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“Are they super-successful juice-bar baristas too?” “They got jobs in their field. They’re both working in Boston. Business something? Insurance? Finance? I don’t know. They wear suits to work.” “You wear an apron. That’s pretty great.” “Yeah, I’m super proud.” “And a ball cap with a little strawberry embroidered on it. Come on!”
Three years ago he had led Team USA to Olympic gold. But Kip mostly knew him for his Hugo Boss ads. He was a big fan of those ads.
The owner of the apartment in which he now stood, Elena, had a real job and a life that seemed very adult compared to Kip’s. She was a cybersecurity engineer for Equinox Tech, one of the fastest-growing IT companies in the country.
Anyway, Elena had probably known he was gay before he did. She knew everything before he did.
The articles often highlighted his generous devotion to charities, especially those that help sick children, and described him as an outstanding role model on and off the ice.
“You, uh, you mind if I drink this here?” Scott asked, as if there weren’t tables and chairs right next to him. “I just…have some emails to read.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and waved it in the air. “Of course, yeah,” Kip said, not able to believe his luck.
Kip could not believe what he was about to do, but he had to test the waters. Just a little. “Not saying I mind it,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “You guys always look so rugged by the time you hoist the cup. Like a bunch of hot lumberjacks.” There. So that was out there.
“No, listen to me. You are ridiculously good-looking. Do you think I’m happy that you’re gay? I am not.”
The man was doing a deep lunging hamstring stretch that showed how flexible he was. Kip imagined what that position might look like without the heavily padded hockey pants.
Since there was nothing to look at outside the window, Scott pulled out his book. It was a dumb spy novel, but it was something to pass the time with.
“First of all, I feel like we maybe ganged up on you when we were—” “Asking me what the fuck I was doing with my life?” “Encouraging you to pursue your dreams.” “Right.”
What he hated was this: being on display for a room of wealthy, fawning donors. Making small talk with tedious people. Wearing a tuxedo. Being mindful of his every move, his every word.
The only food seemed to be on little trays being carried by servers wearing all black. He inched toward one, hoping to snag a shrimp or something. The server turned, and Scott was shocked to see that it was: “Kip!” Kip looked just as surprised.
“I, uh, I didn’t have a change of clothes with me, so I went to a bodega that sold some touristy stuff,” Scott explained.
“It’s just nice. Doing this.” “Hanging out with someone?”
“Let me take care of you. You can just be Scott from Rochester tonight, all right?”
“I want you to fuck me,” Scott said. “You do?” Kip was certainly down for whatever, but he’d just sort of assumed that the captain of an NHL team might be kind of…toppy.
Kip grabbed Scott’s hips and hauled him closer, then he slid back and thrust in, hard and fast. Scott cried out, but he was smiling. He looked ecstatic. “Just like that,” Scott breathed. “Hard. Please.”
“You’re leaving?” Scott sounded disappointed. Kip paused, holding his jeans in one hand, his T-shirt in the other. “Yeah, I mean…” “You don’t have to,” Scott said. “You can stay. I… I’d like you to stay. If you want.”
Scott exhaled. This was unknown territory for him. Kip was hardly his boyfriend, but he wasn’t just a one-night stand that Scott had picked up either. At least, not to Scott.
“That must have hurt.” “I’ve had worse.” “I’ll make it better.”
Kip couldn’t be sure what Scott was thinking about, but he was sure wishing he could be going as Scott’s date. He imagined dancing with him in that fancy ballroom, both dressed to the nines, cameras flashing…
“I’m just saying,” Scott said, “I don’t think it’s the smoothies.”
“You won’t have to settle for anything,” Scott murmured against his ear. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Kip was a tall, solid guy, but Scott made him feel small. He loved how Scott could manhandle him.
“Don’t come,” Scott said, as if reading his mind. “I want to see it. Don’t come.”
“Don’t know…” Kip choked out, “don’t know if I can obey that order, Hunter.” Scott snarled and, without warning, pulled out and flipped Kip over. He hauled Kip’s ankles up onto his shoulders and pushed back in, harder and faster than before.
“It’s completely selfish, actually. I want to see you in a tux that was tailored to your gorgeous body. I might not be able to dance with you that night, but you’ll know I’ll be wishing I was.”
“Your choice, Hunter.” Scott looked away and actually blushed a little. “It’s kind of hot when you call me that,” he said, “but it’s really going to fuck me up when I’m hearing it on the ice.” Kip laughed. “Maybe I want you thinking of me during games.” Scott groaned. “You ever gotten hard while wearing a jock? Not pleasant.” “Sounds like you have.”
“Scott here is saving himself for marriage,” Carter said, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “And he’s saving marriage for after he dies.”
“You should tell her. If you want. You said she’s your best friend?” “Yeah.” “Tell her. I don’t want us to come between you and your best friend.”
“Please,” Scott said. “We’ll get them back by coming back and winning this game, all right?”
The discussion had escalated to the point that Zullo had informed Scott that his roommate, Brisebois, was “a fucking queer anyway,” and that he “could have stayed and learned something.”
Kip knew he wouldn’t hear from Scott tonight. He considered sending him a text, maybe try to cheer him up. All he could think of were unhelpful platitudes, though.
When the alarm on his phone woke him at five the next morning, he saw a message from Scott, sent at 1:30 a.m.: I’d give anything to see you right now.
Boston had their own star center, a hotshot Russian named Ilya Rozanov. He was cocky, brash, flashy…everything Scott wasn’t. And the fans loved him. He was also an incredibly skilled player, with an uncanny ability to always be in the right place at the right time.
“Socks,” he said. “Yeah, they’re kinda like the color of blueberries. Or, like, the color of your smoothie that you get. I thought maybe you could wear them when you’re on the road. It would be like bringing the good luck with you?”
“When I first looked at this place, and I saw this tub, I thought, ‘It’s big enough for two.’ And I know it’s dumb, but I always wanted… I imagined sharing it with someone.”
“Go in late. I’ll write you a note.” Kip laughed. “What would it say?” “‘Sorry Kip is late, but Scott Hunter was riding his dick.’”
“I’m not gonna see you until the gala tomorrow night,” Scott sighed. “And even then it will be agony, not touching you.” “Sexy, though, right? Kinda?” “Kinda.”
“What are you talking about? I’m fine. Has he looked yet?” “No. But if he does come over here—Okay, he sees you.” “How can you tell?” “Because he just lit up like the goddamn sun. Jesus. You guys are doomed.”
One of the things Scott really liked about Kip was that he never seemed interested in Scott’s money or fame. Being with Kip was the only time Scott felt like… Scott.
When the song ended, Elena leaned in. “You can kiss me, if you want. If you want to…divert attention.” He smiled, touched by the offer, and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you. But I won’t do that to you.”
It was almost half an hour later when he heard the click of the door being opened. He stood, but didn’t move toward the door. He just stayed in the dimly lit living room with the lights of the city behind him. He would let Scott come to him.
Scott was overwhelmed. Somehow, dancing fully clothed in his living room was the most romantic experience of his life.
In a move that surprised both of them, Scott hoisted Kip off the ground, holding him firmly as Kip wrapped strong legs around him.
“I was thinking… Planes, y’know? And anything can happen…” “Scott?” “I love you,” he said. “I just wanted to say that. Before I left.” Kip’s jaw hit the floor.
But Scott’s mind wasn’t on the hunk filling the seat next to him; it was on the secret boyfriend that he’d left behind. The secret boyfriend he loved.
“Okay, now I really am jealous.” “You have nothing to be jealous of.” “Maybe I should hop a flight to Columbus. See if you and Jalo wanna make a sandwich outta me.” “Oh my god. Kip, stop.” Scott was turning beet red in his hotel room. Jalo was his teammate! And now he was picturing the three of them—
Detroit was cold as hell. Not that it had been particularly warm anywhere Scott had been lately, but Detroit was unreasonably cold.
