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“Hey,” Bennett said, after they separated, “what’s his name?” Scott grinned. “Kip.” Carter looked suddenly delighted. “Kip!” he said. “That is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard! Are you kidding me with that shit?” “Thank god,” Huff said. “I thought you were gonna say you were secretly dating Rozanov.” “Rozanov wishes,” Scott said.
“I can’t lose you,” Scott said, kissing him again. “I can’t.”
Kip toed off his own sneakers and followed Scott to his bedroom. It would be their bedroom soon, if Scott had anything to say about it.
“Fucking love you so much, Kip,” he babbled. “Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. So scared I was gonna lose you. I need you. I need you. Fuck!”
I can’t lose him. Not ever. “Not gonna lose me,” Kip said. Shit, Scott must have said that out loud.
“It’s not Rozanov, is it?” “Jesus. No! Why does everyone—?”
“This is the problem with taking you anywhere,” Scott said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I’m talking about how you have exactly three minutes to eat that dessert because I am getting you back to my place as soon as fucking possible.” “What, no coffee?” “I’ll make you coffee in the goddamn morning.”
Scott turned toward the reporters and cameras. “So,” he said, “any questions?”
Carter Vaughan caught him when Kip had been standing alone. “Here’s the guy I’ve been wanting to meet! Come here, man!” Before Kip knew what was happening, Carter enveloped him in a sweaty hug. “Kip, Kip, Kip. I love that fucking name, you know. So, what the fuck, right? Did you and Scott Hunter really just make out in front of the whole damn world?”
“That,” Carter said with a wide grin, “is fucking cute. He picked you up at work? I didn’t think Hunter had any game!” “He didn’t, really. Pick me up, I mean. He just kind of kept coming in. And I sort of…hinted…” Carter shared a knowing look with Bennett. “Yeah, that makes a lot more sense. He was probably hoping you might just trip and fall on him or something if he kept showing up.”
Carter laughed. “All right, stand down, soldier. We’ve got your back. I like you, Kip. Almost as much as I like saying your name.”
He was officially, boldly, staring down the homophobic stereotypes that got thrown around locker rooms and saying, yes, Scott Hunter—captain of the New York Admirals and model of rugged masculinity—was going to a gay nightclub with his pretty, painted boyfriend.
Rozanov seemed to consider this. “Is good. What you did. It will be good for…others.” There was something in Rozanov’s eyes that caught Scott’s attention. He hadn’t ever seen that look on his face before. Was it gratitude, maybe? “I hope so,” Scott said. Rozanov held his gaze for another second, and then looked away.
He needed to get out of here, or make peace with the fact that he was going to fuck Kip against a wall in front of god and Ilya Rozanov.
And Scott didn’t have much experience at clubs, but the way Rozanov moved against the men he danced with seemed a lot more deliberate and practiced than someone who was just trying to get into the spirit of the place. Huh.
A year ago—hell, a month ago—Scott would never have imagined this scenario. Out at a gay club with his best friends—his teammates—and his boyfriend and, uh, Ilya Rozanov.
