No matter the day, or reason, or sleeping arrangements, Kip responded in his usual manner.  He grunted and pushed his face further into the pillow.

Shifting to rest his cheek against Kip's shoulder blade, Scott smiled as the light from outside the window finally started to brighten the room.  Old windows that were still mostly sealed relented just enough to let the bird song in.  Or maybe the tiny feathered bundles were just that loud; chirping their wintery hearts out as the day dawned around them.  Certainly out earlier than the squirrels George had been complaining about between beers last week.

The weather had held off, for the most part, so there wasn't evidence of a blizzard outside.  Only a few inches of powdery white snow blown up against the bottom of the windows.  Making a picture perfect moment for anyone who cared to look.

Eyes still closed, Kip mumbled, mostly to himself.  "Smells like bread."

"Your dad said something about cinnamon buns," Scott answered, his voice soft and warm.  Drowning in affection and a quiet kind of ache that he thought might get easier if there were more years like this.

"Dad can't make cinnamon buns," Kip said.

"Somebody broke into your house on Christmas morning to bake stuff?"

A long moment as Kip breathed.  Quiet and content.  Then the arm that had spent part of the night on the floor retracted and Scott smiled as Kip's cooler fingers found his own, threading them together.  "It's Christmas."

"All day," Scott agreed, turning his head to press a kiss to Kip's shoulder.  Smiling this time at the bright memory of his father saying the same thing.

"Dad, is it Friday?"

"All day."

In his arms, Kip twisted, eyes open just enough to catch Scott's own. "Merry Christmas."

The words suddenly lodged in his throat, so instead of answering, Scott pressed his face against Kip's shoulder. Shook for a moment as the feelings from last night came rushing back in, bigger and stronger and full of memories of their own.

"Look! It's snowing!"

"Coat. Coat. Thomas, both of you, coats."

"Merry Christmas, Scotty!"

Out in the hall, the stairs creaked under the faint sound of footsteps. A soft knock at the door. "Kip?"

"Morning, Dad."

George's voice was quiet as it called through the door. "Coffee and buns when you're ready." Then the footsteps retreated, the music from downstairs growing just a little bit louder now that he knew there was nobody to wake.

Kip's hand squeezed Scott's. "Scott?"

Scott took a shaky breath, fresh tears finding their way down his cheeks. "I'm good."

Kip wiggled until Scott let him loose, then turned over, wiping away Scott's tears even as he settled back into Scott's arms. "It's OK if today is a little bit sad."

Scott laughed. "I'm not sad." He smiled at the doubt in Kip's brown eyes. "I'm...so happy. I'm so...insanely happy."

"The tree and the twinkle lights tend to have that effect," Kip said.

Scott laughed again, pressing his face into Kip's hand and whispering. "I'm so happy."

He was. Even with the bittersweet memories he'd long ago started to fear he'd forgotten, he was happy. Happy to remember his family. Happy to be a part of Kip's. Happy to maybe...keep...this.

"Your dad said something about coffee," Scott whispered, keeping his eyes closed as Kip fingertips traced paths across his face. "And those cinnamon buns you said he can't bake."

"Grandma made them." The tip of Kip's index finger drew a line down Scott's nose. "Dad's job is not to burn them when he reheats them."

"What's his track record?"

Kip's soft laugh echoed someone else's from a long time ago. "He has his years."

Scott hummed but didn't move. After a moment, it became apparent Kip wasn't moving, either. "Shall we?"

A kiss against Scott's cheek, feather light. "The coffee will stay warm." Then Kip's head was tucked against Scott's shoulder, Kip's nose brushing against Scott's neck.  "Dad's not really expecting us to come down right away."

"Just letting us know we can?" Scott said.  Not really asking as he settled back into the nest of quilts and radiator heat.  The birds outside singing their tiny feathered hearts out in a three-day-old dusting off snow.  Kip hummed agreement, one arm finding its way around Scott's waist, and Scott smiled.  Remembering another cold morning full of snuggles and happy feelings, too many years ago.

"How do his feet get so cold running down the hallway?" his dad mumbled as Scott burrowed under the covers.  His mom unhelpful as she pulled the blankets up and let in a waft of Christmas morning air.  "Martha!"

"It's Christmas," Scott whispered, his mom matching his excitement as his dad groaned and burrowed back under the covers in protest.  "Mom."

"Merry Christmas, Scotty."

"Merry Christmas, Scott," Kip mumbled against him, the lack of coffee letting his naturally morning resistant boyfriend slip back toward sleep.  Serenading snow birds or otherwise.

Scott pressed a kiss to Kip's hair and wondered idly, happily, how George was fairing with the buns.  "Merry Christmas, love."

Chapter 19: Making A Friend

The nice thing about playing in Southern California was year round beaches.  The nice thing about playing in New York was it was understood that in January, there should be snow.  Also, unlike a city like Washington DC, New York actually knew what to do with snow, so no last minute game delays over three centimeters and the threat of three more by morning.

To his left, Hayden was bouncing pucks off the nearby boards.  Back at the net, Miitka was sliding back and forth across the crease on their knees, blocker up, stick down.  Roy and Burke were doing their mandatory pre-game stretching routine over by Montreal’s blue line.  The one that was so popular on social media because strangers on the internet liked to giggle about routine exercises that help with tense hip flexors.

None of that changed the color of the sweaters the other team was wearing.

Skating to a stop just shy of the red line, Hunter opened with a smile.  “You shake your head a couple more times, it’ll fall off your shoulders.”

Watching one of the arena staff members check something on the other side of the glass near the penalty box, Shane missed the friendly intent.  “What?”

The smile stayed, but Hunter cocked his head as he looked at him.  That calm, even tone that was so good at de-escalating Second Period fights trying again.  “You’ve been standing here for a couple minutes.  Looking at nothing.  Sometimes shaking your head?”

The last part was a question, but Shane didn’t know how to answer it.  Wasn’t really sure what to do with New York’s captain.  With the man who…knew.

Holding Shane’s gaze long enough for it to mean something, Hunter lowered his head in a nod.  Conceding.  “I crossed a line.  I’m sorry.”

Hunter was watching him now, seeing way too much, and Shane couldn’t help it.  He shook his head again, trying to knock the thing he couldn’t stop thinking about out of his thoughts for good.

The schedule for hockey was decided long before the season even started, so it wasn’t like the long break wasn’t expected.  Wasn’t like they couldn’t find ways to be in the same city at the same time.  Wasn’t like they didn’t have phones that let them text each other as often as they liked.

Phones with cameras.

Still, Montreal hadn’t played Boston in months, and now Rozanov was doing that thing again where he pretended like he didn’t have his phone glued to his hand.

Fuck.

“Just…personal stuff,” Shane said.  Which was true, and mostly explained both his being distracted and his gruff tone as he answered.  “Not in the best of moods.”

Hunter nodded, considering; then it was his turn to let his gaze wander over his team.  “I get that.  But,” those famously intense eyes finding their way back to Shane, “you’re not usually the guy to let that follow him onto the ice.”

“What’s it like,” the reporter asked, her blonde hair cascading over one shoulder as she leaned forward. Her short skirt ridding up a little bit more as she crossed her legs at the knees.  “Being so focused?  Just… never letting real life follow you into the game?”

“Can’t believe everything you read online,” Shane muttered.  Out of the corner of his eye, he clocked Hayden clocking them, his Alternate’s body language shifting to reflect his willingness to get in Hunter’s face if this was some pre-game showdown.

As if Scott Hunter had ever done such a thing.

“He’s almost as boring as you are,” Rozanov said, attention on his phone as Shane finished toweling off.  “Never gets into fights.  Never insults other players when talking to press.  His chirps are never cheap shots.”

Never, unless it was one really bad day about a year ago.

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

But that had been one time, and Hunter had sought him out to apologize.  So careful about his timing and word choice that the nosiest of reporters couldn’t have figured out what was really going on.  So when he glanced over to where Hayden was offering to abandon his pucks, Shane shook his head again.  Waving his best friend off of the threat that wasn’t.

Not to tonight’s hockey game, and not to Shane personally.

Fuck, technically Hunter knew more than Hayden.  Which didn’t improve Shane’s mood.

“Bro, whoever she is, you gotta give her space.”  Hayden slapped a hand down on Shane’s shoulder, giving it a shake.  “Needy is not sexy.”

“I know,” Shane mumbled.

It was a credit to Hayden that, for all his big mouth moments, he really was a good friend.  “Hey, if…it’s about the flowers, I’m sure it’ll work out.”  He smiled, giving Shane’s shoulder another shake.  “It’s been years, bro.  That doesn’t, uh…wither?  Fuck.  You’ll be fine.”

Shane actually managed a smile as his friend floundered.  “Thanks for trying.”

“Fuck you.”

“Feels like you can’t believe anything you read online,” Hunter said, and finally Shane managed to get his brain into gear.  Mostly.  Enough to recognize another player being friendly.  Enough to register the hesitation before Hunter spoke.  “Are you worried about something specific?”

He wouldn’t…

Shane scuffed the toe of his skate against the ice.  Fear coating the back of his throat.  “I’ve got…”  He grasped for anything he could say.  “This…underwear ad.  Thing.”  He winced. That sounded so lame.

But it must have been OK, because Hunter laughed.  “God, I don’t miss those days.”

Looking back up from his skate, Shane blinked.  “You did underwear ads?”

Shifting his weight onto his back foot, Hunter smiled at something Shane couldn’t see.  “Back in the day - you know, when we played hockey by candlelight - there was one brand that thought people might like to see me in boxers and not much else.”

Shane considered this.  “Athletes are generally considered attractive.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow at that.  “Wouldn’t have hurt my feelings if they wanted to consider me attractive with my clothes on.”

Shane felt himself blush.  “Yeah.  It’d be nice.”  He swallowed, nerves making his mouth stupid.  “I only like it when certain people see me in my underwear.”

Something like lightning shot down his spine, spiking the fear in his throat down through his limbs.  But Hunter just chuckled.  “Not a fan of your mom dragging out your baby photos for guests you just met?”

Yuna Hollander had never done any such thing - that Shane knew of - but before he could say that, a different memory jumped in line.  Something, sadly, he could believe when he saw yet another video online.

“Did…your mom used to do that?” Shane asked.  Quietly, watching as humor died in those brown eyes.  Because it seemed like every charity gala Scott Hunter went to involved telling the story about why his parents weren’t at every game, or at least cheering him on through text messages from Hawai’i.

“I don’t really remember,” Hunter said.  “But…I’m sure she would have had something to say about the pattern on the boxers the company picked for the magazine ads.”

Now that sounded like Yuna Hollander.

“Anyway,” Hunter said, and even Shane wasn’t bad enough at people skills to miss the closing of that door, “I just wanted to check in.”  Hunter’s smile was back, if not as big.  “Not nearly as much fun to beat you when you’re not even paying attention.”

“Bold,” Shane said, and the familiar ground made him smile, too.  “New York hasn’t been playing that good this season.”

“We hold our own,” Hunter said.  “Beat Boston last week, didn’t we?”

Boston.

“Old men do not carry purses, so what is saying for when Hunter checks me?  He hit me with his…EZPass?”

“Boston can bite me,” Shane said, mostly to the memory.  “They deserve to get their asses kicked.”

And where Hayden would have laughed or Andropov would have cheered or a reporter might have grinned and asked for details, something subtle happened around Hunter’s eyes.  Something that made Shane’s stomach twist, but…not as much as he expected it to.  Not as much as it had a year ago.

“Not sure we play Boston again this season,” Hunter said, with something subtle in his voice, too, “but I’m sure Carolina will thrash them both times.”

“Their new goalie’s a beast,” Shane agreed.

“And Boston’s notorious for giving the game away in Texas.”

Shane snorted.  “How do you even lose in Texas?”

Hunter shrugged.  “I don’t know.  The Admirals haven’t lost in Texas in two straight years.”

The whole conversation had been short, and pretty fast, and only stood out because opposing teammates didn’t usually talk before a game.  Coach was certainly giving Shane a funny look for standing still and socializing instead of getting warmed up.

“I’d…better get warmed up,” Shane said, feeling abruptly awkward.  “But, um, don’t worry.”  He shook his head, just a little.  “My head’s firmly on my shoulders.”

Hunter nodded and started to turn away.  Then he stopped.  Like he was thinking.  “Hey…if you…ever need someone to talk to.”  He offered Shane a smaller smile this time.  “You know, someone who’s already been through their underwear ad phase.  Feel free to text me.”

Shane blinked at the other captain, the anger that started with fear creeping back to life.  “What?”

Hunter sighed, almost like he’d missed the sharpness in Shane’s word.  “I’m old, rook.  I prefer phone calls.  But word on the street is you’re a text message guy.  So,” Hunter shrugged again, “if you want somebody to complain to who’s been there before and won’t talk to reporters.”

“To complain to.”

“Yeah.  One hockey vet to one future hockey vet.”  

Gripping his stick, Shane thought about it.  About what Hunter was explicitly saying.  About what he might be…not saying.  About what it might be like, to complain to someone about brand requirements who wouldn’t tease him or tell him to be grateful.

“Is why they always take pictures of you from behind.  Is great ass.  Not as great as mine, but you know.  Second best ass is more budget friendly.”

“Maybe I will,” Shane said as one of Hunter’s teammates headed their way, their expression matching Hayden’s.  “But after we wipe the floor with you tonight.”

Hunter laughed, hard enough to throw his head back, and something that had been niggling at Shane since he’d really started talking to Hunter finally clicked into place.

Scott Hunter was…happy.

“Be honest, Cap: last season wasn’t your best.  This season’s been better, but a veteran such as yourself can’t be happy he’s starting to show his age in the game.”

Shane gaped at the interviewer, even as Hunter sat back in the uncomfortable looking chair.  “Oh, I don’t know.  Cheese, wine, great stories - some things get better with time.”

“Everything OK, Cap?”

“Everything’s great.”  Sketching a salute over his shoulder, Hunter skated away from the red line, meeting his Defenseman before he could summon any of Montreal’s own.  “Hollander was just telling me his favorite flavor of consolation ice cream.”

The Defenseman nodded.  “Mine’s pistachio.”

“Of course it is.”

Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten ice cream.  Probably over the summer with Hayden’s kids.  They liked anything sweet and sticky.

Rozanov held up a bag of gummy candies.  “All the chemicals they put in these things and yet they still melt together in hot car.”

“What’d Hunter want?”  Hayden had appeared at his side, blue eyes watching the two Admirals players skate away.

“Um,” Shane tried to think up a lie, then remembered he was terrible at lying to Hayden.  “He said I could call him if I ever want to bitch about shitty brand requirements.”

Hayden nodded.  “When you get done bitching to me, right?”

Shane snorted.  “Obviously.”

Hayden was still nodding.  “You know…I’ll bet Hunter’s got some ridiculous stories.”  He switched those blue eyes to Shane.  “American companies can be fucking weird with celebrities.”

“Coach says quit gabbin’ and start stretchin’,” Roy interjected as he skated past.  He didn’t look particularly concerned.  “And quit flirting with Pike.”

“Coach really said that?” Hayden asked, feigning interest, as Shane coughed into his glove.  It earned him a grin from Hayden.  “Don’t listen to Coach, bro.  You can flirt with me any day.”

Oh boy.  There was something he could use to make Rozanov text him back.

Make up for the latest round of night club pictures.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shane said.  Finally shoving his thoughts into the box where everything was supposed to go several hours before game time.  Americans and text messages and Russians and underwear and everything else.  Maybe he lingered just a little on the way Hayden had smiled when he’d said that last thing.

There were worse things to be distracted by than a nice smile.

But not right now.  Right now, he needed to focus on the game.  On keeping Burke from picking fights he didn’t need to.  On the weaknesses in New York’s backchecking the team had been reviewing this morning.  On making sure Hunter’s Defenseman got to enjoy his favorite flavor of ice cream later tonight.

They had two more games on the road before they headed home, and then an actual couple of days off.  Even Coach wasn’t so relentless he wouldn’t give his guys a couple days off for things like seeing their kids and catching up on their sleep.

Boston was only a couple hours away by plane.  Plus the hours spent in the airport.  Give or take five hours by car.

Maybe.

If he felt like it.

If there was a message waiting for him after First Period that Shane was going to have to quickly hide before Hayden got too nosy.  Though his friend had always been pretty good about not trying to read Boston Lily’s texts.

“Strawberry,” Hayden said.

Shane looked up.  “What about strawberries?"

Hayden grinned.  “I heard something about ice cream flavors.  If you’re getting a sponsor deal with an ice cream brand, Hollander, my favorite flavor’s strawberry.”

Shane grinned.  “I would never accept an ice cream sponsorship without telling you.”

“You’d never accept an ice cream sponsorship.”

“Maybe,” Shane argued, even though it was true.  Following Hayden back over to his abandoned pucks, Shane was feeling rebellious, though.  “I’d only have to eat a little bit during the photoshoot.”

“But then you’d have to keep it stocked in your house.”

“Nah.  I’d keep it at your house.”

Tapping one of the pucks away from the others, Hayden lined up a shot at the boards.  “The kids already love you, bro.”

“But they could love me more.”

Hayden bounced the puck off the boards.  “You just don’t want that much dairy near your lean protein.”

Shane wondered if Hayden had any idea how much more he’d clearly learned about his best friend’s weird bird diet.

They practiced passing the puck back and forth via the boards until the whistle blew to clear the ice before the game.  Montreal filing out off one end of the ice, New York disappearing down the tunnel at their end.  The number 21 catching Shane’s eye one last time before he shuttered his thoughts back into their game day headspace.

Maybe he would text Hunter about the underwear ad.  Or pistachio ice cream after Montreal definitely won this game.

At least he was pretty sure Scott Hunter would text him back.

Chapter 20: Watch Party

“Should we help him?”

“I think he’s got it.”

A moment’s consideration.  Then:

“That’s a lot of grunting.”

“Not nearly as much as you’ll get if you suggest he can’t haul that thing down here by himself.”

Duncan’s voice rang out through the diner, even as the man himself was still huffing and puffing his way down the flight of stairs in the back.  “Whoever’s down there, stuff it and get out of my way.”

Kip watched as Marco disappeared into the kitchen, the young woman Lydia staying exactly where she was in case her boss decided to miss a step and tumble his way down the rest of the flight.  Which he didn’t, though he did level a disapproving look at his employee for the implication, even as he muttered his thanks.

Lydia shrugged and slipped past him, following in Marco’s footsteps as Duncan lugged what had to be the oldest model TV Kip had ever seen outside of a period piece movie.  It hardly looked like it belonged on the set of Andy Griffith, but if that thing had been purchased after 2004, Kip would need the receipt to prove it.  It was solid, about the size of a man’s torso, and housed a square screen in the two most soul-ignoring shades of grey the manufacturer had been able to find.

They’d probably sold like hot cakes back in the day, and now the dump housed at least half a million of them.

As if eavesdropping on Kip’s private musings, one of the regulars at the counter decided to just come out and ask.  "How old is this TV?” Reggie asked as Duncan hauled the beast toward the cash register.  “That thing has to weigh more than me.”

“It does not,” Duncan huffed.

While Duncan had been upstairs, Maggie had helpfully clearly a space among the cutlery baskets and decorative detritus on the counter that ran against the wall, and it looked like she’d pretty accurately guessed how big the thing Duncan was dragging down the backstairs was going to be.  Watching her hop the counter in a move he couldn’t imagine anyone else would be allowed to get away with, Kip had wondered how many years this little group of people had been doing this.  Gathering at a diner not known for its late hours to watch hockey games on a screen not really designed with long distance viewing in mind.  All these people gathered round to cheer, in their own ways, for the young man they’d watched grow up.

“Since you were sixteen?”  Kip tried not to look as concerned as he suddenly felt.  “What was a teenager from Rochester doing wandering around New York City by himself at sixteen?”

“Rochester is not that small a town,” Scott said, defending his old stomping grounds.  As it always did when his childhood was mentioned, a flash of sorrow lanced through his otherwise good mood.  “And I was…having a rough day.”

“And so you went looking for a diner that serves coffee without sugar?” Kip asked.  Gently.  Curious to learn, but mindful that Scott was still sensitive about his past.  About how much he shared about what little of his life had ever been private.

“I went for a walk,” Scott said.  “A very long walk.  And…it led me here.”

There was more to that story, but the look on Scott’s face was so…fond.  None of the melancholy Kip had been expecting.  And for once, his need to know everything he could about the man he’d fallen so helplessly in love with lost out to his desire to watch Scott revel in a kind piece of his past.

The TV didn’t so much land on the counter as crash into it, and Kip jumped hard enough to bang his knee against the underside of the booth’s table at the unexpected sound.  At the far end of the counter, Ivan twitched, while from the kitchen there came an answering bang as something clattered to the floor.  Marge sat on her stool, unbothered and unmoved

“Why don’t you get one of those wallmounted units?” Reggie asked.  “You know: light-weight, plastic, doesn’t take up any counter space?”

“What’s the point of a TV in the diner if it’s easy for everyone to see and doesn’t take up any counter space?”

“It’s easier for everyone to see,” Jose said from behind his stuffy nose.  Poor guy looked like he had three days left on that cold.  Kip still couldn’t get a handle on why he and Ivan put up with each other, but in a display of comfort that ticked another point in the “friendship” column, Ivan had draped his overcoat over Jose’s shoulders, the large brown-beige article of clothing all but swallowing the sniffling man.  “That screen is too small for this end of the counter.”

“Then move,” Duncan grumped.

Jose coughed as Ivan chuckled, and it was clear that nobody had any intention of doing any such thing.

This.  This was why Kip had showed up tonight. His backpack crammed with everything he’d need to actually study, minus any real intent to get any actual work done.

For the first couple months, he’d only ever come here with Scott.  It had never actually occurred to Kip to do otherwise.  They’d never talked about it, and he was pretty sure Scott would have given him a funny look and told him he could go to Duncan’s anytime Kip wanted.  But it was so clearly Scott’s place; it had felt wrong to casually add it to the list of places Kip grabbed lunch between classes on a busy day.

Then training camp had started, then the pre-season, then the regular season.  The demands on Scott’s time growing with every week.  Kip’s time had become more precious, too: between starting classes for his Master’s and his shifts at the Kingfisher, Kip had been almost as busy as Scott, and that was before factoring in homework.

More than one evening’s flirting had been wasted when it turned out one or both of them was too tired to do more than make out for half an hour and then tumble into bed.

Not that Kip was complaining.  Scott hadn’t been coy about it, but some days it still caught Kip by surprise just how much of a cuddler his boyfriend could be.

The thing that really drove that understanding home was the days - sometimes a whole week - when Scott would be gone.  Traveling so the Admirals could play teams on their own ice.  Games that Kip could of course watch on TV, or his phone, or listen through the app he had running in the background on his laptop while drafting yet another five hundred word essay.  And while Scott didn’t always come home straight away when the Admirals were playing in New York, Kip had wildly underestimated how alone…he would feel.  The penthouse apartment that always felt cozy with a big, strong hockey player pulling him backwards into hugs or filling the space nearby while Kip prattled on about his day felt so…empty…when it was just Kip coming home at the end of the day.

Washing the dishes after dinner for one.  Watching whatever he wanted on TV with no one’s head in his lap.  Curling up in bed with his face mashed into Scott’s pillow on the romantic idea that it might somehow still smell like him for a few more days.  It all made him feel so…lonely.

And yeah, Scott crushed him in a bear hug after every single trip.  Dragged Kip into the bedroom to make up for lost time, but just as often held him so so close, letting Kip pull away only far enough to trade the kind of soft kisses Kip thought didn’t exist outside of story books.

But in a way that made Scott’s leaving hurt a little bit worse each time.  Reinforced all the little moments that weren’t going to happen while Scott was off being the Captain of the New York Admirals.  Impressive.  Famous.  Sexy.

Single.

“How’re things going over here?”  Radiating welcome, Duncan was standing next to the booth Kip had set up shop in.  Cheerful gaze dancing over the books Kip had spread out over the table in front of him.  Probably amused kids today still used books to study.  “We’re a little short on outlets, but I can find somewhere in the back if things get desperate.”

“I don’t think I’ll be here for that long,” Kip said, forcing a laugh as if the idea of studying for hours on end was ridiculous.  Maybe it was.  The way his eyes hurt after two hours of screen time certainly made it feel that way.

Duncan’s eyebrows lifted at Kip’s awkward little laugh though, so Kip cleared his throat and tossed the question back at him.  “How’re things going over there?”

“The ritual is well under way,” Duncan intoned as Maggie’s triumphant laugh carried through the empty space.  “Should have everything up and running before the talking heads are done reminding us they’re important.”

Kip grinned, meaning it this time.  “I think they’re called announcers.”

“They’re called mouthy,” came Marge’s pronouncement from over at the counter.

“Whatever they’re called, they’re three to four men a game who spend their time explaining why the players did everything wrong,” Duncan said, earning himself a laugh for his display of loyalty.  “And reminding the general public of statistics many of us will forget before they’re done being recounted.”

Kip bit his lip in his own show of loyalty.  “There are an awful lot of guys in the NHL.”

“And most of us here only care about one.”

“Got it!”

Maggie stood up as the hum and hiss of a TV not quite as old as him but definitely not a digital flatscreen filled the room for a moment as the device came to life.  Plugged into the wall for electricity, and into some gadget Maggie had MacGyver’d to the back of so it could talk to the internet, the square screen glowed to life, the image fading into existence as a man who’d managed to carefully coif his bald head came into view.

“And that’s another reason why it’s so important to keep track of these things.  How is anyone supposed to prepare for a moment like that if they don’t remember the indicators from last time?”

“Well, I think we can agree they didn’t prepare for it, given how last night went.”

“Behold,” Duncan murmured as Marge swore and Kip muffled his giggles into his hand.  Then he rapped his knuckles on the table and headed off.  “I’ll grab you some more coffee.”

“Thanks, Duncan.”

He watched the guy who really did look like he could be Santa Claus’ brother walk back toward the coffee station at Ivan and Jose’s end of the room.

It had been a little jarring, the first time Kip had come in by himself.  For all that he knew Scott wouldn’t have stopped him, and for all that Kip knew that to most of New York this was a dining establishment like any other, it still felt a little like trespassing.  Like he was going through Scott’s stuff while his boyfriend was in the other room.  Or talking about him behind his back.

He’d honestly felt a little better about things when Duncan had failed to hide all of his surprise that Kip had showed up on his own.  But the diner owner had covered pretty well, and he hadn’t shifted into full proprietor mode.  Didn’t pretend like he didn’t know who Kip was or why he’d sat in the booth that he had.  He’d even remembered that Kip liked orange juice with his breakfast.

And somewhere along the line, he’d noticed that Kip only ever came in by himself during weeks when Scott was out of town.

Which meant that Duncan was also paying attention to the Admirals schedule, but maybe that shouldn’t have been a surprise.  This man had clearly loved Scott since a stressed out teenage boy had stumbled into his place of business, and Kip couldn’t be happier to learn that Scott hadn’t, in fact, been all alone before he’d made the NHL.  Before Eric and Carter decided this quiet, maybe shy, hockey captain needed people to make him laugh and do the occasional stupid thing with.

“What do you mean Eric dyed his hair?”

Scott was laughing so hard he could barely tell the story.  “Really…we should have been worried about the uniform regulations…but Eric was so panicked…that Holly would notice the blue in his eyebrows…cause it wouldn’t wash out…”

While the apartment started to feel big to the point of haunted during some of Scott’s longer trips, Duncan’s diner had so much life in it.  Every time Kip walked in, it seemed like there was some new, small drama playing out.  People who’d only ever eat here once and never be back again.  People who came by once every six months.  And that wasn’t even getting into the lives of the regulars.  Most of whom were currently sitting at the counter, paying various amounts of attention to the aforementioned talking heads.

“Remind me again why we never watch the first half of the season?” Marco asked from the entryway to the kitchen.  That rag that was always in his hand if he wasn’t holding a wash bucket or a plate of food was currently twisted up like Marco was seriously considering the question.

“Because Scott says we don’t have to,” Duncan said as he liberated the carafe from the coffee station.

“Yeah,” Marco acknowledged, “but like…team spirit.  And all that.”

And it caught Kip offguard, the feeling in his chest that expanded like a balloon.  The casual, fact-of-life way Marco said it.  Like he might have a radio on in the back on the nights he worked late so he could listen along to the game.  Like it hadn’t been a fluke that time Marge had mentioned the score to last night’s game just as Kip was walking by.  Like his suspicion that Ivan only wore that obnoxiously red scarf that clashed with his usual somber aesthetic on game days wasn’t just Kip seeing things because he wanted them to be there.

“This is a diner, not a sports bar,” Duncan said, unknowingly deflating Kip’s balloon as he walked back his way.  “And Scotty would tell us if he needed us to watch more of the games.”

Oh.

Kip wondered if Scott knew the older man called him that.  When he was talking to people he trusted about young hockey player he clearly loved.

It clearly wasn’t the first time.  The affectionate nickname didn’t earn any reaction at all as Marco headed back to his task at hand.  “Got it, boss.”

Pausing on the way, Duncan topped Ivan’s coffee, earning himself a reproachful tone.

“You ruin the temperature.”

“You ruin my mugs.”

“Who wants diner mugs that are pristine white?” Ivan asked as Duncan walked away, his accent lilting the words in a way that must have had more than one wide eyed small child mouthing the word “vampire”.

“He’s right,” Kip whispered as Duncan reached his table a few moments later.  “It is a little weird when the mugs look unused.”

“Just because he’s right doesn’t mean I have to admit it where he can hear,” Duncan whispered as he refilled Kip’s own mug, the sounds coming from the TV finally shifting to the opening cacophony of nonsense that was the pre-game experience of professional hockey.  Glancing back over his shoulder to check on his regulars, it was clear a few of the people here to cheer on Scott still thought the ten or so minutes before puck drop was an awful lot of drama for an event that involved neither a wedding nor an assassination attempt.

Kip had almost fallen off the couch when Scott had deadpanned that announcement, and he was pretty sure Elena actually had when he’d repeated the story to her a few days later.

God, he missed his best friend.

“You planning to stay open until the game ends?” Kip asked, already reaching for the sugar Scott never used.  Yet another small twinge; yet another reminder that Scott wasn’t coming home for at least two more days.  “These things run kind of late.”

“Officially we’re closed,” Duncan replied.  He gave Kip a knowing, sidelong look.  “Unofficially, I’m not worried about people forgetting to lock up if I go to bed before the Third Period.”

He grinned at Kip’s immediate and irresistible attempt to figure out who else in the room had a key.

“Speaking of unusual behavior,” Duncan continued as Kip tipped two packets of sugar into his dark brew, “what brought you in tonight?”

It wasn’t a harmful question.  It wasn’t even all that nosy.  But it did remind Kip of why, despite still loving the place and the job he had there, he’d elected not to drop by the Kingfisher on this particular night off.

To be fair, the Kingfisher wasn’t a sports bar.  There was no prohibition against sports on the bar’s TV, and there were always at least a handful of patrons who appreciated the display of athletic prowess, for one reason or another.  And being a bar in New York, when other patrons did pay attention, they almost always rooted for the New York team.

But at the Kingfisher, Kip couldn’t be the guy who wanted to watch the game because his boyfriend was playing in it.  He couldn’t brag to strangers when Scott did something impressive or dramatic.  He couldn’t even get playful nudges from his coworkers when someone made a borderline inappropriate comment about hockey players and their stamina or flexibility or their ability to score.  Because of course, neither Kyle nor Aram knew that Kip Grady and Scott Hunter even knew each other.

Why would a world famous athlete be friends with a bartender at a local gay bar?

Which was the kind of thinking that made Kip feel bad enough, but then there were his coworkers.  His boss, technically, since Kyle hired him and would be the one, if need be, who fired him.

It had been more than a year ago, but Kip still felt a little awkward about their kiss.  He’d been heartbroken and confused and mad and distraught, and so of course he’d gone to his favorite bar and gotten a little too drunk.  And Kyle had been nice, because Kyle was always nice, and Kip hadn’t really been surprised when Kyle offered to help him get home.

He had been very surprised, even in his drunkenness, when Kyle had kissed him outside on the sidewalk.  Elena had read him the riot act for convincing himself that Kyle Swift was just the kind of friendly that meant he flirted with everyone, but Kip evidently had, and even upset as he’d been at Scott, it had never occurred to Kip that Kyle might think walking Kip home meant…something.

Which in no way excused the five and a half seconds where Kip had absolutely kissed Kyle back.

Or enjoyed it, because his now boss was actually a really great kisser.

But even drunk and pissed, his first coherent thought had been that those definitely weren’t Scott’s lips.  So Kip had pulled back, babbled something idiotic in an attempt to make things less weird, and fucking sprinted for the nearest subway entrance.

Honestly, the fact that Kyle had let Kip back in his bar, let alone still offered him the job all those months later, was the wildest demonstration of “forgive and forget” Kip had ever seen.

Except sometimes, it felt like maybe Kyle was mad at him.  Kip assumed it was about the kiss, because what else had he done?  But Kyle had never said anything - he’d waved it off the one and only time Kip had tried to bring it up - and it wasn’t like Kip was sending mixed messages.  Even before he and Scott had made up, Kip had made sure to be very mindful of what he said and how much he smiled around the guy who’d clearly, at one point anyway, thought Kip might be interested in a good time.

Two years ago, maybe Kip would have kissed Kyle back for more than five and a half seconds on a night like that.

Maybe.  He wasn’t sure.

And it didn’t matter.

But the last few weeks, Kyle’s mood seemed to be noticeably worse on nights that Kip had the game on, so Kip had resigned himself to not being able to watch the Admirals’ away games on work nights unless a customer specifically asked for it.  Which they almost never did.  Which meant that on game nights Kip was often the one flashing fewer smiles and finding excuses to do busy work in the back, which meant Kyle would check in on him more often.  Which was nice, but sometimes weird, but also Kip was technically kinda sorta neglecting his customers.

Fuck, he wished the Admirals could just always play at home.

Realizing he had definitely zoned out instead of answering Duncan’s question, Kip opened his mouth to deflect the truth like he always did.  Like he’d gotten uncomfortably good at over the past year.  The way they both had to until Scott came out publicly.  But there was something in Duncan’s expression that Kip had seen before, and instead of whatever bullshit about needing a new place to spread out his notes and review he might have come up with, the truth came tumbling out instead.  “I...got a little lonely.”

Duncan nodded, as if he was trying to feel out what he was supposed to understand.  “Missed the lack of personal space that comes with thousands of cheering fans?”

Kip hesitated, but he really did wonder sometimes what Duncan already knew.  How much of the truth they actually needed to hide from this man who loved Scott from Rochester so much.  “No, I…just wanted to watch the game with people who genuinely want Scott to win.”  He could feel his cheeks going that shade of pink his grandmother always called ‘endearing’.  “Instead of in a room full of strangers who are all rooting for…whoever they want.”

“And possibly enjoy when an Admiral gets checked a little too hard,” Duncan finished.

Kip nodded as the tone of the announcers’ voices changed, signalling the imminent puck drop approaching.  “Yeah.”

For just a moment, Duncan looked at him in the same way Kip sometimes caught his dad looking at Scott.  With this kind of…appreciation, like just by existing maybe Kip had done something right.  Or at least, something this man approved of.  Like maybe, even though Duncan was very much not Scott’s dad, he was someone who wanted Scott to be happy with his whole heart, and he thought maybe Kip could be part of making that happen.  The same way Kip’s dad had absolutely noticed that while Scott still stumbled and stuttered sometimes when they encountered one of the neighbors, he no longer took that small, unconscious step away from Kip’s side.

Then some sixth sense told Duncan he was needed back behind the counter, even when he couldn’t possibly have seen the silent, guilty scrambling of the twins who were, according to Scott, almost definitely not probably twins.  He turned to go, but not before pausing to let Kip know, as casually as he had mentioned this watch party to a confused Marco back at the end of December, “Lydia likes to hit the books, too.  If you hang around long enough tonight, you might find yourself with a study buddy sometime during Second Period.”

Kip raised his eyebrows with interest.  “Does Lydia study art?  Or history?”

Duncan shrugged.  “Nobody knows.  But she likes to read during the games.  Only really watches when they’re still tied by Third.”

Kip nodded his thanks as Duncan made his way back behind the counter.  He watched the man level a frown at the guilty looking parties.  And Marge, just for good measure, though the tiny coat-shaped woman didn’t seem to notice.  “It’s been three minutes and the puck only just dropped - what happened?”

A chorus of voices erupted with explanations as the Admirals broke out of their defensive zone, Minnesota, unlike Ivan’s now room temperature coffee, hot on their heels, and Kip sat there.  Quietly watching the screen that really was too small for this sort of thing.  His hands wrapped around his stained diner mug as he debated pulling out his phone so he could watch the game, muted because while the screen was small, the speakers on that old thing worked just fine.  Surprised by how, technically, he was just as isolated with this group of people as he would have been back at the Kingfisher.  And yet even as he sat by himself, the only person here at a table, the ache of knowing he’d be going home alone tonight eased, just a little.  Knowing that Reggie really understood nothing about hockey but cheered for Scott’s team anyway.  Knowing that Ivan narrated gameplay to Jose, even though his whatever-they-were was sitting right next to him and had the same view of the screen.  Knowing that Marge missed absolutely nothing, a fact emphasized by the specificity with which she insulted the opposing players, always by comparing them to various types of “unsuitable” cheese.

It was not the same as having Scott home with him, and it was not the same as being allowed to actually tell these people that was his boyfriend they’d all just shouted at the ref in defense of, but it was enough.  It was so much better than watching alone in his apartment, and while he couldn't tell the truth, at least at Duncan’s, Kip didn’t feel like he had to lie.

And maybe that could make the rest of this season’s away games just a little bit easier.  And not just because Marco appeared at the end of the First Period with the best damn quesadillas Kip had ever eaten sober.

Chapter 21: A Year Ago

Chapter Notes

Formatting Note: If it looks like this, it's texting.

If anyone has a better idea for denoting that, I'm all ears.

This would be a lot easier if he knew how close he’d come to blowing it.

Scott sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling as he replayed the interview in his head.

He didn’t really mind being there.  The promo stuff wasn’t always his favorite, but it was better than a brand deal photoshoot any day.  And while the other guys on his team had places they needed to be, Scott always had this particular holiday off.  Or had, up until today.

Teeth pearly white and perfect, and all of them on display, the podcast host smiled at him.  “Since you were nice enough to come and speak with us today: even though the episode won’t air on the day, do you have any Valentine’s plans this year?”

A lifetime of habits really should have kicked it.  They did all the time.  Especially at the beginning, Scott had been constantly apologizing for hurting Kip’s feelings in some small, unconscious way.  And Kip had been a saint about too many of them until they’d found a better way to do things.  Better ways that involved Scott paying more attention and Kip being more honest.  Stubbornly forgiving, but honest.

But after nearly twenty years of being able to - honestly - deflect the question because no of course he didn’t have any plans, Scott’s stupid, traitorous mouth had…smiled.

“Oh, I know that look.”  The guy host had looked across at his female counterpart, grinning conspiratorially.  “Plans, indeed.”

Damnit.

He hadn’t actually said anything incriminating.  Nothing that couldn’t be interpreted as some lucky lady laying claim to his evening.  Though he was sure there would be an e-mail at some point in his future from Todd, pointing out that if he didn’t want people to be extra nosy about his private life, he maybe shouldn’t grin like a lovestruck idiot when discussing romantic holidays and the plans that went with them.

Especially when he nearly got himself in over his head for nothing.

Giving the ceiling a break, Scott checked his phone yet again.

Kip: K

That had been at 11:59 this morning.  A single letter in response to the kinds of questions Scott thought warranted at least a mishandled dependent clause.  Sure, he’d been intentionally vague, trying to gauge things like when Kip thought he’d be home and did he prefer chicken or steak without hopefully giving away that Scott was finalizing plans.  But then nothing, for more than ten hours.  Which had only ever happened before when there were time zones and inconsiderate NHL schedules involved.

After running the gambit of potential emotions twice, Scott had actually checked the date to make sure he hadn’t simply gotten it wrong.  Because maybe he’d gotten something wrong, and Kip wasn’t actually the kind of guy who went in for Valentine’s Day.

Though it really seemed like his style.

“I like flowers.”  Kip dragged his spoon around the bottom of the last of the yogurt cups Scott had bought on Benny’s recommendation.  “I think they’re underrated.”

Putting the oat milk back in the fridge, Scott kept his interest casual.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Kip popped the spoon in his mouth, dragging it out slowly as he considered the subject.  “I know people complain about dropped petals and needing to change the water every other day, but I think they’re pretty.”

“People like Elena?” Scott asked, earning himself a look that didn’t in any way make him think he’d guessed wrong.

He really needed to pressure Kip to go out and visit his friend soon.  Elena had moved to California, not Timbuktu.  She was a measly three thousand miles away, and if it meant that much to him, Scott wouldn’t even offer to pay for the plane ticket.  Even though he thought that was silly, especially when he wasn’t evening planning to suggest First Class.

Maybe a week with his best friend would convince Kip he should at least fly Business Class coming back.

Of course, before they could have any kind of conversation about California and modes of transportation to get there, Kip was going to have to reappear from wherever he’d disappeared to.  Or at least answer Scott’s texts.

Phone abandoned, Scott went back to staring down the ceiling.

Benny hadn’t really needed to talk him off the ledge.  All of Scott’s plans for today had been pretty reasonable on his own.  A nice dinner.  Maybe an attempt at dancing.  Kip had a list of romantic movies he loved, and while Scott would sleep through most of it, Kip seemed to prefer watching any kind of movie with Scott’s head in his lap.

Might make going to the movies awkward, but that was a problem for future them.

Scott could feel his stupid mouth smiling again.

Future them.

“Does this happen a lot?” an intern asked him, clipboard digging into their stomach while they waited for the interview studio to be reset from the previous guest.  “You having to work holidays since you don’t have anyone to celebrate with?”

That logic had stopped stinging a long time ago, but he’d still been surprised to get the question.  Most interns weren’t that secure in their jobs to risk insulting one of the guests.

That, or maybe uncommitted goths rooted for Boston.

“We’ll keep this short,” the female host said, all teeth and professional friendliness.  “I’ve got to make it to Manhattan before six, and even leaving this early, I’m not sure I’ll make it.”

She laughed and Scott smiled and someone in the next room gestured through the window for everyone to be quiet.

Scott hadn’t been worried.  Even before the lack of response to his texts, he’d planned for things to start late.  Kip was as busy as him these days, and he had no idea if a gay bar was busier on Valentine’s Day or not.  Either way, he was pretty sure Kip had said something about heading to work straight from his classes this morning, and Kip never got home before nine on a work day.  Not unless it was a very, very bad work day.

Still, from what Scott had heard of Kyle, he wasn’t the kind of boss that ate his employees for checking their phones once or twice during a shift.  Kip had certainly texted him enough on other work days.

His phone buzzed, and Scott nearly threw it in his excitement to pick it up.

Vaughn: How’s it going?

Scott dropped his phone back to the couch.

Asking Benny for help was a no-brainer, but including Carter had been brainless.

The younger man’s idea of a good date night only served to make his two friends feel old.  Nevermind the fact that while Kip couldn’t find ten seconds to text Scott while at work, Carter was apparently finding time in the middle of his evening to check in.

Vaughn: That good, huh?

Scott considered ignoring the smugness radiating from his phone, but there were some misunderstandings that simply couldn’t stand.

Hunter: He’s not home yet.

Vaughn: ???

Bennett: Carter, leave the man alone.  He’ll refuse to tell you how it went tomorrow.

Scott grinned at the furious trio of dots that appeared after Benny’s admonishment.

Vaughn: He will not!

Bennett: Fine.  He can refuse to tell you the day after.

Bennett: Leave Scotty in peace.

Vaughn: I’m being supportive!  It’s his first time!

Scott huffed a silent laugh at the pause before the reappearance of the dots.

Vaughn: I mean, not like that.

Vaughn: I assume.

Vaughn: Scotty, ignore this part.

Vaughn: And don’t like…confirm or deny.

It almost made up for the ringing silence he’d been stressing about all day.

Vaughn: Fuck.

Bennett: I’m sure he plans to.  Now leave him alone.  You’re not the guy he wants to think about tonight.

And in that magical way he had, somehow it felt like Benny’s fault that the lock on the front door finally whirred to life, Kip’s voice ringing out as soon as the door opened.  “Scott?”

“Over here,” Scott said.  Setting down his phone on the coffee table, Scott abandoned Carter to Benny’s tender mercies as he got up from the couch.

Kip met him halfway, coat still on, only one shoe successfully off.  “Scott, I’m so sorry!  My phone died, and I left my charger somewhere, and I got held up at school because of a project.  Then I got to work and Aram didn’t have his charger, of all the days, and Kyle was in a mood.  He’s been in a mood all week.  But today was especially bad, and Aram had a date with that new guy I’ve been telling you about?  So when Kyle asked me to close, I didn’t really feel like I could say no.  And then this couple wouldn’t leave -”

Catching Kip by the shoulders, Scott gave him the gentlest of shakes.  “Hey, hey.  It’s OK.”

“It’s not,” Kip said, and he looked so miserable Scott immediately let everything that had been bothering him go.  Not that he’d been planning on holding on to it, but the need to field a few prodding questions because he’d felt ignored all day dissipated much faster than it would have a year ago.

A year ago.

A year ago he’d spent Valentine’s Day in Russia, and no amount of Carter-approved ice cream had been enough to fix the hole in his heart.

Even when today started to go off the rails, it had been a better Valentine’s Day than a year ago.

Heaving a sigh, Kip tried to take a deep breath, halfway managed it, then settled for wrapping Scott up in a hug.  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Scott.”

Hugging Kip back, Scott buried his face in his boyfriend’s hair and smiled.  Saying words he never thought he’d get to outside of half-sarcastic goodbyes to his teammates.  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The moment lasted barely a moment before Kip jerked, knocking his head into Scott’s chin when he did.  “Oh!  I forgot!”

He started back toward the door, but Scott caught him by the arm and pulled him back.  “Nope.”

Kip’s surprise melted into a smile as Scott kissed him.  Soft and sweet.  Just how Carter liked his ice cream.

“I bought you a present,” Kip said after the kiss ended.  His voice was quieter now, the manic energy he’d barrelled through the door with starting to settle.  He tilted his head to place a kiss at the corner of Scott’s mouth.  “Nothing fancy, but it is a holiday.”

“Do we exchange gifts on Labor Day?” Scott asked, letting Kip go this time.

Kip snorted.  “Yup.  Tradition dictates a new tool box and a copy of the local union’s updated workers’ rights agreement.”

“Good to know.”

Fishing in his backpack, Kip came up with a slightly mangled box.  He stuck his tongue out at the deceased ribbon.  “Well, it had a bow on it.”

“Looks like chocolate,” Scott said, coming over to Kip’s side.  He pulled his boyfriend back into a hug; just because he was feeling better didn’t mean he hadn’t missed Kip like crazy.

“That’s because it is chocolate,” Kip confirmed.

Scott hummed.  “I do like chocolate.”

Kip laughed.  “Everyone likes chocolate.”

“Except Ms. Winters.”

“My dad’s taste in women has not been historically reliable,” Kip said by way of ending that leg of the conversation.

Scott let it go in exchange for taking the slightly damaged box.  “Thanks.”  He turned the box over, suddenly feeling unsure.  “I…didn’t get you anything.”

The flash of hurt was only there for a moment before Kip pasted on a smile.  “That’s OK.  We didn’t really talk about how tonight was going to go.”

“Only because your phone died,” Scott said, and he let the tiniest bit of annoyance into his tone.

Just to watch Kip raise his eyebrows about it.  “Oh, really?”

Stepping back to get out of Kip’s way, Scott nodded his chin toward the kitchen.

Peeking around the shelves that hid the front door from the rest of the large, main room, Kip smiled without the flash of hurt this time.  “You got flowers?”

Smaller ones, because Kip had mentioned liking things like daisies more than hydrangeas, and also there were only so many things in season in February, and boy had there been a Grady Family Dual Lecture about what greenhouses were doing to local environmental industries.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” Scott said as Kip started toward the kitchen.  “I was going to do this elaborate thing where it was all heated up and ready when you walked in the door, but I…wasn’t sure when you were getting home.”

Kip winced.  “I’m so sorry -”

“I’m not upset,” Scott said, following Kip and pulling him back into the hug where he belonged.  “I promise I’m not.”

“Thats because you’re entirely too nice a person.”

Scott snorted.  Pot, kettle.

Taking the box of chocolate from Scott, Kip tossed it the few inches onto the kitchen counter where it could keep the small yellow flowers company while Kip enjoyed their hug properly.  “Where did you order food from?”

Scott ran his tongue over his teeth, wondering if Kip would remember the place.  “Paloma’s.”

He smiled as he watched Kip’s face light up again.  “The Mexican place?”

The one Scott had asked Kip to the night of the charity event.  The one that had had too long a line, even that late in the evening, and in a fit of bravery, or maybe desperation, Scott had suggested they could go back to his place instead.

It had seemed like a good idea.  Back when he’d been trying to think of what made a dinner nice.

“Hell of a line,” Kip murmured, tilting his chin up.  “It’s been more than a year.”

“Hope it’s worth it,” Scott whispered.

“Best year of my life,” Kip answered, and kissed him.  Pushing food and flowers and dead cell phone batteries out of Scott’s mind in that way he suspected Kip always would.  Because none of those things were what was going to make this day special.  No matter what time Kip got home.

“Best year of your life so far,” Scott said as Kip pulled back.  His stupid mouth found that smile again as Kip’s expression softened at the implication, and it felt good.  Every small confirmation that Kip was still in this, still thinking that this would last.  That Scott was still worth fighting for.  Worth waiting for.

“I feel kinda bad now about one box of store brand chocolate,” Kip said, his head dropping as he spoke.  “I just wasn’t really sure what to get, you know?”

“I can be a hard guy to buy for,” Scott agreed.

Kip laughed but shook his head.  “Not really.  It’s more that, um…I’ve never…celebrated Valentine’s Day.”

Scott frowned.  “Never, like…never?”

Kip shook his head.  “Either I wasn’t dating anyone at the time, or it wasn’t that kind of relationship…”  He offered Scott a tiny smile.  “I’ve never had a real Valentine's before.”

Scott studied his boyfriend, suddenly shy, still wearing his coat and his one shoe.  Looking very sorry for having messed up plans he didn’t know about for a holiday no one had ever had the decency to ask Kip to celebrate before.

Which was making Scott surprisingly annoyed, even though every romcom he’d ever half-watched told him he should be jealous any time Kip mentioned a previous partner.

Except sometimes it sounded like Kip hadn’t had previous partners.  Anymore than Scott had.

The arms around his waist squeezed in wordless affection.  “So…there are flowers in the kitchen.  And dinner in the fridge.”

“And chocolates on the counter,” Scott said, earning himself an exhaled laugh.

“And chocolates,” Kip allowed.  He looked cautiously…hopeful?  “Anything else…I should know about?”

Now it was Scott’s turn to feel shy.  “There, um…there might be some candles.  In the bathroom.”

Kip kissed him again, slow and lingering.  “You really are too good to me, Scott Hunter.”

“Only the best for the best,” Scott murmured, pleased when Kip blushed.  “Make sure you include that when you detail this whole day for Elena.”

“Planning our special nights with my best friend in mind, are you?”

“Pretty sure she could have me ‘removed’ without ever being charged.”

Kip laughed happily and Scott kissed him again, this time on the cheek.  “She absolutely could.”

The moment was somewhat interrupted by Kip’s yawn.  One of those demanding ones that forced the yawner to close their eyes to make it stop.  Shaking his head as if it would help, Kip sighed.  “Sorry.”

“Tired,” Scott agreed with a nod.  He let Kip try to pull away before earning an approving sound of surprise by picking him up.  Kip’s legs wrapping around his waist as his arms settled over Scott’s shoulders.  “Enchiladas make great leftovers.”

“And we’ve waited this long,” Kip agreed.  He covered his mouth against another yawn.  “You’d mentioned candles in the bathroom?”

“Baths come up a lot on lists of romantic gestures”

“There’s weird shit on those lists, too,” Kip mumbled as Scott started toward their bedroom.

“Oh believe me, I know.”

They traded easy kisses until they reached the bathroom.  Scott set Kip down on the bathroom counter.  Another yawn got the best of Kip as Scott turned on the taps in the tub.  He stripped out of his own clothes, helping an occasionally helpful Kip out of his, and pulled his tired boyfriend back into a hug while they waited for the tub to fill.  Scott suspected he might need to wake Kip back up by then, but that was fine.  Today had been kinda stressful, but tonight was fine.

“Sorry for ruining our first Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s not ruined,” Scott said as Kip settled against him, breathing deeper but still awake.  “I woke up with you.  I’ll go to sleep with you.  I thought about you all day.”

“You do that most days.”

“Does that make every day Valentine’s Day?”

Kip managed half a laugh, teetering on the edge, and Scott kissed what he could reach.

A bath, and then bed, and then enchiladas for breakfast.

Not a bad Valentine’s Day and a half at all.

Chapter 22: California

“It’s a real honor, you know.”  Elena handed him an oversized wine glass before settling herself next to him on her couch.  “Being the house you chose to watch hockey in.”

Kip smiled into the glass as he took a sip.  “I’m glad I could make you feel honored.”

Kip couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a vacation.  Between school and work, he rarely had the time, and even as a kid his family hadn’t been big on travel.  Days off were usually spent at his grandparents’ house or a local museum.  New York had plenty of water parks and land parks and amusement parks.  An exhausted single father with an energetic kid and six hours to spare could pull off a great day without too much effort.  And as much as every North American kind of wanted to see Paris one day, Kip had never felt like he’d missed out, living his life exclusively in the northeast.

He did have to admit that California beaches might be worth the plane fare, though.

The locals didn’t necessarily agree that March was ideal beach temperature, since it was still technically early spring, but to a New Yorker it was balmy outside and Kip had ended up shamelessly enjoying sprawling out on a towel and watching the seagulls harass other tourists while Elena alternately tapped away on her phone or sipped her canned cocktail.  They’d gotten in the water once, because in all the time she’d been here Elena had never actually done that part of going to the beach, and the water was so fucking cold he could have jumped in back home and been warmer.  So they opted for staying on the sand and enjoying what that day’s food trucks offered for snacks.

When not at the beach, there’d been the local art scene to explore.  Kip had been a good sport about learning some technical things, because of course Elena wanted to show off the job she’d moved three thousand miles to take and of course Kip wanted to support his friend and know about her life.  But also Kip just wasn’t a computer guy, and because Elena knew this and was a saint, she limited this part of his visit to slightly over two hours.  The excellent coffee in Equinox’s main building shop had helped.

New York was, according to everyone in existence, a food city, but LA was putting in the effort to keep up.  They’d gone to a couple of big name places, but mostly Elena had taken him to local gems.  Sandwiches with more ingredients than he’d ever put in a cake, soups that were worth the hype, vegetarian options he’d have to tell a certain goalie about, tacos and arepas and pupusas that made him miss Scott like his own shadow.

As if that specific ache hadn’t been there since shortly after he’d landed at LAX.

It was the most absurd thing Scott could have done.  But Kip had never been on a plane before, as the day got closer, he realized he wasn’t so much nervous as he was actually scared.

“What if it crashes?  What if the cabin depressurizes?  What if there are sharks?”

Scott gave him a funny look for that last one, because of course Scott Hunter had never seen Sharknado 2 before.  But he took Kip’s hand and squeezed gently.  “Movies make planes look way less safe than they are.  Most flights are almost boring.”

Said the guy who’d been flying all over the world for half his life.

Kip had never flown anywhere - had hardly been anywhere - and even with his best friend in the world waiting to pick him up at the other end, the idea of flying out to California caught him between the ribs in a way he’d really hoped stopped happening as an adult.

Weren’t there things that were supposed to be easier once you were legally recognized as an adult?  New experiences?  Emotional regulation?  Understanding taxes?

It didn’t work that way, though, which was why, when Kip was submitting his work off requests and breathing far too hard about it, Scott had dropped onto the couch next to him and said, as gently as his boyfriend could, “What if I fly out with you?”

It was stupid.  It was a waste of an entire day.  There was nothing romantic about babysitting his boyfriend while Kip turned out to indeed be fine because millions of people flew in airplanes everyday.  And what would happen if Scott got recognized?

Hockey All-Star Outed on Airplane by Nosy Guy in Row Sixteen

God.

But hockey players could be incredibly stubborn when they wanted to be, which was how two weeks later, Kip had found himself on a plane for the first time in his life, sitting next to the boyfriend he wasn’t supposed to have.  Because of the late booking, and to try and limit how many potential sports fans might recognize him, they’d ended up in First Class, which Scott had reminded him twice already wasn’t going to be like his flight home in a week.  Kip, meanwhile, had taken it as a sign of how bad his nerves really were that he’d let Scott pay for both their new tickets and eat the price of Kip’s original one without demanding they at least split it fifty-fifty.

First Class plane tickets weren’t cheap.

But the seats had been comfy, and there was plenty of ginger ale, and while Kip had insisted on the aisle seat because the idea of looking out the window actually freaked him right out, Scott had coaxed him to peek a couple of times.  And for a good half of the flight, hidden by the fact that even in First Class the seats were still close together and blankets were a thing people dropped on the floor all the time, Scott kept his foot pressed against Kip’s.

Which wasn’t to say that Kip hadn’t still held his breath during takeoff on the weird kid logic that if you don’t breathe the monsters can’t find you.  Or that Scott didn’t get nervous about halfway through and start fiddling with his sunglasses.  Or that the completely normal turbulence near the Rockies didn’t cause Kip to grip Scott’s hand like a vise, potential wandering eyes be damned.

Though given the reassuring pat-pat from the kid being walked to the bathroom ten minutes later, Kip thought maybe airplanes weren’t a place anyone found romantic, and all anybody had seen was a guy who didn’t like to fly grabbing a nearby human while his face went whiter than anybody else’s.

More than anything though, the thing that really helped was that for the entire flight, Scott…talked.  His normally quiet boyfriend, who was content with a smile and a sentence when people asked him questions, had rambled on about anything and everything for more than five hours.  It wasn’t like Kip hadn’t thought Scott capable - the man could talk about hockey for almost as long as George Grady could talk about the War of 1812 - but when it was the two of them, Kip usually used the most words.

But he was nervous, and literally out of his element 20,000 feet in the air, and Scott had accepted the ginger ale he’d gotten so Kip could drink two and tucked the peanuts into Kip’s backpack in case he needed a snack later and then proceeded to talk.  About anything.  Starting with what he knew about California and the art museums Elena might be planning to take Kip to see.

Quietly, calmly, and at one point Kip did wonder if Scott was distracting himself as much as Kip, but it didn’t matter.  If anybody recognized Scott Hunter, they didn’t say anything, and if anybody wondered why this man talked for most of the flight, they didn’t say anything, either.  And by the time the plane started its descent and that weird heavy feeling took up residence in Kip’s chest as gravity reasserted its hold on them, he was certain nobody cared what was going on with the guys in row seven.  If only because there were connecting flights and bags in overhead compartments that may have shifted during flight.

Waiting for Elena’s car had actually been the roughest part of the whole thing.  Because airports didn’t have blankets they could drop on the floor to explain why they were standing so close.  And there were so many more people with wandering eyes.

It had been the first time in a long time that he’d felt so much tension coming off of Scott.

But it was California, and even in March sunglasses and a ballcap made sense.  Kip was pretty sure he’d hate that look for the rest of his life, but Scott didn’t look out of place, and he did look a little less nervous once he put them on.

Then the car service had pulled up, the driver had hopped out to get Kip’s bag as Elena had emerged from the backseat, and Scott had pulled Kip into a one-armed side hug like any other manly friend.  Whispering, with the biggest vacation smile, “Have a great time.  I love you.”

Then he’d disappeared back into the airport to fly back to New York on the same damn day while Elena had grabbed Kip in the biggest hug and hadn’t let go until the driver politely reminded them that they were parked in a loading zone.

“I’m glad your boyfriend’s less awkward on the ice,” Elena said as the TV coverage cut to some of the pre-game warm up skate.  Admirals and Metros doing lazy circles and some of the internet's favorite stretches.  She had one arm over the back of the couch as she scanned the screen for the number 21.  “If he was going to fly all the way out here, he could have stayed and said hi.”

“He had that return flight,” Kip said, earning him a deserved eyeroll.

“And I suppose the gesture is less dramatic if he stays around for lunch,” Elena deadpanned.

Kip laughed.  “Maybe next time.”

He felt something flutter in his chest even as Elena set her glass down on the coffee table.  “Oh, next time, babe, you and yours are staying overnight.  I demand the right to know if Scott Hunter yelps like us mortals when he jumps in the Pacific for the first time.”

Kip bit his lip at the idea of Scott in a swimsuit.

“Can’t we google that?” Elena asked, reading his mind, or maybe just his face.  “Between the underwear and the underarmor, surely somebody’s got a picture of Hunter shirtless.”

“I’ve seen my boyfriend shirtless,” Kip said.

“And yet here you are, blushing like a preteen at the idea of taking your man to the beach,” Elena finished, chin held high as Kip ducked his with a grin.  “You are hopelessly besotted, Grady.  I hope he knows that.”

He could argue, but even if it was rude to lie to his friends, Kip was currently snuggled down in a stolen Admirals hoodie it was barely cool enough to wear.  But it was game day, and he’d been missing Scott worse than usual this morning, and the smile it had earned him when Scott saw the item of clothing stuff in Kip’s suitcase meant his boyfriend would probably never get this hoodie back.

Maybe long enough so it felt like Kip was stealing it again.

Maybe.

“How do you think he’s doing?” Elena asked.  Kip looked over and immediately regretted it.  That was definitely her fact-finding-face.  “This is the longest you two’ve been apart since you got back together.”

“It is not,” Kip said.  He scowled because he couldn’t help it.  “Scott’s had road trips longer than this for work.”

“That’s almost two weeks,” Kip grumbled.  He tried not to, but it was hard.

Strong arms pulled him backward into a warm hug, Scott’s lips soft against his neck as he kissed him.  “I know.  But it’s the last big trip for this season.”  He could hear the smile in Scott’s voice.  “Then I’ll be home more and more.”  Another kiss.  “You’ll be sick of me by summer.”

“I still love that you casually refer to a man’s professional athletic career as ‘work’.”

“It is his job.”

Elena was grinning.  “I know.  And I love that for the both of you.”  The grin stayed firmly in place.  “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

Kip sighed through his nose.  “Scott is…doing as well as I am.”  Because it hadn’t been the longest they’d been apart, but it had been the first time it wasn’t because of hockey, and somehow the fact that it was Scott at home going through his normal routine and Kip out in the world doing fun new things was…different.  Not bad, but…different.  And sometimes it was harder to do things like fall asleep than Kip had expected.

“I think I’m just not used to this bed,” Kip said, punching the pillow under his head into a better shape.  His smile came back at the sound of Scott’s unconvinced laugh.  “What?”

“I’m just not convinced Elena bought uncomfortable mattresses.”

Mashing his head back into the pillow, Kip asked, “Then why can’t I fall asleep?”

“Because you miss me?”

God, did he.

“I’m glad I came,” Kip said.  He reached over, taking Elena’s offered hand and squeezing it.  “I’ve missed you, bitch.”

“Your life has been lacking with my diminished presence,” Elena agreed.  But her dark eyes flicked to the TV as she continued.  “It hasn’t been bad, though.”

“Not at all.”  There it was - the familiar nibble in his stomach that was not being able to talk about Scott like this with just anyone - but it wasn’t too bad today.  Worse than it had been in a while, though.

Elena had put up with exactly fifteen seconds of vague references before pointing out that lots of people have boyfriends and lots of boys are named Scott, and while Kip maybe didn’t want to wear his stolen Admirals hoodie while gushing about said boy named Scott, Elena was not about to waste an entire week pretending her best friend wasn’t in love and getting properly fucked by a handome, warm hearted man who knew what he was doing.

A side effect of which had been, after two days, the return of that awful feeling that existed everywhere he went back in New York.  Having to pretend like he didn’t want to smile every time Scott walked into a room.  Not being able to hold hands.  Not being able to tell his classmates that he couldn’t meet on Friday not because he had work but because he had a date.

Out here, where no one knew him, and where lots of boys were named Scott, Kip could sit at an outdoor table of an Argentinian cafe and chat with his best friend about his boyfriend and at best it earned him a knowing little smile from the server who had caught just enough to know that said boy named Scott could kiss better than anyone else Kip had ever had the privileged of making out with.

Three years wasn’t really that long.  It was the average length of a Master’s Degree.  It was a much better timeline for building a relationship Kip hoped more and more everyday would last for maybe the rest of his life.  He could give Scott that long to figure out how to tell the world he was gay.

He’d already told everyone who mattered, even if Scott somehow still thought Duncan believed they might just be friends.

“Looks like they’re headed back to the locker rooms,” Elena said as the two teams cleared the ice and the talking heads came back on.  Kip took a long sip of wine to cover the dip in his happiness and snuggled further into his stolen hoodie.

They could do this.  They would do this.  And maybe, one day when he wasn’t going to see much of Scott anyway, he’d wear the Admirals hoodie to school or to Duncan’s.  His classmates wouldn’t assume it was for a boyfriend, and he thought he might earn that tiny nod from Marge for being so bold.

But for now, Elena knew, and his dad knew, and Eric Bennett had texted him back about a vegan place Elena wanted to try for lunch tomorrow, and his very handsome and talented boyfriend was about to show Montreal why it was always stupid to play New York on home ice.

The game had turned into a fight night, so it wasn’t a surprise when Muller dropped his gloves and slugged Vaskya.  But it was the end of the Second Period and at this point neither team was going to score because they were all too busy being pissed.  Handing off his stick and dropping his own gloves, Scott waded into the mess of brawling teammates, focusing on getting his own guys out of there.

The Metros weren’t even winning - what the fuck was going on with his team?

Barking at Huff to help out or back off, Scott shoved a guy in blue toward the boards before yanking backwards on MacDow.  The defenseman grunted, fighting his own captain for a moment before something shifted at the center of the huddle and sent half the guys tumbling to the ice, Scott along with them.  The crowd roared its approval as Scott swore, a sharp bite of pain lancing through his hand.

Next to him, Muller’s original target snarled and jumped back to his feet, swinging on MacDow this time, and Scott blew out a breath as the fight started back up again as if nothing had happened.

What the fuck what going on tonight?

Rolling over so he could get to his feet, Scott stopped on his hands and knees, hissing against the pain.  He looked down at his left hand.  At the dark red blood that covered most of it and was starting to spread in a pool on the ice underneath.

Whoever he’d hit, their skate has sliced open his hand like a ripe fruit.  A part of Scott’s mind howled with the kind of fear that came with serious injuries - the kind that knew this shade of red was too dark to be just a skin-level cut.  Carefully, feeling suddenly like he was in a bubble all by himself, he picked his hand back up and turned it over.  Marveling for a long moment at the absent realization that he’d never seen the inside of himself before.

“Captain?  Hunter!”  Huff skated to a stop at his side.  Finally dropping his own gloves, the veteran player took in the amount of red before him and said words Scott knew he’d never let anyone use in front of his kids.  Then Huff was yanking off his jersey and balling it up around Scott’s hand, squeezing as hard as a hockey player could.

“Fuck!”  Scott glared at his Alternate.  “Ow, fuck, stop that!”

“Can’t,” Huff said, ignoring the automatic human response that was Scott’s mouth objecting to more pain while his brain still tried to process what might have happened to his hand.

He’d seen enough injuries to know there was a good chance he was not fine.  Not even close.  And with the fight still going on, somebody could knock into him and make an already messy wound worse.

Could hit his hand again.

Huff’s death grip on Scott’s hand hurt like a motherfucker, but he ignored Scott’s grunts of pain, bellowing instead.  “Medic!  Hey, Jakowski!  Medic!”

The nearest linesman finally got the message.  Scott saw a moment of black and white while the ref processed the scene, then zipped past off toward the benches.  But it was hard to focus on anything besides the dark red dripping down his wrist and onto the white ice in front of him.  Hard to lean into the adrenaline and other bodily chemicals that went along with shock, because it had only been seconds and already the whole lower part of Scott’s arm was starting to ache.

“Hunter, call off your guys!”  Skating around Huff, Hollander looked as frazzled as Scott had felt two minutes ago.  “What the fuck is -”

Then the Metro captain stopped as he saw the blood.

“Shit!”

“Help me get him off the ice,” Huff said.  He still had a vise grip on Scott’s hand, his red jersey doing a piss poor job of hiding how bad this might be.  “The ref went to get a medic, but one asshole falls on Scotty and this gets so much worse.”

The fight wasn’t helping, but the announcer was.  “Looks like Admiral Captain Scott Hunter might be injured.  Alternate Captain Greg Huff’s got his jersey off to staunch the bleeding while the ref heads off to find a medic.”

While Hollander glanced around at the huddle of scuffling guys, Benny arrived, pieces of goalie gear abandoned in a haphazard line across the ice.  “Scotty, what happened?”

“Cut my hand,” Scott bit out.

“Sliced the fucking thing open,” Huff corrected.

“Get your captain off the ice,” Hollander said, already moving, his voice pitched lower into the tone all Captains had.  “I’ll deal with the fight.  Pike!  Stand down!”

One of Montreal’s Alternates pulled back with the same kind of automatic obedience Carter would have shown if Scott had been the one shouting.  He clocked Hollander’s expression, the tableau of Admirals behind him, and immediately returned to the fight, this time yanking guys in blue backwards with his own level of authority.

“Thanks,” Scott managed as Benny helped Huff haul Scott to his feet.  Huff kept hold of Scott’s hand as the three of them started toward the Admirals’ bench.  “Fuck!”

“Gotta hold on,” Huff said, unapologetic.  He glared at Scott as they started toward their team’s exit.  “What the fuck were you thinking, taking your gloves off?”

“It’s a fight,” Scott said.  “I was thinking I could get a better grip.”

“How’s that working for ya?”

“Refs back,” Benny said.  He has one arm around Scott’s middle, the other hand braced against Scott’s chest.

“My balance is fine,” Scott said.

“I don’t give a shit,” came the deceptively calm reply.

Shit.  If Benny was scared, and he hadn’t even seen Scott’s hand…

Pulling the trio to a stop in front of the Admiral’s bench, the medic who’d followed Jakowski took over control of Scott’s hand.  She tugged the jersey away so she could see, showing off Scott’s bloody hand to half his team, several of whom started shouting in alarm.  Benny’s arm that was around Scott’s waist squeezed reflexively.

Scott glanced at his Alternate.  “Go deal with the team?”

Huff looked past Scott to Benny.  “You got this?”

Benny nodded.  “We got this.  Go.”

Leaving his jersey with Scott, Huff skated off to help Hollander and Pike, years of authority making his voice into something all the guys not currently being lectured by Montreal’s Captain and the refs listen to him despite Scott still being distracting.

Fuck, he’d left a bloody trail all the way across the ice.

“This is gonna need more than we can do here,” the medic said, her voice even and professional.  Completely unphased by what looked scary as fuck to everyone else.  She wrapped Huff’s jersey back around his hand and Scott hissed at the flare of pain.  “Sorry, Hunter.  You’re out for this game.”

“Figured,” Scott muttered.  He forced a slow inhale.  “Benny, help me off the ice.  I can take it from there.”

“We’ve got two goalies for a reason,” Benny said.  He waved to Coach Murdock.  “I’ll be back.”

“The hell you will,” Murdock said.  “Burgoff’s got your net.  Stay with Hunter.”

“How is that helpful?” Scott asked as the medic led them toward the exit.

“Emotional support,” Benny said, as unrepentant as any man Scott had ever met.  But then Benny’s dark eyes glanced his way and Scott saw the worry there.  A goalie might let his captain go alone, but best friends didn’t.  “It’s only Third Period left, and this game’s been a shitshow since the start.  Burgoff can hold his own.”

Scott opened his mouth to continue arguing, but the medic scored the winning point.  “You’re going to need help getting your gear off.”

There was no reason a medic or other team staff member couldn’t help him do that, but the pain in his hand was starting to radiate up his arm, and if he was being honest, Scott had always hated having to deal with injuries on his own.  Bruises and papercuts, sure, but it was nice to have someone there to hold his hand.

Benny gave him another worried look as Scott laughed at his own pun.

He stopped laughing as he remembered something.  “Shit.”

Fingertips gentle as they traced over the bruising on his knuckles, Kip murmured the words, more to himself.  “Is there a point to all the gear if you have to take it off to fight?”

Wrapping his free arm around Benny’s shoulder as they stepped off the ice and onto the rubber mats, Scott glanced toward the audience.  

Benny caught the glance, dark eyes doing their own scan.  “He here?”

“No.”  Thank God.  “California till Monday.”

Benny nodded.  “Good state for vegetarians.”

Barking a laugh through a flare of pain, Scott asked, “You been texting my dog, Benny?”

“Maybe.”

Good.  Good good.

Better that Kip wasn’t here to see this.  There wasn’t anything Scott could do to change the last few minutes, and the medic wouldn’t have let him try anyway.  The woman had a grip on his forearm that put Huff’s to shame and was marching them all along the hall to where her partner was waiting, supplies laid out and a “get on the gurney” glare on his dark brown face.

Scott would have to tell Kip - no way this didn’t involve stitches and a bandage instead of a band-aid - but at least his boyfriend hadn’t seen him bleeding all over the ice.

“It’ll be at least an hour,” Elena said, her tone a port in a storm.  “Traffic, medical care, if he needs surgery.  We won’t hear anything from him for at least an hour.”

Kip nodded, numb.

Scott would be pissed, but hockey was famous for fights for a reason.  Kip smiled as he watched his boyfriend skate over to try and break it up, Shane Hollander doing something similar on the far side.  Both captains infamous for not fighting, except that one time they fought each other.

A scuffle, a tumble, and Kip winced as Scott hit the ice.  Which was stupid, because with all that padding, Scott probably didn’t feel a thing.  He’d be back on his feet in a second and shouting at MacDow about being stupid.

Except Scott didn’t get back on his feet.

It could be nothing.  Some injuries just bled a lot.

But it could be Scott’s whole fucking career.

So much for waiting three years.

Turning to his friend, Kip tried to find the words.

Instead, Elena held up her phone.  “I can get you on a flight back in the morning.  Five AM departure time.”  When Kip nodded, she reached over and picked up his phone.  “Call you dad.  He’ll know what to do.”

Chapter 23: In the Middle of the Night

Scott wasn’t being unreasonable.  It was nearly four in the morning.  Way past even Rozanov’s bedtime.  “You have to go home.  I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” Benny said, straightening up from where he’d been futzing.  “Besides, I don’t trust you to stay on this couch if no one’s here to see you do it.”

Scott huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Benny, I’m not -”

“Hand!”

Glaring at his friend, Scott dutifully placed his splinted and bandaged limb back on the stack of pillows.  A mix of decorative ones his designer had picked out, supportive ones from various pieces of furniture, and an actual pillow stolen off the bed.

“Benny, I’m fine.”

“If you don’t keep it elevated, it’ll swell and you’ll be in pain.”

Scott watched his friend walk away from him, headed toward the kitchen and the distinct threat of coffee.  “You weren’t this obnoxious when you needed surgery on your shoulder last year.”

“I was deeply obnoxious,” Benny tossed back.  “I was just Holly’s problem, not yours.”

Resting his head on his shoulder so he could keep an eye on his friend, Scott thought about the thing Benny hadn’t said.  Not on purpose - Benny wasn’t the kind of guy to rub salt in that particular wound.

The ambulance ride had been standard; Scott had a pretty good track record for injuries, but nobody played professional sports without getting something cracked or sprained.  The numbness in his hand had started to be a little unnerving, but that was what the evaluation in the emergency room was for.  An evaluation that had been pretty fast - helped by the fact that New York had a hospital that specialized in hockey injuries - before a professional woman who looked like she’d bite him if he argued sent him directly upstairs to surgery.  Something about a good neuro exam but not good enough.  So while Scott hadn’t cut his damn hand off like the news was undoubtedly debating, the cut was bad enough that he wasn’t going to get away with basic stitches.  Which meant that Scott got a mandatory nap while his hand was examined and repaired and then braced in a position of the doctor’s choosing.

When he’d woken up, he’d found Benny waiting in the uncomfortable plastic chair that was in every hospital room on the continent, holding street clothes for Scott to wear home and Scott’s phone.

Kip: I’ll be home tomorrow.  Please be OK.

There was no way to hide a major injury, and Scott hadn’t been planning on trying.  But he had hoped Kip had been too busy having fun in California to actually watch any of his games this week.  Which would have meant Scott could have given a less dramatic recounting of what had happened.  Which would have been good, because then Kip wouldn’t have worried so much.

But no.  Kip had been watching, which means he’d gotten the scariest possible version of events.  The announcers were notorious assholes on the best of nights, and there was no way they’d said anything helpful after Scott had skated off the ice and disappeared down the Admirals’ tunnel, never to be seen again.

Damnit.

Watching Benny raid his refrigerator, because only Eric Bennett would opt for salad when he was feeling stressed, it took Scott a moment to register the sound of the lock on his front door.  The familiar electric whir as the mechanism engaged, followed by the more mundane sounds of a door handle turning and various metal and wood pieces interacting as someone stepped inside.  “Scott?”

Benny looked up, one hand holding something green hostage against Scott’s cutting board, as Scott sat up, too.  Even more confused, because at least a robber made sense at four AM.  “George?”

Appearing around the shelves that Scott’s designer had insisted would make the space feel homier, Kip’s dad held up a backpack.  “I wasn’t sure what you’d need.  What happened?”

Something old and deep squirmed in Scott’s stomach.  “I…what?”

George gave him a look.  “Your hand, Scott.”

“Hold still.”  Trapping Scott in a headlock, his dad grunted as Scott wiggled.  “It’s just a splinter, Scotty.  I promise it’ll stop hurting once I pull it out, but you have to hold still.”

Oh.

“Did…you call somebody to replace me?”  Benny sounded somewhere between surprised and hurt.  “Scotty, I promise I can stay.  Holly’s not even in town right now.”

“I, um.”  Scott coughed, not sure what to do in this situation.  “This is, um, George.  Kip’s…dad.”

George took a couple steps forward so that he could actually see Benny and offered a small wave.  “So you know about my son?”

Ouch.

“We’ve met.”  Benny grinned.  “Art history, right?  And a Master’s.”

George was smiling now, too.  “Kid’s so damn smart.  I don’t know where he got it.”

“His mom?” Benny offered and George laughed.  “Seems like it’s always the other parent, at least when you’re talking to the parents.”

“She was something,” George said, and Scott wondered how much of a crash course in the Grady Family History Benny was about to get.

But George had other plans.  Turning back to Scott, he held up the backpack again.  “I raided the local drug store, but I’m hoping the hospital gave you discharge instructions.  Useful ones, if I can be needy for a minute.”

“On the table,” Benny called.  He’d fished a knife out of somewhere, but Scott knew those goalie eyes were tracking everything that was happening, not just the veggie being chopped up for late night comfort food.

Crossing over to the couch, George dropped down next to Scott.  Leaving the backpack on the floor, he gingerly took Scott’s bandaged hand in both of his, tilting it left and right as if inspecting the nurses’ work.

“They said to leave it alone and keep it dry until my check up,” Scott said.

“Look for blood, discoloration, swelling when you change it,” George recited, mostly to himself.  “Report any pain or unexpected discomfort right away.”

Scott watched George study his hand.  “You’ve…done this before?”

“I was a teenage boy,” George said by way of answer.  “And I raised a teenage boy.”  Flicking his gaze to Scott’s face without moving his head, he added, “Kip never tried to slice his hand off, though.”

Scott couldn’t imagine Kip ever being the kind of irresponsible that involved late night hospital phone calls.  He’d always imagined Kip got in trouble for hanging out with his friends past curfew.  But then again, there was that certain grin of his…

“So what happened?”  George was holding his hand now, his attention fully on Scott’s face.  “You fell?”

“Yeah.”  Scott swallowed, remembering the chaos of the fight.  “Hit a guy’s skate.  Docs got me patched up.”

He tried to tug his hand free, but George’s grip tightened.  Mindful of the splint he could feel through bandage, but he held on all the same.  “Try again.”

 Scott blinked as a muffled laugh came from the kitchen.  “What?”

George frowned at him.  “Scott, it looked like you tried to bleed out on national television.  There’s no fucking way you get away with ‘I’m fine’ on this one.”

“But I’m -”

“And sometime tomorrow my terrified son is going to come through that door, and you will not make him pry this story out of you.”  How many years had it been since he’d been lectured by a parent who actually cared?  “Kip’s gonna want to know what happened, as soon as possible.  And he’s going to want to know that you were looked after while he was too far away to do it himself.”  Lifting his chin, George pitched the next part toward the kitchen.  “You could text him an update, if you have his number.”

“I will do that.”

George’s voice lowered again.  “I thought the team didn’t know about you two?”

“They don’t,” Scott said, and the back of his throat tasted like acid.  “It’s just Benny and Carter.  So far.”

Not that the team knowing would have changed how this evening went one way or the other.  Elena would still have moved to California for her job.  Kip would still have missed her.  Scott would still have pressed him to go visit.

The only difference would have been the formal phone call from the team itself, informing Scott’s acknowledged family that he’d been injured but was being taken care of and that they’d be in touch when they knew more.

Maybe three years was too long.

“Good to know.”  In lieu of squeezing Scott’s hand, George adjusted his hold on it.  “Now, let’s try that again.  Without the bullshit this time.”  He leveled Scott with a look.  “What happened?”

Scott hadn’t noticed how often he balled his hands into a fist until he couldn't do it with one of them, so he settled for swallowing nervously instead.  “Well…you saw the fight.”  He waited for George to nod.  “I tried to stop it by yelling, but that didn’t work this time.  So I figured I’d pull my guys off Montreal.”  Which rarely worked either, but the captain had to try.  “I took my gloves off.  The rules of fighting say you have to, but I also thought I’d be able to get a better grip on my teammates.  Have an easier time hauling them apart.”

George nodded again, following.

Scott ran his tongue over his teeth.  “I…fell.  Along with a couple other guys.  And somebody’s…skate…hit my hand.”  He thought it had been a Montreal player, but he couldn’t be sure.  “Nicked the back, near my thumb.”

“There go your dreams of being a professional hitchhiker.”

It was a dumb joke, but Scott felt himself smile for a moment all the same.  “Yeah.”

Dropping his gaze but not his attention, George considered Scott’s hand.  The flesh colored outer bandage that mostly covered the medical white gauze underneath, all of it holding the split and stitches in place while Scott’s body started to heal.  “Just a nick?”

Scott leaned forward and traced the line of the cut with a fingertip.  “Roughly about here.”

“Roughly?  You don’t know where you own fucking cut is?”

Scott’s smile widened.  Kip had always claimed he learned to cuss from his dad, but George had never been particularly bad when Scott had been around.  It was easier to believe now.  “There was a lot of blood.”

“Maybe don’t phrase it like that,” George said.

Scott conceded petulantly.  “Fine.  I was in too much pain at the time to really care, and then I was unconscious because of the knockout drugs while they stitched me up.”

George glared at him while Benny spoke up.  “It was a pretty deep cut.  The doctor did a lot of poking to figure out how bad things were, too.”

George nodded.  “At least have a plan to convince Kip you were never in any real danger before you confirm how much blood you actually lost.  And no,” George added before Scott could say it, “any version of ‘hand wounds bleed a lot’ does not fucking count.”

Well, then.

And just like that, the parental disapproval was gone.  Replaced by real concern.  “How’s the pain now?”

“Can’t really feel it,” Scott said.  “I can feel my fingers.”  He wiggled them as if that was proof of anything.  “But unless I poke at it, I can’t really feel the cut.”

“That’s good.”

“Don’t poke the cut,” Benny muttered from the kitchen.

Finally setting Scott’s hand down, George sat back.  “Well, unless you plan to sleep on this couch, we should probably figure out how to erect this pillow tower on your bed.”

The words were out before Scott could think them through.  “I’ll be fine.  I don’t roll around much when I sleep.”

“I’m gonna start a swear jar,” George said.  Conversationally.  “Except instead of curse words, you have to put a dollar in every time you claim you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

Scott laughed and ducked his head.  “I’m just…I’ve been hurt before.  I always managed.”

When he looked back up, George had a strange look on his face.  Or maybe it was just that Scott didn’t want to admit what it might be.  “Well, too fucking bad, sport.  You’re lousy for help this time.”

The main reason it took so long to raise a child was because being a parent got a lot harder once they were adults.  When Kip wiped out on his bike, George had been able to pick his son up by his legs and carry him, now giggling, back to his bedroom after he’d snuck out for the third time to watch late night TV.  His fourth grade sleep schedule ruined by stress and pain meds and being up all night in the ER.  He’d also had the option of literally pinning his son to the bed to make him stay there, unbroken arm curled around his teddy while he pretended to resist the temporary three AM bedtime.  Curly black hair a mess from all the times George had tried to smooth it down in a vain attempt to get his little boy to sleep.  If only so then George could maybe get some sleep.

At least little boys were supposed to break their arms.  It had been terrifying - who knew the sound of an x-ray tech humming was the scariest sound on Earth? - but it was normal.  Boring, by medical standards.  And Kip had been as excited as any kid to have a cast all his classmates could sign.

Watching as Scott was helped across the ice by two of his teammates, a thin trail of red marking the path in their wake, had been a different kind of scary.  But no less intense.  Even before his phone had started to buzz.

“Dad?”  Kip’s voice was small in a way George hadn’t heard in a long time, cracking halfway through the three letter word.

“I know, buddy.  What can I do?”

He hadn’t been surprised to learn that Kip was coming home early.  Or that Elena had been booking everything while they were on the phone, paying for everything with an ease that signaled just how upset Kip really was.  Because Elena, much like Scott, was never going to be OK with the idea of Kip being jammed into row thirty-eight on a forty row flight, no matter how much the upgrade cost.

That would be its own, less bloody fight later on.

Kip had insisted George head out right away, but half a dozen trips to the emergency room had taught him not to rush.  Even if he’d had legal permission to go barging into Scott Hunter’s hospital room, nobody made it out of the ER in less than six hours short of divine intervention or death.  Scott had gotten hurt at the bottom of Second.  Add in New York traffic, and the fact there was no way George would be able to see him until he got home, and it had been just shy of three in the morning before George had headed into the city.  He’d gone out earlier to raid the local drug store, but then it’d been back to his own home.

If Scott was going to doze on his own couch, George had better take a nap on his own first.

“Did Kip really call you?”

Looking up from his new seat on one of the kitchen bar stools, George made a questioning sound around the mouthful of coleslaw.  “Hm?”

Eric Bennett was studying the top of his sleepy friend’s head, the lines in his face more prominent now that he didn’t have to pretend he hadn’t been worried about Scott’s hand, too.  “From what Scotty’s told me, it sounds like you were probably watching the game tonight, too.  And…maybe you’re the kind of dad who shows up to help.  No matter whose kid it is.”

So much to unpack there.

George scooped up another spoonful of the saucy cabbage.  “I was watching the game.  And I did freak out about it.”  It was unprofessional by any means, but watching Eric realize something was wrong and dart out of the net, tearing his helmet off as he went, had made the scary moment both better and worse for someone who cared about Scott from Rochester.  “But I wouldn’t have come over if Kip hadn’t called.”  Nodding toward the door with his chin, George added.  “I didn’t have the code.”

Eric looked surprised at that.  “You’ve never been here before?”

“Nope.”

“How’d you get past the lobby guard?”

“I walked.”

Eric opened his mouth, thought about it for a second, then closed it with a grin.  “You and my grandfather would have gotten along.”

George nodded in recognition of the compliment and ate his coleslaw.  A curious comfort food, but then if his friend had nearly fucked up one of his limbs, George wasn’t really sure what food he’d have been in the mood for.  And making the side dish had given Eric something to do while George took over the care and maintenance of stubbornness made flesh on the couch.

“He’s going to wake up with a weird pain in his shoulder,” Eric observed, as if reading George’s mind.

“Unless you think we can manhandle him into bed, that’s just gonna be the price for being an ass,” George replied.

Eric laughed softly.  “Yeah, I guess.”

Scrapping up another spoonful, George looked around the apartment.  It was nice.  Obviously.  He hadn’t looked it up, but this part of the city wasn’t any cheaper than any other part of the city, and George knew what his own mortgage was.  But there was an almost sterile feel to the way the furniture had been arranged.  Like someone had been paid to make the place feel tasteful.

He wondered where Scott would have put the dining table if the choice had been his alone.

The bones of the large main room felt practical, but as he let his gaze wander, George felt a burden he’d been carrying start to ease.  Because Kip had been living here for most of a year now, and of all the things he’d mentioned, he’d never said much about feeling like it was his place, too.  Given how hard Scott had worked to keep people away from him, George had worried that while Kip might sleep here, eat here, kiss his boyfriend here, he’d never really live here.

Except there was the funny little plastic aloe his grandmother had given Kip when he was in first grade and needed something to take for show and tell after Christmas Break.  And one of the chairs near the window didn’t feel practical at all; it was at the kind of bizarre angle Kip liked when he woke up too early and had decided on watching the world outside until he eventually woke all the way up.  And there was the monster shelving unit that acted as a kind of wall, hiding the front door from the rest of the room.  The one that had plants and books and photographs on it.  Some of which were art books that looked like they’d actually been read.  And yes, there were photos that were clearly of Scott’s career, but there were others, too.  One that must have been Scott’s parents.  One of Scott Hunter as a very small boy, playing in the snow.  One of Elena, holding up the ugliest shirt George had ever seen.  Several George recognized from his own house, gone missing from Kip’s room.  And one, higher up in pride of place, of both of them.  Kip beamed at the camera, his arm around Scott’s waist, while Scott’s arm rested across Kip’s shoulders, Scott’s smile not meant for the camera at all.

It was the kind of photo George would need a copy of, once they were all done playing pretend.

“I took that photo,” Eric said, softly.  Dark eyes seeing the rest of the memory.  “One of the times the three of us got together.  I thought…Scott might want one.”

Of the two of them.

“Thank you,” George said.

Eric’s smile was fleeting as he looked down.  “I’ve known Scotty for years.  I know how he behaves when he’s happy.  Or I thought…I did.”  He looked up just enough to meet George’s eyes.  “I’m really glad he met your son.”

“Nobody pays off their student loans working at a smoothie shop and picking up the occasional serving gig,” Kip said, glaring upside down at George from his position on the couch.  How laying that didn’t kill his back really proved he wasn’t twenty-five yet.  “I’ve got to figure something else out.  The solution to all life’s problems isn’t going to just fall into my lap.”

“All life’s problems,” George chuckled to himself.  He got up from the table and ambled his way to the kitchen for another beer.  “Beside, the smoothie shop has a roof.  The solution would have to walk in through the front door.”

George set down the now empty bowl, muffling the sound of porcelain on stone.  “I’m glad my son met your friend.”  He smiled as Eric tried and failed to hide a yawn.  “Not to parrot the idiot on the couch, but you can go home now.  If you’d rather sleep in your own bed.”

“Not sure the car service guys would appreciate a four AM call out,” Eric said.

George shrugged.  “Then crash on the bed Scott’s not using.”  He made a face and earned a laugh.  “You young folk and your refusal to sleep in comfortable places.”

Eric seemed pleased.  “Nobody’s called me ‘young’ in years.”

George raised an eyebrow.  “You aging well?  You’re only, what, thirty something?”

“Thirty-six.”

“Ancient,” George agreed.  “Decrepit, even.”

Eric laughed again.  “Haven’t been called that, either.  Hockey commentators don’t have much of a vocabulary.”

“Philestines.”

Pushing off the counter he’d been leaning against, Eric started to clean up, pausing as George gave him a wave.  “I made the mess.”

“And I helped eat the food.”  George slid off his stool, shooing the Admirals’ goalie out of their Captain’s kitchen.  “Off to bed, Little Red Hen.  I’ll clean this up.”  He shot the couch a pointed look.  “I’ll be up anyway, keeping an eye on things.”

Eric covered another yawn with his hand, this one longer than the last.  “OK then…”

“Go to bed,” George said, pulling out his dad voice just to prove he could.

It had worked on Scott, but Eric just smiled.  “Yes, Kip’s dad.”

Eric headed off toward the bedroom, pausing at the foot of the couch one last time to make sure his friend really was OK.  The concern that had driven a career goalie to abandon his post written all over, even as Scott’s breathing stayed even and his hand stayed on the pillow tower where Eric had fought so loyally to make sure it stayed.

George slid off his bar stool, collecting bowls and spoons and errant pieces of cabbage as he cleaned up the kitchen.  Learning where Scott kept his spoons, and where a feeling in his chest told him Kip had moved the bowls.  Studying the dishwasher for a long minute before deciding to ignore most of the buttons and assume, like most advanced models, the extra bells and whistles didn’t do shit anyway.

Once the kitchen looked presentable, George started collecting other things.  A glass of water.  A bowl of chips.  Several different bottles of pain meds, only one of which was strong enough to require a prescription.  A spare blanket off the back of a chair.

He set them all up on the coffee table within easy reach of the sleeping hockey player.  He wasn’t going anywhere, but a lifetime of helping people meant he knew that Scott would be sound asleep right up until George had to pee.

Best to plan for the inconvenience.

“George?”  Scott’s voice was soft, mumbling the word through sleep.

Reaching down, George patted Scott’s knee.  “Right here, buddy.”

“Th’nks for coming over.”

It made his heart hurt.  The sudden flash of the little boy who had been sick, or hurt, or just very very tired after a long day of hockey practice.  Curled up on a different couch, mumbling gratitude to a different dad.  Loved so deeply, because you didn’t get men like Scott Hunter without parental figures who loved that much.

“Any time,” George whispered.  Watching Scott settle back into sleep, he picked up the spare blanket, letting it fall open before draping it over Scott’s resting form.  Smiling to himself as he watched his son’s boyfriend bury his nose under the soft fabric with a sigh.

Moving back to the kitchen, George found the unexpectedly mundane coffee machine and the brand-less coffee grounds that went in it.  If he was going to stay awake until his son got here, he was going to need caffeine before dawn.  As the water heated and the brew burbled, George texted his son.  Keeping it simple and fact based, aiming to alleviate fears while still letting Kip worry.  Because that was what a person needed to do sometimes - worry for the ones they loved.

And Kip loved Scott.

Looking around the apartment again, George tucked one of his own fears away.  Because it was clear in this space that Scott loved Kip back just as much.

He looked down as his phone buzzed.

Kip: I’ll be home as soon as I can.  Why do none of these flights leave earlier???

Kip never had been one to sleep when he was worried.

George: Get some rest, buddy.  I’m not going anywhere until you get here.

He got an emoji for his troubles, followed by actual words.

Kip: Eric doesn’t eat meat, so if you’re plotting breakfast, skip the bacon.

“No meat?” George asked.  “Huh.”  He’d heard that there were high level athletes championing the value of plant protein.  Pretty successful athletes, too.  “Chock another one up to the vegans.”

That did raise the question of what George could make for breakfast, then.  Leaving the bacon out wouldn’t be hard, but did eggs count?  How did the man feel about butter?

Opening the fridge door, George pursed his lips.  “You’d think it really was a pair of bachelors.  Kip, buddy, I taught you to shop better than this.”

Then again, Kip had been gone for a week, and George had heard many a tale of Scott’s idea of “acceptable meals”.

At least there were eggs.  And potatoes.  And…seriously?

George considered the block of feta cheese, knowing damn well how a certain hockey player felt about that particular food product.

“He really does love you…doesn’t he…”

Chapter 24: Broccoli and Mayo

Player privacy rules were a good thing.  It was honestly one of the better things about being a professional hockey player than any other kind of athlete - even the insanely famous guys still had a degree of personal to their lives, and that extended to what happened on the ice.  Like an injury that causes a game to crash to a halt while the venue staff cleans up the blood.

But it meant that no one, not even other players, found out what happened after a player left the ice for at least a day, often two or three.  And while there were plenty of guys Shane wouldn’t even know had gotten hurt unless Hayden leaned over and showed him a headline, none of those were nice guys who made a point to look out for rooks or who could keep a secret that had the potential to ruin a superstar’s career.

They definitely weren’t guys who’d gotten hurt playing the Montreal Metros.

Flipping through the team e-mail, Shane chewed his mouthful of food.  “Fuck.”

Next to him on the bed, Rozanov dipped another fry in mayo.  “What?”

“Looks like Hunter’s out for the rest of the season.”

Stretched out in only his boxers, long legs crossed at the ankles, Rozanov didn’t immediately look up.  “Good for him.  The elderly should not push themselves.”  Then, two fries halfway to his mouth, Rozanov paused.  “Wait…Hunter is out?  Not the Admirals?”

Shane nodded and speared a broccoli floret off his side of the plate.  It wasn’t the first time Rozanov had ordered room service before Shane got there, but it still sent a little thrill through him when he did.  Like it might…mean…something.  Even if Rozanov insisted the side of steamed broccoli was an accident.  “He got hurt in our last game.”

Now Rozanov was paying attention.  “So this is not about the Admirals being out of making the playoffs.”

“Technically, they still could make it.”  If they won every single game they had left in regulation and Pittsburg lost to Tampa and -

“Stop doing math,” Rozanov said, cutting off Shane’s train of thought.  “Admirals are out.  Is fine.  Not all teams can make it to playoffs each year.”  He waved his fries at Shane, a dollop of mayo threatening to fall onto the sheets between them.  “But Hunter is not playing with his team for the rest of the regular season?”  The idea seemed to bother Rozanov.  “Why not?”  He frowned.  “What did your team do to him?”

“We didn’t do anything!”  Technically that wasn’t true since Hunter had gotten hurt during the game.  Had gotten hurt during the fight.  But while it wasn’t his fault personally, Shane still felt something like guilt heat in his chest, turning his words defensive.  “It was an accident.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows could be offensive things when they wanted to be.

Shane blew out a breath.  “The Metros played the Admirals last weekend.”

Rozanov nodded, finally eating his fries.  “I know.”

Shane swallowed.  “There was a fight…about halfway through?”  There’d been fights all night long but that mattered a lot less now.

Rozanov shook his head.  “I didn’t see.”  His voice took on that awful flat tone it always did when certain topics came up.  “My brother called.”  He held up a hand before Shane could get the words out.  “Nyet.  We are talking about Hunter.  Nice old man your team hurt.”

“My team didn’t -”  Shane stopped, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that Rozanov was only saying it that way to distract Shane from Rozanov’s pain.  From his shitty family life that Shane was always supposed to pretend he didn’t know about.  And definitely wasn’t supposed to be quietly collecting clues about every time they did something that Rozanov had to deal with.

The best way to handle this was to ignore Rozanov’s barbs, because otherwise Rozanov would end up leaving, and then Shane would be stuck with a plate of cold french fries and a string of unanswered texts.  All courtesy of some asshole he’d never met who lived on the other side of the world, making terrible, selfish choices.

Rozanov was looking at him, aiming for expectant but landing on pleading, so Shane went back to his story.  The one that would have fewer, carefully selected details when it was released to the press tomorrow or the next day.  “Hunter doesn’t really fight, but he got involved this time.  Trying to stop it, I guess.”  Shane nudged the last remaining piece of broccoli on his plate with the tines of his fork.  “Hunter lost his balance and fell down next to one of my guys.”  Shane swallowed again against the unpleasant tightness in his chest.  “Sliced his hand open on Vaskya’s skate.”

Fuck it had been a lot of blood.

It was his turn not to look up when Rozanov finally spoke.  “But Hunter is OK?”

Shane nodded.  “Yeah.  They took him to the hospital to get checked out, and they had to stop the game so they could clean the blood off the ice, but he’s fine.”  Shane held up his phone as if to prove it.  “Mad he can’t play for who knows how long, but not mad at my team.”

“They don’t know how long?”

“Something about surgery on his hand and potential nerve damage.”  Shane twitched as Rozanov snatched his phone, but let it happen.  “Best case scenario, he can’t play for the rest of the season.”

“Worst case scenario, he is retired too young,” Rozanov murmured.

Shane raised his eyebrows at the kind words but said nothing.  Waiting until Rozanov handed him his phone back to say, “That’s probably why Hunter texted me.  To let me know that so far, things are looking good for his recovery.  But, you know.  It’s only been a week.”

“Hunter is annoying like that,” Rozanov said, and snorted.  When Shane raised his eyebrows in question, Rozanov gestured with a new pair of fries he’d picked up.  “He could text to call you asshole.  Or tell his team to chirp at you about this.  He could blame you for potentially ending his career because your teammates are emotionally babies who get mad over nothing and punch people.”

“Hey!”

“But he won’t.”  Rozanov stuffed the fries into his mouth, mumbling around them.  “Instead, he texts to say is OK.  Don’t worry too much.”  He picked up a particularly crispy fry.  “He is annoying like that.”

Shane let himself feel happy about the backwards compliment.  “He’s annoying because he’s a decent human being?”

Rozanov glared at him, but there was no real heat.  “Who gets injured and spends time texting other captain to say is fine?”

“Scott Hunter, apparently.”

Rozanov grunted.

The room was too high up for there to be ambient street noise.  Shane didn’t think the windows even opened on this floor.  And the hotel was too nice for anything distracting to make it through the walls.  It was part of why, despite Rozanov’s teasing, Shane didn’t worry about being overheard.  Because he’d never overheard anyone else, no matter what they, um, might have been doing.

“You know is not your fault, yes?”  Shane looked back from where he’d been considering the wall with the mounted television set to find Rozanov watching him.  The other man’s gaze level and intense.  “Hunter’s injury.  Is not your fault.”

“I know.”

The intensity gave way to familiar annoyance.  “Then why are you over there beating yourself up about it?”

Shane laughed.  “I’m not.”

Rozanov ate another fry.  “Liar.”

“I’m not!”

Rozanov chewed as Shane’s phone buzzed, scowling as Shane answered the text.  “It takes Hunter this many texts to tell you he is fine?  He is never this mouthy during a game.  No matter how badly I poke him.”

“It does not,” Shane corrected.  “Hunter sent two texts.  This one’s from Hayden - hey!”  Rozanov snatched the phone from his hand again, this time tossing it across the room.  “Don’t break my stuff!”

“You can text Hunter with me, but not Hayden,” Rozanov said.

Shane rolled his eyes.  “Hayden’s my friend.”

“He is teammate.”

“He can be both.”

“He is teammate and annoying.  Is already two things.”

Shane watched his…whatever they were…scoop some mayo off the plate with his finger and eat it sans fry.  “That’s disgusting.”

Rozanov shrugged, unapologetic, his finger still in his mouth.

Shane tried and failed not to smile.  “You’re an asshole.”

“This you know.”

“I should leave you.”

Rozanov shrugged again, less convincingly.  “Maybe.”

He hadn’t meant to hurt Rozanov’s feelings.  Maybe whatever his brother had said this time had left a chink in that proud armor.  So, trying to salvage the moment, Shane reached for a joke.

He grinned as he hoped he’d found one.  “I bet Hunter wouldn’t throw my phone.”

“Would dislocate shoulder if he tried.”

“Or eat mayo off his fingers.”

Rozanov cocked an eyebrow.  “That is what pushes you too far?  That I lick my fingers?”  Then he dipped his head and his voice did that thing that always made Shane a little stupid.  “You don’t complain when I lick other things.”

He appreciated the broccoli, but Rozanov had still maybe broken his phone.  “Maybe Hunter licks other things, too.”

“Oh, really?” Rozanov asked.  He tossed the mostly empty plate toward the end of the bed, the fork clattering as it landed on the crumb-covered porcelain, and leaned forward, shifting onto his hands and knees.

“Really,” Shane said, doing his best to stay cool.  He was determined not to grin until he got the full sentence out.  “Maybe Scott Hunter gives really good head.”

“Maybe you’re not going to find out,” Rozanov said and leaned in to kiss him.

“I could ask.”

“No.”  Another kiss.  “Your phone is broken.”

“I’ll get a new one.”

“I’ll break that one, too.”

Shane gasped as Rozanov’s hand slid over his thigh.  “Then how will I text you?”

“Only me?”

Shane grinned.  “Or sometimes Hayden.”

Rozanov growled something in Russian and pushed Shane back down into the pillows.  “Hunter you can text.  Leave Hayden to his children.”  Rozanov pressed a hard kiss to Shane’s neck.  “He has too many of them anyway.”

Wriggling, Shane gave up.  But not without a fight.  “Maybe you should distract me so I don’t think about texting other men.”

Rozanov moved to straddle him, teeth bared in a grin that always took Shane’s breath away.  “I should ruin you for other men, Shane Hollander.  Then it will not matter who you think of.”

As if Shane wasn’t starting to suspect Rozanov hadn’t already done that very thing.