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Kip is a pacifist. He hates violence. It makes him sick, the things people are willing to do to each other. And for what? Usually a dick-measuring contest, in one way or another. Whatever it is, Kip doesn’t need it. He’s in grad school studying art history, doing what he loves. He’s long past being a young man teetering on the edge of the toxic masculinity pipeline: he has a good relationship with his body and the gym and his dad and his friends, and he has a beautiful boyfriend who he loves very much. A beautiful boyfriend who just won the Cup and kissed him at center ice.
So Kip has no defense for being on YouTube watching compilations of Scott Hunter fighting over the years, except that it’s hot. Violent, yes, but hot.
“I thought you hated it when I fought,” Scott says, coming up behind Kip, leaning over the back of the couch to loom over him, warm and solid.
Kip slams the laptop screen down. “I do.”
“Hm,” Scott says. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”
“I do hate it when you fight,” Kip says. “It’s reckless and stupid and it’s way too easy for you to get hurt. You’re a star player, you don’t need to fight. You don’t have anything to prove.”
As Kip says it, he’s not sure how true that is. He thinks about all the shit Scott must hear on the ice, all the shit that he won’t tell Kip, no matter how much Kip begs him to. Let me share this with you, Kip said once. I want all of you, even the bad stuff.
But Scott had just shook his head, like he does now. “You worry too much,” he says, and presses a kiss to the top of Kip’s head. “Now, show me, what were you watching?”
Sheepishly, Kip opens the laptop again. “Career fights up until last year. Just started the 2013-2014 season.”
“Lots of good memories there,” Scott says, moving to sit next to Kip. “I met you, we fell in love, you broke up with me…”
Kip hits him on the arm.
“Well, you did, didn’t you?”
“Shut up,” Kip says. “I thought you wanted to watch yourself get punched in the face.”
Scott grumbles something about never losing a fight—patently untrue, he lost one last March—but cuddles up next to Kip to watch the tail end of a fight between him and a beefy San Francisco defenseman.
“Lefebvre is a beast,” Scott says, then: “Jesus, what a right.”
The Scott on screen doesn’t quite go down, but all the fight goes out of him. A second later, Lefebvre wrestles him to the ground.
The Scott on the couch winces. “Ah, bad showing there.”
“You got a few hits in,” Kip points out. “You know, before the giant Frenchman wiped the floor with you.”
“He’s Quebecois,” Scott says.
“Yeah, okay.”
The video changes to a title card. MONTREAL, it says in big, block letters, then below it: SCOTT HUNTER VS. SHANE HOLLANDER.
Beside Kip, Scott shifts uncomfortably.
The video continues. It’s the end of a 5-1 game, and the announcers are talking about how disappointing of a showing it was for the visiting team—the footage was taken from an Admirals broadcast, then—and, on the ice, Hollander skates up to Scott. He says something, Scott says something back, and before anyone even realises what’s going on, Hollander launches himself at Scott.
“Don’t know why they included this one,” Scott says. “It’s not like either of us dropped the gloves.”
It’s true, neither of them shake their gloves off dramatically, but equipment is strewn everywhere, helmets and sticks littering the ice.
“It’s not really a fight,” Scott says. “More of a scrum, actually.”
Eventually, their respective teammates pull them apart. The camera zooms in on Hollander, who’s very obviously continuing to cuss out Scott.
“Damn, he’s pissed,” Kip says. “What did you say?”
Scott takes a sharp breath in. “Nothing I want to repeat.”
Kip looks at him. “What?”
“It was a heat of the moment thing,” Scott says, “and I wasn’t thinking, and I said something I shouldn’t have. Hollander took offense. I don’t blame him.”
Kip’s mind races. What could Scott have possibly said? The announcers were expressing their disbelief at the matchup—Hollander was still pretty green, and Scott’s supposed to be a role model for younger athletes in the sport; he’s a captain, for fuck’s sake. Kip slides the video progress bar back and watches again. He’s not thinking about how hot his boyfriend looks, even though he looks hot like this, sweat-soaked and breathing heavy.
“Did you say something about him being Asian?” Kip asks, on his second rewatch.
“What? Jesus, no.” Scott scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Nothing like that, fuck. Just something personal. I shouldn’t have brought it on the ice, that’s all.”
Kip frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that.
“Listen, guys talk shit all the time in hockey. Sometimes it gets out of hand. No big deal. I texted Hollander and we got coffee later, so it’s all—” Scott waves a hand vaguely “—water under the bridge, you know?”
Kip doesn’t know. He also doesn’t know why he’s stuck on this. “I can’t believe you fought a kid.”
“In fairness, he fought me,” Scott says. “And it was barely even a fight! Hollander’s not that young anyway, he’s like… well, drafted in ‘08 means he’d be 26 now, so…”
“So he was 23 then?” Kip fixes Scott with a look. “Scott, he’s just a baby!”
“He’s got more hardware than anyone in the league except Rozanov,” Scott says. There’s something odd in his voice when he says it. Kip can’t pin it down. Scott takes a breath, then smiles at Kip. It’s strained. “Hollander’s doing just fine.”