Chapter Text
Waking up after a nightmare is always uncomfortable. His skin is sticky with sweat, the bedsheets are all tangled around him , his heart beats too quickly in his chest, and there’s always the chance he woke himself up by screaming, which means he’s disturbing both his parents who also have to go to work in the morning and they don’t deserve that. Oh and of course, there’s the contents of the nightmares as well. He never remembers them well, but that’s okay because the pain and despair and helplessness never fails to linger for hours after he wakes.
He flails for his phone. 0300. Fucking great. Too late to get any reasonable sleep before his alarm goes off, too early for him to have gotten any good sleep, or for him to justify being up and about right now. Which means he’s going to spend the next hour of his life laying in a bed that is still too soft even after two years of being back, thinking about Nat and everything he could’ve done differently to still have her with him now. It’s not like he particularly likes thinking about her death. But the way that her body had slammed against the railing before she slipped off, screaming and grasping desperately for him is something that he will never forget.
He grunts, turning to the side to press his face into the pillow. He hates his brain. It’ll stubbornly block out everything that happened to him during the year he was captive, but when he wants to close his eyes without seeing the body of his best friend broken and burning on the floor of some fucked up nightmare factory Kip’s still not fully convinced existed in reality, he’s shit outta luck. He tastes the ash, sometimes, feels heat blazing on his skin and smells the scent of burning hair and flesh – somehow obvious even when it should’ve been overpowered with the acrid smell of blackened metal.
Needless to say, Kip doesn’t really like fire all that much.
He gets restless by the time his phone’s clock hits 0315 and, with a sigh, decides fuck it, he might as well get a run in this morning. He’s as quiet as possible as he gets up and gathers his things, slipping into sweats and a thin longsleeve. His keys and phone are stashed neatly away as he jogs in place on the front porch, breath clouding the cold air as he goes through his warmups. He is, of course, the only person crazy enough to be on a run this stupidly early in the morning, which means he’s at peace alone with the setting moon.
His pace is steady, and the impact of his feet hitting the pavement helps quiet his buzzing thoughts. The sharp wind, cold even through his layers, is grounding. It doesn’t remind him of cloying, smokey heat nor of stagnant dusty rooms. If he was in a better mood, he might have grabbed his earbuds before setting off, but right now he just wants to hear the quiet sounds of dogs barking and the distant bustle of downtown New York, comfortingly busy and awake all the same as him. Though he figures most people probably aren’t awake right now because of their trauma induced flashbacks from their time as a prisoner of war in Iraq, so maybe not exactly the same as him, but there is a comfort in knowing he’s not alone. Odds are there’s more than one fitness obsessed health guru also awake and running right now, or doing performative yoga in an attempt to capture a timelapse of the sunrise.
His legs only have a slight burn when he gets back home, and considering it was an impromptu run of just a couple miles to get him out of his head, he finds that to be perfectly acceptable. He chugs a glass of water probably too quickly and takes a short shower to rinse the sweat off his skin and out of his hair. He may be just a lowly smoothie shop barista compared to the sharp looking people who come in, but that doesn’t mean he has to look completely trashy. He’s dressed and out the door by 0445, and only swaying slightly from exhaustion as he joins the rest of the early morning crowds ambling along to work, which he counts as a win.
He notes that there’s a headache slowly building behind his temples as he flicks on the bright lights of Straw+Berry, and he resists the urge to go stand in the backroom and ignore stupid things like jobs and customer service and his responsibilities as a functioning adult. Or, well, as functioning of an adult as he can be considering the boatload of trauma he’s still working through. Honestly, he should get some kind of award for fastest turnaround from being a POW to graduating college with a masters in History.
He does, of course, have awards, several shiny medals the army honored him with that he finds little value in. Nat’s tags, nestled next to his own and resting near his heart on a chain he wouldn’t be caught dead without, mean much more to him than whatever hunks of metal and fancy colored ribbons his country decided he deserved. He doesn’t regret his time in the military, no, the friendships he made and connections he formed mean too much to him to regret his choice. He just maybe wishes he had been deployed anywhere else.
His headache is pulsing painfully behind his eyes by the time the morning rush is in full swing. Thankfully, no one is being particularly loud. There’s an ambient buzz from a couple conversations, but the blenders are by far the largest source of noise in the room. Of course, this does mean that the loudest thing in the room is the thing that Kip is standing right next to, and is drilling into his skull in a very painful way, but he’ll take what he can get. He can’t bring himself to muster up more than a polite smile as he calls out names and orders, but he figures most people aren’t going to be particularly offended if he doesn’t wish them a good day. It’s too early in the morning to care about little things like that.
When the shop empties briefly, Kip takes the chance to make himself a large watermelon smoothie. Rather than drinking it, he holds it up to his head in the vain hope the cold will ease his pounding skull. Maria notices this with a laugh.
“You doing okay over there, Kipper?”
He gives her a mournful glance. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re holding a plastic cup to your forehead. You’re supposed to drink the smoothie, not use it as a medical device.”
He groans. “Yeah yeah, whatever.” He does, however, take the cup from his head and take a drink of it. He whines when the cold does little to soothe the ache, hurrying off to grab painkillers from his bag. He takes a couple with his next swig of smoothie as Maria watches, amused.
“After the morning rush is over, I can do the afternoon prep while you get a little rest.” Kip pauses mid drink.
“You’re amazing and I love you.”
Maria smiles, hopping off the counter where she’d been sitting. “You know it. Love you too babe. Now turn around and start smiling, these businesswomen need some eyecandy.” Kip snorts into his cup, setting it aside to focus on the renewed stream of people trickling in.
It’s around nine by the time the steady rush peters out, and when Kip goes ten minutes without seeing a customer, he figures he’s probably free to relax for a little bit. He drops onto a stool and rests his head against the wall. It’s nice and cold and helps more than the smoothie to diminish the ache in his skull while he waits for the painkillers to kick in.
He doesn’t register that he’s closed his eyes until someone is clearing their throat, and he jolts upwards. Usually he’s such a light sleeper that he would’ve woken from the chime of the door opening, so he must’ve been genuinely exhausted. Which yeah, no shit, he woke up less than five hours after going to sleep.
“Sorry sir what can I-” His sentence breaks off quickly as his brain processes the gorgeous man in front of him. Holy fuck. He’s no stranger to muscular men, nor sweaty men, but holy shit, this guy’s under armour shirt is just about vacuum sealed to his skin from sweat, highlighting the delightful ridges of his abs. He adjusts his shirt sleeve in a (hopefully) subtle way, covering more of the silvery scales descending down his forearm. There’s not much he can do about the patches dotting his hand, but the skin has mostly healed over those, by now.
“What can I get for you?” Is all he can manage to get out in his sudden panic. The guy smiles, leaning back to look at the menu. The shift of his weight emphasizes the hefty flex of his thighs, and Kip closes his eyes and wills whatever gods may be there the strength to get through his interaction without drooling.
“Sorry to wake you.” Fuck. Of course he’s nice too.
Kip smiles, trying to not seem as flustered as he feels. “Oh no, you’re well within your rights. I definitely shouldn’t be sleeping on the job.” The guy chuckles.
“I won’t tell your manager if you don’t.”
And now Kip is the one laughing as he says “Deal.” The guy glances at the menu again, a – frankly adorable – furrow in his brow as he squints to read the smaller print.
“I don’t get smoothies very often. What’s good here-” he looks down at Kip, reading the nametag pinned to his apron, “-Kip?” Kip almost combusts because it shouldn’t be that hot to hear this guy say his name, but shit.
“The uh, the Blue Moon Over Brooklyn is good. And I’m not biased just because I’m from Brooklyn or anything, it’s one of the best on the menu.” And Hot Guy did not ask for any information about Kip so why is he sharing that? He thought he was better at flirting than this. Somehow, the guy only looks faintly amused and a little interested.
“You’re the expert. I’ll go with that then.” Kip smiles, nods, pauses, then turns to go make the smoothie. Hot guy makes a curious noise, probably at the way Kip stuttered when he tried to turn around.
“I just, I add banana when I make it for myself in the mornings, so I was just recalibrating in order to, y'know, not do that.” Hot guy pauses for a moment, then smiles.
“Extra banana? Oh I see, you’re kinda wild.” Kip snorts, holding back the fluttering feeling that comes from the idea that maybe Hot Guy is flirting back.
“I may have been told that on occasion. You wanna try it out? It makes the smoothie way better, I swear”
“Am I allowed to order off-menu?”
Kip winks. “It was my idea. I won’t tell my manager if you don’t.”
Hot guy smiles. “If you’re offering to take the fall for me, how can I not?” Kip nods and turns to go make the smoothie, fighting back the giddy grin on his face.
Christ, how long has it been since he’s actually had a positive interaction with anyone at his job? Let alone someone as hot as this guy. He glances up at Hot Guy while he blends the smoothie, and catches him already watching Kip. He quickly turns to stare down at his phone, ears tinted a slight pink. Kip feels heat rise to his own cheeks as he turns back to the blender as well. Good to know he’s not crazy and Hot Guy was, in fact, flirting with him. He pours the smoothie into a cup and slides it across the counter to Hot Guy.
“Here you go, sir.” Hot Guy smiles, swiping his card and taking the smoothie. Kip flips the pad around to complete the transaction and freezes. “No that’s… that’s way too much money.” He attempts a playful glare, but quickly gets side tracked by the way Hot Guy’s lips curl around the straw of his cup, pretty and pink and entirely distracting.
“Keep it. We’ll call it a finders fee.” He smiles. “This is great, Kip. See you.” Kip can barely manage a wave in return, gaze drawn to the way Hot Guy’s shorts hug his fucking gorgeous ass. There’s another guy entering as he leaves, and he seems to do a double take, looking back with an expression of genuine shock.
“Holy shit are you-” he walks up the counter, looking mildly dazed. “Was that Scott Hunter?” Kip frowns. The name is vaguely familiar, but it’s not really ringing any bells.
“Who?”
The guy gestures emphatically. “The hockey player! Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admirals?” And now it’s Kip’s jaw dropping in shock. Holy shit. He glances back behind him to see Maria, standing near the door of the back room with her phone in hand, looking equal parts shocked and smug. “Girl.”
Kip turns back to the guy in front of him, hoping he doesn’t look as rattled as he feels. “Well, whether or not that was Scott Hunter, what can I get for you, sir?” The guy (cute, but not nearly comparable to the guy who may-or-may-not be Scott Hunter who just walked out) shakes his head, still clearly baffled, and orders the Green Warrior shot. Go figure. Kip makes his smoothie and hands it off with a smile, feeling a little smug at the way the guy’s cheeks turn a little pink. Maria sidles up next to him when they’re alone again.
“Was that guy actually Scott Hunter?”
Kip shrugs, conjuring up memories of his face. “Dunno. I don’t really follow hockey. He was so fucking hot though. Dude, I swear his shirt was vacuumed to his body. He’d just finished a run.” Maria groans, looking more and more pained with every word he says.
“Stop it. Asshole. Oh my god, I can’t believe I missed it.” She looks over at him. “If he comes in here again, you get me. I don’t care if I’m in the bathroom pissing. I need to see him sweaty and tired.” Kip snorts, nudging her with his elbow.
“Yeah, because that’s not weird at all.”
“You just want to keep him to yourself!” Kip shrugs. She’s not wrong. Really though, who can blame him?
—————
Kip will admit to going home and looking up “scott hunter new york admirals” then drooling over pictures of the guy. He’s not ashamed (okay, maybe a little ashamed). He may be a vet with a boatload of trauma, but at the end of the day he’s still a man. And Scott Hunter was definitely flirting with him. He tries not to be too excited about it.
He snags a paper off the empty seat next to him on the train that morning, flipping it open to see a column about Scott Hunter, who scored a hat trick last night (whatever that is) and apparently turned around his so-far lackluster season. Good for him, Kip thinks, then immediately laughs at himself because oh yeah, how great that this millionaire superstar hockey player had a good game. While he was off turning around his season, Kip was probably going to therapy, attempting to ignore the kinds of memories that made his chest go heavy with fear, trying not to fall back into his habit of smoking–something he unfortunately picked up while overseas–and generally having a much worse time. He then also shakes his head at himself because none of that is Scott Hunter’s fault at all, and Kip should really stop being so bitter sometimes. His brain really is a piece of work.
He walks over to the Straw+Berry feeling a little self-chastised and with a newfound appreciation for Calvin Klein ads, because goddamn Scott Hunter’s abs are every bit as nice as they looked through the thin, sweat-soaked material of his shirt yesterday. Part of him–the stupid, hopeful part–that understands ridiculous superstitions, is praying that Scott Hunter comes in again today. He had a good game last night, so maybe he’ll try to replicate his day. Kip shuts down that particular train of thought as he turns the key in the lock. He does not need to be having misguided thoughts about seeing Scott Hunter, because it’s likely that Kip was just imagining things, and he wasn’t actually flirting with a random smoothie-shop clerk. Even if he was gay, Kip’s sure he would have his choice of far more impressive men than Kip.
He chooses to ignore the fact he has several medals and awards that denote him as a very impressive man. He doesn’t much care what the government thinks of him, anyway.
The morning rush is the same as it ever is on a weekday, though Kip hasn’t been kept up by nightmares all night, nor does he have a headache pulsing painfully behind his temples whenever he turns on a blender. The stream of customers is steady until around nine, as usual, then a short break before those morning yoga and pilates classes are done and send their participants out, hungry for overpriced, liquified fruit.
“So…. heard your boyfriend had a good night last night.” Maria breaks the silence, cutting her eyes over to Kip as she stacks and unstacks oranges on the counter.
“My boyfriend?” She looks at him more meaningfully, gesturing towards the newspaper laying over Kip’s stool. “Oh my god, Maria we had one conversation.” She shrugs.
“Just saying. He had a great night last night, scored like, a billion goals.”
“Three goals, two assists,” he corrects her on instinct before wincing. She smirks at him.
“Oh so you watched the game? Didn’t realize you were such a diehard fan.” Kip scowls.
“Shush. It’s on the paper. I just read it on the way here. It’s big news, y’know?” Maria looks at him appraisingly.
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Kip doesn’t meet her eyes, which is categorically a bad decision because it does nothing but reinforce Maria’s teasing.
“You’re so cute! You have such a crush.”
“I do not.”
Maria tosses an orange at him. “Yes you do.”
Kip catches it out of the air and begins unpeeling it. “I hate you.”
Maria blows him an exaggerated kiss. “You love me.” Kip doesn’t dignify that with a response.
He’s just finishing his orange, tossing the peels in the trash when Scott Hunter once again blesses the Straw+Berry with the sight of him post workout, in a sweaty compression shirt and leggings with shorts over them that do nothing to mask the firm curve of his ass or the mouthwatering flex of his thighs. Maria leans up to whisper in his ear.
“Oh my fucking god.” Kip elbows her as subtly as possible and she glances at him, before looking back at Scott, then smirking and walking–reluctantly but extremely smugly–to the back room.
Scott spots him and brightens, raising a hand in a small wave. “Hello again Kip!” Kip raises his own hand in return.
“Hi–Scott Hunter, right?” Scott’s face falls and he looks a little awkward, shoving a hand in his pocket like he’s not happy to be recognized.
“Ah, yeah.” Kip smiles at him, finding Scott just as endearing as the day before.
“Good game last night.” Scott smiles back, still seeming a little awkward.
“You watched?” And he sounds horribly hopeful and Kip might be smitten because that is awfully cute.
“No, I’m not usually much of a hockey fan. I saw it on the paper this morning.” He nods his head towards his stool, where the slightly crumpled newspaper is sitting. Scott droops a little.
“Oh. I see.” Kip is screaming internally. Holy fuck.
“Maybe I’ll watch the next one though, now that I know there’s a player as cute as you on the ice.” Scott smiles, relaxing minutely.
“I’ll score a goal for you tonight then, if you’re watching.” Kip almost gapes.
“Oh sh- that is tonight isn’t it?” Scott blinks, then laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. Kip decides then and there that he likes making Scott laugh, because he looks so much lighter when he’s smiling, like the weight of his responsibilities have been lifted off his back. “So, I guess you’ll be wanting another Blue Moon Over Brooklyn? Superstitions, and all that.” Scott nods.
“Are you also an athlete? Or have you just picked that knowledge up in the world at large?” Kip smiles.
“Little of column A, little of column B. I played rugby in high school, and picked it up again recently. I dunno if we’re as superstitious as you hockey folk, though. That is something I have learned from observation. Playoff beards, right?” Scott appraises him.
“Honestly, I probably should’ve figured out the rugby thing on my own. As a professional athlete I ought to be able to notice other athletes, right?” Kip leans against the counter.
“Mm, maybe. But I also wouldn’t really call myself an athlete. It’s not anything super impressive, just a club of guys who are kinda fast and built like brick walls who might also be masochists.” Scott gives him a look.
“That’s hockey too. You just described most hockey teams.” Kip chuckles, then raps his knuckles on the counter.
“Let me make you that smoothie.” It’s a less-than-graceful exit from the conversation, but Scott goes along with it. Kip emphasizes the banana as he puts it in and hears Scott chuckle behind him. He smiles to himself as he blends the smoothie. When he slides the cup across the counter Scott once again pays an obscene amount, shrugging as he smiles.
“They’re good smoothies.” Kip swears that Scott purposely meets his eyes as he wraps his lips around the straw and sucks. Holy shit. “See you next game day, Kip.” And then. The motherfucker winks. He winks at Kip then turns around and leaves the ship and Kip is sure that this man is trying to kill him because there’s definitely a little extra sway in his hips in a way that just fucking taunts Kip with a wonderful view of fabric hugging muscular curves. Kip pauses and takes a breath, willing himself to not pop a boner right in the middle of his shift and also not develop a pavlovian response to the sight of Under Armour workout gear.
Maria comes out from the back, a smirk playing on her lips. “So? How’d it go?” Kip flops onto the stool behind the counter and gives her a look.
“Maria,” he leans his arms onto the counter. “I am so fucked.” If possible, Maria’s smirk grows wider.
“He definitely wants you to be. Isn’t that the goal, anyways?” Kip groans and buries his head in his arms as Maria laughs. Fuck. Him.
——————
“Well if Maria thinks he’s into you, he probably is.” Kip looks up at his best friend, betrayed.
“Elena!” She shrugs.
“What? It’s true. Maria’s smarter than you.” Her nose wrinkles. “And she also doesn’t have five years of military experience fucking with her head. Kip squawks indignantly, but can’t really argue. Well he can, and has, and will continue to do so in the future, but he’s tired enough to accept it. This time.
“I just don’t know what I’m going to do about it.” Elena rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her food.
“Keep being there when he shows up, obviously. When’s his next game?” Kip shrugs with a mouthful of noodles. “Then look it up, Kip, christ. Four years overseas and you forget how to use a phone.”
“I was in Iraq when the iPhone was released! That is not my fault.” Elena flaps her hand mockingly but grabs her own phone (something far fancier than Kip’s beat up old one) and taps out the question.
“Saturday. He’s playing Saturday. Are you working that day?” Kip pauses to think, then scowls.
“Fuck. No.” Elena gestures at him impatiently.
“Then fix that? Text Maria, right now.” Kip puts down his food and pulls out his phone, shooting off a quick text to Maria.
[Me– 18:54]
Are you scheduled for saturday?
[Maria– 18:54]
I am. Why do you ask?
[Me– 18:55]
I’m scheduled for friday. Can we please swap??
Maria types for a minute then stops, and Kip looks up to find Elena smiling at him, clearly amused. “Shut up!” Kip hisses, and Elena tosses up her hands in a gesture of ‘I didn’t do anything!’ Kip scowls at her regardless.
[Maria– 18:57]
I had a hunch so I looked up the admirals game dates. Is this about fucking Scott Hunter!?
[Me– 18:57]
Yes. Can you swap? Please?!
[Maria– 18:57 PM]
Jfc. Yes Kip, I’ll swap with you so you can see the man of your dreams
You’re working with Jeff, tho
Kip cringes, but also sighs with relief. He hates working with Jeff—the guy is lazy and probably high all the time—and whoever’s on shift with him just ends up doing all the work. Kip really isn’t sure how he still has a job, if he’s being honest.
[Me– 18:58]
Thank you Maria I love you pls keep feeding my delusions
[Maria– 18:58]
Go get your man, gayboy
Kip snorts and puts his phone down on the table. Elena raises a brow. “So?”
“Yes, Maria has swapped with me so I’m working on Saturday.” He freezes. “Fuck. Elena, what if he does bad during his game tonight and doesn’t want to come back in because the superstition doesn’t work.”
Elena shrugs. “Then he doesn’t come in, and that’s that.” Kip frowns.
“Elenaaaa.” He slides over on the couch to lean on her shoulder and pout a bit. She tosses her hands in the air, exasperated but fond.
“What? I can’t magically make him do better during the game. I’m smart, not a witch.” Kip sighs, righting himself.
“Ugh. It’s gonna stress me out all of tomorrow though, I know it.” Elena glances at her phone.
“What time do hockey games usually start?” Kip shrugs.
“I dunno. Like 19- like 7?” Elena shoots him an amused glance at his slipup as she reaches for the TV remote. Kip still prefers to use military time, but he knows that most of his friends don’t, and is used to making the translation. If he’s forgetting, then he’s definitely tired.
“Let’s see what this cute boy of yours looks like, then.”
Even though the game is listed as starting at 7, the actual puck drop doesn’t happen until 7:15. This gives Kip enough time to finish his food, clean up Elena's kitchen obsessively, even though it’s already spotless, and work himself into a frenzy about how he’s ridiculous for thinking that Scott-fucking-Hunter is flirting, and he’d probably be happier if Kip wasn’t at the shop when he comes in on Saturday. If he comes in on Saturday. Elena, quite kindly, forces him onto the couch with a pointed look and a shove.
“Sit. Down.” Kip looks up at her guiltily.
“Sorry, Elena.” Her face softens, and she settles onto the couch next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“It’s fine Kip. It’s not me I’m concerned about. I’m worried about how this guy is making you act.” She nudges his side with her arm. “Even if he is hot.” Kip sighs, rubbing his perpetually aching left arm. Elena pauses for a second, then continues in a softer tone. “And… I don’t want him to be weird about… well. You know.” Kip does know. He knows all too well about the mess of still-healing burns and scars and silvery skin grafts encompassing his left arm. He knows intimately the feeling of opening up to someone, and having them react badly to it.
And his eyes are pricking with tears because she’s right, Elena’s always right, and it’s so fucking unfair that he has to consider it when picking a partner. It’s unfair that he even needed to go into the army in the first place, unfair that he was sent overseas, unfair that he participated in a military that was doing fucked up shit to completely innocent people. It’s unfair that his own goddamn country was supplying the people who were torturing him with money and materials in exchange for the development of an experimental drug. His whole life is unfair, and he can’t even let himself have a fucking crush without it crashing and burning around him.
He vaguely hears Elena whisper an apology, but he shakes his head, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. It’s not her fault that his life as fucked. She’s right to be worried about him; she’s been there through all his shitty exes, the many before his service and the one or two after. She worries about him, and he’s thankful for it. God knows one of them needs to. He presses his hands to his eyes and tries to calm his breathing. It’s okay. He’s okay. Scott Hunter is probably just enjoying a quiet smoothie shop where he can flirt with the clerk and not have it plastered all over the internet by the next morning. It’s not going to be serious. He can watch the man play hockey tonight and drool over him if he keeps coming in for smoothies and the world will not end. He pulls himself out of his head in time that they get to watch the puck drop. Elena is curled up against his side, her body tightly pressed to his in a grounding presence.
(She reminds him a lot of Nat. She would do the same thing, when they had the rare chance to get some rest together. They’d been teased relentlessly for it, cuddling like a couple. Sometimes Elena’s friends make the same jokes. Nat and Elena would’ve been good friends, he thinks.)
Rather embarrassingly, every time Scott takes a hit, Kip flinches like it's him getting shoved around on the ice instead. He’s just about on the edge of his seat the entire gam—metaphorically, of course, he’s still laying back with Elena—, wincing and cringing when Scott gets shoved into the boards, gasping and holding his breath when Scott scores, or almost scores a goal. He is way too invested in this. He’s not even gonna try and pretend that it’s not because of his big fat crush on Scott Hunter (way to go brain, you’ve known the guy for two days-). He consoles himself by justifying that Scott Hunter is really hot. Anyone who’s attracted to men would definitely agree with him, or at the very least, couldn’t blame him.
When the first period ends, Scott is stopped by some reporters for an interview, and thank fuck he is, because the sight of him all sweaty and breathing heavily sends Kip’s heart into overdrive. He’s sure Elena can hear it beating out of his chest, considering her head is right over it, and isn’t that just horribly embarrassing. Instead of commenting on it, though, she whistles.
“Well, he’s definitely hot. Can’t blame you at all. If that guy came into my work sweaty and in tight clothing I-” She wrinkles her nose. “Well, I’d probably send him right back out. But I get the appeal.” Kip snorts.
“Yeah, thanks.” Kip watches Scott closely as he talks, saying something about a stronger offense, or defense, or something. Kip isn’t really paying attention to his words, more focused on a drop of sweat as it drips down Scott’s cheek, then neck, and disappears into his jersey. Damn.
The score is 1-1 when they go back out for the second period, and it stays that way until the third. Kip doesn’t want to be presumptuous, he really has only known the guy for a collective total of 15 minutes of conversation, but he likes to think that he can see Scott’s body language changing, tensing up more. It’s like he’s trying to make himself more compact, hurtling across the ice and tanking hit after hit in an attempt to score a goal. It’s nerve wracking, both because Kip is worried for Scott’s safety, and also because shit, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want The Admirals to win. It takes until the third period for Scott to score two more goals, claiming a decisive 3-1 win for the Admirals. Kip heaves a sigh of relief when the buzzer sounds and the game ends, the Admirals (and their fans) celebrating wildly. Kip is also celebrating, because this means that Scott will definitely be coming in on Saturday.
Elena snorts as his body relaxes, poking him in the side. “You were really stressed about that, huh?” Kip glares at her.
“Shut up.” She laughs, laying back on him to stretch her legs out along the couch. He barely stifles a yawn, resting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing slowly. She groans at his touch, turning slightly so he can massage her shoulder more firmly.
“Stay the night.” Her voice is muffled into his chest. “I know I’m closer to your clinic than your parents' house.” Kip smiles. The first time she’d offered this, he’d been extremely flattered, but also disappointed that he didn’t have a change of clothes and had to decline. He still feels flattered, now, but it’s a more common occurrence. Truly, he is endlessly grateful to have her in his life still. Considering he essentially left her on delivered for an entire year after getting back—preferring to hole up in his room and throw himself into school instead of focusing on pesky things like human relationships or therapy—he probably doesn’t deserve her. But no, instead she was kind and understanding and also didn’t stand for his shit, quite literally bullying him into going to his graduation in person. He’s not sure he could deny her a thing.
“Sure.” He says. There’s a drawer in the guest room that has some spare clothes in his size for impromptu visits like this. She smiles, turning over so her other shoulder is facing Kip. He takes the hint and starts rubbing that one too. She sighs into his side as Kip works the stress knots out of her muscles. Honestly, this is the least Kip can do for her. And he’ll still have this, no matter how everything with Scott Hunter works out. It’ll be fine. Kip can have this stupid crush, and his best friend can support him, and when it inevitably fails, she’ll be there to make him feel better and the world will move on. It’ll be okay.