Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Elena Rygg

Additional Tags:

Fix-It, Reconciliation, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Compliant, POV Kip Grady, The Missing Three Years, what it means to forgive, And the consequences of being in love

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of a new name for everything

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-07 Words: 10,310 Chapters: 4/4

if you come back, bring a new name for everything

Summary

Of all things, it starts with a tweet. It’s a picture of Scott in a People magazine Sexiest Man of the Year roundup. Not the cover star, but a stylish photoshoot, wearing skintight Under Armour, looking coquettishly over one shoulder. His friend’s tweet reads: “am i crazy or is this low key kind of fruity?”

---

Or, Scott and Kip fall in love again.

Notes

Broadly show-canon-compliant; I have not read the book.

Chapter 1: and the route you abandoned is always the path that you probably should be upon

Chapter Notes

Kip is standing in front of the closed door of Scott’s apartment, willing himself to open it. He thinks of a band aid and takes out his key for the last time. 

Scott is sitting on the couch and stands when Kip walks in. 

They stare at each other and say, almost at the same moment, “Hi.”

Kip is stuck in the doorway. What next? He feels the sadness of the moment in his chest, like a physical weight. He needs Scott to make the next move; walking in here is the best he can do. 

“Your stuff is here. I put it in your tote,” he’s holding up the bag. Kip is weirdly relieved to see that Scott looks like shit. Well, as close to shit as it’s possible for a man that handsome to look—his hair is flat, and he doesn’t look like he’s slept—some proof that he is not doing this lightly. “Will you take the suit? I want you to have it. And it’s custom.”

Kip pictures himself with his gross old Fitzcarraldo tote and a pristine suit bag on the subway, and it almost makes him laugh. He’s suddenly acutely aware that he has not said anything at all. He takes another step into the apartment and says, “Thank you. Sure, I’ll take the suit for the next gala I have.”

It makes Scott wince, and he begins, “I wanted to say, I’m sorry that—.”

Kip’s storm of emotions comes together into one clear feeling: anger. He’s so fucking sick of the apologies, he puts both hands up and just says “Stop. Stop apologizing. I get it. You’re sorry.”

Scott looks chastised, but continues on, “I’m sorry for everything. But I’m sorry I skipped your birthday. I hope it was fun. I bet it was.”

Kip is not used to feeling anger crawling all over him like ants with no colony. “It was. It was great that I did not spend half the evening looking at the door, and everyone wasn’t super weird about it either.”

Scott winces again. “That’s fair. I—“

“Don’t say you’re sorry again,” Kip cuts him off. 

Scott says silent now, puts his hands up in a gesture of acceptance, and then turns away, looking out the window. The silence stretches between them. 

“We were celebrating because I got into grad school. Boston. I’m moving in a few months,” he says, finally. 

Scott looks back at him. His eyes are red, wet. Kip has never seen Scott cry, and the sight twists his gut with a desire to soothe alongside a cruel satisfaction to see his own pain reflected back at him. 

“Oh, oh wow,” Scott stands, and it seems like he wants to cross the room to hug him, but he doesn’t. Neither of them moves. They remain on either side of the room, like the last two chess pieces in a badly played game with no winner. “That’s amazing,” he adds. 

“Thanks,” says Kips. “Can you… go to the kitchen?” he nods toward the island in the open plan space. “So I can get my stuff from the couch.”

Scott looks at the bag on the couch, then looks at the kitchen, and then does as he’s told. Kip advances into the apartment, maintaining a distance between them of 10 feet or more. He is afraid of what he’ll do if given the chance. He wants to remember the last time they slept together — lazy Sunday after a game Scott won — in a happy light. And he’s sure he’ll cry all over the place, and then, so much for that shred of dignity. He picks up his dingy tote and the high-end suit bag and looks at Scott, holding them over each shoulder, “This sucks.”

“Yeah,” breathes Scott. “Can I—will you text me? When you get to Boston? Or just to tell me how grad school is going. Whenever you feel comfortable. I still want to know how you’re doing.” 

“Yeah, okay. I will,” he moves back to the door and focuses on taking the key off his key chain. Places it on the shelf. “If I want to know how you’re doing, I guess I’ll just check ESPN.” 

He means it as an insult, but he doesn’t stay to see if it lands. 

・ ✦ ・

If you asked Kip four months ago if he’d ever had his heart broken, he would’ve said yes. But it turns out that was a paper cut. This is a knife wound. 

・ ✦ ・

Scott has his number, but Kip knows that according to Scott’s code of personal conduct, he will not text Kip until Kip does so first. 

In the months that follow, Kip is tempted to text him dozens of times. But it feels like one small shred of agency he has over Scott as he, Kip, starts a new era of his life at 26. The same age Scott probably bought his third apartment, he thinks bitterly. So he puts off texting him at all. He picks up his phone a dozen times to do it, but talks himself out of it until his anger has diminished, and he just feels sad for Scott. He checks the scores as Scott wins a gold medal at the Olympics, but then the Admirals lose steam and fail to make it past the first round. He is sad for Scott, who has given up so much, has made himself so much less, for a game and a league that will never reward him for that sacrifice. 

Nearly six months pass before he lets himself text Scott a belated thanks for the suit. It turns out there are formal events he needs a suit for. Scott responds within an hour, saying how glad he is, and then asking how school is going. Kip tells him: It’s going well. His advisor is great, his classes are great, and he feels like he made the right call going back to school. Except he phrases it that he made the right call ‘starting over,’ and lets Scott fill in the blank. 

They text intermittently for nearly a year until Kip gets a new boyfriend and drops off texting—how can he explain? They date for six months before Kip ends things. Although he wouldn’t willingly say this to his friends: he ends it because the guy isn’t like Scott. Not that he’s waiting around for Scott, really, he’s not. He is committed to doing, being, and finding something bigger for himself. School has invigorated him and he doesn’t want to be the version of himself working jobs he hates, happy to be someone’s secret. But he realized dating Scott that he likes a man who is intense. Who has goals. Dating Scott made him want to be better, it made him apply to his dream program, not settle for less. His brief relationship isn’t like that, so, it ends. 

Slowly, Scott becomes less of a person and more of a story he can’t tell anyone. He holds the memories like a gem: a promise to himself of what being loved felt like. The knife wound scars over. He can even watch Admirals games. 

Of all things, it starts with a tweet. It’s a picture of Scott in a People magazine Sexiest Man of the Year roundup. Not the cover star, but a stylish photoshoot, wearing skintight Under Armour, looking coquettishly over one shoulder. His friend’s tweet reads: “am i crazy or is this low key kind of fruity?”

Scott in looks, well, low-key kind of fruity in the pages of People magazine. Kip remembers Scott never wanting to do this kind of press: he did brand deals and endorsements, but no personal write-ups. Before he can think about it, he grabs his phone and sends a screenshot that includes the title Sexiest Athlete and sends it to Scott saying, “glad people finally got the memo.” All of their texts in the last two and a half years have been fairly formal—life updates, questions. This feels like flirting.

Scott answers right away, “They’d been asking for years and my agent thought it was a good idea.” 

Kip is chastised by the formality of the response, but then there’s another text. “Can I call you? Now if you’re free. Or later?”

It’s hard to imagine Scott wanting to talk for no reason. Kip hits the call button. Scott picks up in the first ring. 

“Hi,” Scott answers. The familiarity of even just this syllable sends a wave of feelings over him: fondness, nostalgia, the hurt of a fading bruise newly pressed. 

“Hi,” Kip responds. For some reason, it comes out breathily. 

“So, I came out to my agent. And a couple of my teammates,” Scott says in a rush. 

“Oh wow. Wow, that’s great, congrats. That must have felt good. How did it go?”

“It went really well. Everyone was great. My agent helped me come up with a plan. I decided I’m ready. I’m going to come out at the end of this season,” he takes a breath, “I wanted one last go-around without scrutiny. If we make it to the playoffs in June, I’ll do a formal statement. Even if we don’t make it that far, I’ll come out in June regardless… For Pride,” he adds the last part almost bashfully. 

“Wow, that’s,” Kip pauses, struggling to come up with words. “You must feel relieved to have a plan.”

He hears Scott laugh, shakily. “You can’t even imagine. I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself—I wanted you to know before it happened. And I wanted,” there’s a long pause before Scott continues. “Sorry. I’m rushing. I’ve been trying to work myself up to talk to you, and then you texted.”

“Well, I did really like the photo.”

“I felt pretty silly, but really, how are you? Tell me about school.”

Kip fills him in. It’s formal at first, but soon they’re laughing about the strange politics of grad school, the petty fiefdoms of academics, and Kip’s excitement over his final paper. Half an hour passes without him even realizing it. Once they get going, talking to Scott is always easy—Kip feels the little spark of joy he used to feel when he made Scott laugh. He’s explaining a research trip he went on and offhandedly mentions his friend David for the second time. 

“David, is that, are you seeing someone?” Scott asks awkwardly. 

“Well, I wasn’t waiting around for you. But no, David is just a friend.”

“I know that! I would never expect that. I’m sorry, you can tell me to back off. Tell me more about the trip.”

Kip pauses, at the edge of maybe something stupid, and says, “No, I’m not seeing anyone in Boston.”

“Anyone anywhere else?” Scott says, lightly. 

“I don’t know, is anyone anywhere else asking?”

“Would you say yes?”

Kip lingers on his answer, letting Scott wait for a moment, and then says: “It can’t be the same as last time, Scott. I have a life now.”

“It won’t be. I don’t want it to be. And— can we talk more in person? I didn't call you to ask you out, really. I wanted to thank you.”

“Hey, I called you," Kip cajoles.

“You’re right, you did… Is that a yes?”

“When are you next in Boston?”

・ ✦ ・

Scott Hunter is, as promised, a man with a plan. He has a game in Boston a week later and comes in a night early to take Kip to an Italian restaurant, bar seating right in the middle, visible enough that he is recognized multiple times. Scott flinches but doesn’t hide when it happens. No one asks who Kip is. In between, he outlines his plan. He’s coming out to people in his life slowly, one month at a time. He says each one is getting easier. 

“What about me,” asks Kip. “Where was I in the plan?”

“Oh. Okay, I know this is classic serial killer, but I looked up when your semester was going to end in the spring, and I was going to wait until after, so I wouldn’t bother you.”

“So I was going to be the last to know?” Kip asks, trying to be light and failing. 

“I wanted you to be the first to know, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear it,” Scott admits. “It’s been three years. I figured you’d moved on.”

“I had,” Kip lies. 

・ ✦ ・

Kip is willing to admit. He’s sort of an idiot about this man. He brings Scott back to his apartment, stumbling over embarrassed apologies for it. 

“It’s nice being in your space,” Scott says, taking in the cramped room, his hands hanging beside him. He has that sheepish smile on his face, the smile of a man sharing a secret, the smile that made Kip feel like he could run through a wall, the one that made it feel worth it. Seeing Scott in this space filled with his own mess, his new life, it hits him like a wave, sending a jolt straight through him. If he was tired from the day or the wine they shared, it’s gone. He is awake. He crosses the room in two steps and pulls Scott by the front of his shirt. He pauses there, bringing their faces close to feel the frisson, the moment before. It’s dead silent, just their breath inches apart, so close Kip can feel the radiating warmth of skin. Scott breaks first, pulling Kip in and kissing him. Softly, gently, like there’s all the time in the world. A kiss that asks, “please?” and Kip lets his body respond: yes. 

They undress messily, falling into Kip’s shitty double bed pressed up against the wall, two muscular men moving by the light of a lamp Kip found on the side of a road. They’re fooling around, Scott’s mouth messy and enthusiastic as Kip once tried to forget and now starkly remembers, when Scott says, almost shyly, “Can you fuck me? I want to be yours again.”

They start slowly, the tender pace of Kip’s appreciation, the build up of years apart, but soon Kip is fucking him fast and hard, Scott on his back, knees up with Kip pressing one hand forcefully on Scott’s chest for leverage to look at Scott properly and to hold Scott in place and as he takes, takes, takes. His other hand is pinning Scott’s wrist, so he cannot touch himself. Making Scott desperate in exactly the way Kip knows he likes. When Kip comes, he collapses against Scott to hide the unexpected tears prickling his eyes from the intensity of feelings released all at once, the mix of relief and embarrassment, not wanting to admit how fucking badly he wanted this. Hiding his last shred of dignity against Scott’s neck, the side of his chest, abs, and hips, rubbing his face, undignified down Scott’s perfect fucking body, and then loses himself blowing Scott the same way they were just fucking: fast, intense, making Scott’s groans turn into desperate noises, and Kip takes it all. 

Later, cleaned up and in bed, Kip asks into Scott’s chest where he’s laying his head, “Did you get a hotel room?”

Scott shifts and responds, “I did, of course. Do you want me to go?” 

“Good to know. But… stay.” 

It’s been a while since someone stayed over. The bed is too small; he didn’t buy it to share. He’s worrying that he won’t be able to rest at all, but he drifts away easily into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he wakes in the morning, Scott is there, awake and tucked against the wall on his phone.

“Have I trapped you?” Kip asks sleepily. Scott responds wordlessly, putting down his phone and covering him with his body, kissing him, and then rolling off and into the apartment. 

“No,” Scott answers as he walks away. “I was enjoying watching you. I forgot how beautiful you look when you sleep,” and disappears into the bathroom. 

Kip lies there, and mouths “Fuck” to the ceiling. Whatever precipice he was standing on the edge of last night, he is all the way off and plummeting fast. 

Chapter End Notes

title and chapter titles from the weakerthans' a new name for everything.

Chapter 2: intimates' ears are all full/with results of your breath

Kip makes them breakfast—he jokes about getting smoothie ingredients, but Scott looks intensely earnest when he says: “No, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

He has a game today and practice soon, but they’re joking around, Kip explaining the meaning of an esoteric meme when he pulls out of his phone, saying he’ll send Scott an article about it. Scott looks at Kip’s phone and then asks with a laugh, “Did you make my contact photo a blueberry?”

Kip pauses, the lightness of the moment disappearing. “I, um. Didn’t have any photos of you? And it felt kind of sad to take a picture from, like, Google.” 

“You never took any photos of me?” Scott says, turning the intense beam of his focus from the phone to Kip. 

“I figured… I never asked, so I just didn’t.” He wants to save the moment so he asks, “Wait, what's my contact photo in your phone?” 

Scott pauses, something sheepish in his expression as he pulls out his phone and pulls up Kip’s contact which has a picture of Kip, wearing his old wire glasses and sitting on Scott’s couch, sticking his tongue out playfully. He has no memory of the moment. It looks unambiguously domestic and it sends a stab of bittersweet nostalgia for this younger self. 

“I miss those glasses,” he says, handing Scott his phone back.

Kip’s phone is on the counter, and Scott picks it up and says, “Can I?” and Kip is not sure what he’s asking until Scott opens the camera app and takes a big cheesy selfie on Kip’s phone. 

“Oh my god,” says Kip, and then Scott pulls him over, into frame and kisses him on the cheek, capturing a photo of Kip, flushed with Scott grinning a kiss into the side of his face, their faces most of the frame of the photo. He puts the phone down, and they’re kissing again when Scott says, “I don’t have any games in Boston again for a while. But I would like to see you again soon. Or, if you’re in New York for the holidays. If you have time.” 

“I’ll make time,” Kip says, daring to make a promise. 

・ ✦ ・

Kip waits exactly 3 hours after Scott leaves to call Elena. 

“So are you, like, back together?” she asks. 

“We didn’t… get that far,” he admits. 

“But you did talk right?”

“Oh my god. I told you! He took me out, to a restaurant. In public!” 

“Wow,” Elena deadpans. “He cleared the lowest bar imaginable.”

“I know,” Kip says, feeling whiny. “But it feels different. He feels different.”

There’s a long pause on the line until Elena says, “Last time, you disappeared for four months and came back a total wreck who was moving to Boston. So forgive me for being skeptical.”

Elena wants to discuss, in detail, her theories on what Scott has been doing for the last three years, a topic that Kip has not brought up. Hockey, he assumes, and little else. Then she wants to discuss what Kip has been doing, discussing at length his last breakup. Soon, he’s the one spiralling—what if Scott only liked the version of him that was available, living with him—and Elena is walking him back. 

“I think if you want to do this, you have to take him at his word and let his actions speak for him,” she advises. 

By the end of the call, he feels run dry but grateful for Elena’s practicality. He puts his phone on airplane mode and goes to the gym, doing a full strength set and running the long way back home, arriving back sweaty but alert. Finally, as though he’s been avoiding it for hours, he picks up his phone and goes to his email, and pulls up one from a month ago, before he ever saw the tweet, texted and called Scott, and now, maybe, invited him back into his life. The email is from his advisor:

Hi Kip, Chatted with my friend Ora at the Whitney about your thesis and project proposal. He was very intrigued. There’s an asst programming position opening in the spring that you would be a great fit for—want me to put in a good word? 

Kip reads the email again, biting his lip. He already said yes and sent his CV. Now he’s just waiting. He thinks of what Elena has said at the end of their call, an astonishingly optimistic wish: “What if this time, it all works out?”

He swipes away from his email and opens the ESPN app to watch the Admirals game. They win against Boston 3-1. 

Kip watches the post-game interview with Ilya Rosanov, standing shirtless as always in a hallway, a look of vague annoyance on his face. The interviewer asks, “This is your first game against Scott Hunter after your amazing showing at All-Stars on the same team. Did working together help you understand his play style?”

Rosanov pauses for a minute, like he’s really thinking and then leans into the microphone and says, “Scott Hunter was at the All-Stars game?”

・ ✦ ・

Two days later, he’s on his way to campus when he feels a buzz in his pocket and pulls his phone out, expecting a reply from a classmate. It’s a message from Scott, with a selfie in a hotel room. He looks like he’s concentrating very seriously on something and the text reads “Did you know that Sex and the City is on at every hour of the day?” Kip laughs out loud and responds, “Classic Charlotte observation.” They text back and forth about whether or not Scott is a Charlotte or a Miranda all morning. 

The next day, he wakes up to another selfie. This time, Scott is in his apartment, shirtless by the window. “Sorry if you’re sick of these. Bad news: this may be my new game day superstition.” 

Kip wants to say, I could never get sick of seeing your face. But that would be too far, too soon, too early. The Admirals have won their last three games. Instead, he sends a picture back of himself with an Admirals filter over his face. 

・ ✦ ・

It’s a frigid December the next time Kip is in New York. They have texted nearly every day, a string of selfies of Scott across home and away games, sometimes it’s clear he’s trying to be handsome, sometimes they’re blurry and silly. Kip saves them all to his phone's photo library. Their conversations have been easy until it came to making plans, with two things unspoken: Scott still doesn’t want too much attention and Kip doesn’t want to be shut in Scott’s beautiful apartment. 

Finally, Scott suggests a walk around Prospect Park, near Kip’s Dad’s. Scott shows up looking so sweet, pink cheeks from the cold, bright-eyed, just his earnest dear face and two coffees in hand.  

“Merry Christmas,” he says, handing over the coffee. 

They walk slowly through the park, catching up. Kip asks about Scott’s Christmas charity work, his holiday plans, how things are going with the team. Scott has come out to management, his coaches. It went okay, he says, they were just concerned about distraction, this season. They’re doing well, Scott is playing well, but his contract is up this year. A tension enters his voice as he admits this. 

“What do you want?” Kip asks, stopping in his tracks. “What do you want next?”

Scott stops. They are standing two feet apart. He says, “I want to win the Stanley Cup. It’s all I’ve wanted my whole life, before I can remember wanting anything else.” He pauses, no longer looking at Kip but staring out over the pond. “It was easy when that was all I wanted, and I could tell myself it would be enough. But I don’t know if they’ll re-sign me, and I don’t know if I even want to. Part of me is ready to move on. I want…” he falters, turning back to Kip. “I want more. And not just the scraps outside of hockey. I think I’ve made it clear, I want you back. But I don’t want to pick up where we left off. I want a fresh start. I want to do it differently. The last three years, I told myself the stakes were too high. Too many people depended on me to be a different person, so it wasn’t worth it. But. You were worth it. You were worth it the whole time, and I fucked it up. Being with you made me feel like a person, a whole person, like I was worth it too. And I want that again. I want to do everything I, we didn’t do. Meet your friends, your dad. I can’t believe you’re here, that you’re even willing to see me, so I have to ask. I want so much, and it’s so selfish.”

There’s a quiet in the park as Scott looks away, bashful at having said so much once again.

“Okay,” says Kip. He wants to touch Scott so badly, he reflexively moves his hand up, like a twitch, before letting it hang instead. 

“Sorry. That was a lot. I understand if you’re not ready or if you want to take it slow. Whatever you—,” 

“Let’s do that,” Kip interrupts. “You win the Stanley Cup. Last time, you said years. I can do six months. I spent all this time building a new life, and I want you to see it.”

It’s a cold, cloudy morning. The park is not busy. Scott doesn’t even glance before he pulls Kip into a hug. When Kip comes back to New York for Christmas, he goes to Scott’s apartment for the first time in three years. Almost nothing has changed: the furniture and decor are mostly how Kip remembers them, and it still feels like being the center of the world when Scott pins him to the couch and kisses him. 

・ ✦ ・

This time, Scott comes to Kip’s birthday. They close out the bar for a private event, and he invites just his closest friends, and Scott comes not just as a friend but as Kip’s boyfriend. Scott is visibly nervous, asks about the guest list a few times, but then finally agrees: “If you trust them to be discreet, I trust them.” Kip tells his friends no social media, they can’t tell anyone, and mercifully, they all agree. “Next year,” Scott says, “I’m throwing you a party and telling people to live stream it.” 

“Gross,” laughs Kip, but the idea of next year, of a future, a concrete plan, melts like candy, sweet in his mouth, the sugary promise of his unspoken I love you. 

The evening goes well, amazing, even. His friends keep joking that they’re only used to seeing Scott two inches tall on the TV, and they ask him about celebrities Scott has never heard of but with whom he has apparently attended the same events. Scott is open and jovial, asking questions and telling stories. He has an early flight the next morning, so they step away to say goodbye at the door, and once alone, Scott looks suddenly nervous again. 

“How did I do?” he asks, brushing absently at Kip’s shoulder. “Do you think they liked me?”

Kip rolls his eyes. “They loved you, Shawn said he wished you were actually 2 inches tall so he could steal you.” 

“Okay, good,” Scott says. “Happy birthday,” he adds. He pauses a moment, his eyes flickering to Kip’s mouth, and then pulls him in for a deep kiss, holding him close. There’s a sound of whooping behind them. 

“Oh my god, they really are dating,” Shawn calls sarcastically. “Get a room!” 

“I’m going to have to get used to that,” jokes Scott. But he looks happy, eyes sparkling like candles. 

・ ✦ ・

The next morning, a selfie of Scott at the airport. This one has his teammate Vaughn in frame, making a face for the camera. The text: Hope you’re not sick of these. Vaughn says we need the luck against Detroit.

Chapter 3: and the threads of your fear are unfurled with the tiniest pull

Chapter Notes

Kip watches a clip of Scott’s post-game interview. The questions are generic or technical questions about the team at large, until one is directed at Scott specifically, catching him off guard, “The last few seasons have had you on the back burner, but fans are talking about your renewed energy this season—what’s changed?”

Kip is annoyed on his behalf; Scott is 34 years old, and the question is clearly implying he’s an old man. A wave of annoyance flashes across Scott’s face which dissolves into a bright, showman smile. He says to the camera, “Well, I haven’t changed. But I’m excited for what the future holds—that’s giving me an extra push,” he pauses, “It’s a great time to be an Admirals fan.” 

Kip stomach twists with hope. 

・ ✦ ・

Somehow, the distance helps. They talk most evenings Scott doesn’t have a game, replacing the intense domestic intimacy with conversations. By February, he’s taking the train into New York every few weeks. His hometown friends joke that last time he disappeared, and this time they’re seeing him more than ever.  

“I told my dad we were seeing each other again,” Kip says one night, not a question but a statement. 

“You told him last time?” Scott asks, “I didn’t know that.”

“I told him after. It was, um, kind of obvious something was up, and I wouldn’t let him put hockey on. Honestly, he thought I was joking. He kept asking if I was sure it was ‘Scott Hunter from the Admirals’ and not a catfish,” he laughs awkwardly at the memory. “Are you mad? It’s not like he told anyone. It’s my dad.”

They’re on FaceTime, Scott is on his floor in New York, using a foam roller with the phone propped up on his coffee table. He’s paused what he’s doing, one thigh under the roller, and runs a hand over his face. “No. I’m embarrassed. With the benefit of hindsight and three years of therapy, I can see how cruel that was.”

Part of Kip wants to let him off the hook, because he knows Scott wasn’t trying to be cruel on purpose, that he didn’t know Scott had started therapy but is glad to hear it. But that would be a disservice to them both, so he says, “I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” Scott responds. He’s no longer foam rolling, has moved closer to the camera, and asks, “Can I meet your dad?” 

・ ✦ ・

Scott chooses the restaurant: a high-end steakhouse with low lighting and discreet, high-walled booths. As his dad slides into the booth, Kip has a moment of vertigo. He thinks of Scott as just well, Scott. A person with a crazy schedule, a weird sense of humour, who is fundamentally good, kind, and intense. But there is this whole other version that he does not have access to: a rich, famous hockey player. 

He looks at his dad wearing a blazer Kip has never seen before, who looks nervous and completely out of place in this space. His dad complained when the pizza place across the street from his house raised its prices by 25 cents. This is a meeting of the two most important men in his life, and the differences between them suddenly feel so vast that he can’t believe he’s never seen it before. To his friends, hockey is Scott’s (boring) job, and his fame is a novelty. His dad actually knows who Scott Hunter is, and is impressed to meet him. He’s scared that his dad will embarrass him, and then annoyed at himself for thinking about his dad like that. 

Unsurprisingly, his dad is shockingly earnest. His friends played it cool, but his dad has a million questions. He launches, immediately, into a series of questions about an infamous play from Scott’s rookie year. He starts recounting, in detail, exactly how amazing it was until Kip interrupts him, “Dad. He was there. I think he remembers.” 

Scott laughs, “I think you remember it better than I do.” 

The waiter shows up, and they place their orders, the conversation somehow continuing. His dad’s excitement is dampened for a moment, but he quickly launches into questions about this season and their winning streak, which Scott answers with aplomb, sounding not entirely dissimilar to a press event. Kip’s feeling of vertigo continues, overwhelmed by a sense that he has no idea how the evening is going or where it is headed until the food arrives, extravagant steaks that his dad stares at for a moment. Kip is worried he’ll comment on the price and have to remind him that Scott insisted.  

“I hope it is clear,” says his dad, tone suddenly somber. “I respect you a lot, Scott, as a hockey player. You are very honourable, a true talent. So,” he clears his throat. “It disappointed me very deeply, the way you hurt my son.”

There’s silence at the table. Scott opens his mouth to speak, but his dad continues: “I understand that what you are facing is very hard. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to be in your position. But, as I think you know, my son is a loving person. He may be short, but he is not small. He has a very big heart. And three years ago, you made him feel very small,” his dad says. 

The silence lingers, Scott’s attention is on his dad, and he’s nodding. The hurt is obvious in his face; he looks more like a scolded little boy. 

“I understand, Mr. Grady,” he starts. “I want to defend myself. But. I’m trying to make it up to Kip, to myself. I hope I can make it up to you as well.” 

“Please call me George. And I hope you do. I’ll be watching. I don’t want to have to root for the Islanders.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to give them their fifth fan,” Scott jokes. His dad claps Scott on the shoulder and digs into his steak, as though he has been lightened by a load he brought to the table. Kip awkwardly steers the conversation to updating his dad on his research, asking about his dad’s work, and the evening resolves into easy, light small talk. Once their food is cleared, they stand to leave, and George pulls Scott into a hug, telling him how excited he is for the playoffs. 

Their Uber ride is quiet, but once they’re inside, Kip says, “It went okay, right? I’m sorry my dad was so hard on you.” 

Scott has entered the apartment first, and he is quietly looking out the window, clearly distracted. “I think,” and his voice breaks, “I think my life would have been very different if I had someone who looked out for me like that.” 

“Oh,” is all Kip can say, and he crosses the apartment to hold him. 

・ ✦ ・

In March, Scott visits campus between practice and his game. Kip shows him around, briefly. Scott is stopped twice, someone takes a selfie with him. Kip shows him his favourite museum, explains some of the curation decisions in an exhibit about the history of still life painting. Scott says the Dutch flower arrangements are his favourite, he asks questions that make it clear he has been following along with Kip’s work, has been paying attention. It makes Kip feel light as air, even when Scott is recognized, and even when he spots someone taking a photo of them. They walk a heterosexual distance apart, and Scott stands differently: a wider stance, arms crossed. Kip doesn’t comment on it. 

Later, Elena sends him a tweet, a picture of Scott in front of a painting, Kip visible only in profile, pointing at the painting. The tweet reads: “who knew Scott Hunter was an art lover???” The photo is aggregated by a few hockey fan accounts, but nothing comes of it. His friend David sees the tweet and jokingly demands an explanation, and Kip offers a half-hearted explanation that involves catering, old friends, and art buying. 

He realizes that it’s been three months since that day in Prospect Park, and there are three months remaining. Halfway. 

Scott sends him a selfie the next day, a back-to-back travel day, from Las Vegas, in front of the fake Eiffel tower, with a text that says, “Next time the Louvre?” 

・ ✦ ・

Kip gets the Whitney job; the Admirals make the play-offs. He wants to tell Scott in person, but their schedules don’t align. He asks to call that night, whenever he has a chance, that he has news. Scott, ever eager, calls from his car service back from training to his apartment. Scott never has to share a car; he’s the only player currently living in the city—something he says has gotten comments over the years. 

“City boys,” Kip laughed, when they discovered neither of them have a driver’s license. 

A month ago, Scott told his regular driver he was calling his boyfriend, expanding their safe spaces to include the car Scott spends half his life in. The connection is not good enough for FaceTime, so he can only hear Scott, not see him, when he confesses, “I got a job offer. In Manhattan, at the Whitney Museum.” 

“Oh my god, Kip, that’s amazing. When does it start? What’s the job? Tell me everything!” Scott says, his enthusiasm palpable. 

“It starts next month,” Kip says, “My advisor recommended me for it and I… didn’t think I would get it.”

“Does this mean you’re moving to New York?” asks Scott and Kip can hear his smile through the phone. They haven’t spoken yet about where Kip will live at the end of his degree, the future has remained a vague abstract after June. 

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Fuck, wow. Okay, that’s great. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you. I can’t believe it. The pay is garbage and it’s just a two-year contract but it’s something. It’s part of a programming initiative to make the museum more accessible to young people, I’ll be doing some writing, creating promotional material, hopefully some curation, and doing some workshops, like, showing the public around the gallery.”

There’s a beat of silence before Scott says, “The public? Is that a good idea?”

“What, why? I’ve got all my customer service experience to back me up,” Kip jokes. 

The silence extends. Kip wishes he could see Scott’s face. “Hello?”

“Sorry. I’m excited for you. I’m just worried about how it’ll be after June,” Scott says, his voice sounding oddly strained. 

Kip has been pacing around his small apartment in circles and stops, “What do you mean?”

“I figured… have we not talked about this? I want to bring you to events, games, everything.”

“Yeah, I want that too. Of course.”

“I’m just afraid you aren’t thinking this through.”

“Not thinking through getting a job? Back home, in the city where my boyfriend already lives? Scott I’ve done nothing but think for the last five months,” Kip says, bewildered. 

“Kip, I’m about to be the first openly gay hockey player. The first starting lineup athlete to come out in any sport. My life is already—scrutinized and I’m about to get more attention. You’re about to get more attention. I’m excited about your job. But, is it a good idea to have a public-facing one?”

Kip is put on his back foot, defensive. He has waited for months to share this good news, to be able to have his own space in the future he and Scott are imagining, not just as an afterthought, but with his own life. 

“Are you saying you’re too famous for me to give tours to teenagers at an art museum?” Kip asks, feeling an old well of anger. 

“No, no. I don’t know. I’m just afraid you haven’t thought that part through.”

“You keep saying that. I have thought this through, and I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you! But, can you, I don’t know, not do the tours?”

Kip sighs, “I haven’t even started the job. Do you want me to tell them that I’m going to be a very famous plus one in a few months so can they change my job, pretty please?”

He hears Scott let out a deep breath through his nose. “Okay, you’re right,” Scott modifies his voice, trying to add softness back into it, “Kip, you worked really hard for this. I’m proud of you and I want to hear more about it when I’m not tired.”

“I’ll see you this weekend,” Kip answers. 

Kip sits in the dark of his apartment. The truth is, Scott isn’t wrong. He’s defensive because of his old hurt, but truly, until this moment he had never really considered himself in the equation of Scott coming out. He had been picturing his Scott, the boyfriend whose attention feels like sitting in the sun, happier and whole. He has pictured all the good things: trips, holding hands, being there for Scott if anything goes wrong. But that’s not the whole picture of a very famous person whose coming out which brings Kip along with it. It feels strange, like he’s wearing the wrong clothing, underdressed in the cold, to realize that he has been thinking and thinking about something, but only halfway. 

・ ✦ ・

He gets to Scott’s apartment midday Friday, while Scott’s at practice and lets himself in. Sitting on the dining table is an enormous bouquet of flowers, as elaborate as the Dutch still lifes he showed Scott in Boston. A note reads: Congratulations, you deserve all these flowers and more. - S. 

Kip sits and stares at the flowers for a while, awash in feeling. He thinks about what Elena said back in November—what if it all works out? Some part of himself has been holding back, still afraid of the last ten feet of the drop. They’ve been planning a life in the abstract, plans for coming out, plans for June, dancing around the crazy idea of a future together.

Last time, they said I love you crazy early, so fast. Despite all their plans, Kip hasn’t said it this time, not yet. Just like texting all those years ago, he knows Scott is waiting for him to take the lead. Because some part of them both is still holding onto that past: Kip’s anger, Scott’s self-flagellation. The sense that Scott asked and Kip answered. That next step, those last ten feet, means letting go of it all and stepping into that new future. 

He’s still sitting by the flowers when Scott comes home. He breathes a greeting, starts to say something, and Kip interrupts him: “I love you.”

The relief on Scott’s face is visible, a storm passing. “I’m so proud your dreams are coming true, Kip. I love you so much it scares me,” they meet in the living room and Scott pulls him in, kissing him, pressing his face into the top of his head. “I just can’t believe you took me back, and I’m scared of fucking it up,” he murmurs. 

“Scott, hey.” Kip pulls back and cups Scott’s jaw, makes him look him in the eye. 

“It was always you. Always.” He kisses him, softly, and continues, speaking gently into Scott’s cheek, into his fluttering, closed eyelashes. “We both needed time, and we took it, but I was always coming back to you. We’ll figure out that part of the job. You’re right, I have no idea what it will be like to be scrutinized. But I trust you,” he pauses for emphasis. “And right now, I need you to forgive yourself for needing time too.” 

Scott’s looks weary, love-struck. “Okay. I’ll try.” 

“I can think of worse things than being your famous boyfriend,” Kip says, leaning back to get a better look at his boyfriend’s beautiful face, trusting Scott to hold him. 

“Oh yeah, what kind of worse things?” Scott says, a wolfish smile on his face as he leans into Kip. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Kip ducks away, dragging Scott to the shower.

He washes the practice and the car ride off Scott, rubbing the loofah all over, following it with his mouth. Scott sinks his sturdy athletic knees to the tiles, taking Kip in his mouth, groaning on Kip’s cock as he hardens in Scott’s mouth, Kip overwhelmed as Scott bobs even, deep, rhythmic, working his mouth open, until he can feel the back of Scott’s throat. Kip’s head is thrown back in pleasure. Scott stops moving with Kip filling his mouth, throat, pausing and waiting, the only movement is a pulse of his tongue against the underside of the shaft. Kip looks down to admire him in his act of devotion, and they stare at each other, Scott’s lips move as much as they can into a grin, and then he hollows his cheeks and continues, the sound obscene. 

“Fuck,” is all Kip can manage, pulling Scott to standing before he’s sent over the edge without even making it to the bed. 

They fuck on their sides, Scott bracketing Kip’s body, holding him close as he fucks and strokes him at the same slow, even, torturous pace until Kip is writhing and desperate for more, jerking his hips into Scott’s hand. Their faces pressed so close to each other that he’s panting hot breath into Scott’s mouth when he comes. Scott, passionately desperate, brings his hand, sticky with Kip’s cum, and hooks Kip by the jaw to hold his face, a messy half kiss as he groans Kip’s name, spasming with the intensity of his orgasm. 

They go to clean up, each other and the bed, now a mess from toppling into bed soaking wet from the shower. When Kip returns from the bathroom, Scott is in the middle of pulling a new fitted sheet onto it. Without thinking, Kip shoves Scott down into the middle of the mostly bare bed. His beautiful boyfriend, the love of his life, in boxers in the middle of a sea of white sheets like a prize on display, there’s no sight more wonderful. Kip crawls over him, soaking in the warmth, the prickle of chest hair and then he sucks a hickey into his neck, right where it meets the shoulder, above his clavicle, Scott laughing under his mouth. 

Knowing now that it was possible to be this happy, every minute of waiting was worth it.

Chapter End Notes

the genesis of this entire story was, in part the idea of kip's dad launching a "i'm not mad, i'm just disappointed" grenade at poor scott

Chapter 4: one more time, try

Chapter Notes

i'm not beholden to crave tv budgets so kip is going to the awards this time

Kip’s new job starts as the Admirals sweep the first round of the playoffs against New Jersey, which means no traveling. Scott can sleep in his own bed as Kip moves in, properly this time. He doesn’t have a lot to bring from Boston: a favourite print, his clothing, and a pile of books. Scott promises that when the season is over, they’ll organize properly. 

Scott is, understandably, distracted and superstitious. He makes Kip take pictures with him every morning: a shirtless, compromising one in bed, Kip kissing his shoulder in the corner, another making scrunched smiling faces in the kitchen, Scott alone looking serious and handsome. One day, Kip thinks, this will make a devastatingly cringey photo montage of Scott the year he won the Stanley Cup. Now that the end is in sight, with the playoffs here, he knows not to speak this out loud. They limit hockey talk because it makes Scott antsy. Kip finds himself listening to hockey podcasts, of all things, on his walk to work. 

I’m telling you, says one of the hosts. Hunter is playing the best hockey of his career. He’s got the energy of a rookie and the focus of a natural leader. If he’s not holding the cup by the end of the season, I’ll eat my hat. 

I’m holding you to that, Ziig, says the other host. 

Elena sends him a tweet, a screenshot of Scott in a post-game interview, his head turned to hear what the interviewer is saying in such a way that the shirt he’s wearing has moved, revealing the soft, fading mark on his neck. The fan has circled this, and the tweet reads: okay if this is a hickey, whoever you are: keep doing that #nyadmirals. The replies debate whether it’s a bruise from hockey or not. Elena follows up with an eye roll emoji. 

・ ✦ ・

The Admirals lead the next round handily, and Elena comes over to do what she calls “a digital purge.” She is stunned into silence seeing Scott’s apartment. 

“So you’re just like, skipping the broke post-grad era,” she says, taking in the view. “Straight to the actual, literal top.” 

“Hey, I have a job! I’m contributing!” Kip says, defensively. Scott owns the place, bought it outright years ago, but Kip insisted on splitting some bills and groceries, as best they can. It’s a work in progress. 

“Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You can tell me how it’s going after we get to work.”

Kip gives her his laptop, and she diligently helps him lock down or delete his social media profiles, she finds logins to ancient websites he can barely remember making in the early 2000s. By the time they’re done, when you Google “Kip Grady” all that comes up is his graduate school information. 

“Okay, you’re basically famous-boyfriend proof now,” she says. “Is the plan for you to, like, be in the New Yorker profile with him?” 

“No, but… Eventually, we’ll be seen together, and someone will ask, and then there’ll be one of those ‘5 Things to Know About Scott Hunter’s Boyfriend’ articles about me, which feels, honestly, insane to say out loud.” 

“When the New York Post calls, I’ll tell them you were much less hot in high school,” Elena promises. 

・ ✦ ・

The buzzer sounds—the Admirals have won the Stanley Cup for the first time in over 25 years. 

Kip’s feelings come in waves: he is elated, beyond, he cannot believe it, he feels light as a feather, yelling and yelling with his dad, Elena, thousands of other fans. He is one of thousands sharing the same joy. Then, a wave of pride, pure and unrestrained as Scott bashfully shakes the Commissioner’s hand and hoists the cup over his head. The only thing better than getting everything you ever wanted, it turns out, is watching someone you love get it too. 

Suddenly, the boards open and wives, girlfriends, kids, parents pour out onto the ice. Moments before, Scott was in the crush of his teammates celebrating. It takes a second, but as everyone is swept up in their families’ happiness, Scott is left alone. The sight of it stabs through the joy. Soon, he thinks. He loses sight of Scott for just a moment in the moving red jerseys, and then he spots him drifting at the edge, the momentum of his skates seemingly sending him on a slow path away from them. Kip realizes his eyes are searching for him, and Kip puts his arm up to wave to link them together for just a moment, share it with Scott—and then Scott does the same, first a wave, but then he is not waving, he’s beckoning. 

Kip freezes. It feels like his brain has hit a hard reset, like there’s a gap between his mind and his body, in understanding what Scott is doing. He hears someone near him asking what Scott is doing. Is he greeting the fans? 

Kip has never understood the expression “out of body experience” until the moment he stands up in a stadium packed with eighteen thousand people and starts walking toward his waiting boyfriend. It feels like a different person is moving awkwardly through the stands and that his mind, the one that was waiting, planning, and patient for three and a half years, is somewhere back in the stands between Elena and his dad. His body pauses at the boards, unsure if security will stop him, but his boyfriend, the captain of the New Admirals, one of the most famous athletes in the world, is standing on the ice, hand outstretched. Okay, his last remaining working brain cell says, let’s go celebrate on the ice. 

Scott pulls him onto the ice, keeping him steady in his sneakers. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, what’s happening as he follows Scott. Time slows and looking at Scott returns Kip to the moment. Scott has turned around, is facing him and looking at him with an expression that can only be described as pure, obvious devotion. A wild part of his brain, the one that has been keeping a secret all this time thinks, someone is going to be able to tell. 

Scott is still holding Kip’s hand, so tall in his skates, and he says, “I couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you,” and then, they’re kissing. 

Kip feels ten feet tall, like he’s flying. He is in fact exactly 15 feet tall on the jumbotron above his head. To the world, Scott looks like a man recklessly in love. To Kip, he looks like a man coming home after a long journey, a man about to start the rest of his life. 

・ ✦ ・

The shocking part is that Kip does in fact have to go to work on Monday. The 36 hours after the game are a whirlwind of parties, introductions, and every person Kip has ever known texting him. On Monday, Scott has a full day of calls and meetings, people to answer, and a statement to approve. Kip asks if he should stay in, but Scott promises it’ll just be more phone calls. They have dinner with his agent, together, along with a brand-new PR person. 

Kip takes the train to work, keeps his sunglasses on. He has no idea if he's being paranoid but he's pretty sure he sees at least one person do a double-take. Scott told him that eventually, he'll get used to feeling like he's a zoo animal, which feels impossible. Mostly, he relies on the impassivity of New Yorkers. At work, he's putting things away at his desk when his boss, a woman he is confident was unaware that hockey is even played in June, walks up to him and says, “Busy weekend, Christopher?”

Under her arm is a copy of the New York Times. So much for Scott’s tasteful profile in the back pages of the New Yorker: Scott is on the cover of the New York Times and there is Kip, in profile, face cupped in Scott’s hands under the headline MLH Star Comes Out, Challenging Hockey Conversations. 

“Um, pretty memorable, yeah,” he answers, flushing. Another new reality: every person he’s ever met has seen him making out with his boyfriend. 

“You were on the schedule to lead the Midwood student tour this morning, but I’ve assigned Marcos to cover for you today. Thought you might be a bit of a distraction, at the moment.”

“Thank you,” he stammers as she walks away, clearly amused. 

・ ✦ ・

No one is surprised when they call Scott’s name for the Hart Memorial Trophy, MVP of the year. Scott has written, practiced, and memorized a speech because everyone—his agent, teammates, management—has said there’s no way the league won’t use this as an opportunity to reward Scott, a band-aid to quell rumblings of “it’s fine if he’s gay but did he have to…”  of which even Kip is aware. When they call his name, everyone comes to their feet, and Scott stands, kisses Kip chastely and distractedly. 

Kip beams up at him, says “Congrats,” and then Scott nervously runs his hands down his front, pauses, and then pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to Kip, so his phone doesn't ruin the lines of his suit jacket. 

“Can you hold this?” he asks, and then his eyes dance around Kip’s face, taking him in, his nerves resolving into the beam of appreciation Kip thinks he’ll never get used to. “I’ve always wanted to be able to ask someone that.” 

“Knock ‘em dead,” Kip answers, taking the phone. He cradles it between his hands as he watches Scott’s speech. 

When they talked about June, it was always a before and an after. Being here, in a room of machismo, men talking at the lowest register of their voices, who feel the need to take a wide stance and have a bad haircut, it all still feels like he’s still in a liminal moment between. Everything is still settling into the true after. But Kip believes it will come: everyone claps enthusiastically for Scott’s speech. He walks off stage and cuts through the crowd to find Kip, grins and says, “Let’s get a drink.” Kip thinks of all the times Scott has been alone in a crowd, and here Kip is. The stakes have felt so high, but they’re also so small, when an act of love is just being the familiar face and port in a storm. 

・ ✦ ・

It’s Las Vegas: every venue has a dozen bars and halls. Scott and Kip have stolen away from the ballroom to what is supposed to be a fancy “French” wine bar. They’re wandering around, drinks in hand, as Kip distracts Scott via a lengthy critique of the architectural details, when the unambiguous shape of a professional hockey player cuts through the crowd toward them like the Terminator. 

They barely have a moment to react before the man smoothly says in a soft Russian voice, “Scott Hunter and boyfriend, hello.” 

“Rosanov, this is Kip. Kip, this is Ilya Rosanov, he plays for the Boston Raiders,” Scott says, as if he has not complained about this exact man to Kip multiple times. 

“Please, call me Ilya,” he says, extending a hand for Kip to shake. As he does so, his eyes skate up and down Kip, pausing at Kip’s chest and then mouth in a way that startles him. Kip knows when he is being checked out, and this man is unambiguously checking him out. They exchange pleasantries, and then Ilya reveals that he would like to buy them a drink. “Proper drink, to celebrate, yes?” 

Their glasses are mostly empty, and Scott looks so bewildered that Kip responds, agreeing. Ilya disappears briefly, and Scott sighs, “God, what does he want,” but then Ilya is back, three vodkas balanced in his massive hands. 

Kip wonders how Ilya would react if he were told that vodka soda is jokingly called gay water, the most popular drink at any gay club. He wonders if Ilya already knows. Scott and Ilya are making polite conversation about the playoffs, Ilya making digs while still somehow complimenting Scott.

Ilya takes a sip of his drink and then says, “You seem different, Hunter.”

Scott, Kip has noticed, has been talking in what Kip thinks of as his normal voice, not the one he uses in hockey press, presumably the locker room. He’s expressive, using his hands. It’s been nice to see the looseness return to him. He is surprised anyone else has noticed. 

Scott bristles, “Well, being happy makes a difference,” he says in a defensive tone, looking at Kip meaningfully. 

Ilya shakes his head. “It is good. You seem more like yourself and not hockey action figure.”

“I think that’s a compliment, so, uh, thanks.”

Ilya raises his glass, still half full, to make a toast. They have retreated to a quiet corner of the bar, and Ilya says, “Toasts are very important in Russia,” and he tips his glass meaningfully, so they join him. “To your good health and good hockey—however long it lasts,” Scott snorts beside him, but Ilya continues, “To being yourself and following the heart when it leads somewhere good.”

Kip notices that Ilya closes his eyes when he takes his drink. And the man is not done; he has the nervous energy of someone with a message to deliver. “Hunter, it was very brave what you did. Very important for the league. For players to see.”

“Jesus Rosanov, I’ve never seen you this earnest. Have you been taken by an alien parasite? Is there a sniper over my shoulder?”

Rozanov doesn’t answer, just laughs. Kip interjects with a soft elbow in Scott’s side, “I think what Scott meant to say was thank you?” 

“Oh, yes. Thank you. To be honest, I wasn’t really thinking about the league. I was thinking about myself and my future,” Scott smiles at Kip, who notices the expression of unmissable sadness in Ilya’s face, quickly covered by a fake smile. 

“I understand. Your boyfriend is very cute, I would want him on ice with me too,” Ilya delivers a surprisingly good wink at Kip and then downs his drink. “This will change things, I think,” he places his drink on the table and says, “Have a good night, Hunter, Kip,” and leaves before they can respond. 

Scott laughs, “That guy is so weird.”

Kip shakes his head, “That guy is absolutely gay.” 

Scott rolls his eyes, pulls Kip into his side, “He was just messing with you to mess with me. He has a girlfriend in every city. But, it was nice, what he said.”

It’s Kip’s turn to roll his eyes, “First of all, bisexuality exists. Second, I know when I’m being hit on. And third, we are going to have to work on your gaydar.” With each number, he taps Scott’s chest, a grin so silly and big on his face it hurts. 

Scott pulls him in for a kiss in the quiet corner of a busy Vegas bar, and then says, so close just talking makes his lips brush Kip’s, “Good thing we have all the time we need.”

Chapter End Notes

if you made it this far, please drop a comment and let me know! i'm simply a hopeless romantic who loves love and i'm over on tumblr as @fringe-problems as well.