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All his life, Scott has kept his head down.
Maybe there was a time–before the accident, before the foster homes, before hockey–he lived his life like an adventure rather than a sentence. He forgot the feeling a long time ago; probably around the same time he stopped being able to picture his mother’s face.
Now, he exists only on the ice.
Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admirals. He knows how to be that. He knows how to weave through a defensive line, he knows just where to aim the puck so it slips past the goalie, he knows how to check someone against the boards and make it look like an accident. He knows how to handle his team, keeping morale up even when it’s been years since they’ve seen the final round of the playoffs.
He’s good at hockey, no matter how many times Rozanov chirps at him, or how many podcasts tear through him, Scott knows this as a fact.
Sometimes, usually alone in the dark in his too-big apartment, he questions that. He questions everything on nights like these. It usually results in a few hours of crying and thinking through ‘what-if’s. What if I didn’t play hockey? What if I say the wrong thing? What if this is the rest of my life? What if my parents hadn’t died in that fucking car crash? What if. What if. What if.
He always gets over it by the end of practice the next morning. There’s no room for personal doubt as Scott Hunter, Captain.
He was fine with that. It had been fine for eight years.
And then he walked into that smoothie shop.
“You’re starting to sound like him.”
Scott takes the resulting punch like he deserves it.
Vaughn and Pike drag them off the ice, Hollander is still spitting insults at him with so much vitriol Scott can taste it.
He deserves that too.
Because it isn’t really hatred Hollander is feeling, is it? It’s fear.
It’s the same fear Scott keeps in his chest, the kind that can balloon up until it crowds out your lungs. The kind that keeps your head down so no one can see it in your eyes.
He watches Hollander, watches the fear bloom behind all of that anger.
He misses Kip.
Scott knows he’s just at home, but the long days traveling without him are dreadful. Even when they are together, there’s something off recently.
Kip has had his guard up more often. He’s been keeping his head down. It’s subtle, but Scott knows it because he’s lived it his whole life.
Dinner is still made, they still watch movies on the couch, have earth shattering sex every night, and they call when they can. But every so often, Scott will catch Kip frowning at his phone. It’s always a text or a picture from his friends, it’s always followed by a conversation along the lines of “Maria’s been hounding me about what's up lately— I just don’t know what to tell her.” and Scott gets hit over the head by that fear again.
Kip’s smiles are always fake after those arguments.
And then there’s Hollander and Rozanov. Fuck, those kids piss him off.
It’s obvious there’s something between them, the goo-goo eyes, the whispered conversations, the lingering touches. They’re not even subtle. Scott does everything discreetly, keeps Kip away from prying eyes and ears. Those two have the audacity to act like that during games, yet no one has caught on?
What was the point of his caution if the rookies could pull this and still get away with it?
Scott was angry, sue him.
Angry enough to say something he really shouldn’t have, considering he opens his hotel door that night expecting room service, but finding Ilya Rozanov
Was this about Hollander? Was he that quick to fly to Montreal to shut Scott up? (Had he already been here?)
“Oh!” Scott is not prepared for this, “Rozanov! Hey man, it’s late. Do you think—“
Rozanov interrupts him with an impressive glare, “We talk inside. Now.” He gestures to the door like it’s inconveniencing him.
Oh shit.
This is fine. He can get through this.
Scott obediently opens the door, beelining for the small dining table. He wants something between him and Rozanov. There’s something twitchy about him like this. It makes Scott feel like he’s trapped with a wild animal.
“You think you are smart?”
This is not where he thought this was going, “Uh.. I guess?”
“Good. I have many friends in Russia. You do not want to meet them.” Rozanov says conversationally, “I do not know what you think you know, Hunter, but if you are really smart, you keep fantasies to yourself, yes?”
So this was about Hollander. Rozanov was threatening him.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Scott lies.
They’re so stupid, having Rozanov confront him. They inadvertently confirmed anything Scott didn’t already know.
“You are going deaf? I did not know you were so old.” Rozanov has always been good at seeming larger than life, his anger is enough to fill the room, “You run your mouth on ice but shut up now? Tell me you will not talk.”
Scott sees through the mask. He sees the fear there, too. The same one in Hollander. The same one in himself.
Fuck, he hates this. He wants Kip.
“Look, Rozanov. I have no clue what you're talking about.” He says placatingly, “I won’t talk because I have nothing to tell. I don’t even know what this is about.”
Scott could tell him. He knows he could. If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s the man in front of him.
He can’t.
Instead, he watches Rozanov slump into a chair like a puppet with its strings cut. He transforms into someone Scott doesn’t recognize. He looks young, uncertain.
He sees himself there, fourteen years old picking up a stick for the first time and being told “You’ve got some real talent, kid.” He hears his first team talk about queer people, can still feel the disgust in their words. He sees himself now, tiptoeing between hockey and Kip, refusing to let anyone close enough to see the other side of the line.
Fuck, Scott has to say something, doesn’t he? It’s not right to have the Russian Menace in his room acting like… Well, not a menace.
“Even if I did—know something, that is—“ Rozanov’s glaring at him again which, despite being Scott’s goal, is still terrifying, “It’s okay, Rozanov.”
There’s hesitation in both of them. They’re stepping through a minefield, both of them completely blind.
“What you do in your private time is none of my business.” And that’s half the problem, isn’t it; they don’t keep it in their private time, “Just… Keep it off the ice, yeah? Some people aren’t stupid enough to miss it.”
One day, the wrong person will put the pieces together. One day, Rozanov’s threats won’t work to keep their mess contained anymore.
That day is not today.
Rozanov says nothing. Scott wonders if he even understood.
They sit there awkwardly, until a knock on the door startles them. It’s Scott’s dinner, which he takes without letting the man see inside the room.
Rozanov is standing by the time Scott turns back around. “This was good talk, Hunter.” He says definitively, “You are old, I will leave so you go to bed on time.” There’s something still shaky, beneath the mask he’s put back up. But this is the asshole kid Scott can recognize.
“I’m not—“
Rozanov interrupts him, “Thank you. For keeping secret.”
“Of course, man. It’s really none of my business.” Scott is rather thrown off by the sudden earnesty, he likes to think he hides it well.
“Then you do not make chirp like that again, yes?”
He knows what he said to Hollander sounded like a threat. He didn’t realize it would go this far. “Yeah. Yes, sorry. I was just—“ Scott trailed off.
There’s no explanation he could give.
They share a look that lingers too long, that says too much. Then, Rozanov leaves without another word.
Scott isn’t really hungry anymore.
He calls Kip, they talk. It’s strained.
The hotel bed is comfortable enough, but he knows he won’t be getting any sleep tonight.
The house feels empty. The house is empty.
Scott couldn’t force his feet to take fifteen steps into that fucking bar, he couldn’t give Kip the one thing he ever asked for. Now he’s left alone in his too-big bed, with a fridge full of smoothie ingredients he can’t bring himself to use.
It’s affecting his play, he knows this.
The commentators are ruthless, “Where did Scott Hunter go?” They’re all asking it. They critique every move, see every hesitation, catch every fumble. This should be the height of his career, but Scott can’t get his head in the game.
Kip left and took everything that made Scott himself. It’s shaken him to his core.
Hockey used to be that for him. It used to be the ice that made him feel himself. He’s not sure when he started being a person outside of hockey, but Kip gave him that.
Now, he can’t even muster the courage to be the captain his team needs. So much for keeping personal doubts off the ice.
It’s not like they don’t talk. In fact, Scott has a text from Kip taunting him now, “I miss you.” But it’s torture, living like this. He misses Kip like a lost limb, doesn’t know how to function without him in his bed, or standing in his kitchen, or just being there. He can’t bring himself to answer, can’t ruin what little they have left. He’d only be too much again.
So Kip texts, and Scott responds like it’s a press conference. They meet when it’s convenient; dinner at Scott’s, sometimes breakfast in bed the next morning. Kip doesn’t stay very long anymore.
The Admirals don’t make it to the playoffs that year, or the next.
Scott tries to convince himself it isn’t tearing his heart into pieces.
Time helps, of course. He gets back into a groove, though it’s vastly different from before. His teammates look at him like they’re waiting for him to fall apart again, but Scott is determined to play hard this year. He’s in the best shape of his life, god damn it. His team works like a machine already, but he knows they can get better. The Admirals would see the playoffs if it’s the last thing he does. He convinces himself it’s what he needs.
Besides, the more emergency practices Scott calls, the less time he has to wallow in his empty bed.
Hollander takes a nasty hit, the Voyagers are out of the running. The Bears’ goalie is done, Rozanov is hurt, and suddenly they’re not only in the finals, they’re at the championship game.
And then Scott’s done it. He won the cup.
The Admirals are all celebrating, and Scott has officially done everything he’s ever wanted to do. He’s made his coaches proud, made his fans proud, made his parents proud.
He doesn’t feel any of it.
At some point, hockey has become a checklist. This was the final box.
The crowd roars, Vaughn is hoisting the trophy with one hand and holding his wife with the other, and Scott can’t stop glaring at them. All he can think about is Kip. Nine years since the Admirals won the cup and Scott can’t even find it in himself to celebrate.
Kip is in the crowd, he’d spotted him three minutes into warm-ups.
What was he waiting for? He’s been doing this for a decade now. He’s won the Stanley Cup. He has enough investments to pay for Kip’s degree, raise ten children, and still retire without working another day in his life.
All eyes are on him. There’s too much noise. His adrenaline is through the roof.
He’s calling Kip down onto the ice.
Holy shit, he can’t breathe.
Scott’s kept his head down his whole life; it’s how he survived the foster system, how he survived as a gay man in the NHL. Now, he looks up at Kip and says “Yes, you.” in front of thousands of people and a million more watching at home.
Peculiarly, Scott thinks of Ilya Rozanov. He hopes the fucker is watching this. He hopes, despite himself, he can shoulder the burden of being the first. They won’t have to.
He’s so fucking scared.
Kip is hopping the boards and Scott’s blood is roaring in his ears. He can’t hear the crowd, he can’t hear his team, it’s only Kip.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Even after everything, after Scott showed exactly how unbearable fear could make him, Kip is still looking out for him. He can breathe a little easier in that knowledge. He will never be alone again.
Kip was right, though, he didn’t have to do this. Honestly, Scott felt about to pass out, but seeing Kip, holding Kip on the ice makes hockey feel like hockey again. He forgot how fun it can be.
Scott just won the Stanley fucking Cup.
He kisses the man he loves in the middle of the ice.
He’s shaking so bad he thinks he might fall apart, but Kip is there to hold him steady. The joy of it all makes him wonder how the fear ever felt so big.
Kip loses his footing, but Scott catches them so they’re both left laughing into the kiss. On the ice. At the championship game. That Scott just won.
For the first time in fifteen years, Scott feels alive.
Through all of the loud feelings, there's a quiet part of him that thinks, somewhere, his mother is more proud of him for this than she is any trophy. She would've loved Kip. She would’ve loved seeing them surrounded by a team. A team that—with every clap on the back and heartfelt acceptance—Scott is quickly realizing are his family.
It won’t be smooth sailing, he’s not deluded enough not to notice the tension forming in some of the players, but he can deal with that later. Right now, Scott wants to go home with his sexy boyfriend and celebrate the two greatest achievements of his life.
Most of the team swarms him with cheers and congratulations. Vaughn passes him the Cup, him and Kip hoist it together. The line he’s always been terrified of crossing is obliterated.
"Come home with me?” He shouts to Kip over the mayhem, and Kip beams. It’s immediate, it’s beautiful, it’s everything he’s been missing.
They go out with the team, Vaughn and a few of the guys post up around them. They don’t have any trouble.
They’re beyond tipsy when Kip unlocks the apartment door with his key. He kept the key. Scott drags him straight to the bed. They don’t make it out until the next morning.
He thinks, later, when the sun is starting to filter through the curtains, that they earned this. Kip’s head is on his chest and a beam of sun falls perfectly to make his hair glow, and Scott loves him so much he could cry.
The world knows, and there will be consequences when they finally drag themselves out of bed, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Scott’s just glad he managed to pick his head up. He’s glad he found sunshine.