Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter & Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett & Scott Hunter, Kip Grady & Carter Vaughn

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett, New York Admirals - Character, New York Admirals Ensemble

Additional Tags:

Fix-It of Sorts, Scott Hunter Loves Kip Grady, Kip Grady moves in, Coming Out, meeting the friends, Found Family, Found Hockey Family, Scott Hunter is a good Captain, Moving In Together, Homesickness, People pleaser Scott Hunter, Dumb Hockey Boys, Hockey, Soft Hockey Boys, Fluff, Fluff and Angst if you squint and don't trust the process, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Possessive Sex, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fantasizing, fantasy about public sex, Public Sex, Locker Room

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-03 Updated: 2026-04-14 Words: 25,599 Chapters: 11/13

The Useful Revolving Door

Summary

This is a sorta fix-it. For when Scott asks Kip to move in with him he forgot the simple fact that his door has always more closely resembled a revolving one as people come and go bringing their problems with them and the Good Captain Scott Hunter fixes them as best as he can. Allowing for Kip to have the opportunity to be brought closer to Scott's hockey world and allows him to better understand what Scott is really risking in regards to coming out while still playing hockey. Also, helps to break down that Scott only sees his value in his usefulness and Kip is determined to make him understand that his value is inherent just by existing and is NOT a reward he gets from helping others.

Vaughny also pops up a lot. He's clueless but he's got heart... and tacos

Majority of the chapters are General Audience, the ones that are Explicit will be noted in the Author's Note at the beginning of a chapter.

Notes

My transcribing past really came in clutch for this prologue

Chapter 1: Prologue: Episode 3

Scott’s kitchen smells like blueberries and bananas. Morning light pours in through the windows, catching on the counter, the sink, Kip’s bare shoulders. They’re both shirtless, skin still warm, the quiet after something that felt big enough to rearrange the world.

Kip sets the blender down and slides a glass across the counter toward Scott for his game day smoothie. For the first time made at home and not at the Straw+Berry. 

Scott wraps his hands around it, more for something to hold than because he’s thirsty.

Kip leans back against the island, watching him for a second too long. Then…

“So…”

Scott looks up.

“I should probably go.”

Scott’s stomach drops. He swallows, stalling for half a heartbeat before answering.

“hmmm…what if you didn’t”

Kip blinks, then scoffs, playful reflex kicking in even as his eyes stay locked on Scott.

“Go?” He adds, joking, “Like ever?” He looks back at Scott, beaming.
“All that serial killer talk was you warning me, wasn’t it?”

Scott clears his throat, intense even sitting half-naked in his own kitchen, doing his best and failing at keeping his nerves to himself. 

“Um..I’m…umm, I’m gonna say a bunch of things, OK? And I know I’m too intense, everyone tells me that, but I just can't help it. Is that OK? Can I be too intense.”

Kip straightens immediately. The joking drops away like it was never there.

“Yea, Yea.”

He stays open, attentive, and serious now.

Scott nods once, bracing himself.

“Yeah, I umm. I never do this. Never brought anyone back here. Like, ever. My life is, uh, complicated.”

“Yea, I-I get that.”

Scott exhales as he needs to explain this to Kip, pushing forward before he can lose his nerve.

“And I can’t, um…come out, like… not-not, right now. Too many people depend on me, for too much. And it would just… it would fuck everything up. And so I just thought I would, um, I don’t know, wait, I guess. Yeah, wait till hockey was over, and then maybe I could fade away a bit or…”

His voice falters. He presses on anyway. Trying to stay away from the bleak future he used to see before him and try and grab some of the sunshine before he tried to leave. 

“But I um. You, it’s just,… I want you so bad. And I know you barely know me so why would you even consider something that’s this fucked up. Like I-I know I’m fucked up. I get it. I’m not pretending, I’m not.” 

Scott words pick up speed as he tries to get out everything, and make sure Kip hears him, “But I really really like you. And I want you to stay. So, I’m asking for what I want….I want you to be here when I get back from practice later. And I want you to be here when I come home from my game tonight.” 

Scott finally takes a full breath, slowing back down. “I, um… I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. Is… is that too much?”

Scott forces himself to keep going, even as his chest tightens.

“You can say it if it is. Um…Do say something though”

Kip doesn’t answer right away. He walks around the kitchen island instead, slow and deliberate, and sits beside Scott. 

Close enough that their knees touch. Close enough that Scott can feel his warmth.

“I think I’d love to be here when you get back,” Kip says. “And I don’t think you’re too lazy to be a serial killer.”

The tension breaks. Scott laughs, breathless, relieved, almost disbelieving.

“Really”

“Yea, Really.” Kip grins. “Yeah, you’re definitely not lazy.”

Scott’s smile lingers long after the laughter fades, hands still wrapped around the smoothie, heart steadying around one simple fact:

Kip stayed.

Chapter 2: Kip Stays

Chapter Summary

Officially moving in. These boys will talk.

Chapter Notes

I really don't know how Carter got here

Kip Stayed. 

And Scott loved that Kip stayed. He couldn’t contain his smile that it brought him to be able to come home to Kip. And the thoughtfulness and conversations Kip brought to his life. 

And for the first time Scott was really trying to be brave and to ask for what he wanted, as he wanted Kip more than anything else before. 

So after a month of Scott turning the key in his door after practice and after games wondering if Kip took him up on his offer for him to stay. He asks for the permanency he’s craving. 

However,

Scott doesn’t mean to ask like this.

He means to ease into it. Float the idea. Maybe joke about it first. But Kip is standing in the doorway of Scott’s penthouse, jacket half-on, bag slung over one shoulder, talking about how his roommate’s new boyfriend liked to play the guitar after sex and they had sex at ALLLL hours of the night, the stories meant to get a chuckle out of his boyfriend but when he turn around to see, the words come out before Scott can stop them.

“You could just stay here.”

Kip pauses. “Like. Tonight?”

Scott shakes his head, already moving past that. “No. I mean…longer. Move in.”

Kip blinks. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t immediately say no. He just studies Scott’s face, like he’s trying to figure out if this is one of those things Scott will regret the second it’s real.

Scott keeps talking. He always does when he’s nervous.

“You’re starting grad school,” he says. “You’ll need a quiet place. Somewhere you can actually focus. You don’t need to be dealing with roommates and their weird taste in men.”

“They’re not that bad,” Kip says automatically.

“They are,” Scott replies without missing a beat. “You’ve complained about them since I’ve known you.”

Kip opens his mouth, then closes it. Fair.

“And I know you won’t let me help with tuition,” Scott adds, a little sharper now, because that part still irritates him. “You’ve made that very clear. So this is… something I can do. It’s practical.”

Kip leans against the counter, arms crossing loosely. “You’re being very intense about this.”

Scott gestures around the apartment. “You’d have your own office. The guestroom has a desk and we could put in a bookshelf for anything you need. You’d have space. Privacy. Quiet.  You could actually study.”

Kip looks around. The place is immaculate in that lived-in-but-controlled way. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Floor-to-ceiling windows that make the city look like a painting. It’s the opposite of his current apartment, which smells faintly of takeout and someone else’s cologne no matter how much they clean.

“And,” Scott continues, softer now, “you’d have somewhere to land every day. No noise. No interruptions.”

Kip looks back at him. “You’re really selling this, but it doesn’t just need to be practical.” He moves over to the stool Scott is sitting on and cups his face, making their eyes meet. 

Scott hesitates. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking. That he likes waking up with Kip here. That he likes the way Kip fills the space without demanding anything from it. That he’s tired of watching Kip leave.

Scott exhales through his nose, remembering to be brave. “For non-practical reason…I want you here. I like you being here. It makes me happy when you are here after practice or when you come here after one of your shifts or after class. I like being a relaxing stop point for you, as you are that for me… And it’s also logical for you to be here.”

“Uh-huh.” Kip huffs a laugh kissing Scott’s forehead, grinning at the confession he did get out of him. 

Kip nods, “It makes sense.”

There’s a long moment of them both grinning like fools before Kip adds. “You’re not worried about privacy?”

“Not worried about your team finding your boyfriend moved it?” Kip asks.

“I mean…” Scott shrugs. “It’s not unusual for hockey players to end up as roommates, usually with each other, but still. The guys coming up live with billet families, so it’s not an odd arrangement…

Scott brings Kip in closer so they are chest to chest, and he can say this to the spot over Kip’s shoulder, “ and I don’t really have people over. Sometimes people need help, but beyond the Mario Kart tournaments where everyone brings everyone, so you’d be welcome and could meet some of them. This isn’t one of the hangout spots.” 

That gives Kip pause. As he sees this as a potential olive branch to ease Kip into Scott’s world. It wasn’t coming out, but it could be acknowledging he existing to the people Scott was closest with.  

Kip couldn’t let that chance go. Exhaling, slow. “Okay.”

Scott’s heart stutters, jerks back to see Kip fully again, “Okay?”

“Okay,” Kip repeats. “I’ll move in.”

Scott stares at him, hope growing as rapidly as his smile. “Just like that?”

Kip smiles, small and a little crooked. “I’m tired of loud roommates. And you make a convincing argument.”

Relief hits Scott so hard he has to look away.

“Good,” he says. “We can move the rest of your stuff this weekend.”

Kip laughs. Kissing his ridiculous boyfriend. 

They remain wrapped up in their blissful moment when the doorbell rings.

Scott frowns. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

He goes to answer it. Carter Vaughn stands on the other side, arms full of takeout bags, grinning like he owns the place. "Vaughny!?"

“I brought food ! A new Mexican place opened by me and I couldn’t decide which tacos sounded better so I grabbed a few of all of them and figured we could rank them!” Carter says cheerfully. 

Then he stops and sees the look on his friend's face, “You look happy.”

His eyes flick to Kip. Then back to Scott.

Kip, sensing a disaster in the making, and wants to show he can meet Scott’s friends without outing them, jumps in and starts taking bags off Carter’s hands, “I’m Kip, Scott’s friend.”

“A friend of Scott’s a friend of mine. I’m Vaughny. Or you know, Carter.” He smiles taming down the energy as Kip was not a hockey player and he didn’t want to scare away a friend from Scott. For everyone knew the guy could use some more of those. As they finished unloading. Alright Kip, you ready for the very serious task of being a Taco judge?” 

Kip put his hand over his heart and raised up his other, “I so solemnly swear, to judge every taco fairly and not to simply be swayed by the delicious sauces.” 

Carter let out a booming laugh and Scott couldn’t contain himself either as they all started in on offered food. 

Chapter 3: The Homesick Rookie

Chapter Summary

A homesick Rookie appears

Scott was mostly honest when he says his place isn’t a hangout spot.

There aren’t random teammates dropping by unannounced. Or a constant cast or people sprawled across the furniture after games. The penthouse stays quiet by design. 

His phone, however, is a different story.

Living with a professional hockey player teaches Kip a lot about the sport, just not in the way he expects. He picks up the rules slowly, helped along by his dad’s running commentary whenever they watch a game together, but what really stands out is the culture around it. Specifically, the culture of constant communication.

Hockey players are never not in touch with each other.

There are group chats on top of group chats. Team-wide ones. Position-specific ones. Side chats spun off for jokes, for griping, for memes that make no sense unless you were there for whatever sparked them. 

Kip catches glimpses of Scott’s screen sometimes when he scrolls, ridiculous group names flashing past as Scott searches for one person buried somewhere in the noise.

That’s how Kip learns about the rookies.

It starts with Scott’s phone.

It’s always within reach. Not in a distracted way. In a quiet, ingrained way, like something trained into him over years. The first morning Kip wakes up in the penthouse, Scott’s phone buzzes on the nightstand before the sun is fully up. Scott doesn’t even open his eyes. He checks the screen, taps out a reply, and rolls over again.

Kip watches him for a second, then closes his eyes.

By the end of the week, he knows the difference between the sounds.

There’s the muted buzz of silenced group chats, notifications Scott ignores without a second thought. Kip glimpses flashes of them when Scott scrolls past. Bad haircuts. Terrible memes. Inside jokes that stretch back seasons. Too many emojis.

Then there’s the other sound.

A sharp, distinct ringtone that cuts through everything, even sleep. The first time it happens, Scott jolts upright like he’s been shocked.

“Everything okay?” Kip asks, heart already racing.

Scott squints at the screen, thumb moving automatically. “Yeah,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Probably.”

Probably.

It’s a rookie. Kip figures that out quickly.

Every season, Scott takes one or two of the new kids under his wing. He doesn’t announce it. It’s just understood. The veterans joke about it. Call them Scott’s puppies. And yes, that is one of the group chats. Graduating out of it is apparently a big deal, Carter of course leading the ceremony with his own cubs he’s taken on. 

At any given time, Scott seems to have a small army of not-quite-drinking-age boys texting him memes at all hours. Kip gets used to it faster than he expects. Scott never apologizes for it. It’s just part of the landscape of Scott’s life.

“If one of them messages me directly, it has a different ringtone,” Scott explains one night, like he’s commenting on the weather. “So I don’t miss it.”

“Is it usually important?” Kip asks.

Scott thinks about it. “Usually no.”

“But sometimes?”

Scott nods. “Sometimes.”

The night it proves to be one of those sometimes, it’s raining.

They’re stretched out on opposite ends of the couch, a late-night cooking show murmuring low enough to be background noise. Scott is half-asleep, his glasses crooked on his chest. Kip’s feet are tucked under Scott’s thigh, warm and familiar already. It’s the kind of moment that sneaks up on you. Comfortable. Unremarkable in the best way.

The knock at the door cuts through it like a slap.

Scott jolts upright instantly. All the softness drains out of him. For a split second, panic flashes across his face so naked Kip almost looks away. Scott’s eyes dart around the living room like he’s searching for an emergency exit that doesn’t exist. They land on Kip, then the hallway, then back again.

“Oh, Oh shit,” Scott mutters.

Kip sits up, heart stuttering. “I can go,” he offers quietly, already shifting forward. It’s instinctive. Make it easier. Make it simpler.

“No.” Scott’s answer is immediate, sharp with more fear than Kip has heard from him yet. He scrubs a hand through his hair, breathing fast, clearly trying to think his way out of something that doesn’t have a clean solution. “No, don’t. Just… Just, hang on.”

This time there’s not a knock, just his phone pinging, the sound of one of the rookies.

Scott swallows. His shoulders square, something clicking into place behind his eyes. The panic gets packed away, sealed up tight. When he opens the door, Captain Scott Hunter is standing there instead. He doesn’t look back at Kip as Evan comes in. But also doesn’t have him hide either. Instead he’s being asked to stay. 

Evan is on the other side. Hoodie pulled up, hands shoved into the sleeves, eyes rimmed red like he’s been staring at the ceiling for hours. He looks younger in person than when Kip watches the games on TV, and smaller somehow, like the league still hasn’t finished swallowing him whole. Or maybe it’s being soaked by the rain. 

“Cap,” Evan says, voice tight. “Sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Scott’s expression softens instantly. “You’re fine,” he says, steady and reassuring. “Come in.”

Evan steps inside, relief flooding his fast so fast it’s almost painful to watch, and immediately begins to leave a trail of water on the entryway tile. His hoodie is soaked through, darkened to nearly black, curls plastered to his forehead. Kip’s heart hurts at the scene and disappears down the hall to get a towel for the poor boy, for that’s all Kip sees is some boy needing a space to seek comfort and refuge. And Scott easily offers it up as though he’s done it a thousand times and Kip is quick to realize he probably has.  

Kip disappears down the hallway and comes back with a towel and a set of Scott’s sweats hoping they will fit, pressing it into Evan’s hands without ceremony. “First thing you’re going to do is go dry off. Bathroom's just down the hall.”

Evan blinks. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Kip says easily. “Go. Before you freeze.”

Scott starts to moves on autopilot. Kettle filled. Mugs pulled from the cupboard. Tea bags dropped in with practiced ease. He’s done this before. Probably more than he’ll ever admit. 

“He okay?” Kip asks quietly.

Scott nods. “Just homesick. He missed his grandfather’s 75th birthday due to practice and a bad connection”

Kip studies him for a second, then says, “How…um…How do you want to explain me?” Kip’s voice trembles with self-doubt that isn’t inherent to the Kip Scott’s come to know. And he hates that it’s his fault it’s like that. And immediately stops his prep to take his boyfriend’s hand. Bringing it to his mouth to kiss the back of. “We should have talked this through before now…But I… Kip, I barely know that kid.”

And the wall between Captain Scott Hunter the hockey player and Kip’s Scott comes down just for Kip to see and he understands that while this person is a teammate and that comes with a certain amount of trust he isn’t a friend in Scott’s life. “You don’t need to do anything different than you would normally do in these situations. If he asks, just introduce me as your friend. Or your roommate.”

Scott’s shoulders loosen a fraction. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kip says. “That’s what I am.”

Scott’s mouth curves into something small and grateful. As Kip turns toward the kitchen, Scott catches his wrist and leans in, stealing a quick, soft kiss. It’s barely there. Gone almost before Kip can react. But it leaves warmth behind all the same.

“Thank you,” Scott murmurs.

Kip squeezes his hand once and lets go.

By the time Evan comes back out, hair towel-dried and wearing a borrowed t-shirt that hangs a little short in the sleeves. And the cup of tea waiting for him. 

With the mug halfway to his mouth, Evan finally notices Kip properly. His gaze flicks over, then back to Scott, then back again.

“Oh,” he says, sheepish grin appearing at having not fully registered the other man who had offered him a clothes and a towel. “Sorry. Didn’t know you had a roommate, Cap.”

Scott’s chest tightens. Kip can see the calculation flash across his face. The reflex to explain, to soften, to reframe Kip into something easier.

Kip opens his mouth, ready to help.

Scott answers first.

“Yeah,” he says evenly. “This is Kip. He’s my friend and now roommate.” This gets a small smile but sad in the way Kip knows they will both have to get used to. 

Evan nods, completely unbothered. “Kinda nice, actually. Makes it less weird that I miss sharing a room with my brother.”

Scott smiles then, real and warm. “That’s one of the best parts of hockey. The family thing.”

Evan hums in agreement, already drifting back into his own thoughts.

“I can’t sleep,” Evan says after he’s had a moment. “The Morrisons are great. Really. But their kids’ve been sick all week, and tonight Mrs. Morrison finally went to bed early and I didn’t wanna wake them up and…” He trails off, embarrassed. “I didn’t wanna be a problem…And just the family stuff”

“You’re not,” Scott says immediately. “That’s completely normal.”

Evan stares down into his tea like it might give him a better answer than that. “I just… I missed my grandpa’s seventy-fifth birthday.”

Scott stills, just a little.

“First big thing I’ve really missed since getting called up,” Evan continues. “We’re close. Like…really close,” He lets out a breath.

Scott nods. “He got you your first stick.” 

Evan looks startled. Scott rolls his eyes and elaborates, “I do READ the chat just because I don’t respond to every lightning round text that is sent.” 

Evan chuckles, “We just figured you were old and your fingers didn’t work that fast.” Scott, though used to the old jokes, wads up the empty tea wrapper and throws it at him.

“Tell me about trying to facetime? I thought your mom had that all figured out?”

“She did, just didn’t account for there not being that great of reception,” Evan says. “And the time difference sucked. It was mostly during practice. By the time I got my phone, it was over.” He shrugs again, but this time it doesn’t look casual. “That was like a week ago, but I guess it’s just… catching up to me.”

Kip watches Scott’s face soften even more.

“And then I had a bad game the other night,” Evan adds quietly. “I keep replaying those moments with those missed passes. I never do that. Never. I thought I could do it in my sleep.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “And well I guess I’m not sleeping now.” 

Scott nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. It’s the constant decision of whether to miss family or hockey things. And if you’re good at the hockey parts, then missing your family parts just makes sense. As hockey is demanding.”

Evan just nods along like all of that just makes perfect sense. Scott leans back in his chair, giving Evan space without pulling away. “That’s the part nobody really prepares you for. You miss things, and then you miss things, and suddenly it all stacks up.”

Evan looks up. “Does it get easier?”

Scott hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. Then he says, “You get better at carrying it.”

They sit with that for a moment.

Kip notices the word Scott used. Your. Not Our, Not We get better at carrying. You get better at carrying it. 

It clicks then, sharp and quiet. Scott didn’t have those milestones to miss. No birthdays he was expected at. No family group chats lighting up with plans he couldn’t make work. This ache Evan’s describing isn’t something Scott learned by losing it. It’s something he learned by watching other people lose it.

Without thinking, Kip reaches out and rests his hand against Scott’s forearm under the table. 

Scott glances down, surprised. His shoulders ease, just slightly.

“My first season,” Scott says, voice casual again, Kip removed his hand, “I barely slept. Thought every bad shift meant I was getting sent down. I was a mess.”

Kip bites back a smile. He knows enough now to hear the lie in it. Scott’s rookie year hadn’t been like that. He’d been good. Confident. But Scott sands himself down anyway, reshaping his past into something Evan can survive.

Evan lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Scott says solemnly. “Didn’t know my ass from my elbow.”

That does it. Evan’s shoulders drop. His grip on the mug loosens. Scott keeps going, talking him through the usual things. Routine. Sleep. How the noise in your head quiets eventually. How one bad game doesn’t cancel out everything you’ve already done.

Kip keeps a soft smile on his face as he watches Scott do what he does best.

Evan stays longer than either of them expect. Long enough that the tea goes cold. And Scott and Evan has hashed down the missed play to the very fine points that Evan can practice. 

“You can crash here,” Scott says eventually. “Take the couch. We’ll head in early and do some of those drills.”

Evan hesitates. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Of course.”

Evan’s asleep within minutes. Like having a plan and the Captain's blessing is just what he needed. 

Scott moves quietly after that, straightening mugs, wiping down the counter. Kip watches him from the doorway, seeing the tension finally creep back into his shoulders now that there’s no one left to hold together. Scott locks the guestroom door as he pulls Kip into the Master after seeing Kip eyeing the other bed. 

As they lay together with Scott curled around Kip like he’s Scott’s personal teddy bear, “You okay?” Kip asks softly.

Scott nods too quickly. “Yeah. Sorry about…”

“Don’t,” Kip says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was actually kinda hot to see the full Captain Hunter persona come out.”

Scott exhales, long, shaky laugh. “Hmmm do you like it more or less than the playoff lumberjack beards.” 

Kip’s only answer is to kiss him long and slow. As they both are ready to pass out too. 

Morning comes quietly.

Kip makes smoothies without thinking. Three of them. Scott stares at the lineup on the counter like it means something more than it should.

“You didn’t have to,” Scott says.

“I wanted to,” Kip replies.

Scott doesn’t argue.

When Scott drives Evan to the rink an hour before he normally would have had to leave and still be the first on the ice, Kip watches from the window. The car disappears into the gray morning, and something clicks into place.

Hockey isn’t just Scott’s job. It’s his family. It’s where he learned that love comes from showing up, from being needed, from fixing things before anyone has to ask.

Kip wraps his hands around his smoothie and wonders how long it will take Scott to learn that he doesn’t have to earn this. That he can stay even when he’s not saving anyone.

Chapter 4: Post Rookie Moment

Chapter Summary

Explicit: This is what happens after Scott gets home after practicing with Evan.

Chapter Notes

Hi! These boys just can't keep their hands off each other or in this case their mouths. If you're reading for plot you can skip this chapter and not miss anything. If you like a bit of spice here you go :)

The ride to the rink had been easy. Evan had talked about the smoothie, about how cool Kip was. Scott had barely had to say a word. The usual crushing weight of being the guy who had to fix everything, to be the steady hand, the source of all wisdom and comfort… it was lighter. It felt like there was someone else carrying the load.

When Scott came home, the apartment was quiet. He could hear the low murmur of the TV from the living room. He dropped his gear bag by the door, the familiar ache of a good practice settling into his muscles. He walked into the living room and there he was. Kip. Sprawled on the couch, still in Scott’s sweats, a book open on his chest, one arm thrown over his head. He was still here. While Scott knew they had moved Kip in, it still gave him a thrill every time he realized Kip was really staying. 

Something in Scott’s chest cracked wide open. He didn’t stop. He didn’t think. He just crossed the room in three long strides, bent down, and kissed Kip.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was hungry, a desperate press of lips and teeth, a thank you and a hello and a don’t you ever leave all rolled into one. Kip made a surprised noise into his mouth, a soft “oh!” that sent a jolt straight down Scott’s spine. His book thudded to the floor as he brought his hands up to cup Scott’s face, holding him there.

Scott broke the kiss, breathing hard. He looked down at Kip, at his kiss-swollen lips and the dazed, happy look in his eyes. And then Scott was sinking, folding himself down onto the couch, maneuvering until he was half in Kip’s lap, burrowing his face into the warm skin of Kip’s neck, smelling soap and coffee and something that was just Kip.

“Hey,” Kip whispered, his hands stroking through Scott’s damp hair. “Rough day?”

Scott shook his head, words failing him. He just nosed along the column of Kip’s throat, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse against his lips.

“No,” Scott rasped, the word muffled against Kip’s skin. 

“A good day. Evan… he did great.” 

He pulled back just enough to look at Kip, really look at him. The afternoon sun was slanting through the windows now, catching the gold in Kip’s hair. “Thank you. For last night. For being so… cool about it. About him.”

The words caught in his throat. Thank you for making it easier. Thank you for taking some of the weight. Thank you for being here when I came home. The feelings were a riot inside him, a chaotic, overwhelming storm of gratitude and want and something so much bigger than he had words for. Talking about it felt like trying to capture lightning in a jar. It was useless.

Words failed.

So he didn't try anymore.

He crashed their mouths together again, a desperate, hungry kiss that was all the things he couldn’t say. Kip gasped, a sharp, sweet inhale that Scott swallowed whole. This was it. This was the language he knew, the one that never lied. 

He broke away, panting, and immediately went for the sharp line of Kip’s jaw, nipping at the stubble with his teeth, loving the rough, abrasive drag of it against his lips. He felt the prickle all the way down his spine. 

Scott worked his way to the soft, sensitive skin just below Kip’s ear, tracing the shell of it with his tongue, feeling Kip shudder against him.

“Scott,” Kip breathed out, his name a benediction and a plea. His hands were fisted in the fabric of Scott’s t-shirt, holding on tight.

Scott didn't answer. He just shifted, sliding from the couch to the floor in one fluid motion, settling between Kip’s spread legs. 

He looked up at him, at the dark pupils consuming the normally warm eyes, at the flush high on his cheekbones. He rested his hands on Kip’s thighs, feeling the muscle beneath the soft cotton of the sweats.

And then he leaned in, pressing his cheek against the growing hardness there, feeling the heat of it even through the fabric. 

He looked up one last time, a silent question in his eyes. Kip’s answer was a broken moan, a nod, his head falling back against the couch cushions.

Scott didn’t need any more invitation. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the sweatpants and pulled them down, just enough. 

Kip was already hard, flushed and perfect. Scott wrapped a hand around him, feeling the weight and the heat, and then he leaned in and took him into his mouth.

This was the litany of thanks, the worship, the raw, unfiltered truth of how he felt. 

He set a rhythm, slow and deep at first, then faster, more demanding, driven by the frantic beat of his own heart. 

He could feel Kip’s hips start to move, a helpless, instinctive rock. He could hear the soft, choked-off sounds Kip was making, music better than anything on the radio.

Kip’s fingers tangled in his hair, a gentle, grounding pressure that wasn’t about control, it was simply about connection. 

Scott’s eyes fluttered close and let everything else fall away. The practice, the rookie, the city, the future. 

There was only this. The taste of Kip on his tongue, the feel of him in his mouth, the quiet sounds of pleasure filling the sun-drenched room. 

This was home. 

This was what he had been asking for. And he had it. Right here, on the floor of his living room, with the TV still murmuring in the background, Scott was finally, completely, home.

The world narrowed to the slide of skin, the salt and musk on Scott’s tongue, the way Kip’s breath hitched. 

He followed the rhythm of Kip’s body, a push and pull he understood better than any play he’d ever run. 

When Kip’s fingers tightened in his hair, when his hips stuttered and a choked sob of Scott’s name escaped his lips, Scott just held on, taking everything, drinking it down until Kip was a loose-limbed, boneless mess above him.

He stayed there for a long moment, head resting on Kip’s thigh, the quiet hum of the apartment settling around them. There was a lingering bitterness, a taste that was pure, unadulterated Kip. 

He didn’t want to let it go. He didn't want to move.

When he finally pulled back, tucking Kip carefully back into the sweatpants, Kip’s hand was already reaching for him, tugging him upward. “Scott, come here. Let me…”

“No, not right now,” Scott said, the word soft but firm. He shook his head, crawling back onto the couch and arranging himself like a blanket over Kip, tucking his head under Kip’s chin. While he was hard, it wasn’t an urgent need. The need to nap with his man, in his home, was a more pressing matter. 

He made himself fit, with his legs stretched more toward the other end of the couch than on Kip. He could feel the steady, solid beat of Kip’s heart against his ear. “Stay. Just like this.”

He felt a wave of something he couldn't name crest in his chest, something so vast and overwhelming it left him breathless. It wasn't about sex anymore. It had never just been about sex. This was the aftermath. This was the quiet. This was the part he craved. 

The part he’d never allowed himself to have. 

That’s the part nobody really prepares him for, either. The part of missing things, that he wasn’t even aware he was missing, and then when he finally has them and seeing the parts he was missing it all stacks up.

But with Kip, all he wanted to do was lie here, to feel the weight of Kip’s arm settle around him, to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the skin of his throat and just… be.

He could feel the deep, even pull of Kip’s breathing, could hear the soft rustle of pages as he picked up his discarded book. 

Then Kip’s free hand found his hair, long fingers combing through the strands, a slow, rhythmic, hypnotic stroke. The gesture was absent-minded, comforting, more intimate than anything they’d just done.

A slow, deep lethargy seeped into Scott’s bones. The exhaustion from practice, the emotional whiplash of the morning, the bone-deep satisfaction of the last twenty minutes, it all conspired to pull him under. 

The nap he usually took after a long day wasn't a luxury; it was a necessity. But this was different. He wasn’t just crashing. He was docking. Coming home to port.

The murmur of the TV faded into a meaningless drone. The words on Kip’s page were a distant rustle. There was only the weight of the body beneath him, the gentle pressure in his hair, and the faint, private taste of Kip still lingering on the back of his tongue. 

His last thought before he slipped under was a simple, staggering one: Oh. So this is what peace feels like.

Scott wakes to loud pounding and Vaughn’s unmistakable shout. “Scotty, open up!”

For one disorienting second, he’s back on the ice, skates shrieking against concrete. Then the world reassembles. The couch. Afternoon light. Kip beneath him, a book splayed open on his chest, Scott’s own weight draped over him in a way that feels embarrassingly perfect.

Scott groans and buries his face deeper into Kip’s neck. The couch dips as Kip laughs softly, one hand still threaded through Scott’s hair.

“Please tell me that’s not Vaughny,” Kip murmurs.

“Kill me,” Scott says. “Or better yet, kill him.”

The pounding intensifies.

“Scotty! I can see your car! Which means you’re either here or were kidnapped!”

Scott winces. “I hate him.”

“You love him,” Kip says, amused.

With a long-suffering sigh, Scott pushes himself upright. Late afternoon light spills across the living room, but the quiet doesn’t last. Scott yells back in the clearly rehearsed phrase, “Not Kidnapped!”

Scott opens the door.

Vaughn stands there grinning, holding up a DVD case like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Competitive birding,” he announces. “Think about the drama. The lies. The plumage.”

His eyes flick past Scott.

He takes it all in. The rumpled state. Kip in one of Scott’s hoodies behind him. The unmistakable aftermath of a shared nap.

There’s a beat.

Then Vaughn grins wider. “Hey, Kip. Glad you’re still here too.” He steps inside without waiting. “Were you guys napping? Don’t let me stop you. We can totally hockey puppy pile if you want, but the birds shall be watched.”

He nudges Scott’s arm, easy and familiar. Then his voice drops, just a notch. “But also, speaking of puppies, I heard one of yours showed up for a late-night visit. Everything okay?”

The shift is subtle but real. Scott feels it settle.

He glances back at Kip, still curled into the couch, calm and present. Then he looks at Vaughn.

“Yeah,” Scott says. Steady. Honest. “Everything’s okay.”

Vaughn studies him for half a second, then nods, satisfied. “Good.”

Scott smiles. It’s small, but it’s real.

And that’s all the confirmation Vaughny apparently needs before beginning the documentary.

Chapter 5: The New Guy

Chapter Notes

General Audience.

It’s midafternoon. Scott is in socks, Kip is half-asleep on the couch with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees, for once not doing school work, just browsing, and the apartment is quiet in the way Scott promised it would be. No rookies. No emergencies. And for Kip No homework and No work. Just a day off, for the both of them to rest together.

And then comes The Knock.

Scott is on his feet before Kip fully registers the sound. There’s no panic this time. Like some part of him was already braced for it. Like he was possibly expecting someone? 

Hudson Newgate stands in the hallway with a team-issued backpack, and the wary, exhausted look of someone who’s learned not to get comfortable anywhere.

“Cap,” Hudson says, relief flickering across his face. “Sorry to just show up. Coach gave me your address and number. And well…” he sheepishly adds, “I lost your number portion of the note. Coach said you’d help me get settled?”

Scott smiles. Kip notes it’s the reassuring one. The Captain one. “Yeah, of course. Come in.”

Hudson steps inside, glancing around with polite curiosity. The penthouse is bigger than any place he’s lived in since juniors. He looks like he’s bracing for judgment that never comes.

“This is Kip,” Scott says automatically. 

Kip lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

Hudson nods, “Sorry, don't think I’ve met you, yet. Do you work for the team?”

Kip laughs, “Me? No absolutely not, I’m more familiar with the creases of the painting I’m studying than what the creases that you guys are so concerned about.”

Scott snorts from the hallway. “Because it’s the crease. Singular.”

He reappears with a whiteboard Kip still doesn’t understand how fits in the closet.

“Sure,” Kip says dryly. “Whatever you say.”

They grin at each other like this argument has happened a hundred times and somehow still hasn’t gotten old.

Scott’s already moving again. “You just get in?”

“Couple hours ago. Team temporary housing’s fine.” Hudson shifts the strap of his bag. “Coach said you’d know where I should start. Groceries, bank stuff. I don’t really know the city.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I’ve got you.”

That’s when Kip notices the folder.

Scott had pulled it out of a drawer in the sideboard Kip hadn’t even realized existed. It’s clearly neatly labeled. Thick. Organized. Color-coded, and alarmingly laminated.

Hudson Newgate has barely sat at the table when Scott starts going over everything. 

“Okay, neighborhood map,” Scott says. “These grocery stores won’t rob you. This one looks innocent but lies. Transit lines are color-coded. Dry cleaner here. Barber here. Coffee’s good but don’t go before nine unless you enjoy chaos.”

He swaps markers like a man born to annotate.

Hudson blinks. “Cap,” he says, laughing, “this is… a lot.”

Scott freezes. Marker hovering. “Too much?”

That turn of phrase is what gets Kip off the couch.

He steps closer, taking it in. Maps. Lists. Scott’s neat handwriting. Contacts for mechanics. A dentist who takes team insurance and “doesn’t talk too much.”

This isn’t kindness. It’s infrastructure.

“No,” Hudson says quickly. “Just more than I’ve ever gotten. From a captain. Or the team.”

Scott exhales, smiling. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been lucky. Trade deadlines for me were mostly about saying goodbye to friends. Or welcoming new ones.” He taps the map. “Figured coming in alone shouldn’t be harder than it already is.”

Hudson nods. “That would’ve helped. I’ve been on four teams in three years.”

Kip winces, tries to joke with Hudson while typing out a message “You even really unpack anymore?”

     Kip: You said to call if Scott was overdoing it.

     Kip: Laminated maps are out.

     Kip: Can you come over, Now

Hudson shrugs. “Not really.” Kip misses the deep sadness at this as he gets a response back to his message almost immediately. 

     Carter: On my way.

Scott’s smile softens. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” Hudson says. “Easy to lose yourself like that.”

Kip feels something tighten in his chest and glances at Scott before he can stop himself. Scott catches it and smiles, reaching out for Kip's hand before pulling it back before making contact as.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Scott says. “I promise.”

Hudson snorts. “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say. You’re one of the legendary no-movement clause guys.”

Kip looks between them. “Legendary?” Now Kip is invested and also stalling. 

Scott groans. “Hudson…”

“It’s true,” Hudson says, grinning. “It was your contract that lowered the eligibility of a no-movement clause.”

Scott corrects him here to explain it to Kip, “No, it actually allowed for an exception to the age limit for captains under the age could negotiate for a no-movement. So as soon as I got the C, I got it added. And now that I am fully eligible without the C, I renegotiated last time my contract was up.” Seeing as Kip still looked shaky at the possibility of Scott being traded. 

“Kip, I promise, I fully intend to retire in New York.”

Hudson nods, suddenly a little sheepish. “Yeah. I didn’t get it at the time, especially with how much money the news was reporting you’d be turning down, but after being bounced around teams like this I’d jump on something like that too.”  

Scott rubs the back of his neck. “I just wanted the permanence, and to make a difference here.”

Hudson nods. “If I’m ever offered something like that, I’m taking it.”

“Well,” Kip says lightly, cutting the sincerity before it tips, “on the bright side, with all the maps and charts Scott has made you, you wont be bouncing around New York looking for anything.” Kip with a laugh pulls out a large paper from the bottom, “Oh look there’s Scott even has charts.”

Then he turns to look at Scott and says softly“But, Scott?”

“Mm?”

“You and I had plans to relax today. No Hockey, No Grad School, remember?”

Scott pauses. Just a fraction of a second. “Yeah, but this won’t take long.”

Kip doesn’t argue. He just watches.

Scott’s voice has shifted back into Captain Mode. Calm. Efficient. No wasted movement. Hudson asks a question about neighborhoods and Scott answers it with confidence, circling an area on the map. Explaining commute times. Rent ranges. Where not to live unless you enjoy sirens and regret.

It’s impressive. And exhausting.

The doorbell rings again.

Scott frowns. “You expecting someone?”

Kip grins. “Yeah.”

Carter Vaughn barrels in without waiting. “Scotty! I sensed excessive helpfulness.”

He stops short, taking in the maps, markers, and Hudson sitting like he’s in orientation. “Wow. You setting up a command center or just welcoming the new guy?”

 “Vaughny,” Scott draws out his name like he’s exceptionally slow,  “I was helping… just like Coach asked.” He gives a pointed look. 

Carter gives one of his own back, matches the eye contact intensity, “And coach should have asked the front office who get paid to do this,” 

Scott stiffens. “They’re busy.”

“They get paid to do that,” Carter says. Then he turns to Hudson. “You hungry?”

Hudson sighs at the same nickname being easily picked up for him does perk up for food, “Yeah, actually, I’ve been moving boxes all day.”

“Great,” Carter says. “Come on. We’re getting tacos.”

Scott blinks. “What? No, I can…”

Carter cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Familiar. “You have already fulfilled the request from Coach. New Guy here has been given a list of all the places in New York that he could possibly need. I got the introductory meal. No worries. Relax today.”

Hudson looks between them, unsure. Kip smiles at him. “Go. He’ll be fine.”

Carter grins. “Plus, I need a neutral party to settle a debate.”

“What debate?” Hudson asks.

“Kip here has terrible opinions about aioli,” Carter says. “And doesn’t respect that the entire point of a taco is the meat.”

Kip scoffs. “The sauce matters, more.”

“Wrong,” Carter says cheerfully. “Objectively. Just wrong.”

Hudson laughs, the tension easing out of him for the first time since he arrived.

“Come on,” Carter says. “You can tell me your trade horror stories, and you don’t have to look too disappointed about leaving this place as we'll be back soon for the Mario Kart Tournament and Scott can put that white board to good use and make us a bracket.”

They’re out the door before Scott can protest again.

The apartment goes quiet.

Scott stares at the maps still spread across the table. His shoulders sag.

“Was I…Was I being, too much?” He trails off.

“No, not too much. Just overexerting yourself. When help was available.” Kip says gently.

Scott exhales. “I just… it’s easier if I handle it.”

“I know,” Kip says. He gathers the maps, stacks them neatly. “But it doesn’t all have to be you.”

Scott leans back against the counter, rubbing his face. “Coach really does give out my number a lot.”

“That’s a problem,” Kip says. “And not one you have to fix alone.”

Scott laughs weakly. “You sound like Vaughn.”

“Well I did text him.”

Scott looks at him in surprise. And he fights against the initial anger about having to ask for help and then he really looks at him and around on the table and the crazy notes and layout before taking a breath and nods. “Okay.”

They sit back on the coach going back to Scott’s promised day of do nothing. 

An hour later, Scott’s phone buzzes.

     Carter: Tacos acquired. New Guy knows the basic layout of town. We wont be losing this one to the subway
     Carter: Like that one guy who ended up in Boston on his first day. Still haven’t a clue how he managed that
     Carter: Mario Kart soon. Kip better be there, he's got worse taco opinions than even you

Scott smiles despite himself.

He finally really relaxed next to Kip. And he lets himself lean in. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“Anytime, baby.” Kip kisses his forehead. “You do have a whole team behind.”

“And you?” Scott asks with a smile, but his eyes search Kip’s for the truth. 

“Always, baby. That’s what you do for those you love.” Kip emphasizes by kissing his forehead. 

For once, the door stays closed. And Scott stays right where he is.

Chapter End Notes

My other favorite hockey boys series makes a small cameo.

Chapter 6: Eric Bennett

Chapter Summary

Eric Bennett comes over after having a fight with his wife.

Scott opens the door already talking.

“Benny, you know it’s almost midnight, right?”

Eric Bennett stands in the hallway with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and a look that tells Scott everything he needs to know before a word is even said. He’s in sweats and a hoodie that’s seen better days, shoulders hunched, chin tucked like he’s bracing for impact.

“Hoped you’d be awake,” Eric says.

Scott steps aside without hesitation. “For you, always am.”

Eric hesitates just long enough for Scott to notice, then his eyes flick past Scott’s shoulder. Kip is in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a beer in his hand, watching them with polite curiosity.

“So you must be the roommate,” Eric says, straightening a little. He adjusts the strap of his bag, suddenly aware of the space he’s taking up. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

Kip smiles. “All good ones, I hope.”

Eric snorts. “Scott’s been insufferably cheerful lately. I’m either blaming you or a concussion. And he hasn’t taken a bad hit lately.”

Scott rolls his eyes but there’s no heat in it. “Ah yes, the Goalie sees all,” pulling his friend by the arm, “Get inside, idiot. You look like hell.”

Eric drops his bag by the couch like he’s done a hundred times before. Scott heads straight for the fridge, pulling out beers without asking. He reaches automatically for the stash of Bud Light cans tucked in the back…the ones Kip had teased him about when he first moved in.

Eric notices.

He intercepts the can mid-hand-off. “This really is becoming a problem,” he says quietly. “You’re stocking my favorites.”

Scott bumps his shoulder, easy and familiar. “You want to talk about it, or just pass out?”

Eric huffs a breath that might be a laugh if it had more air in it, “Talk. Maybe it’ll help. Or at least if my life blows up, you’re not surprised.” 

He looks at Kip, “If you’re up to hearing my woes, you’re welcome too.”

They settle onto the couch the way they always do. Close. Knees touching, Scott’s thigh pressed into Eric’s. 

Eric curls forward slightly, elbows on his knees, beer dangling loosely between his hands. His shoulders stay tight, like he’s trying to keep something from spilling out.

Kip stays quiet, perched at the other end of the couch. Trying to feel out if he should even be there. He can feel the gravity of the moment, understands instinctively that this is going to be a moment. Maybe even one he can have Scott lean on him while Scott supports others. 

Eric stares at the floor. “It was nothing. That’s the stupid part.”

Scott doesn’t interrupt.

“I brought home flowers,” Eric continues. “But they weren’t her favorites, they were the ones they had. I wasn’t trying to start anything with her.” He shakes his head. “But then she reminded me about her sister’s birthday and I forgot and told her I scheduled a promo during that time. And well it all blew up. Somehow it always does.”

Scott hums softly, a wordless sound of encouragement.

Eric’s jaw tightens. “Then suddenly we’re not talking about her sister’s party anymore. We’re talking about how I never listen. How I shut down. How she feels like she’s married to a wall.” 

His grip tightens on the beer can. “Then it circles back. Then it starts at the beginning again. Then we’re back to the beginning of our relationship where I said things would be different than they are”

“No one really knows what this life is like until they’re in it,” Scott says quietly.

Eric nods. “She’s been in it with me for ten years. She knows the schedule. The travel. The grind.” He hesitates. “And she’s not wrong. I do choose hockey. I’m near the end, Scotty. I want to give it everything.” 

Scott can’t help but glance at Kip and give a smile at that, as it is nice to have someone at home, but there are also a lot of challenges with being with a hockey player. 

Eric doesn’t notice and continues to ramble…”But she’s now taken it to the point where I’d always choose hockey first. Hence why she’s mad about the birthday thing. And I get it, family is important, and I should have remembered, but I’m coming to my end, only a few years left and I want to embrace all of hockey…”

Scott doesn’t argue. He doesn’t defend hockey or minimize it. He just says, “That doesn’t mean she’s wrong to feel hurt.”

Eric looks at him then, eyes sharp. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Scott says calmly. “Being on your side doesn’t mean lying to you.”

Eric swallows. His shoulders sag a fraction, tension leaking out. “She brought up divorce.”

The word hangs between them.

Scott goes still. His voice softens instinctively. “Benny…”

Eric flinches, just barely. Scott corrects himself without comment.

“Eric.”

Eric scrubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t fight it. Not like I used to.” He laughs weakly. “Didn’t even raise my voice. Just sat there… And well…then packed and now here I am.”

Scott reaches out, squeezes his knee, “What are you thinking?”

“That I’m tired,” Eric admits. “That I don’t know how to be what she wants without losing what little I have left.”

Scott nods slowly. “That’s not nothing.”

Eric’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, looking away. “I don’t know if staying is brave or if leaving is. And I’m real sick of everyone telling me it’s one or the other.”

Kip feels something in his chest loosen. He recognizes that feeling. The exhaustion of being forced into choices that feel like losses either way.

There’s a stretch of quiet. The apartment hums softly around them, fridge clicking on and off, traffic sighing somewhere far below. The city keeps moving, indifferent. The three of them sit there just taking comfort in being together. 

Eric shifts on the couch, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to work out a knot. His eyes drift from the dark hallway to Kip, then back to Scott.

“So,” he says, casual on the surface. “What’s the plan for crashing?”

Scott glances at the clock out of habit. “You’re good here. I’ve got blankets.”

Eric raises an eyebrow. “You’re really gonna stick me on the couch when you’ve got a guest bedroom?”

Scott frowns. “I thought you liked the couch.”

“I like the couch when I’m drunk or sulking,” Eric says. “This is existential dread. Feels like it deserves a mattress.”

Kip lets out a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. Eric shoots him a look, amused despite himself.

Scott rubs the back of his neck. “Fine. I’ll go make up the guest room.”

Eric, satisfied, then takes another sip of his beer. He looks around the apartment, eyes unfocused now, the way they get when he’s thinking out loud more than he means to. 

“Right. Which means you’re in the master.” He gestures between Scott and Kip, coming up with the answer to a question hadn’t really been trying to ask, “Together.” 

The words hang there.

Eric’s smile slips as his brain catches up with the conclusion his mouth had already spoken. 

Scott feels it before he understands it. A cold drop in his stomach, the sharp spike of adrenaline. For half a second, the room feels too bright, too open.

The realization hits all three of them at once.

Eric freezes.

Scott’s stomach drops through the floor. His heart starts hammering, panic flaring hot and fast. For half a second, the room feels too bright, too open. He opens his mouth, ready to deflect, deny, joke it away…

Eric sees it immediately. Reaches out and pulls Scott into a goalie hug—big, grounding, familiar. He holds on until Scott’s breathing slows enough to hug back.

Once Scott has his breathing under control. Eric pulls back and takes a long, measured breath. He leans back into the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Relax,” Eric says quietly. “I’m not gonna say anything.”

Scott stares at him, throat tight. “Eric…”

Eric cuts him off with a tired wave. “Look. Whoever goes first is gonna get it the worst.”

He pauses, then adds, more deliberate, making sure Scott meets his eyes, “Because it’s a first. Not an only.”

He doesn’t explain further. He doesn’t have to.

“Scrutiny. Whispers. Media. Fans,” Eric continues, throwing glances at Kip making sure he’s listening too, “The good. The bad. And every interview in between.” Counting them off like penalties. He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t wish that on my enemies. Let alone my friends.”

He exhales long and slow, scrubbing his eyes shut. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. Honest. “Let alone me.”

The admission hangs there, fragile but real.

Kip steps closer, pressing into Scott’s side. Scott leans into the contact without thinking and then, after a beat, passes it along…nudging Eric with his knee. Solidarity, offered the only way he knows how.

Eric finally looks up, meeting Kip’s eyes. There’s something steadier there now, something resolved.

“So just…be damn sure,” Eric says gently. “Be sure you want all of it. Not because you’ll be alone if you don’t…but because once it starts, it doesn’t stop with just one, and everyone will be looking to the first.”

Scott’s chest tightens, not with panic this time, but with the weight of possibility.

Eric softens glancing between them. “And for what it’s worth, as I know Scott’s still panicking, you aren’t obvious.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “We’re dumb hockey players. Only people in the community would even clock it.”

Scott lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Mostly due to Kip’s hand finding his. 

Eric stares at his empty beer. His voice drops and his mouth takes over the conversation from his brain again. “Not that we really get to be part of the community.”

The words land heavy. Kip feels them settle deep, and understands the ache beneath them. Taking “You could,” Kip says gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t make it sound like an obligation. “There’s a place down by the river. The Kingfisher. You’d be welcome.”

Eric looks up, genuinely surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kip says. “It’s where my friends and I usually hang out. Though they’re a little confused about why I suddenly care so deeply about hockey.” He smiles, self-aware. “Figured if a few more hot hockey players showed up, it might help my case.”

Eric huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, so we’re hot now?” He flicks a glance at Scott. “Does he know he’s got competition?”

Kip doesn’t even hesitate. He turns fully toward Scott, affection open and unguarded. “No one compares to Scott.”

The words are simple. Certain.

Scott feels them like a hand to the chest.

Eric’s smile softens, something fragile flickering across it before he can hide it. He looks away, staring into the dregs of his beer.

“Maybe,” he says after a beat. “Not yet, though.” He taps the can absently. “Still married. Still figuring out which parts of me I’m allowed to look at without blowing everything up.”

Kip nods, accepting the answer without disappointment. “The invite stands. Whenever.”

Eric glances back at them then, at the way Scott and Kip lean toward each other without thinking, the quiet gravity between them. Something in his expression tightens, not with jealousy exactly, but with grief for what’s slipping through his own fingers.

“Thanks,” Eric says quietly.

Later, when Eric is asleep in the guest room, and the two are curled up in the Master. Scott whispers, “does being seen like that always feel like you’re dying by a too bright spotlight?” 

Kip snuggles closer. “Yes, and no,” he says. “Each time always feels like a spotlight, but after one spotlight where people see that side, the next one doesn't change all that much more.”

Scott doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t pull away when Kip kisses him gently before laying his head over Scott’s heart. The heart that had since stopped racing and is back to the relaxed state it’s always in right before Scott gets to fall asleep with Kip in his arms. 

Chapter 7: Post Eric Bennett

Chapter Summary

Explicit: This is what happens after Scott after Scott ends a practice where some of the WAGs were enthusiastically greeting their hockey boy. Scott fantasies about him and Kip

The next morning comes in soft and grey, the light doing very little to improve Eric Bennett’s mood.

He sits hunched at Scott’s kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet. He looks like a man who slept just enough to function and not enough to recover.

Scott barely registers him.

The kitchen is too bright for that. The windows flood the space with early light, the kind Scott has always loved, especially now because of the way it adds a glow to Kip when he comes in half-awake, hair rumpled, eyes still soft with sleep, every morning.

Kip shuffles out of the bedroom, already rubbing at his face. Scott’s chest lifts at the sight of him, and then sinks just a little.

He’s wearing a shirt. And sweatpants.

Scott clocks it immediately, the quiet disappointment sharp and irrational. Normally it’s just boxers and bare feet. Kip fully unguarded. Today there’s fabric, a layer between them, a small concession to having a guest.

Then Scott remembers.

Right. Eric.

The disappointment shifts into something warmer. Appreciation. Gratitude. Kip being careful, even when he doesn’t have to be.

Kip makes a beeline for the coffee pot, posture all instinct and need.

Scott is already there.

Like every other morning, he’s poured Kip’s cup while waiting for him to appear. Then muscle memory kicks in and like every other morning, he lifts it just out of reach when Kip reaches for it.

“Scott,” Kip murmurs with tired resignation, voice gravel-soft.

Scott grins and tips the mug higher. “What’s the magic word?”

Kip doesn’t bother stretching. He just steps in, slides his arms around Scott’s shoulders, and kisses him, slow, warm, familiar.

“Please,” Kip adds against his mouth.

The kiss stays soft. Unhurried. Scott drops one more, gentler kiss to Kip’s cheek before finally handing over the coffee.

“Hey,” Eric says mildly. “Any chance there’s more of that?”

The world snaps back into place.

Scott freezes, just for a second, then steps aside, heat rushing up his neck as he makes room at the coffee pot. His heart is already pounding, braced for something he doesn’t quite know how to name.

Eric only snorts and nudges Scott’s shoulder as he passes.

“You guys are ridiculously adorable in the morning,” he says, fond and unbothered. “It’s actually kind of gross.”

Scott blinks.

Then he laughs.

The tension drains out of him all at once, like a held breath finally released. He looks at Kip, who’s already smiling at him over the rim of his mug, eyes bright and amused.

Normal.

It’s just…normal.

They move through the rest of the morning easily. Scott grabs his keys, checks his phone, pulls on his jacket. Kip gathers his bag for class, tugs his shoes on, kisses Scott once more by the door.

Scott doesn’t hesitate.

He leans down and kisses Kip goodbye, right there, with Eric watching, coffee in hand.

Eric doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t comment. Just lifts his mug in a lazy salute.

Scott leaves the apartment lighter than he has in weeks, the memory of that kiss lingering like a promise.

And for the first time, the thought doesn’t terrify him.

He’s going to come out.

Not all at once. Not loudly. But deliberately. Because he needs Kip close. Because he knows now what it feels like to reach for him without fear, and he can’t imagine going back. 

Scott realizes he’s smiling like someone who finally believes he doesn’t have to allow part of himself to disappear in order for others to stay.

Hours later, the front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Kip barely looked up from the couch before he smiled. He’d learned the sound by now…the difference between Scott coming home tired and Scott coming home wired. This was the second kind. Kip just placed his bookmark, ready.

Scott didn’t just enter the apartment; he blew into it, a storm of restless energy and adrenaline still clinging to him. 

His gear bag hit the floor with a dull thud. He toed his shoes off without bothering to line them up. His hair was still damp from the locker room, his cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way that made Kip’s stomach flip.

Kip set his book aside and opened his arms a little. “Bad practice or…very good practice?”

Scott stopped short when he saw him like that…waiting, open, already smiling. He dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming a little fast.

“Neither,” he said. Then, like he’d been holding it in all the way up the elevator: “Some of the guys' girlfriends were there after.”

Kip hummed confused. “Ah. Ok? Aren’t some of them always there?”

Scott started pacing, restless, keyed up. “They were waiting at the end of the rink. Just…there. Like they belonged.” 

He let out a sharp laugh, more frustrated than amused. “One of them practically launched herself at her man. Kissed him like she hadn’t seen him in weeks. 

And another…” He shook his head. “It was just a quick kiss. A hello, more than anything. It was normal. This happens every practice or game there’s always the WAGs and kids around then.”

He stopped and looked at Kip then, really looked at him, the want on his face unguarded and intense.

“And I just…I want that,” Scott said quietly. “I want that…with you.”

Kip’s expression softened, but his smile didn’t fade. “Yeah,” he said. “I know, I do too.”

“I want to walk out of practice and reach for you without thinking,” Scott continued, voice rough. “I want to kiss you like it’s just part of the end of the routine. Like breathing.” 

He swallowed. “Eric didn’t even blink this morning. He just…saw us. And it was fine.”

Kip stood before Scott could overthink himself into retreat. He stepped into Scott’s space, hands sliding easily to his hips.

“Hey,” Kip said gently. “You’re allowed to want that.”

Scott let out a shaky breath. “I should’ve kissed you.”

“So do it now,” Kip said, not teasing. Just certain. “Show me how you would have kissed me, if I’d been there.”

That was all the permission Scott needed.

He leaned in and kissed Kip…deep, desperate, but careful too, like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Kip kissed him back just as hard, fingers curling into Scott’s shirt, anchoring him. When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing fast, foreheads pressed together.

Kip laughed softly. “You’d kiss me like that at the rink, in front of everyone.”

Scott huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I’d’ve wanted them all to know, you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Kip said, brushing his thumb along Scott’s jaw.

Scott stands then and drags Kip off to the bedroom. His mouth was on Kip's again, a punishing, hungry kiss that was all frustration and longing. 

Scott kissed him like he was trying to crawl inside him, to claim him from the inside out. He broke away, his breathing harsh, and began a slow, deliberate assault on the rest of him. His lips traced the line of Kip’s jaw, nipped at the sensitive skin of his throat.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” he murmured, his voice a rough, dirty whisper against Kip’s skin. “Us being more, public.” 

“If there was a reason for you to be at the arena to see me, then there's so many little corners for us to explore.”

Kip’s response was a choked-off moan, his hips canting upward, a silent, pleading invitation. The words were a lit match to gasoline. 

The raw, possessive need in Scott’s voice, the filthy, vivid fantasy. It was everything Kip had ever secretly craved and never dared to name.

Scott’s hands were greedy, sliding under the hem of Kip’s shirt, pushing it up to expose the pale skin of his stomach. 

His mouth followed a trail of fire. Hot, open-mouthed kisses pressed against Kip’s navel, the sharp jut of his hip bone. Each touch was a brand, a declaration of ownership.

“I’ve had to listen to it for a decade, you know,” Scott murmured, his voice a low, dirty secret against Kip’s skin. 

“All the guys. Gillis, Huff, Vaughn… they talk. They talk about those corners of the arena. The storage closets, the trainer’s room after a hard game. Getting a little relief.” 

He bit down gently on the soft skin of Kip’s stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. “And for years, I just tuned it out. But lately… all I can think about is having you there especially after a hard practice or after we win.”

The idea of it, the sheer, unapologetic possessiveness, made his head spin. He liked it. God, he liked it so much.

“I’d push you to your knees right in the storage closet or the trainers room or the gym, whatever quiet place we found, still half in my gear,” Scott continued, his voice thick with lust, the fantasy becoming more real with every word. 

“My hands in your hair, holding you still. I’d make you take it, make you take all of me, with the whole team just on the other side of the door. They’d know. They’d all know you were in there, on your knees for me.”

The image was so potent, so visceral, Kip could feel the phantom chill of the concrete floor on his knees, the imagined scent of sweat and ice and Scott. 

“Yes,” Kip breathed out, the word a ragged, desperate plea. “Please, Scott. I want that.” 

He wanted to be the one to claim Scott right back, to mark him as surely as Scott was marking him with these words. “I want to taste you after a game. All sweaty and still buzzing from the ice. I want that scent on me too, dirty me up before you even shower.”

A low, guttural groan rumbled in Scott’s chest, the sound of a predator who’d just had his prey offer its throat. “Fuck, Kip.” 

He ripped his gaze away from Kip’s face, looking down at the body laid out beneath him, a feast he was about to devour. “You’re going to kill me.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of Kip’s jeans, tugging them down with rough, impatient movements. 

Kip lifted his hips to help, eager, desperate. Scott knelt there for a moment, just looking, his eyes dark with a hunger that was almost frightening in its intensity.

“Maybe not the trainer’s room,” Scott conceded, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ll just keep you in the locker room. In my stall.” 

Kip whimpers as images of lockers room flashed through his head even though he hasn’t seen the Admirals in person he’s watched enough interviews of Scott after games to understand. 

Scott chuckled, a low, predatory sound. He slicked his fingers, the movements practiced and sure, and then he was pushing into Kip, a slow, deliberate stretch that made them both moan.

“Yeah?” Scott asked, Kip is only capable of nodding at the unasked question still living in the fantasy. 

Scott continues his voice closer to a ragged growl. “I’ve thought about you coming to the locker room. How you’d press me against the lockers before I bent you over the bench, and had you screaming my name. You’d be louder than the 20,000 person arena,” 

He gently plants kisses from Kip’s temple to his ear, “wouldn’t you Kip.” 

“You’d drown out all of them. As you’re mine, and no one else. You’d make sure everyone knew I was yours.”   

“Mine,” Kip moaned, the word ripped from his throat at a volume proving Scott’s point. “You’re Mine and I’m all yours.” 

He knew most of it was fantasy, a beautiful, dangerous daydream, but the core of it…the belonging, the possession, the desperate, unwavering devotion…that was real. That was everything.

Scott’s fingers were moving inside him now, a maddening, perfect rhythm that had Kip’s hips rocking up to meet each thrust. He was leaning over Kip, bracketing his body, his other hand fisted in Kip’s hair, holding him still.

“You know what else I want?” Scott’s voice was a harsh, desperate rasp. 

“I want to see you in the stands. I want to see you wearing my jersey. Not a t-shirt. My real game jersey. With my name on the back. Number twenty-one. I want to look up during a break and see you there, showing everyone you’re mine. I want to play for you, score for you.”

The image was so vivid, so powerful, it was the final push. “Scott,” Kip breathed, his eyes wide, locking onto Scott’s. The fantasy of the trainer’s room, the public claiming of the locker room, were all intoxicating. 

But this… this was a different kind of belonging. A public declaration woven into the very fabric of the game. “I want that,” he said, the words clear and unwavering despite the trembling of his limbs. “I want to wear your jersey. I want everyone to know who I belong to.”

Something in Scott’s face shattered and reformed, a raw, breathtaking vulnerability breaking through the ferocious heat. 

The dirty talk died on his lips. For a long moment, he just stared, his fingers still buried deep inside Kip, the rhythmic pulse of their connection the only movement between them. 

Then, with a ragged groan, he pulled his fingers free, not with teasing slowness, but with a desperate urgency.

He stripped off their remaining clothes. He fumbled with the lube, his hands now shaking, slicking himself with quick, uncoordinated strokes. 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He hooked his hands under Kip’s knees, pushing them back and open, and drove into him in one long, powerful thrust.

The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect, blinding fullness that stole the air from Kip’s lungs. 

Scott didn’t give him a moment to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust hard and deep, a primal, demanding cadence that was less about pleasure and more about possession. 

He was a man driven, chasing a singular, all-consuming need.

“Mine,” he grunted with each snap of his hips, the words a raw, repetitive mantra. 

“You’re going to wear my name.” He leaned down, his forehead pressing against Kip’s, the sweat from his brow dripping onto Kip’s face. 

“Every game. You’re going to sit in my seat. You’re going to watch me play. And then you’re going to come home with me. And I’m going to fuck you or you’re going to fuck me.”

Kip could only cling to him, his nails digging into the slick muscles of Scott’s back, his body a vessel for the force of Scott’s desire. 

He was being claimed, branded, loved with a ferocity that bordered on violence, and he had never felt safer, never felt more whole. The fantasies Scott had painted, the illicit promises and public displays, they were all fire and gasoline. 

But this, the raw, honest declaration in the privacy of their home, this was the anchor. This was the reality he would build his life on.

Scott’s hand closed around Kip’s cock, his grip sure and tight. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, a perfect, synchronized rhythm that pushed them both toward the edge.

“Say it again,” Scott demanded, his voice a strained, broken whisper. “Say you’ll wear my jersey.”

“I’ll wear your jersey,” Kip sobbed, the words tearing from him as the tension coiled in his groin, hot and tight and impossibly close to snapping. “I’m yours. Always.”

That was it. The surrender, the promise. Scott’s rhythm stuttered, a harsh cry tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, his release a hot, pulsing wave that filled Kip, claiming him from the inside out. 

The feeling of it, of Scott losing control because of him, was enough to send Kip tumbling over the edge after him, a sharp, blinding orgasm that left him shaking and breathless.

For a long, long time, they just lay there, a tangle of sweat-heavy limbs on the bed. 

The world slowly came back into focus: the distant wail of a siren, the hum of the refrigerator, the frantic, slowing beat of their own hearts. Scott shifted, rolling to the side but keeping their bodies connected, a heavy, comforting weight pinning Kip to the cushions.

He brushed a damp curl from Kip’s forehead, his touch impossibly gentle now, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before. “I mean it, you know,” he said, his voice soft, raspy with emotion. “Being seen, this. All of it.”

“I know,” Kip murmured, turning his head to kiss the center of Scott’s palm. “I could feel it.”

Scott smiled, small and a little stunned, like he was still surprised the world hadn’t cracked open. He leaned in until their foreheads touched and stayed there, breathing Kip in.

After a moment, he pulled his phone from the table and unlocked it, the glow briefly cutting through the dim room.

“I’ve got this set up,” he said, turning the screen so Kip could see. His calendar was open, a single meeting blocked off later in the week. No details. Just a name and a time. Intentional. Real.

Kip’s chest warmed. “That was fast.”

Scott shrugged, but there was resolve in it. “I didn’t want to lose the nerve.”

The phone buzzed in his hand.

Then again.

Scott’s eyes flicked down without thinking. Kip felt the shift immediately…the way Scott’s shoulders tightened, the way his breath changed.

Scott didn’t open anything. He didn’t have to. The lock screen was enough. A stack of notifications layered over one another. Different names. Different group chats. Missed calls. Messages that clearly hadn’t waited.

He let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a brace.

“Hey,” Kip said softly.

Scott blinked, like he’d drifted too far away. He locked the phone and set it face-down on the table. “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

Kip didn’t argue. He just reached out, threading their fingers together.

Scott squeezed back automatically, grounding himself in the contact. He leaned in and kissed Kip again, slower now, steadier, like he was choosing this moment on purpose.

When they finally pulled apart, Scott rested his forehead against Kip’s shoulder. For just a second, he let himself be held.

Kip watched the phone where it sat, silent but heavy, and felt the shape of something click into place.

Scott would always answer.
Always show up. Even for him.
Always be the one people reached for when they didn’t know where else to turn.

So Kip tightened his hold, pressing a kiss into Scott’s hair.

Fine, he thought.

Then I’ll be the one who fights to take care of you.

Chapter 8: Villains - Lunch with Vaughny

Chapter Summary

Kip and Vaughn go to lunch !
Vaughn checks to make sure Kip isn't one of the villians taking advantage of Scott. Kip then talks about some of the phone calls Scott has recieved recently proving Vaughn's point that he does have to check up on his best friend.

Chapter Notes

Carter Vaughn shows up at the apartment like a weather event.

There’s no knock, just a heavy, confident thud against the door and Carter’s voice already halfway through a sentence before Kip even reaches the handle.

“Scotty! Kip! Have you seen the latest episode of Game of Thrones? Because we need to talk about that little shit Joffrey—”

The door swings open. Carter barrels in, all momentum and grin and noise, shrugging out of his jacket like he owns the place. He does this often enough now that Kip could probably identify him blindfolded by the rhythm of his footsteps alone.

Kip laughs despite himself. “Hi to you too.”

Carter pauses mid-rant and actually looks at him, then around the apartment. “Oh. You’re solo.”

“Scott’s at a promo thing,” Kip says. “Running late, apparently.”

Carter winces. “Yeah, that tracks.” He squints at the table, where Kip’s laptop is open, books stacked in precarious towers. “You busy?”

“Studying,” Kip says, then makes a face. “Or trying to…”

Carter grins. “Perfect. Sounds like you need a break. Lunch? This can just be a you and me, since he’s being Mr. Face of the Team.”

Kip laughs, but hesitates for exactly half a second before agreeing.

Twenty minutes later, they’re wedged into a crowded diner a few blocks away, Carter already halfway through a story about a disastrous team flight involving turbulence, a broken espresso machine, and a fake snake that looked very very real. Kip stirs his coffee and listens, smiling, chiming in at the right moments.

“So,” Carter says eventually, shoving fries onto his plate. “How’s grad school treating you?”

Kip brightens a little. “Good. It’s intense, and a lot of reading. And a lot of writing. I’m knee-deep in Renaissance patronage structures right now.”

Carter nods like that makes perfect sense. “Love a good structure. Very… building-y.”

Kip laughs. “Exactly.”

Carter stabs at a fry, then glances up like the thought has only just occurred to him.

“So,” he says casually. Too casually. “Living situation’s good?”

Kip clocks it immediately. The sideways look. The deliberate neutrality. This isn’t small talk.

“Yeah,” Kip says. “Really good.”

Carter hums. “Scott… making it easy?”

Kip smiles faintly. “He tries.”

“Uh-huh.” Carter wipes his hands on a napkin, eyes still on Kip. “And when you say ‘tries,’ what exactly does that look like?”

There it is.

Kip sets his glass down carefully. “You’re asking if I’m taking advantage of him.”

Carter winces, not offended, but caught. “I’m asking if he’s being Scott.”

Kip considers that, then nods. “Fair.”

Carter exhales. “Look, I didn’t know you before you moved in. Scott’s generous to a fault. He’s… not great at drawing lines, especially when he cares about someone. I just need to know no one’s bleeding him dry because they can.”

Kip doesn’t bristle. He actually appreciates the bluntness.

“I don’t pay rent,” Kip says plainly.

Carter’s jaw tightens a fraction.

“But,” Kip continues, holding his gaze, “that wasn’t my idea. I offered. Multiple times. Scott wouldn’t hear it. And realistically I know it would just be symbolic anyway as I couldn’t afford that place.”

Carter watches him closely. “Ok, so you don’t pay rent, which is fine, we are paid more than enough, what do you do to help?”

“I buy most of the groceries. I cook. I do the boring stuff…meal prep, errands, cleaning when he’s on the road.” Kip shrugs. “It’s not equal…at least not financially. I know that. But I do what I can to make his life easier, just as living without having to worry about having a roof over my head has also made my life easier.” 

Kip can’t help but smile as he starts to think of Scott, “And Scott’s easy to live with.” He catches his own dreamy expression trying to cover it, “Best roommate, I’ve ever had.”

Carter nods slowly. “Yea, he is a good roomie, he was mine on roadies until he got the letter.” Carter pauses bringing himself back on topic, “And school?”

“My loans are mine,” Kip says immediately. “Entirely… Scott’s offered to pay them off more than once.”

Carter snorts, relaxing with every confirmation. “Of course he has.”

“And the answer is always no,” Kip says. “Always.”

“Why?”

Kip doesn’t hesitate. “Because I don’t want that kind of imbalance. Not more than already exists just by virtue of him being a professional athlete. And because Scott is way more important to me than his money. And I don’t want him feeling like he has to buy stability.”

That finally makes Carter look at him differently back to the easy going friend that Kip has come to know.

“He didn’t take that well, did he,” Carter says.

Kip huffs a quiet laugh. “It was our biggest fight so far, almost didn’t move in because of it.”

Carter shakes his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Sounds right.”

“I…I care about him,” Kip says softly. “But I don’t want him thinking his value to me is tied to what he can provide. He’s my… friend, because he’s Scott.”

Carter studies him for a long moment, then nods once, decisive.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s what I needed to hear.”

Kip releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carter says. “Good. I like Scott. A lot. But he has a… let’s say a generous streak that I’ve always worried leaves him vulnerable to villains."

The laugh escapes before Kip can fully process, “Villains!”

The tension now gone between them as they dissolve into giggles together, “That’s… that’s honestly a really good way of putting it.”

Carter snorts. “Right! They can come from anywhere!” 

Kip smiles, then grows quieter. He stares down at his plate, picking through the remaining bits.

“That’s actually… something we’ve been arguing about more and more recently. And maybe you can clarify if I am just misunderstanding a hockey culture thing,” he says.

Carter looks at him quizzically, “Shoot, I can at least try.”

Kip takes a breath. “I think Scott does too much,” Kip says softly. “It’s like every problem for everyone, the first phone call is to Scott.”

“And I don’t know if that’s just… captain stuff,” Kip continues. “Or if it’s something else. Villains and all, but like maybe they don’t know they are being that.”

Carter leans back in his seat, fries forgotten. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That sounds like it might be a Scott thing, not a hockey thing.”

“Can you give some examples?” Carter says.

Kip exhales. “Scott, well, he gets a lot of calls?”

Carter’s smile falters just a little. “I mean there are a lot of group chats amongst us.”

Kip looks down at his hands. “Yea, these are more one-on-one things and I don’t think they should be his problem.”

At Carter's still questioning face, he starts in on his examples. 

It’s late, the apartment is quiet, with the lights dimmed but not off. Kip is half-curled against Scott on the couch, tracing absentminded lines into his thigh while a documentary plays, but mostly going unwatched.

Scott’s phone rings.

A call.

Scott straightens instantly.

“Sorry,” he says, already shifting away. “I should take this.”

Kip nods, though something tightens in his chest.

Scott doesn’t even check the name before answering.

“Hey.”

Kip can hear the other voice clearly enough, rushed, anxious, unfocused.

“…yeah, so my girlfriend, she’s pregnant, and we’re just trying to figure out…”

Scott’s brow furrows.

“No, I don’t think it’s automatic,” Scott says. “But there’s a clause about dependents.”

Kip’s fingers still.

“…no, not in the CBA itself. It’s a supplemental policy.”

Scott stands, already moving toward the kitchen like he needs space to think.

“I can look it up,” he says. “Hang on.”

Kip watches him open his laptop.

Watch him log into the league portal.

Watch him pull up PDFs.

“This is all public,” Scott murmurs, scrolling. “You could, okay, yeah, I see it.”

The voice on the other end babbles, relieved.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Okay. So here are your options.”

The call lasts nearly half an hour.

When Scott comes back, Kip looks at him carefully. “You just did researched the league policies for someone?”

Scott shrugs. “He was stressed.”

“He could have called his agent.”

Scott hesitates. “Yeah, but that takes time.”

“Babe, that took up your time,” Kip says softly.

Scott doesn’t respond.

He tells Carter about the late-night call from a teammate whose girlfriend is pregnant

“He didn’t even want to make the call himself,” Kip says. “He just knew Scott would look it up. Explain it. Probably send him links.”

Carter’s jaw tightens. 

Now that Kip finally has an audience who understands the dam of information has started. 

Then Kip talks about the sick father. Scott offering, without being asked, to talk to the coach, to smooth it over, to carry the emotional weight so the other guy didn’t have to.

The call comes at dawn, sharp and insistent in the quiet dark.

Scott is awake before the third buzz, already sitting up, already reaching for his phone like it’s a reflex wired straight into his bones.

“Hey,” he says, voice steady.

Kip turns onto his side, eyes gritty with sleep, watching Scott’s outline against the thin grey light leaking through the blinds.

“…hospitalized?” Scott says. He doesn’t sound panicked. Just focused. Like a switch has flipped.

“Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, elbows braced on his knees.

“What city?”

A pause.

“Have you told the staff yet?”

Another pause, longer this time.

“No,” Scott says, more firmly. “You need to tell them.”

Kip’s stomach knots.

Scott rubs a hand down his face, already mentally rearranging the day. “I can text the travel coordinator,” he continues. “See if there’s a flight tonight, maybe get it expedited.”

“That’s literally their job,” Kip says quietly, not bothering to lower his voice.

Scott covers the phone, eyes flicking back to him. “Kip…please. His dad is sick.”

“I know,” Kip says, sitting up now. “But you don’t work for the organization like that. You don’t schedule flights. You don’t have to fix this.”

Scott turns away from him, back rigid, jaw tight. “I’m just helping,” he says under his breath, like it’s self-evident. Like it shouldn’t even be a question.

Into the phone, his tone softens again. “I’ll send you the contact info. I’ll loop in Coach, too. Smooth it over.”

Kip presses his lips together.

Why is it always you smoothing things over?

The call ends.

Scott stays sitting there, phone still in his hand, shoulders slumped forward. The urgency drains out of him all at once, leaving something heavier behind.

“You okay?” Kip asks, already knowing the answer.

Scott nods automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It’s not physical, Kip thinks. Not really.

It’s the kind of tired that comes from always being the one people lean on. The one who answers. The one who makes himself useful so no one has to think too hard or do too much.

“You don’t have to be everything,” Kip says gently.

Scott exhales, long and slow. “I’m the captain,” he says, like that explains it. “I’m supposed to help. Keep things running. Be a good teammate.”

Kip hears the unspoken part: If I don’t, what am I?

He opens his mouth to say more, to push back, but Scott’s shoulders sag further, his head dropping into his hands.

“Can we talk about this later?” Scott asks quietly. “I just… I don’t have it in me right now.”

Kip swallows his frustration, nods. He reaches out, rests a hand between Scott’s shoulder blades.

“Okay,” he says.

Scott leans into the touch just slightly.

And Kip lets it go—for now—his chest aching with the certainty that this isn’t about one phone call at all.

“He says he’s just being a good captain,” Kip says quietly, staring down into his coffee like the answer might be floating there. “A team player. But… I don’t think he thinks those rules apply to him.”

Across the table, Carter doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t deflect. He leans back in the booth and exhales through his nose, slow and thoughtful.

“That’s not captain stuff,” he says finally.

Kip’s shoulders drop with a relief he hadn’t realized he was carrying. “It’s not?”

“No,” Carter says, firmer now. “Captain is directing traffic. Talking to refs. Setting the tone in the room. Giving guys a kick in the ass when they need it. It is not,” he gestures vaguely with his fork, “becoming the emergency department for grown men.”

“Then why does everyone keep calling him?” Kip asks, a little too quickly.

Carter rubs a hand over his face. “Because he answers.”

The simplicity of it lands like a punch.

“He’s always been like that,” Carter continues, quieter. “Even before the C. Before the A. Before any of it. Scott’s the guy who stays late, checks in, smooths things over. Makes himself… useful.”

Kip swallows. “It doesn’t feel like they’re calling him because they love him. It feels like they’re calling him because he makes things easier.”

Carter nods once. “Yeah. That tracks.”

For a moment they just sit there, the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation filling the space between them.

“There is some context,” Carter says eventually. “This league doesn’t forgive ‘difficult.’ You get that label, it sticks.”

Kip looks up. “What does that even mean?”

“Trades,” Carter says. “Contracts. Ice time. You’re not told you’re being punished. Things just… stop going your way. Front offices remember. Coaches remember.”

“So Scott makes himself indispensable,” Kip says slowly.

Carter’s mouth twists. “Yeah.”

“And that’s how he survives.”

Carter sighs. “That’s how he thinks he survives.”

The edge drains out of his voice, leaving something sad underneath. “Here’s the thing,” he continues. “Scott Hunter is one of the best players in the league. He’s the backbone of the Admirals franchise. He could be difficult and they’d still build the team around him.”

Kip’s throat tightens.

“But Scott didn’t grow up like most guys in this league,” Carter adds. “He didn’t have safety nets. He learned early that being valuable meant being useful—not just scoring goals, but fixing things. Being the guy people need.”

“And he doesn’t know where the line is,” Kip says softly.

“No,” Carter agrees. “He really doesn’t.”

Kip presses his fingers into the edge of the table. “That’s exactly what it feels like. Like if he ever stops… he thinks it all disappears.”

Carter looks at him then, really looks at him. “You care about him.”

“Yes,” Kip says immediately. No hesitation. No qualifiers.

Carter nods once, decisive. “Then I’m glad he has you.”

Kip smiles and nods back. “And… I’m glad he has you.”

Kip stares down at his now empty plate, then back up at Carter. “So… how do I bring it up to him?”

Carter blinks. “Bring what up.”

“All of it,” Kip says, gesturing vaguely. “The calls. The fixing. The Villians. The fact that he never seems to be allowed to just… exist without earning it.”

Carter huffs out a laugh, sharp and fond and tired all at once. “Carefully.”

Kip snorts despite himself. “That’s your wisdom?”

“Hey, I’m serious,” Carter says, holding up a hand. “You’re poking at a load-bearing belief. That kind of thing has teeth.”

Kip’s mouth quirks. “So what, I just let it keep happening?”

“No,” Carter says immediately. “But Scott doesn’t do anger often but this is one thing I know he will lash out on. As someone who has poked and gotten the silent treatment for it.”

Kip’s smile fades. “I just want him to be okay.”

“I know,” Carter says gently. Then, after a beat, he shrugs. “If I’m being honest? I don’t really know how to fix it. He’s my best friend. I’ve been trying to get him to set boundaries for years.”

That lands heavier than Kip expects.

Carter pushes out of the booth and tosses some cash onto the table. “But you’re not me. You’re… different.” He hesitates, then adds, “He listens to you. And he might just listen to you about this too.”

They head for the door together, the afternoon light spilling in as Carter holds it open. Outside, they pause, an easy companionable moment settling between them.

Kip’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

He glances down.

Sorry I’m late getting back. Got pulled into helping someone out. Plumbing situation. Long story.

Kip closes his eyes for a second, then exhales.

“Everything okay?” Carter asks.

“Yeah,” Kip says, slipping the phone away. “It will be.”

A part of him thinks he’s lying to Vaughn. 

But as they part ways on the sidewalk, Kip knows he’s going to have to talk to Scott.

And this time, he not just going to be able to just let it slide. 

Chapter End Notes

Carter Vaughn fully made this chapter about him. It did not start that way. I think he was annoyed he hasn't been in the last few.

Chapter 9: The Fight

Chapter Summary

Kip confronts Scott.

Chapter Notes

The problem with living with someone you love is that there are so many moments that could be something more than they are.

Scott notices the tension in pieces at first. Not in any single conversation or argument, there aren’t any, but in the spaces around them. The pauses that stretch a little too long. And this has the consequence of stopping the fun or joy that would normally follow to be squashed too. 

They talk, but only in the safest ways. Practice. Class. Schedules. What they need from the store. 

Conversations that begin and end cleanly, with no sharp edges to catch on. And every time, Kip lingers at the end of them, intensity simmering just beneath the surface, like he’s weighing whether to say more.

Sometimes he almost does.

Once, Kip opens his mouth, hesitates, and Scott yawns before he can stop himself. The moment collapses. Kip just nods and turns back to his notes, and the distance settles in deeper.

Scott knows, without being told, that whatever this is, it’s about him.

The losing streak hasn’t helped. It demands more of him as Captain…longer practices, heavier meetings, a locker room thick with frustration he isn’t allowed to sink into. 

He has to be steady. Has to be the one who believes, who absorbs the tension instead of releasing it. 

And by the time he gets home most nights, he’s still wearing that exhaustion like a second skin. 

Present, but not really there.

So when Scott finally gets a night off; no game, no mandatory team dinner, he decides not to let it slip by the way the others have. 

He leaves the rink with the first round of people. Stops for Kip’s favorite takeout without texting ahead. 

He wants to make space without announcing it, wants to give Kip the best chance to say whatever’s been waiting between them. And maybe head off anything he might have done wrong.

When he gets home, the apartment feels quiet in that careful way it’s taken on lately. 

Kip looks up from the couch, startled. “You’re home,” he checks his phone, and then smiles, “on time.”

And doesn’t that just hit Scott. It shouldn’t be that surprising that he is home on time. 

The smile only grows though when Scott leans down to kiss him. Seeing that eases something in his chest, even if he still knows there’s still a heavy conversation waiting for him.

Scott lifts the bag like an offering. “Was even able to stop and pick up dinner.”

Kip smiles, small but real. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Scott says. And he means it.

They eat at the counter, knees brushing, the quiet comfortable but charged. 

Scott watches Kip more than his food. The way he keeps inhaling like he’s gearing up for something. The way he keeps stopping himself.

After, Scott clears the containers and leans back against the counter. “Okay,” he says gently. “You’ve been circling something all week. Talk to me.”

Kip opens his mouth.

Scott’s phone rings.

Not a text. A call.

Scott glances at the screen out of habit, already shifting his weight, already halfway gone.

Kip exhales sharply. “That,” he says.

Scott pauses. “What?”

“That,” Kip repeats, pointing at the phone. His voice isn’t loud, but it’s tight. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

Scott frowns. “Kip, it’s part of my job.”

“It’s not always part of your job,” Kip says, frustration finally breaking through. “That’s the point. You take every call, not just the important ones.”

Scott hesitates, phone buzzing insistently in his hand. “I can call them back.”

“They’ll probably be confused about having to wait,” Kip says. “Because they know you don’t make them.”

The phone stops ringing. Silence rushes in to fill the space.

Scott sets the phone down slowly, like it might explode. Or more so that it was the fuse that might set Kip off, “Okay,” he says carefully.  “Talk. You’ve clearly had this building.”

Kip rubs his hands together, nerves plain now. “I need you to hear this without getting defensive.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. “I’m not defensive.”

“You already are,” Kip says softly. “Scott… you don’t have boundaries. Not with your time. Not with your energy. Not with anyone who asks.”

Scott leans back, crossing his arms. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong for helping,” Kip says. “I’m saying you’re doing too much. And it’s costing you. You come home wrung out. You miss things. You say yes when it’s not even your responsibility.”

Scott shakes his head. “This is just how it works.”

“No,” Kip says. “This is how you work.”

Scott opens his mouth to argue, and his phone lights up again on the counter.

They both look at it.

Kip lets out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “See?”

Scott stares at the screen. 

Something unsettled flickers across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. For the first time, he reaches for his phone not to answer it, not even to check the notification, but to turn it off. 

When he does so, Kip notes the look in his eyes isn’t annoyance or resignation. 

It’s fear.

That seems to drain the edge out of the room, dissolving the heat before it can fully ignite. Scott shifts, already trying to get ahead of what he feels coming.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much,” he says quickly. “I can cut back on some of the team promos. I’ll be home more. I can actually cook instead of just picking things up on the way…”

“Scott.” Kip’s voice is gentle.

He bridges the distance between them and reaches for Scott’s hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, offering a soft smile, the kind that would usually lead somewhere warm and easy. “I’m not worried about us,” he says. “I’m worried about you.”

Scott stills.

Kip doesn’t raise his voice when he continues. Somehow, that makes it harder to deflect.

“I’m not mad,” he says, “Or at least, I’m not mad at  you,” folding Scott’s hand between both of his trying to anchor them both together. “I just need you to hear me.”

Scott nods, wary now. He doesn’t pull away, but every muscle in his body seems coiled, braced for impact.

“I’ve noticed the calls,” Kip says. “Not just once or twice. All the time. They’re not just from your rookies, and not just about hockey. Not line changes, not the locker room issues, not talking to the refs.” He exhales. “They’re about everything else.”

Scott opens his mouth.

Kip squeezes his hand gently and keeps going, his tone softer, steadier.

“And you answer every single one.”

“They call you when they don’t want to figure something out themselves. Paperwork. Logistics. Policies. Money. Emergencies that aren’t really emergencies…just inconvenient.” 

He exhales. “And they call you because you’re kind. And because you’re good at it.”

Scott frowns. “Good at what?”

“At solving things,” Kip says. “At research. At mapping out options. At staying calm and making a plan so they don’t have to.” He gestures vaguely between them. 

“You do it fast. Efficient. You don’t make people feel stupid for not knowing something. You just… fix it.”

Scott shrugs, like that settles it. “So?”

“So,” Kip says carefully, “it costs you time. And energy. And focus. And none of that is actually part of your job.”

Scott straightens a little. “It kind of is.”

Kip shakes his head immediately. “No. It isn’t.”

“It is,” Scott insists, voice still even. “That’s what being a good captain looks like. Being available. Being reliable. Making sure stuff doesn’t spiral before it becomes a problem.”

“For the team,” Kip says.

“For the people on it,” Scott counters. “Those are the same thing.”

Kip studies him for a long moment. “You don’t see a difference there at all?”

Scott hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. I really don’t.”

Scott takes his hand back and goes to move, but he’s not trying to run from Kip. “Look, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not skipping practice. I’m not blowing off games. I’m handling things so they don’t interfere. That’s the point.”

“But they do interfere,” Kip says quietly. “Just not for them.”

Scott stops. “Kip…”

“They interfere with you,” Kip says. “With your sleep. With your time. With the moments you’re not supposed to be on call.”

Scott exhales sharply, frustrated but not angry. “This is just part of it. You don’t say no to your teammates. You don’t make yourself hard to reach. That’s how you lose trust.”

“That’s how you lose yourself,” Kip says, softer now.

Scott scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re making it sound like I’m sacrificing something huge. I’m not.”

“You are,” Kip says. “You just don’t count it because what your sacrificing is, you.”

Silence stretches between them.

Scott rubs at the back of his neck, eyes drifting anywhere but Kip’s face. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he says. “To stop helping? To let things blow up just so I can prove I’m not the one holding it all together?”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Kip replies. 

His voice stays even, careful. “I want you to have boundaries. I want you to believe that things don’t collapse if you don’t answer every call. That you don’t have to be available to everyone all the time.”

Scott looks at him then, truly looks, brow furrowed, confusion cutting through the tension. “It’s not that everything falls apart,” he says slowly. “It’s that when I don’t answer, I’m not in it anymore.”

Kip tilts his head. “In what?”

“In the loop. In the solution.” Scott crosses his arms pulling them in tighter around himself. “If I’m not the one fixing it, I become optional. Someone else steps in. Someone easier.”

“It won't go to someone easier, it’ll go to someone who is paid to fix that problem, or it will be the person figuring it out on their own.” Kip says quietly.

Scott doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, stubborn.

“That’s just how this works.”

And in the space between them, Kip realizes Scott isn’t defending his actions.

He’s defending the system that taught him they were necessary.

Kip shifts to face him fully. “Some of it is. Talking to refs. Setting tone. Mentoring rookies. But the rest of it; rent, flights, paperwork, plumbing…”

“Is helping,” Scott interrupts. “Is being a good captain. A good teammate.”

Kip shakes his head. “No. That’s being the easiest person to offload work onto.”

Scott slips on the mask he typically only uses for reporters after a disastrous game. Going completely neutral. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Kip presses, “They’re not calling you because you’re the only one who can help. They’re not calling you because they respect your opinion the most. They are calling you because you don’t say no.”

Scott bristles. “You don’t understand how this works.”

“Then explain it to me,” Kip says. “Please.”

Scott sighs, drags a hand through his hair. “This league doesn’t have patience for people who are hard to deal with. You get labeled once; selfish, difficult, uncooperative, and that’s it. You don’t get told. You just feel it. Less ice time. Fewer chances. Suddenly you’re expendable.”

Kip frowns. “You’re not expendable.”

“That’s not the point,” Scott says sharply. “No one is immune. Not really.”

“But you’re the face of the franchise,” Kip says. “They built the team around you.”

Scott scoffs. “That’s true today. But it could also change tomorrow.”

“Scott…”

“You don’t get it,” Scott says, voice tightening. “Hockey doesn’t care how good you were yesterday. If today you stop being useful. And usefulness isn’t just goals and assists. It’s attitude. Availability. Making things easier for the organization.”

Kip’s heart sinks. “So you’re making yourself indispensable.”

Scott shrugs. “I’m doing my job.”

“You’re doing everyone’s job,” Kip says. “And it’s costing you. You’re exhausted. You’re missing dinners. You’re missing time with me.”

Scott looks at him then, something flickering in his eyes. “I’m here.”

“But you’re not present,” Kip says. “It’s like you’re always half-listening for the next crisis. Like if you don’t pick up, something terrible will happen.”

Scott hesitates.

Kip presses gently, voice softer now. “It feels like you think if you stop answering the phone, if you stop fixing things, you’ll… stop mattering. Like your life will be at risk.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it?” Kip asks. “Because that’s what it feels like watching you.”

Silence stretches between them.

“This is just the way it is,” Scott says finally. “You adapt or you don’t last.”

Kip swallows. “Your life doesn’t have to be like that.”

Scott lets out a short laugh. “Hockey is my life.”

“No,” Kip says, firmer now. “Hockey is your career.”

That’s when Scott’s mask falls and he snaps.

“You don’t get to tell me that,” Scott says, voice rising, sharp and raw, and he pushes away from the counter and starts pacing the room. “You don’t get to define that for me.”

Kip stands now too, heart pounding. “I’m not trying to take hockey away from you. I’m trying to keep it from taking everything.”

Scott lets out a brittle laugh. “What would you know about that?”

Kip stills. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve always had somewhere to land,” Scott fires back. The words come too fast, like they’ve been waiting. “Your family. Your friends. You’ve always had people who’d catch you if things fell apart.”

“That’s not…”

“I’ve only ever had hockey,” Scott shouts, and the room seems to flinch with it. 

He freezes mid-breath, like the truth surprised even him. “That’s it. No backup plan. No one waiting in the wings. No one to come to my games. And certainly no one outside of it.” 

His voice drops, stunned and raw. “Without it… I have nothing.”

The room goes very quiet.

Scott stares at the floor, breathing hard, like he’s just realized what he’s been carrying. Kip’s throat tightens.

Kip’s voice shakes when he speaks. “Scott..,” but Scott is already moving again, unraveling now that the thread’s been pulled, and if they are going to talk about this then he’s going to say all of it. 

“You think I like living like this?” Scott continues. “I don’t. But I don’t have the luxury of believing I’ll be okay no matter what. If I lose hockey, I lose everything. Everyone will be gone. So yeah, if answering the phone keeps me relevant, keeps me safe, keeps me here, then I’ll do it.”

Kip’s eyes sting. “You’re talking like your entire worth is conditional.”

“It is,” Scott snaps. Then, quieter: “It always has been.”

“No,” Kip says, raising his voice now too. “That’s what they taught you to believe.”

Scott turns to him. “Don’t.”

“They measure you. Rank you. Track your ‘usefulness’ down to decimals,” Kip says, chest heaving. “But that’s not you. That’s your performance. You don’t earn your right to exist. It’s simply a part of you.”

Scott shakes his head violently. “That’s not how the league works.”

“Then maybe the league is wrong,” Kip says, quieter now, but steadier. 

Scott looks at him, skeptical, worn down. Kip keeps going.

“Because you’re allowed to exist without being needed,” Kip says. 

“You’re allowed to say no and have the world keep turning. Your value doesn’t vanish. Especially over something like fixing things for other people.” He gestures vaguely toward Scott’s phone, the invisible weight of it. 

“You are not an emergency service. You’re not a problem-solving subscription people get to cash in whenever it’s convenient.”

Scott’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt, seemingly frozen in place.

“They taught you to believe that usefulness equals worth,” Kip continues. 

“That if you aren’t actively helping, producing, saving something, then you’re disposable. But that’s not true.” 

His voice softens. “You don’t ever have to earn your right to take up space. Because you always have that right.”

Scott swallows.

“You matter when you’re exhausted. You matter when you say no. You matter when you’re quiet, when you’re off the ice, when you’re not holding everything together for everyone else.” 

Kip moves back into Scott’s space, hand comes up, gentle against Scott’s chest. “You matter when you’re just you.”

He exhales, a shaky almost-laugh leaving him. “No stats required. Just… Scott Hunter, existing. Which, frankly,” he adds, attempting a crooked smile, “is already kind of a lot.”

The joke is soft, imperfect, but it’s offered with love.

Scott looks at him like he’s speaking another language.

“I can’t risk it,” Scott says hoarsely, then he chooses to be brave and saying what he wants, “I don’t know how to risk everything I’ve ever known.” He knows he’s so in love with Kip. . 

“And I can’t watch you burn yourself out trying to earn permission to stay,” Kip replies, tears finally spilling. “I love you too much for that.”

The fight drains out of Scott all at once. He moves over to the couch, sinking into it, hands covering his face.

“I don’t know how to be any other way,” he whispers. 

Kip kneels in front of him, hand placed on his wrist, not pulling it away from his face but offering to, “Then we learn. Together. But I won’t pretend this isn’t hurting you.”

Scott doesn’t answer. But does take Kip’s offered hand again and pulls him up off the floor. Kip easily goes to straddle Scott’s lap. Arms wrapped around each other. 

After a long moment, Kip asks quietly, “What did you mean… when you said everyone would be gone?”

Scott exhales, a sad, knowing sound. He bumps his forehead gently against Kip’s. 

“Before you,” he says, “everyone I knew was tied to hockey. I grew up just being pushed from one hockey camp or league to another. School, even high school was barely a consideration. I never went to college. Though it was talked about, if I didn’t get drafted right away. Every friend, every mentor, every place I belonged is all tied to hockey.” 

He looks away, ashamed. “I haven’t talked to my first captain since he retired. I thought we were close.”

Kip’s chest aches. “You still have Carter.”

Scott snorts softly. “Yeah. Vaughny might be an exception.” A pause. “If he stays in New York his whole career.” He shakes his head. “You’ve seen how fast guys come and go.”

Kip says nothing. Really listening and coming to understand that Scott truly believes everyone is temporary. 

“I wish I could be more honest with them,” Scott murmurs. “I wish they actually knew me. Not just the guy who answers, who fixes things, who makes life easier.”

Kip leans in and kisses him, slow and tender, like punctuation instead of an answer.

The fight isn’t resolved. Nothing is fixed. But the wounds are named now, open and breathing between them.

And for the first time, Scott leaves his phone off for the night and locks the door.

Chapter End Notes

Dear younger me (and everyone else): You intrinsically have value. It is not tied to your usefulness to others.

Chapter 10: Let in the Sunshine

Chapter Summary

The fight stays with Scott, specifically words he himself said

“I wish I could be more honest with them,”

“I wish they actually knew me.”

Chapter Notes

The fight lingers for Scott. 

Not in a way he expected it to. As he and Kip had reached a stalemate on it and Kip was obviously resigned to maintain the status quo. But it echos for Scott. 

“I wish I could be more honest with them,” 

“I wish they actually knew me. Not just the guy who answers. Who fixes things. Who makes life easier.”

Words HE said, haven’t left him even days later. 

They have taken on a more tired quality the more he remembers them. And the awareness of that tiredness hasn’t gone away if anything it’s seemed to seep more fully into his bones. 

And he feels it in the way you feel the gray sky after having that momentary break in the clouds where the sunlight comes through. 

He wants more of the sunshine. 

I wish they actually knew me.

Who knows him as Scott. Just Scott. 

Over the next few days, Scott doesn’t transform into someone new. He still wakes early. He still checks his phone.

But he pauses now.

He pays attention.

One morning after, he sits at the kitchen counter with his coffee and scrolls more slowly than usual.

He doesn’t open everything right away.

He reads the preview lines.

He lets himself notice what they feel like.

There’s a difference, he realizes. A weight.

Some messages feel like someone knocking on his door.

Others feel like someone trying the handle without asking.

His phone lights up again.

Greg Huff

Scott smiles automatically.

Greg sends photos the way other people send punctuation. Snapshots of New York in motion. A pigeon standing defiantly in the middle of traffic. A man in a three-piece suit walking a dachshund in a matching three-piece suit. A woman on the subway reading a two paperbacks and only one of them upside down.

You would appreciate this, Greg’s message reads, followed by a photo of a street performer dressed as the Statue of Liberty, arguing passionately with someone in a Spider-Man costume.

Scott laughs out loud.

Greg knows he loves the oddities. The quiet absurdity of people just being people. It’s one of the first things they bonded over during road trips… watching cities instead of clubs, sitting in the hotel lobbies instead of the bar just to observe.

I absolutely do, Scott replies. Is Spider-man losing.

By a long shot, Greg texts back immediately. Liberty has facts.

Scott shakes his head, warmth spreading easily through his chest.

Greg doesn’t need anything. 

He just wants to share fun moments.

Scott scrolls down.

Eric Bennett

There’s a longer message waiting there.

Hey. I know it’s been a weird stretch. You good? Don’t let the media spin get to you. You’re still our Superhero Captain.

Scott pauses.

Eric is in the middle of his own mess… contract uncertainty, personal life unraveling in slow, public pieces. And still he texts to check in after the losing streak.

Not about strategy. Not about leadership.

About Scott.

Honestly haven’t been watching the media after giving the interviews. I’m good, Scott types back. You?

The response takes a minute.

Good. Don’t. They are being shitty to the both of us, Eric replies. Call me later if you want to complain about defensive coverage.

Scott smiles faintly.

That’s another knock at the door.

Not a demand.

An invitation.

He scrolls again.

Vaughny

There are eight unread messages in a row.

You see that goal last night by Ottawa last night?
Actually don’t answer that.
Why does our third line hate passing?
I’m going for a run later.
You want in?
Actually I might just show up. Be ready.
Be Ready!
You’re probably already ready, you freak 😛

Scott laughs.

Carter’s texts are never quiet. They are constant, chaotic commentary.

But they aren’t heavy.

Half their conversations never finish in text because Carter inevitably shows up in person to continue them, like punctuation requires a body.

Scott scrolls further.

The warmth fades.

A teammate he barely talks to outside the rink:

Hey man can you talk to Coach about adjusting practice time?

Another:

Media wants someone for an extra segment. Can you do it?

A staff member:

Equipment issue with the new shipment. Can you handle it?

An old acquaintance from juniors:

You think you could send a signed stick for my cousin? Would mean a lot.

A sponsor rep:

We need confirmation by noon. Can you jump on a quick call?

Another teammate:

Hey can you tell the guys to keep it together? Vibes are weird.

Scott stares at that one longer than he means to.

Tell the guys to keep it together.

Like he is weather control.

Like morale lives in his pocket.

He scrolls more.

Can you…
Can you…
Can you…

The phrasing changes. The weight does not.

He sets the phone down.

The apartment is quiet again. Late morning sunlight pours across the hardwood floors, stretching long and unbothered.

Scott rubs a hand over his face.

He isn’t angry.

He’s tired.

Not because people reach out.

But because so many of them reach for him without ever reaching to him.

He picks the phone back up.

There are texts he hasn’t answered from two days ago.

Nothing catastrophic has happened.

No fires.

No emergencies.

The world spins.

He thinks about what Kip said.

“You are allowed to exist without being needed.”

He swallows.

Who, in this long scroll of names and bubbles and notifications, would notice if he stopped being useful?

Who would notice if he was just… quiet?

The thought frustrates him more than he expects.

He doesn’t want to be needed like this.

But he does want to be known.

He wants someone to ask him how he’s sleeping. If he’s tired. If the pressure sits heavy.

He wants to be brave.

The word surfaces again, unbidden.

He wants to be brave and ask for what he wants.

Not just show up when summoned.

Not just fix and smooth and solve.

He wants to say: this is who I am. This is who I love.

As if summoned by that thought, his phone lights up again.

Claudette Bourbeau.

Scott stills.

He opens the message slowly.

The girls were talking about you again. We were wondering if you might be free to babysit soon. They miss their favorite tea party guest.

Scott’s breath catches in something softer than frustration.

Claudette.

Marc.

The girls.

He leans back in his chair, memory rising easily.

The Bourbeau house had always smelled like vanilla and laundry soap. Warm wood floors. Family photos lining the hallway. A kitchen table big enough for everyone to linger.

He’d arrived there at nineteen… awkward, overwhelmed, trying to pretend he wasn’t terrified.

Claudette had made him spaghetti the first night and asked about his mother.

The girls had declared him theirs within a week.

There had been princess tea parties. Tiara’s and capes included. 

He would never admit it out loud, but he’d loved them.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with a plastic tiara sliding down his forehead while two little girls instructed him on proper royal etiquette.

“Pinkies up, Scott,” the younger one had insisted solemnly.

He’d worn the crown.

Carter still had pictures somewhere. 

He’d pretended to groan about it.

He hadn’t meant it.

He misses that house more than he ever says.

The noise of it. The family rhythm. Dinner at six. Homework at the table. Someone always moving in the next room. He had stayed for 3 years. Longer than most billet arrangements lasted. 

It hadn’t been obligation.

It had been belonging.

Scott looks down at the message again.

This one doesn’t feel like a hand on the handle.

It feels like a porch light left on.

He thinks about Kip in that house.

Kip sitting at that kitchen table.

Kip laughing with the girls.

Maybe both of them babysitting.

Maybe not hiding.

His chest tightens with something that feels like fear and hope tangled together.

He wants to be brave.

I wish I could be more honest with them,

Not reckless.

Just honest.

I wish they actually knew me.

Claudette had always asked him about his life like she meant it. 

She had never treated him like just the captain. They used to be more a part of the Admirals organization, but had stepped back when the girls got older. 

She’d treated him like a kid who needed a second helping and a reminder to rest.

He doesn’t want to show up only when they need a sitter. He wants to accept their dinner invitation more easily. 

He wants to show up because he misses them.

Because he wants them to know him.

He types slowly.

I miss them too.

He hesitates.

He can hear Kip’s voice in his head.

You’re allowed to exist without being needed.

Scott adds another line.

Any chance you’re free for coffee this week? I’d love to catch up.

He stares at the message for a long moment.

This isn’t babysitting.

This isn’t filling a gap.

This is choosing. This is deciding what he wants and including the people that matter. 

He hits send.

Sunlight floods the kitchen fully now, bright and steady against the table.

His phone rests quietly in his hand.

He doesn’t feel drained.

A few seconds later, the phone buzzes again.

Claudette.

Coffee sounds lovely. Wednesday? I’ll bring cookies if you bring stories.

Scott smiles, something warm and almost boyish curling in his chest.

Stories.

He has one now.

One he wants to tell.

He sets the phone down gently.

Across the room, the sunlight catches the edge of the counter, spills over the floor like something generous and unafraid.

Scott exhales slowly.

Maybe being brave isn’t one grand confession.

Maybe it’s this.

Not answering every call.

Choosing who gets his time.

Asking for coffee.

Letting someone know him.

Maybe he’ll be extra brave at coffee and bring up Kip. 

Wednesday after coffee with Claudette 

Carter materializes.

Scott should’ve known.

The second he’d texted Can’t do lunch. Coffee with Claudette, he might as well have written Cookies will be present around 4pm at my place. There was no world in which Carter Vaughn wasn’t going to connect those dots.

The door swings open and he calls out, “I have arrived to claim what is rightfully mine,” Carter announces, already shrugging out of his jacket. 

Scott is already in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows like it specifically requested this apartment. There’s a white pastry box open on the counter.

And Scott … suspiciously … is smiling.

Not polite smiling.

Not “captain at media day” smiling.

Stupidly, helplessly smiling.

Carter slows.

“…Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” Scott asks, entirely unbothered.

“Like you just won something.”

Scott shrugs, reaches into the box, and , without prompting, without a single defensive maneuver … hands Carter a cookie.

Carter stares at it.

He does not take it.

Scott wiggles it slightly. “You’re going to let it get cold.”

“Who are you,” Carter says carefully, “and what have you done with Scott?”

Scott laughs. “Take the cookie.”

Carter accepts it cautiously, eyes narrowed. “Normally I have to physically fight you for Bourbeau baked goods.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“That’s not a personality trait you possess.”

Scott just grins wider.

Carter takes a bite and immediately groans. “Okay. Worth it. These are simply the best.”

Scott leans back against the counter, arms folded, watching Carter like he’s entertainment.

Sunlight catches in his hair. There’s color high on his cheeks. He looks … bright.

Carter squints at him again.

“Something happened.”

Scott shrugs, but he’s practically glowing. “I had coffee with Claudette.”

“I gathered,” Carter says, holding up a cookie like evidence in a trial. “You couldn’t do lunch. I followed the scent trail straight to the divine baked goods.”

Scott laughs, easy and unguarded. “She sent these for us. She knew you’d be sniffing around.”

“Then these are rightfully half mine,” Carter declares, immediately reaching for another.

He waits … fully expects Scott to protest, to counteroffer, to start negotiating like it’s a contract year.

Scott just nods. “Yeah. Half’s fair.”

Carter pauses mid-grab.

“…Who are you?”

Scott only grins wider.

“She told me about the girls,” he says, and something shifts … the usual competitive script of Cookie Day abandoned entirely.

Carter notices.

It’s in Scott’s voice. Softer. Fond in a way that isn’t for show.

Carter leans his hip against the counter, studying him more closely now. “Report. Are they still small? Lie to me if necessary.”

Scott shakes his head, smiling in quiet disbelief. “They’re not small. Juliette’s in sixth grade. She and joined a debate team.”

Carter groans. “Of course she did.”

“She’s always had opinions about everything,” Scott says fondly.

“As she should.”

“And Gabrielle just made the travel volleyball team,” Scott continues. “Claudette showed me pictures. She looked so excited. Like she’d just won the Olympics.”

Carter watches Scott as much as he listens.

There’s no tension in him. No restless pacing. No distracted glances at his phone.

Just warmth. Like he’s standing in sunlight he forgot he missed.

“So,” Carter says lightly, “are the days of tiara tea parties officially over?”

Scott huffs a laugh. “Probably.”

A beat.

“Though Claudette did ask for my schedule. To see if I could babysit.”

Carter’s mouth curves. “Ah. So Jules and Gaby don’t need a sitter. They just want to hang out.”

Scott’s smile turns softer at that. “Yeah. I think so.”

He looks down at the counter for a second, letting that sink in … not needed, exactly. Wanted.

Scott laughs again, brighter this time.

“They invited Kip and I to dinner next week,” Scott says, trying for casual and failing because the smile won’t leave his face.

Carter nods automatically, still chewing. “Nice. He’ll handle their five-year-plan interrogation without breaking a sweat. I’m honestly shocked she didn’t ask if you were single or tell you to bring a date.”

Scott’s grin deepens. “She did.”

Carter waves a hand. “Of course she did. She’s consistent.”

“And I am.”

Carter takes another bite of his cookie.

Chews.

Stops.

“…Wait.”

Scott leans back against the counter, arms folding loosely, like he’s enjoying this far too much.

Carter squints at him“…Wait. You’re bringing a date? When you and Kip get dinner with the Boudeau's? Wont that be awkward?”

“No Vaughny. Kip is my date.”

“I’m gay.” Scott nervously but exasperated looks at Carter. 

Carter lowers the cookie slowly. “You and Kip.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re bringing Kip to dinner as your date.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Carter’s eyes narrow.

“Oh my god,” he says faintly. “You and Kip.”

Scott’s blush creeps higher, but he nods.

“You and Kip are going to dinner,” Carter repeats, like he’s solving for X. “Claudette … because she always does … asked if you were still single…”

“She did.”

“And you said…”

“I said no.”

“Because Kip is your date.”

Scott shakes his head, smiling helplessly now. “Because Kip is my boyfriend.”

There it is.

I wish I could be more honest with them,

I wish they actually knew me.

Carter stares at him before his gaze sharpens.

He looks around the apartment like he’s suddenly seeing it for the first time.

“You and Kip live together,” he says slowly.

Scott laughs. “We do.”

“Kip has terrible taste in tacos.”

“He does.”

“Kip is a genius.”

Scott’s smile softens. “He is.”

Carter’s eyes go wide.

“Oh my god.”

He points at Scott waving his arms around dramatically. “You’re marrying a genius.”

Scott chokes on a laugh. “Okay, that’s…”

“You,” Carter continues, steamrolling ahead, “have been secretly dating your absurdly hot, art-history-quoting, bad-taco-ordering roommate.”

Scott presses his lips together, trying and failing not to beam.

Carter takes a full step back. Mouth hanging open like he's seeing Scott for the first time.

“Oh my god,” he repeats, louder now. “You can pull.”

Scott loses it at that, laughter spilling out of him. “Shut up.”

“I have spent YEARS,” Carter says, jabbing a finger at him, “years, thinking your game was catastrophic. Tragic. Historically bad.”

“That’s rude.”

“And meanwhile,” Carter continues, looking personally betrayed, “you are out here landing a hot genius.”

Scott shakes his head, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

Carter drags a hand down his face, then straightens.

“I’m going to need a minute to process this, then I am going to hug the shit out of you,” he says solemnly.

Scott nods, still grinning. “Take your time.”

Carter pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth like this is a formal step in processing life events. He chews, staring at Scott the entire time.

Swallows.

Points at him again.

“Okay,” he says decisively. “Processing complete.”

Scott barely gets a breath before Carter steps forward and hauls him into a crushing hug.

Scott laughs into his shoulder, arms wrapping back just as tight.

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me,” Carter mutters, though there’s nothing but delight in it.

“I...I didn't want to lose everything,” Scott says into his shirt.

“You'll never lose me,” Carter assures.

He pulls back just enough to look at him, grin splitting his face.

“You’re happy.”

Scott doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

Carter nods once, satisfied.

“Good,” he says. “Because when Kip gets home?”

“I’m hugging the shit out of him too.”

Chapter End Notes

There has been so many iterations of this chapter but this one felt the best. Honestly probably cause Vaughny showed up and took over.

Chapter 11: Balance

Chapter Summary

OMG Scott set a boundary and still was a helpful Captain

Chapter Notes

The kitchen smells like roasted garlic and lemon.

Scott stands at the counter in soft afternoon sunlight, sleeves pushed to his elbows, knife moving in steady rhythm through a pile of bell peppers. Containers are already lined up across the counter in tidy rows, some small, some large enough to make a normal person stare in alarm.

Not that Scott really needs an excuse. Their freezer was running low anyway, and Scott prefers making the meals himself when he has the time. And today he had the time. 

Athletes at his level know exactly what they’re putting into their bodies, but cooking it himself feels grounding, and controlled in a way hockey never quite is.

Chicken cools on the stove. Rice steams in the cooker. A pot of something slow and fragrant simmers in the back, filling the apartment with warmth.

It’s quiet in a way Scott doesn’t get very often.

Most days he’s the one rushing out the door early: practice, recovery sessions, media obligations, captain things that never quite fit neatly into a schedule. The door closes behind him while Kip stays wrapped in blankets or bent over a book. And Scott heading into the chaos of the day and hoping, in some small steady way, that Kip will still be there when he gets back.

And with each passing day that Kip says he will stay and then does. Scott believes him a little more the next time.

He is still getting used to that. Still getting used to opening the door at night and finding Kip exactly where he left him, sprawled on the couch with a book or half-asleep over a stack of papers.

It’s starting to feel less like luck and more like something steady.

Today, though, the roles are reversed.

Today Scott is the one staying home while Kip runs around for his career.

Kip had been leaning in the doorway earlier, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower while Scott chopped vegetables.

“You going to be here when I get back today?” Kip had asked, watching the growing army of containers take over the kitchen.

Scott had shrugged, hiding the smile at Kip using his usual line.

“Yep. It’s just meal prep day. I’ll be restocking our emergency dinners too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll be back around seven after office hours with Professor Sinclair?”

Kip narrowed his eyes playfully.

“You practicing your serial killer skills, Hunter? Knowing my schedule like that?”

Scott bumped his hip into Kip’s as he reached for another pepper.

“Both our schedules are way too chaotic for such a time consuming hobby like serial killing,” he said. “But I want to make sure dinner is still warm for you.”

Kip had smiled then, the soft private kind that always makes Scott’s chest feel too full.

“I love you,” Kip said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And yes. Probably six-thirty or seven depending on the subway.”

He grabbed his keys and headed toward the door.

“Try not to answer your phone every thirty seconds while I’m gone,” Kip added over his shoulder.

Scott lifted the knife like a solemn vow.

“Today I am a man of discipline.”

Kip laughed, stepped back into the kitchen long enough to kiss him quickly, and then disappeared down the hall toward his brutal Tuesday schedule, three classes back-to-back and then his own TA office hours before he could ask his Professor questions.

With Kip now out of the apartment the place is quiet, except for the steady rhythm of cooking. 

He wipes his hands on a towel and lines the containers up neatly.

Scott realizes he likes this.

He likes the idea of Kip walking through the door later, tired and rumpled and hungry. And Scott being able to fix that. 

Because he would be coming home. 

Coming home to him.

Scott pauses for a moment, resting his hands on the counter.

He likes being the one already there.

He’s always known he would love coming home to someone. It’s a dream to open the door and find Kip still curled up on the couch or pacing the living room while reading something dense and academic. But it has been a pleasant surprise that he likes the reverse as well. Being the one Kip comes home to.

It’s a different kind of warmth. A different rhythm.

A possibility of the kind of rhythm that might exist after hockey.

Scott leans back against the counter, thinking.

Ten years from now the league won’t look the same. It never does. Guys retire, get traded, disappear into coaching staffs or front offices or quiet lives somewhere else.

Scott knows he won’t play forever.

He can see it now, in a hazy sort of way…life after hockey.

Kip is here in New York at one of the Universities teaching. Or at a museum curating the collection. He’s talked about the possibility of both before, but he’s also heard Kip’s worry of finding a job close by too.

For Scott knows one thing with absolute certainty, Kip will be brilliant at whatever he chooses. 

And Scott imagines himself being the one following Kip to somewhere new. Even if it’s just a different apartment than this one still in the city, but closer to Kip’s work to make his commute easier. 

Moving for a job used to scare Scott, for he was never great at making friends. He knows he got lucky with hockey and also incredibly lucky with the Admirals.

But the thought of moving with Kip. For Kip. That doesn’t scare him the way it would if he was doing it alone. 

If anything, Scott finds he likes the idea. 

He turns back to the counter and seals another container.

Years away…probably. Kip just started his masters. And he still has some good hockey left in him. 

But for the first time, Scott can actually see the life that will come after. And for the first time he’s smiling about it, for it really is a LIFE.  

The hockey gods must have heard his easy musing of being without them for his quiet thoughts about the future are interrupted by a knock.

Scott wipes his hands on a towel and heads for the door.

Opening it he finds the recently called up defenseman, Matteo Rossi standing there looking like he might punch a wall.

Scott leans one shoulder against the doorframe.

“Afternoon,” he says easily.

Matteo runs a hand through his hair, still keyed up with the kind of restless energy Scott has seen a hundred times on the ice.

“Cap, I…um… can I come in?”

Scott studies him for about half a second.

The same way he does when reading a play developing across the ice.

Scott studies him for half a second. Hot energy. Frustrated energy. Embarrassed energy. 

But nothing dangerous. 

“Sure,” Scott says, stepping aside. “But I’m cooking.”

Matteo nods his head understanding and walks in, immediately stops dead in the entryway when he sees the kitchen.

“Holy shit, you running a restaurant out of here?” Matteo asks, voice half in awe, half in disbelief.

From the outsider perspective the kitchen looks like the aftermath of a food explosion, containers stacked everywhere, rice cooker puffing quietly on the counter, trays of chicken cooling beside piles of vegetables ready to be chopped. But the delicious smells alone could knock someone over.

Scott walks back to the counter like Matteo appearing in his doorway is the most normal thing in the world and picks up the knife again.

“It’s mostly meal prep for the next week or so. Grab a chair if you want,” he says.

Matteo doesn’t sit at first. “You actually do it all yourself?” hovering near the counter like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to actually exist in the space, “It’s kinda a lot,” eyes bouncing between the rows of containers, the cutting board, the scale, and the mountain of vegetables that already cover most surfaces. 

He can’t help his eyes widening when Scott slides another tray of vegetables into the oven.

“I’m intense about a lot of things, including food. Besides some of it’s for Kip to make sure he actually eats lunch. And so we have things already prepped for when we both have long days and end up too tired to cook.”

He notices Matteo still standing and he pulls out his Captain voice, “Sit,” and points to the stool.

“Right. Yeah.”

“Alright, start from the beginning. What’s got your blood pressure up?”

Matteo exhales like someone finally opened a release valve. The tension cracks just enough for him to relax his shoulders, but no words are yet to come.

Scott glances over briefly. “You look like you’re about to fight the media room,” he says mildly.

Matteo groans and drags both hands down his face. “You saw it.”

Scott shrugs and does his best to keep any signs of amusement off his face. “Hard to miss.”

The clip had been circulating for the last 24 hours. Matteo snapping at a reporter after the game, voice sharp, temper shorter than usual.

Matteo leans back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

“They asked the dumbest question,” he says, already getting heated again. “Like…what am I supposed to say? ‘Yeah, I sucked, thanks for noticing?’”

Scott slides roasted chicken into one of the bigger containers.

“You could try not to ask them if they were even watching the rest of the game or just fixated on one mistake.”

Matteo winces.

“Yeah. That was bad.” 

Scott shrugs again. “It happens.”

“It was supposed to be a normal scrum,” he says. “Five questions, in and out. Then this one reporter starts asking about the turnover in the third.”

Scott lines up two containers and starts scooping rice.

“And I’m explaining the play, right? Totally normal. But then he asks if the coaching staff actually trusts me in late-game situations.”

Scott hums quietly.

Matteo leans forward, elbows on the table.

“And I’m like, what does that even mean? So I say we trust each other in the room. Which I thought was a good answer.”

Scott snaps a lid onto one container.

“Reasonable.”

“Except then he pushes again,” Matteo says, hands starting to move now. “And I’m tired, and we lost, and suddenly I’m arguing with the guy in front of like twelve cameras.”

Matteo tips his head forward, elbows on his knees now. “Admirals PR said I should talk to you.”

Scott snorts softly. “That sounds like them.”

Scott weighs the next portion of rice.

Matteo stops mid-rant.

“…are you measuring that?”

Scott glances up.

“Yes.”

“You’re measuring rice during my career crisis.”

Scott holds up two containers.

“Easier to measure out each portion, as I’ve been told several times not everyone needs 5,000 calories a day. However, I do still stand by the fact that Everyone needs more than a banana and peanut butter sandwich in a 12 hour period, so this is the compromise.” 

He holds up two containers. 

“Grad student.” Small portion. 

“Hockey player.” Massive portion.

Matteo blinks.

“…holy shit.” 

Scott stacks them neatly.

“You want consistency, you have to put in the work, and do it yourself.”

Matteo shakes his head, still amused.

Matteo leans back in the chair, looking around the kitchen again. Really taking in the scene before him.

Containers in rows. Vegetables roasting. Chicken cooling on the stove.

“You cook like this all the time, I heard a rumor that you live off protein bars and hockey tape?” Also, taking in the fact that that reasoning had definitely been the summary of a long standing argument with his roommate. 

Scott shrugs. “People think a lot of things. Kip’s schedule is chaos. Mine’s chaos. This keeps us fueled to handle it all. And hopefully still give us enough energy to check out whatever the latest art exhibit that Kip is obsessed with that week.”

He sets the knife down and turns slightly toward Matteo.

“I can help for a bit,” he says. “But I’m finishing this and then starting on dinner. Kip gets back soon and he’s going to need a quiet night. Today is his longest class day and he had a lot of questions about one of artist timelines.”

Matteo nods immediately. "Of course wouldn't want to keep you from all the art talk."

"You can laugh, but we went to one of the showings last week, and turns out I like impressionism.” Scott adds casually, adding a pointed look to make sure Matteo got the message he was on a timetable.

Matteo ducked his head chastised, “But yeah, yeah, of course. I can get out of your hair once he gets back or sooner if you need.”

Scott goes back to chopping peppers like nothing about this situation is urgent.

“So what do I do about the reporters?”

“So what do I do about the reporters?”

Scott leans against the counter.

“First… breathe before you answer.”

Matteo nods.

“Second… remember they’re looking for a headline. Don’t give them one.”

“Okay.”

“Third… if you’re mad, say something boring.”

Matteo snorts, “Boring?”

Scott nods.

“‘We’re focusing on the next game.’ ‘We’re working hard.’ ‘The group believes in each other.’”

Matteo groans, “That’s painful.”

“Exactly.”

Scott chuckles and hands him a fork.

“Try this.”

Matteo tastes the roasted vegetables.

“Holy shit.”

“Right?”

Matteo eats another bite while Scott finally wipes the counter down and stacks the last containers.

Silence settles for a minute.

Then Matteo sighs.

“So,” Scott says casually, “what exactly did the PR department tell you to work on, they typically have a specific ask?”

“Basically whatever it takes to not fuck up like that again.” 

Scott rolls his eyes at that. “Well isn’t that helpful. Your fuck up wasn’t even as bad as it could have been.” 

Scott slides the knife aside and leans against the counter.

“Look,” he says. “Everyone blows up in a media scrum at least once.”

Matteo groans. “Sure, but mine went viral.”

Scott keeps chopping, “Sure viral today is the new 15 minutes of fame. Mine was worse. It was the main story for a week in sports news.”

Matteo straightens.

“Wait, what?”

Scott waves a hand dismissively.

“In my rookie year, I had the unfortunate timing of a slow sports week and this guy asked me if I thought I’d been overrated in the draft.”

Matteo winces, “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“What did you say?”

Scott rubs the back of his neck. Chuckling at the memory now, “I told him if he wanted my job he should learn to skate first.”

Matteo chokes on a laugh.

“No you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It was not incredible,” Scott says. “It was on every sports channel for a week. You’re barely over 24 hours, and Hollander and Rozanov play each other tonight. So it could be worse.”

Matteo grins. 

“Okay but that’s objectively funny.”

“It was objectively a problem.”

Scott opens the fridge and starts stacking the finished containers inside, “Especially because Coach made me sit through media training for two straight days after that.”

Matteo groans again.

“Two days?”

“Two very long days.”

“Did they make you practice smiling like a politician?”

Scott glances at him, showing off that very smile. 

“Don’t tempt me to make you practice too.”

Matteo raises both hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay.”

Scott closes the fridge door and leans against the counter again.

“So,” he says. “Step one is realizing the reporters aren’t your enemy.”

Matteo squints.

“They kind of feel like it.”

“They’re bored,” Scott corrects. “Bored reporters look for drama.”

Matteo nods slowly, taking it in.

Scott points at him, “Which means your job is to be boring.”

Matteo groans dramatically, “That’s your advice? Be boring?”

“Correct.”

Matteo slumps in the chair, “I hate that.”

Scott grins, “Admiral’s PR departments love boring.”

Matteo tilts his head, “What? Why?”

Scott gestures with the towel in his hand, “You want every Google search of your name to bring up hockey clips.”

Matteo nods.

“Goals. Hits. Good shifts.”

“Exactly. Just your highlight reel. Or if you end up with dedicated fans, they will find every time you fall on your face compilations too. But that has the plus of showing you have dedicated fans.”

Scott points toward him again.

“But the important part is that the search results should not be ‘Matteo Rossi destroys reporter in locker room meltdown.’”

Matteo groans again, “Yeah, okay, that one’s bad.”

Scott nods.

“So the trick is…if you’re mad?” Matteo waits.

“Have a few incredibly dull phrases lined up and ready.”

Matteo thinks about it.

Then he nods slowly.

“Like… ‘we’re focusing on the next game.’”

Scott snaps his fingers.

“Perfect.”

“We’re sticking to the process.”

“Beautiful.”

“We believe in the group.”

Scott beams like a proud teacher, “You’re a natural.”

Matteo laughs.

“This feels illegal.”

“It’s called media training.”

Matteo leans forward again, elbows on the counter.

“You know what though?”

“What.”

“I didn’t expect this.”

“And what did you expect?”

“I thought you’d be… stricter.”

Scott raises an eyebrow.

“Stricter.”

“Yeah,” Matteo says. “Like… drill sergeant energy.”

Scott gestures vaguely with the knife still in his hand.

“I’m literally cooking dinner.”

“That’s what I mean,” Matteo says. “I thought I’d show up and you’d make me run mock interviews for like three hours.”

Scott pauses.

Actually pauses.

Because if Matteo had knocked on his door three years ago?

That might have been exactly what he did.

He imagines it briefly…Matteo sitting at the counter while Scott fires questions at him like a rapid-fire press conference until he gets the tone exactly right.

Scott huffs a quiet laugh to himself.

“What?” Matteo asks.

“Nothing,” Scott says, turning back to the cutting board. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

Matteo blinks.

“Oh my god. You would’ve done that.”

Scott shrugs.

“Probably.”

“For how long?”

Scott considers.

Matteo waits.

“…Longer than three hours.”

Matteo bursts out laughing.

“Jesus Christ, Cap.”

Scott smirks.

“Lucky for you I’ve evolved.”

“Yeah, I’m sensing that.”

“But serious thank you for all of this. The… everything,” Matteo says. “The food, the chill vibe, the museum talk. It’s nice to not have it be all about hockey sometimes.”

Scott smirks, “Shocking development: hockey players contain multitudes.”

Matteo chuckles, “I mean it though. People talk about you like you’re just hockey all the time.”

Scott shrugs.

“People talk.”

Matteo glances at the stacked containers again.

“You’ve got hobbies.”

Scott raises an eyebrow, “Cooking is a survival skill.”

“Still counts.”

Matteo shrugs.

“Honestly it’s nice to see.”

Scott tilts his head, “How so?”

Matteo rolls the container lid between his hands, “I’m not a franchise guy,” he says bluntly. “You know that.”

Scott doesn’t interrupt.

“I’ve already been traded twice,” Matteo continues. “Odds are it’ll happen again.”

Scott nods slowly, “That’s the business.”

“Exactly,” Matteo says. “Which means eventually I’m gonna end up in some new city where nobody knows me.”

He gestures around the apartment. “So it’s good to know you can… build a life outside the rink.”

Scott considers that.

Then nods.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You should.”

Matteo points toward the stove.

“I can’t cook like this though.”

Scott snorts.

“Neither could I at twenty-two.”

“YouTube?”

“Yup and my rookie season billet family, they’re very patient,” Scott says.

Matteo laughs, “Of course.”

Scott crosses his arms. “But the important thing is you have something.”

“Like what?”

Scott shrugs.

“Music. Art. Cooking. Photography. Weird hobby where you build tiny boats in bottles. I don’t care.”

Matteo grins. “You’re suggesting model ships.”

“I’m suggesting balance.”

Matteo nods slowly.

“Fair.”

Scott pushes off the counter.

“Also,” he adds, pointing at him again, “if you’re gonna be a guy who moves around the league?”

Matteo waits.

“Being boring in interviews becomes even more important.”

Matteo groans.

“Back to boring.”

Scott grins.

“Back to boring."

Matteo shakes his head, laughing.

“You’re not what I expected, Cap.”

Scott smirks.

“Good.”

Matteo gestures around the kitchen again.

“Robot captain myth officially busted.”

Scott wipes down the counter one last time.

“Don’t tell the rookies,” he says. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Matteo grins.

“Too late. I know about your impressionism preference.”

Scott points the towel at him.

“You say that word in the locker room and I’m putting you back in mock interview training for two days.”

Matteo laughs.

“Worth it.”

And right on cue…

The front door unlocks.

Scott glances toward the hallway automatically.

Perfect timing.

Kip walks in looking tired but warm, backpack slipping off one shoulder as he steps into the apartment.

He pauses when he spots Matteo in the kitchen.

“Oh… hey.”

“Hey,” Matteo says, standing immediately.

Scott tilts his head toward the door.

“That’s your cue.”

Matteo laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

Scott grabs one of the massive containers from the counter and hands it over.

“Take this.”

Matteo blinks at the size of it.

“For real?”

“Dinner.”

Matteo looks between the container and Scott.

“You’re the best captain in the league.”

Scott waves him toward the door.

“Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the mystery.”

Matteo heads for the door still laughing.

“Later, Cap. Later, Kip.”

“See you,” Kip says.

The door shuts behind him.

The apartment settles back into quiet.

Kip drops his backpack and stretches like a cat.

“You could’ve let him stay for dinner,” he says, voice still soft with exhaustion.

Scott steps forward and pulls him in by the waist.

“No,” he says, kissing him.

Kip melts immediately against him.

“We had plans tonight.”

Kip tilts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh we had plans?” he says innocently. “I must’ve forgotten.”

Scott kisses him again, slower this time.

“Very important plans.”

Kip hums.

“And those are?”

Scott brushes his nose against Kip’s and nudges him toward the couch.

“I’m feeding you your favorite dinner,” he says. “Then we’re curling up and I’m giving you a foot massage.”

Kip stops walking entirely.

“…You’re giving me a foot massage.”

Scott nods solemnly.

“Correct.”

Kip looks like he might collapse from happiness.

“Marry me,” he says weakly.

Scott laughs and kisses his forehead.

“Eat first,” he says.

“Then we’ll see.”

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the long wait. This chapter fought me every step of the way. Probably cause it knows it's more of a stepping stone for the final ones. And those I've really enjoyed creating