by Rachel Reid
The referee roughly pulled Scott away from the man on the ice. Scott struggled against him, but a linesman took hold of his other arm and helped haul him away from the bloodied Detroit player.
Scott looked at the man’s pummeled face, and at his own busted knuckles. The adrenaline started to fade and the realization of what he’d just done set in.
“Shit,” he said.
Fighting in the playoffs was bad. It was stupid and reckless and potentially costly. Scott wasn’t usually the kind of player to get into actual fights on the ice. He was much too valuable for that.
His opponent got up, slowly. Scott was relieved when he was standing. He would be fine.
Scott’s face hurt. He spat blood onto the ice and was hit with another wave of regret.
He let the officials take him to the penalty box. Huff skated over with Scott’s gloves, helmet, and stick, retrieved from the ice. He didn’t say anything. Scott nodded at him, and looked away.
Fuck.
They were down 4–1 in the third period. Scott hadn’t slept more than a few hours in days. He was a powder keg, and number fourteen on the Detroit team had been playing with matches all night.
The one that had finally ignited Scott’s rage was the word he’d been so good at blocking out since he was a teenager.
Faggot.
And Scott had just lost it. The word that got thrown around—on the ice and in the locker room—so often that it barely meant anything had suddenly meant a whole lot. And when Scott’s fists had been colliding with that asshole’s face, he’d wanted to tell him. He’d wanted him to know exactly who it was that was beating his face in. A cocksucker. A homo. A fucking faggot is about to break your fucking jaw.
But now that it was over, now that Scott had traded blows with the guy in front of the crowd and television cameras until he’d landed a punch that had dropped him to the ice, and then kept hitting him and hitting him...
Fuck. Goddammit.
Some fucking role model.
Scott picked up a water bottle and sprayed his face, cleaning away the blood and sweat. He squirted some into his mouth and spat it out. He looked at his hands. There were cuts, but nothing serious, though his knuckles would be swollen a bit for sure. He flexed his fingers. Nothing broken.
He felt sick. He felt humiliated, sitting in the penalty box for the next five minutes, the whole crowd having just witnessed him completely losing his mind.
He was losing his mind. He was untethered. He needed to find an anchor.
For now, he could only sit in the damn penalty box and watch his team lose. Again.
* * *
In an attempt to make himself feel slightly less miserable, Kip dragged himself to the Union Square Barnes & Noble after work. He normally found bookstores soothing.
It wasn’t working this time.
It had been a week since he’d walked out of Scott’s apartment. A week since he’d had any contact with Scott. He’d seen that the Admirals had lost the first two games of the series against Detroit and couldn’t help but feel partly responsible, even if that was ridiculous.
Scott would be back in town today, if he wasn’t already.
Kip wanted to see him so badly it hurt. The train he had taken that morning had been full of Scott’s most recent Gillette ads. Kip had kept his eyes on the floor so he wouldn’t have to look at Scott’s rugged, chiseled jawline. Or his soft lips. Or his blue eyes.
Was it really over between them? Was that possible? Should he reach out to Scott?
A toddler shrieked somewhere in the store, and Kip realized he had been staring, eyes unfocused, at a shelf in the European history section for probably five minutes. He blinked, took a step backward, and collided with someone.
“Oh god. Sorry.” Kip turned to face his victim. It was a young man with blond hair and glasses and a light scarf wrapped around his neck.
It was Kyle. Kip had stepped on Kyle.
“Oh. Um, hi,” Kip stammered.
Jesus. What are the odds?
“Kip!” Kyle said, clearly shocked that he couldn’t even go to a fucking bookstore without having to deal with Kip’s messiness.
Kip took a breath. Might as well get this over with. “Listen, about the other night...”
“Forget it,” Kyle said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re obviously going through something and I’m not interested in making it worse. And I’m sorry if I did make it worse. I shouldn’t have come onto you like that. It was irresponsible of me.”
“It’s fine,” Kip said. “I mean, I’m flattered and everything, but, yeah. Like you said. I’m kinda going through something.”
Kip’s eyes were suddenly stinging, which was great because he hadn’t embarrassed himself enough in front of this guy.
“You like history?” Kyle asked. It was an obvious attempt to change the subject. Kip appreciated it. Kyle was nice.
“Yeah. I majored in it. I’m, um, I’m hoping to do my master’s degree in the fall.”
“No kidding? I’m doing mine now. Part-time, anyway.”
“In history?”
“No. That was my undergrad degree; I’m doing my master’s in ancient art and archaeology. At Columbia.”
Kip was impressed. “That’s awesome! I had no idea.”
Kyle smiled. “Well, we’ve never really talked much beyond drink orders and flirting.”
Kip looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I led you on the other night,” he mumbled at Kyle’s (really nice) boots.
“Forget about it. I’m just glad you got home safe. Or got somewhere safe, anyway. I was worried.”
“You were?”
“You seem surprised.”
Kip flushed a bit. He felt like he was being an asshole, maybe. He probably shouldn’t be talking to anyone. “Sorry. I’m a total mess right now.”
Kyle seemed to consider him a moment. “Do you want to get a coffee?”
“Oh, um. I’m not... I mean, normally I would, but...”
“Relax. You just seem like you could use a friend. Maybe we could talk about whatever is troubling you. Or about grad school.”
Kip wasn’t sure he could talk about his problems with this near stranger, but he sure didn’t have anything better to do. “All right. Sure. Thanks.”
They went to the in-store Starbucks and brought their lattes to a table against the wall.
“I didn’t know you wear glasses,” Kip said.
“Just one of many fascinating things about me.”
“And you were a history major!”
Kyle gently pulled the lid off his cup and blew at the foam. “History and Latin, actually. Double major. But enough about me. What’s making you so sad, Kip?”
“I...” It wouldn’t hurt to try this. Maybe an impartial stranger was exactly what he needed. “I’ve been seeing someone. For a few months now. And... I love him. We’re in love. Or, we were. I don’t know anymore.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s...” Kip smiled a little. “He’s gorgeous. I mean, really. He’s ridiculously hot. And he’s smart, and caring, and generous, and just...wonderful.”
“And he’s, let me guess...married?”
Kip shook his head. “No. But he is closeted.”
Kyle gave him a knowing look. “Word of advice, based on personal experience: Don’t mess with the closeted ones.”
“You know, I definitely would have agreed with you before. But he’s worth it. I think.”
“Why is he closeted?”
“His line of work is...” Kip sighed. “He thinks it would hurt his career. I don’t know. It probably would, I guess.”
“So he’s putting the career first?”
“Well, it’s... You know.”
“Complicated?”
“Extremely.” Kip raked a hand through his
hair, agitated. “It’s just... There’s a big difference between us. Like, I’m not good enough for him. At all.”
“He said this?”
“No! No. Never. But it’s the truth. He’s successful. Rich. Impressive.”
“And closeted.”
“Yeah.”
“Older?”
“Not much. A couple of years.”
“Jesus. And he’s rich and successful?”
Kip squirmed. Was he giving too much away? Kyle wasn’t trying to guess who his mystery man was, was he?
“His money and stuff... It doesn’t matter to me. And he says he doesn’t care that I don’t have any. But it just makes the relationship so off balance, you know? I always feel uncomfortable with him paying for anything. And besides that, since we’ve been together I’ve felt like I’ve been shoved back in the closet instead of bringing him out of it.”
“And I assume you’ve talked this all out with him?”
Kip chewed his lip. “Sort of. We had a fight. Last week. And I...walked out.”
“Oof.”
“It was our first real fight.”
“It was your first fight, and you walked out?”
“Yeah.” Kip was feeling stupider by the second.
“Have you tried to talk to him since?”
“No.”
Kyle shook his head and smiled sadly. “Oh, Kip.”
“You think I should?”
“Are you really in love with him?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to try.”
Kip fiddled with his cup. “But what if he’s never ready to come out? You just said you know from personal experience that I should stay away from closeted guys.”
“Yeah, well. My situation was a huge mess, but I wasn’t in love with the guy.”
Kip nodded. “I’ll talk to him. You’re right. I have to try.”
“Good boy. Now, where are you going to grad school?”
“Oh, I don’t know yet. I applied to a couple of schools, but I’m hoping for NYU. That’s where I did my undergrad.”
“Shame. I thought we were getting along,” Kyle teased.
Kip smiled. “I’m not sure how I’m gonna pay for school, exactly, but I’ll figure it out. I definitely need a better job.”
Kyle looked at him curiously. “Do you have any food-service experience?”
Kip laughed. “Yeah. That’s about all I have.”
“The Kingfisher needs a new server.”
“Really?” Kip considered this. It would still be food service, but it might be cool working at his favorite pub.
“Mm-hmm. And there will be even more hours soon because I’m doing a summer program in Italy.”
“Oh!”
“The tips, I can tell you, are fantastic. Especially when you’re cute and charming.” He swept a hand playfully across his own face. “Why don’t you drop by tomorrow, late afternoon, with your résumé? The boss will be there then. I’ll introduce you and put in a good word.”
“You don’t even know if I’m a good worker,” Kip pointed out.
“Are you a bad worker?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re a liar, so I’ll go with that.”
“All right. Thanks. I’ll be there tomorrow. And I really do appreciate this.”
“Good. Now go call your gorgeous, successful boyfriend.”
* * *
Kip didn’t call Scott. He had pulled his phone out several times with the intention of doing that, or of sending a text, but he was scared. What if he sent a text and Scott ignored it? What if Scott had blocked his number? What if Kip called and Scott answered and told him not to call him again?
At least now, as miserable as he was, he had hope.
He was sitting on his bed at home, Kyle’s words from earlier that day running through his head.
You have to try.
He should text Scott. Just text him.
He typed out, Can we talk?
He stared at it.
What if Scott wrote back No?
Maybe Kip should let him make the first move. Scott was the one with all the stress and responsibility heaped on his shoulders right now. Kip didn’t want to add to that. But the Admirals were playing the following night. It would be their first home game since Kip and Scott’s fight, and it felt so wrong not to be going.
He couldn’t dwell on that. He needed to give Scott some space. Instead, Kip would go to work in the morning, and then he would stop by the Kingfisher with his résumé. He would use this time productively.
There was a knock on his bedroom door. “Kip?”
“Yeah, Dad. Come in.”
The door opened and his father stepped in, holding an envelope. “This came from NYU,” he said with a little smile. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Probably just asking for money,” Kip lied. Probably just rejecting my application.
“It’s from the admissions department.”
Oh god. Oh god. I can’t take bad news right now.
“Give it.” Kip’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for the envelope. Dad crossed his arms and leaned back against the doorframe.
Kip gave him a pointed look, but when it was clear that his father had no intention of leaving the room, he sighed and opened the envelope.
“Holy shit,” he said quietly to himself.
“Kip?”
Kip leaped to his feet. “I got in! I’m going to grad school!”
And suddenly the world felt a little less awful. He beamed and hugged his father.
“I’m proud of you. And very jealous,” Dad said.
Kip shook his head, bewildered. “I didn’t think I’d get in.”
“Why not? Your grades were excellent. You’re a fantastic writer, a hard worker. Any school would be happy to have you.”
“I just...” And Kip now had tears in his eyes. “Things haven’t been great, Dad.”
“I know.” Dad hugged him again. “I didn’t want to intrude, but...are you boys fighting?”
“Boys? Who are you—?”
Dad smiled at him knowingly, then his face sobered. “I know he must be busy right now, with the playoffs, but it seems like maybe something worse than that is going on.”
What the hell?
“What are you—?”
“Scott Hunter,” his dad said calmly. “You’ve been seeing him.”
“Dad, come on. There’s no way that Scott would ever—I mean, Scott Hunter isn’t—”
“I don’t know anything about Scott Hunter, but I know you. And I like to think I’d be able to tell when my son is in love.”
“I’m not—” God. Fuck it. Does it even matter anymore? “How did you know?”
“Remember when I broke my wrist slipping on the ice in our walkway?”
“Sure. Yeah...” Kip had no idea where he was going with this.
“The look on your mother’s face was the same as the look on yours when Hunter got hurt at that game we were at.”
Kip blushed. “Maybe I’m just a big fan?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so. You also bolted out of the house that night after making a phone call that included the words X-ray and ice pack. I’m good at picking up on subtle clues like that.”
So maybe Kip hadn’t been as careful as he’d thought he’d been.
“He’s not... No one knows. And it might not be anything, so please—”
“Of course.”
Kip’s own words filled him with a fresh wave of despair. It might not be anything. Oh god. It can’t really be over, can it?
He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight off a complete breakdown. “Does Mom know?�
�
“No, I’ve been keeping this one to myself.”
“Thank you. I’ve wanted to tell you. Both of you. But now things are... I don’t know.” He sniffed, and turned his eyes up to the ceiling. Keep it together, Kip.
“You’re on the outs?”
“Yeah. It’s a mess right now. I want to clean it up so badly.”
Dad smiled and patted his arm. “You will.”
To his credit, Kip was able to keep himself from falling apart until after his father had left his room. As soon as the door clicked shut, he sobbed into his pillow like a teenager. God, he’d gotten into grad school and even that wasn’t enough to cheer him up.
He needed to fix things with Scott. He had to at least try.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Holy shit,” Maria muttered. “He’s back.”
Kip turned from where he’d been restocking the bananas to see—“Scott!”
He was standing there, in his running clothes, face sweat-slicked, just like the first time he’d walked into the shop. Except with more beard.
Kip hadn’t meant to say his name like that. Surprised. Familiar. He’d just been thrown. Hopefully Maria would chalk it up to his supposed fanboy crush on Scott Hunter.
“Hey,” Scott said, his voice soft and uncertain.
“Um, can I...help you?”
“Yeah,” Scott said, with a shy smile. “I was thinking it might be good to...return to basics.”
“Oh.” What does that mean? “So...blue smoothie, then?”
“Please.”
Kip made the smoothie and Maria smirked at him. He ignored her.
He handed the drink to Scott, whose eyes darted over to Maria, and then back to Kip. He could almost see the “fuck it” pass through Scott’s brain.
“I, um... I wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” Kip braved a glance at Maria. She looked like the cat that caught the fucking canary.
“The game’s tonight, and I was hoping...”
“Oh.” Kip deflated. “You need your good luck charm there or something?”
“No! No, that’s not—” Scott’s eyes darted to Maria again. He lowered his voice, not that it mattered. Maria was very obviously hanging on every word. “I want to talk to you. Alone. Soon. Please, Kip.”
Kip saw the anguish in Scott’s eyes and a flicker of hope sparked inside him. Was it possible that Scott wanted to fix this as badly as Kip did?
