Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-22 Words: 952 Chapters: 1/1

heart like a house

Summary

Got a little battered and bruised
From standing tall and speaking truth
As if my life depends on it
But being right don't pay the rent

-

Being the first openly gay hockey player has its rough days. When they come, remember what's important.

Notes

title and opening/summary quote from the absolutely gorgeous Heart like a House by Jenny Mitchell. I am. Obsessed.

Bibliographies, Kip thinks, might just be the bane of his existence. His laptop screen swims before his eyes after so many hours of unrelenting glare, but he rubs the sleep away, cracks open an ill-advised cold brew, and forces himself to keep plugging on. He's getting too old to pull all-nighters, but it's his own fault really; he's been so fucking distracted lately that the deadline has snuck up on him. Besides, he's already missed Scott's game tonight to smash out the body of the paper; he can't let a few footnotes and a trivial human need like sleep get in his way now.

Then Scott gets home, and Kip has an excuse to look up for a second, and the all-important order of brackets versus periods evaporates from his mind.

Scott looks like he's been hit by a bus. He has bruises where the helmet would have lined his cheeks, stiffness in his shoulders, and a limp he's doing a bad job at hiding. He sees the concern scrunch Kip's eyebrows, but nevertheless, tries to stifle a grunt when he pulls open the fridge.

“Stop,” Kip orders in a whisper. “I'll get it.”

“You don't-”

Kip stares.

Scott folds.

“Fine. Thank you.”

Kip lifts the duffel from around Scott's neck, and trades it for a glass of carbonated electrolyte drink. The bubbles pop alone in the silence, baffled and overwhelmed.

“Rough game?” Kip has to ask, eventually.

Hockey's violent. Kip knows this. It's not the first time Scott's come home looking a little worse for wear. But this- this is-

“Fine,” Scott says again. “We won.”

Doesn't look like it, Kip stops himself saying, as his fingertips trace the raw skin along Scott's cheekbone. Scott conjures a shallow smile. The tension in his shoulders doesn't leave.

“Seriously, babe,” he promises, “I'm fine. They're just razzing me 'cause I'm getting old.”

“Are you sure that's all it is?” Scott steps away, Kip steps closer, determined not to let him put the island bench between them. “Because it's your first season out and-”

The smile drops.

“Jesus, Kip, if I wanted the third degree I would have let Wilson get a shot at me.”

“What did Wilson say?”

“What the fuck do you think? You think I let him see me like this? That he'd let me leave like this?” Scott throws his arms out, shoving Kip away. “I fucking got out of there like a bat out of hell, didn't I? I can't limp, I can't whinge, I sure as hell can't go running to the club or the refs. I can't show any weakness, anything at all, that's what they want, I have to prove I'm not just some -”

Kip winces like the word burns his skin. He stops chasing, stops reaching, after that.

Scott swallows the rest of whatever he was going to say.

“Sorry,” he mutters instead. “Old habits. I'm... going to take a shower.”

The apartment is dead quiet, save for the pounding of Kip's heart in his ears, and the carbonated bubbles. The raw agony in Scott's voice tears at him. Then the water clicks on, roaring and strong, and Kip takes a deep breath.

-

Scott turns the water as high and hot as he can stand it.

“Fuck,” he curses himself. Then, louder, because who the fuck else is going to hear. “Fuck!”

Maybe they should take him out back like an old farm dog and shoot him after all. Between the game being a playoff qualifier and, well, the other thing getting him checked into the boards left right and centre all night, there's not an inch of him that doesn't hurt. There's bruises all over – knees, hips, blooming across his rib cage – but worse is the fact that even here, in his own house, with his own Kip, it's only with the plausible deniability of the running water that the tears of pity, fury, pain start to bubble to the surface. Even then, his breath hitches trying to hold it in, and he looks to the sky, begging himself, don't cry, don't cry. Why the fuck not?

He puts his head in his hands, and roars wordlessly at everything.

Then, quietly, the shower door opens.

Kip steps into the steam. Touches his elbows. Takes his hands, and cradles them. Presses their foreheads together, so they can watch each other breathe.

“'m sorry,” Scott says again, more honestly this time. “I didn't realise this was going to be so hard.”

“Yes, you did,” Kip reminds him, with tears in his eyes, and a whisper of a smile, in spite of everything. “And you did it anyway. Because you love me. And you love yourself. And you're very brave.”

Scott tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He doesn't feel brave. He feels like a fucking idiot.

Kip pulls him down into an embrace, and holds him there until everything comes out and the water's running cold around them. Even then, he only pulls back enough to kiss his hair, his forehead, and then his lips as Scott looks up again, letting the real world creep back in. It's not so sharp and hostile now.

“I really do love you,” Scott breathes. “So much.”

“I know, babe.” Kip presses one last, lingering kiss to Scott's lips, before moving away to rummage through the bathroom drawers. “Now, where's that muscle rub stuff you like? I hope we've got enough, because it's going to take all night to get those knots out.”

“Don't you have something due?” Scott protests. “Colour theory? They're going to start docking points...”

Kip shakes his head.

“It can wait,” he promises. “Everything can wait. Come to bed.”

And so he does.