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Carter Vaughn believed in the Hockey Gods the way other people believed in weather forecasts.
You didn’t have to like them. You didn’t have to understand them. But if you ignored them, if you scoffed or got careless, you were going to get soaked without an umbrella and then act surprised about it. Carter had been playing hockey long enough to know better.
The Hockey Gods were real. Not metaphorically. Not philosophically. Actually.
They lived in bad bounces and broken sticks. In posts hit dead center. In pucks that slid clean through five-hole one night and somehow stopped dead on the goal line the next. They were present every time a goalie guessed wrong and still made the save.
Carter sat on the locker room bench, hunched forward, lacing his skates. He pulled the left lace tight, then the right, then left again, following the exact same pattern he’d used since he was seventeen. He didn’t rush it. Rushing invited mistakes. Mistakes invited attention.
You never wanted the wrong kind of attention.
Across from him, Eric “Benny” Bennett was half-dressed, scrolling through his phone with his elbows on his knees. The locker room hummed around them. Tape ripping. Someone laughing too loud. The dull thud of a puck hitting concrete down the hall.
Carter glanced up, eyes automatically finding Scott Hunter.
Scott was two stalls down, earbuds in, hoodie pulled low, moving through his routine with quiet precision. He laid his gear out carefully, each piece placed exactly where it always went. Gloves first. Helmet next. Stick leaned against the wall at a familiar angle.
Scott didn’t do anything halfway. Especially not belief.
“You ever think,” Benny said casually, without looking up from his phone, “that if a normal person walked in here, they’d think we were part of a cult?”
Carter tugged his lace tight and nodded once. “They’d be correct.”
Benny snorted. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is,” Carter said. “Cults have structure.”
Benny finally looked up, grin crooked. “You’re tying your skates like you’re defusing a bomb.”
“That’s because I am.”
“That’s not how skates work.”
“That’s exactly how the Hockey Gods work.”
Benny laughed, but there was no real argument in it. You didn’t play at this level without learning that the universe had opinions. You could call it luck if you wanted. Carter preferred accuracy.
He nodded subtly toward Scott. “See that?”
Benny followed his gaze. “Yeah. Scott being Scott.”
“No,” Carter said. “Scott being correct.”
Scott closed his eyes, breathing slow, like he was settling himself into alignment. Carter had once asked him what he listened to before games. Scott had said it depended on the opponent, the start time, and whether the team had traveled the night before.
The Hockey Gods appreciated attention to detail.
“That man,” Carter continued, “has never tempted fate in his life.”
Benny hummed thoughtfully. “He does look like he’s about to perform a sacred rite.”
“He is.”
Scott finished laying out his gear and reached for his stick tape, wrapping it with careful, even turns. He didn’t rush. He didn’t get distracted. Carter watched with something close to reverence.
“That,” Carter said quietly, “is what true belief looks like.”
Benny nodded. “Oh, yeah. Scott’s a high priest.”
“Don’t mock him.”
“I’m not mocking,” Benny said quickly. “I respect it. I just don’t have anything that… clean.”
Carter tied off his lace and leaned back slightly. “Everyone has something.”
Benny hesitated. It was subtle, but Carter caught it. A pause. A thumb hovering over his phone.
“I don’t have a routine like Scott’s,” Benny said finally. “No food thing. No gear thing.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re unprotected,” Carter said. “What do you do when you get here?”
Benny glanced at his phone again. “I text my mom and my sister.”
Carter stilled.
“And?”
“And if they both text back before I leave the locker room,” Benny said, “I’m gonna have a really good game.”
Carter nodded slowly. That made perfect sense.
“If one of them texts back,” Benny continued, “it’s fine. Not amazing. But fine.”
“And if neither of them does,” Carter said quietly.
Benny’s mouth twitched, humor gone. “Someone ends up in the hospital.”
The words settled between them.
“Usually me,” Benny added, like it was an inconvenient statistic. “Blocked shot. Weird fall. Something dumb.”
Carter swallowed.
“But once,” Benny said, rubbing the back of his neck, “it was my dad. Heart attack. Luckily he lived.”
Carter felt the air shift.
“And once,” Benny said, voice steady, “it was my grandma.”
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
“I’m sorry,” Carter said.
Benny shrugged. “Hockey Gods don’t negotiate. They just notify.”
“That’s true,” Carter said. “Do you have your phone?”
Benny checked. “Mom texted. Sister hasn’t yet.”
“That’s workable,” Carter said firmly. “Partial acknowledgment counts.”
Benny huffed a quiet laugh. “You really believe that.”
“I really know that.”
Across the room, Scott stood up.
Carter’s attention snapped to him immediately, like a compass needle. Benny noticed too. They both did.
Scott walked over to his bag, movements unhurried. He unzipped the side pocket carefully, like there was something fragile inside.
Carter leaned back slightly, watching.
Scott reached in.
Pulled out the container.
Carter felt his shoulders drop in relief.
Clear plastic. Same size. Same lid.
Apple slices. Peanut butter.
Benny exhaled. “Thank god.”
“Plural,” Carter corrected.
Scott set the container on the bench beside him and sat. He twisted the lid off slowly, deliberately. He picked up one apple slice, dipped it once into the peanut butter, not too much, not too little, and took a bite with his eyes closed.
Carter smiled.
That was it. That was the offering.
Scott chewed thoughtfully, unbothered by the noise around him. When he finished the slice, he took another, same process, same care. Carter watched the ritual complete itself, the way you watched the final move of a familiar play.
“Balance restored,” Benny murmured.
Scott snapped the lid back on and slid the container back into his bag, exactly where it belonged. He stood, rolled his shoulders, and picked up his stick, calm and centered.
Carter checked Benny’s phone one more time. “Any update?”
Benny glanced down. His sister had texted.
He grinned. “Both.”
“Good,” Carter said. “Then no ambulances tonight.”
Scott turned toward the door, ready to head out. He looked unshakeable. Certain. Like the game hadn’t even had a chance to disappoint him yet.
Carter stood, testing his skates against the rubber mat, satisfied.
As long as the rituals were followed, the Hockey Gods could be generous.
And Scott Hunter, with his apple slices, his peanut butter, and his unwavering faith, was doing everything right.
Carter had no reason to think that would ever change.
And then they changed. Luckily, changed for the better starting with a hat-trick. Carter had crashed into Scott on the ice afterwards. Doing his best to lift up his Captain in joy. And after when the celebration continued to the locker room he cornered Scott and off-handedly said “whatever you did tonight must have really appeased the Hockey Gods! Keep it up.”
Carter Vaughn knew his best friend, Scott Hunter, had always been particularly devout in his worship of these ice-bound deities. Carter had watched Scott perform the same pre-game ritual for three seasons: apple slices with exactly two tablespoons of creamy peanut butter, eaten at precisely 2.5 hours before puck drop, never chunky peanut butter because that was how you angered the Hockey Gods and ended up with a minus-five rating. Scott had followed this routine with the religious fervor of a monk at vespers, right up until three weeks ago when he'd suddenly abandoned it.
Now, every sports channel from ESPN to some guy's basement podcast was talking about Scott's hot streak, four games, four goals, following that hat trick that had started this whole mess. Meanwhile, Carter was stuck in a drought that made the Sahara look like a water park. He'd gone eight games without finding the back of the net, and his stick felt about as useful as a wet noodle.
"Something's changed," Carter said, cornering Scott in the locker room after another loss where Carter had hit three posts and somehow managed to put a puck through the side netting. "With your routine. What gives?"
Scott's ears went pink, a dead giveaway that he'd been caught changing his superstitions without consulting the Hockey Gods, or at least without consulting Carter, who considered himself the Hockey Gods' unofficial spokesperson on Earth.
"I, uh, switched things up a bit," Scott mumbled, avoiding eye contact while meticulously re-taping his stick. "Just trying something new."
"The apple slices? The peanut butter? Your sacred 2.5 hour before the game feeding time?" Carter pressed. "You just abandoned your covenant with the Hockey Gods like that? No wonder my game's gone to hell. The universe is out of balance."
Scott's blush deepened. "I'm getting a smoothie now, okay? It's working, isn't it?"
Carter leaned against Scott's locker, arms crossed. "A smoothie? You're telling me you traded a tried-and-true peanut butter offering for some blended fruit? What kind of heresy is this?"
"It's a special smoothie," Scott insisted, his voice barely above a whisper as other teammates started filing in. "From this place downtown."
"Right," Carter said, his mind already working. "Well, the Hockey Gods clearly approve. I'm trying one. Where's this smoothie temple?"
The next afternoon, Carter followed Scott to a small juice bar tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop in Greenwich Village. The bell above the door chimed as they entered, and Carter immediately spotted the man behind the counter—tall, with a grin that could melt ice and eyes that lingered on Scott a second too long to be casual.
"Hey, Scott," the man said, already reaching for ingredients without asking what Scott wanted. "The usual?"
Scott's whole demeanor softened, like he'd shed his armor the moment he stepped through the door. "Yeah, thanks, Kip."
Kip. The name pinged something in Carter's memory, but he couldn't quite place it. What he did notice was the easy chemistry between the two men, the way Scott's shoulders relaxed when Kip smiled at him, the casual familiarity of their interaction that spoke of time spent together beyond smoothie transactions.
"And who's your friend?" Kip asked, his attention shifting to Carter with genuine curiosity.
"This is Carter," Scott said, a little too quickly. "Carter, this is Kip. My... friend."
The slight pause before "friend" wasn't lost on Carter, but he filed it away for later analysis. Right now, he had a superstition to investigate.
"What's good here?" Carter asked, studying the menu with its elaborate smoothie names.
Carter scanned the menu with a mixture of skepticism and desperation. The list read less like a beverage menu and more like a poetry slam hosted by a health-conscious hippie. "Forest Fairy Delight," "Dragon's Breath Elixir," "Phoenix Fire Smoothie," he half expected to see "Unicorn Tears" listed somewhere.
"The more ridiculous the name, the better they work," Kip deadpanned doing his best to keep a straight face, "That's my theory, anyway. And then you have to add something to make it yours."
"Like in Scott's we add a banana because it's his favorite," Kip said with a wink at Scott. Trying to not make eye contact with anyone to hide the blus, Scott then teased, "Bananas do make everything better, though." Kip added a banana to Scott's smoothie with practiced ease.
Carter narrowed his eyes at the exchange, then turned back to the menu, determined to solve this mystery. His mind was already calculating, strawberries were his pre-game snack of choice, so which ridiculous name would complement them best? He eventually settled on "Cosmic Explosion," which sounded like something that would either give him superpowers or an upset stomach' "With Strawberries"
While Kip blended their drinks, Carter and Scott found a small table by the window. The bell chimed again, and a group of college students entered, laughing loudly. Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pulling his ball cap lower.
"You're not big on crowds today, huh?" Carter observed.
Scott just shrugged, sipping his smoothie when it arrived. The change was immediate, his shoulders relaxed, and he actually smiled. Carter tasted his own "Cosmic Explosion" and was surprised to find it delicious, despite the silly name.
As the last of the college students filtered out, their laughter fading down the street, Scott visibly relaxed. The tension Carter hadn't even realized was holding him upright seemed to melt away. He excused himself, leaving Carter to nurse the dregs of the surprisingly palatable Cosmic Explosion, and ambled back to the counter.
From the table, Carter watched the interaction unfold. It was subtle, the kind of thing you'd only notice if you were paying the kind of obsessive, detail-oriented attention that a hockey player paid to a rival's breakaway tendencies. Scott leaned an elbow on the counter, and Kip mirrored the posture on the other side. They spoke in low tones, their heads close together, and Kip reached out, touching Scott's arm and then wildly gesturing around as he continued to animatedly talk. The gesture was small, intimate, and utterly normal. But for Scott, who guarded his personal space like it was the last defensive pairing on a penalty kill, it was the equivalent of a neon sign flashing 'SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT HERE.'
Carter didn't need to hear the words. He saw the result. He saw his best friend, his intense, focused, sometimes-burdened-by-the-weight-of-it-all best friend, look genuinely, unguardedly happy. And in that moment, Carter, the self-appointed high priest of the Hockey Gods, had a revelation. The Hockey Gods weren't pleased by peanut butter or apple slices. They weren't petty bean counters tallying up rituals. They were gods of joy. They liked when their disciples were having fun, when the bone-jarring work of professional athletics was fueled by something other than pressure and obligation.
Hockey was supposed to be a game. They'd all started playing because it was fun, because the feeling of skates carving ice and the crack of a perfect pass was a pure, unadulterated joy. Too often, that joy got buried under contracts, stats, and the crushing expectation to win. Whatever was happening in this little juice bar with its ridiculous smoothies and its kind-eyed blender-jockey, it was making Scott happy. And a happy Scott was a scoring Scott. The logic was irrefutable.
Carter was prepared to do a lot for that. If it meant adding a smoothie to his own pre-game rituals, so be it. For Scott, for that look of pure contentment on his face, Carter would become a smoothie convert.
That night, against the Flyers, the drought broke. It wasn't a highlight-reel snipe top corner. It was ugly. Carter crashed the net, creating chaos in front as Eric "Benny" Bennett fired a point shot. The puck hit a defenseman's skate, then Carter's shin guard, and trickled over the line like it was embarrassed by its own lack of grace. The red light went on. Carter pumped a fist, a grin spreading across his face. A goal was a goal. The Hockey Gods had accepted his offering.
After the win, Benny found Carter in the locker room, toweling off his hair. "Cosmic Explosion, huh?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face. The team grapevine was faster than a telegraph.
"The Hockey Gods work in mysterious ways," Carter replied, only half-joking.
The smoothie thing became a ritual. The next afternoon, it was Carter and Scott. Two days later, Benny, ever the curious fatalist, tagged along. The following week, Greg Huff, their stoic defenseman, was persuaded to join them after Carter declared, with absolute conviction, that the team's newly improved power play percentage was directly correlated to their pre-game smoothie consumption.
The Straw+Berry juice bar slowly became an unofficial Admirals annex. Greg, predictably, ordered something called "The Glacier Grinder," which involved kale, protein powder, and a look of intense suffering on his face. Benny, after much deliberation, went with "The Comet's Kiss," and when Carter asked why, he just shrugged and said, "Sounded softer. Thought the Hockey Gods might appreciate a kinder offering."
They all liked Kip. It was impossible not to. He was affable and quick with a smile, and he had an encyclopedic knowledge of ridiculous facts that had nothing to do with forechecking systems or defensive zone coverage. More importantly, they all noticed that Scott was different around him. The hard, focused edges of Scott Hunter, professional athlete, softened. He smiled more, a real, eye-crinkling smile that didn't appear in post-game interviews. He talked about things other than hockey, the book he was reading (who even knew that Scott could read), a documentary he'd seen, the way the leaves were changing in Central Park.
Carter quietly established a new team rule for the Straw+Berry: No hockey talk. This was neutral ground, a sanctuary for the Hockey Gods to observe their devotees at rest. It was also, Carter suspected, for Kip's benefit. While Kip clearly watched the games, his knowledge was... selective. He'd remember a spectacular goal Scott had scored, or a particularly rough hit he'd taken, but would have no idea who the team was playing next or what their standing in the division was. He wasn't a fan; he was a Scott-fan. He watched the games the way someone in a museum might look at one specific painting in a gallery of masterpieces.
The rule stuck. The space became their decompression chamber. Here, they weren't the Admirals' top line and most reliable defenseman; they were just four guys drinking smoothies with ridiculous names, talking about movies and complaining about the New York traffic.
And Scott and Kip... they were something else. The "friend" label had worn so thin it was transparent. Carter saw it in the way Kip would add an extra shot of something to Scott's smoothie without being asked, a small, private exchange. He saw it when Scott would stay behind after the others left, helping wipe down the counters, their conversation continuing long after the bell had stopped chiming for other customers. He saw it in the way Scott's phone would light up with a message from "Kip 💜" and the way Scott's entire face would light up in response.
Carter felt like a keeper of a precious, fragile secret. He was happy for Scott, genuinely, deeply happy. His best friend had found something that made him glow from the inside out. But he also felt a strange, protective pang. The Hockey Gods might approve of joy, but the world could be cruel to professional athletes who found that joy with other men. Carter would lay down in front of a slap shot for Scott on the ice and to the media when that day came. He just hoped the Hockey Gods would keep them safe until then.
One afternoon, the topic of superstitions came up again, naturally. They were watching Greg methodically choke down "The Glacier Grinder," his face a mask of stoic misery.
"How can you drink that?" Benny asked, nudging Greg's elbow. "It looks like swamp water."
"It keeps the Hockey Gods happy," Greg grunted, taking another long, deliberate sip. "Solid as a rock, my friend."
"You guys and your Hockey Gods," Kip said from behind the counter, polishing a glass with a practiced flourish. He'd heard enough of their talk by now to piece it together. "Sounds stressful. All these rules. Don't talk about shutouts, don't step on the lines, don't change your underwear on a road trip..."
"There's a rule about underwear?" Benny asked, suddenly looking concerned.
Carter waved a dismissive hand. "That's a rookie thing. The real superstitions, the ones that matter, they're about finding a rhythm, a balance. They're about respect."
"Respect for who, though?" Kip asked, leaning forward on the counter. His gaze was curious, not challenging.
"For the game," Carter said, with the gravity of a theologian.
"And besides," Scott chimed in, a teasing light in his eyes as he looked at Kip, "I thought you liked some of hockey's superstitions. What did you call us during the playoffs?"
Kip's ears went red, a blush that crawled up his neck as he playfully shoved Scott's shoulder. "Hey! That was a professional observation." He tried to look stern, but the smile breaking through gave him away.
"Oh, come on," Scott pressed. "Tell them."
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Kip finally gave in, a grin spreading across his face. "Fine. I said you all looked like a bunch of sexy lumberjacks with the no shaving thing. Happy now?"
The group burst into laughter, but the sound caught in Carter's throat as he watched Scott's face. A flicker of panic, then a dawning realization, crossed his features. In that one unguarded moment, Scott had accidentally outed Kip right in front of them. He'd made it so painfully obvious that their "friendship" was something more. And while they were, as Scott often joked, "dumb hockey players," they weren't that dumb. The air in the small shop suddenly felt thick with unspoken questions.
The silence stretched, awkward and sharp. Just as Carter was about to say something, anything, to break it, Greg, their quiet, stoic defenseman, stepped into the breach with the effortless grace of a veteran penalty killer.
"Speaking of beards," Huff said, his deep, calm voice a soothing balm, "my brother-in-law, Mark, he's married to my older brother, by the way, also thinks we look better in the playoffs. I went over to theirs during my first playoff and he looked from me to my always clean shaven brother and said "I wonder if you'd look that rugged." He took a slow, deliberate sip of his "Glacier Grinder," letting the information land. "My brother hasn't been without a beard since."
A breath neither of them realized they'd been holding escaped between them. The air shifted, something tight and brittle giving way to a comfortable warmth. Greg hadn't just seen the thing between them; he'd spoken of it as if it were merely another part of the day's briefing, as ordinary as the weather. He had threaded it into their team's purpose with an effortless hand, making it ordinary. In that single, quiet moment, he had set them all free.
Kip watched the exchange, a proud, grateful smile replacing the earlier uncertainty. He looked around at each of them, making eye contact. "That's cute of your brother to make his man happy." he said, his tone shifting from playful to firm, though the warmth remained. "But just so there isn’t a misunderstanding here, I am gay” Kip looks them each in the eye to make sure they know he’s serious and unconcerned about their opinion, and continues on in a joking manner… “and I don't make smoothies for anyone that has a problem with that."
Carter nods like it's a known fact, "The Hockey Gods would frown upon that." Benny rolls his eyes so hard at Carter and practically pushes him off his stool. "You're an idiot," but he says it with so much affection it might as well be a term of endearment. Huff just gives a small, almost imperceptible nod to Kip, a gesture of respect that meant more than any grand speech.
The relief that washed over Scott was so potent it almost made him dizzy. The fear that had been coiling in his gut for months, the secret he'd guarded so carefully, hadn't been a bomb at all. It had just been a package he was too afraid to unwrap in front of them. Now that it was open, they weren't running. They were just… there. Solid as their defensive pairing. He looked at Kip, who was watching him with that soft, understanding smile, and a surge of bravery, hot and bright, coursed through him.
He wanted to reach out and take Kip's hand. He wanted to claim this, to make it real and solid in the space between them. But years of professional hockey, of locker room culture and carefully constructed public personas, was a heavy mantle. His hand remained on his knee, a traitor to his heart.
Kip saw the war on his face. He saw the bravery fight the fear and lose. He gave Scott a small, sad smile, the kind that acknowledged the struggle without judgment, and turned to wipe down the already-spotless counter, giving him an out.
And that was it. That was the catalyst. The thought of Kip giving him space, of him retreating even an inch because Scott was a coward, was suddenly more terrifying than any headline, any chirp from an opposing player, any awkward silence in a locker room. The fear of losing this, of losing him, eclipsed everything.
Scott’s shot. Before he could second-guess, before the fear could tackle him from behind, he lunged slightly and grabbed Kip's wrist. Kip stilled, turning back to him with wide, questioning eyes. Scott's grip tightened, and he slid his hand down to intertwine their fingers.
"And just so there's no misunderstanding about this," Scott said, his voice louder than he intended, steadier than he felt, "Kip and I are together."
The silence that followed was not the same as the one before. This one was electric, charged with surprise. It lasted for a grand total of three seconds before Benny let out a whoop and slapped a hand on the counter. "About damn time! Greg owes me twenty bucks."
Huff just grunted, but it was a happy grunt. "I didn't think you were already together, thought it would take your dumbass longer to get together. You've been walking around with heart-eyes for weeks." The stoic defenseman's observational skills, it turned out, were terrifyingly accurate.
"We're happy for you, man," Carter said, and he meant it. He looked from their joined hands to Scott's face, and for the first time, he truly saw the full picture. "God, you've been happier. We've all noticed. More… unclenched."
And then, the priest of the Hockey Gods had a revelation. A terrible, brilliant, hockey-brained revelation. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped slightly.
"Wait a minute," he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than his normal speaking voice. The entire juice bar, including the couple in the corner, was now staring at them. "OH NO! Are 'smoothies' a euphemism?! Scott Hunter, you look me in the eye right now and tell me the truth. Is it the smoothies, or is it… is it just getting laid regularly that's improved your game so much?"
For a beat, there was absolute, stunned silence. Then, Benny lost it completely, collapsing against Greg's shoulder with a wheezing, gasping laugh that made him cry. Greg, a man who rarely cracked a smile in public, was chuckling, a deep, rumbling sound that shook the table. Kip was laughing so hard he had to let go of Scott's hand to brace himself on the counter, tears streaming down his face.
And Scott? Scott turned a shade of red previously unseen by human eyes, a color that should have its own name in a crayon box. He buried his face in his hands, but even then, he was shaking with laughter. "Oh my God, Carter," he managed to gasp out. "You Are An Absolute Idiot."