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Prodded by Elena, Kip arranged to switch shifts with Maria so that he could be working before Scott Hunter's game on Saturday. But of course when Kip clocked in that morning, he was instantly run off his feet, trying to do five things at once because Jeff had called out at the last minute and he was the only one working. Kip's head was pounding by the time the line finally cleared and the shop slowly emptied out, and he couldn't even resent it, because he'd brought it on himself. This was absolutely divine punishment for his hubris, because—
Well. Every queer person Kip had ever known, including himself, had their own funny-not-funny version of this story. Had made themselves the punchline of this joke. You met someone, the chemistry was electric, you were making a breathless, out of the blue connection, and then the guy you'd been quietly planning the rest of your life with smiled and hit you with: "Wow, you know who else loves Wong Kar-wai movies? My wife!"
Good to know! And all you could do was go home and scream into a pillow and maybe laugh about it someday. Eventually.
Scott Hunter didn't have a wife, though. He didn't have a girlfriend. He wasn't dating anyone. Or if he was, then he was keeping it extremely private. Scott Hunter felt very strongly about keeping his private life private. Which Kip knew because he'd said so in those exact words in oh, a dozen or so interviews over the course of his professional career, and Kip been guiltily internet-stalking him near-constantly since— well, since about thirty seconds after the guy in the Admirals snapback had done a double-take and said "Holy shit, was that Scott Hunter?"
But as much as Maria insisted that love or at least lust was in the air, Kip had to be so real. Absence of evidence was not evidence of absence; just because Scott didn't splash his relationships across the front pages didn't mean he was gay. Maybe he did have a partner, maybe they had a George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin thing going on. Maybe she was a brilliant surgeon, or a partner in some prestigious corporate law firm, emphatically uninterested in playing the role of First Lady of Hockey in New York.
Or…
Maybe there was no woman in Scott Hunter's life because Scott didn't want one.
Maybe he was actually flirting with Kip.
God, Kip was going nuts. He had to be. Because Scott was just being charming, right? Casually deploying the practiced public relations skills of a guy who'd been a celebrity millionaire since before he could legally drink. Maybe he understood that Kip was attracted to him, maybe he was just affable enough to be flattered... but still straight. Just a super chill heterosexual guy whose straightness was so absolutely not in question that he was comfortable with some flirty banter while he ordered his lucky smoothie. That was a lot more plausible than: actually, a handsome, funny, charming, famous, rich, Olympian athlete, trending hashtag #KingOfNewYork, is flirting with you, part-time barista and half-decent waiter Kip Grady.
Wasn't it?
And then Scott Hunter came in, and he looked at Kip. And he talked to Kip, his voice going low and teasing. And once again, Kip was lost in the sauce. "May I, uh, drink this here?" Scott asked, raising his smoothie cup. "I've got some emails to answer, so I thought..."
Kip's heart was pounding as he said, "You totally may."
Scott did the subtle look-back twice on his way over to the ledge set against the front window. Twice. Kip watched out of the corner of his eye as Scott settled in and pulled out his phone, then reluctantly went over to the smoothie station and started cleaning up. God, Scott was so gorgeous it was almost painful. Today he was in head to toe black, a beautiful dark profile framed in the brightness of the window. The curves and dips of the muscles of his back gleamed, highlighted with sweat as he bent over his phone. Kip sighed, imagining him sculpted in bronze.
The smoothie shop stayed dead, thankfully. Finally Kip finished cleaning up and pulled out his laptop just to give himself something to do that wasn't staring thirstily. He checked the balance on his student loans, then a few different application deadlines for different grad schools. That was depressing enough that he felt like he deserved to indulge in another glance up at Scott, still tapping out emails on his phone.
With a twinge of guilt, Kip closed a few tabs from his latest Scott Hunter google-stalking session. It still felt so weird to look up stuff about Scott online. Kip wasn't really sure why. It wasn't like he'd picked some random guy off the street and started scrolling years back in his social media galleries to try and find shirtless beach pics. The stuff Kip was looking at had been created and posted on purpose. When Scott gave interviews and did photoshoots, it was all cleared and approved. He knew people were going to see those things.
Still, it felt invasive. And honestly Kip did know why. Especially with Scott sitting there, ten feet away, an adorable scowl of concentration on his face as he typed with his thumbs.
It felt invasive because Kip honestly hadn't had to try very hard at all, and he already knew so much.
On YouTube there were clips from a ESPN documentary featuring old home videos of ten-year-old Scott playing hockey with his parents, before they'd been killed by a drunk driver. Teenage baby-faced number two draft pick Scott glowed in overexposed, pixelated low-res footage like an anointed saint. There were feel-good news spots from the toy drive and the school library fundraiser and the animal shelter, accolades from beaming nurses and social workers gushing over how Scott Hunter always went the extra mile to make his visits fun for the kids. Kip knew the general location and layout of Scott's upstate vacation house: Inside MLH Captain Scott Hunter's $6 Million Lakefront Mansion. And a few years ago a men's magazine had done a longform video of Scott awkwardly walking through his workout routine in a sleeveless tank, so Kip actually knew what he looked like wearing even less than his usual sweaty, half-translucent jogging outfit.
There were also occasional signs that he might not be a total hockey bro. He'd been spotted at a fundraiser dinner in 2012 for the Obama campaign. That was a good sign, wasn't it? He'd also made a painfully awkward ninety-second cameo on Weekend Update later that year in full hockey drag, debating Seth Meyers about whether Carly Rae Jepsen was actually a misunderstood genius… which, okay, absolutely played into oh-so-hilarious stereotypes about what 'real men' were and were not allowed to like, but in Kip's opinion the writing had managed to avoid overt homophobia by the skin of its teeth, and anyway it wasn't like Scott had written it, so. Fine. Whatever.
Every time Kip looked up and saw Scott still there in the shop, a lovely jolt of surprise hit him again. God, he was so gorgeous, so endearing. That nervy grin, those heavy-lidded glances... It was like seeing a deer in your backyard and realizing with a shock that this wild, fey creature actually existed in the same world as you. Knowing that if you sneezed, if you even twitched, it would just turn and disappear forever. That there was nothing you could do to make it stay.
Kip sighed and decided to enjoy the view while it lasted.
Eventually, Scott's typing slowed, and he rolled one shoulder back in a slow stretch. He'd been there for almost twenty minutes, Kip realized. He wandered out in front of the counter, carefully adjusting the angle of some of the countertop signs. Making up things to do, really. Just wanting to be closer. He finally glanced over at Scott, nothing between them but a few tables and chairs. "Not worried about breaking your routine?"
"I'm not actually that obsessive," Scott said immediately. "Turns out I'm too lazy to be a serial killer."
Kip blinked, taken aback. Bringing up serial killers, unprompted, definitely seemed like a point on the side of 'absolutely not flirting.' Who brought up serial killers when they were trying to be cute? And then kept talking about them?
But then, who kept looking at you with those dark, soft, hungry eyes and then shyly dragging their gaze away if they weren't flirting? What was that? Then Scott confessed that he read a lot of murder books, and that serial killers made him feel— not obsessive. Well, okay.
"Oh, yeah. I've read some things about athletes," Kip said. Maybe one athlete in particular. One notably intense one.
"Okay, so. Before you say anything else, yes, I agree. And yes, there are at least two guys on my team that possibly, off the record—" Scott's phone buzzed in his hand, and he jumped, startled. "Uh, hang on. One second, sorry." Leaning his elbow on the table ledge, he lifted the phone to his ear. "Patty?" Scott said, and oh god, he did have a girlfriend. Patty was his girlfriend, wasn't she. Fuck. Kip winced, turning to head back behind the counter.
"Yeah?" Scott said, and then, warily, "yeah, no, I can talk. No, it's fine. What's up? You sound—" He paused for a long moment, frowning, then slowly sat up straight. "Okay. So… your friend called you to tip you off, got it. Fuck. Who—" He glanced at Kip and looked away again. This time it didn't seem flirty at all. He lowered his voice. "What do they have?"
Kip wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but the shop was small, and Scott's deep voice carried easily over the buzzy music from the aging speakers overhead. He went a bit further back in the prep area, opened the mini-fridge and listened to the hum. They were low on oat milk. Maybe he should duck into the storage room and get some more.
"Patty, listen, whatever it is, just spit it out, okay?" Scott said, still sounding mostly confused. "What—"
Kip was starting to think Patty wasn't a girlfriend. Scott had an odd, serious tone to his voice. Maybe Patty worked for the Admirals, or maybe it had something to do with the Olympics. Scott was the captain of Team USA; if one of the selected players had gotten caught up in a scandal, he'd probably have to make a statement. Hopefully it wasn't something totally horrific. Scott was probably— no, absolutely— the hottest guy Kip had ever encountered in his real actual life, but if he was about to close ranks and support a teammate who'd committed sexual assault or something like that— well, he could go get his smoothies somewhere fucking else.
"Pictures from where?" Scott said. Something in his voice froze Kip in his tracks. He said nothing for a long while, then managed to choke out, "No. I'm still here. Jesus Christ. Patty, they can't publish those. No, what do you mean they're going to—" Another long pause. "No, it's— It is. Fuck." He paused, and Kip managed to turn his head just enough to see Scott out of the corner of his eye. He was leaning hard on his elbow as he spoke, his free hand pressing against his forehead, voice gone gravelly and cracked. "I don't know." Another pause. "I mean I don't know. Last year, in Capri— but— Legally, Patty, there has to be— No, I know. But isn't there something..."
The song playing on the overhead speakers ended. Scott was sitting very still, eyes squeezed shut, heavy vertical furrows appearing between his brows as if gouged there.
"Patty, this is my life we're talking about," he said helplessly into the silence. "My life. I can't— okay. No. Okay." He was breathing fast. "No. I hear you. I... Tell your friend thanks. For the tip-off." The call ended and his arm went limp, hand dropping to the counter. His phone slipped out of his grasp with a quiet clatter that made Kip jump.
For a long moment, Scott stayed perched there on the chair, one foot on the ground, hand flat and trembling against the table. He didn't look like a bronze statue now. He looked like a puppet with its strings cut.
Slowly, Kip came out from behind the counter. "Are you okay?" he asked cautiously. Scott's eyes flew open like he'd forgotten Kip was there, dark hollows under his wide eyes. "That sounded... intense."
"That was— Patty works for my agent," Scott said. He stared at the far wall of the shop, not looking at Kip. "She has a contact, I guess. Over at NYC Press."
"The tabloid."
"Yeah," Scott said, clutching the table ledge. "They're going to... They have pictures. Of me. From—" He flinched, then looked at Kip and stammered out, "From a, a gay club."
Lots of straight people go to gay clubs, Kip almost blurted, stupidly desperate to say something, anything reassuring in the face of Scott's obvious distress. But of course Scott wouldn't be reacting like this if the pictures were some kind of meaningless tourist adventure, easily explained away— Everyone knows gay clubs have better music—
"It might not even be a club," Scott continued, jaw working. "There's this beach spot in Capri, I— I fucked a couple of guys there. It was dark, so I thought..." He trailed off. "Italians aren't real big on ice hockey."
"Oh my god, Scott," Kip finally said. He closed the distance between them, reached out and wrapped his hand around Scott's upper arm. He was trembling faintly, the thin fabric of his top clammy with cold sweat. He wanted to say, There's nothing you can do? but it sounded like Scott had already gone through that. He didn't need Kip demanding reassurance. "I'm so sorry. Oh my god, I don't even know what to say. Fuck, that's— that's awful."
"I should go," Scott said, shifting forward. Kip pulled his hand away and stepped back to give Scott a clear path to the front door. Scott stood up and took half a step and his knees buckled. He dropped into a crouch, breathing hard, hunched over his knees. At the same moment, Kip glanced sideways and realized that a small crowd of trendily-dressed young women was moving off the sidewalk and turning towards the front door. They were all laughing and chattering, all of them clutching their cellphones.
Kip moved instinctively, reaching out to flip the OPEN sign on the front door to CLOSED, then crouched next to Scott to click the floor lock shut. "Come on," he said, curling his hand under Scott's upper arm again. "Here."
Scott didn't seem to be aware of the women outside, but let himself be hauled up anyway. Kip hastily tugged him past the front counter and through the swinging door into the narrow back hallway. His expression was numb, and he let Kip drag him along by the arm with a blank obedience that was scary as shit. Not knowing what else to do, Kip led him into the break room.
Well, calling it a break room was a stretch. It was basically a walk-in pantry lined with black metal shelves of paper goods and non-perishable supplies. There were a few stacked lockers for the employees to put their backpacks in, and one single black metal folding chair tucked into the corner. Kip guided Scott down into the chair and Scott bent forward, interlacing his fingers over the back of his neck.
There was a faint jingling from outside as someone tried to push the front door open. Scott seemed to not hear it. Kip ignored it. Reaching out, he put his hand over Scott's interlaced fingers, shocked at the icy coldness of his hands.
"Are you okay?" he said, then mentally kicked himself. God, obviously not.
"The season's barely started," Scott said to the floor, breathing in shallow, shaky gasps. "Oh fuck, the— the Olympics, oh god, I can't— I've fucked it all up."
"Don't, don't think about any of that that." Kip dropped into a crouch next to the chair and threw his arm over Scott's shoulders, pulling until Scott gave in and leaned into him. Kip tentatively put his other hand on Scott's leg, just above the knee. "Just try to breathe." He forced himself to follow his own instructions, inhaling for a long count, holding it, then exhaling slowly. "C'mon. Breathe, Scott."
Scott nodded, his breath hitching, shifting with effort to match Kip's. Slowly, he let more of his weight rest against Kip, the hard curve of his shoulder pressing into the center of his chest. Kip's thighs started to complain after a while, but he held firm, not wanting to shift position in case Scott thought he was pulling away.
"Okay," Scott said after a while. He sounded almost normal. "Okay. I— I have to make some calls." Kip drew back as Scott glanced around, lost. "My phone—"
"I'll get it. Wait," Kip said, touching Scott's shoulder as he stood. He headed up front and grabbed Scott's phone. Another balked customer was trying to peer in through the glass of the front door, cupping their hands to see inside. "Sorry, we're closed!" Kip called, turning to hurry back.
Scott blinked as Kip came back, pulling the door shut behind him. "You closed up?"
"Don't worry about it," Kip said, handing his phone over. Scott nodded once, staring at his phone. He was frozen for a long moment, then started scrolling through his contacts. He selected one, then lifted the phone to his ear as it rang. Kip started to step back, reaching for the doorknob, thinking Scott would probably would want privacy. But Scott's eyes flashed up to his, and he stretched out his free hand almost desperately. Kip stepped forward and took it immediately, squeezing Scott's hand as someone on the other end picked up.
"Andy. It's Scott Hunter," Scott said, his voice frighteningly composed as he requested an immediate, high priority conference call and went down a list of people who should be on it. "Yeah. Whoever you can get from Admirals legal. My personal representation will be on the call, too."
This close, Kip caught the faint, bewildered voice on the other end of the line. "Your personal— wait a minute. Scott. Don't you have practice today? Don't you have a game tonight?"
"No," Scott said calmly. "I don't think I do."
There was a longer pause. "Okay, Scott. Give me thirty minutes. I'll send you the number to dial in when we're ready for you."
"Thanks, Andy," Scott said. "Appreciate your help." He ended the call, and his head dropped again. He made one horrible stifled sound, like he was choking back a sob.
He tried to pull his hand back from Kip's. Kip didn't let him. He lifted his free hand to knuckle tears out of his own eyes, then clutched Scott's hand between his. "I came out to my dad when I was fourteen," he said, and felt Scott's hand twitch. Scott looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. Kip cleared his throat and went on. "And if I hadn't been ready, if I hadn't gotten to do it on my own terms— honestly, I don't know. I can't even imagine." He swallowed. "I'm so sorry this is happening. It's not right. It should be your choice, they have no right—! God, I'm just so sorry. I wish there was something I could do."
Scott stared up at him, eyes red-rimmed. He tightened his grip on Kip's hand briefly, then let it drop, baring his teeth in something like a smile. "Want to hear something funny?"
Kip's stomach dropped. "Sure."
Scott stood up, pacing in one long stride to the far wall, turning to lean back against the lockers. He looked away from Kip, then back, chin tucked low against his chest so that he was almost looking up at Kip through his eyelashes. "I told myself today, I promised myself that if you said anything that— Anything that made it clear that you were— attracted to men. Or me. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the game tonight."
"Oh," Kip said, startled. "You were?"
"Because I can get away with it. It doesn't mean anything, the tickets don't cost me anything, it's not a big deal. It's deniable." Scott's smile was thin, sharp. "You'd have to give me your number, so the office could send you the tickets. And I'd have you put it in my phone, and for a second I could pretend like I was really asking for your number, and you were giving it to me because you wanted—" He exhaled sharply. "Because you wanted me to call you. And you'd come to the game. I'd see you in the stands. Pretend like I was going to take you out after the game. Or take you home. Go home with you, after."
"Scott," Kip said, almost voiceless.
"And then I'd stop coming here," Scott said, still smiling. "Maybe tomorrow I start heading this way out of habit and then I just turn around and run the other way. Never come back. Just scared totally shitless, because I went too far, because I wanted— too much. Way too much. And you might guess, you might know, and I can't... I don't do that. My life is... I can't," he said, almost pleading. "And then..." He shook his head. "I'd just never see you again. That's the kind of coward I am."
"You're not a coward," Kip said at once. "It's not—"
Scott's grin was ugly, cold. "Hey," he said, almost gently. "You have no idea what a fucking coward I am. Okay?"
Kip had no idea what to say to that. It was true, wasn't it? He didn't know.
Scott let out a shuddering sigh, his shoulders easing a fraction. "I really should go."
"Okay," Kip said. "Let me just..." He took a cautious look out of the storeroom. There wasn't anyone pressing their face to the door, but there was a group of what looked like tourists clustered in the outside seating area, chatting and posing for photos and videos. Kip's stomach tightened. He stepped back, reaching out a hand. "Come on, this way."
He grabbed Scott's icy hand and held it. Led him towards the back door. Turning towards Scott, he hit the pushbar of the door with his hip rather than let go. The door swung open and light flooded into the dim hallway, shockingly bright. Kip blinked as sunlight spilled across his face. Scott stood in front of him, half in shadow, glowing with reflected light.
"Thank you," Scott said. Calm as a corpse. "For all this. You didn't have to."
"Wait," Kip said as Scott started to move away. "Let me give you my number," he said, and Scott shuddered hard, but he stopped. "Please. I just get the feeling that you— If you need someone to talk to. Just as a friend, okay? If you need anything, Scott... please."
"This is going to be a mess. You don't want—" Scott said, already shaking his head. Kip reached up and cupped his face, making Scott's eyes flash to his, startled.
"Yes. Yes, I do," he said, and meant it.
Scott blinked, pulled out his phone and looked at it, then unlocked it and handed it to Kip. Kip opened the contacts, added his name and number, and gave it back reluctantly. "Any time, okay?" he insisted. "Day or night. I mean it."
Scott just nodded, staring down at the ground.
"And, hey. For the record, I'm flattered. It would have been nice to come to one of your games," Kip said. Scott's face went even more blank. Fuck, he shouldn't have said that, probably. Too late now. "I think— I just think I would've really liked that."
Scott lifted his free hand and touched Kip's face gently. "Can I, um..." he said, leaning in, damp lashes fluttering down as he zeroed in on Kip's mouth. "Kip. Can I..."
"Yeah," Kip said, fresh hot tears springing to his eyes, "yes, Scott, please—" and Scott crowded him back into the door hard, the metal push bar making a sound like a gunshot as their mouths met and their bodies collided. Scott kissed him hungry, hot, starving for it. He tasted like blueberries, like swallowed tears, like bile. His ice-cold hands groped at Kip, clumsy and desperate, fingers digging into the thin fabric of his t-shirt just above his waist, grasping Kip's jaw and tilting his head back so he could get closer, deeper. Kip let himself be moved, hands scrabbling uselessly against Scott's slick, frictionless shirt. When they finally broke apart, they were both gasping.
Scott stayed close, hot breath gusting against Kip's cheek, their foreheads pressed together. Then he made a choked sound, swallowed and pulled back. When Kip met his eyes again, he'd locked it all back down. His mouth quirked to the side, but his eyes were depthless with sorrow.
"Please take care of yourself," Kip said thickly. Scott just kept smiling.
"Oh, it's too late for that," he said, darting in to press a hard kiss to Kip's jaw.
Kip made a sound of protest, but Scott was already turning away. Already out of arms' reach, heading toward the alley that led out of the tiny parking lot behind the shop.
Kip stood and watched as Scott broke into a run, moving away from Kip and toward whatever waited for him out there. In the blink of an eye, he turned the corner and was gone.