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After three years of marriage, Kip Grady thought he was done being surprised by Scott Hunter. They’d learned each other’s routines and rhythms, carving a life that fit them both like a sculpture from marble. And what a work of art that life was. Kip didn’t think he could be happier with his lot in life. A PhD from NYU, the penthouse apartment of his dreams, and a husband who brought him joy and stability in equal measure. It was more than enough.
But then, Scott had started keeping secrets. Kip had noticed it shortly before their third wedding anniversary. He’d caught Scott looking at flights–where to, he didn’t catch before Scott closed his laptop with a panicked snap. Shortly after that, Scott had stepped out of the room to take a phone call, something he’d never bothered to do before. The final clue that something was amiss was a delivery of rhinestones that came to the house while Scott was on the road and the suspicious text Kip had gotten asking him to bring it inside, but to please not open it (he’d only peeked a little!)
Clearly, Scott was planning something. A vacation for their anniversary, maybe. What that trip might be eluded Kip. His husband was much freer with his expression now than he’d been when they were closetted, but he still wasn’t particularly adventurous. He couldn’t imagine what Scott needed rhinestones for.
Eager to find out what the hell Scott was up to, Kip counted down the days to their anniversary. But when their anniversary dinner came and went without incident, Kip was left more than a little perplexed. The secrecy continued, with more packages arriving at the house every day. Scott always disappeared them immediately.
This called for drastic action. Feeling like a kid impatient for Christmas, Kip took the first opportunity he had to go snooping. What he found was a veritable wardrobe amassed of bedazzled articles of clothing, some even with tassels! Scott in tassels was a sight he desperately wanted to see. Delight made way for devastation when Kip realized his husband was hiding again. Wherever he was wearing these outfits, it wasn’t something he wanted Kip to see. That, of all things, hurt the most.
Kip liked to think he knew his husband well. Scott wasn’t exactly a man of mystery, unless you counted his proclivity for true crime. He liked his pre-game rituals, including Kip’s blueberry banana smoothies. Once, Kip had tried adjusting the Straw + Berry recipe to make it thicker, but Scott had been clobbered by a defenseman from Toronto that night and tweaked his knee. Kip had never deviated from the original recipe, watery thought it was, ever again.
Yes, Scott was predictable. It was something Kip loved about him. He was dependable and steady. Kip could count on Scott to be honest and thoughtful, even when they fought. Maybe especially when they fought. No matter the disagreement, Kip always knew Scott’s love for him would endure.
Even Scott’s curiosity for new things was a constant. Kip loved introducing novelty into his husband’s life, and there was so much Scott had missed out on by being closeted for so long. At first, Kip had been a little sad about it. By hiding himself away, Scott had deprived himself of so much queer culture. But when he’d expressed that thought to Scott, he’d just said, “Yes, but I love that you’re the one who gets to show me all of it now.” And so Kip had reveled in the chance to play teacher, resolving to show Scott something new about being part of the queer community as often as their schedules allowed.
It had taken Kip nearly a week to pluck up the courage to ask Scott about it. He knew he should let it lie. Scott deserved the chance to come to him about it when he was ready, but an opportunity to confront him presented itself with the arrival of a half-demolished cardboard box that revealed a pair of rhinestoned cowboy boots.
“So, what gay-ass rodeo are you going to without me?” Kip asked with an air of nonchalance he did not feel. It wasn’t the way he wanted to approach things. If Scott wanted to experiment with clothes or get into drag, he wanted to support that. Scott deserved every chance to learn what he liked, not to mention it would probably be hot as hell. He softened his tone, adding, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Scott closed his laptop with a sigh. “I knew you’d figure it out.”
“It’s okay, babe. You’re allowed to wear whatever you want. If anyone gives you shit, well, you can obviously defend yourself. But I’ve got your back, too.”
“What are you talking about?” Scott furrowed his brow. “Those are for you.”
Well. That wasn’t what Kip had expected. “For me?” He looked at the boots, clocking that they were, in fact, his size. They weren’t really his usual style, but Kip knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Oh, uh… thank you?”
“I was trying to surprise you, but I guess the cat’s out of the bag.” Scott shrugged.
“What… is the cat, exactly?” Kip asked. Maybe Scott really was taking him to a gay rodeo. He wouldn’t say no, obviously. He’d go almost anywhere with Scott (except in a submersible. Kip would try pretty much anything once, but the depths of the ocean were where he drew the line. He’d seen pictures of those fucked up fish that lived down there. Absolutely the fuck not.)
“The Eras Tour.”
Kip blinked, sure he’s misheard. “Sorry, can you say that again?”
“Fabian helped me get VIP tickets. We’re going to see Taylor Swift in LA, August 8th. I marked it off on your calendar so you wouldn’t double book.” Scott stood up, sweeping around the counter to plant a kiss on Kip’s cheek. “Happy anniversary."
Kip had never been more stunned in his life. He’d given up on seeing Taylor Swift live a long time ago. He’d never had money to spare on things like big concerts in his youth. Even if he’d wanted to exploit his newfound prosperity now that he was married to a rich hockey player, Taylor hadn’t toured in years. There’d never been much of an opportunity. As part of Scott’s continuing education in the world of gay culture, Kip had dragged Scott to dozens of concerts–they’d seen Lady Gaga, Adam Lambert, Hayley Kiyoko, and of course Fabian Salah. It was plenty. It was more than enough.
None of that had stopped him living vicariously through everyone else via clip after clip taken by the lucky ones who’d managed to get tickets. He’d eagerly gone online every night of the tour to find out what surprise songs he’d missed out on, prickling with jealousy that some of his favorites had come and gone without him being in the audience. Scott, always prepared to show interest in whatever had captured his husband’s attention, had begun asking him each night which surprise songs had been played like a ritual. Kip knew Scott wasn’t as big a fan as he was, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.
Scott had come to the discography of Taylor Swift much later than Kip, who’d discovered his love of her music in college with the release of Red. It was the soundtrack to his first year of clubbing, and when each of his friends had turned twenty-two, they’d gleefully danced to the eponymous anthem. Scott, on the other hand, had confessed only a vague knowledge of her music while they were on their honeymoon, cementing it as his next area of study with Professor Kip Grady.
Kip knew he ought to say thank you, but the words were stuck in his throat. Instead, what came out was, “Holy shit. What am I going to wear?”
–
In the end, Kip had gone with a Fearless inspired look, wearing the bedazzled cowboy boots and a fringe vest. Scott, acutely aware that his husband would not abide being dressed by anyone else, had amassed a truly impressive collection of clothes for the occasion, letting Kip choose a look for himself. Scott, on the other hand, had chosen a more subdued white linen ensemble as a nod to Folklore.
They’d arrived early enough to take their time. Kip was prepared for Scott to be stopped for photos or autographs on the way, but thankfully the audience of a Taylor Swift concert didn’t seem to have any crossover with hockey, plus they were in LA, which was firmly outside the territory of the Admirals. Or, Kip thought as he saw the flash of cameras and a throng of eager fans near their seats, there were just more exciting celebrities already present.
“I wonder who it is,” Kip said, pointing out the crowd ahead of them. “Oh my god, maybe it’s Zendaya!”
Scott chuckled. “What, am I not famous enough for you?”
“Babe, you’ll always be famous to me, but I need you to lock in.” Kip slipped his hand into Scott’s and squeezed. “It could be a rock star or an actor–”
“Or an athlete.”
Kip gave Scott a flat look. “If you embarrass me in front of Pedro Pascal I’m filing for divorce.”
“I don’t think it’s Pedro Pascal,” Scott muttered.
Sure enough, as the crowd dissipated, presumably having gotten the photos and autographs they wanted, a small group of three people came into view, facing away from them. A woman in a dark blue dress was bracketed by two men wearing matching bedazzled sports jerseys. The internet was absolutely aflame with rumors about Taylor dating some football player he’d never heard of, so maybe it had something to do with that. As they got closer, he was able to read the backs. Both bore the number 13, of course, with “Miss Americana” on the back of one, which had been cropped to show several inches of skin, and “Heartbreak Prince” on the other.
Scott froze. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“What?”
But Kip shouldn’t have bothered asking. As if in slow motion, the trio turned, and recognition dawned on the familiar faces one by one.
“Hunter!” None other than Ilya Rozanov exclaimed in a delighted Russian accent. He wore a pair of sparkly heart shaped sunglasses and mischief draped across his shoulders like a feather boa.
“No fucking way.” Kip’s expression split into a grin. He pulled Scott forward by the hand, bounding over to join the others. “I can’t believe it. What are the odds?”
“Yeah, what are the odds,” Scott muttered, a haunted look in his eyes.
“Oh wow! Hey, Kip, Scott.” Shane Hollander looked out of place off the ice. He always had as long as Kip had known him. There was something so natural about the way he moved on skates, like he was born to play hockey, but not much else. Seeing him in a place like this was a bit like watching a dolphin try to walk on land. “Good to see you both. You know Rose, right?” He gestured to the woman beside them.
“Of course. We met at the wedding,” Rose said with a brilliant smile.
It remained basically insane to Kip how his husband moved in circles that could so causally include Rose fucking Landry. And the way she was just Rose and never Rose Landry around Shane and his circle.
“Am surprised you are here, Hunter,” said Ilya.
Scott looked like he was contemplating exit strategies as he replied, “Do I even want to ask why?”
“Fabian hooked us up,” Kip supplied, trying to prevent a Hunter vs. Rozanov situation so far from a hockey rink. “Since obviously I’m not a VIP, and Scott–”
“Has only one Stanley Cup win, yes.” Ilya shook his head in mock disappointment, clicking his tongue. “Not very impressive. Not enough to earn you VIP status.”
“Rozanov, be nice,” Shane said, leaning into his husband’s side. “It’s not like we’re any different. Rose got us our tickets”
“And your outfits. Don’t forget the outfits!” Rose pointed a stern finger at Shane, who blushed pink under a double layer of freckles, one natural and one shimmery. “Nothing but the best for my boys.”
“It was kind of last minute,” Shane said by way of explanation. “But Ilya’s a huge fan, and Rose had extra tickets, so we figured we’d make a trip of it.”
“I am surprised,” Ilya continued, not to be derailed, “Because it is a long concert. Over three hours. You will stay awake past your bedtime, Hunter? Or will the lovely Kip take you back to your nursing home before the end?”
“You need new material,” Scott grunted. “That joke is getting old.”
“Hmm, yes. Old. Like your knees.”
Kip could feel Scott’s frame go stiff through their clasped hands. Ilya couldn’t possibly know about Scott’s injury, could he? Scott had been struggling with whether to retire or play another season, weighing advice from several specialists and the team doctor. Kip just wanted Scott to be happy and healthy, but the longer Scott went without deciding, the less Kip thought he could be both.
Scott had asked Kip his opinion once, but Kip knew a trap when he saw one. If he told Scott to keep playing, he’d be risking serious and permanent damage to his husband’s body. If he told Scott to quit, he might save Scott the physical damage of another season, but Scott might also resent him for it. After one long night of Scott getting up every few hours to alternate ibuprofen and tylenol, Kip admitted to himself that he hoped Scott chose the latter, even if he could never say it out loud.
“You’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself.” Kip, who had turned thirty alongside Ilya and Shane two years ago, wasn’t about to let Ilya ruin Scott’s experience today with his ill-timed chirps.
“Spring chicken? What is this?” Ilya asked, looking at Shane for an explanation.
Shane ran a hand down Ilya’s arm in a soothing motion. “It means young.”
“If we are being birds, I choose goose,” Ilya said.
“Aw, that’s cute. Like a silly goose?” Rose reached over to ruffle Ilya’s curls.
Ilya swatted her away with a scowl. “No. Serious goose.”
“I read somewhere that geese have teeth on their tongues, or like… spines or something,” Shane said with a shrug.
“Yes. Fearsome. Good for fighting.”
“You don’t want to be a loon?” Rose asked.
Ilya whipped off his sunglasses to glare at her. “Shane told you to say that.”
“When would I have told her? I didn’t know we were picking birds until like four seconds ago.”
“You used your brains. Secret bestie brain link. Telepathetic.”
“Telepathic.” Shane corrected through a laugh.
“Yes. She used her X-Squad powers or something.”
Rose leaned over with a fond grin. “I’m a shapeshifter in those movies, remember?”
Content to let the three of them bicker, Kip tugged Scott down into his seat. They might as well rest until the show started. Ilya might have only been needling Scott as some kind of enrichment activity, but he wasn’t wrong about Scott’s knees. Kip hoped he could make it through the concert, because nothing short of zombie apocalypse would make him leave the stadium until after the very last song.
–
“So, you are not retiring?” Ilya asked eventually, sitting down in his own seat after being shooed away by Shane and Rose who stood a few feet away, leaning against the railing of their section and speaking with a paparazzo Rose seemed to know and, surprisingly, like. The photographer had asked to take a photo, but Ilya kept photobombing behind them. Shane had taken him aside, whispered something in his ear, and pointed back at their seats. Whatever he’d said had the desired effect, sending Ilya to sit with Kip and Scott like he was in time-out.
“If this is the start of another elderly joke, I’m really not in the mood,” Scott said through clenched teeth.
“No, I am really asking.” Ilya shrugged, expression more relaxed. “I see you favoring left leg during last match against Buffalo. Is not serious injury?”
Kip reached a hand up the nape of Scott’s neck, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against the skin there. If he could get Scott through the evening without exchanging blows with Ilya and without having a coronary event, he’d call it a success. Something about the Russian menace really got to Scott, despite years of friendship–or whatever it was when two people who fought each other for a living also hung out socially only kind of against their wills.
Maybe it was Kip’s grounding touch, or maybe Scott caught the sincerity in Ilya’s tone, but for one reason or another, he spoke truthfully. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Soon, though. Pre-season is not far away.”
“More than a month.” Kip couldn’t help but interject, a reminder that he was there–on Scott’s side, no matter what. “That’s plenty of time.”
“Not really.” Ilya leaned forward to fix Kip with a sardonic smile. “Is a good thing you are handsome.”
“Hey! I have a PhD!”
“He’s not wrong,” Scott said.
“That I’m handsome?” Kip raised one eyebrow, almost a dare.
“Well, yes. That too.” Scott cleared his throat, casting his eyes down at his feet. “I need to figure out what I’m doing soon. The Admirals will need time to replace me if I’m not going to play next season. It would be irresponsible to wait much longer.”
“Irresponsible.” Ilya shrugged, and Kip wasn’t sure if he was agreeing, or just repeating the word to add it to his vocabulary for later. “Who cares?”
They were saved the agony of finding out what, exactly, Ilya meant by the shrill screaming of everyone around them. The large screen along the back of the stage flashed a clock, counting down ten seconds to the start of the show.
Kip leapt to his feet, heart racing. This was it! They could put the hockey talk to bed and focus on why they were actually there–Taylor motherfucking Swift.
–
Kip stared in awe at the stage. He’d seen the show before–on his phone screen with absolute ass resolution–but it didn’t hold a candle to the experience of seeing it live. The energy of the crowd was something otherworldly. People all around them were screaming, crying, and, yes, throwing up (in one particular case a few rows away).
“This is it,” Scott murmured into his ear, pulling him into an embrace. His expression was unbearably fond as he looked down at Kip.
Kip squeezed him back as the first notes of Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince hit the air. He screamed the lyrics along with the crowd, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.
Beside them, Shane and Ilya were dancing–or rather Ilya was dancing around Shane like the world’s most awkward pole–and Rose was gazing at the stage with heart-eyes, like she herself wasn’t nearly as famous as the artist they’d come to see. Kip wondered if she’d ever met Taylor Swift. Maybe he’d get a chance to ask her someday, or was that weirdly invasive? He never knew where the line was with famous people, since most of the ones he knew were friends with his husband.
Trying to put all other thoughts out of his mind, he screamed along to the bridge of Cruel Summer. That was a song that hit hard–both musically and personally. When he’d first heard the lyric I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you, he’d immediately thought of him and Scott. He’d hated himself for a while for putting pressure on Scott. He knew it had worked out in the end. They were blissfully happy and married now, after all. But the period of time before Scott was out had been difficult for them both, neither wanting to force the other to live a life they didn’t want. Thankfully, it had turned out that what they both wanted was the same, they just had to get there.
The warm presence of Scott’s frame disappeared from his side during The Man. It wasn’t one of Kip’s favorites, so he tore his gaze from the stage to check on his husband.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, turning to see Scott shaking out his leg as subtly as possible. Kip reached over to steady Scott as he grimaced. “Lean on me if you need to,” Kip said, gesturing Scott closer.
Scott glanced at the players beside him warily and shook his head. Ilya was too busy hyping up Rose as she struck power poses to notice them, but Scott still looked nervous. Kip silently cursed his husband’s ego. He’d thought when Scott came out he might finally stop caring what other hockey players thought of him, but no such luck. Instead, he’d simply shifted focus. Rather than caring what they thought of his sexuality, he worried what they thought of his form or his stats or, in Ilya’s case, his age. What would Scott stress over once hockey was no longer the center of his world?
“Dance with us, Hunter!” Ilya screamed over the crowd as You Need To Calm Down started. “Or, no, you are too brittle?”
Kip thought Scott might punch him, but Scott just collected Kip in his arms and said, “Shut up, Rozanov. I like this song.”
Kip, on the other hand, did want to dance, but it was difficult to move around with Scott clinging to him. He settled for singing along and bouncing just a little. Beside them, Ilya and Shane were like the fun-house mirror version of them. Shane smiled stiffly as Ilya held him to his chest, not seeming to mind Ilya’s erratic dancing behind him. Kip glanced up at Scott to see his lips moving along with the lyrics, at least. If he and Ilya couldn’t play nice, he would just have to switch seats with Scott. A physical barrier between the two might be exactly what the doctor ordered.
Before Kip could enact his plan, they reached his favorite part of the song. He’d be damned if he let Scott and Ilya’s beef ruin this moment for him, so he pulled out of Scott’s embrace to cup his hands to his lips and scream his favorite lyric. Around him, Scott and Ilya followed suit, all shouting together.
“Shade never made anybody less gay!”
Over his shoulder, Kip glanced at the other two, watching as they exchanged a meaningful glance. A smile curled at the edge of Scott’s lips. And maybe this was all they needed after all, a reminder that outside of the rink, away from chirps and fights and goals, they were on the same side.
As the song ended and Taylor reached for her guitar, Ilya leaned over, a twinkle in his eye.
“I hope you keep playing,” he said to Scott.
“Really?” Scott looked nonplussed.
Ilya shrugged. “Would be boring to play Admirals without you. Plus, I would like to attend ceremony when you win world record.”
“That’s actually very kind of you,” Scott said before furrowing his brow. “Wait–what world record?”
“For being oldest hockey player on ice.”
Scott chuckled dangerously. “Careful, Rozanov. You’ll be my age someday.”
“Yes, but you will still be older than me.”
Scott didn’t dignify that with a response, taking that moment to sweep Kip into his arms as Lover began. Kip nestled his face in the crook of Scott’s shoulder, allowing Scott to lead him in the slow two-step they’d learned for their wedding.
This was Kip’s happy place, wrapped up with Scott, Taylor Swift playing a love song in the background. Can I go where you go? Will we always be this close? Forever and ever. He hoped so. He wanted everything with Scott. If that continued to include hockey, then so be it.
On stage, couples in colorful outfits danced together around Taylor like beautiful butterflies. Kip smiled at the sight of two men dancing together off to the right. Scott seemed to notice them as well, stuttering his steps as he caught sight of the queer couple represented on one of the largest stages in the world.
Sometimes, Kip forgot that his husband was a queer icon. Scott’s coming out had shaken the world of hockey in a good way. In the wake of Scott’s grand gesture, Kip’s life had changed drastically for the better. He no longer had to lie to people about the most important person in his life. He could go on dates, or even just to the grocery store, with Scott without the fear of being seen. It was an inhale he hadn’t known he’d needed.
It had changed other people’s lives, too. The couple beside them was proof of that. Shane and Ilya had admitted that Scott kissing Kip on the ice after his Stanley Cup win had changed things for them, made them believe they could have more, be more, than a secret for the rest of their lives. And there had been others, too. Ryan Price, Eric Bennett, Troy Barrett, Luca Haas… the list was growing ever longer. Ripples from Scott’s coming out had reached the other leagues as well, and more than one gay kid who dreamed of playing hockey had said Scott made them feel like they had a future in the sport. It all made Kip sublimely proud of his husband.
Now, here in a sparkling arena where Scott was only a spectator, he was experiencing a little of his own magic. Kip gazed up at him as he tracked the progress of the dancers. The look on Scott’s face wasn’t the expression of a hardened hockey player charting his next move, but of a younger man seeing someone have the exact thing he was afraid to want out loud. Just because Scott was a queer icon in his own right, didn’t mean he didn’t need to see himself reflected back every now and again. Kip resolved to put him in front of as many mirrors as he could find for the foreseeable future.
“Sorry,” Scott muttered, blushing as he stepped on Kip’s toes. “Clumsy.”
“That’s okay.” Kip guided Scott’s head down to rest on his shoulder as he adjusted their hold. Kip could take the lead for a little while. He clasped Scott’s hand in his, steering him in a slow circle.
Scott relaxed into his frame. “I think I’m going to retire,” he said into Kip’s ear.
“Really?” Kip asked, unable to keep the relief off his face.
“Yeah.” Scott exhaled, capturing Kip’s lips in a languid kiss. “Need to save my knees for more important things.”
Kip raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Scott rolled his eyes. “I meant, like dancing with my husband.”
“Sure you did.” Kip grinned and pulled Scott back for another kiss.