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Scott's feet hit the pavement rhythmically as he listened to the podcast. It really wasn't any different than the headlines he'd been seeing all week.
"What has happened to Scott Hunter?"
"Scott Hunter washed up."
"Is it time for Hunter to retire?"
The hockey world was so fickle. When you were doing well, they worshipped you. But the moment you struggled, they would tear you down to shreds without hesitation.
That was why Scott couldn't come out. He had worked too hard for his career to risk it now. The league and the fans didn't want a big gay hockey player. They'd made that abundantly clear with their casual homophobia, their "jokes," their silence when slurs were thrown around locker rooms.
Scott wanted to live his truth, but it simply wasn't possible. Not if he wanted to keep playing. Not if he wanted to keep his endorsements. Not if he wanted to avoid becoming a target for every enforcer in the league looking to make a statement.
He turned up the volume on the podcast, letting the criticism wash over him. At least this pain was familiar. Manageable. Not like the constant ache of hiding who he really was.
He had taken a different route on his run today. He needed to shake things up, try anything to clear his head.
He passed by a smoothie shop and paused for a moment, catching his breath. A smoothie might be exactly what he needed. He felt drawn to the place like a magnet, something pulling him toward the storefront.
No. He shook his head firmly. He didn't have time for smoothies. He needed to focus, needed to train harder, needed to prove the critics wrong.
He continued his run, pushing himself faster. But he couldn't stop thinking about the smoothie shop. The way the sun had caught the window just right. The cheerful colors. The promise of something different, something that wasn't the relentless grind of training and criticism and hiding.
Three blocks later, he found himself turning around.
***
Kip was late. He was never late, he was the dependable guy. So even though his head was throbbing and he was operating on virtually no sleep, he was still dragging himself to his shift at Straw + Berry.
He nearly collided with a customer as he walked in, breathing heavily.
"Girl, you just missed Mr. Hottie with a body coming in for a smoothie," Maria said immediately, not even giving him time to clock in. "All sweaty from a run. He asked for a recommendation, so I of course suggested my favorite, the SoHo Strawberry."
God, these smoothies had stupid names, Kip thought, grabbing his apron.
Another customer burst into the shop, looking around frantically. "Was that Scott Hunter? The hockey player?"
Neither Kip nor Maria followed hockey, so they just shrugged.
"Maybe?" Maria offered unhelpfully. "Tall, hot, looked like he could bench press a car?"
The customer groaned and rushed back out, presumably to try to catch up with the mystery athlete.
Kip tied his apron and moved behind the counter. "So how hot are we talking?"
"Like, stupidly hot," Maria said, fanning herself dramatically. "You would have died."
Kip pulled out his phone and googled "Scott Hunter hockey player," and...wow. Maria was right. The photos showed a man with dark scruff and a wide smile, but eyes that looked like they held a secret. Kip felt inexplicably drawn to this stranger he'd just missed.
"Uh, Maria, when's the next hockey game for the New York..."
"Admirals. They're called the Admirals, Kip," Maria supplied, already pulling up the schedule on her own phone.
"I think we need to go to a game," Kip said, unable to look away from Scott's photo.
Maria's eyebrows shot up. "Since when do you care about hockey?"
"Since about thirty seconds ago," Kip admitted, scrolling through more images. There was something about Scott's eyes—the way they seemed guarded even when he was smiling for the camera.
"Girl, you are down bad for a man you haven't even met," Maria laughed.
"Maybe he'll come back for another smoothie," Kip said hopefully.
"Or," Maria grinned wickedly, "we go to a game and you accidentally-on-purpose run into him."
Kip bit his lip, considering. It was completely unlike him to chase after someone like this. But something about Scott Hunter made him want to take the chance.
"Friday night," Maria announced, triumphant. "Admirals versus Centaurs. I'll buy the tickets."
****
Scott was so sick of losing. He was massively competitive. You don't become a professional hockey player without a thirst to win. So this losing streak was really weighing on him, dragging him down with every game.
Not one single goal this season. Not one. How was that even possible?
He skated out for warm-ups, glancing up into the crowd, the fans he had disappointed, the fans who were probably booing him in their heads. And for a split second, he made eye contact with an adorable curly-haired man in the stands.
He was so Scott's type. Soft features, kind eyes, that smile...
Not that he could be thinking like that. Not here. Not now. Not ever, really.
As far as anyone knew, Scott was straight, just picky. Really, really picky. That's why he never had a girlfriend, why he dodged questions about dating, why he changed the subject whenever relationships came up.
He tore his gaze away from the man and focused on the ice. This was what mattered. Hockey. Winning. Getting his career back on track.
Not adorable men in the stands who made his heart skip a beat.
"Hey, we've got this, Scotty," Carter Vaughan, his best friend and linemate, said, skating up beside him. "It's Ottawa, for Christ's sake. They're the worst in the league."
"Yeah, but they've got Hayes now, and he's a damn good goalie," Scott pointed out.
"Man, I know you think you've lost your mojo, but ninety percent of hockey is played in the mind," Vaughan said confidently.
Scott gave him a skeptical look.
"Okay, maybe sixty percent," Vaughan amended with a grin, "but still you've got to get out of your head. Focus on something outside of hockey. Have some drinks, get laid, whatever."
Scott's jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah, maybe."
"I'm serious, bro. When's the last time you even went out? You're wound so tight you're gonna snap." Vaughan clapped him on the shoulder. "After the game, win or lose, we're hitting a bar. No arguments."
Scott forced a smile. "We'll see."
Getting laid. Right. If only it were that simple.
He knew some gay guys could play it straight, pretend and sleep with women to maintain their cover. But Scott was a Kinsey 6 and there was no way he could fake it. The thought of even trying made his stomach turn.
So instead, he stayed single. Perpetually, single. And made jokes about being too focused on hockey to date. About being married to the game. About waiting for "the right one."
All true, in a way. Just not the way his teammates thought.
The puck dropped, and Scott pushed everything else from his mind. The cute guy in the stands, Vaughan's well-meaning but impossible advice, the headlines calling him washed up, all of it faded as he focused on the ice.
This was what he could control. This was what he was good at.
He just needed to prove it.
***
Okay, so Scott Hunter was not having a good game, Kip thought, wincing as Scott missed another pass.
"Guess my smoothie wasn't the magic cure," Maria said with a laugh.
"Yeah, well, the SoHo Strawberry sucks," Kip quipped, still not taking his eyes off the rink.
The Admirals lost. By a lot.
Kip had enjoyed the game and been drawn to watching Scott the whole time, but it was late and he had to work the next day. The crowd around them was grumbling, disappointed fans streaming toward the exits.
"So much for accidentally-on-purpose running into him," Maria said, gathering her things. "He's probably going straight home to sulk after that performance."
Kip took one last look at the ice, where Scott was skating off with his shoulders slumped, looking utterly defeated.
Something about that posture made Kip's chest ache. He wanted to comfort this stranger, to tell him one bad game didn't define him.
Which was ridiculous. He didn't even know the guy.
"Come on," Maria said, tugging his sleeve. "Let's get you home before you fall asleep standing up."
But it wasn't just one bad game, Kip saw as he scrolled through his phone on the subway ride home. Hunter was having a bad season, and no one seemed to know why. Article after article speculated...injury, attitude problems, loss of focus.
But Kip wondered if it had to do with whatever was causing the pain in Scott's eyes. That guarded look, like he was carrying something heavy that no one else could see.
He clicked on another article, this one calling for Scott to be traded or benched. The comments were brutal. Kip's stomach turned reading them, feeling oddly protective of someone he'd never even met.
"You're still looking him up?" Maria asked, glancing over at his phone.
"I just..." Kip struggled to explain it. "I feel this connection to him. I know that sounds crazy. I don't even know the guy. But there's something there."
Maria studied him for a moment. "Like fate?"
"I don't believe in fate," Kip said automatically. But even as he said it, he wondered if that was still true. Because this pull he felt toward Scott Hunter? It didn't feel random. It felt inevitable.
"Well, maybe fate believes in you," Maria said with a knowing smile.
Kip rolled his eyes, but maybe the universe did have a plan for him.
****
A few nights later, Scott was at a charity fundraiser. He hated these things, but when the team bought a table, as captain he was expected to go and expected to have a date. So here he was, trying to make small talk with a horrible woman one of his teammates had set him up with, dressed in a tuxedo that felt like it was suffocating him.
He didn't even have Carter tonight. His best friend had bailed, claiming food poisoning, leaving Scott to suffer alone.
"So, hockey must be so exciting," his date Katie....or maybe it was Casey said twirling her hair. "Do you get hurt a lot?"
"Sometimes," Scott said, forcing a polite smile while internally screaming.
She laughed at nothing and touched his arm again. Scott resisted the urge to pull away. He should feel something, attraction, interest, anything. She was objectively beautiful. But all he felt was trapped.
The tie was definitely too tight. Or maybe it was just the weight of pretending.
Kip balanced the tray of champagne flutes carefully as he wove through the crowded room. Catering gigs paid well, and he needed the extra money, plus Shawn had been desperate for the help. He was scanning the room for empty glasses when he saw him.
Scott Hunter.
Right there, not twenty feet away, looking miserable in a perfect tux with some woman draped on his arm.
Kip froze, his heart suddenly racing. This was his chance to—
The tray tilted.
Everything happened in slow motion. The champagne flutes sliding, the crash of glass onto the floor, the immediate silence that fell.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" Kip dropped to his knees, frantically trying to gather the broken glass.
Other waitstaff rushed over to help. Someone brought a mop.
By the time Kip looked up again, cheeks burning with embarrassment, Scott Hunter was gone.
"You okay?" Shawn asked, helping him to his feet.
Kip stared at the empty space where Scott had been standing. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Just clumsy."
But as he headed back to the kitchen for a new tray, he couldn't shake the image of Scott's face with that same guarded sadness he'd seen in the photos, magnified in person.
The universe might have a plan, but apparently it also had a sick sense of humor.
****
Things had not gotten any better for Scott, and for the first time in years, the first time since he'd been made captain, the Admirals hadn't even made it to the playoffs. And Scott blamed himself.
He was sitting alone, watching the Stanley Cup playoffs Game 7. Boston was going to take it in a 5-2 victory against San Francisco. And Ilya Rozanov was going to be insufferable.
Scott watched from his oversized, empty apartment as the final buzzer rang. He watched Ilya skate a victory lap with the Cup, the image of everything Scott wasn't—successful, celebrated, free.
And then Ilya passed off the Cup and pulled someone onto the ice with him. Was that...was that Shane Hollander?
Scott leaned forward, heart pounding.
Wait. Was Ilya Rozanov kissing Shane Hollander? On national television?
The announcers were going wild. The crowd was screaming. And Scott's stomach sank like a stone.
They were out. They were together. And the world was celebrating them.
He had to get out of here. Out of his apartment, out of his own skin. Scott threw on his running shoes and burst out the door, running blindly into the night.
Rozanov and Hollander. Coming out to the world on the biggest stage in hockey.
And here was Scott. A coward. Too afraid to even admit the truth to himself, let alone anyone else.
His lungs burned, but he kept running. Maybe if he ran fast enough, he could outrun the crushing weight of his own fear.
He stopped abruptly, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. He was in front of the smoothie shop again.
Why was he so drawn to this place?
He stood there for a moment, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. The lights were still on inside despite the late hour. Through the window, he could see someone behind the counter.
Before he could second-guess himself, Scott pulled open the door. A little bell jingled overhead.
The man at the counter looked up from wiping down a blender. His eyes widened, and he gasped softly.
"It's you," he whispered.
Scott froze in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of how he must look—sweaty, disheveled, possibly on the verge of a breakdown. "I...sorry, are you still open?"
The man from the game. The one he'd made eye contact with during warm-ups. He was here. Of course he was here.
"We're about to close, but..." Kip's voice trailed off as he took in Scott's appearance—the wild eyes, the labored breathing, the visible distress. "Are you okay?"
"No," Scott said honestly, his voice rough. "But I think I might be soon." He took a shaky breath. "I think...I think we were supposed to meet."
Kip looked into Scott's eyes, and something clicked into place, that inexplicable pull he'd felt suddenly making perfect sense. "I think you're right." He moved out from behind the counter, closer to Scott. "Kip Grady."
"Scott Hunter," he said softly, reaching up to caress Kip's cheek with trembling fingers.
They stood there for a moment, neither of them quite believing this was happening.
"I saw you," Kip said quietly. "At the game. And at the charity thing, but I dropped a tray and you were gone."
"I've been running past this place," Scott admitted, his thumb brushing against Kip's cheekbone. "I didn't know why. But I think...I think I was looking for you."
"You found me," Kip whispered.
Scott's eyes filled with tears he'd been holding back all night, all season, maybe all his life. "I don't even know you."
"Not yet," Kip said gently, echoing Maria's words from days before. "But I'd like to change that."
Scott didn't believe in fate, didn't believe in soulmates. But right now, looking into Kip's eyes, he'd believe in anything.