by Rachel Reid
“Yeah?” Scott’s voice brightened a bit with this news.
“Yeah. He’s always been a Scouts fan, though obviously I’ll be cheering for you.”
“Obviously. I can probably get you tickets. Let me look into it.”
“Oh. No. That’s all right. I can—”
“It’s no problem. Those tickets are expensive.”
Kip frowned. “I can buy them.”
“I know,” Scott said gently. “I’m not trying to insult you. It’s just, I mean, it’s easy for me to ask for them and then you can save your money for something else. It’s no trouble at all.”
“Fine,” Kip said, because he didn’t want to get into an argument, and he really could use the money. But he wouldn’t make a habit of accepting these sorts of things from his millionaire celebrity boyfriend.
“So what’s your schedule like this week?” Scott asked, his voice a little lower.
“I work Tuesday to Friday. Nothing in the evenings, though.”
“I’m in town all week.”
“I know. I checked.”
“I’ve got long morning practices on Monday and Tuesday. But you’ll be at work anyway...”
“Maybe we could—” Kip said, at the same time that Scott said, “Will you come to my place tomorrow night?”
“Sure, yeah! Yeah, of course,” Kip said. “Be kind of convenient for work the next morning too. If you let me get any sleep, that is.”
“I will. I promise. Eventually.”
They both laughed, then Scott said, “Shit. I have to go. Sorry. But... I’ll see you tomorrow, right? And I’ll let you know about those tickets.”
“Yeah, tomorrow. For sure. And good luck tonight.”
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”
“Okay. Bye, Scott.”
They ended the call, and Kip started to get ready for work while his boyfriend...got ready to lead his team to victory against Montreal.
Kip shook his head. When would this stop feeling so surreal?
* * *
Scott woke up alone on Sunday.
He’d been waking up alone pretty much his entire life (roommates aside), so it shouldn’t have felt as jarring as it did.
He went to the kitchen to make coffee, then turned on the television to watch SportsCenter. They were showing highlights of the game last night, and there were a lot of them. The anchors were commending the outstanding performance by the entire Admirals team, especially given the circumstances.
It had been a hell of a game. Scott was extremely proud of his team, coming together for a massive win over Montreal.
The news on the television turned to the Zullo incident. There was footage of him leaving the police station, stony-faced and not speaking to the reporters.
For some reason it wasn’t as satisfying as Scott had imagined it would be. Zullo was an asshole, no question, but it still made his stomach twist to see a teammate hit rock bottom like this. He sincerely hoped that Zullo would use the league’s rehab program and get his career back on track.
But he didn’t have time to think about Frank Zullo right now. Zullo was a grown man, and he had made his own bed. Scott had a game to get ready for.
* * *
Kip didn’t spend nearly enough time with his dad. They lived in the same house, sure, but they never did stuff together anymore. Kip left for work most mornings before his parents were awake, and he tended to go to bed early. The dumb smoothie job really took a lot out of him.
Kip watched his dad as he cheered on his beloved Scouts. They were both drinking beer and eating Nathan’s crinkle-cut fries from the concession stand. It was a good afternoon.
Scott had come through with the tickets. His dad had been thrilled that morning when Kip had suggested they go to the game. Kip had lied about where the tickets had come from, saying he’d bought them cheap off a friend who couldn’t go. He wasn’t sure if Dad believed him, but if he didn’t, he wasn’t saying anything about it.
The crowd was loud. They roared for every hit, every shot, and every save. It was getting late in the season, and these games mattered.
By the third period it was 3–2 for the Admirals, and Scott had scored one of the goals. The building was tense as the game entered the final minutes. With just under six minutes left on the clock, the Admirals got a penalty. They would be shorthanded for two minutes.
Kip leaned forward and chewed on his thumb. “You got this, Scott,” he said under his breath.
The Scouts weren’t going down without a fight. They kept the action in the Admirals’ zone and gave the goalie, Bennett, a workout. After one save, Scott shot the puck at the blue line to clear it out of their zone, but one of the Scouts defensemen caught it on his stick before it could cross the blue line. He fired it at the Admirals’ net, and Kip could see what was going to happen before it happened.
“No, Scott. Fuck. Don’t!”
As the puck rocketed toward the net, Kip could only watch, horrified, as Scott threw his body in front of it. He dove through the air and caught the puck somewhere in his midsection, where his padding was light.
He went down hard.
Chapter Twelve
“That shot must have been a hundred miles an hour!” Kip’s father said.
“Fuck, Scott, come on. Get up.”
Scott lay crumpled on the ice in the fetal position, one leg slowly moving in and out. Kip felt sick. He wanted to run down and jump over the glass.
“Did it get him in the face?” someone behind him asked loudly.
No... Kip mouthed.
“Nah. Maybe the ribs,” someone else said.
God.
Scott rolled, and Kip could see his face. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open and gasping.
“He can’t breathe!” Kip said to no one and anyone. “He can’t breathe! He needs...”
Scott put a gloved hand down on the ice, bracing himself before he slowly pushed himself up to his knees. He was wincing, with his eyes squeezed shut, but he seemed to be breathing. He wrapped an arm around himself, holding his side. One of his teammates hooked their arm under his and helped him up. Another picked up his stick for him.
Scott skated slowly off the ice, supported by his teammate, while the crowd applauded.
Kip slumped back into his seat with relief. He’s all right. He’s all right.
Dad put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “He’s a tough one.”
“Yeah.” Kip exhaled. He watched as Scott was escorted by the team doctor down the hall behind the bench.
The game continued, but Kip was no longer paying attention. He kept his eyes on the bench, watching for any sign of Scott’s return.
The final seconds ticked down, and the match ended 3–2 for the Admirals. Scott never came back from the dressing room. Kip wasn’t sure what he could do. He was supposed to go to Scott’s tonight, but...
As he and his father were leaving the arena, Kip sent Scott a text: Just tell me you’re ok.
There was no reply, which Kip had expected. Scott probably wasn’t anywhere near his phone right now.
On the subway, his father said, “Hunter’s got heart, that’s for sure. That act of self-sacrifice may have won them the game.”
Kip chewed his lip. “Yeah...”
They trudged along the slushy sidewalks from the subway station to their house. He felt bad that he couldn’t enjoy his dad’s company right now. He’d been having a great afternoon, but now he was completely preoccupied with worry.
They had been home for almost an hour before Kip got a reply from Scott. I’m ok. Nasty bruise, but ok. Heading home now.
Kip sat on his bed, hard, and wrote back, Good. You scared me.
Scott: Sorry. Looked worse than it was, probably.
Kip frowned. You still want me to come over?
&n
bsp; His phone rang a second later.
“Yes,” Scott said.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I mean... I don’t know if I’ll be able to...do much.”
“I knew it! You are hurt!”
“It’s not that bad. It’s just a bruise. I put ice on it, and I’ll put more ice on it when I get home. No fractures. No bruised ribs.”
“You got an X-ray?”
“Yes, of course. They gave me an X-ray right in the arena. No fractures. Please come over.”
“All right. You’d better have an ice pack on that when I get there.”
“I will,” Scott said. “And I like that you’re so worried about me. It’s really...sweet.”
Kip blushed, because what was he doing? Telling an NHL superstar how to care for his injuries? “I just—I’m glad you’re all right. I’ll be right over. And I’m serious about the ice pack.”
Scott chuckled. “I’ll see you soon.”
* * *
“All right, let’s see it,” Kip said. Scott had been unable to keep himself from grimacing as he walked Kip back up to his apartment. Kip, of course, had noticed.
Now Scott was laid out on the couch, and Kip was carefully lifting his shirt up.
“It looks worse than it is,” Scott said. “Really.”
“Oh my god!”
Scott glanced down and saw the massive black-and-purple welt that covered most of his right side. The puck had hit him just under his rib cage, just above the thick padding at the top of his hockey pants.
“It’s not that bad.” It had hurt like hell, and had completely knocked the wind out of him, but there were no internal injuries.
“Bullshit it’s not! You’re staying right there. I hope you have an ice pack ready to go on that,” Kip said as he walked to the kitchen.
“I have several,” Scott said, “always. I barely keep food in that freezer. It’s all injury treatment stuff.”
Kip returned with a fresh ice pack and pressed it gently to Scott’s skin. Scott sucked in a breath at the initial contact, then relaxed and placed his hand over Kip’s, helping him hold the pack in place.
“It’s been a long time since anyone’s fussed over me like this,” he said. “It’s nice.”
Kip gave him a smile that was a little sad, and Scott squeezed his hand.
“Sorry I scared you,” he said. “Hazard of dating me, I guess.”
“Acceptable hazard.” Kip slipped his hand out from under Scott’s and stood. “I’m gonna make you some dinner. You have any food?”
“I have the stuff I bought to make you breakfast the other day. Bacon and eggs. It’s still in there. Here, let me help—”
“No way. You’re benched, Hunter. Stay there.”
Scott rolled his eyes and stood up, slowly. “I’m at least going to move over to the kitchen so I can see you.”
He made his way (with some discomfort) to the stools that lined the high counter separating the kitchen from the living/dining area. He sat and offered Kip helpful instructions about where to find things, and how to use his fancy gas range.
It was nice, having Kip here in his kitchen. Watching him prepare food for the two of them, and hearing him talk about his day.
“Over easy? Sunny-side up?” Kip asked. “I’m an egg expert.”
“Over easy. It’s okay if you fuck them up, though. I drown them in hot sauce anyway.”
“I will not fuck them up!” Kip said as he carefully flipped the eggs. “You know, I used to do this professionally and... Aw, dammit! I broke a yolk!”
Scott laughed. “It’s fine. I’ll eat it, believe me. I’ll eat just about anything.”
Kip raised an eyebrow and pressed his lips together.
They sat next to each other at the kitchen counter and ate their bacon, eggs, and toast. Kip looked so happy and cute, and Scott lamented that he wouldn’t be able to do much more than kiss him tonight.
Which reminded him of another annoyance.
“I should warn you,” Scott said, “I’m going to be stressed out and distracted this week.”
“Why’s that?”
“The trade deadline is next Monday. Probably the most stressful day of the year for every player.”
“But you’re not...you’re not gonna be traded, right?” Kip looked horrified at the thought.
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, there’s always a chance, but we’re making a run for the cup this year, so I doubt they’ll get rid of me. I’d be worried if the team needed to cut some costs.”
“So why are you nervous?”
“Because someone will be leaving. With Zullo gone, we have a hole to fill in our defense, and to fill it we’re going to have to lose a guy or two. We’re like family, so it’s hard.”
“Right, yeah. I guess it would be like that.”
They talked and ate, and Scott tried, but failed, to keep himself from visibly leaning on the counter for support.
“Come on,” Kip said, after Scott wasn’t able to conceal a wince. “You must be hurting. Let’s go back to the couch.”
Scott didn’t argue. Kip helped Scott lower himself onto the couch, letting him stretch out on his back. Kip sat at one end so Scott could rest his head in his lap. They watched an action movie on television, and Kip brushed his fingers through Scott’s hair.
And soon, Scott forgot all about trade deadlines and Zullo and nasty bruises.
* * *
Kip watched the credits roll on Scott’s massive television screen. “Man, how much do you think it cost to make that dumb movie?”
Scott didn’t answer. Upon closer inspection, Scott Hunter was, in fact, asleep in his lap.
Kip smiled to himself, and admired Scott’s profile. He looked so peaceful and young. His long eyelashes brushed his cheekbones, and his full, pink lips were parted slightly. All of the tension Scott usually carried with him had left his face.
Kip reached and took Scott’s hand in his. He didn’t want to wake him, but his legs were asleep. “Hey,” he whispered. “Come on, Scott. Time for bed.”
“Mrmff,” Scott said. Then his eyes fluttered open, and he gazed up at Kip and smiled shyly. “Sorry,” he said. “Always pretty exhausted after games.”
“S’okay. We should go to bed. I have to get up early.” Kip helped him up, and kissed him. “I had a nice time tonight.”
Scott lit up. “Me too.”
They stripped down to their underwear and then crawled into bed. Scott needed to lie on his back because of his injury, and Kip lay beside him with a hand on his chest.
“G’night,” Kip said.
Scott placed a hand over Kip’s. “Will you come here tomorrow night?”
“You want me to?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I’ll have to go home after work first. Get some clothes and stuff.”
“You should keep stuff here,” Scott murmured sleepily.
“Seriously?”
Scott seemed to wake up a bit, obviously realizing what he had just suggested. “Well...yeah. I mean...it would make sense, right? I live close to your work and—” he smiled shyly “—I like having you here.”
Kip raised himself up so he could kiss Scott.
“I feel bad,” Scott said. “Couldn’t do much with you tonight. Want to make it up to you.”
“You’re not going to be healed by tomorrow night!”
“I know...but maybe—”
“Tomorrow night,” Kip said, “we’ll see. I’m not letting you do anything that might hurt you.”
Scott sighed but smiled affectionately at him.
“Besides,” Kip said, “I like talking to you.”
Scott lifted Kip’s palm to his mouth and kissed it. “Me too.”
* * *
It was still dark when Ki
p’s alarm went off. Scott was confused at first, then remembered that Kip had to go to work. Kip shifted next to him, slowly sitting up and grumbling quietly.
“Morning,” Scott mumbled.
“Fuck, yeah. I guess so.”
Kip got out of the bed and went into the bathroom, while Scott rubbed his eyes and tried to wake up. He was by no means a late sleeper, but it wasn’t even five o’clock yet.
He finally forced himself to sit up, wincing when the pain reminded him of his injury. After a few minutes, Kip came out of the bathroom and started putting on his clothes.
“I’ll make us some coffee,” Scott said. “At least stay for that.”
“Okay. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a puck. But other than that... I’m very happy.”
Kip smiled and finished getting dressed. Scott went into the bathroom, stopping to kiss him on the cheek on his way past.
“Yikes,” Kip said, making a face. “That bruise does not look great.”
“Doesn’t feel great either. But I’ll live.”
In the bathroom, Scott splashed water on his face, and stood back to examine his bruise in the mirror. Kip hadn’t been lying: It had definitely darkened overnight into an angry midnight blue color.
When Scott had thrown on some sweats, he headed to the kitchen to make coffee. He paused when he saw Kip standing in front of the living room windows.
“You get this view every morning, huh?” Kip asked.
“More or less.”
“It’s not bad.”
The first hint of light was showing itself over the Brooklyn skyline, softly illuminating Kip’s lean frame. He stood with one arm stretched over his head, his hand on the glass.
“It’s better now,” Scott said. He wrapped his arms around Kip from behind, and kissed his neck. Kip sighed and turned to kiss him properly.
In that moment, Scott could imagine all of it. Being with Kip. Living with him. Going to bed and waking up together. Preparing meals and going to restaurants and traveling together. Not hiding anymore, just being happy and complete with a man he...cared about. Being brave enough to let the world know who he really was.
But even if he was brave enough, it was a lot to ask of Kip, who may not realize what he was getting himself into with Scott. It would be a big deal if Scott came out. It was unheard of in the NHL, and the media would want so much of them. Scott was used to being scrutinized by the public; he didn’t want to drag Kip into all of that.
