Moonlight

Bright red, pink, and purple lights flashed across the room in hypnotic waves, cutting through the artificial fog rising from the smoke machines in the corners. Pop music exploded from the speakers, remixed with electronic beats that made the floor vibrate. The sweet smell of spilled drinks mixed with the sweat and expensive perfume of bodies moving in sync with the night. The team was scattered—some already lucky, dancing close to pretty girls who smiled with their arms wrapped around their necks; others, the taken ones, formed circles with their friends, drinking and laughing with the lightness of those who had just achieved the impossible.

"Give me your phone."

Elena held out her open hand toward Scott. They were all sprawled on a burgundy leather sofa, worn from use but comfortable, with a round glass table in the center covered in coasters and empty ashtrays. Scott frowned, his arm stretched along the backrest behind Kip, who was snuggled against his side. Vaughny, on the opposite end, was typing something on his own phone with his thumb, his eyes glued to the screen.

"I'm serious," Elena insisted, her fingers tapping impatiently.

"Why?" Scott asked, but he was already reaching into his jeans pocket and handing over the device. She tucked it away inside her purse, a small, sparkly thing she placed strategically between herself and Kip on the worn leather of the sofa.

"Damage control. You are banned from social media today. And tomorrow too." Her voice was firm, but the accompanying smile was all grace.

Carter took his eyes off his phone for a moment, observed the scene, and tucked the device into his back pocket as he stood up.

"Whose tab is it on tonight?"

"The captain's!" Vaughny sang, poking Scott's shoulder with his index finger before stretching like he was about to face a crowd. "What do you want? I'll go get it."

Elena tilted her head, thoughtful for a moment, her eyes drifting to the ceiling as if consulting an imaginary menu.

"A Cosmo. Make it strong," she decided.

"Do you guys want anything?" Carter pointed to the couple on the couch.

"Beer," they answered in unison, so synchronized that Elena snorted a laugh.

Carter nodded and dove into the crowd, clearing a path with the ease of someone who was in his element. Elena followed him with her eyes until he disappeared into the tangle of sweaty bodies, and then gave a slight, calculated shrug to herself.

"You bitch," Kip accused as soon as he realized what was happening. "You're enjoying Carter flirting with you!"

"Obviously," Elena replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you the only one allowed to have fun with a handsome hockey player?"

"Elena, Carter is a womanizer," Scott intervened, his warning tone barely hiding the smile that stubbornly spread across his face. "I love him, so much. But he's bad news."

"And who said I'm good news?" she countered, raising her eyebrows in a playful challenge.

The couple exchanged a look and burst out laughing.

"Okay, that was a good one," Scott admitted, still laughing, as he pulled Kip closer. His boyfriend settled against his shoulder, his curls brushing against Scott's jaw. "But be careful. Vaughny has a... complicated track record."

"We all do." Elena shrugged, her eyes now lost in the crowd, searching for her promised Cosmo. "The difference is I'm not looking for Prince Charming. I'm looking for a good story to tell on Monday."

Kip snorted against Scott's shoulder.

"She talks tough, but when she falls in love, she turns into an absolute melt. I've seen it."

"Shut up, Kip." Elena pointed a finger at her friend, but her smile gave away the lack of venom. "You live permanently attached to the athlete over here, and you want to judge me?"

"I'm not judging. I'm observing." Kip raised his hands in surrender. "It's my favorite hobby."

Scott laughed softly, the vibration echoing in his chest. The music shifted to something slower, with deeper bass, and for a moment he just existed right there: Kip warm against his side, the euphoria of the victory still buzzing in his veins, the flashes of hate outside temporarily forgotten.

"Eternal hatred to social media," Elena muttered, as if reading his thoughts. She pulled her phone into her lap, took a quick look, and scoffed. "They're talking shit, obviously. But there are also a LOT of people supporting you. I'm taking screenshots of the best ones to show you tomorrow."

"You don't have to," Scott said, though the gratitude was clear in his voice.

"I know. But I'm going to do it anyway."

Carter emerged from the crowd like a fish breaking the surface, three glasses balanced in his hands with a skill that only came from practice at clubs. He handed the Cosmo to Elena with an exaggerated bow, gave the beers to Scott and Kip, and then threw himself onto the couch next to the girl, closer than strictly necessary.

"Your drink, m'lady," he said, in a fake British accent.

"Thank you, kind sir." Elena accepted the glass, her fingers brushing his for a second longer than chance would dictate.

Kip exchanged a look with Scott, his eyebrows raised in silent eloquence. Scott answered with a slight shake of his head, but his smile lingered.

"So, you guys good?" Carter asked, already taking a swig of his own beer—a third one that Scott hadn't even noticed him holding. "Managed to escape Gina. Remember Gina, Scott? Redhead, easy smile, dances like..."

"I remember," Scott cut in, a little too quickly. "She asked me if you were single once. I told her I didn't know what was worse: lying or telling the truth."

"Fair enough." Carter laughed, entirely shameless. "She's already found another target. Thought I better bail before I became a hostage to her chatting again."

"Coward," Elena teased, swirling the pink liquid in her glass.

"Strategic," Carter corrected, and his eyes met hers for a moment that lasted too long to be casual.

The music exploded into a familiar chorus, and some nearby players shouted the lyrics in unison, glasses raised high. Scott felt Kip shift against him, and when he looked down, his boyfriend was watching him with a soft expression, almost too intimate for the middle of a nightclub.

"What?" Scott asked quietly.

"Nothing." Kip smiled. "Just... processing. You. All of this."

"Process fast, because the night is young." Scott tilted his head and pressed a kiss into the top of Kip's curly hair. "And I promised to get you drunk."

"I was the one who promised that," Elena corrected, though her smile belonged to someone wholly satisfied with how the night was going.

Carter leaned back on the couch, stretching his arms along the backrest, one of them hovering dangerously close to Elena's shoulders.

"You know what I'm thinking?" he announced, his tone implying he was going to say it regardless of their answer.

"What?" Kip took the bait.

"That this is the first of many." Carter looked at Scott, his smile softer than usual. "Victories. Celebrations. Nights like this. And you, Captain, are going to have to put up with us being around. With or without a mob of haters at the door."

Scott felt a tightness in his chest—but it was a good kind of tight. The kind that reminds you you're not alone.

"I hope so," he answered simply.

He raised his beer in a silent toast that the other three mirrored. Elena's glass was the first to come down. And then a dance remix of I Really Don’t Care started playing. Elena's eyes widened, and she took a big gulp from her glass, nearly finishing it.

"Christopher Grady, we are going to dance!" she declared, already pulling her friend by the arm. Kip laughed out loud, taking one last swig of his beer before being dragged by Elena toward the dance floor. Scott and Carter chuckled at the scene.

Vaughny took that as an opportunity and slid across the circular sofa until he was right next to his friend.

"So..."

"Nope."

Scott shut it down before the sentence was even finished, taking a long drink of his beer while keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. On the dance floor, Elena and Kip had already been swallowed by the crowd, but he could still see the top of his boyfriend's curly head bouncing to a questionable rhythm.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!" Carter protested, his tone dripping with exaggerated indignation.

"You were going to ask something about Elena." Scott turned his head slowly, looking right through his friend. "But I'm not saying a word."

Carter opened his mouth to reply, but Scott didn't give him the chance.

"You know you're a player, and I'm not going to help you hook up with a friend of mine and Kip's."

"But..."

"Am I lying?"

Vaughny grimaced, his lips twitching into a defeated expression before he looked away and took a sip of his beer. The silence between them was filled by the pulsing music and the distant laughter from the floor.

They both watched the scene unfolding ahead: Elena was holding onto Kip's shoulders while she jumped, her hair flying in every direction, and Kip kept her close with a protective arm around her waist, laughing at something she was shouting off-key. They were singing the Demi Lovato lyrics together, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.

"I don't know..." Carter started, hesitant. His gaze was fixed in Elena's direction. "I've been thinking about... settling down."

Scott's eyes widened. He turned his head slowly, as if he needed time to process the words that had just come out of his friend's mouth.

"Carter Vaughn?" His voice came out higher than normal. "Settling down?"

Carter held his gaze for two seconds before looking away, a flush creeping up his neck.

"What's in your beer, man?"

"Nothing!" Carter defended himself a little too quickly. "I'm serious, Scott. I'm almost thirty, I've already won everything I could ever dream of by this age..." He paused, his fingers tracing the neck of the bottle. "I don't want to hit forty alone, you know? Niel is twenty-two and already has two kids. Two! I'm twenty-seven and I don't even have a parrot to keep me company."

Scott rested his elbow on the back of the sofa, turning his body to face his friend fully.

"Since when do you think about this?"

"Since I saw you with Kip." Carter admitted, his voice quieter now. "It looks... I don't know. Easy. Good. You two." He shrugged, embarrassed. "I know it sounds stupid."

"It doesn't," Scott replied, his tone softening. "But you barely know Elena, man."

"I know." Carter rubbed a hand over his face. "And I know my reputation. But... she's different. She looked at me like I was just another guy. Not a Stanley Cup player. Not the team's Vaughny. Just... a guy."

Scott watched his friend for a long moment. The music shifted to something more upbeat, and from the dance floor, Elena let out an excited scream that cut across the room.

"You're going to have to work really hard," Scott said finally. "Elena isn't the type to settle for crumbs. She will destroy you."

"I know." Carter smiled, a bit sheepishly. "That's why I'm interested."

"And if she doesn't want to?"

"Then I'll deal with it, it won't be my first rejection." Carter shrugged, but there was something in his eyes that Scott hadn't seen in years. Not since before the fame, before the contracts, before everything. "But if I don't try, I'll be wondering forever."

Scott clinked his beer bottle against his friend's in a silent toast.

"Just don't fuck with her heart," he warned. "Because then you'll have to deal with me."

"Fair enough." Carter laughed, but the laugh was different. More contained. More real.

On the dance floor, Elena pointed in their direction and shouted something that got lost in the music. Kip waved, laughing, and Scott waved back.

"Come on." Carter stood up, offering his hand to his friend. "Let's dance. You two have been glued to each other since you got here, and tonight is about celebrating."

"I don't dance," Scott protested, even as he was already accepting the outstretched hand.

"Yes, you do." Carter pulled his friend up. "You only didn't dance because you were in the closet. Now you have no excuse."

Scott rolled his eyes, but the smile was inevitable. He left his beer on the table and followed his friend toward the dance floor, pushing through sweaty bodies until he found Kip, who lit up entirely upon seeing him arrive.

"Look who decided to show up!" Kip shouted over the music, his arms already looping around Scott's neck.

"I was kidnapped," Scott replied, but his hands naturally found his boyfriend's waist.

Beside them, Carter stopped in front of Elena with an uncharacteristic hesitation.

"May I?"

Elena tilted her head, evaluating him for a second that seemed to last an eternity. Then she reached out and pulled Vaughny by the open buttons of his shirt.

"If you can keep up."

The smile that broke across Carter's face looked like he had just won the Cup all over again.

Kip laughed, a soft sound against the pounding backdrop of the music, and turned to Scott—who was already watching him with an intensity that seemed to defy the strobe lights flashing around them. They danced to the sound of Could Have Been Me, their bodies moving to a rhythm that was entirely their own, intimate in the midst of the chaos. Kip's fingers trailed lightly upward, grazing the nape of Scott's neck before getting lost in the hair at the base of his skull. They both smiled, staring at each other as if the rest of the club had faded into the background.

"I wanna taste love and pain..." The music filled the space between them.

"I wanna feel pride and shame..." Scott hummed quietly, just for Kip, the lyrics taking on a whole new meaning that night.

Kip laughed again, closer now, his face tilted toward his boyfriend. His curls brushed Scott's forehead as he whispered, almost closing the distance:

"Can I kiss you?"

Scott's smile widened, his eyes shining with something that went beyond the euphoria of the victory.

"Without a doubt..."

Their lips met, and a warm wave rushed up Scott's spine—electric, vibrant, real. For the second time that night, he was kissing Kip in public. Something that, hours before, had seemed like a distant dream, a "maybe someday" that he never had the courage to truly visualize. But now it was here. His hands firm on his boyfriend's waist, his lips against his, the taste of alcohol mixing in their mouths as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Beside them, Carter and Elena danced close—her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands on her waist, both moving to a slow rhythm that didn't match the fast beat, but worked in a strangely perfect way. Elena tilted her head back, laughing at something Carter whispered near her ear, and Vaughny used the movement to press a quick kiss to the exposed curve of her neck.

She didn't pull away.

Scott felt Kip's smile against his lips before the kiss deepened. The world could be falling apart outside—the screams, the torn jersey, the venomous comments that Elena was keeping at bay by confiscating his phone. But here, right now, on the dance floor at Parallel, with Kip in his arms and the music saying everything they had always wanted to scream, none of it mattered.

"Never look back and say: could have been me..."

Kip pulled his face back just enough to rest his forehead against Scott's, his eyes still closed, his warm breath against the other's lips.

"We're really doing this," he murmured, as if he needed to hear it out loud to believe it.

"I'm right here," Scott replied, his thumb tracing circles on the curve of Kip's back over his shirt. "We're right here."

Kip opened his eyes. They were dark in that light, speckled with purple and red reflections from the club's strobes.

"I'm scared," he admitted, softly. Just for Scott.

"Me too." Scott didn't hesitate. "But I'm happier than I am scared. And that's new."

Kip smiled, a wet gleam in the corners of his eyes, and pulled Scott in for another kiss. Slower. Deeper. As if they had all the time in the world.

When they parted again, the music had already shifted to something more electronic, and Elena appeared out of nowhere between them, slinging an arm around each of them.

"You guys are gross," she declared, though her smile was massive. "I love it. Keep going."

"Where's Carter?" Scott asked, noticing his friend's absence.

Elena gestured vaguely with her head toward the bar.

"Went to get more drinks. I sent him." She winked. "A test. I wanted to see if he'd come back."

"And did he?" Kip asked, already laughing.

"Not yet. But if he does..." She shrugged, looking mysterious. "We'll see."

Scott exchanged a look with Kip, and the three of them burst into laughter. There, in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by strangers and friends, with the taste of victory and beer in their mouths, nothing felt impossible anymore.

[...]

Right in the building’s lobby, the yellowed light of the old chandelier bathed the cold marble floor. Juan, the doorman, stood behind the dark wooden desk as always, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. When he saw Scott and Kip walk in holding hands, he slowly removed the glasses and let out a wheezy little chuckle beneath his gray mustache—a sound that carried decades of condominium secrets.

Scott simply waved toward the old man, a casual gesture, and the two of them crossed the lobby toward the row of elevators. The click of Scott’s shoes against the marble was the only sound besides the distant music drifting from some apartment.

“Not like he hasn’t known about us for years.” Kip murmured, his voice slightly slurred from the alcohol still warm in his veins. He leaned into Scott’s body, hands finding support on his broad shoulders.

“Juan knows everything in this building.” Scott slipped an arm around Kip’s waist, pulling him closer as they faced the closed elevator doors. “Who lives where, who’s stealing whose parking spot in the basement, which neighbor’s cheating on her husband with the maintenance guy…”

Kip lifted his face from Scott’s shoulder, eyes widening in comic shock.

“Oh, tell me it’s Moira from 912!” A drunken smile was already spreading across his lips.

Scott tilted his head, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“It’s Pamela from 833.”

Kip went slack-jawed. Literally. His jaw dropped as he processed the information.

“But Arvin is such a nice guy…” The defense came out almost childlike, a protest against the cosmic injustice of a good man being cheated on.

“Yeah.” Scott leaned closer, his warm breath mixed with beer brushing Kip’s skin. “But maybe Matthew’s better with tools.”

The mischievous grin that followed made Kip hold his breath for a moment.

“Maybe he knows how to handle a wrench better…”

The sound of the elevator arriving cut through the air. The doors opened with a soft ping, revealing the mirrored interior. Scott pulled Kip inside with a decisive tug, pressed the penthouse button with his thumb, and before the doors had even finished closing, he already had his boyfriend against the cool wood-paneled wall.

“Oh, yeah…” Kip whispered, dark eyes in the dim elevator light.

His hand found the back of Scott’s neck, pulling him down in a movement that was both urgent and lazy. Their lips met in a kiss that started fiery and only deepened, the taste of beer and the lingering sweetness of Elena’s cosmopolitan blending into a flavor that was already theirs. Scott pressed Kip’s body against his, one hand on his waist, the other braced against the wall beside his boyfriend’s head, forming an enclosure that felt more like possession than protection.

The elevator rose in silence, the soft hum of the motor filling the space as the floors passed unnoticed. Kip bit Scott’s lower lip, tugging it with his teeth, and heard the muffled groan that escaped in response.

“Good thing Juan already knows everything,” Kip murmured against Scott’s mouth, a stubborn drunk smile forming. “Because this elevator has a camera.”

Scott froze for a second. Then he laughed, his forehead dropping against Kip’s.

“Shit.”

“Relax.” Kip ran a hand across Scott’s chest, feeling the rapid beating beneath the shirt. “He’s seen worse. Pamela from 833, remember?”

Scott snorted a laugh and captured Kip’s mouth again, less urgent now, slower. Deeper. As if he had the whole night ahead of him—and he did.

The elevator chimed, announcing the penthouse. For a moment neither of them moved—only their quick breathing filling the tiny space, their eyes locked as if the outside world had ceased to exist. Then Scott slid his hand slowly down Kip’s chest, tracing the line of muscle beneath the thin shirt, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric.

“Greg was right…” Scott whispered, his voice hoarse, heavy with something deeper than alcohol. “I’m climbing the walls…”

Kip smiled, a slow, wicked smile that promised everything, and the two of them finally broke their stillness, stepping out of the elevator into the penthouse’s private hallway. The silence there was absolute—only the soft carpet muffling their steps and the indirect glow of the wall sconces.

Scott typed the door code with fingers that trembled slightly, each beep echoing in the empty corridor. Kip took advantage of the distraction. He tilted his head and began kissing his boyfriend’s neck—first gently, almost innocently, then with more pressure, his lips finding the exact spot where jaw met neck, the skin warm and salty.

Scott gasped, a sound that escaped before he could stop it. His free hand rose to grip the back of Kip’s neck firmly, fingers burying into the curls as his body responded to the kisses with shivers traveling down his spine. The code finished automatically, the lock clicking in response.

He pulled the handle.

They staggered inside like a wave finally breaking through a barrier, their coats already forgotten, slipping off their shoulders and falling in a heap on the entryway floor. The door shut behind them with a heavy click, sealing the world outside.

Scott didn’t waste time. His hand still on Kip’s neck pulled his boyfriend’s face back to his, their lips colliding in a hungry battle. It was different from the kisses in the elevator—there was no camera here, no audience, nothing but the two of them and the vast apartment stretching through the dim light, the city’s glow pouring through the living room windows like a private constellation.

Kip shoved Scott against the newly closed door with a sharp movement, their bodies pressed together as his hands slid beneath Scott’s shirt. Warm palms against bare skin pulled a guttural groan from Scott, who answered by tugging Kip’s shirt upward, needing more, needing everything.

“I haven’t touched you properly in weeks…” Kip murmured against Scott’s lips, his voice breaking halfway. “Fucking playoffs.”

“They’re over.” Scott replied, yanking Kip’s shirt over his head in a movement that had no delicacy at all. “They’re over.”

The shirt flew into some dark corner. Scott’s hands found bare skin, sliding down Kip’s back, nails digging lightly as he pulled him closer—as if that were still possible, as if they weren’t already pressed together.

Kip’s mouth left his to trail down his jaw, his neck, finding his collarbone in a kiss that was also a light bite. Scott threw his head back, bumping softly against the door, but he felt no pain—only more heat, more urgency.

“Bed…” he managed, his voice a rough thread. “Or couch. Or wall. I’m not picky.”

Kip laughed against his skin, the vibration sending another shiver through him.

“Choose fast.”

Scott didn’t answer with words. Instead he pushed Kip away just enough—the distance needed to lace their fingers together and pull him through the dark apartment, a blind and urgent run across the living room. They didn’t make it to the bedroom. The wide white couch was in the way, and that’s where they fell, their bodies sinking into the generous cushions in a tangle of limbs and breath.

The gas fireplace on the opposite wall cast a dancing orange light across the scene, the artificial flames competing with the real heat radiating from their bodies. Shadows climbed and fell along the walls in an intimate ballet while the rest of the apartment remained submerged in darkness.

Scott covered Kip with his weight in a deliberate, possessive motion. Bracing his forearms on either side of his boyfriend’s head, he lowered his lips onto his—hungry, voracious, as if he needed to devour him to prove this was real. He felt the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the last barrier of clothing becoming more unbearable by the second.

“I want to fuck you,” Scott murmured against Kip’s mouth, his voice rough, the words slipping between kisses, “but I also want you to fuck me… hell, I’m going to die.”

He lowered his mouth to Kip’s neck, nibbling the skin, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Kip gasped, a deep drawn-out moan vibrating in his throat, his fingers sliding slowly into Scott’s hair—not pulling, just stroking, savoring, as if he wanted to memorize every touch.

“I’m not going anywhere…” Kip answered between breaths, the words coming out broken. His chest rose and fell rapidly, dark eyes fixed on Scott’s while the firelight painted golden reflections in his irises. “We can do both.”

A pause. A slow smile.

“Now get completely naked, Scott.”

Scott tilted his head, an equally slow smile answering the command.

“Yes, sir.”

What followed was a messy choreography of impatient fingers and stubborn fabric. The remaining pieces flew in opposite directions—one sock landed on the lamp, a pair of briefs caught on the foot of the coffee table unnoticed. Until finally there was nothing left but skin.

Warm skin, soft, already beginning to shine with the first layer of sweat. They looked at each other for a moment—just a moment—in the orange half-light, and there was something sacred in that brief silence. Then Scott moved, and the quiet broke in the wet sound of another kiss, deeper, slower, as hands began exploring territories the rush of the playoffs had kept quarantined for far too long.

The couch creaked softly beneath them. The fireplace crackled in the background. And outside, New York shone, completely unaware of what was happening in the penthouse.

Scott’s mouth left Kip’s lips to begin a slow pilgrimage down his body. First the jaw, where he placed light kisses that contrasted with the urgency of moments earlier. Then the neck, where the skin still burned from fresh marks. The Adam’s apple, which bobbed under the touch of his tongue. The chest, where Scott made sure to give attention to each nipple—first the right, then the left—until Kip began writhing against the couch.

“Scott…” The name came out like a warning, but also a plea.

Scott ignored it. He kept descending. Past the ribs, feeling each one under his lips, across the abdomen that tensed when his tongue traced the line leading to the lower belly. Finally, when he reached the hip, he lifted his eyes to meet Kip’s—dark, glassy, curls scattered across the arm of the couch.

“Want me to keep going?” Scott asked, voice rough, breath warm inches from his skin.

“If you stop now, I swear I’ll—” Kip didn’t finish the threat. Scott didn’t give him time.

He closed the final distance and took him into his mouth.

Kip’s moan was muffled by the forearm he brought to his lips, but not enough—Scott heard it, felt the vibration, and it only drove him on. He started slowly, almost lazily, his mouth warm and wet, working to tease, to draw out the moment. His tongue traced circles whenever he rose, exploring, relearning every inch as if for the first time.

Kip let his head fall back, eyes closed, breathing dissolving into broken sighs. One hand found Scott’s hair, fingers sinking into the strands without pulling—just holding on, as if he needed an anchor.

“Fuck…” Kip whispered, his voice faltering. “You’re so good at this…”

Scott answered with a movement that made Kip arch off the couch. He increased the rhythm, but only slightly—keeping a slow, deliberate pace, each descent deeper than the last. The sound was obscene in the apartment’s quiet, mixed with the crackle of the fire and their heavy breathing.

“Like that…” Kip murmured, fingers tightening in Scott’s hair. “Keep doing that… I’m going to come in your mouth if you keep going…”

Scott groaned in response, the vibration pulling an involuntary spasm from Kip. Slowly, very slowly, he began to speed up—but still keeping control, still dictating the rhythm that Kip followed with increasingly unrestrained moans.

After a time that could have been minutes or eternity, Scott rose again. He left a trail of wet kisses on the way back up until he found Kip’s lips in a kiss that carried the taste of both of them.

“I want you,” Scott whispered against his mouth. “Now.”

Kip laughed weakly, eyes still half-closed.

“Are you asking or ordering?”

“Both.”

Kip shoved Scott onto his back against the couch in a quick movement, reversing their positions. Now he was on top, dark eyes roaming over his boyfriend’s body stretched beneath the firelight.

“Get ready,” Kip said, his voice low. “Because I’m going to fuck you so well… I’m going to watch you fall apart before I even touch you again.”

Scott gasped, his body reacting before his brain could process the words. Kip leaned over to open the coffee table drawer—because yes, he knew where Scott kept things—and came back with a bottle of lube and a condom.

“You’ve become an expert in my apartment, huh?” Scott teased, his voice cracking at the end.

“I know it better than you do.” Kip replied, spreading lubricant over his fingers with studied calm. “Now open your legs.”

Scott obeyed.

The first touch was almost delicate—just one finger, circling, teasing, before finally entering. Scott held his breath, eyes locked on Kip’s, who watched him with an intensity that made the air thinner than the physical touch.

“Relax,” Kip murmured, leaning down to kiss Scott’s forehead. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The second finger came when the first was no longer enough. Scott moaned, hips moving involuntarily, seeking more. Kip kept the rhythm slow, patient, fingers moving in a back-and-forth that seemed designed to drive him insane.

“Does it hurt?” Kip asked softly.

“No,” Scott answered, voice strained. “Just… need more.”

“Patience.” Kip smiled, pure mischief. “You said you wanted it slow.”

“I lie.”

Kip laughed but didn’t speed up. He kept that deliberate, torturous pace while his other hand stroked Scott’s thigh, stomach, chest—always touching, always teasing, never quite giving him what he truly wanted.

“Kip…” Scott moaned, the name sounding like a lament.

“I’m here.”

“You son of a—”

Kip silenced the insult with a kiss as a third finger found its way inside. This time Scott truly moaned aloud, the sound echoing through the empty apartment, and Kip smiled against his lips.

“There.” he whispered. “Now we’re ready.”

Kip withdrew his fingers slowly, and Scott groaned at the loss—an impatient, almost irritated sound. Panting, he watched as Kip tore open the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolled it on with the calm of someone who had the whole night ahead of him. Fresh lubricant was spread with long strokes, and Scott had to look away for a second not to lose control entirely.

“Look at me.”

Kip’s voice was low but firm. Scott obeyed, meeting the dark eyes fixed on his.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Scott swallowed.

“Yes.”

“How do you want it?”

“You idiot.” Scott grabbed Kip by the shoulders, urgency and irritation mixed together. “Fuck me already or I swear I’ll—”

Kip cut the rest off with a kiss—and in the same heartbeat, he began to enter.

Slow. Unbearably slow.

Scott held his breath, fingers digging into Kip’s back, his entire body stretched along that thin line between waiting and fullness. He felt every inch, every tiny advance, the delicious pressure spreading outward through his body.

“You’re so tight…” Kip murmured against Scott’s mouth, his voice breaking halfway through. “So warm… feels like you’re going to swallow me whole.”

Scott tried to respond, but only a drawn-out moan escaped when Kip pushed deeper. His boyfriend’s hands gripped his hips firmly, preventing any movement, any attempt to rush what was inevitable.

“Relax.” Kip kissed the corner of Scott’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. “I’m taking care of you. Let me take care of you.”

“You’re… torturing me.” Scott managed, voice thin.

“I am.” Kip admitted without shame. “And you love it.”

Scott didn’t deny it. He couldn’t.

When Kip finally buried himself fully, they both stopped for a moment—just their heavy breathing filling the silence, eyes locked, the firelight dancing across sweaty skin. Scott felt Kip’s body against his, every point of contact electric, and knew that if he died right there he’d die happy.

“So beautiful like this…” Kip whispered, almost to himself. “Mine. All mine.”

“Always have been.” Scott replied hoarsely. “Now move.”

Kip smiled.

And started to move.

At first still slow—a rhythm less about speed and more about feeling every motion, every friction, every sound escaping Scott against his neck. Kip’s hands never stopped: one on Scott’s hips guiding the pace; the other in his hair, tugging occasionally just to hear the moan that followed.

“Like that?” Kip asked, far too innocent.

“More.” Scott answered through clenched teeth. “Deeper.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Kip…”

“Ask.”

Scott buried his face in his boyfriend’s shoulder, biting the skin in frustration and desire.

“Please.” His voice came out muffled. “Please, deeper.”

Kip obliged. The thrusts deepened, the rhythm still controlled but the intensity doubling. Scott moaned loudly, unashamed, legs wrapping around Kip’s waist to pull him even closer.

“That’s it,” Kip whispered, forehead resting against Scott’s. “Like that. So perfect… so good… look at you, all open for me…”

“Stop talking,” Scott moaned, though the words lacked conviction.

“Why?” Kip sped up slightly. “Don’t you like hearing how beautiful you are like this? How much pleasure you give me?”

Scott bit his lip, his eyes threatening to roll back.

“You do.” Kip continued mercilessly. “You like hearing it. Like knowing you’re only mine. My captain. My champion. My gorgeous little slut.”

The sound that escaped Scott was almost a sob.

“Yeah…” Kip increased the pace again. “That’s it, go soft for me… let me take care of you…”

“You’re an idiot.” Scott managed, though the drunken smile betraying the insult said otherwise.

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

Kip sealed the confession with a fierce kiss and finally abandoned any pretense of control. The rhythm that followed was wild, urgent, the sound of bodies meeting filling the apartment alongside their increasingly unrestrained moans. The couch creaked beneath them, the fireplace crackled indifferently, and outside New York kept shining with no idea what it was missing.

“So close…” Scott gasped against Kip’s mouth. “Don’t stop…”

“I won’t.” Kip answered, voice strained with effort. “I want to see you come. I want to see you fall apart for me.”

“I already have, you idiot.”

“More.”

Scott felt the orgasm rise like a wave—slow at first, then overwhelming, taking everything with it. Kip’s name tore from his lips in a cry he didn’t try to muffle, his entire body tightening in waves as pleasure flooded every inch of him.

Kip followed seconds later, a guttural groan buried in Scott’s shoulder, hips still moving as he emptied himself.

Afterward, only silence remained. Their heavy breathing. The distant crackle of the fire. Scott felt Kip’s weight on top of him, the heat already beginning to turn uncomfortable—but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

“Fuck, I missed this…” Scott murmured, voice exhausted.

Kip laughed softly against his chest.

“Tell me about it.”

"Are you sure you don't want me to go?" Kip asked for the third time, his voice heavy with a worry that only grew by the minute. He was dressed for work—khaki pants, a light button-down shirt, his curly hair still damp from the shower—while Scott finished tying his sneakers. "Even if I just wait in the car."

"If Crowell is already there, I don't want you anywhere near him," Scott reaffirmed, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach. He stood up, adjusting his jacket. "And you have to work. If I get fired, you're going to be the breadwinner in the relationship."

Kip tilted his head, a teasing smile breaking the tension.

"And you're still the millionaire."

"Minor detail." Scott laughed, a short but genuine sound, and pressed a quick kiss to Kip's lips. "I'll call you."

"Alright." Kip pulled him back for a second, the next kiss lingering longer, more affectionate, as if he wanted to leave a piece of himself with Scott for whatever was to come.

Scott smiled against his lips before pulling away for real. He opened the door and stepped out into the penthouse's private hallway, his footsteps echoing in the silence. His phone was already in his hand, the screen lighting up his face as he waited for the elevator.

Carter V. | Getting to the arena in 10.

Scott H. | Just left the house too.

Kip couldn't be there—Scott wouldn't allow the league commissioner near him, not after everything. But Vaughny would be. If Scott were fired, the captaincy would officially pass to his friend. Carter deserved to be present, to witness the end of one era or the beginning of another.

The elevator arrived. Scott stepped in, pressed the button for the ground floor, and leaned against the mirrored wall as the eighteen floors began to descend.

Eighteen floors take time.

Enough time to do what he had been avoiding since he woke up.

Scott opened Instagram.

What he saw made his breath catch for a moment.

Several accounts had been created overnight. RoyalHunter_Fanclub. Scotty_Pride_NYAdmirals. NYAdmirals_PrideClub. ScottHunter_Fanclub. HockeyAdmirals_Girlies. AdorablePride_NYAdmirals. The list went on. All of them with tags, messages of support, posts celebrating what had happened on the ice. Videos of the kiss between him and Kip—from every imaginable angle—multiplied across his timeline. Professional images captured by photographers accompanied essays about how that moment would change the future of hockey.

A post from the account RoyalHunter_Fanclub caught his eye:

"There is nothing wrong with you, but there is a lot wrong with the world we live in. And it is better to be hated for what you are, than loved for what you are not."

Scott took a deep breath, the air coming out shaky. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before liking the post.

His DMs were a mess. Thousands of message requests, notifications piling up at a speed he couldn't track. Scott scrolled down aimlessly until a random name caught his attention.

Chris_Alien21.

He opened it.

Chris_Alien21 | Hey Scott, I know you'll probably never even read this, but I just wanted to say anyway that what you did on the ice yesterday was really important to me. I just turned seventeen and I've known I was gay since I was twelve, but I never had the courage to tell my parents, I never knew their opinion on the matter, I was always afraid of what they might say, do, or how they'd act. But last night, watching the game with my dad on TV, the moment you pulled your boyfriend—I assume he's your boyfriend—and kissed him in the middle of the rink, right next to the cup... my dad spit out all his beer and laughed out loud and said, "I already loved this guy, now I love him even more. That's what I call courage, that's what I call setting an example," and it was right there, with you on TV, that I got the courage to tell him I'm gay. I know this might be kinda irrelevant in the life of an elite league player, but you took a weight off my shoulders without even knowing me. Truly, thank you, Scott. I wish you and your boyfriend all the success and happiness in the world. And congrats on the cup!

The elevator kept descending, but Scott no longer felt the movement.

He read the message once. Twice. Three times.

On the third time, something broke inside him.

Scott pulled the elevator's emergency stop switch, halting the descent on the twelfth floor. The mechanism groaned, the elevator stopped with a gentle jolt, and Scott let his back slide down the mirrored wall until he was sitting on the cold floor.

A tear fell.

Then another.

He sobbed—a muffled, strange sound that echoed off the walls of the small space. The phone screen still showed Chris's words, and Scott read them one more time as the tears wet his face.

His fingers trembled when he started to type.

S_Hunter21 | Hey, Chris. I don't have the words to tell you how happy I was to read your message, and even happier to know I could do something for you, to ease that weight. And I thank you for telling me this, truly. May you have a brilliant future and may you be yourself without fear of what people might think. Fear is strong, but courage is even stronger. Hugs.

Send.

The elevator remained stopped on the twelfth floor for a few more minutes. Scott stayed there, sitting on the floor, his back against the mirror, his phone resting on his knees. The tears kept falling, but they were different now. Lighter.

When he finally pushed the switch back in and the elevator resumed its descent, Scott looked at his own reflection in the mirrors. Red eyes. Wet cheeks. A small, but real, smile on his lips.

For the first time since he woke up, he didn't think about being fired.

He thought about Chris. About Chris's dad. About all the other Chrises that might be out there. The elevator doors opened on the ground floor. Scott wiped his face with the back of his hand, took a deep breath, and stepped out.

The phone in his jacket pocket seemed to weigh more than it should. Scott crossed the building's lobby with automatic steps, the cold marble beneath his feet echoing in the quiet morning. He waved to John, the morning shift doorman, who raised his hand in response with a smile beneath his gold-embroidered red Admirals cap. The old man must have seen the interview, must have known everything—but he didn't say a word, just waved, and Scott was grateful for that silent discretion.

The car was parked in front of the building, black and discreet as always. Jeremy was already waiting by the open rear door, his suit impeccable even on a Saturday morning, his hands clasped in front of him. Scott got in without a word, sinking into the soft leather of the seat as Jeremy carefully closed the door and walked around the vehicle to take the wheel.

The engine started with a soft purr.

"To the arena, Mr. Hunter?"

"Yes, Jerry." Scott sighed deeply, the air filling his lungs in a deliberate effort to slow down what was already starting to race inside him.

Jeremy adjusted the radio volume to low pop music—something soft, inoffensive—and the car slid into the New York morning traffic. Outside, the city followed its indifferent course: yellow cabs honking, pedestrians jaywalking, the pale sunlight trying to pierce the clouds.

Inside the car, the silence was only an illusion.

Scott's mind was running a million miles a minute.

What if Crowell is already there? What if he looks at me with that disdain I saw in the eyes of some of those reporters? What if the league has already made up its mind before I even open my mouth?

His leg started to bounce, an involuntary movement he couldn't control. His knee went up and down in a frantic rhythm, his foot tapping against the floorboard in a drumbeat muffled by the mat.

Fifteen years. A fifteen-year career. Titles, records, leadership. All of it could end because of a kiss. Because of who I love.

Scott ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his eyelids as if he could force the thoughts to stop. It didn't work. It never worked.

Chris. The seventeen-year-old kid who was able to come out because of me. What if I get fired? What if my example is used against me? 'Look what happens when you're brave, look what happens when you're true to yourself.'

His breathing grew shallower. He noticed it, tried to control it, but his chest felt too tight for the air to get in properly.

Kip at home, waiting. Kip trusting that I'll call with news. What if the news is bad? What if I have to look him in the eye and tell him I lost everything?

The bouncing of his leg sped up. Scott bit his lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood when the skin broke.

The team. The guys. Vaughny, Greg, Eric. How am I going to look them in the face if they strip my C? How am I going to sit in the locker room knowing I'm not the captain anymore? Knowing I might not even be a player anymore?

The pop music kept playing quietly on the radio, a happy, carefree melody that clashed violently with the whirlwind inside his head. Jeremy drove in silence, his eyes on the road, professional as always. He had no idea what was happening in the backseat.

Todd's message. 'I don't know.' He's never said that before. He always knew. Always had an answer, a plan, a strategy. Now he doesn't know. What does that mean?

Scott felt cold sweat break out on the back of his neck, dripping slowly down his spine. His hands were freezing, his fingers intertwined in his lap in a grip that almost hurt.

What if I never step on the ice again? What if the arena shuts its doors on me? What if the fans who were shouting my name yesterday shout 'faggot' tomorrow, like those guys at the exit?

The image of the torn jersey came back—the number 21, the name HUNTER crossed out, the word FAGGOT written over it. Scott squeezed his eyes shut, but the image remained burned behind his eyelids.

Breathe. Breathe. You promised Kip you'd call. Promised it didn't matter what the outcome was. But it matters. It matters so much that I don't know if I can breathe right thinking about it.

His chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm. His free hand went to his neck, his fingers pressing lightly as if he could feel his racing pulse. It was. Of course it was.

What if I pass out right here? What if Jerry has to take me to the hospital instead of the arena? What a beautiful headline that would be: 'Gay captain has panic attack before meeting with league commissioner.'

The thought was acidic enough to tear a sound—half laugh, half sob—that escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Jeremy glanced quickly in the rearview mirror.

"Everything alright, Mr. Hunter?"

Scott swallowed hard. Forced a nod.

"Everything's fine, Jerry. Just... thinking."

The driver nodded and turned his eyes back to the road, but Scott saw the fleeting worry in his gaze. Even Jeremy knew. Even Jeremy had to be wondering what would happen to the man he drove every morning.

The bouncing of his leg didn't stop. His breathing remained shallow. His relentless mind kept spinning in a spiral that seemed to have no end.

How much time is left? How much time until the car stops? How much time until I know if my life is over or if it can keep going?

Scott looked out the window. The city passed by, indifferent. And there he was, in the backseat of a black car, trying not to fall apart before the battle had even begun.

[...]

At his father's house, Kip was sunk into the living room couch, the beige upholstery already marked by decades of use and comfort. He was sitting next to George—the old man with gray hair and stubble, his eyes glued to the large-screen TV he had finally agreed to buy after years of resistance—and Megan, who had obviously shown up to visit her father and brother after the shock of the previous day. His older sister had driven across town as soon as she heard the news, armed with indignation and an uncontrollable need to see with her own eyes how her brother was handling his newfound fame.

Each of them had a plate of pasta with white sauce balanced in their hands—George's specialty, prepared with the care of someone who cooked better than he talked about his feelings. Three bottles of beer rested on the coffee table, next to a coaster that no one was using. On the floor, stretched out like a living rug, Cinderella—Megan's gray Weimaraner—snored softly, her paws twitching every now and then after imaginary rabbits.

"Am I going to get pissed off at this interview or not?" George asked his son, his gaze still locked on the screen where the ESPN logo spun before the commercial break ended. He twirled his fork in his plate with the precision of someone with years of practice, rolling the pasta into a perfect formation.

Kip sighed, and the sound carried all the uncertainty of the morning.

"Honestly, I don't know." He brought the fork to his mouth, chewing without tasting. "He didn't tell me anything about what he's going to say today."

Megan snorted, grabbing her beer with her free hand.

"I still haven't accepted it." The statement was dramatic, her eyes wide in deliberate exaggeration. "My little brother is dating a famous, millionaire hockey player and I'm dating an engineer." She turned to her father, her free hand outstretched in a comical appeal. "Dad, do something!"

"Shut up." Kip laughed, a hand covering his full mouth, crumbs of cheese threatening to escape.

Megan laughed along, the sound echoing through the room and making Cinderella perk her ears up for a second before going back to sleep.

"Andrew has his qualities," Kip defended him, swallowing his pasta.

"I know he does." Megan rolled her eyes, but the smile remained. "He's my boyfriend. But yours' quality is the zeros before the decimal on his bank account."

"Megan!" George tried to sound reproachful, but a laugh escaped before he could stop it. "Don't talk about the boy like that."

"I'm kidding, Dad." She took a sip of her beer, her eyes returning to the screen. "But I'm also not."

Kip shook his head, but his smile didn't fade. It was good to be there. The normalcy of his dad's house, the smell of white sauce, his sister's affectionate teasing. It all kept his feet on the ground while his head threatened to float away to uncertain places.

The commercial ended. The screen cut to the ESPN studio, the anchors making the transition with the ease of people who had been doing this for years.

"And now, the most anticipated moment of the week," the blonde anchor announced, her professional smile in place, "an exclusive interview with Admirals captain Scott Hunter, accompanied by alternate captain Carter Vaughn, talking about their Stanley Cup victory and, of course, the moment that stopped the hockey world."

Kip felt his stomach tighten. He set his plate down on the coffee table, his hunger suddenly evaporated.

The image cut to the secondary studio, a more intimate set with leather armchairs and a low table. Scott was sitting in one of them, Carter by his side. Both were wearing understated button-down shirts, nothing too flashy—the right choice for an interview that was supposed to be about hockey.

But that wasn't all.

Next to Scott, in another armchair, was Roger Crowell.

Kip sat up straighter on the couch.

"Who's that?" Megan asked, noticing the change in her brother's posture.

"League commissioner," Kip answered, his voice tighter. "The one who told Scott to stay quiet."

"Yikes." George whistled low. "That changes things."

On the screen, the interviewer—a middle-aged man with thin-rimmed glasses—began his questions. They started with the obvious: the season, the playoffs, the final game. Scott answered with his usual ease, Carter chiming in here and there, the two sharing the spotlight with the natural flow of guys who had been playing together for years.

Kip relaxed slightly. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe Crowell was just there to show institutional support.

"And, Scott," the interviewer shifted his tone, the smile still present but his eyes sharper, "I couldn't help but ask about the post-game moment. The kiss. The images went all over the world. What do you have to say about that?"

Scott opened his mouth to answer.

Crowell leaned forward before any sound came out.

"It's a moment that, obviously, took everyone by surprise," the commissioner intervened, his voice smooth but undeniably authoritative. "But the league is completely focused on what matters: the Admirals' historic victory and the exceptional performance of Captain Hunter and his team."

Kip felt his blood run cold.

"Of course, of course." The interviewer nodded, but didn't back down. "What about you, Scott? What did you feel in that moment?"

Scott looked at Crowell for a fraction of a second—so fast it almost went unnoticed. Almost.

"It was..." Scott began.

"It was a moment of pure emotion," Crowell cut in again, now with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And we understand that, in the heat of victory, people do things they perhaps wouldn't do under other circumstances."

"That's not exactly what I..." Scott tried again.

"What I mean to say," Crowell continued as if Scott hadn't spoken, "is that the league values the privacy of its players. What happens off the ice stays off the ice. And we fully support Scott's right to have a personal life, whatever that may be."

The word "whatever" hung in the air like a choked-on toad.

Megan whistled low.

"That old man isn't going to let him talk, is he?"

Kip didn't answer. His eyes were glued to the screen, fixed on Scott's face, on the way his jaw clenched.

"But returning to what matters," Crowell continued, now taking the reins of the interview completely, "the big story here is winning the Stanley Cup. And we are certain that the fans are eager for next season, where the Admirals will attempt to defend their title."

The interviewer hesitated, clearly picking up on the game being played.

"And Carter?" He tried a different approach. "What did you think of your captain's moment? Do you support your captain?"

Carter looked at Scott. Then at Crowell. Then back to the interviewer, and something shifted in his face—a silent decision being made.

"I thought it was the bravest thing I've ever seen anyone do." Carter's voice was calm, but every word was a declaration. "And I thought my best friend deserved to be able to be himself, without having to ask anyone's permission."

Crowell pressed his lips together in a minimal gesture.

"And, of course, congratulations to Carter as well on his season," the commissioner picked back up, deflecting the attention. "A brilliant performance in the playoffs."

"He didn't answer my second question," the interviewer observed, a slight smile now on his lips.

"I believe he did." Crowell kept his tone professional, but something harder hid between the lines. "And now, if I may, I would like to speak a little bit about the league's initiatives for next season..."

Kip turned off the TV.

"Kip!" Megan protested.

"I've seen enough." He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his eyelids. "He's not going to be able to talk. Not today."

George put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"What are you guys going to do?"

"We're going to wait." He replied, his voice steadier than he felt. "And when the time comes, he's going to talk. And there won't be an old man in the world who can shut him up."

[...]

Scott sat in one of the auditorium chairs, the hard plastic seat uncomfortable against his back, which was still sore from a bad night's sleep. Carter took the seat to his right, Eric to his left, and Greg sat next to Carter, messing with his phone with suspicious intensity ever since they left the locker room. Muffled giggles escaped Greg's lips every few seconds, interspersed with dramatic sighs that did not go unnoticed.

The other three exchanged a synchronized look. They craned their necks toward Greg's phone, trying to spy on the screen without being noticed.

"Who's Laura?" they asked in unison, mischief stamped on their faces.

Greg jumped in his seat, the phone disappearing into his pants pocket in a move worthy of a magician. He stared at the three of them with wide eyes.

"Your mom."

The other three burst out laughing, drawing looks from other players in the nearby seats.

"Spill it," Carter teased, poking Greg's arm. "We saw the stupid smile on your face."

"I don't know what you guys are talking about." Greg turned his face away, but the red creeping up his neck gave everything away.

Before they could continue the torture, movement on the stage caught their attention.

Murdock was hugging one of the girls from Vivid Memory—a young woman with long braids in her natural hair, purple streaks reaching down to her waist, and gold hoop earrings. The coach's smile was pure paternal pride.

"Man, I remember when she started riding a bike..." Eric muttered, his eyes glued to the scene. "I am so old."

Scott chuckled softly.

"We're getting old, man."

"I gave her that bike!" Eric added, genuine shock in his voice. "She was so tiny... now she's almost my height."

"Murdock genetics," Carter noted. "She wasn't going to escape it."

The rest of the team settled into their seats, occupying entire rows with their large bodies and contained energy. The projector above the stage turned on, the white screen lighting up with The Parade's logo.

Two young men stepped up to the podium.

The first wore standard casual clothes—jeans, a black t-shirt, sneakers—the kind of look that went unnoticed in any New York crowd. The second was impossible to ignore: hair dyed in a gradient from purple to pink, eye makeup, a bright pink septum piercing, and a rainbow-printed t-shirt that seemed to speak with his every move.

"Good morning, players," the colorful guy began, his voice firm but welcoming. "My name is Billie, I'm one of the founders of The Parade, and my boyfriend, Charlie, and I were asked by Coach Murdock to have a little basic lesson with you guys."

The girls from Vivid Memory took the empty seats in the front rows. Murdock stood next to his daughter, arms crossed, talking quietly to her in a tone that mixed pride and protection.

Charlie—the guy with the understated look—took the floor, walking across the stage with a laser pointer in his hand. The projector behind him now showed the full LGBTQIA+ acronym, with each letter highlighted.

"The basics." He pointed the laser at the L. "What does the L stand for?"

A hesitant silence hung in the air for a second.

"Lesbians?" someone ventured from the back, his voice doubtful.

Charlie nodded in agreement.

"Our dear sisters. Women, or female-aligned people, who are attracted to women or female-aligned people." He paused, a smile on his lips. "Without them, a lot of things wouldn't be around today, but that's a conversation for another time."

The laser pointed to the G.

"What does the G stand for?"

"Gay," Scott answered before he even realized he had opened his mouth.

Charlie nodded, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

"Exactly." He pointed the laser at his boyfriend. "Billie is gay, and so am I." He paused, letting the information settle. "But I immediately noticed the looks from a lot of you here. The difference between looking at Billie and thinking, 'obviously he's gay,' and looking at me and thinking, 'seriously, he's gay?'"

A few players shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"That's not necessarily your fault," Charlie continued, his voice softer. "It's ingrained by society that gays have to like pink, glitter, flashy things, talk loudly, act more feminine..." He raised his hands in a gesture asking for attention. "But here's the thing: being gay doesn't make us women. We are still men, who like other men. Nothing more than that."

Billie took over from the podium, where he was controlling the laptop connected to the projector.

"I bet a lot of you, unconsciously or consciously, have given a dirty look to a guy who acted 'delicately'." His voice was different from Charlie's—more performative, more theatrical, but equally sincere. "A teammate who wore a certain outfit, and the jokes followed."

He pointed to himself.

"Not all gays fit the stereotype created by Hollywood. I am like this, all colorful, loud, and flashy, because it's my way of existing in the world." A wide smile. "And let's be real, this is New York. I'm probably the most normal person on the subway at eight in the morning."

Laughter echoed through the auditorium. Some players visibly relaxed.

Charlie resumed pacing the stage, his steps measured.

"Gays can be masculine, like the way I act." He pointed to himself. "No one would judge me as gay if they didn't already know it when I walked in. Or at least assume it, since I came here with a group called The Parade."

He stopped walking. His gaze met Scott's for a brief moment—too fast to be accidental, too long to be casual.

"I grew up in a house where hockey games were more sacred than Christmas." Charlie's voice shifted, became quieter, more personal. "My dad and his four brothers. Each of my uncles with their two sons, and my dad with me and my two brothers, fiercely watching hockey. Things got ugly when it was Admirals versus Scouts..."

A few players laughed, recognizing the rivalry.

"When I came out, I was prepared to be thrown out of the house," Charlie continued, and the auditorium fell silent. "Rejected by my dad's family, because I heard the comments. 'That faggot can't play.' 'That pansy can't defend properly.' Referring to a bad performance in a game."

Scott felt his stomach tighten.

"And that was in my house." Charlie looked out at the audience, his eyes scanning row by row. "As the only queer person there." A pause. "I can barely imagine the psychological damage it was to hear that in your workplace all the time. And not be able to say anything, without risking everything."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Charlie didn't need to look at Scott again. Everyone in the room knew who those words were really meant for.

"And the word gay can also be used by lesbians to refer to themselves," Charlie continued, the laser pointer dancing over the screen, "because it simply means a person who is attracted to the same gender they identify as."

He pointed to the next letter.

"Does anyone know what bisexual means?"

"Orange and banana," someone yelled from the back, an anonymous voice amidst the rows.

Charlie laughed, a genuine sound that broke whatever remaining tension there was.

"Not wrong."

Laughter echoed through the auditorium, looser now, more comfortable.

"A bisexual person is someone who is attracted to more than one gender." Charlie took a dramatic pause. "In my view, some lucky motherfuckers."

More laughter. Scott noticed that some of the players around him relaxed their shoulders, their expressions less defensive.

The laser continued its journey across the acronym, finding the T.

"Want to take a guess?"

"Trans...gender?" Carter tried, his voice hesitant.

Billie nodded from the podium, an encouraging smile.

"Everyone treats it like a seven-headed monster, but it's simply a person who doesn't identify with the gender they were assigned at birth," Charlie explained with a simplicity that made the matter seem obvious. "Yes, you can ask."

All eyes instinctively turned to the back of the auditorium, where Niel had his hand timidly raised.

"Whoa, don't look at me, you fuckers," he said, the red creeping up his neck.

Laughter echoed, breaking the momentary tension.

"But, hold on..." Niel continued, his voice firmer now. "What's the difference between trans and the rest? Because I thought it was just about what you were into, not about gender."

"Excellent question." Charlie pointed the laser at Niel as if rewarding a student. "In the community, there are topics about sexuality, which is, simply put, what everyone likes to eat." He waited for the chuckles to pass. "And topics about gender identity, which is like the clothing we choose to wear to be seen by society. So, trans people can have their gender identity as A and their sexuality as B. One doesn't cancel out the other. Often, they complement each other."

Scott felt something click in his head. It was so simple when someone explained it like that.

"I'm feeling really stupid right now," Greg muttered, his eyes glued to the stage, fully focused for the first time since they walked into the auditorium.

"If I start drooling, punch me," Carter said in the same tone.

"Only when you drool? Can't it be right now?" Eric teased.

Carter flipped him off without taking his eyes off the stage.

Billie advanced the slide with a click on the laptop. The smile that appeared on his face was diabolical—the kind that precedes a bomb dropping.

The simple four-letter acronym on the screen morphed into an entire line of letters.

Scott's eyes went wide instantly. Around him, his friends gasped and their jaws dropped in a chorus of collective shock.

"Your faces!" Billie let out an amused laugh, pointing at the audience. "I love watching straight people freak out when they discover there are more letters."

"Is that a Wi-Fi password? With all due respect," someone asked behind Scott.

"It's our Wi-Fi password," Charlie joked back, a boyish smile on his face. "Anyone want to guess what the Q is?"

Dead silence. No one answered. Some looked like they were doing mental math to figure out if they had enough life experience to risk a guess.

"Queer." The voice came from the front rows, firm and clear.

Tasha was standing next to her dad, her purple braids falling over her shoulders.

"People who don't fit into traditional boxes of gender or sexuality," she explained, her eyes shining with the sudden attention. "It's an umbrella term."

"Killed it, queen." Billie snapped his fingers in her direction, a performative and affectionate gesture.

Tasha smiled, flattered. Murdock, beside her, looked just as impressed as the rest of the auditorium. He raised his hand, and his daughter met it with a resounding high-five.

"So, let's give you guys an example," Billie continued, reclaiming the audience's attention. "Charlie and I are a gay couple, made up of two gay men." He pointed to himself and his boyfriend. "However, it's not entirely accurate to refer to a couple of two men as a gay couple all the time, because one of the people could be bisexual, or even both. So, if you're not sure, 'queer couple' would be the term." He paused. "Queer bar, queer club, queer space."

Scott was simply shocked. There was so much more to the world beyond his hockey bubble. So much more than he had ever imagined.

"Does anyone know what the I is?" Billie asked.

Charlie pointed the laser at the letter on the screen. This time, the silence was absolute. A few players looked over at the girls from Vivid Memory, hoping they would help out again, but the women just smiled, delighting in watching everyone's brains working until smoke came out their ears.

"Didn't think so," Billie continued. "I is for intersex. People born with sex characteristics that don't fit typical definitions of male or female."

"In school, it used to be called hermaphrodite," Charlie added.

An "ahh" of collective understanding rippled through the auditorium.

"The A?" Charlie pointed the laser.

"Asexual." The answer came fast, and everyone turned to look at Eric.

The goalie resolutely ignored the stares of his three friends beside him.

"I majored in English," he explained, giving a shrug. "The 'a' at the beginning indicates negation."

"Correct, Silver Fox," Charlie praised, and Eric chuckled at the nickname. "Asexuals are people who experience little to no sexual attraction to others." He paused, the wicked smile returning. "And spoiler: straight people can be asexual."

The information hung in the air like a minor revolution.

Scott looked at the screen, at the endless string of letters, at the two guys on stage who explained everything so naturally. He felt small for a moment—but not in a bad way. It was the kind of smallness that came with the realization that the world was bigger than he thought, and that there was still so much to learn.

"Does anyone else have questions?" Billie asked, his arms open wide.

Several hands shot up across the auditorium. Charlie surveyed the forest of arms with a satisfied smile.

"Easy, easy." He made a gesture asking for patience. "Let's take one question at a time." He pointed to Jensen, in the third row. "You."

Jensen lowered his hand, scratching the back of his neck.

"It's just... like, we've always said certain words. 'Faggot,' 'queer,' 'pansy.' Forever. In the locker room, on the ice, among ourselves." He looked around, as if seeking backup. "And it was never meant to actually offend anyone. It was just... a way of talking. But you sir—" he quickly corrected himself, "—but you said that it causes damage. What do you mean?"

Charlie exchanged a look with Billie before answering. It was Billie who took the floor, stepping away from the podium and walking to the edge of the stage.

"Sit up straight because this is a long story." He waited for the shifting in the seats to settle. "Let's do an exercise. How many here have been called 'faggot' or 'queer' in your life?"

A few hands went up, hesitant. Then a few more. By the end, almost half the team had a hand in the air.

"And how many have been called that in a context that actually hurt?" Billie continued.

The hands went down. Some faces grew more serious.

"Right." Billie nodded, understanding. "Now imagine hearing that every single day. At school, on the street, at home. Imagine that the word you use to mock a buddy who missed a pass is the exact same word someone used to humiliate a fifteen-year-old kid until he believed he deserved to die."

The silence in the auditorium was absolute.

Charlie resumed his center position.

"Words have weight." His voice was deeper now, less performative. "I know it sounds like high school teacher talk, but it's the truth. When you call someone a 'faggot' because they fucked up on the ice, you are saying, even without meaning to, that being gay is equivalent to being bad. That it's shameful. That it's a joke."

"And it's not just with gay men." Tasha stood up from the front rows, walking up the stage stairs in a decisive movement. Murdock watched her with a mixture of pride and surprise. "It's with women too."

She stood next to Charlie, her purple braids swaying.

"'Hits like a girl.' 'Cries like a girl.' 'Little woman.' 'Sissy'." She listed them off, ticking off each item on her fingers. "All of that is used to belittle. To say that being a woman is being fragile, is being inferior. And you might think, 'oh, it's just an expression,' but it's not."

Tasha pointed to the audience, her finger scanning the rows.

"How many here have heard a dad, uncle, or older man say 'you look like a woman' to criticize another man? How many have heard in the locker room 'so-and-so played like a little girl'?" She waited, but no one answered. "You don't need to raise your hands. We know the answer."

Billie rested a hand on Tasha's shoulder, a gesture of partnership.

"Tasha brings up a crucial point. Misogyny—the hatred or contempt for women—goes hand in hand with homophobia. Because deep down, it all boils down to: 'being a real man means being like this, masculine, averse to the feminine, and anything outside of that is grounds for mockery and humiliation'."

Charlie nodded, adding onto it.

"And the problem isn't just the joke itself. It's the environment those jokes create." He looked directly at Scott for a moment. "When a player hears 'fag' and 'queer' all the time in the locker room, even if it's not directed at him, what does he learn? He learns that being gay is shameful. He learns that if they find out he is, he'll be the target of those jokes. He learns that it's better to stay quiet."

"And then," Tasha continued, "when someone finally has the courage to come out, like Scott did, he's already spent years hearing that what he is is a joke. He's already spent years being afraid. He's already spent years hating himself in silence."

She pointed to the team.

"You may not have been the direct authors of that hate, but if you stayed quiet, if you participated in the jokes, if you normalized the language... you helped build the prison that kept your captain in the closet for over a decade."

The silence weighed like concrete.

Greg swallowed hard next to Scott. Carter averted his eyes to the floor. Eric pressed his lips into a thin line.

"I'm not saying you're monsters." Tasha softened her tone. "I'm saying you were raised in a world that teaches this. And now you have the chance to learn differently."

Billie nodded.

"Charlie talked at the beginning about growing up in a house full of hockey fans. About hearing 'that faggot can't play'." He paused. "When we hear these things since childhood, we internalize them. We learn that there's something wrong with us. We learn to hate ourselves before we even understand why."

"And that hate," Charlie continued, "it doesn't just stay hidden. It overflows. Into depression. Into anxiety. Into attempts to..." He didn't finish the sentence, but everyone understood.

Tasha took a step forward.

"With women, it's the same thing. How many of you—" she corrected herself, "—how many people know women who gave up on careers because they heard that 'a woman's place isn't there'? How many know women who feel less capable because they grew up hearing that 'women can't drive,' 'women don't understand hockey,' 'women are too emotional'? I've been told throughout my life, me, that I don't understand hockey, and every single one of you here is coached by the man I call my father."

"And all of this," Billie added, "seems harmless. Seems like a joke. Seems like 'just a way of talking.' But when you hear it every day, every week, every year, it becomes the truth. It becomes the chain that traps you in a place that isn't yours."

Charlie took a deep breath.

"We're not here to make anyone feel guilty about the past." His voice was calm, almost gentle. "We're here to give you the tools for the future. Because now you know. Now you can no longer say 'I didn't know'."

Billie nodded in agreement.

"Policing yourselves isn't hard. It's just paying attention. Before saying 'that's gay shit,' think: 'why am I associating this with being gay? What do I actually want to say?'"

"Before saying 'hits like a girl'," Tasha added, "think: 'why is hitting poorly a woman thing? What woman do I know that proves that?'"

"And when you hear someone talking shit," Charlie concluded, "don't stay quiet. It doesn't have to be a big speech. It can just be, 'man, what a shitty joke.' It can just be a look. But don't stay quiet. Because silence speaks too. And what it says is 'I agree'."

The auditorium remained silent for a long moment.

It was Willis, the twenty-year-old rookie, who broke the silence.

"What if we say the wrong thing by accident?" His voice was lower, more insecure. "Like, if we grew up talking a certain way and... I don't know, it just slips out?"

"You apologize." Tasha answered simply. "You say, 'my bad, I didn't mean it.' And you try not to do it again." She smiled, and it was a kind smile. "No one expects you to become activists overnight. They just expect you to try. Don't fall for that 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks' stuff. My dad learned." A few chuckles rang out, mostly Murdock's.

"And a tip," Billie added, "when you don't know, ask. I prefer a thousand 'stupid' questions over a silence that perpetuates ignorance."

Charlie looked at the team, his eyes scanning every face.

"Scott took a giant step on Friday. A step that will change his life and, hopefully, open doors for others." He paused. "But your step is just as important. Because there's no point in him coming out of the closet if the environment stays the same. There's no point in him being brave if everyone around him keeps acting like nothing has changed."

Billie chimed in:

"Change isn't individual. It's collective. And it starts with small things. Like choosing your words more carefully. Like not laughing at the homophobic joke. Like supporting the teammate who can finally be himself."

Tasha took a step forward, her hands clasped in front of her.

"We don't expect perfection. We expect effort." She looked at her dad for a moment, and Murdock nodded almost imperceptibly. "And from what I've seen today, you guys are on the right track. Just being here, listening, is already more than a lot of teams would do."

A different kind of silence settled in. It wasn't the heavy silence from the beginning, but a processing silence, of swallowing new information and trying to fit it into old mental structures.

Scott cleared his throat.

"I..." He began, and every head turned toward him. "I wanted to say thank you. To you guys." He looked at Charlie, Billie, and Tasha. "For coming here. For explaining. For..." He searched for the words. "For not giving up on us."

Charlie smiled, a genuine smile.

"We only give up on people who don't want to learn. And you guys are here." He looked at the team. "You're listening. You're asking questions. That's already more than a lot of people do."

Billie clapped his hands once.

"Well then... any more questions? Or should we let you go early so everyone can process this info dump?"

A few laughs relieved the tension. Hands went up again.

And the lesson continued.

"Alright, I think we've talked enough about the acronym for today." Billie took a step back, opening up the stage. "Now I'm going to hand the floor over to the people who really understand this next topic."

He gestured toward the front rows, where the members of Vivid Memory were waiting. Four women stood up in sync, walking up the stage stairs with the confidence of people who were used to occupying spaces—and not asking permission to do so.

Tasha took the lead, positioning herself in the center. The other three—a Black woman with short curly hair, a white woman with thick glasses and tattoos crawling up her arms, and an Asian woman with a bold, angled bob haircut—spread out behind her, forming a support line that looked rehearsed.

"Vivid Memory," Tasha began, her voice clear and firm, projecting effortlessly through the auditorium, "is a feminist collective that works primarily in schools and corporate settings. We do what we call 'accessible deconstruction'." She smiled, and the smile broke down any initial defenses. "Which is basically taking complicated concepts and translating them into the language of people who have never studied this in their lives."

The Black woman with short hair stepped forward, her large earrings swaying with the movement.

"I'm Keisha." She pointed to herself casually. "And I'm going to start with a simple question: how many of you here have sisters?"

Almost all the players raised their hands. Some with more enthusiasm, others with the hesitation of someone who already suspected where this was going.

"Moms?"

Every hand, except Scott's.

"Girlfriends, wives, daughters?"

More hands. Some of the younger guys hesitated, but the majority confirmed.

"So everyone here has at least one important woman in their lives." Keisha crossed her arms, her gaze sweeping over the audience like a scanner. "Now think: how would you react if someone treated that woman the way you treat the women who cross your path on the street?"

The silence was immediate. Cutting.

"Because there's a thing called 'internalized misogyny'," Keisha continued relentlessly. "It's the stuff we learn without realizing it. That women can't drive. That women are too emotional. That a woman at the wheel is a constant danger." She paused, letting the phrases hang in the air. "Jokes. All jokes. But they construct a reality. They build a world where your sister, your mom, your girlfriend are seen as less capable before they even open their mouths."

The woman with the glasses and tattoos took over, stepping up next to Keisha.

"I'm Maya." Her voice was quieter, more restrained, but equally firm. "And I want to talk about objectification. About how you learned to look at a woman as an object before learning to look at her as a person."

She pointed to the team, her finger trailing across the rows like a silent accusation.

"How many of you here have catcalled a woman on the street?"

The discomfort was palpable. Some eyes averted to the floor, to the walls, to anywhere but the stage. Others held firm, but their clenched jaws gave away their unease.

"You don't need to answer." Maya smoothed things over, but her tone brought no relief. "But think about it: what did you expect to happen? That she was going to think it was cool? That she would thank you? That she would consider it a compliment?" She shook her head slowly. "The woman who gets whistled at on the street doesn't think 'what a compliment.' She thinks, 'is he going to follow me?' 'Is he going to approach me?' 'Am I safe?'"

The Asian woman with the angled bob stepped forward, positioning herself next to the others.

"I'm Jae." She paused, letting her name land. "And I want to talk about what happens when objectification meets power." She looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. "How many of you have ever worked with women on the coaching staff? How many women have ever had an active voice on this team?"

Absolute silence.

"Exactly." Jae nodded, unsurprised. "And it's not a coincidence. Sports, especially hockey, is one of the most masculine and misogynistic environments that exists. The few women who make it there are treated as secretaries, as decorations, as 'the team mom,' reduced to a WAG. Rarely as professionals. Rarely as equals."

Tasha retook the center, the four women now forming a cohesive line.

"We aren't here to accuse anyone of being a sexist." She explained, her voice softer but equally sharp. "We are here to show you how sexism operates. How it's so normalized that we don't even realize we're reproducing it."

She began to pace back and forth on the stage, her steps measured, her purple braids swaying.

"You're in an environment where the worst thing you can call a man is a 'woman'." She pointed at the audience, her finger steady. "'Hits like a girl.' 'Cries like a girl.' 'Sissy.' 'Little girl.' What does that say about how you view women?"

"It says that being a woman is being inferior," Keisha answered, even though she hadn't been asked, her voice echoing in the silence. "It says that traits associated with women—sensitivity, emotion, fragility, care—are flaws. They're things a man needs to run away from."

"And then," Maya continued, her tone more acidic, "when a woman cries at work, she's 'hysterical.' When a man cries, he's 'human.' When a woman is assertive, she's 'bossy.' 'Difficult.' 'A bitch.' When a man is assertive, he's a 'leader.' He's 'decisive.' He 'has personality'."

Jae pointed to the audience, a curt movement.

"How many of you have ever interrupted a woman in the middle of a sentence?" She waited, but no one answered. "How many have ever explained something to her that she already knew, as if she needed help? As if her intelligence was naturally lower than a man's?"

Some players shifted in their seats, their large bodies seeming uncomfortable in their own skin.

"You don't need to answer that either." Jae smiled, but it was a humorless smile, the kind that accuses without needing words. "Just think about it."

Tasha stopped pacing. She stood perfectly still in the center of the stage, hands clasped in front of her.

"We're going to give you some concrete examples. Things you can change starting tomorrow." She held up one finger. "One: stop using 'woman' as an insult. Seriously. It's simple. When you criticize someone, criticize the action, don't compare it to a gender. 'You played badly today' is a critique. 'You played like a girl' is sexism."

Keisha held up a second finger, her long dark fingers contrasting against the stage lights.

"Two: listen to women. Really. When a woman speaks, don't interrupt. Don't explain what she just said back to her. Don't wait for her to repeat it three times to take it seriously. If she is in a room, it's because she has the capacity to be there."

Maya held up a third finger, the tattoos snaking up her arm.

"Three: notice the division of invisible labor. Who cleans the locker room? Who washes the uniforms? Who organizes things? Who remembers everyone's birthday? If it's always women, ask why. And if it's men, ask why the men only do the visible work and the women do the invisible work."

Jae held up a fourth finger, her angled haircut accentuating the movement.

"Four: when you hear a sexist joke, don't laugh. You don't have to give everyone a moral lecture, you don't have to become a keynote speaker, but don't validate it. An uncomfortable silence speaks volumes. A quietly muttered 'that's a shitty joke' says even more."

Tasha lowered her hand, but her fifth finger was already ready.

"Five: and perhaps the most important one—treat the women around you as complete people. With opinions, with desires, with capability, with flaws, with humanity. Not as prizes to be won. Not as objects to be looked at. Not as supporting characters in your journey. As people."

She looked at the team, her eyes scanning every face with an intensity that made sure to catch each one.

"We know that changing is hard." Her voice softened, but didn't lose its firmness. "That there are things we learn as kids and don't even realize are wrong. That there are jokes we tell without thinking, that there are words that slip out without malice." She paused. "But the good news is that you can learn. You can change. You can be better. You can unlearn what's wrong and learn what's right."

Keisha took a step forward, standing next to Tasha.

"Tasha mentioned you having important women in your lives. Sisters, mothers, girlfriends, daughters." She gestured openly to the audience. "If you can treat female strangers with the same respect you treat the women you love, the world already changes. If you can treat the women who cross your path the way you'd want your mother, your sister, your daughter to be treated, the change is real."

"And it's not about being nice," Maya added, her glasses reflecting the stage lights. "It's about being fair. It's about recognizing that women deserve to occupy the same spaces as you, with the same freedom, without fear, without having to prove anything other than their own competence."

Jae finished, her voice quieter but equally powerful:

"It's about understanding that the problem isn't 'a few bad men.' The problem is a system that teaches all men, even the 'good' ones, to see women as less. As sidekicks. As support. As prizes." She paused. "And unlearning that is an everyday job."

Tasha took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling in a movement that seemed to recalibrate her energy.

"We're going to open up for questions now." She looked at her companions, who nodded in agreement. "But I want to make one thing clear: sincere questions are welcome. Questions from people who really want to understand. Questions meant to challenge or provoke, no. We are not here to entertain debates with sexists."

The auditorium remained silent for a long moment. The weight of what had been said seemed to have materialized in the air, thick, present.

Then, slowly, a few hands began to rise.

The first hand to go up was Jensen's, in the back of the auditorium. He waited for Tasha to point in his direction before speaking.

"Uh... I have a sincere question." He scratched the back of his neck, the gesture giving away his nerves. "We always joke around a lot here in the locker room. Between us, you know? And there are jokes involving women, yeah. But it's between us, it's not in front of any woman. Is that still a problem?"

Keisha tilted her head, processing the question before answering.

"I'll answer that with another question." She took a step forward. "If you make a racist joke among white friends, but never in front of a Black person, does the joke stop being racist?"

Jensen opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Nothing came out.

"You don't need to answer." Keisha continued, her voice gentler. "The point is that the joke doesn't lose its meaning just because the target isn't listening. What it does is normalize that mindset. It creates an environment where that is acceptable. And that environment, it spills over. It shows up in your eyes, in your tone of voice, in the way you guys treat women when they actually are around."

Maya added onto it, her glasses flashing under the light.

"And there's more: when you make those jokes among yourselves, you are training each other to view women that way. You are reinforcing that it's normal. That it's acceptable. That 'it's just a joke'." She paused. "But it's not just a joke. It's the construction of a worldview."

Jensen nodded slowly, processing.

Another hand went up. This time it was Novak, one of the veterans, known for being on the quieter side.

"What about when we try to change?" he asked, his voice deep. "Like, I grew up in an environment that was exactly like that. My dad, my uncles, my brothers. Everything was a joke. Everything was just 'guys messing around.' Now I'm sitting here listening to you guys and thinking, 'fuck, I've done a lot of shitty things without even realizing it.'" He paused. "How do you deal with the guilt? Because knowing that you did wrong... weighs on you."

Tasha exchanged a quick look with her companions. It was Jae who answered.

"Guilt is useless if it only paralyzes you." Her voice was firm, but not harsh. "The guilt that turns into learning, that turns into change, that turns into action... that's the kind that's useful. No one here expects you to have known everything since forever. We expect that, once you know, you change."

"And changing," Maya added, "is uncomfortable. There will be times when you say stupid shit by accident, you get corrected, you feel embarrassed. It's part of the process. The important thing is not to repeat it."

Keisha nodded.

"We don't measure a man by what he did before he knew better. We measure him by what he does after he learns."

Novak remained silent, but his look was that of someone carving every word into his brain.

A hand went up further down, from one of the youngest players, Anderson.

"What about when the chick—" he corrected himself quickly, "—when the woman is flirting with us? Like, how do we know if we can make a move or not? Because there's this whole thing now about... what's it called... consent?"

Maya smiled, but it wasn't a mocking smile.

"Good question." She adjusted her glasses. "Let's take it in parts. First: do you guys know the difference between flirting and harassment?"

Silence.

"Flirting is when both people are interested. When it's mutual. When the other person shows comfort, interest, a desire to continue the interaction." She counted off on her fingers. "Harassment is when you insist even when it's not mutual. When the person changes the subject, deflects, tries to leave the situation, and you keep going."

Jae added:

"A simple tip: if you have to ask if it was harassment, it probably was." She let the information sink in. "And another thing: 'no' is a complete sentence. It doesn't need an explanation. It doesn't need a justification. It's not 'no because...'. It's just no."

Anderson nodded, still thinking.

"And how do we know if the person is interested?" he insisted.

"Pay attention," Keisha answered simply. "Does she maintain eye contact? Does she step closer? Does she initiate conversation? Does she reply to your texts with interest or with one-word answers?" She shrugged. "Most women spend their lives learning how to give subtle signs of discomfort, because reacting explicitly can be dangerous. Learning to read those signs is your responsibility."

Tasha stepped back to the center.

"And one important thing: just because a woman was nice to you doesn't mean she's interested. A store clerk, a waitress, a coworker—being polite is part of their job or just basic social decency. Don't confuse politeness with flirting."

A few more hands went up. The questions came in a steady stream—some naive, some more pointed, all answered with the same patience and clarity.

"What about this 'toxic masculinity' stuff?" someone asked from the middle of the audience. "We hear that term all the time, but it sounds like they're saying that being a man is toxic."

Tasha shook her head.

"That's not it," she explained. "Toxic masculinity is the set of expectations that society places on men. 'Men don't cry.' 'Men don't show weakness.' 'Men have to be strong all the time.' 'Men must always be ready for sex.' 'A man can't turn down a woman's advances because that would be weird'." She listed them off. "That is toxic. Toxic for you guys, who live under that pressure, and toxic for the women around you, who deal with the consequences."

"Being a man isn't toxic," Maya added. "Being a man is just being a man. What's toxic is the script they tell you that you have to follow."

Jae took a step forward.

"And an important part of that script is hypersexualization. The idea that a man must always be ready, always interested, always wanting." She pointed to the audience. "That affects you guys too. How many here have felt pressured to 'hook up' with someone at a party even when you didn't want to? How many have hidden the fact that you weren't in the mood because you'd get made fun of?"

The silence that followed was different. More intimate. More personal.

"Think about it," Jae concluded. "Sexism hurts you guys too. It just hurts in a different way."

The auditorium was silent for a long moment. The words hung in the air, heavy, real.

It was Scott who finally spoke.

"I..." He began, his voice raspier than usual. "I spent years hearing this kind of thing. In the locker room. On the ice. Among the guys. And I laughed along. I participated." He swallowed hard. "Because if I didn't laugh, if I didn't participate, they'd get suspicious. They'd ask why the captain wasn't laughing at the gay joke."

He paused, his eyes fixed on the floor for a moment.

"And I hated every second of it. But I laughed. Because it was either that or expose myself." He looked up at the stage. "So, when you guys talk about the damage those jokes cause... I feel it in my bones. Because I lived it for over a decade."

The silence that followed was absolute. Different from all the others.

Tasha took a step forward, her eyes shining.

"Thank you, Scott." Her voice was soft. "For speaking up. For making this real for the people who still didn't understand."

Keisha added:

"This is why we are here. Because behind every joke, every word, every 'harmless prank,' there are people suffering. There are people hating themselves. There are people hiding."

Maya looked at the team, her eyes scanning every face.

"You have the chance to be different. To build an environment where the next Scott doesn't have to hide. Where the next kid who walks into this locker room can be who he is from day one."

Jae finished:

"The choice is yours."

The silence lingered for a few more seconds. Then, slowly, clapping began to echo through the auditorium. It wasn't rehearsed or obligatory applause. It was genuine applause, from people who had just received information that would take time to fully process.

Murdock, who had remained silent in the back until then, took a step forward.

"We are going to make this a regular thing," he announced, his voice firm. "Seminars, conversations, discussion groups. Anyone who wants to dive deeper will have the space to do so. Anyone who has questions will have a place to ask them." He looked at the team. "Because a team isn't built just on the ice. It's built here too. In respect. In partnership. In the desire to be better."

The applause grew louder.

In the middle of the audience, Scott felt Carter's hand squeeze his shoulder. On his other side, Eric nodded slowly, his eyes glued to the stage.

Kip opened the penthouse door with the smooth motion of someone who already knew the sound of the lock, the familiar click that announced his arrival. The apartment was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon, the last rays of sun streaming through the windows and painting the living room in shades of orange and gold.

There was Scott. Sitting at the kitchen island as if he had been there for hours—and he probably had. The open laptop in front of him illuminated his face, his eyes glued to the screen, one hand absentmindedly scratching his stubble.

"Babe?" Kip called out softly, taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook near the door. His keys jingled as they dropped into the ceramic bowl in the entryway. "Whatcha doing?"

He walked around the bookshelf that divided the living room, that floor-to-ceiling structure filled with books and objects Scott had accumulated over the years, and stopped behind his boyfriend. He rested his hands on the back of the stool, leaning his body to peek at the screen over Scott's shoulder.

"Why are you reading an article about misogyny?"

Scott jumped, the most genuine scare Kip had seen out of him in weeks. His whole body jolted on the stool, his hand flying to his chest in a dramatic gesture.

"Fuck, you scared me."

Kip burst out laughing, the sound filling the kitchen. He leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to Scott's cheek before pulling out the stool next to him and sitting down.

"Murdock took advantage of the fact that Crowell went to Boston," Scott began to explain, his eyes still a little wide, "and called two groups in to give a seminar to the team."

"Two groups?" Kip prompted, crossing his legs under the stool.

"One of them was a feminist group." Scott pointed at the laptop screen. "Tasha, Murdock's daughter, is part of it. They talked a lot about misogyny inside the locker room and how it ties into homophobia." He paused. "So I'm reading more about it."

Kip listened intently, his eyes fixed on Scott's face. He blinked slowly, processing the information, and felt a small smile forming on his lips. Not a mocking smile, but something warmer.

"Is it weird that it turns me on to know you're studying?"

Scott let out a surprised laugh, shaking his head as he closed the laptop in a decisive motion. His hand found its way to Kip's leg instantly, his fingers warming up the denim.

"And the other group?" Kip asked. "What was it about?"

"Gays," Scott answered quickly, but then held up a finger, correcting himself. "Queers."

"Oh, my God." Kip let out a laugh of disbelief, tilting his head back. "And what did you learn?"

"That... I am very stupid."

Kip shook his head, laughing hard, and leaned in to capture Scott's lips in a kiss. Soft. Affectionate. Lingering.

"You're not stupid," he murmured against his boyfriend's mouth, his eyes still closed. "You're just... uninformed."

Scott laughed, the vibration passing between them.

"Found out there aren't just four letters in the acronym?" Kip teased.

"Yes," Scott admitted, almost embarrassed. "It looks like a Wi-Fi password." He paused. "There's a number. What the fuck is the 2 in the middle of the acronym?"

"Two-spirit," Kip answered, laughing. "It's an Indigenous spiritual thing, don't worry about it right now."

He gave Scott another kiss, quicker, and pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

"And how did the team react to the seminar?"

Scott pressed his lips together, shaking his head gently from side to side. It was the movement of someone weighing the pros and cons.

"They seemed to understand. Some more than others." He shrugged. "Some, I'm sure they won't even remember the names of the girls or the guys. But... it's a waste of time arguing with people like that."

Kip gave a crooked smile, approving of the stance.

"I talked to the guys from The Parade after the seminar," Scott continued, his voice lower now. "One of them, Charlie, said his family freaked out on Friday. And all he could think about was how I was going to feel afterward."

Kip held Scott's hands, intertwining their fingers.

"Because he grew up hearing homophobic comments," Scott went on, "and was afraid to come out and put a face to the slur. His face." He swallowed hard. "He imagined the same thing with me. That all the locker room jokes would resonate with me. I was..." He searched for the words. "He didn't even know me and he was already thinking about that."

Kip stroked the backs of Scott's hands with his thumbs, in slow, circular motions.

"Sometimes, people change when they find out that what they do hurts someone they care about," he said, his voice soft. "And sometimes, people like Charlie exist to remind us that we aren't alone."

Scott squeezed his hands in response.

"I saw the picture the team posted this morning." Kip shifted his tone, a smile reappearing. "What the fuck was that?"

Scott laughed, hunching over their intertwined hands, his body folding with the memory.

"It's a tradition to mess with the guy who starts dating someone," he explained. "They fill your locker with balloons, slime, or powders that explode when you open it." He shook his head, still laughing. "I did that for fifteen years to all those guys. Never thought they'd get the chance to do it to me."

"Apparently, they did."

"Apparently, they did."

Kip paused, his eyes gleaming.

"Eric texted me saying the WAGs want to add me to the group chat."

Scott let out a surprised laugh, his eyebrows shooting up.

"And do you want to join?"

Kip shrugged, a studied movement.

"It's the group chat for everyone dating a player on the team." He ran his hands up Scott's arms, his fingers gently squeezing his toned biceps, feeling the solid muscle beneath the skin. Then he kept going up, to his shoulders, his fingers tracing hot trails. "Last time I checked..." He leaned in, his lips brushing Scott's ear. "I'm not just dating a player."

Scott held his breath.

"I'm dating the captain of the team."

The silence that followed was filled by Scott's gaze, which shifted from something soft to something much darker in a matter of seconds.

"Are you trying to start something you won't be able to finish before dinner?" Scott asked, his voice deeper.

Kip smiled, slow and teasing.

"Who said I want to finish before dinner?"

Scott pressed his lips to Kip's in a movement that was both urgent and deliberate, as if he needed the contact to remember he was alive. Kip's hands cradled his face, his fingers getting lost in the stubble, his palms hot against his jaw.

The stool creaked as Scott stood up, but he didn't even notice. His hands found Kip's waist and pulled, lifting his boyfriend off the stool as if he weighed nothing. Kip wrapped his legs around the player's waist in a fluid motion, his ankles crossing behind Scott's back, his arms looping around his neck.

Their lips kept fighting with each other—a delicious battle that neither of them wanted to win. Hot, tasty, soft kisses, interspersed with nibbles and hitched breaths that mixed in the tiny space between them. Scott's taste still carried traces of afternoon coffee, and Kip felt his own heart beating in his throat.

Scott started walking.

Eyes closed, confident, he navigated the path he knew by heart—the kitchen island, the edge of the living room rug, the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He knew every corner of that penthouse like he knew his own hands. He didn't need vision to know where he was.

His hands squeezed Kip's ass through the denim, his fingers curving into the firm flesh, pulling him even closer. Kip moaned against his mouth, a muffled sound that vibrated on both their lips, and Scott responded with a low grunt, the vibration echoing in his chest.

"Bathroom," Scott murmured against Kip's lips, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.

"Great," Kip replied, already biting Scott's lower lip and tugging.

Scott pushed the master bathroom door open with his shoulder, the frame giving way with a dull click. The room was spacious, light marble, large mirrors, a floor-to-ceiling glass shower. But neither of them was interested in the decor right now.

He backed Kip against the cold wall next to the sink, finally parting their lips long enough to pull in some air. Scott's eyes roamed over his boyfriend's face—the swollen lips, the dark eyes, the rapid breathing making his chest rise and fall.

"Beautiful," Scott murmured, almost without realizing he was speaking out loud.

Kip smiled, slow and full of implications, and pulled Scott back into another kiss.

Scott carefully set him down, his hands still firm on Kip’s waist as he slid his boyfriend’s body downward until his feet touched the cold bathroom floor. For a moment they stood face to face, heavy breathing filling the silence, their eyes locked as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Scott’s hands moved to Kip’s belt.

Agile fingers—used to tying skates and adjusting gear on the ice—worked the buckle with controlled urgency. The leather gave. The button popped open. The zipper slid down in one smooth motion.

At the same time, Kip’s hands found the hem of Scott’s shirt and pulled it upward, his fingers brushing the skin of his abdomen along the way. The shirt rose, revealing the defined torso, the marks of old battles—hockey scars, recent scratches, skin dotted with small imperfections that told stories.

Their lips parted only for logistics. Scott lifted his arms, letting Kip pull the shirt over his head, messing up his hair in the process. Meanwhile Kip’s jeans slid down his legs, his underwear going with them in a heap of fabric on the floor.

Scott wasted no time. His hands grabbed the waistband of his own shorts and pulled them down quickly, kicking free of the fabric.

For a second—just one second—they stood there naked in front of each other. The soft bathroom light bathed their skin, creating shadows and contours, highlighting every muscle curve, every line, every point where their bodies seemed made to fit together.

Kip took the first step, reaching out to open the shower door. Steam began forming as he turned the handle, hot water cascading from the ceiling showerhead. The sound filled the room—a white roar that drowned out the world outside.

Scott stepped in first, feeling the scalding water hit his back in perfect contrast with his still-cool skin. He turned and extended a hand to Kip, pulling him inside.

The water struck Kip’s body, soaking his hair, running down his face, shoulders, tracing random paths along his skin. He blinked the water from his eyes and found Scott already looking at him.

Their lips met again.

Different from before—less urgent, deeper, slower. As if they had all the time in the world. Water ran between them, warm, creating a bubble of intimacy that shut out the rest of the universe. Scott’s hands found Kip’s waist, pulling him closer, while Kip’s slid up his boyfriend’s chest, fingers tracing lines across wet skin.

Steam filled the shower, fogging the glass and creating a private world where only the two of them existed.

“You should study more often…” Kip murmured against Scott’s skin, his voice muffled but perfectly audible in the small space.

He kissed his way from lips to neck, tracing a wet line that could have been shower water or his tongue—hard to tell, too good to question. Scott let out a sighing laugh, his head falling back against the cool tile.

“Athletic, strong, hot, and smart?” Kip continued, his lips brushing skin as he spoke. “I picked the right guy.”

“Kip…” Scott breathed, the name leaving him more like a moan than a word.

The shorter man bit his neck—not hard, just enough for teeth to mark skin and send a shiver through Scott’s entire body. Scott’s hands rose instinctively, finding Kip’s curls, now loosened by the water, the strands sliding through his fingers like wet silk.

Kip kept going.

Kisses and licks moved across Scott’s chest, his tongue tracing slow circles around each nipple before gently nibbling them. A louder groan escaped the captain, echoing off the tiled walls, muffled by the water’s sound. His back hit the wall behind him as his legs threatened to weaken.

Kip simply continued.

Warm lips moved across every ridge of Scott’s abdomen, tracing the defined line that split his torso, feeling the skin shiver beneath the touch. With every inch lower he went, Scott’s breathing grew more uneven, his hands sinking deeper into the wet curls.

Until Kip was on his knees.

Water streamed down his body, over his shoulders, down his back, forming small cascades that disappeared into the drain. He looked up to meet Scott’s gaze—and even with water running down his face, even with wet lashes stuck together, the look he gave him was pure fire.

In front of him, Scott’s erect length pulsed, expectant.

Kip smiled—a slow smile full of promises—and leaned forward, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of Scott’s thigh in a touch that was almost a tease. The warm breath against wet skin made Scott shiver, his fingers tangling deeper in the loosened curls.

“Kip…” The name escaped again, now more urgent, more needy.

Kip looked up, meeting Scott’s gaze. Water ran down his face, sliding over lips that curved into a mischievous smile.

“So impatient, captain.”

He placed a slow, deliberate kiss at the base, feeling Scott’s body tremble in response. Another kiss, higher. And another. Until his lips reached their final destination and—finally—he took Scott into his mouth.

The groan that escaped the player was loud and raw, echoing against the tile walls. His head knocked softly against the wall behind him as his eyes squeezed shut, the sensation taking over. Kip’s mouth was warm, wet, perfect—and the way he moved, slow at first, exploring, teasing, was almost cruel.

“Fuck…” Scott gasped, his hands gently guiding the rhythm, not forcing, just holding.

Kip answered with a movement that made Scott arch against the tile. His tongue traced paths as his head moved up and down in a rhythm that seemed designed to drive him insane.

After a moment—seconds or eternity—Kip pulled back, releasing Scott with a wet sound. He looked up again, lips swollen, water running down his face.

“Like that?” he asked hoarsely, provocatively. “Or do you want more?”

Scott laughed shakily and pulled Kip’s hair a little harder.

“If you stop now, I swear I’ll—”

“Do what?” Kip interrupted, the wicked smile returning. “Pin me to the floor? Make me beg?”

“I’ll throw you off the penthouse.”

Kip laughed, but the sound died when Scott pulled his head back where he wanted it.

This time Kip sped up. Deeper. More intense. His free hand found Scott’s balls, massaging gently while his mouth worked. The player’s moans filled the shower, mixed with the sound of water and the small noises Kip made—sounds that vibrated and sent waves of pleasure through Scott’s body.

“Like that…” Scott gasped between breaths. “That’s it… fuck, Kip, like that…”

Kip looked up again, and even with his mouth occupied, his eyes said everything: I know exactly what I’m doing.

One of Scott’s hands left Kip’s hair and found the wall behind him for support as his legs threatened to give out. The sensation built, gathered, pressed for release.

“Kip…” The warning came urgently. “I’m going to—”

Kip didn’t stop. If anything, he sped up, his hand tightening, his mouth working in a relentless rhythm.

“Come,” he murmured against the skin, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. “Come in my mouth, Scott. I want to feel it.”

That was enough.

Scott came with a groan that was almost a shout, his whole body tensing against the wall, fingers digging into Kip’s hair in a grip that probably hurt. But Kip didn’t complain. He just continued—gentler now, slower—drawing out every wave until Scott finally relaxed, panting, his body softening against the tile.

Kip rose again, kissing his way back up—abdomen, chest, neck—until he found Scott’s lips. The kiss was slow, almost lazy, full of the taste of both of them.

“If I was stressed, I don’t even remember why…” Scott murmured against Kip’s lips, his voice still rough and lazy with recent pleasure.

Kip chuckled softly, a warm sound vibrating between their mouths. Without breaking the kiss, he took Scott’s hand and guided it to his own cock—hard, pulsing, a silent proof of what the moment had stirred in him.

Scott didn’t need any more encouragement.

In one fluid motion, he turned Kip around, switching their positions against the tiled wall. His hands were firm on his boyfriend’s hips, guiding, positioning. Kip let out a surprised laugh that quickly turned into a moan when his back hit the cool tile.

The kiss grew urgent again as Scott moved down—lips following the familiar path: neck, chest, abdomen—in a repetition of what Kip had done minutes earlier, but with a new urgency, a need to give back every sensation.

Soon Scott was kneeling.

Water streamed down his body, over his shoulders and back as he looked up at Kip. The player’s smile was pure mischief, promise and provocation in equal measure.

“My turn.”

Scott leaned forward, his lips brushing the inside of Kip’s thigh in a touch that was almost teasing. The warm, wet skin trembled beneath him and he smiled against it, savoring the reaction.

“Scott…” Kip gasped, his head falling back against the tile.

“Hmm?”

Scott placed a slow kiss on the right thigh. Then another on the left. Climbing millimeters at a time, never going straight to the point, always teasing, always delaying.

“You idiot,” Kip groaned, his hands finding Scott’s wet hair. “Stop torturing me.”

“So impatient.” Scott repeated the words Kip had used earlier, the smile evident in his voice. “Where’s that guy who was so smug five minutes ago?”

“He died. Now suck.”

Scott burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the shower—but he obeyed.

When he finally took Kip into his mouth, the moan he got in return was everything he wanted—loud, raw, shameless. Kip’s hands tightened in his hair, not to guide, just to hold on, as if he needed an anchor.

Scott started slow. Relearning the rhythms, the sounds, the small tremors that showed what worked. His tongue traced paths while his head moved up and down in a rhythm he controlled with an athlete’s precision—each motion calculated to maximize the effect.

“Like that…” Kip gasped, hips moving involuntarily. “That’s it… fuck, Scott…”

Scott glanced up. Seeing Kip from that angle—head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth parted, water running over his body—was almost as good as the taste. Almost.

He went deeper, taking him to the back of his throat, and the groan he got vibrated through his entire body.

“Jesus,” Kip whispered, his legs threatening to give out. “How are you so good at this?”

Scott pulled back just enough to answer, voice hoarse:

“A lot of practice. With you.”

And went back to work.

This time he sped up, his free hand finding Kip’s balls, massaging in the same rhythm. The sounds Kip made now were continuous—moans, gasps, half-words that never quite formed.

“Scott…” The warning came in his voice, trembling. “I’m going to…”

Scott didn’t stop. If anything, he sucked harder, his tongue working, his eyes still fixed on Kip, watching every expression of pleasure cross his face.

Kip came with a groan that was almost a shout, his whole body tensing against the wall, fingers digging into Scott’s hair in a tight grip. Scott felt every spasm, every wave, and continued until Kip finally relaxed, panting, his body softening against the tile.

He rose again, kissing his way up until he found Kip’s lips. The kiss was slow, lazy, full of the taste of both of them.

“I’m seriously thinking you should study more often,” Kip murmured against his mouth, voice exhausted.

Scott laughed.

“I’ll put it in my schedule. Daily lessons with you.”

[...]

Kip opened the penthouse door, and the scene he found was familiar, but it never failed to warm something inside him. Scott was sitting at his desk in the corner of the living room—that dark wood desk he used as an administrative sanctuary—with his laptop open in front of him and an accounting notebook resting to the side. His pen glided across the paper with the precision of someone who took his finances as seriously as he took hockey.

Scott was extremely organized with his money. Almost obsessively so, actually. Kip had caught him several times making spreadsheets, checking bank statements, and categorizing expenses with a level of detail that would make any professional accountant blush.

But what really stood out in that scene—what really hit Kip like a punch to the gut every single time—were the glasses.

Prescription glasses. A discreet, dark frame that Scott only wore to read and crunch numbers. And which, for some reason Kip couldn't rationally explain, were the most attractive thing he had ever seen in his life.

Evil, he thought. Those glasses are evil.

"Hey," Kip called out, announcing his arrival as he took off his coat and hung it on the hook near the door. He crossed the room with slow steps, his eyes fixed on his boyfriend, taking in the scene. "Whatcha doing?"

"Hey." Scott turned his cheek at the exact moment Kip leaned in to kiss him, with a synchronicity that only daily practice allowed. "Making a donation."

"Aww, for what?" Kip peeked at the laptop screen, where a bank transfer page was open. "Tasha Murdock's foundation?"

"That event I told you about is hers." Scott handed him the flyer Murdock had given him, an absentminded motion as he kept filling something out in his finance notebook with his usual meticulous handwriting. "It's a fundraiser for young mothers in poverty and victims of domestic violence."

Kip raised his eyebrows, his eyes scanning the information on the flyer. The soft colors, the photos, the carefully written text.

"Wow," he murmured, impressed. "Any note from Crowell or the league about you doing this?"

Scott didn't hesitate.

"The only note from Crowell I'm eagerly waiting for is his obituary."

Kip let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the room, giving his boyfriend a light slap on the back.

"You're an idiot."

"But you love me."

"Unfortunately."

Scott chuckled softly, his eyes returning to the notebook.

"Todd said the league is giving me the silent treatment," he explained, more serious now. "Until I burn myself in the public eye."

Kip rolled his eyes, a quick motion full of disdain.

"Of course they are." He left the flyer back on the desk and was already heading toward the kitchen. "Suggestions for dinner?"

"Uhm... Indian?"

Kip stopped in his tracks, turning to face his boyfriend with a smile that lit up his entire face.

"This is why we're dating."

Scott laughed, shaking his head while Kip was already pulling his phone from his pocket to order delivery. The sound of fingers tapping on the screen filled the room, mixed with the clacking of the laptop keys.

Scott turned his attention back to his notebook, texting his accountant on his phone, giving the final instructions for the donation. Numbers danced before his eyes—amounts, categories, tax deductions. Things he mastered with the same ease he mastered a play on the ice.

That was when his phone vibrated with a video call.

Elena.

Scott answered with a tap, leaning the device against the desk lamp to keep his hands free.

"You bitch!" Her voice exploded from the other side, loaded with an irritation that seemed entirely genuine.

Scott raised his eyebrows, but didn't stop what he was writing.

"Hi, Elena."

Kip, who was coming back from the kitchen at that exact moment, stopped behind Scott and frowned at the screen.

"Why are you swearing at my boyfriend?"

"You bitches!" Elena corrected the insult, now expanded to include both of them. "You never tell a woman about an event she needs to get all dressed up for the week of the event?!"

Kip opened his mouth to answer, but Elena didn't give him a chance.

"Do you have any idea how complicated it is to book a hair salon, a manicurist, a makeup artist, find a dress, find shoes, and get waxed?" She gestured frantically, her eyes wide. "Of course not, because you're men! You shave over the sink and don't even remember to clean it up most of the time!"

Scott and Kip exchanged a quick look.

"...she has a point," Kip mumbled.

"Several, actually," Scott agreed.

"What?" Elena narrowed her eyes, suspicious of the sudden agreement.

"That we are terrible at giving a heads-up," Scott explained, finally dropping his pen and giving the screen his full attention. "And that you deserve time to get ready."

"Exactly!" Elena looked slightly satisfied with the acknowledgment, but was still glaring daggers at them. "So give me all the details RIGHT NOW. Date, time, dress code, if there's going to be a photographer, if it's an open or closed event, everything."

"It's on Friday," Scott began.

"SCOTT!"

"At night," he continued, unbothered. "Dress code... formal, I think. It's a fundraiser. There's an open bar, from what Carter said."

Elena stopped.

"Open bar?"

"Open bar," Kip confirmed.

She took a deep breath, clearly recalculating her annoyance.

"Okay. A little better. But still." She pointed a finger at the screen. "I'll forgive you this time. But I want all the details in writing. Now. I'm going to pass them on to Maria later."

"I'll send them," Scott promised.

"And I want to know what you guys are wearing so we don't clash."

"Elena..." Kip groaned.

"What? I have to make sure my photos look good. You two are ridiculously handsome, if you wear the wrong color you'll wash me out."

"We'll wear black," Scott offered.

"Black is neutral, that works." She nodded, calmer now. "Okay, I'll let you live. But on Friday I want to see everyone looking gorgeous."

"Deal," Kip laughed.

"And remember: pluck your eyebrows."

"Elena!"

"Bye, you beauties!"

The call ended before they could reply.

Kip rested his chin on Scott's shoulder, both of them staring at the dark phone screen.

"She's a force of nature," Scott murmured.

"That's why we love her."

"We?"

"I do. You're afraid of her."

Scott laughed, turning his head to meet Kip's lips in a quick kiss.

"I love her too. Just don't tell her."

"Think she's going to hook up with Carter again?" Kip asked, his eyes still on his phone as he finalized the delivery order. The tone was casual, but the smile accompanying the question was pure teasing.

Scott laughed, a wicked sound that echoed in the corner of the room.

"Are we rooting for this couple or not?"

"He seems ready to settle down." Scott swiveled his chair, pushing away from the desk to face Kip head-on. He crossed his arms over his chest in a relaxed movement. "Since that night at Parallel, he hasn't mentioned a single woman." He paused, his eyes following Kip as he typed. "Greg is also talking non-stop to some girl named Laura."

Kip raised his eyebrows, interested.

"Laura? From the club?"

"The very one," Scott confirmed, laughing. "Geez," continued, shaking his head. "I never thought my friends and I would all start dating at the exact same time."

Kip put his phone in his pocket and rested his hands on his hips, his gaze fixed on Scott.

"What about Eric? He's married, isn't he?"

"Married is a strong word."

Kip's eyes widened, his expression shifting from casual to absolute curiosity.

"What does that mean?"

Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture Kip already knew well—the gesture of someone about to talk about something delicate.

"He and Holly have been more like friends than husband and wife for a few years now," he explained. "They tried therapy, but it didn't work out." He shrugged. "I've told him that right now, they should think about what's best for E.J. and Crystal. Whether it's having their parents married or not."

Kip crossed his arms, processing the information.

"Yikes..." he murmured. "Well, at least a divorce wouldn't be an ugly legal battle. They seem like sensible people."

"They are," Scott confirmed. "It's sadder than a fight, actually. Watching two people who love each other figure out that they don't love each other the way they need to anymore."

Kip fell silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Scott with an expression that was hard to read.

"How old are the kids?"

"E.J. is nine and Crystal is turning seven," Scott replied, and then added, almost as an aside: "I'm her godfather."

Kip gave him a glare so withering that Scott physically felt the impact.

"Don't look at me like that." Scott defended himself, hands raised in surrender. "Eric's kids were never a topic we talked about!"

"You bastard," Kip cursed, but the smile he was trying to hide proved the annoyance was more feigned than real.

"I'm serious!"

"Sure." Kip stepped closer, stepping between Scott's legs and resting his hands on his boyfriend's shoulders. "But the next time you find out you're someone's godfather, tell me immediately. Deal?"

"Deal," Scott agreed, his hands automatically finding Kip's waist.

"Because I'm going to need to know so I can buy birthday presents."

Scott laughed, pulling Kip closer.

"Turning seven on October 14th. Start taking notes."

"Noted." Kip leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Scott's lips. "Now let's eat because I'm starving."

"What did you order?"

"Chicken tikka masala, palak paneer, garlic naan, and samosas for an appetizer."

Scott looked at him with genuine admiration.

"Marry me."

Kip rolled his eyes, but the smile that escaped was massive.

"Dinner first, we'll talk about marriage later."

The curly-haired guy headed toward the kitchen with the lightness of someone who hadn't noticed the earthquake he had just caused.

Scott's stomach froze completely.

An instant chill, the kind that starts at the bottom of your belly and spreads in waves all the way to your fingers and toes. He realized what he had said—without thinking, without processing, without meaning to. The words had slipped out as if they were the most natural thing in the world, as if "marry me" was an everyday phrase, something you just throw out while talking about Indian food.

Marry me.

He had said it. Out loud. To Kip.

And Kip had replied "we'll talk about marriage later" as if he were talking about the weather.

Scott sat frozen in his chair, his eyes fixed on Kip's figure in the kitchen. He was opening cabinets, grabbing plates—the white ones, the everyday ones, not the special occasion ones—taking coasters out of the drawer, evaluating the fridge with the concentration of someone picking the right drink to go with dinner.

Acting normally.

Acting like nothing had happened.

He didn't notice, Scott thought, his heart still racing. Or he noticed and ignored it. Or he noticed and is waiting for me to be serious. Or—

"Sparkling water or beer?" Kip asked from the kitchen, his head still inside the fridge.

"What?" Scott replied, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal.

Kip emerged from the fridge with a bottle of water in each hand, looking at him as if it were obvious.

"Sparkling water or beer? To go with the food."

"Beer," Scott managed to articulate.

Kip nodded, put one of the waters back, and grabbed two longneck beers, setting them on the kitchen table alongside the plates and coasters.

Scott remained frozen in his chair, processing.

Marry me. I said marry me. Out loud. To my boyfriend. After less than a year of being back together.

But it wasn't really less than a year back together. It was 2013. It was 2013 and everything that came after. It was the breakup, the years of silence, the sporadic texts, the reconnecting, the boundaries set, the kiss on the ice, the night on the couch.

It was a history that spanned four years, even with intermissions.

Kip walked back into the living room, stopped next to the desk, and looked at Scott with his head tilted.

"Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Scott blinked. Several times.

"I..." he started, but the words wouldn't come.

Kip waited. Patient. His brown eyes locked on his, in no rush.

"I said 'marry me'." Scott blurted out, all in one breath.

Kip's expression didn't change.

"I know."

"And you said 'we'll talk about marriage later'."

"I know."

"And..." Scott swallowed hard. "And you're acting like it's normal."

Kip took a step forward, stopping next to Scott's chair. He leaned in, resting his hands on the armrests, his face inches away from his boyfriend's.

"Because it is normal," his voice was soft. "Us talking about marriage is normal. You blurting out 'marry me' in the middle of a conversation about Indian food is also normal, because you're impulsive and you speak without thinking when you're comfortable."

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Kip continued:

"And because, darling, I already knew this conversation was going to happen eventually." He smiled, a small, warm smile. "I just didn't know it was going to be today, in the middle of a takeout order."

"You're..." Scott swallowed again. "You're not freaked out?"

"Freaked out about what?"

"About me bringing up marriage."

Kip laughed softly, stepping even closer.

"Babe, I've loved you since 2013. We've already broken up and gotten back together. We've been through the closet, the silence, the fear." He rested his forehead against Scott's. "Marriage is the easy part."

Scott closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Kip's forehead against his own. His breathing, calm, steady. His familiar scent.

"I meant it," Scott murmured. "When I said that."

"I know," Kip replied. "That's why I said 'we'll talk about it later'."

"Later when?"

Kip pulled his face back just enough to look into Scott's eyes.

"After the awards ceremony. After the dust settles. After we find out if you still have a career or if you're going to have to become my sugar daddy."

Scott laughed, a wet sound, half a sob.

"You're an idiot."

"But you love me."

"I do."

Kip kissed his forehead, a lingering kiss.

"So now get up and come eat with me. The food gets here in twenty minutes and I'm not going to let you make yourself sick with anxiety over an unplanned proposal."

"Okay," Scott agreed, standing up.

But before he could take a step, Kip cradled his face in both hands and kissed him. Slow. Deep. Like a promise.

"We'll talk," Kip murmured against his lips. "But not today. Today we just eat, watch a stupid movie, and sleep holding each other."

Scott nodded, his hands finding Kip's waist.

"Deal."

"Great." Kip let go of his face and pulled his hand, guiding him into the kitchen. "Now come help me pick which stupid movie we're going to watch. And no suggestions from the Fast & Furious franchise."

"You're prejudiced against car movies."

"And you're prejudiced against dance movies."

"High School Musical is really bad."

"You don't understand art. I have a master's degree in art."

The argument carried on, light, absurd, as the two of them set the table and waited for the food to arrive. And in the midst of it, Scott felt the ice in his stomach melt away, replaced by a warmth that came from knowing Kip was still right there.

That Kip would always be there.

[...]

Scott sent the speech file to Todd shortly after ten in the morning. Clicking send was almost a sigh of relief—one more task completed, one more step toward the uncertain future that awaited him.

He spun around in his chair, placing his hands behind his head in a relaxed gesture, and let his eyes find Kip. His boyfriend was lying on the couch, scrolling on his phone with the peaceful expression of someone who had all the time in the world, waiting patiently.

"Done," Scott announced, a lazy smile on his lips. "What do you want to do?"

Kip took his eyes off his phone, immediate interest lighting up his face.

"There's a street art exhibition downtown today," he said, his voice laced with contained enthusiasm. "What do you think?"

Scott tilted his head, considering.

"Mmh, sounds interesting." He nodded, and something softer took over his expression. "It'll be nice to go out in the daylight with you."

Kip's smile widened, more excited now. He dropped his phone on the couch in a decisive movement and stood up, crossing the room with determined steps. Before Scott could process it, Kip was already straddling his lap on the office chair, his knees on either side of his thighs, the warm and familiar weight settling against his body.

Their lips met in a kiss that started soft and deepened in seconds.

Scott gasped against Kip's mouth, surprised but definitely not complaining. His hands found his boyfriend's waist in an automatic movement, then slid down—purposefully, deliberately—over the back of his sweatshorts, palming Kip's ass with a familiarity that only time and intimacy allow.

"Or we can do a little bit of this too," Scott murmured between kisses, his voice raspy, "I'm not complaining..."

Kip laughed softly, the sound vibrating against Scott's lips. His arms wrapped around the captain's neck, his fingers burying into his hair, pulling gently, deepening the kiss even further.

The chair creaked with the movement, spinning slightly under their weight.

"The exhibition," Kip managed to say between kisses, "doesn't start until two."

"Perfect," Scott replied, his hands squeezing the soft flesh beneath the shorts. "We have time."

"Hours."

"Hours."

Kip smiled against his mouth, a warm smile full of promises.

"Then stop wasting time talking."

Scott squeezed Kip's ass hard, a possessive grip that tore a muffled moan against his lips. In a fluid motion, he stood up from the chair, Kip's legs instantly wrapping around his waist in a reflex perfected by practice.

The office chair spun lonely behind them, forgotten.

Scott crossed the room in a few long strides, carrying Kip as if he weighed nothing—and to him, he really didn't. The destination was the chaise section of the sectional couch, that elongated part perfect for moments like this.

Kip's body was dropped against the soft upholstery in a movement that was at once controlled and urgent. Scott followed him immediately, covering him with his weight, his hands already finding their way back under the sweatshorts.

"Like this?" Scott murmured against his neck, his lips brushing the skin.

"Like this," Kip confirmed, his fingers buried in Scott's hair, pulling him closer.

Scott went down Kip's body like someone walking a sacred path—his lips finding the skin at every inch, tasting, marking. His jaw, his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He made sure to dedicate attention to each nipple, his tongue tracing slow circles until Kip started to writhe against the couch, his fingers gripping his hair in a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“Scott…” The name slipped out like a sigh, a plea.

Scott ignored it. Or rather, he answered with action: he kept moving down. Abdomen, the thin trail of hair disappearing into the shorts, the hip. When he reached the waistband, he tugged the elastic of the sweatpants down in a quick motion, freeing Kip.

Kip lifted his hips to help, his underwear going with it in a second movement. Now he was completely exposed, his skin prickling despite the warmth of the apartment, uneven breathing filling the silence.

Scott knelt on the rug.

The position was almost reverent—kneeling in front of Kip, eyes fixed on him, hands resting on his thighs. Morning light poured through the windows, bathing the scene in a golden tone that felt almost cinematic.

“So beautiful,” Scott murmured, more to himself than to Kip. “Mine.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of Kip’s thigh. Then another, higher. And another. Each kiss closer to its final destination, each one slower than the last.

“Scott…” Kip repeated, his voice more urgent now. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Stop torturing me.”

Scott smiled against his skin, a smile Kip felt more than saw.

“You love being tortured.”

And then, finally, he took Kip into his mouth.

The moan that escaped Kip was loud, raw, unashamed. His head fell back against the arm of the couch, eyes squeezing shut as the sensation took over. Scott’s mouth was warm and wet, and the movement—slow, deliberate, deep—was exactly what he needed.

“That’s it…” Kip gasped, his fingers burying themselves in Scott’s hair. “Like that…”

Scott kept the rhythm for a few moments, savoring it, teasing. Each descent went deeper than the last, his tongue working along with it, his lips tightening just right. The sounds Kip made—low moans, gasps, Scott’s name slipping out at irregular intervals—were the only music in the apartment.

“Scott…” Kip repeated, his voice breaking. “So good…”

Scott lifted his eyes, meeting Kip’s gaze over the line of his own body. Seeing Kip from that angle—head tilted back, eyes glassy, mouth parted, chest rising and falling in quick breaths—was almost as good as the taste. Almost.

He went deeper, taking Kip to the back of his throat, and the moan he got in return vibrated through his entire body.

“Fuck…” Kip whispered, his legs threatening to tremble. “Like that… don’t stop…”

Scott didn’t stop. If anything, he sped up, his free hand finding its way to Kip’s balls, massaging in the same rhythm. The sounds Kip made now were continuous—moans, gasps, half-formed words that never quite became sentences.

“Scotty…” The intimate nickname slipped out, his voice rough. “I’m close…”

Scott squeezed his thighs in response, a silent encouragement. He didn’t slow down. Instead he went even deeper, his tongue working along with it, his eyes fixed on Kip, watching every expression of pleasure cross his face.

Kip came with a moan that was almost a shout, his whole body tensing against the couch, fingers clenched in Scott’s hair in a pulling grip. Scott felt every spasm, every wave, and kept going until Kip finally relaxed, panting, his body going soft against the cushions.

He came back up slowly, kissing his way along the path—abdomen, chest, neck—until he found Kip’s lips. The kiss was slow, lazy, heavy with the taste of both of them.

“I love you,” Scott murmured against his mouth.

Kip laughed weakly.

“I love you too. Now get up here and let me breathe.”

Scott laughed and obeyed, lying down beside Kip on the couch and pulling him into an embrace.

“Still want to go to the exhibition?” Scott asked, his voice already sleepy.

“After a nap,” Kip replied, snuggling closer. “You exhausted me.”

“Good.”

At the end of the event, the buzz of the auditorium had turned into a scattered mass of conversations and laughter as the guests spread out across the lobby. Scott watched the scene with a tranquility he hadn't felt in weeks—the weight on his shoulders finally lighter, the air easier to breathe.

Greg was testing the weight of the trophy, bouncing it in his hand as if evaluating whether it was worth trying to lift it.

"Imagine drinking beer out of this." He raised the trophy like a giant mug, tilting it in an imitation of someone about to take a gulp.

"Alcoholic," Eric laughed, shaking his head.

"Not an alcoholic," Greg defended himself, carefully placing the trophy back on its pedestal. "Beverage enthusiast. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"The first word sounds more aggressive."

The four of them laughed together—Scott, Carter, Eric, and Greg, the hardcore nucleus of the Admirals gathered in a corner of the lobby. Scott kept his hands in his dress pants pockets, a peaceful smile on his face, occasionally waving at people who walked by and greeted him.

That was when his eyes found Rozanov.

The Russian was leaving the auditorium alone, phone in hand, his expression closed off in a habit Scott already knew well. The defensive posture, the gaze that avoided contact—everything about him screamed "leave me alone."

But Scott felt an urge. A need to talk to him.

"Be right back," he said to Carter, who already had his phone in hand. "Call the car to head to Kingfisher."

Carter nodded, his fingers already typing, while Scott walked away from the group toward the Russian.

"Rozanov."

The kid raised his blue eyes from his phone, surprised. For a moment, something resembling alarm crossed his face, but he controlled it quickly.

"Hunter." He put the device in his pocket. "Nice speech."

"Thanks." Scott nodded toward a more secluded corner of the lobby, and the two moved over there, stepping away from the flow of people. "I've been thinking a lot about the message you sent me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ilya replied a little too quickly, his expression carefully blank.

Scott held back a smile. Exactly as he had promised in the message—deny it to the death.

"Look, no pressure," Scott began, choosing his words carefully. "I don't know your life, you don't know mine. But if I can give you a piece of advice..."

He hesitated, looking at the twenty-six-year-old kid in front of him. So young. So stubborn, pretending there wasn't a storm raging inside him.

"It's terrifying," Scott continued. "And you're going to see a lot of doors not just closing, but being ripped off their hinges and thrown at your back." A pause. "But it's worth it. Being free from the restraints, the suffocation, the pressure... because nobody really cares."

Rozanov watched him in silence, his blue eyes locked on his.

"Crowell wanted me to believe that the fans were furious about the fact that I'm gay," Scott went on. "But every fan I've met since I came out has told me how beautiful, incredible, and important what I did was."

"His face was priceless," Rozanov commented, and a faint smile—the first genuine one Scott had seen on his face—appeared on his lips.

Scott laughed.

"He told me right before the ceremony started that he was glad I had kept my 'romantic choices' out of hockey." Scott imitated Crowell's pompous tone. "As if I chose to endure dirty looks and insults as a hobby."

"I am eagerly awaiting that asshole's death." Rozanov shook his head, the smile still there.

"Are you going to stop calling me old man?" Scott teased.

"Obviously not."

The two of them laughed together, a light sound that broke the tension between them. Rozanov held out his hand, and Scott shook it firmly.

"Again," Ilya said, "nice speech."

"Thank you." Scott let go of his hand, but didn't pull away just yet. "Like I said, your secret is safe with me, Ilya."

His first name seemed to catch Rozanov off guard. He blinked, something flashing across his face—surprise, maybe, or a glimpse of something deeper.

Scott took a step back, a teasing smile on his lips, and winked.

"Bye, Rozanov."

He turned and started walking back to the group, feeling the Russian's eyes on his back. He didn't look back. He didn't need to.

When he reached Carter and the others, Greg had the trophy again, now striking poses for a picture Eric was taking with his phone.

"Ready?" Carter asked.

"Ready," Scott confirmed. "Let's go?"

"Let's go. The car should be out front by now."

The four of them started walking toward the exit. Scott pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text.

Scotty ❤️ | I'm on my way. Prepare to be hugged.

The reply came in seconds.

Kip 🫐 | I'm already prepared. ❤️

Scott smiled and put his phone away. The night wasn't over yet.

[...]

Once at the Spanish airport, the first thing that hit Kip was the air—different, laced with a mix of jet fuel and an undefinable something that could only be Europe. The two disembarked with their carry-ons, retrieved their larger suitcases from the carousel with the precision of experienced travelers, and headed for the taxi line.

The driver who picked them up was a middle-aged man with a heavy accent and an easy smile. He hoisted their suitcases into the trunk with the agility of someone who did it hundreds of times a day, and soon they were weaving through the streets of Barcelona toward their hotel.

A forty-minute drive, according to the GPS.

The airplane food had been good—by airplane food standards—but not enough. The plan was simple: drop their stuff at the hotel, find a nice place to eat, rest a bit, and then explore Barcelona's nightlife. Nothing too structured, nothing over-planned. Just the two of them, a new city, and the freedom to explore it together.

Scott couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

It wasn't a huge smile, the kind that takes up your whole face. It was a quiet, contained, but genuine smile—one that lingered in the corners of his mouth while his eyes tracked Kip's every move.

Kip was glued to the taxi window.

His brown eyes took in every detail with a hunger that only someone who had always dreamed of this could have. The architecture of the buildings—some modern, others centuries old, all telling different stories. The fashion of the people on the sidewalks—colors, textures, styles you wouldn't see in New York. The atmosphere, the smell, the golden light of the late Spanish afternoon.

Everything was new. Everything was fascinating.

And all Scott could look at was Kip.

The way his eyes went wide when they drove past an ancient square. The way his lips parted slightly when he saw a particularly impressive architectural detail. The hand that, unconsciously, found Scott's every few minutes, as if he needed the contact to confirm it was real.

"Look over there," Kip pointed, pulling Scott from his thoughts. "The Barcelona Cathedral. We have to come back here during the day to get a good look."

"We will," Scott promised, squeezing his hand. "We have time."

Kip turned to him, and the smile that lit up his face was as bright as the Spanish sun.

"I'm in Europe, Scott."

"You are."

"In Europe. For real."

"You really are."

Kip laughed, a light, goofy sound, and went back to looking out the window. Scott kept looking at him.

There's no better view than this, he thought. There never will be.

Along the way, the driver proved to be one of those rare human beings who turns any taxi ride into a cultural experience. His English was precarious—broken phrases, jumbled words, lots of hand gestures to compensate—but that didn't stop him from striking up a conversation with the enthusiasm of someone who loved his city and wanted to share it.

Luckily, Scott spoke Spanish.

Something Kip definitely did not know.

The captain exchanged fluid sentences with the man, punctuated by laughs and nods, while Kip watched it all with a mix of admiration and surprise. When the driver finally bid them farewell with a wide smile and a "¡Que tengan una linda estancia!", Kip turned to Scott, his eyebrows raised.

"You speak Spanish?"

"I do," Scott replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Learned from some teammates over the years. And it helps with the games in Mexico, plus I've spent a few summers here."

"Of course." Kip shook his head in disbelief. "Of course you speak Spanish. Why wouldn't you?"

Scott laughed, grabbing their suitcases.

"He recommended a few restaurants near the hotel. Ocean view, Castilian atmosphere. Said they're a must."

"Do you trust him?"

"He had the eye of a guy who knows things." Scott shrugged. "And if it's not good, it'll be a story for your friends to laugh at us about."

Kip burst out laughing, and the two walked into the hotel.

The lobby was a mix of modern and classic—polished marble, understated chandeliers, a front desk that greeted them by name before they even handed over their IDs. Within minutes, they had their room key and were heading up in the elevator.

The first thing Kip did upon walking in was drop his backpack on an armchair and pull out his phone.

Scott was placing his suitcase on the bed, his body leaning over in a casual movement, the late afternoon light streaming in through the balcony and tracing a golden outline around his silhouette.

Click.

The picture turned out perfect—Scott in action, the scenery in the background, the promise of a spectacular view beyond the glass.

Kip posted it to his stories with the caption: "Him + Europe = 💖"

Seconds later, the replies started rolling in.

TheHotter_Swift | Oh that’s tasty 😏 and I’m not talking about the view… 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆

Kip laughed out loud, shamelessly liking his friend's message. Kyle was Kyle, and nothing would ever change that.

Rygg_El | What a gorgeous balcony!! Tell Scott to get out of the way, I want to see the beach view!

"Who's already messaging you?" Scott asked, pulling off his hoodie in a move that revealed the black t-shirt underneath. The fabric hugged his shoulders, simple, but on Scott, it looked anything but simple.

"Kyle obviously already talking about sex," Kip replied, shoving his phone into his shorts pocket. "And Elena complaining that you blocked her view of the balcony."

"Rude."

"Very."

Kip stretched, his arms reaching above his head in a move that made his shirt ride up slightly.

"Should we go eat? Because if I touch this bed, I'm not waking up until tonight."

"Let's go," Scott laughed, grabbing his wallet from the nightstand and tucking it into his back pocket. "The restaurant the driver recommended is about a ten-minute walk. We can go on foot."

"Perfect." Kip was already at the door, hand on the knob. "I want to see every detail of this city before it gets dark."

"We have a week."

"And I'm going to use every minute."

Scott crossed the room in long strides, stopping next to Kip at the door. He leaned in and placed a quick kiss on his lips, a brief touch loaded with promises.

"Then let's go. Before you start photographing the doorknob."

"The doorknob is beautiful!" Kip defended himself, pointing at the object in question—an intricate metal piece, with details only someone with an art historian's eye would notice.

"It's a doorknob."

"It's a Spanish doorknob," Kip emphasized, as if that explained everything.

Scott laughed, a warm, genuine sound, and reached for the knob. But before opening the door, he leaned in again, his lips brushing Kip's ear in a whisper that made the curly-haired guy shiver.

"I'll show you Spanish tonight."

Kip felt the heat rise to his cheeks instantly.

"Scott!"

The captain was already laughing, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway with the lightness of someone who had just delivered the perfect tease.

"Come on, babe. Barcelona isn't going to explore itself."

Kip shook his head, a goofy smile stubbornly remaining on his lips, and followed his boyfriend. The hotel hallway swallowed them up with its plush carpets and indirect lighting, and soon they were in the elevator, heading down to the lobby.

Outside, Barcelona awaited them.

The afternoon air was warm, filled with smells Kip had never experienced—a mix of the sea, tapas being prepared in nearby bars, and an undefinable something that could only be Europe. The cobblestone streets gleamed under the golden light of the setting sun, and people walked at a different pace—slower, more present, as if every moment deserved to be lived.

Kip stopped on the sidewalk in front of the hotel and just took it in.

"Everything okay?" Scott asked, beside him.

"I'm in Spain," Kip answered, his voice a little distant. "I'm really in Spain."

Scott smiled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"You are. And we're going to enjoy every second of it."

"Really?"

"Have I ever lied to you? I'm biologically incapable of it."

And they walked on, hand in hand, diving into the city that awaited them.

[...]

When the door to the Venetian bookstore opened, the outside world—with its noisy gondola canals and rushed tourists—simply disappeared.

The environment, ordinarily common from the outside, revealed itself to be a sanctuary. In the center of the store, a time-worn wooden canoe rested on sawhorses, overflowing with books displayed like treasures in a pirate's chest. The sun- and moisture-yellowed pages told stories not just in their words, but in every stain, every fold, every mark of time.

Ancient stone arches at the back of the store framed a breathtaking view: the city's canals, the emerald-green water right there, flowing under centuries-old bridges. The calm, inviting sound of the water against the stones drifted through the opening, mingling with the unmistakable smell of new and old books, the aroma of paper and ink that only book lovers recognize as perfume.

Kip sighed audibly.

His eyes took in every detail—the uneven shelves, the titles in Italian, English, and other languages he couldn't even identify, the golden light that streamed through the arches and created a play of shadows on the stone floor.

Scott was equally impressed, though his enchantment was directed at something else: the expression on Kip's face. He watched his boyfriend absorb every detail, their hands still intertwined, Kip's fingers squeezing his in a reflex of pure awe.

A few people on the street had given them dirty looks. The old habit of silent judgment. But neither of them cared. This was turning out to be the best trip of their lives, and nothing—no dirty looks, no muffled comments—was going to ruin that.

The photos they'd taken were safely stored away. The ones from Las Ramblas, Park Güell, the Sagrada Família—some had become story posts, others were the simpler yet beautiful Polaroids, carefully tucked away in Kip's backpack. A physical archive of memories that no cell phone could replace.

The camera hanging around Kip's neck swayed gently as they walked through Venice now. It was their first day in Italy, and Kip had already announced his goal: a photo of the two of them riding a boat through the canals. The absolute cheesiest thing possible, he himself had admitted, laughing. And Scott had agreed without hesitation.

"Look at this place..." Kip murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I would live in this bookstore, no problem."

"It really is beautiful." Scott nodded, his eyes scanning the shelves.

They naturally let go of each other's hands, each drawn to a different side of the store. Kip dove into the canoe, his fingers gliding over the spines of the displayed books like someone caressing a relic. Scott preferred the shelves, the English titles catching his attention.

"Hello, can I help you find anything?" An employee approached Scott, her English laced with a slight Italian accent that made every word sound musical.

"We're just taking a look," Scott answered with a smile. "Getting to know the place."

He pointed to Kip, who looked up upon hearing the voice and offered a quick smile before walking over.

"When was this building constructed?" Kip asked, his eyes still roaming the internal structure, the wooden beams, the stone walls.

The employee smiled, her red lips curving with pride.

"A little before the sixteenth century. It was built at the behest of the Contarini family."

Kip let out another sigh of admiration, so deep it seemed to come from his soul.

"Are you a history fan?" the woman asked.

"A fan with a master's degree," Scott joked, and Kip nodded, a goofy smile on his face.

"This place is incredible," Kip repeated, as if words were the only way he could express what he was feeling.

A few more minutes around the store, their fingers found each other again, intertwining in an automatic gesture. They stepped out into the street, and the Venetian sun greeted them with warmth. The sky was clear, blue, and the crowd of tourists—it was obvious who was a tourist, especially the other Americans, with their maps and lost expressions—filled the narrow streets in a steady flow.

Kip turned to Scott, his eyes meeting his over his sunglasses.

"What do you say to a Venetian lunch?"

Scott returned the gesture, tilting his head, the two of them smiling like lovesick idiots.

"My stomach is incapable of denying Italian food."

Kip laughed, pulling him by the hand in the direction where most of the restaurants were concentrated. The smell of fresh pasta and tomato sauce was already starting to invade the air, a delicious promise for the palate.

"Then let's go. Let the gastronomic tour begin."

"We're going to gain ten pounds on this trip."

"Worth every ounce."

And they walked on, hand in hand, diving into the crowd and the magic of Venice, heading toward the restaurants.

The chosen restaurant was one of those places that looked like it came straight out of a movie—light wood tables spread across a deck that extended over the water, white and blue striped umbrellas protecting the patrons from the strong afternoon sun. The sound of the canals was a constant soundtrack, interrupted only by the clinking of silverware and the hum of conversations in multiple languages. Hanging plants cascaded from strategically placed pots, creating pockets of shade and coolness, and tiny fairy lights were already being turned on, even with the sun still high, creating a magical atmosphere.

Kip was clearly in ecstasy. His eyes took in every detail—the texture of the weathered wood, the floral arrangements in the centerpieces, the way the light danced on the water. Scott watched Kip watch, and that was better than any view.

The waiter approached with the easy smile of the Italians, took their orders—fresh pasta for Kip, a seafood risotto for Scott—and disappeared toward the kitchen with the promise that the food would arrive "subito".

That was when the scene began to unfold a few tables away.

A young man, clearly American by the accent he carried even when trying to speak Italian, stood up from his chair in a movement that caught the attention of several nearby tables. He was tall, blond, the kind of face that looked like it belonged in a cologne ad. His girlfriend—a brunette with long hair and a floral dress—watched him with a confused expression.

He walked over to her side, adjusted his shirt cuffs in a nervous gesture, and then, in front of dozens of people, got down on one knee on the wooden deck.

A murmur rippled through the restaurant. Cell phones began to rise.

The man pulled a navy blue velvet box from his pocket. He opened it with a click that, in the silence that had fallen, sounded deafening. The ring sparkled under the sun—a large, obvious diamond, impossible to ignore.

"Sophia," he began, his voice trembling but audible to everyone around, "we've been together for five years. Five of the best years of my life. You are the woman of my dreams, my best friend, my partner... and I can't imagine my future without you."

The woman—Sophia—brought her hands to her face, but the expression behind her fingers was hard to decipher.

"Because of that," the man continued, his voice growing more emotional, "I want to ask: will you marry me?"

The silence was absolute. Even the waiters had stopped moving.

Sophia lowered her hands slowly. Her face was red, but it wasn't the blush of someone who was moved. It was something closer to... embarrassment? Anger?

"Get up, Derek." Her voice came out low, but sharp.

The man's smile faltered.

"What?"

"I said get up," she repeated, louder now. "The answer is no. I'm not going to marry you."

The shock was palpable. Several people around let out muffled gasps.

"Sophia, please..." Derek tried, still on his knees, the ring sparkling uselessly in its box.

"No, Derek." She stood up, her chair scraping against the wood. "We talked about this. I told you I wasn't ready. I asked you to wait. And you do this? In front of strangers? To pressure me?"

"I just wanted..."

"You just wanted what? A spectacle? A pretty picture for Instagram?" She was already pushing her chair back, grabbing her purse. "That's not how you build a relationship, Derek. You build it with communication. With respect. Not with a ring and a stage."

She walked away, her quick steps echoing on the deck, and disappeared toward the street.

Derek stayed there, kneeling, the little box still in his hand, his face pale. After a long moment, he stood up and ran after her, the ring forgotten on the table.

The entire restaurant sat in silence for a few more seconds. Then, slowly, the conversations resumed, in a lower, more awkward tone.

Scott and Kip looked at each other.

Scott's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. Kip had a similar expression, but something else glinted in his eye—a sudden interest, an opportunity he wasn't going to pass up.

"Well..." Kip began, picking up his glass of water and taking a long sip. "That was awkward."

"Extremely," Scott agreed, shaking his head. "Poor guy."

"Poor guy nothing," Kip shot back. "The girl was right. She asked him to wait, he ignored her and made a scene. He deserved the 'no'."

"Yeah... true."

A brief silence settled in. Kip twirled the glass between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the water, but Scott knew that expression. Kip was plotting something.

"So..." Kip started, his tone carefully casual. "How would you do it?"

Scott frowned.

"How would I do what?"

"A marriage proposal," Kip answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "If it were you, how would you propose to someone?"

Scott blinked. Once, twice, three times.

"We already talked about this. You said it was too early."

"I did," Kip confirmed. "But that doesn't mean I can't know how you'd imagine a perfect proposal. It's just curiosity."

Scott watched him for a long moment, trying to decipher if there were ulterior motives there. Kip's face was a mask of perfect innocence.

"Well..." Scott began, thoughtful. "I guess... it wouldn't be in public."

"No?"

"No," he confirmed. "Look at what just happened. The girl felt pressured. Even if the answer was yes, still... it's a stage. It's for everyone to see, not just for the person you love."

Kip nodded slowly, processing.

"So where would it be?"

"Somewhere that was special to us," Scott continued, his voice softer now. "Maybe on the penthouse terrace. Or where we had our first real date. Or..." He paused. "On the beach, at night, when there was no one else around. Just the two of us, the stars, and the ocean."

Kip felt his heart race, but he kept his expression controlled.

"And the ring?"

"The ring..." Scott thought. "I don't think it would be a huge, flashy ring. It would be something more discreet. But with meaning. Maybe a family heirloom, if one existed. Or something the person would wear and I knew suited them."

"And the words?" Kip asked, his voice lower. "What would you say?"

Scott stared at him for a long moment. The late afternoon light created golden reflections in his eyes.

"I'd tell the truth," he answered simply. "That that person is everything I ever wanted, even when I didn't know I wanted it. That life before them existed, but it wasn't really living. That I want to wake up next to them every day for the rest of my life. And that no matter what happens, I'm going to be there."

Kip swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was impossible to ignore.

"Beautiful," he managed to articulate.

"It's how I feel," Scott replied. "Why all the curiosity?"

Kip shrugged, a movement that tried to be casual but failed miserably.

"Just curious. And to know if you were going to make the same stupid mistake as Derek."

"And was I?"

"No," Kip replied, a smile appearing. "You passed the test."

Scott laughed, shaking his head.

"Good thing."

Their food arrived, interrupting the conversation. Fresh pasta for Kip, risotto for Scott, both smelling divine.

"Enjoy it while you can," Scott joked, picking up his fork. "Next time I answer your questions, I'm going to charge you."

"Charge me how?"

"Surprise."

Kip rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was huge. They started eating and talking about the places they needed to visit while in Italy. The Colosseum would be their last stop, before taking the train to Paris—that was certain, they had already decided on it the night before, between glasses of wine, with Kip mentally drawing up the perfect itinerary.

Kip's pasta was divine—fresh, perfectly al dente, the sweet and sour sauce coating every strand like a caress. Scott's risotto left nothing to be desired either, creamy, the seafood bursting with every bite. The chilled white wine completed the experience, every sip a small celebration.

That was when the noise started.

Near the entrance to the indoor part of the restaurant, a couple was drawing attention in a very indiscreet way. The sound of silverware clattering against plates echoed across the deck, followed by a closed fist slamming onto the table with violence. The man—clearly British by the heavy accent that could be heard even from a distance—pointed a stiff finger at the woman across from him, his face red, the veins in his neck bulging.

The accusing finger swept through the air, pointing at her, then at their surroundings, as if he wanted to include the whole restaurant in the fight. Several tables had already turned their heads, the secondhand embarrassment hanging in the air.

But the woman wasn't intimidated.

She kept her gaze fixed on the man, a serious and annoyed expression that cut deeper than any shout. She said something in a low voice—Scott didn't hear the words, but he saw the effect. The man was disarmed instantly. His shoulders dropped, his fist opened, his face went from fury to something close to shame.

"Jeez..." Scott muttered, watching the scene out of the corner of his eye as he brought another forkful to his mouth. "Second couple fighting today. If a third one starts, we're going back to the hotel immediately."

Kip chuckled through his nose, the sound muffled by the wine glass he was bringing to his lips.

"Why?"

"Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a sign," Scott answered with the conviction of someone who wholeheartedly believed in his own logic.

Kip let out another laugh, louder this time.

"Don't laugh at my superstitions," Scott warned him, but the smile on his face removed any seriousness. "You knew I was like this when we started dating."

"I am entirely certain the saying ends with 'three times is a pattern,'" Kip pointed out, the teasing clear in his voice. "Not a 'sign'."

Scott rolled his eyes, but didn't answer.

The two watched the British couple get up, pay the bill with jerky movements, and leave the restaurant still stormy, the distance between them on the deck a silent abyss.

"Do you think it's weird?" Kip asked, his eyes still looking in the direction where the couple had disappeared.

"Public fights?" Scott confirmed, taking another bite of risotto. "I think it's ridiculous. If you're going to fight, fight at home. No need to make a spectacle."

"No, silly." Kip turned to face him. "The fact that we never fight."

Scott swallowed what he was chewing, his fork hovering in the air for a moment.

"And why would that be a bad thing?" He frowned, genuinely confused.

Kip rested his elbows on the table, his fingers intertwined under his chin, his expression thoughtful.

"Because fighting is a part of relationships," he explained, his voice calm, like someone discussing an academic concept. "Every couple fights. They're different people, with different histories, different minds. As much as they might agree on hundreds of things, there's always going to be something that causes a fight."

Scott watched him in silence, processing.

"But we don't have that," Kip continued. "Which means we haven't found that point yet. That thing where one thinks one way and the other thinks totally differently, and that's going to cause our first real fight."

He paused, his eyes locked on Scott's.

"We have to find what causes a fight between us."

The captain blinked slowly. Once, twice, three times.

"Okay...?" The response came out more as a question than an agreement. "And how do we do that? By starting a fight on purpose?"

"No," Kip laughed. "We just... pay attention. When something bothers us, we say it. We don't hold it in. Because if you hold it in, eventually it explodes. And then it can get ugly."

Scott absorbed the words, his fork forgotten on his plate.

"Makes sense," he admitted, finally. "But I don't want to fight with you."

"I don't want to fight with you either," Kip replied with a soft smile. "But if it's going to happen, let it happen the right way. At the right time. Without an audience."

"Deal," Scott nodded. "But can it be after the trip?"

Kip laughed out loud, throwing his head back.

"Sure," he agreed. "After the trip, we'll pick a fight."

"Deal."

They raised their glasses in a silent toast.

"Is there anything I do that annoys you?" Kip asked, returning his wine glass to the table in a casual motion.

Scott tilted his head, his eyes narrowed.

"I feel like I'm being tested..."

"Just answer."

"I don't think so..." Scott answered, his tone hesitant.

"Impossible, Scott."

"What?" The captain raised his eyebrows. "I don't get annoyed easily."

Kip pointed to the phone in his shorts pocket.

"Do you want me to search right here, right now, how many fights you've started on the ice?"

Scott defended himself, a smile stubbornly trying to appear.

"On the ice is different. It's competitive, it's professional." He paused. "But with you... I don't think of anything you do as annoying. It's easier to just let it go."

"I don't believe it."

Scott laughed, incredulous.

"Can you name something I do that annoys you?" he fired back, confident.

Kip nodded instantly.

Scott blinked, surprised.

"You're very calm about a lot of things that sometimes require a little more anger," Kip began, holding up his first finger. "You almost never disagree with me." Second finger. "You treat money like it's nothing, basically funding me..." Third finger.

Scott's eyes began to widen slowly.

"Every place I mention we could go," Kip continued, relentless, "you agree right away. And every time so far that I've asked what you wanted to do, you bounce the question back to me."

He lowered his hand, his expression victorious.

"That annoys you?" Scott asked, confused.

"It's not about being annoyed," Kip explained. "It's about you not asserting yourself. Not voicing your opinion. It's like... you're always following me, instead of walking beside me."

Scott fell silent for a moment, processing. When he spoke, his voice was calm, measured—but there was something new there, an attempt to explain himself.

"Money is never going to be an issue for me, Kip," he began. "I've been accumulating, investing, growing my salary for fifteen years. I know it seems like I treat it like it's nothing, but that's because... to me, it really isn't. It's just money. What matters is where it can take us. What we can do with it."

Kip watched him, attentive.

"And about me always agreeing with you..." Scott continued. "I've already been here, Kip. On vacation. Alone. I've visited several places, done several itineraries. But all of this..." He made a broad gesture, encompassing the restaurant, the canals, the city. "Alone is no fun. That's why I want you to want to go first. Because watching you discover things for the first time... is better than any memory I have of this place."

Kip was slowly breaking into a mischievous smile as Scott spoke.

The captain frowned when he noticed the expression.

"What?"

"We are arguing," Kip declared, victorious.

Scott blinked.

"What?"

"This." Kip pointed between the two of them. "Right now. I said something that bothered me, you explained yourself, we talked. This is an argument. Our first real one."

"That wasn't an argument," Scott contested. "It was a conversation."

"It was a healthy discussion," Kip corrected, the smile still on his face. "Which is exactly what I was talking about. We found a point. The first one."

Scott watched him for a long moment, and then a slow smile formed on his lips.

"You're crazy."

"I am," Kip agreed. "But now we know: you need to assert yourself more, and I need to remember that you've already done all this alone and want to share it with me."

"And you need to stop testing our relationship like it's a science experiment."

"Deal." Kip held his hand out across the table.

Scott shook it, their fingers intertwining.

"Deal."

And they laughed, the two of them, under the Venice sun.

[...]

After settling at the table in the train car, their suitcases already stowed in the overhead compartments and the comfort of the upholstered seats enveloping them, Kip pulled his phone from his pocket.

He was facing Scott, a dark wooden table between the two of them, polished by time and use, where the book about Jeffrey Dahmer that Scott was almost finishing rested—the bookmark had advanced considerably since the beginning of the trip. The cloudy morning light of the German station streamed through the large window beside them, creating soft reflections on the smooth surface of the table.

Kip 🫐 | Dad

Kip 🫐 | Dad

Kip 🫐 | News.

The reply came in seconds, as if George had been waiting with his phone in his hand.

G. G. 💙 | WHERE IS THE RING???

Kip laughed, a muffled sound, and looked up at Scott. The captain was scrolling through something on his phone, maybe a playlist, since one of his earbuds was hanging from his hand, ready to be used.

"Babe," Kip called.

Scott looked up instantly, the immediate reflex of someone already tuned into the other's frequency.

"How do you think we should announce the engagement?" Kip asked, a teasing smile on his lips. "Because my dad wants a picture right now and there's a high chance that, by the time we get back, half of Brooklyn will already know."

Scott laughed, a carefree and genuine sound, and placed his right hand on the table. The silver ring caught the diffuse light from the window, reflecting tiny bright spots that danced across the dark wood. The compass rose engraved in the metal seemed to come to life under that light.

"Send a picture to your dad," Scott suggested, his voice calm. "After all, it's your family's ring."

He paused, his eyes meeting Kip's.

"And in Paris, I'll buy one for you. Then we'll post it."

It sounded like a plan. Simple, direct, perfect.

"A family that you're a part of now, too," Kip reinforced, the words loaded with meaning.

He saw a goofy smile appear on Scott's lips—the kind he couldn't control, the kind that showed up when something touched him deeply. Kip raised his phone and framed their hands on the table: his holding Scott's, the ring standing out, the dark wood creating the perfect contrast.

Click.

The picture turned out beautiful.

Kip 🫐 | [Image]

Kip 🫐 | He said yes.

George's reply was an explosion of caps lock and paternal emotion.

G. G. 💙 | Oh God

G. G. 💙 | MY BABY IS ENGAGED

G. G. 💙 | ENGAGED TO THE CAPTAIN OF THE ADMIRALS

G. G. 💙 | Can I tell your sister or do you want to tell her??????? Who else knows already????

Kip laughed, shaking his head, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Kip 🫐 | I kept my word, I told you first.

Kip 🫐 | You can tell Megan, yeah Dad hahahahah

G. G. 💙 | Great, because I already sent her a text saying you were up to something during the trip hehehe

Kip burst out laughing, showing the screen to Scott, who read the messages and laughed along.

"Your dad is something else."

"The best dad in the world," Kip agreed, putting his phone away. "And now your father-in-law."

Scott tilted his head, processing the word.

"My father-in-law," he repeated, as if testing the taste of it. "I like that."

"I like you," Kip shot back.

"I like you too," Scott replied, reaching his hand across the table. "Now come here."

"We're on a train."

"So?"

Kip laughed, but intertwined his fingers with Scott's in a gesture that was already as natural as breathing. The two rings—one shining on Scott's finger, the other still to come—promised a future that, until a few days ago, had seemed too distant to reach.

"I need to let Todd know about this." Scott blinked as he remembered, his expression shifting from dreamy to practical in an instant. "Before he has a heart attack just seeing the picture posted."

He let go of Kip's hand and started typing quickly on his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. Kip laughed out loud at the sudden change in priorities.

"If it's seven in the morning here," Scott muttered, thinking out loud, "it's one in the morning there..." He looked up at Kip, an eyebrow raised. "What is your dad doing awake at one in the morning?"

Kip scoffed, a lazy smile on his lips.

"He's retired. Does he really need to explain making his own schedule?"

Scott nodded in agreement, a smile appearing, and went back to typing.

Scott H. | Todd.

Scott H. | Just dropping by to let you know that Kip and I are engaged and I'll be announcing it on my profile in the next few days.

A pause. Then:

Scott H. | Just to catch everyone by surprise really.

The reply came too fast for someone who should be sleeping.

Todd W. | Do you hate me? Is that it?

Todd W. | Just when I think I'm on vacation, a client of mine says "HMMMMM I DON'T THINK SO"

Scott laughed, showing the screen to Kip, who read over his shoulder and laughed along.

Scott H. | Imagine Crowell's face and be happy for me, you bastard.

Todd W. | Oh, believe me, I am happy for you. (The message came loaded with sincerity even in the dry text.) But my concern is exactly Crowell.

Todd W. | Murdock told me he's been a pain in the ass during league meetings. About separating hockey from social issues and blah blah blah. And there are people who agree with him, saying it would have been better if you had stayed quiet.

Scott read the message in silence. Kip felt the tension return to his fiancé's shoulders, even if only slightly.

Scott H. | I've apologized for too long for being who I am. I'm not going to do it again.

His fingers hesitated over the screen for a moment, then continued.

Scott H. | I'd rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

Kip read the words and felt his chest swell with pride.

"That's right," he murmured, squeezing Scott's hand. "My badass fiancé."

Scott smiled, a smile that was half relief, half determination, and put his phone away.

"Done. Now Todd can deal with his anxiety on his own."

"Will he be okay?"

"Todd?" Scott laughed. "Todd has survived me for fifteen years. He'll survive this too."

The train whistled softly, announcing its departure. The scenery began to move outside, the German station giving way to green fields and small villages.

Kip rested his head on Scott's shoulder.

"Paris," he sighed.

"Paris," Scott confirmed, kissing his hair.

"With my fiancé."

"Your fiancé."

And the train rolled on, carrying them toward their next adventure.

Around dinnertime, the two were walking toward the restaurant Eric had recommended. The manager was a New Yorker, married to the head chef, and a longtime friend of Eric and Holly—a connection that promised a special evening.

The restaurant's facade was discreet, almost hidden among Haussmann buildings, but there was something in the soft lighting and the flower pots at the entrance that suggested what awaited inside. Scott walked through the door first, pulling Kip by the hand in a natural gesture, their fingers intertwined.

The man behind the counter—graying beard, an impeccable uniform with a pen in his pocket—was drinking water when he saw them walk in. The sip he took was interrupted by a cough so violent he had to lean against the counter to avoid dropping his little bottle.

"Scott..." he coughed, his face red. "Hunter!"

Scott smiled, slightly embarrassed, that shy smile Kip adored.

"That's me," he confirmed, stopping with Kip in front of the counter. "Benny, or rather, Eric, recommended the place. Came to check it out."

"Eric!" the man exclaimed, still recovering from his coughing fit. "God, I haven't seen that bastard in years."

His accent was unmistakable—a perfect mix of Brooklyn and French, every word carrying the weight of two cities.

"Congratulations on your engagement, Scott," he continued, his eyes shining genuinely. "I'm a big fan."

"Thank you very much," Scott replied, caressing Kip's hand and shooting him a quick, meaningful look.

"Come with me." The man pointed the way, already moving toward the dining room. "I'll take you to the best table in the house." He paused, turning to Kip with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grady... soon to be Hunter, huh?"

Kip shook his extended hand, a huge smile on his face.

"Surreal, but yes."

They crossed the main dining room—occupied tables, waiters bustling with trays, the hum of conversations in French creating the perfect soundtrack—until they reached a terrace at the back. Access was protected by a small red velvet rope tied with golden chains, which Terry undid with a practiced motion.

The terrace was a dream.

Dark wood flooring, polished by time, Greek columns at the ends supporting a trellis structure where plants wrapped themselves around yellow fairy lights. Summer flowers—lavender, jasmine, rose bushes—hung from strategically placed baskets, exuding a natural floral scent that filled the air. The soft sound of a fountain hidden in some corner completed the atmosphere.

And the table Terry pointed to—in the center, near the edge of the deck—offered a full view of the illuminated Eiffel Tower. The Iron Lady sparkled against the night sky, its lights twinkling in a spectacle that seemed tailor-made for them.

The chairs were extremely comfortable, black cushions and dark wood with silver details on the legs. Kip sank into his with a sigh of pure contentment.

"Make yourselves at home," Terry said, pulling the menus from under his arm and placing them on the table. "I'll be right back to take your order." He pointed to the back of the menu. "The wine list is right there."

"Thank you, Terry," Kip nodded.

The man nodded back, speaking into an earpiece as he walked away, and closed the little velvet rope behind him as he left, leaving them completely alone on the terrace.

Kip waited for the door to close before leaning in.

"What do you think he said?"

"'The deck is closed for the night,'" Scott translated without looking up from the menu.

Kip felt his fiancé's gaze on him and looked up. Scott was watching him over the top of the menu with a slow smile, the kind of smile that preceded teasing.

"Yes, I speak French too," Scott confirmed, anticipating the question.

Kip lowered his own menu, his eyes wide.

"How many languages do you speak?"

Scott tilted his head, his eyes roaming Kip's face with deliberate slowness.

"The only tongue I'm interested in is yours."

Kip felt the heat rise to his cheeks.

"You idiot."

"You liked it, admit it," Scott teased, turning his attention back to the menu. "Should we order the ratatouille now or leave it for our last day? Coming to Paris and not ordering it feels like a crime."

Kip laughed, shaking his head, and opened his menu again.

"Order it now. We can come back tomorrow if we need to."

"Good point."

And they stayed there, on the private terrace, with the illuminated Eiffel Tower as their witness, planning their dinner and their future in equal parts.

"So... what's the plan regarding the move?" Scott asked, turning the page of the menu with the casualness of someone asking about the weather, but his eyes fixed on the salad options weren't fooling anyone.

Kip raised his eyebrows.

"To the penthouse?"

Scott nodded, still focused on the menu.

Kip rested his chin on his hand, thoughtful.

"I don't have much at my parents' house," he began. "Most of it would be my clothes, my books, my junk. Megan left her room practically untouched when she moved out..."

He paused, his eyes lost for a moment.

"I don't know... thinking about it now, my dad's going to be all alone there."

Scott looked up from the menu instantly.

"I'm not kidnapping you into false imprisonment." His voice was light, but his gaze was serious. "We can visit your dad whenever we want."

Kip laughed, the tension dissipating.

"I know."

"And he'll have Cinderella with him."

"Mmh..." Kip pouted, his gaze distant. "I'm going to miss waking up to her trying to kill me by jumping on top of me." He took a dramatic pause. "She knows how to open doors, you know?"

"Terrifying," Scott declared, his eyes wide in a comical exaggeration.

The two of them laughed together, the sound getting lost in the night breeze on the terrace.

"We could..." Scott started, hesitant. "It's not a replacement, never. But we could adopt a dog."

Kip tilted his head, interested.

"Short-haired," Scott continued. "Because I'm pretty sure long hair gives me allergies." He grimaced. "Greg had a Chow Chow for a while. He'd just walk into the locker room and take off the shirt he wore from home, and I'd start sneezing."

Kip let out a sincere laugh, imagining the scene.

"What breed did you always dream of having as a kid?"

Scott smiled, a distant, nostalgic smile that Kip rarely saw.

"I had a Bull Terrier when I was a kid..." His voice grew softer. "His name was..." He pointed a finger at Kip in a warning gesture. "Don't laugh."

Kip held his hands up in surrender, his expression of innocence so exaggerated it was suspicious.

"I would never."

Scott watched him for a moment, evaluating, and then confessed:

"His name was... Stanley."

Kip gasped.

A laugh caught in his throat, muffled by the hand he brought to his mouth in a reflex, but his eyes gave it all away—they were wide, shining, his cheeks contracting in a Herculean effort not to explode.

Scott bowed his head, feigning annoyance, but the smile on his lips proved there was no real offense taken.

"I said don't laugh."

"Stanley..." Kip repeated, his voice muffled by his fingers. "Like the Stanley Cup?"

"My parents were hockey coaches, okay?" Scott defended himself, his hands opening in a gesture of pure justification. "I learned to walk and was immediately put on skates. It was inevitable."

Kip couldn't hold it in anymore.

The laugh exploded, loud and genuine, echoing across the empty terrace. Scott tried to keep his offended expression, but within seconds he was laughing along, infected by his fiancé's joy.

"Stanley!" Kip repeated between cackles. "The dog's name was Stanley!"

"He was a great dog!" Scott protested, laughing. "Much better than the cup, actually."

"I'm sure he was," Kip agreed, still laughing, but now his eyes were welling up with something more than humor. "I'm sure he was."

Scott reached his hand across the table, his fingers finding Kip's.

"We can adopt one," he said. "When we're ready. Give it a stupid name too."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Scott thought. "Maurice? Rex? Thor? Something Parisian."

"Maurice Hunter," Kip tested the name. "Cute."

"Or we could call him Kip Jr."

"Oh, stop."

"Little Kip."

"Scott!"

The two laughed again, their hands intertwined over the table, their rings shining under the soft light of the terrace.

"Carter usually makes donations to a few animal shelters," Scott suggested, his voice casual, as if commenting on the weather. "We can visit some after the trip."

Kip nodded with a smile, his eyes shining at the idea.

Terry returned before they could delve deeper into the subject, notepad in hand and the professional smile of someone who loved what they did. The two placed their orders—something light, since this wouldn't be their only dinner in Paris—and Terry recommended a wine that "would pair beautifully with the dish, trust me."

It would take about half an hour for the food to be ready. More time to talk.

"Where do you keep your MVP trophy?" Kip asked, his elbows resting on the table, chin in his hands. "Or any other trophy?"

Scott answered in the same casual tone, chin resting on his fist, his eyes locked on Kip.

"Every resident gets a storage unit in the basement," he explained. "Mine is full of trophies." He paused, a crooked smile appearing. "And saying it out loud, I sound like kind of an asshole."

Kip laughed, shaking his head in a quick motion.

"You sound like a player with a fifteen-year career in the NHL," he corrected. "But is that it? Your trophies just sit down there gathering dust?"

"No," Scott defended himself. "I pay someone to clean it. And sometimes I even clean it myself."

He laughed lightly, as if the idea were absurd.

"I think to avoid getting divorced before we even get married, we better hire someone to clean the house."

Kip raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

"Did you suddenly become crippled?"

"You've never cleaned the house with me," Scott warned, shaking his head in a slow, dramatic movement. He crossed his arms over the table, leaning forward. "Sometimes I want to divorce myself while I'm cleaning the house."

Kip rolled his eyes, but his smile was huge.

"I've always cleaned the house with two other people," he argued. "Until Meg moved out and it was just me and my dad. We never killed each other." He paused, his eyes shining with memories. "Have Meg and I chased each other around with brooms and squeegees? Yes. Have I gotten red welts on my legs from being whipped with a wet rag? Also yes." He shrugged. "But I'm alive."

"Trust me," Scott insisted, his serious expression contrasting with the gleam in his eyes. "It's for the health of our relationship. You would hate cleaning-day Scott."

"I don't know..." Kip looked him slowly up and down in a deliberate exaggeration. "You in a little maid outfit..."

Scott laughed, his nose crinkling in a way that left Kip with no choice but to sigh and find it cute. Absurdly cute.

"If there's anything you want to bring from your dad's house," Scott continued, changing the subject, "it can fit in the storage unit. It's proportional to the size of each resident's apartment."

Kip tilted his head, processing.

"So you have a studio apartment in the basement, is that it?"

Scott looked away, laughing along with Kip, and for a moment they just stayed there, exchanging glances and smiles, the complicity as palpable as the air they breathed.

The wine arrived, interrupting the moment, but not the feeling. Terry poured a small amount for Scott to taste, which he approved with a nod, and the glasses were filled.

"Cheers." Scott raised his glass.

"Cheers." Kip replied.

Their eyes met over the rim of the glass, and in that silent toast was everything they needed to say.

"We should host a dinner to celebrate our engagement," Kip suggested, his finger running absentmindedly along the rim of his glass. "With our friends. Mix your world with mine."

Scott set his glass back on the table, a teasing smile on his lips.

"Our worlds have already mixed."

Kip frowned for a second, until it clicked.

"Elena and Carter?" he finished, laughing.

Scott nodded in agreement, and Kip had to admit his fiancé was right.

"Plus," Kip continued, his eyes shining with the idea. "Maria, Shawn, Kyle, my dad, Meg, my brother-in-law Andy." He paused. "And you invite the guys. Greg, Eric, Greg's girlfriend... if he even has a girlfriend by the time this hypothetical dinner happens."

"Would it be an engagement dinner or a moving-in dinner?" Scott asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Both." Kip shrugged, as if it were obvious. "We've never invited anyone over for dinner at the penthouse."

Scott considered it for a moment.

"Which is... kind of ironic considering the dining table seats twelve people."

"Exactly."

"We can set it up," Scott decided. "We still have vacation time after the trip. Me and the guys, I'll talk to them about it."

Kip nodded, but he was already thinking ahead.

"And as for my dad..." he began, his voice softer. "Meg and I were already kind of planning on having dinner with him at least once a week."

Scott watched him, attentive.

"We can still do that," Kip went on. "So my dad can show off how much he prefers his sons-in-law over his actual kids."

Scott let out an amused laugh, the sound echoing across the empty terrace. He brought his glass to his lips for another sip, but before drinking, he winked.

"I have my charm."

Kip rolled his eyes, but his smile was massive.

"Very charming."

"Extremely charming," Scott corrected.

The night went on, Paris sparkled in the background, and the future, for the first time, felt like a welcoming place to be.

[...]

Kip was wrecked.

His body ached in that good way only a long walk through Paris could bring — museums, bridges, staircases, cobblestones that seemed designed specifically to torture tourists. Physically, he was just a shadow of what he’d been a few hours earlier.

But mentally? Mentally, he was more awake than ever.

He dropped onto the hotel bed with a dramatic groan, sprawling across the sheets like an exhausted starfish. He shifted, turned onto his side, groaned again — because yes, he deserved this moment of quiet complaining.

Scott was sitting beside him, back against the headboard, the book about Jeffrey Dahmer finally nearing its end after days of sporadic reading. One hand left the page for a moment to run over Kip’s shoulder in an automatic, affectionate but distracted gesture.

Kip was wearing only shorts. The warmth of Scott’s hand against his skin felt good.

But it wasn’t enough.

“How much longer till you finish the book?” Kip lifted his head from the pillow, his voice carrying a kind of hope he knew was almost childish.

Scott checked the page number, then the final page. Did the math in his head.

“About a hundred pages or so,” he said — and to emphasize, he turned another page with the precision of someone not planning to be interrupted.

Kip groaned again.

This time, it was different. Frustrated. Impatient. He wanted attention — real attention, not distracted fingers in his hair while his eyes stayed glued to words about a cannibalistic serial killer who targeted men in the eighties.

Not that he wanted to compete with a book about a murderer.

But… he kind of did.

An idea came to him.

Slow. Deliberate. Brilliant.

Kip snuggled closer to Scott in a movement that looked casual but was anything but. He wrapped his arms around his fiancé’s torso from behind, his face finding its way to his stomach in a gesture that was both needy and strategically calculated.

Scott lifted his arms without thinking, letting Kip settle in, and once his fiancé found the perfect position — head resting on his abdomen, arms wrapped around his waist — he lowered them again, one hand instinctively finding Kip’s curls.

His fingers began playing with the strands automatically. Distracted. Still focused on the book.

Kip smiled against Scott’s skin. A quiet, victorious smile.

Step one complete.

Now it was just a matter of time.

Kip began tracing random patterns over Scott’s thighs.

Light at first — just fingertips drawing invisible circles over warm skin. Scott was only in his underwear, the thin fabric doing little to hide what was underneath, and the direct contact was electric. Kip’s fingers moved up and down in a slow, lazy motion, as if he were just idly occupying his hands while his fiancé read.

Scott’s eyes, however, began to lose focus on the words.

Kip turned his face slowly against Scott’s toned stomach. First just his cheek brushing the skin, feeling the warmth. Then his lips. A light kiss, almost chaste, right at the center of his abdomen. Then another, a little lower. Another, closer to the navel.

Kip’s hand, which had been tracing patterns, began to move upward along Scott’s groin. His fingers brushed the fabric, feeling the shape beneath in a touch that was both light and deliberate.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, his voice rougher than usual.

“Nothing,” Kip replied against his skin, voice muffled, far too innocent. “Just lying here.”

His lips found the line where abdomen met hip, kissing, lightly nibbling. His hand kept moving upward, fingers sliding over the fabric with the precision of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Seductive.

Dangerous.

Pretending it was nothing.

Scott closed the book.

“Kip.”

“Mm?”

“You want attention.”

Kip looked up at him, face still resting on his stomach, expression pure innocence.

“Me? No. I’m just lying here. Relaxing.”

His hand tightened slightly where it was, and Scott held his breath.

“Liar.”

“Never.”

Kip smiled against his skin, slow and full of intent — something Scott felt more than saw.

“Never,” Kip repeated softly.

Before Scott could respond, Kip started moving downward.

Slow. Deliberately slow.

His lips traced a warm path along his abdomen, along the thin line of hair disappearing beneath the waistband, along his hip. Light, almost innocent kisses that clashed with the intention behind them. With every inch he moved, Scott’s breathing grew more uneven, his hands tightening around the forgotten book.

When Kip finally reached where he wanted, he didn’t rush.

His nose brushed over the hard shape through the fabric, feeling the heat, the outline. Then his lips. A kiss at the tip, through the underwear. Another at the base. His tongue followed, leaving a damp trail along the length, soaking the fabric.

Scott moaned — low, involuntary.

“Kip…”

“Mm?” Kip replied against the fabric, the vibration sending a ripple through Scott.

“You’re killing me.”

“I’m just lying here,” Kip repeated, but the smile in his voice gave him away. “Relaxing.”

His tongue worked again, more deliberate now. Kip pressed a kiss, then another, savoring the reaction.

Scott dropped the book somewhere — the floor, the bed, it didn’t matter — and his hands found Kip’s hair, fingers tangling in the curls in a grip that was both plea and praise.

“Like that?” Kip asked softly.

“Like that,” Scott confirmed, voice breaking. “Perfect.”

Kip continued, slow and teasing, each movement carefully calculated. The fabric clung to the skin now, revealing everything.

“You feel so good,” Kip murmured. “So hard. So mine.”

“Yours,” Scott agreed. “All yours.”

“I want to feel you.”

“Then take it off.”

Kip obeyed.

He pulled the underwear down slowly, revealing him fully. The air in the room seemed to shift.

Kip paused for a moment, taking in the sight, before finally leaning down.

Scott’s moan was loud, unfiltered.

“That’s it…” he gasped. “Like that…”

Kip started slow, exploring, teasing, drawing out every reaction. Every movement was intentional, controlled, pushing Scott closer without rushing.

But Scott wanted more.

“Kip…” his voice came out rough. “More.”

Kip looked up at him, an unspoken idea passing between them.

“Fuck my mouth,” Kip said, low. “I wanna feel you.”

The command made Scott shudder. Kip picked up the pace, and Scott’s hands tightened in his hair, guiding, showing him exactly what he wanted.

Deeper. Faster. More.

Kip followed.

Scott watched him, every reaction, every movement — that surrender, that trust — it was almost overwhelming.

“That’s it, like that... fuck…” Scott murmured. “You like sucking my cock, don't you?”

Kip responded with a low sound, the vibration making Scott’s breath hitch.

“You like having your mouth fucked, don’t you?”

Kip nodded as best he could.

Scott smiled, satisfied, pushing further, guiding him, lost in the moment.

“I’m close,” Scott warned, voice uneven. “Do you want—?”

Kip answered without words.

“Then take it, all of it.”

Moments later, Scott finished, a rough sound escaping him.

When it was over, he pulled Kip back up, their lips meeting in a kiss that carried everything they’d just shared.

“You’re incredible,” Scott murmured.

“I know,” Kip replied with a satisfied smile. “But you can say it again.”

[...]

When Kip arrived back at the penthouse, the late afternoon light was already dragging lazily across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that streamed through the large living room windows. He pushed the door open with his key, the familiar click of the lock echoing in the silence of the apartment.

Scott had probably already arrived. The commercial shoots shouldn't have taken all day.

"Babe?" Kip called out, kicking off his sneakers in the entryway with the practiced ease of someone who did it every time he walked in. His coat was hung on the hook next to Scott's, the two now sharing the same space in the hall.

"Don't be mad."

The voice came from the living room, and Kip straightened his posture instantly. Still facing away from the room, looking at the door and the hooks, he felt a chill run down his spine.

"Scott." The tone was pure warning. "What did you do?"

Silence.

Kip could almost hear Scott swallow hard.

"So..." The hesitation in his voice was palpable. "There was a... setback."

Kip frowned, still facing away.

"Setback?"

"Setback," Scott confirmed, his voice a little steadier but still heavy with guilt. "During the commercial... Err..."

"Which commercial?"

"The Gillette one..."

The conversation was happening and Kip remained motionless, his back to his fiancé's voice. His eyes found the mirror on the wall opposite the console table, the one strategically placed for last-minute checks before leaving.

And there, in the reflection, he saw Scott.

Beardless.

His face smooth. Pale skin where there used to be a perfect layer of dark hair. Nothing. Zero. Completely shaved.

Kip spun around suddenly, his eyes wide with shock.

"My beard!" His voice came out higher than he intended, almost a squeak of horror. "My beard..."

"It'll grow back!" Scott crossed the room in long strides, his hands held out in a placating gesture. "In... a week or two."

"A week or TWO?" Kip repeated, incredulous.

"Two at the most." Scott tried to smile, but the smile faltered under his fiancé's expression. "Maybe less. Depends on genetics. My dad grew a beard in three days after shaving..."

Kip was in shock. Almost horrified. His eyes roamed Scott's face as if he were looking at a stranger.

"You shaved the beard." The realization came out in a murmur. "My beard."

"Our beard," Scott corrected, in a tone that made it clear it was not the time for corrections. "Technically, it was my beard."

"SCOTT!"

"I'm sorry!" The captain threw his hands up in surrender, his guilty expression so evident it was almost comical. "It was an accident! The clipper that was supposed to be a prop wasn't a prop and..."

Kip squinted, processing.

"Are you telling me Gillette made you actually shave your beard for a commercial?"

"Technically... yes," Scott admitted. "But they're going to pay me very well for it."

"I don't care about the money!" Kip exclaimed, taking a step forward. "I care about the beard!"

"It'll come back!" Scott repeated, desperate. "I promise it'll come back!"

Kip stopped inches from Scott's face, his eyes tracing every inch of the smooth skin. The jawline was still the same, the features were still the same, but without the beard... he looked like another man.

"You look younger," Kip murmured, almost against his will.

"Is that a good thing?"

"I don't know," Kip answered honestly. "It feels like I'm cheating on you with a younger guy."

Scott laughed, a relieved sound.

"That is the most absurd thing you've ever said."

"It's the truth." Kip crossed his arms. "I fell in love with a bearded man. Now you look like a twenty-something-year-old kid."

"I'm thirty-four."

"I know. But you don't look it."

Scott took another step forward, invading Kip's personal space, his hands finding his waist in a touch that was both familiar and new.

"And what if I told you we can do interesting things without a beard?"

Kip raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of things?"

"Things," Scott murmured, leaning in to kiss his neck.

Kip held his breath for a moment, feeling Scott's lips—without the familiar friction of the beard—against his skin. It was different. Softer. More... new.

"I'm still mad," Kip warned, but his voice came out weaker than he intended.

"I know." Scott kissed him again, now right below his ear. "I'm going to spend the rest of the night trying to make it up to you."

"It's going to take more than one night."

"As many nights as you need."

Kip sighed, surrendering.

"Fine. But tomorrow you're buying a cream to make it grow faster."

"I'll buy the most expensive one."

"And you let me pick dinner for a week."

"Two."

Kip finally smiled, a small but genuine smile.

"Deal."

Scott smiled back, that smile Kip loved, and leaned in to kiss him. The kiss was different—softer, more delicate, without the familiar roughness of the beard.

When they pulled apart, Kip stared at him for a long moment.

"It still looks weird."

"You'll get used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it, I want the beard."

Scott laughed, pulling him into a hug.

"I love you."

"I love you too," Kip replied, burying his face in his shoulder. "A little less because of the beard."

Scott laughed, the sound filling the entryway. Kip pulled back again just enough to examine his fiancé's face more closely, his eyes scanning every inch as if he could, by the sheer force of his gaze, make the beard grow back faster.

"I can see the cleft in your chin better," he commented, his fingertips softly touching Scott's chin, tracing the jawline that was now completely exposed.

Scott smiled, a chuckle escaping through his nose.

"Yeah. A version of my face you've never seen."

"Teenage-faced Scott..." Kip teased, cupping his face with one hand, feeling the soft texture under his fingers. The skin was smooth, unlike anything he was used to touching on his fiancé. "Mmh... it's weird not feeling the texture of the beard."

"Incredibly enough, I was just reminded of how cold this apartment can get," Scott joked, and leaned in for a quick kiss.

Their lips met in a soft touch, and Kip felt the difference again—the absence of the familiar friction, the unusual softness.

"Soon your hots for a jacked lumberjack will return to their former glory," Scott murmured against his lips.

"You better hope so..." Kip replied, pulling him in for another kiss. "I want my jacked lumberjack back."

The two settled onto the couch in a synchronized movement, their bodies finding their usual spots with the ease of people who had shared that space long enough for it to become natural. Kip leaned back against Scott's chest, his legs stretched out over the sofa, as he started recounting how his afternoon with his friends went.

Maria almost cried over the ring. Shawn made a joke about wanting a hockey player husband. Elena bragged about Carter. The recounting came in waves of enthusiasm, interspersed with laughter and exaggerated gestures that Scott followed with a lazy smile.

That was when Scott decided to tease him.

"You know," he began, his tone a little too casual, "you conveniently left off the list of things we bought some... little toys we found interesting in Rome."

Kip turned his head to face him, his eyes narrowed in a silent warning.

"Of course I didn't mention them!" he defended himself, fake indignation in his voice. "Do you really think Shawn has the discernment to handle the sentence 'we bought a twelve-inch vibrator with intensity control, supposedly aphrodisiac lube, handcuffs, and an anal plug'?"

Scott laughed, his head resting against the arm draped over the back of the couch.

"His first question would be if the plug had a little colored gem on the base."

Kip tried to maintain his composure, but a laugh escaped—loud, genuine, contagious.

"You idiot."

"Yes," Scott agreed, still laughing. "But I'm right."

"Fine," Kip admitted, still laughing. "But I don't even want to think about the look on Maria's face."

"Maria would love it."

"Exactly why."

The laughter gradually died down, and Kip settled back against Scott's chest.

"What about Carter?" he asked, changing the subject. "Did he say anything to you about Elena?"

Scott rested his head against his arm, a lazy smile forming on his lips.

"He's falling hard..." he replied, his voice a drawl. "He mentioned he did a cleanse on his phone. Unfollowed a bunch of women he only followed to try and flirt with. Blocked several girls he used to hook up with." He paused. "He became another person."

Kip puffed out his chest, proud.

"To be worthy of Elena, he really has to."

"I agreed with him," Scott laughed. "I told him it was the bare minimum."

"And him?"

"He said he knows. And that he's happy."

Kip nodded, satisfied with the answer.

"Oh, and he mentioned something else too," Scott continued, his tone shifting subtly. "One of the shelters he helps out at has some short-haired dogs up for adoption."

Kip whipped his head around so fast he almost sprained his neck.

"What?"

Scott was already pulling his phone from his pocket, his fingers swiping across the screen.

"He sent me pictures."

There were about fifteen photos, each showing a different dog—males and females, puppies, older pups, and adults, large, medium, and small. A veritable gallery of canine possibilities.

Kip took the phone from Scott's hands and began swiping through the images slowly, his eyes scanning every detail.

"Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, patting Scott's shoulder with his free hand. "A Dalmatian!"

Scott laughed at his excitement.

"It's a female. Two months old, knows how to use pee pads, not aggressive..." He read the information Carter had sent. "And answers to the name Aurora."

Kip turned to face him, his eyes shining with a determination Scott knew well.

"We're taking her," he decreed.

"Kip..."

"Cinderella and Aurora," Kip interrupted, his fingers pointing at the screen. "Two Disney princesses." He looked at Scott with the expression of someone who wouldn't take no for an answer. "She's ours."

Scott watched him for a long moment, a slow smile forming.

"Okay," he simply replied.

"Okay?" Kip seemed surprised by how easy that was.

"Okay," Scott confirmed. "We'll take Aurora. But you're going to have to help take care of her."

"Obviously!"

"And split the chores."

"Of course!"

"And accept that she's probably going to like me more."

Kip rolled his eyes.

"Dream on."

"I bet."

"You're going to lose."

Scott laughed, pulling him closer.

"We'll see. Now text Carter and tell him Aurora already has an owner."

Kip already had his phone in hand, his fingers flying across the screen.

Kip 🫐 | CARTER

Kip 🫐 | AURORA IS OURS

Kip 🫐 | YOU CAN SET HER ASIDE AND WE'LL COME GET HER

The reply came in seconds.

Vaughny | HAHAHAHAH I knew you guys would pick her

Vaughny | I'll talk to the shelter first thing tomorrow. Congrats on the four-legged daughter 🐾

Kip showed the screen to Scott, a huge smile on his face.

"Look."

Scott read it and laughed.

"Congratulations, Dad."

"Dad?" Kip repeated, testing the word. "I like that."

"I like you."

"I like you too."

They stayed there, hugging on the couch, while Kip's phone buzzed with their friends' reactions in the group chat. Maria sent a flood of dog emojis. Shawn asked if he could be the godmother. Elena said Cinderella would love a sister.

And the very next day, a two-month-old brown Dalmatian named Aurora would get a new home.

[...]

Kip was cataloging a new exhibition that had arrived at the museum that morning—a collection of German expressionist paintings that demanded extra attention; every brushstroke needed to be documented, every frame examined, every code entered with a surgeon's precision. Elena followed him like a shadow, her white iPad glowing in her hands, her eyes fixed on the back of Kip's head with the intensity of someone who wasn't going to give up anytime soon.

He tried to ignore her, but it was almost impossible.

Elena was more excited about the wedding than Scott and Kip combined. And that was saying a lot.

"What's his sign?" Elena asked, matching Kip's pace as he circled a painting, her iPad already open to some astrology app that Kip recognized by its purple and gold color palette.

"Cancer," Kip replied, his fingers flying across the screen of his work tablet, jotting down the code for one of the paintings. The number was long, a sequence of letters and digits he had already memorized.

"And you're a Pisces..." Elena said more to herself, her fingers sliding across the iPad screen with the speed of someone in the middle of crucial research. "Wow! Your compatibility is huge!" The exclamation echoed through the empty hall, and some employees upstairs must have heard it. "Overall compatibility is 98%, romantic is 97%, sexual is 96%, friendship is 98%, and communication is 96%."

Kip stopped walking and turned slowly to face her.

"Are you doing our birth chart?"

She nodded, a massive, entirely guilt-free smile on her face.

"Oh, God..." Kip sighed, rubbing his face.

"What?" Elena defended herself, the iPad now pressed against her chest. "I need to know if you guys are going to stay together forever or if in five years I'm going to have to help you look for your own apartment."

Kip stopped again. He turned completely toward her, the digital pen still in his hand.

"You think I'd get divorced in five years?"

"You never know." Elena shrugged, but the smile remained. "You're living together now and you already told me the arguments have increased."

"Yeah, they went from nonexistent to 'babe, you left the shower dripping again'." Kip gestured with the pen. "No one is going to kill anyone or get divorced over a faucet, which has been loose for a long time anyway."

"I'm going to ask Maria for help to make a color palette for you two and then coordinate to do the decor."

"Elena." Kip waited for her to stop talking. "We haven't even picked a date. Much less a venue. Let alone the decor."

She opened her mouth to argue, and Kip was already bracing for the counterattack.

"Don't you work anymore?" Kip asked, trying to sound firm, but already giving in to the laugh that stubbornly threatened to escape.

Elena rolled her neck in a movement that was pure presumption.

"Being head of a whole department gives me the privilege of giving my tasks to other people to do." Her eyes sparkled. "In other words, I can bother you for a long time."

Kip sighed, but the smile on his face didn't fade.

"But seriously," Elena continued, her tone shifting, "I'm not sticking my nose in anything, but I suggest you guys take some time with the engagement."

Kip walked across the hall, and she followed him like a determined shadow.

"What do you mean?" He stopped in front of an abstract sculpture, his fingers already flying over the tablet to register the code. "Not get married next year? Yeah, that is too soon."

"Amazing, then," Elena approved, clapping discreetly. "Leave the wedding for 2019. Let Scott get that millionaire salary of his to spend on pretty decorations."

She nudged Kip's shoulder, and he laughed, shaking his head.

"But seriously." Elena continued, relentless. "At least decide on the color palette so I know what dress to wear."

"Sis..." Kip laughed, looking at her with a mix of exasperation and affection.

"I still haven't forgotten that you guys gave me a heads-up about a fancy event the week of the event." Elena turned off the tablet with a definitive motion and hugged it to her chest. "So I demand to plan my dress at least a year and a half in advance."

Kip sighed, surrendering.

"Before the season's road trips, I'll talk to Scott."

She broke into an eager smile, the kind that lit up her entire face.

"As your maid of honor, I need to look gorgeous."

"And who said you're going to be my maid of honor?!" Kip exclaimed, feigning indignation.

"Who is your other option?" Elena scoffed, raising an eyebrow.

Kip laughed, because there was no answer to that.

"And it's also obvious that Carter is going to be Scott's best man," Elena added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Already decided everything, huh?"

"Of course. Someone has to."

Kip shook his head, but his smile remained.

The cataloging work continued at the peaceful pace of museum afternoons—every piece being registered, every code verified, every detail noted on Kip's tablet with the precision of someone who knew every inch of that collection. Elena accompanied him like a shadow, the iPad now tucked away in her bag, but her vibrant energy still intact.

When the clock struck Kip's break time, he led Elena to the back room, a space that served as a makeshift refuge for employees who managed to escape their desks for a few minutes. Some faces he recognized—people from distant departments he saw in passing, administrative staff who showed up once a week. Others were more common, the ones who frequented that corner with the regularity of someone needing to hide from their supervisor.

"What the fuck is this?" Elena asked, her eyes glued to her phone.

Kip set his mug on the table and leaned in to look. She turned the screen, and there was the official photo from the Admirals' profile—the whole team lined up on the ice, impeccable uniforms, rehearsed smiles. And right in the middle of them, two guys who were absolutely filthy, covered in colored paint, powder, and trails of water running down their faces. The all-caps caption read: "ADMIRE THE ADMIRALS — START OF THE SEASON."

"Ask Carter," Kip laughed, pouring coffee into his mug. "I have no idea."

Elena was already typing, her fingers flying across the screen.

"Hey, Kip."

The voice came from behind, and Kip turned around. Betty, one of the museum's senior guides, was approaching with the slowness of someone with time to spare. Her gray hair was pulled back in a strict bun, her uniform impeccable, her professional smile firmly in place.

"I was on vacation," she began, her eyes sweeping over Kip in a way that wasn't exactly hostile, but wasn't friendly either. "I haven't had the chance to see you since all that scandal at the end of the Stanley Cup."

Scandal. The word hung in the air like an annoying mosquito.

"Yeah, well, Betty." Kip gave a soft smile, his fingers tight around his mug.

"My congratulations on the engagement and all that," she added, but the words sounded hollow, empty, like counterfeit coins clinking together.

"Thanks, Betty." Kip maintained his smile. "That's very nice of you."

She gave a curt nod and walked away, her heels echoing on the floor. In the reflection of the counter, Kip saw her expression—a mask of phoniness he had learned to recognize in his early years of college. Congratulations, said the smile. You don't deserve it, said her eyes.

Before he could process it, the supervisor walked into the room. Dave crossed the space with purposeful strides, and the conversation died. Several employees lowered their eyes to their own mugs. Kip felt his stomach tighten.

"Christopher," Dave called out, and a chorus of "oohs" echoed through the break room, that collective sound of people recognizing a call to the principal's office. "Are we back in high school?"

Kip stood up, his hands shoved into his pants pockets, and followed Dave out. The hallway was empty, the fluorescent lighting casting harsh shadows. Kip was already rehearsing his defense—Elena was a visitor, but he could explain she was just tagging along, that it wasn't a big deal, that it wouldn't happen again.

"Dave, if this is about Elena, I..."

"It's nothing bad, Christopher," Dave cut him off, his pale eyes shining. "It's a good thing."

Kip blinked.

"Huh?"

Dave leaned against the wall, his tablet forgotten under his arm.

"Management has been talking. They analyzed dates, reviews on the museum's website. We've had a surge of visits in the exhibition sectors." He listed them off on his fingers. "Very positive reviews. Praises. All directed at one person." His eyes met Kip's. "And we want to reward that person."

Kip's stomach went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.

"We want to put you in charge of the department where you do your tours," Dave continued.

"What?" Kip could hardly believe it.

"We want you to be the head of the department," Dave repeated, and the words sounded even more real the second time. "Richard is retiring soon. He said himself that out of all the guides, you're the one who puts the most effort into the work. The one who understands what he's talking about the most." He paused. "You don't just memorize the pre-written scripts. You add to them. You correct the mistakes. You point out trivia. That made you stand out. And attendance has been growing in your area." Dave crossed his arms. "We want you to grow the audience across the entire department."

Kip let out a shaky breath, the words spinning in his head. Head of the department. The whole department.

"But to be the head," he began, already anticipating the obstacle, "wouldn't I need a..."

"Ph.D. Yes." Dave nodded, his lips pressed together. "We can't offer to pay for your Ph.D." He paused. "But we can write a letter of recommendation for NYU. To get you accepted into the program more easily."

Kip grabbed the nearby wall, his hand over his chest.

"Oh, my blood pressure..."

"We might even be able to get a scholarship for you, but..."

"No." Kip interrupted, moistening his lips. "Don't worry about the cost. I..." He swallowed hard. "I have some money saved up."

Dave smiled, and there was something paternal in that look.

"And well, pardon the comment, but your fiancé is a millionaire."

Kip laughed, a laugh born of mingled relief and emotion.

"Get your Ph.D., and the job is yours, Christopher." Dave held out his hand. "Congratulations."

Kip shook it, feeling his fingers tremble.

"Thank you, Dave." His voice came out thicker than he intended. "Truly."

Dave patted him on the shoulder and went back into the room, leaving Kip in the hallway.

He stood there for a moment, his hand still pressed against his chest, his heart beating at a rhythm that wasn't anxiety—it was possibility. He looked at the phone in his pocket, at Scott's name in his contacts list. He needed to tell him. He needed to call right now.

But first, he needed to breathe.

[...]