#sixtysixdaysofskip

The honeymoon was dead and gone by the final semester of Kip's M.A. program. He loved Scott still, fiercely, passionately, and he didn't regret the compromises it had taken for him to fit into Scott's life. Scott compromised for him, too. But now he had to live with Scott Hunter with the shine worn off, and Scott had to live with him, and sometimes murder-suicide sounded like an option.

Kip could do it! They'd listened to Scott's favorite podcasts in the car all the way to Rochester and back and those were full of ideas. Kip absolutely had to get his driver's license this year. Driver picks the music was ancient law and he could not trust Scott with that power.

Unless Kip hurled both of them out the window right now, solving the problem permanently.

What he'd been trying to articulate for the last hour was, more or less, "I want to make sure I'm making this decision for the right reasons. The jobs available to a PhD in art history aren't that much more numerous than the ones available to an MA. Arguably the situation's worse, because I'll be overqualified for entry-level work that might get me onto a museum staff sooner. And even with teaching, I'll be committing to more years of making less than I could waiting tables at the Kingfisher. I don't want to put myself through that for nothing, just because getting to do research for a few years is fun. Maybe it's time for me to get a real job." Either he wasn't doing it very well, or Scott wasn't listening. He just nodded along and kept suggesting solutions that Kip wasn't asking for.

Until Scott Hunter, multimillionaire, hockey star, American hero, said with sweet reason in his voice, "It's not a big deal."

Kip spoke from the heart: "Oh fuck you."

Scott was still reeling when Kip grabbed his jacket and his shoes and stormed out.

<hr>

It was probably the shower cutting off that woke Scott, the sudden absence of a sound he hadn't noticed while it happened. He hadn't twitched when Kip had come in and shucked his clothes into the hamper. On his stomach, arms hugging his pillow, blanket twisted around him, he looked less like he'd fallen asleep and more like he'd wrestled sleep to the ground. Kip watched from the doorway, toweling his hair, as Scott groggily brought his phone to his face to find out that it was a little after two in the morning.

When he pushed himself up and reached for the bedside lamp, Kip said, "Leave it off."

The Manhattan night through the gauzy curtain was enough to navigate the room by, and neither of them would have their mood improved by squinting against the light. With his glasses and his contacts left by the sink, he wouldn't be able to make out Scott's face clearly anyway, and the darkness made them equal. He sat on his side of the bed, facing the headboard with his knees drawn up, his arms folded on top of them.

"Can we talk?"

"You have class in the morning," Scott said, concern in his sleep-muzzed voice.

Kip snorted. "Yeah, and you have physio for your ankle, so this is mutually-assured destruction."

Scott didn't laugh. That was fine. It wasn't much of a joke. After a little while, he said, "I thought you'd go to your dad's."

Of course he did. Once after a hard talk, Kip had gone to his dad's home and stayed for a while, until he could sort himself out. Ever since then some part of Scott had been expecting that to be where he went when he walked out.

And Scott did believe he would walk out.

It was irritating, but Kip was tired, and it just made him sad. So he said, "Either I live here or I don't. This is my bed or it isn't. Is this my bed?"

"Yes! Of course, it's all —" There was the sound of Scott Hunter stopping himself from saying something too intense. It sounded like swallowing a sentence backwards. Scott's hand had twitched towards him, but it stopped, hovering somewhere in between their bodies before dropping to the bed.

Kip nodded to himself, over his knees, and hugged them closer. "Then I want to sleep here."

Quietly, hopeful, "Okay."

Maybe they should just go to sleep. He'd yawned so hard in the shower that his jaw had popped. Class was going to be brutal. Undergrad hadn't been like this, had it? He distinctly remembered one night about this time, trooping out to the Bronx with half a dozen architecture and urban design students he'd fallen in with, to find the grave of Robert Moses and piss on it. Whether they'd succeeded or not, he couldn't really say; there had been a bottle of tequila and some kind of German drink that tasted a lot like strawberries and almost nothing like alcohol, and he was pretty sure it was the latter that explained the gap in his memory. He'd come back to sapience puking into the East River at dawn, tasting strawberries a second time. But he'd made his eight a.m. seminar on time and earned his participation grade for the day, and he was pretty sure that if he tried that now he'd die.

He rubbed his neck, telling the yawns to go away. "I went to see a movie. It was French and depressing, you'd love it. It was actually kinda terrible at getting my mind off of you. I barely had to look at the subtitles, though. I think my language exams are going to be fine." Stop procrastinating. "Do you understand that it's not about the money?"

"No," Scott said, and he sounded a little less apologetic and a lot more annoyed, "because you keep talking about money. I don't understand why you're worried about whether or not the salary will be worth it when we have —" His teeth clacked together and he drew in a loud breath through them. "Is this your bed? Is everything in this place yours? Or is it all something you resent having to put up with?"

Kip thought about it for a while, because while Scott's tone was defensive, the question was important. Everything didn't just mean the things money bought. "If I could choose between this place and being able to hold your hand on the street, you know which one I'd pick in a heartbeat. Let me finish," he said more sharply than he intended when Scott tried to interject.

"I know that's not a choice. Pretending you're not rich won't change the reason you're rich. I don't resent your money. I resent the hell out of hockey for locking you in the closet when you were a child and punishing you if you ever tried to leave. I don't want you to quit playing the sport you love and I don't want you to put yourself in danger from coming out. We already agreed on that and I'm not reneging. I am so, so angry that's even a thing you have to worry about, and you're just going to have to accept that I'm always going to be angry about it. It's fucked up that I was safer as a broke barista who couldn't make rent than you are now.

"And I know I'm not that anymore. Broke, I mean. I know that we have more money than we are ever gonna need and you think it's stupid that I still wait tables when the tips I make in a week at the bar are pocket change. That is the problem. I want you to take me seriously and I don't think you do. And I'm not sure you're wrong not to, because I'm nearly twenty eight and I've never had a real job, and I'm considering giving myself another four years, minimum, before I even try to get one. I went from living with my dad to living with you and I don't know if I ever could have made it on my own."

Two a.m. was the worst time to say this. It was the only time to say this. In the light of day, Kip knew he would cringe away from this much honesty about himself. Hypocrite, hypocrite. Resenting Scott's silence, hiding himself in the dark. "You don't care about the money. I don't care about the money. I want to share the things we do care about, the things we can, and we can't do that if you're a functional adult and I'm just … a fuckup who hides his head in paintings."

Silence stretched, until he said, "That's all."

"Fuck," Scott said. It was distorted because he was rubbing his face as he said it. "That's. A lot."

"Yeah."

He didn't let himself apologize for it. Living with Scott for better than a year had taught him what it sounded like when someone apologized for just being a person.

Scott said, "I think you're probably the first person to accuse a professional jock of being a 'functional adult.' I mean, ever in history." He shifted out of the frightful stillness he'd held while Kip was speaking and moved so that with just a small turn of Kip's head they were face-to-face. Without his glasses, Kip wouldn't see more than a blur at the best of times, and his own face must be in shadow for Scott. But it felt important that they were looking at each other, even if they couldn't see.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry, I am so sorry that I acted like I don't respect you. I do. So much." Respect wasn't the word Kip used, but Scott was right. That word was right. "You're — you're amazing. No, if you get to be honest so do I. Let me talk, please. You're so smart, and capable of so many things I've never even had the guts to try. I spit my own teeth out for a living. Nothing about you is less than me."

It was remarkably hard to listen to someone praise you when you were down on yourself. Especially when that someone was the one you most wanted to hear it from. Kip bit his lip and made himself listen.

Tentatively, Scott asked, "Can I … when you talk about making it on your own. What's that mean? What's making it to you?"

Kip shrugged. "Being able to pay my fair share, I guess. Independence. Having my shit more together than it's ever been. I lived with roommates in undergrad, and that was stupid. I covered part of the rent with loans when I could have just lived with Dad. I had to move back in anyway. Interest rates didn't seem real when I was eighteen."

He shook his head, and despite his best efforts, he yawned. It was a hell of his own making, sitting in his warm, inviting bed, across from the person he wanted to be snuggled up against, not able to sleep yet. The hour wasn't the only reason he felt drained, but it was a lot on its own.

"I just … don't want to make the same mistakes I made a decade ago, when I got a degree I couldn't do anything with," he said. That hadn't haunted him, precisely, in the years since graduating. He could go whole days without thinking about it, especially when he was working. Dissociating into the minimum-wage life he could have had with a lot less effort, if this was always where he was heading. But inevitably, he would think about it. "Even if you can make sure it doesn't matter if I screw up, I don't want to do that again. Dad and Meg were so proud that I went to college, and I want to actually earn their pride."

Scott cleared his throat. His fingers scratched over the covers in his lap, making nervous little sounds. "It's, um. My brain isn't firing on all cylinders right now. That makes sense, but I guess by that definition I had it made. Way before I met you. They don't even make me have a road roomie anymore. But I was …" He laughed, not the kind where you could think it was about anything funny. "Jesus, I know I'm still fucked up now, but I'm not spending every summer sucking dick in Italian bars like that's all I'm allowed to eat because that's the only way I can be close to anybody.

"I get to be close to you. And Elena, Shawn, Maria, your dad, Meg texts me to make sure I'm treating her baby brother right, Kyle sends me memes and makes fun of me when I don't understand them, it's. I haven't had this since I was twelve. People I can talk to. I couldn't get that on my own. When I thought about telling someone, telling them who I really was …" He trailed off into bad memories.

That was too much. They shouldn't touch right now. Touch between them was too good; at their worst, their bodies still never got the memo that they were supposed to be in conflict. Scott's body just fit his too well, like all the little hollows were cut to Kip's size. They'd let sex cover up too many problems, those first two months. Touch was a temptation to do it again.

But Scott was remembering what it felt like to be completely alone, without hope it would ever really end, and that was too much for Kip to listen to without touching him. They had fought. Past tense. Even in the dark, he didn't have to fumble around to find Scott's hand and pull it to his chest, folded up in both of his own hands. His body always knew where Scott's was.

"You mean just as much to me," he said softly. Scott shivered a little, his hand drinking in Kip's warmth. "I'm here for good. I need you to really believe that."

"I do," Scott said. "I know that. And I know there are things I need to do to make it easier on you. I've been thinking about telling some of the guys on the team. A few. Just to start. Vaughnie, I mean, you've met Carter and he loves you already. It's actually ridiculous how much. I want to tell him that you're more than a friend. I can start there."

He leaned over, bringing his other hand to cover Kip's, so that they were each holding on to the other. He said, "Because I wasn't going to make it on my own. You make my life better. I want more people to know that. I, um, I don't know if you should get your doctorate or not. But I think maybe you don't need me to tell you? I just think, whichever way you decide, you'll make something good out of it. Like you have out of me."

Their bodies did what their bodies always did: fit together. Scott's mouth in the middle of the night tasted stale against Kip's fresh toothpaste. He'd last shaved that morning and his beard grew faster than Kip's did, stubble pricking against Kip's chin. It was so easy to lean against him, knowing he would welcome Kip's weight.

Both wound up yawning into each other's face.

They leaned apart, laughing, letting go of each other's hands. It was okay. For tonight, everything was okay.

"We should get some sleep," Kip told him. "Dad always says it's important in a marriage never to go to bed angry at each other. I'm not angry anymore."

When Scott was silent, he regretted it. "Sorry, I mean …"

Scott said, "We're not married." He sounded unsure about something, but Kip couldn't guess what. The situation was pretty straightforward.

"No," Kip agreed, waiting.

He had to wait a little while. Until Scott asked, "Do you want to be? When. When we can?" He sounded like …

Like a man who'd gotten good news and couldn't quite believe it.

Oh.

It was an easy question to answer. "I'd like to be. When we can."

"Good." His voice almost, almost managed to be even. Scott settled back onto his side of the bed, kicking the blankets more or less straight. "You'll own half of it all. Can't argue with me about using it then. The law's on my side."

Kip rolled his eyes. The gesture was invisible in the dark, but Scott could probably hear it. "Okay, when you're my husband, you can be right about money. Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"On Wednesdays. Between the hours of two and four in the afternoon."

Scott pouted. "That's the worst part of Wednesday."

Kip shook his head, wriggling himself around to get beneath the covers. "Keep complaining and I'll cancel your hours during the playoffs. No shaving, no sex, and no getting to be right."

"We can negotiate later." He sounded like he was already drifting off, but a few minutes later, Kip felt him shift around. "May I hold you?"

"Yeah," Kip said, knowing what he was in for. When the six-foot-two octopus creature attacked him, he just lifted his head so that Scott could get a bicep beneath it and let himself be turned onto his side, facing the window. Scott sighed happily against his neck, with his legs wrapped around Kip's legs and his hand resting in the middle of Kip's torso, right where his diaphragm expanded, riding each breath Kip took.

"Your dad's pretty smart," Scott murmured. "That's where you get it."

Kip hmmed. "I should point out, my parents divorced when I was eight. He's more of a theory guy."

"Mm, theory," Scott said, and it sounded like he was trying to make it sexy, but he fell dead asleep in the middle of faking a moan.

Scott's silence rings in Kip's ears in a way that can't be drowned out by the familiar cacophony of New York, but the city tries anyway: horns and shouts and the clash of music from half a dozen bars swirl around him, far away like he's walking through a dream. Kip's phone sits in his pocket, heavy like a cinder block, ready to drag him under if he strays too close to the East River. He should call someone. Elena. His Dad. Scott. But what would he say? He can't even think in words right now. The all-consuming roar of pain and sorrow drowns everything out.

Tears blur the world around him, and through it all, his feet carry him homeward; away from Scott, further and further, until it's a miracle he's still standing up. His lungs feel like lead, but they're still forcing air in and out of him. His heart still pumps, but it aches like nothing ever has before, except maybe his mother leaving. They hadn't said it, but it had felt final even then.

And a small, ugly part of Kip wishes he could be mad at Scott for this, like he had been at his mother. It would be easier, surely, if the man was being cruel on purpose; if it was simple cowardice, and not something laced with a depressingly realistic fear, that Kip had to compete with. But then it wouldn't be Scott. It wouldn't be this.

Tomorrow, maybe, he will be glad it hurts as keenly and cleanly as it does, but tonight Kip drags himself across the brownstone's threshold like a corpse. His father greets him warmly and prattles on like he's proud; like he knows his son has his own life and just wants to be part of it. It's the only thing he's ever asked for, and it's everything Kip has been denying him.

I miss my Dad. What an awful thing to say.

What an awful thing to let happen.

His Dad looks absolutely chuffed, all rosy cheeks and a puffed chest, glowing as he goes to retrieve a letter. Some letter. Kip's future in a big fat envelope - one that his Dad has always believed in - and suddenly he's a kid again; running home with a skinned knee, a bad grade, a school bully. He's lost Dad's prize baseball, he's damaged Mom's car, he's gotten drunk too early on something he doesn't understand. And yes, he's even slept with a fucking married guy and let himself be walked on and ripped off rather than make a mess of all their lives. But he has never, ever, been unable to tell his father the truth until Scott, and the weight of that crashes in like a wave right there in the entryway. It breaks out of him in a sob - “I'm sorry-” - and the last threads of whatever has been holding him up so far finally snap.

His father's arms wrap around him instead, warm and strong.

“Oh, hey, kiddo. You've got nothing to be sorry for.”

My boy, oh, my boy, his Dad murmurs as Kip lets himself collapse. He's crying too, if for no other reason than his beloved son is in pain, and in spite of himself, in spite of the lies, it makes Kip feel better. His father loves him, no matter what, and he's going to need every ounce of that unconditional love to get him through the next night – month – year.

Kip cries himself hoarse, and curses his stupid pride. His precious, beautiful pride. It will feel like self preservation one day, he is sure, but walking up those stairs to his bedroom afterward is like swimming an ocean of broken glass. He feels every creak beneath his feet, and can't stop himself imagining what it might have been like to bring Scott here one day; what he might have said about the pictures of a young bucktoothed Kip dressed as a tree up on the wall, or about his sister's wedding photos, or whether he would have hit his head on the ill-placed beam near the landing. It doesn't matter now. It can't matter, not anymore.

The fucking suit matters. It's worth more than everything else in this room put together, so Kip pulls it off piece by piece like a wounded soldier, using his last ounce of strength to save a beauty that's too good for him from ruin. The note is still in his pocket, and it comes out stuck to his phone.

- For my man. S.

“Fuck.”

More tears spring from somewhere and Kip drops onto the bed. Apparently, he can't look at the letter S anymore without imagining the quietly proud curl to Scott's lips as he laid out his gift; extravagant, as always, but more than that, it required him to know every inch of Kip's body. Literally. A suit from a stranger doesn't fit like this, and Scott will never be a stranger again.

There's a knock at his bedroom door, and Kip turns as his Dad pushes into the room.

“Hey, Kipper,” he greets softly. “I brought you something to eat. Wasn't sure if you'd had the chance with- with what's happened.”

He holds up his humble offering: a PB&J. Kip's stomach rumbles, and he takes it gratefully and starts pulling the crust off with his fingers – an old habit from when he was a child. As an added bonus, it gives him good reason to avoid his father's endlessly gentle, enquiring eyes.

“Is it about a boy?”

Kip snorts. Yes, Dad. I'm twelve and Steve asked a girl to the dance instead of me. God. If only.

“It's the hockey guy, isn't it?”

His hands freeze. His blood runs cold. He's been so fucking obvious. He thinks about Scott's soft, vulnerable features. His fear - tight lips, tense shoulders.

“You can't tell anyone,” he begs quietly. “No one, Dad. It'll ruin his life.”

“Did he hurt you?” His Dad sounds fierce for a moment, like maybe this mystery man could afford to have his life ruined if he had, and Kip shakes his head.

“No,” he swears. “Fuck. No. He would never.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing,” Kip explains, and for a moment, bitterness taints his tone. “It's just this. It's us. It's the world. He can't come out and I can't go back in. It was always going to end like this. But he's a good man, Dad. Promise me.”

“Okay,” he agrees quietly. “Cross my heart.”

Silence falls again, and Kip rips another piece off the sandwich. It tastes a little sweet, familiar; a buoy, infinitesimal as it is, against the ocean of his heartbreak. Even better, is his Dad's weight on the bed springs and hand on his shoulder, pulling him into another embrace. Kip curls up in his lap like a child with a fever, and his Dad rubs a gentle hand up and down his back. It feels pathetic, and sort of wonderful. He's trying to think of how to thank him, to apologise, to something, when his Dad speaks.

“I'm sorry that the world isn't fair to you,” he says, “and that love... isn't the same for you. I wish I could do more for you. To – protect you or something, I don't know. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I love you, kiddo. So much. I just wish that was enough.”

Kip sighs, and closes his eyes.

It feels like every cell of Scott's body is on fire. The Tornadoes' new rookie, Turner, is playing like he has something to prove, and there's nothing like racing a man half your age for thirty long excruciating seconds to make you feel old. He gets a good pass in at least, but mercifully it isn't long before Murdock waves him off the ice. Carter swaps out, grinning with every bit of fresh-faced vigour he has in him as he intercepts the puck and sweeps it back toward the blue line like a bullet. Scott shakes his head, ripping the stopper from his drink bottle with trembling hands. He gets as much on his mouth as in it, but it's close enough.

“Good?” Murdock checks.

“Yeah,” he pants, “just getting too old for this shit.”

Murdock chuckles. Scott tilts his head back for another mouthful, and that's when it happens - a horrendous crunch, a gasp from the crowd -

“VAUGHNY!” Gillis roars. Murdock swears under his breath, all humour lost to cold dread.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Scott's on his feet before he registers moving, gripping the barricade with white knuckles to resist throwing himself back out there as his eyes search the flurry of red and white. Gillis has his bare hands twisted in Turner's jersey, shoving him backward and hollering in his face. Jalo's not far behind, but neither are Turner's teammates: one of them swings a punch at Gillis, and Jalo dives in, and then Woody, and Scott still can't see Carter. The ref's whistle struggles to break through the cacophony.

“Hey, what the fuck was that, rookie?”

“It's not his fault your winger can't take a hit!"

“Not a dirty one, paskapää!”

“Fuck off, Jalo, he's just a kid!”

“Bullshit, if he wants to play with the big boys he can man the fuck up -"

"Ref! Misconduct!"

"- if he wants a fair fight I'll give it to him!”

“Fucking asshole-”

“Fucking coward -”

They're holding each other back by this point, at least, and the fight dissipates enough for Scott to lay eyes on Carter's limp form, slumped at the edge of the rink like a pile of laundry. Small. Still. Abandoned. Scott feels his heart plummet down to his guts. People break their necks with hits like that.

The whistle sounds again; a long, loud, no-nonsense shriek. The teams reluctantly separate, sour blood in the air between them, but at least now the medical team can get through. Scott grinds his teeth together watching them strap Carter into a backboard and c-collar, and swallows the urge to punch something and scream. He's the Captain. He can't panic - not more than he already is. Not more than Murdock, who bites the knuckle of his thumb and is probably thinking about calling Carter's parents and Carter still isn't moving.

Wilson, the team doctor, gives them a half-hearted thumbs-up as they haul him off down the tunnel, and that's all the relief they have time for as the teams are called to line up again, and Scott forces himself to lock it away. No wonder Kip thinks they're crazy for this, the hockey world; with a little perspective, even Scott can hardly believe he's not running off the ice right now. Maybe he's just too well-trained, but it's not like he doesn't believe it: Carter is in the best possible hands, and that's Wilson's, and the team is in his. They will be shaken after that, and if he can't fucking rally then nobody else will, so that's what he does. He can already feel the absence on his right-hand side: Hollis isn't bad, but he's no Vaughny and he knows it. Probably, so do the Tornadoes. “Sorry about your guy,” Warner says. Scott doesn't want to see the cockiness in his eyes. He glares at the spot between their blades instead.

“Shut the fuck up and play.”

.o.o.o.

September 2011 – MSG Training Center, Tarrytown, NY. Admirals Training Camp

Carter Vaughn stands out from the beginning.

There's no question that he's going to be good – the Wolverines are the top college program in the country, and the critics all have him somewhere in their top twenty under twenty – but as for attitude? Most rookies, in Scott's experience, keep to themselves on Day One. They're usually either cocky upstarts who think they're God's Gift to the Admirals, or else they're nervous wrecks just trying to get through the day without vomiting. Coach Murdock doesn't tend to go for the former as much as Phillips had, and as their team improves and their draft picks slide, it kind of helps weed out the ones who are too big for their boots. These days, they tend to get the make-or-breakers, not unlike Scott himself; the ones who have worked their whole lives for this moment and are keenly aware of how easily it can all slip away. Some rise to the occasion. Some disappear. Vaughn, apparently, makes friends.

Scott and Murdock are a little delayed to the ice after a strategy meeting. By the time they get out there, Vaughn has got his phone in his hand and a gaggle of the guys around him watching something and laughing. Murdock raises an eyebrow.

“Warming up, are we?”

Vaughn bolts upright, whipping his dimpled cheeks into a disciplined expression. In a half a second, Scott watches him search for a pocket, a bag, the boards – but there's nothing within reach, so he hides the phone behind his hands instead.

“Yes sir,” he blusters. “Uh, I mean, no sir. Waiting for you, sir. I mean- fuck.”

He sighs, shoulders drooping as he resigns himself to his fate. He holds out his phone as though he might never see it again, and in a time-honoured tradition of letting the rookie fall on his ass, the others say nothing. Murdock plucks it from his hands and passes it to Scott.

“No phones on the ice, rook. Drop and give me – hm, nineteen?”

Vaughn glances between Murdock and Scott, like he's expecting something worse. “Push-ups?” “Unless you'd prefer burpees?”

“No sir. Nineteen push-ups coming up.”

He salutes with two fingers, shuts his mouth and gets to work – and probably, Scott thinks, thanks his lucky stars he switched the digits around from his college number. Push-ups are slower and more awkward with skates on, though, and some of the others have the audacity to laugh. A bold choice.

“The rest of you giggling grannies –“ Murdock commands, “I sent home thoroughbreds, I get back a bunch of foundered children's ponies? Rookie's in the best shape of all of you! Let's see some laps! Go!”

They bitch and moan about it, of course, but it's good to be back. They're slapping each other on the shoulders and bumping helmets and laughing all over again soon enough, and they call Scott over, but first, he skates to the bench to put Vaughn's phone somewhere it can stay out of trouble. A flash of curiosity on the way drives him to play the offending video. It features a hockey team, maybe a college one as he doesn't recognise the jerseys, but he does recognise the high-school-typical rubber dodgeballs in most of the players' hands. They pelt them at bone-shattering speeds at each other, forcing sharp stops and tight edgework to avoid getting hit and to catch each other out. One of the guys executes a particularly flashy spin to catch his opponent off-guard and Scott smirks. Yes, it's funny, but it's also not the worst idea. Agility is not the Admirals' strong suit right now; anyone with a good eye who's watched a few games would know that. Maybe the rookie has done some research.

Puffing only slightly, cheeks rosy, Vaughn humbly offers from behind -

“Sorry, Mr Hunter. I'm an idiot. I'll put it away.”

“Just Hunter's fine,” Scott corrects him. “Or Scott. Or Cap. Save the Mister business for Murdock, he'll get a kick out of it.”

In good faith, he hands the phone back over, and Vaughn holds out his other hand.

“Carter. Vaughn. Or some of the guys from school called me Vince.”

“Vince?”

“Like the actor. Wedding Crashers?”

“Dodgeball.” Scott nods his recognition, and Vaughn grins. “Nice.”

.o.o.o.

January 2020 – St John of God Hospital, Midtown Manhattan 41 Games Remaining

“I'm looking for Carter Vaughn?”

Scott instantly recognises the mess of curls and double-denim by the reception desk as soon as he finally makes it through the hospital doors. He heaves a sigh of relief.

“Can I have your name, please?” the receptionist enquires.

“Christopher Grady. He's with me.”

Both of them look toward Scott instantly, and he hopes he doesn't look as much like a heap of reheated garbage as he feels. He's never fled the ice so fast in his life; the water from the showers had barely even had time to touch his skin. The guys had been all too happy to send him ahead and cover for him with the press, but his phone is blowing up in his pocket with their concern.

“Sorry. I couldn't just wait at home.” Kip says it like an apology, but Scott has never been more grateful. They arrange Kip a visitor's badge and Scott is permitted to lead him through. These are familiar halls – he hasn't been Captain for this long without overseeing his fair share of concussions and blown tendons – but even so, a sense of dread stalks him all the way to Carter's bedside.

They've just dropped him off post-surgery, with a warning that the anaesthetic could take some time to wear off. It shouldn't be surprising, then, that Carter's hospital room is silent as the grave, but it's so unlike Carter it makes Scott's skin crawl. The only thing worse is Carter himself: lying still, bundled up in thick bandages and a paper-thin robe. There's a machine by his bedside tracking his heart rate and blood pressure, and a needle dripping painkillers into his arm, and his skin is waxy and strange and he's never looked so...

It's easier in uniform, with the lights and everyone's eyes on him, to be Captain Scott Hunter: responsible leader, finisher of games. Looking at Carter now, those layers peel away to the raw, wounded Scott underneath. The crash replays in his mind: the sound of the collision, his own desperate grip on the barrier, the whistle screaming like it could really do anything to stop it. He could not have done anything to stop it. He would have given anything to stop it.

“Scott. C'mere.”

Kip wraps his arms around Scott and pulls him close, and Scott buries his face in Kip's shoulder. He wants to tell him everything, but his tongue won't work. He can't breathe. It's all he can do to stop hot tears burning their way down his face, because there's a picture in the Vaughns' living room, of a young Carter – maybe eight, ten years old, something like that – in a bright white jersey and an even brighter smile, with his arm in a cast. There's a photo in the Admirals' locker room of that same smile, beaming and bloody in Admirals red as Carter holds his first lost tooth up like a trophy. Scott has one of himself just like it. He knows what it's like to give his blood, sweat and tears to this game. He knows it's a dangerous one. He's just never come this close to losing everything.

The door opens, then, and Scott pulls himself back together. He steps away from Kip a little, wipes his eyes, and clears his throat, as Murdock and Wilson and two other people – lawyers, maybe, or something else corporate, judging by the suits – file into the room talking in hushed tones. One of the suits breaks away, to stride over and clap Scott on the shoulder.

“Captain! Didn't expect to see you here so soon after that walloping.” He means the game, not the hit. Hopefully. “Gotta make sure this one's not blowing up the succession plan, huh?”

“How is he?” Scott asks, and tries to ignore everything else about the man.

“He'll be okay,” Murdock promises grimly, his eyes lingering on Carter's face. “Just a few inches in it, but Lord Almighty, someone is smiling on that kid.”

Thank God. Kip squeezes Scott's hand. Captain Scott Hunter simply nods.

“His collarbone is broken in several places,” Wilson elaborates. “He's slipped a disc, and he's going to have the concussion from Hell, but with any luck he'll recover. Might even bounce back by the end of the season if we play our cards right.”

“It's going to be a rough road ahead, though,” Murdock adds. “I'm sure he'll be glad you're here.” “Wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

The two suits look at each other. “Now, uh, to update Ms Grey, and Mr and Mrs Vaughn -”

“We'll do it,” Scott volunteers. “I'm sure you guys have... paperwork or something, right?”

The suits all too happily take their leave, grateful for the opportunity to skip out on the quagmire of human emotion for something less fraught. It's not just the players who struggle with that part of hockey. Murdock and Wilson linger for a moment though, and Scott feels for them: they've known Carter since his first day too. He can't imagine having to be in the room like they are; neck-deep in meetings and phone-calls and decision-making for the foreseeable, fighting for the future of a man they've all but watched grow up. But he's glad someone is.

Scott finally lets himself collapse into a chair and pulls out his phone. Any minute now, Carter will open his eyes; he will stand, walk, play again. At least Scott has something good to share. His finger hovers over the contact picture all the same: Carter is practically kneeling to take a selfie with his mother, their shining smiles matching as they look up at the camera.

Ma Vaughn, reads the name.

Scott dials.

.o.o.o.

November, 2012 – Carter's Apartment, Upper West Side, Manhattan American Thanksgiving

“Please?” Vaughny had asked. “I'm begging you to come over and eat, what's so hard about this? I am literally drowning in seafood. There's not a single stick of celery left in the tristate area!”

“I'm fine, Vaughny,” Scott had objected. “I just want a quiet one.”

“It will be plenty quiet, I swear! Liv's stuck on set, so it's just me and my folks and Lions vs Texans. You don't even have to know anything about football, just Detroit Good Houston Bad. Well, actually, Detroit is... also bad, but more importantly, Mom will kill me with her bare hands if she knows I let you have that sad little plate of turkey alone again. Come on, Cap. Just give me like, two hours.”

And that's how Scott finds himself on Carter Vaughn's doorstep on Thanksgiving, holding a bottle of Riesling and a long, flaky baguette. He rings the doorbell, and Vaughny hollers - “It's open!” - so after a moment, he lets himself in. There's a short entrance hall that opens out to an open plan living area not unlike Scott's own, where Mr Vaughn is sat on the couch and Vaughny leans with his arms braced on the back of it, a tea-towel slung over one shoulder, both of them staring intently at the TV. Mrs Vaughn is not far behind her son, in the kitchen, paused with a ladle in one hand and a thermometer in the other, just as riveted. Scott has never really followed football - he's a baseball guy if he had to pick something outside of hockey, and so were his parents, and it cuts like a knife to remember that all of a sudden - but there's something inside him that aches when the whole family cheers in unison.

“DEE-TROIT!”

“That's how it's done!” Vaughny hollers, and turns to face Scott with a grin. “You made it! Mom, Dad, this is Cap. Uh, Scott.”

“Captain!” Mr Vaughn greets warmly, hauling himself up from the couch to shake Scott's hand and pull him in for a hug. “Call me Jim.”

“Marielle, love,” Mrs Vaughn greets, pulling Scott across into her arms. She's all of a foot and change shorter than Scott, but manages to dwarf him with the force of her embrace. “You can call me Ma, all Carter's friends do. Unless – well, I'm so sorry to hear...”

“Oh, yes,” Jim adds, “such an awful thing.”

Oh, good, they're here already. Scott can suddenly feel how a catchers mitt used to fit around his hand and he reels, his heart thudding like a rabbit in a trap. He grits his teeth; he should be used to this by now. This is why he likes his sad little turkey plate. It tastes nothing like how his mother used to make. Not that he can remember what that's like anymore.

Vaughny flashes him apologetic eyes, and suggests -“Grub's up, right? Half time.”

“Right, yes,” Marielle waves her hand as if brushing the thought from the air. She lets Scott stand upright, at least. “Let's get you fed, since your sweet mother isn't around to do it herself -”

“Mom!” Vaughny hisses.

They descend into an argument, and Scott does his best to block it out. His eyes wander the details of the living room, at first just for something to do that isn't stick his nose outside his business or think about his own mother, and then with more attention as it becomes more obvious that Vaughny's living room is nothing like his, after all. Maybe they have similar taste in décor, but there are details of his life in every corner that Scott can't imagine in his own place; knick-knacks and CDs and especially the photos. Vaughny is on vacation on a boat, in a bright Hawaiian shirt with a mimosa, embracing a stunning young woman Scott vaguely recognises. He's in his Wolverines uniform, surrounded by his college team, showing off a trophy. He's out in a field, dressed casually in a flattering red flannel, kneeling and scruffing the fur of a Golden Retriever. That last one reminds Scott a little of one of his rookie year photo shoots.

“That's Greta,” Carter offers. The argument is over, apparently, and he comes baring two heavily-laden plates of food. “We had her since I was like, three. My parents had to put her down last year. I was kind of a mess.”

“I remember that game,” Scott says, when he should have said I'm sorry. “Why didn't you say anything?”

Carter snorts. “Come on, Cap. It's hockey.”

There's a few, awful beats of silence. Then they take their seats on the couch in the living room, and Scott inhales the fragrant aroma of cayenne pepper, herbs, and so much warm, delicious butter he wants to swim in it. His dietitian would probably cry, but it's been a day, and he'll burn it off tomorrow anyway, so he sticks his fork in one of the myriad grilled and boiled sea creatures on his plate, and puts it to his tongue, and it's heavenly. The game recommences, accompanied by cutlery and ravenous chewing and the Vaughns chattering away about the terrible prospects of their beloved team and – okay, Scott has to admit, this is better than sad turkey in his apartment alone.

.o.o.o.

January 2020 – St John of God Hospital, Midtown Manhattan 41 Games Remaining

Scott sleeps in fits and starts in the chair by Carter's bedside. Kip leaves him with a breakfast burrito and a kiss on the forehead, promising to come and get him after class, by which time Gloria and the Vaughns should be here to take over Carter duty. But it's Scott alone, flicking through the channels looking for something to help keep him awake, who is there when Carter finally stirs. Groans. Blinks drowsily through the hangover of a lifetime.

“... Scott?”

Scott grabs the armrest of the chair to stop himself from buckling with sheer, sweet relief as Carter grimaces and takes in his surroundings.

“Fuck, that kid did a number on me, huh?”

“You're calling people kid now?”

Carter's grimace stretches like toffee into a broad, loopy grin. “Figure I'm going to be Captain soon. Gotta get into character.”

Scott rolls his eyes, biting back a smile. “Blame Murdock for that one, kid. He started it.”

“Mm, kid,” Carter hums. “D'you wanna be my best man?”

Scott blinks. Carter's expression is, if anything, somehow more earnest and enthusiastic than ever. There are connections firing behind those eyes that make this transition make sense, probably, but Scott is still adjusting to the fact that Carter will be getting out of this bed in the not-too-distant future, let alone walking down the aisle.

“I was gonna ask you after the game, before...” Carter gestures vaguely, and then sighs, dreamy as anything. “I can't believe she said yes! I'm the luckiest man alive, you know? She's so fucking gorgeous? Like as a person? And yeah, her body is like. Crazy. But I just really like her smile, you know? I'm so lucky my sister's a lesbian.”

Scott can't help but laugh. In all things, he's still Carter. And it is kind of funny, the way these things work out: Liv had met her partner on the tech crew for some little production, followed her to LA, got to talking to one of the biggest up-and-coming actresses of the decade, and in that classic fearless Vaughn family way, mentioned that she had a brother. It was luck, it was the strings of fate. It was Carter's ridiculous amount of game, reaching across state lines, if you ask him – or if you don't, and he insists, and Gloria rolls her eyes every time. Gloria is radiant; she's kind, witty, talented, and she still looks at Carter like he hung the moon every now and then, even though he can't put his socks in the fucking hamper to save his life.

“Yes,” Scott says. “Yeah, of course, I'm in.”

“Cool.”

Carter's quiet for a stretch, after that – just long enough for Scott to wonder if he's drifted off again, before he speaks softly up to the ceiling.

“Gloria didn't... see that, did she?”

“No,” Scott assures him, “but she knows you're hurt. She's flying in; should be here any second.”

“Good, because I woke up before, you know? And I couldn't stop shaking? I couldn't feel anything – I thought maybe – I thought it was all – Scotty, I was so fucking scared.”

Carter's voice trembles, and cracks at the end, a few uninhibited tears sliding down his face. Scott bites back the urge to pull his suddenly small, fragile body into a hug.

“You're going to be fine,” Scott promises. “Just a few broken bones. And Murdock has a few extra grey hairs. Nothing to worry about.”

A touch of a smile returns. “Murdock doesn't have enough hair left to go grey.”

“I do, though,” Scott admits. “Fucking Rozanov's going to have fuel for decades after this, so you better get ready to kick his ass for me, alright?”

“Fucking Rozzznov,” Carter mumbles. He chuckles, maybe at nothing more than how the name feels going over his lips. “That's fun to say. Not as fun as Kip though. Kip. Kip. Kiii-pah! Mannn, Kip was here? I fucking love Kip. 'n I love you, man. 'n I'm so happy that you found somebody who loves you like I love Gloria. Not the fame or the jersey or whatever. You.”

He reaches a dizzy hand out, pointing as if to poke Scott's face, but it hovers uncertainly in his lack of spatial awareness. Scott catches it before he can pull his cannula or something, and tucks it gently back by Carter's side, and it's not unlike tucking in a drunken kid Vaughny back in the day - before he too got wise to the value of water and the danger of keg-stands. Something melancholy washes over Scott then, something maudlin about the passage of time, and he wonders if they're about to take another downswing on the rollercoaster, but before they can, the door flies open and Carter's face lights up like the sun.

“Gigiiii!”

.o.o.o.

December 2013 – Bennett Residence, Tarrytown NY. Admirals Team Barbeque

He'd seen Gloria's face around before, of course: she's been on television soaps and serials for years and recently has been getting into movies. Bad movies. Slasher movies, mostly, which had never really seemed to grab him – then again, apparently one major draw is that the women in them are extremely attractive, so maybe the genre is just wasted on a man like him.

It's not that Scott can't see it, of course. Gloria is stunning and slender, with big dark eyes that animate her face and objectively gorgeous, well-framed breasts, and Scott has eyes. And ears, which unfortunately are still scarred by the whistling and howling that had gone around the locker room when Vaughny had told them who exactly his GG was.

They're at Bennett's place for a barbeque the first time Scott meets her. She's got a glass of champagne in one hand and is digging through the drawers and cupboards.

“Looking for something?”

“Tongs? There's ten thousand salad spoons when all you need is a knife, right?” She stands up behind the counter and recognises him – then smiles, blushes, and holds out her hand as if she's not at least a contender for most famous person on the block. “Captain! Gloria Grey, Carter Vaughn's girlfriend. I've heard a lot about you.”

“All lies, I'm sure.” He shakes her hand. “Call me Scott. Welcome to the family, Gloria. Vaughny's been doing us proud this year, you must be his good luck charm! The tongs are in the second drawer under the stove, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she says, and retrieves a half a dozen pairs with a roll of her eyes. “And – thank you. That's sweet, but I don't have a clue about hockey. If anyone's good luck for the Admirals, it's all CC.”

“You can say that again. He's lightning on the forward line and the guys love him. If you ask me, he's got an A coming his way this season.”

“Great!” Gloria's blush deepens, and she leans across the bench. “Is it like... against the WAGs Code or something if I admit I don't know what that means?”

Scott laughs. She's cute.

“Alternate Captain,” he explains. “And yes, it's great. It's... a promotion, sort of, but I'm sure Holly and the girls will get you up to speed on the lingo in no time. Speaking of which; where is our gracious host?”

“Graciously fighting with her husband in the yard about the small farm worth of meat that is apparently running late.”

“Great, and where can I go to stay out of that?”

Gloria laughs. “The boys are in the basement, playing pool or something while they starve to death.”

“That's alright. I brought snacks.” He holds up his offerings, two bulging shopping bags in each hand, which Gloria eyes skeptically.

“They'll be on you like locusts,” she warns. “It's been five whole minutes since the dip and crackers disappeared down there.”

“Well, the Captain's burden is a heavy one,” he sighs. “It's been nice knowing you, Gloria.”

She salutes with two fingers, and gives him a nod. “The pleasure is all mine.”

.o.o.o.

2020 – St John of God Hospital, Midtown Manhattan 39 Games Remaining

Scheduling two demanding careers can be cruel, and Gloria can't get away from her shoot for too long once Carter is up and about again. It's probably for the best, Scott has to admit; the private suites at St John are used to celebrity, but while Scott Hunter is one thing, Gloria Grey is quite another. She's a household name these days, and every magazine wants to snap a photo of her tastefully tearful about her man – or more likely, a hysterical mess, since that seems to sell better - so her having to leave before they both come out together keeps the interest levels at a dull roar.

Ma and Jim Vaughn are unfazed by the cavalcade, or at least are pretending to be. They discuss the logistics of leaving the hospital and getting to Carter's place, or to the airport, or both, like this is a normal part of their lives now. With Carter set to take over the mantle of the most beloved New York hockey player in the last fifty-odd years, maybe it will be, at least while they're here with him. Of course, they argue about it.

“Guys, I love you, I'm fine,” Carter insists. Fine might be a strong word, but at least he can stand up now without looking like he's about to vomit. “Please go home. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can, baby,” Ma insists, “I just don't see why they won't let you come back with us, since you can't play anyway.”

“They have doctors here.”

“They have doctors in Detroit,” Jim retorts. “Some of the best, you know, and hockey ones too-”

Scott bites the inside of his cheek as the Vaughns argue back and forth, because it's not really in Carter's hands anyway. The Admirals aren't about to let their most precious investment fly out of state; out of the in-house care – and supervision – they have at their beck and call.

“Don't worry, Ma,” Scott interrupts. “I'll take care of him.”

She snorts, and waves a hand. “Oh, please, you're as bad as he is. I saw that AC rupture in '05.”

Scott opens his mouth to defend himself, but honestly, he can't. He'd fought the doctors tooth and nail at the time, but now he could admit he had come back too soon even if he had been – Jesus, 24? - at the time. He'd just made Captain, and the weight of the team had been heavy on wounded shoulders; it still is, some days, and he can feel the ghost of it even now, as if his shoulder is on her side. Point made, Ma returns to arguing with her son, and Kip covers his mouth like he's hiding a smile. Scott glares.

“I didn't say anything,” Kip insists.

Fortunately, they're interrupted by the nurse doing Carter's discharge paperwork, and once the idea of him leaving in a wheelchair comes up, he caves quickly on the idea of his mother taking charge if it can be done standing up. It'll be less threatening for the fans and the press that way - and for Carter, who doesn't want to be made out to be any more severely injured than necessary, and who doesn't truly want to be alone, even if he does make a show of mouthing save me once he's tucked out of view of the cameras. Scott rolls his eyes, thanking both their lucky stars that he can do so after the week they've had, and closes the car door behind him.

Scott and Kip bundle into a car of their own after that, and Scott pulls out his phone for the first time in what feels like a decade, in social-media time. As he'd suspected, commentary both amateur and professional is churning with speculation about the Admirals' prospects, Scott's retirement, and whether Carter will be strong enough soon enough to return to the sport, let alone to the leadership of it. Some venture further: whether he is smart and strategic and decisive enough to take the lead like Scott does, whether this is perhaps secretly a blessing in disguise, whether the Admirals are throwing away their future by spotlighting a... nother diversity hire, though that's not the wording some of them use.

“All good?” Kip checks, frowning at the expression on Scott's face.

Scott flips his phone back over and wedges it under his leg.

.o.o.o.

February 2014 – Sochi, Russian Federation Winter Olympics, Gold Medal Game

There's twelve, eleven, ten seconds left in the game and Canada is making them work for it. Whoever wins, it's going to be a game that's talked about for the rest of their lives. They're the best of the best, and every guy out here on both sides is giving their all; each one of them has been reduced to a pounding heart, burning lungs, and searing adrenaline strapped into a jersey. It doesn't hurt that Team USA is the closest to the gold they've been in over thirty years, and if they can snag it without going into overtime, victory will be all the sweeter.

In the last great rush against the buzzer, Hollander and Vaughny jostle with the puck; fancy feet and fancy blades whipping back and forth; hips and sticks and checks are tight and vicious, bruising, driving. All that the ref doesn't call is fair in the gold medal game. Then Vaughny snatches it by a nose, saucering the puck over Hollander's stick and whipping it into open space with the flick of his wrist. The puck shoots free of the neutral zone like a rocket, and Canada's defense scrambles to intercept it, but Scott gets there first. In one fell swoop he scoops it, feints, and cracks it into the five-hole.

The buzzer sounds.

The crowd explodes.

Vaughny drops his stick and throws himself at Scott for a bone-crushing hug. His face lights up, and Scott feels more so than hears him shout right into his ear: “HOLY SHIT!” And it's not long before the rest of the team is piling on, jumping and hollering and singing some god-awful combination of Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful and some other patriotic mess Scott can barely discern. His cheeks hurt from smiling for the first time in months, and the puck sits gloating in the net like it knows. He won. They won.

Vaughny has a hand over Scott's hammering heart as he presses a kiss to the side of his helmet, high on the win, and in spite of himself Scott misses another kiss. His heart hurts, and not just from the exertion. The voice of the crowd is electric in his veins, but there's a voice missing. He wonders if Kip is somewhere in New York, yelling at the TV screen. Cursing him, celebrating for him, he wouldn't even care. Does he hurt like Scott does?

He tries not to think about it as he leads the handshake line – good game, and fuck what a game, even Hollander is smiling – and tumbles back into the locker room with the guys, with everyone back slapping and hugging and shit-talking Canada. He tries not to think about a lot of things, as he strips down to his socks. Like the way they're already back to shit-talking each other.

“Great save at the end of second period, by the way,” Vaughny is saying.

“Not so bad yourself, Affirmative Action.”

Vaughy rolls his eyes, but beside him one of the defensemen intervenes.

“Fuck off, DuBois, you wouldn't know Affirmative Action if it punched you in the face.”

“Aw, be nice, Novi, the stupidity quota's the only thing that got him through school.” Vaughny gives his bully an exaggerated pout. “I scored more than him back then too.”

The thing is, DuBois has a good few inches on Vaughny, and he swaggers across the room half-naked with a sneer on his lips, to use every single one of them to tower over him. Vaughny squares up, and so he should – some fucking vile things have come out of that man's mouth these last few weeks, undoubtedly worse than he'd dare say in front of Scott, but Carter won't repeat them and Scott doesn't blame him for having had enough. He wants to fight his own battles, fine. But for the love of God, Scott just has to hold this team together for another fifteen minutes so they can get their fucking medals and go home.

“D'you want me to get a measuring stick, boys?” he quips, and the both of them pull back. DuBois knows better, at least, than to cross him, and so he stalks off to the showers instead. Vaughny and Novikov don't poke the bear. Thank God. It's like herding cats with this lot sometimes.

Fortunately, the joy of winning – and the discipline of a well-placed glare – gets them through to the post-games without incident. They all know the drill from here. They're a great group of guys. Canada played well but we played better, got those pucks in deep and it paid off. We're all crazy proud to bring back the gold after so long in the wilderness, that star spangled banner does indeed yet wave, rah rah. It's a dog and pony show, a red carpet Scott especially knows how to walk well enough by now. Vaughny is a few steps behind him, prepared to trot out the usual like everyone else does, maybe modestly downplay the assist of the decade a few times, but the question that comes at him isn't something everyone else hears every day.

“How does it feel to be the first Black hockey player ever to serve on Team USA?”

The first? Seriously? Scott twists away from his own interview. That can't be right.

Carter blinks and cocks his head, knocked too far off script to follow along. “I'm sorry?”

“Do you think ice hockey has a race problem?”

.o.o.o.

February 2020 – Scott's Apartment, Upper West Side, Manhattan. 31 Games Remaining

Scott recognises the audio tag of the podcast that Carter stops playing as he accepts the call. He frowns into the screen.

“Man in the Crease? Seriously?”

“I'm just trying to keep my finger on the pulse.” Carter sighs a deep, bone-weary sigh as he settles into his chair and pulls up his controller to start setting up a game. “I had to listen to something. Mom and Dad have gone home, and Gloria doesn't get in til Thursday... It's so fucking quiet in here I feel like I'm losing it.”

“Did you call Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“Huff?”

“Yes.”

“What about Matti, he said he would-”

“Yes, Scott, I've called everyone, alright? Everyone's called me. The guys are all checking in, your little Distract Vaughny roster is full and plentiful. It's just not the same.” Carter bites his lip, and lowers his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The little loading soccer ball rotates on the screen in silence for a moment, and he takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I appreciate it, really, it's just - it's been a day. Had a call with Wilson and the board this morning too, so I'm really... feeling like a person.”

“And listening to some beer league bros whinge about the Admirals 'going woke, going broke' is helping with this... how?”

“Fuck off,” Carter snaps, with a little less venom this time. “I learnt from the best, alright?”

It had been Carter in the end, with no small assist from Kip, who had finally got him to stop listening to those guys; to realise that it had been just another veiled excuse to beat himself up when he was feeling like some sort of failure. Turns out, the after school specials were right: embracing love and asking for help is a much better motivator. Even if he does kind of want to beat himself up some more, for rubbing off on Carter that way.

Scott nods his sympathy instead, as they flick through the menus to pick their teams. “How'd the call go?”

“Collarbone is coming along, and the doctors don't think I'll need surgery for the disc after all. Time to add jogging and strength back into training and see if I fall apart, I guess.”

“Do you think it's too soon?”

“God no.” Carter stops himself, all but biting his lip. “I don't know. You know how it is: I just want to get back out there, and this is how I do that. Hydro's a fucking godsend though; jogging on concrete is going to be a bitch. But I'm climbing the walls in here, man, so I'll take getting beaten with a meat tenderiser over sitting around with my thumb up my ass any day.”

“I get that. Back in '05, when I did my shoulder, Huff and Bennett kidnapped all my good strength bands and everything over 5 pounds so I wouldn't snap something.”

“They stole your weights?” Carter's eyes crinkle with delight.

“Not just my weights. Everything portable that was more than five pounds. Even my good cast-iron skillet.”

“Bullshit, you never had a 'good skillet'. You didn't even know the word skillet 'til last year.”

“I had a good everything, I just never touched it. And it was a few years before that.”

Carter must catch the dreamy smile that Scott doesn't stop from surfacing. He rolls his eyes.

“You know Kip's not actually that good at cooking, right?”

“You know Gloria's not actually that good at singing, right?”

“Oi, she's better than you, asshole.”

“When have you ever heard me sing?”

“2017. We Are the Champions. Big night for Scott Hunter fans. The Cup, the Kiss, and the Karaoke. Should have been headlined together.”

.o.o.o

September 2015 – MSG Training Center, Tarrytown, NY. Admirals Training Camp

This must be where the song comes from, because Scott feels like he's walking on sunshine. Try as he might to discipline his face, he can feel the goofy, smitten grin breaking out all over it as he bumps into the locker room to gear up for practice.

“Someone's chipper,” Carter remarks.

“You get laid or what, Cap?” Bennett teases, and it's so much better than that. A hesitant smile, eyes sparkling in the night. The brush of a hand against his.

I... can't stop thinking about you, Kip had confessed.

I can't stop thinking about you either.

I want to try again.

Those words are keeping his heart pumping this morning and he wants to shout it, puke it out all over the locker roomand damn the consequences. The grin gets wider, and Huff claps him on the shoulders.

“Yes!! Welcome back, King!”

“Smoothie Girl is back? Ay!”

“Not necessarily Smoothies – could be Matcha girl this time. Avocado Toast girl.”

“Ooh, Hunter, I've got so many healthy fats.” Woody puts on an airy voice, and gestures breasts, and Carter whips him with his can of deodorant.

“Scotty doesn't kiss and tell, you know that,” he reminds them.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

It has to be different this time.

I know. I have to tell people. I want to. I will.

It doesn't have to be everybody. What do you mean?

And Kip had walked him through the closet; how it's not something you're in, or you're out of, which he sort of objectively knew but had never looked at too closely head-on. Of course, he's right. Contrary to what the fear in Scott's veins tells him whenever he thinks about it, there's not a big flashing sign above his head that he has to decide to either turn on, or not. Elena knows. George knows. There's little moments, little confessions - invitations was how Kip put it, opportunities - every day, where he could maybe choose to let someone from his own world know too. It's different for Scott. He can't just go to a gay bar or make out in a taxi or tell the grocery store clerk these chocolates are for his boyfriend just to see how it feels. But he can pick somebody. Someone he trusts with his game, his team, his life.

“Hey, Vaughny. Can I steal you for a second?”

Carter pauses on his way out of the room. He's rooted to the spot, like he can tell the words mean something heavier than themselves. Beside him, Hollis hangs back too, glancing between them until Carter waves him away.

“Captain shit, rookie, mind your business.”

The kid scampers out after the rest of them, and Scott begs himself and his pounding heart not to bail. This was a fucking stupid place to try this, but it's too late now: the puck's dropped, and it's ending up in one goal or the other.

Carter follows wordlessly as Scott paces down the hall to Murdock's office. Locks the door. Lowers the crappy little blind over the glass panel like being able to see their feet in passing is going to give something away. He paces the stale carpet, suddenly finding his tongue is having trouble forming the words. Of course it is. He's barely said them out loud before; even to himself, even to Kip.

“Scott-” Carter starts, but Scott shakes his head, trying to keep it together. He needs to say something. Fast. If anyone else on the team had pulled one of them aside like this, he'd be panicking. Cheating. Drink driving. Drugs.

“Scott, it's okay!” Carter insists anyway, and Scott looks up. Carter's eyes are big and round and a little bit shiny; begging, more than anything, for Scott to share.

“Whatever you want to say,” he promises. “It's okay. I'm here for you. Liv was terrified too.”

“Your sister's gay?”

Oh. Fuck.

It's that easy. It's that impossible. Carter doesn't flinch; he's not scared, or grossed out, or angry. The sky doesn't fall. Something shifts beneath Scott's feet, like stepping back onto the ice after an injury and realising your body still remembers how to carry you after all. He exhales, and a secret he's kept twisted around his bones like barbed wire for twenty years breathes a little more free.

“I'm... gay,” he clarifies. “Smoothie Girl is a boy. Is a man, and I love him a lot. I love him so fucking much, Vaughny, holy shit.”

It's out. He covers his mouth with a trembling hand – although, a fat lot of good that will do. It's done now. He's told somebody. He's told somebody, and it feels like he's disintegrating, and it's somehow the best and most terrifying feeling in the world. Carter takes pity on him, and pretends not to notice as he closes the gap between them.

“Um, that's cool with me,” he says. “I mean, thanks for telling me, for real. I assume I'm taking it to my grave, because the world sucks and hockey sucks and stuff, but if anyone gives you shit, you tell me, alright? I've got your back.”

“Okay.” Scott chokes, and presses his hands into fists. Fuck. Is it always like this?

“I'm gonna give you a super macho bro hug right now, okay?” Carter offers, and wraps his arms around Scott, warm and unwavering. It's a little pathetic, how Scott leans in. “I love you, man, and I don't care who you love. I mean I care, obviously, but I don't like, care-”

“Shut up,” Scott sniffs, but it makes him laugh before he cries, and so he hugs back.

.o.o.o.

March 2020 – Grady Residence, Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. 24 Games Remaining

George embraces Kip and then Scott as they cross the threshold, a warm and delicious pasta bake already steaming away in the middle of the dining table. Scott feels at once like he never wants to eat again, and like his bones are sticking out of his skin. His body is in overdrive this late in the season, fighting him for every calorie, and it doesn't help that he's trying to carry the team without Carter either. It's a part of the cycle he won't miss, but it's one they're all used to by now, and the Gradys don't take it personally that he inhales food more than speaks for the first little while. It's not long, of course, before the subject turns back to Carter's recovery.

“Some of these talking-head types better pull their heads in,” George grumbles, “going on about Vaughn like New York doesn't need him. It's like they never even watched the Admirals pre-2011. No offence, Scotty.”

“None taken,” Scott assures him through a mouthful of pasta, spinach, chicken and cheese. “We sucked.”

Kip, bless him, looks genuinely surprised. “You sucked?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.” He swallows. “Example - Remember how the draft works, right? I was first pick in 2001. Vaughny was sixth in 2011. These days, we don't get a look in over thirty.”

“And don't need one,” George boasts.

Scott almost high-fives him. “Damn skippy.”

“You guys really were the dream team, huh?” Kip remarks, and the next bite slows down in Scott's mouth. He's still not used to it, the past tense, and so his ravenous hunger turns pensive.

“Yeah. I guess we were.”

“Scott...” The smile dies on Kip's lips, and he reaches a hand across the table.

“It's okay,” Scott assures him. “We had a good ten years, almost. That's like, a thousand in hockey years. Unless I want to pull a Howie Grange and stay out there 'til my knees are just duct tape and safety pins, it had to end sometime. Carter's got so much more to give. Honestly, I'm just holding him back at this point.” “Don't say that,” George scolds. “I'll call him and tell him you said that, and I bet you he'll be down here in a flash. Carter Vaughn played with the best, and he better not ever let you forget it.”

There's more of them, ever more to make sure he doesn't get too far down in his own head. In spite of himself, and he's getting better at not spiting it, Scott is eternally grateful. And he's pretty sure George is right: Carter would be down here faster than lightning, bandages and all, and would punch him. Encouragingly – probably – in the shoulder – hopefully – but still hard enough to sting. Apparently, that's what Scott responds to. Even the thought of it makes him smile.

“Don't worry, he won't,” Scott promises. “He's always kicked my ass when it comes to boosting morale. I tell you what, if we had a Vaughny to get us through Vaughny being out, we might still be looking at the playoffs.”

“There's always next year,” George reminds him. “Rolex Suites, too much?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

Kip shakes his head, and raises his glass.

“To next year, then,” he offers. “To the end of an era.”

George adds: “And to good friends, hm?”

“Hear, hear.”

Scott will drink to that.

.o.o.o.

November 2016 – MSG Training Center, Tarrytown, NY.

Admirals Practice

Scott talks to Murdock, talks to Elsie at the front desk, gets the key. He's Scott Hunter. He does this sometimes. Murdock's concerned frown doesn't work on him anymore; not when he can taste the tang of guilt and defeat behind his teeth. Not when the team has been run into the ground today when it's his shoulders this should fall on. He followed them off to the lockers and showered and tried to clean the day off himself – honestly, he did try – but the feeling hasn't left. He thought about calling Kip, but Kip would just be kind and gentle and reassuring - or worse, pitying - and that's not what he needs right now. They actually have a real shot at the playoffs this season and he cannot, absolutely cannot, let that drop like he has been this week. So he gears up again and makes his way back to the ice.

Bag skates are an old-school training method. They're a harsh discipline under the increasingly thin guise of endurance – endurance which is horrendously unrealistic for a real life hockey game, teaches through fear not loyalty, and forces poor form through sheer exhaustion. Kip critiques them all the time, and even Murdock is not a big believer in them these days, but what can Scott say. He's old school.

He plants himself at the goal line and looks ahead. Takes a deep breath. This, he knows, will make him feel awful, but it will be the right kind of awful to scratch this itch he has. It's worked before. It will work again. He'll sleep tonight.

Except this time, he won't be alone.

Carter drops his bag, announcing his presence, and skates up right alongside him like they've just broken up into stations; like this is not the end of the day and he doesn't have better places to be.

“What are we doing, Cap?” he asks. “Herbies?”

I'm doing Herbies, you're going home, Scott almost says. Carter raises an eyebrow, earnest and unwavering. He knows what he's doing. He knows how Scott gets. He knows this is going to be brutal. In spite of himself, Scott's a little grateful he's here.

“I've got an hour to kill,” Carter promises. “I'll follow your lead.”

He tries to take it easy, instinctively, at first, but it's not working; it's not quieting the little voice in his head demanding he try harder. So he does. He pushes. He speeds up until he can feel the air whistling, the muscles burning, the discomfort under his skin finally starting to settle. Ice sprays under his blades as he stops and turns, sprints stops and turns, sprints stops and turns, and Carter is just a few steps behind. Usually, if he's just running drills, Carter would put music in. He hasn't. He probably couldn't; the earbuds wouldn't stay in with this amount of force, so their breath heaving in tandem and their blades in the ice are the only sounds.

Blue, Red, Blue, Goal, Blue, Red, Blue. Scott loses track of time, only counting the lines.

Blue, Red, Blue, Goal, Blue, Red, Blue. Carter starts to flag. His legs are shaking, the breath sticks in his lungs, but if he thinks he's crazy for agreeing to this he doesn't say anything.

Blue, Red, Blue, Goal, Blue, Red, Blue. Scott's body, he is sure, will hate him for this too, but the silence in his mind is so sweet he can't help it. May his bones rattle apart: he will keep going.

Blue, Red, Blue -

“Shit,” Carter finally hisses, when he fumbles a stop and crashes into the boards behind the far goal line. He lets himself fall, clambers to his feet again, and resets to the line. He's doubled over, hands on his trembling knees, determined that he won't beg for mercy, but the split second it takes Scott to stop and check on him is enough. Reality crashes in; his ribcage burns, his own knees are screaming. There's no oxygen left in his brain, only pain. Yeah, he's going to sleep once it wears off, but he's going to kill the both of them first if he keeps this up. How long would he have kept going, if Carter wasn't here?

“One more, okay?” he begs. “Let's bring it home.”

“Okay.”

And so they fly, insofar as two meteors crashing back into Earth's atmosphere can fly, back to the starting goal line where, finally, the both of them collapse in a heap. Against the pleading instinct of their aching bodies, they stretch, and Carter passes Scott a bottle of water. He hadn't even brought one out here.

“Feel better?” Carter asks, panting.

Scott takes the water, and nods.

.o.o.o.

March 2020 – Carter's Apartment, Upper West Side, Manhattan. 17 Games Remaining

Scott's finger barely has time to touch the doorbell before Carter is shoving his way out and pulling on his shoes. He blows a kiss over his shoulder.

“I love you baby, don't watch it without me!” He turns to Scott and mutters - “or do. I never thought I'd say this, but if I ever see another dragon again I'm going to lose my freaking mind.”

“Enjoying some R&R?” Scott teases.

“I was, until they fucked up the finale and I had so many thoughts about it I got Gloria to watch it, but she has to watch everything from the beginning, right, so holy shit is that a way to kill some time and now I really wanna learn to ride a horse is that weird? Is that even allowed? Probably not. But I could fuck with a sword, right? Just as long as it's not dragons. I swear to God, any minute now I'm going to start having dreams about dragons. Probably hockey dragons. You ever tried to imagine Matti as a dragon? I have. Anyway.” He takes a deep breath, hands on his hips as the elevator dings closed. “How are you?”

“Hollis is stepping up,” Scott replies. “Murdock's been trying him on the starting line and he's solid. I reckon he could even go centre if you wanted to stay right.”

“Good for him. That's not what I asked.”

Carter's eyes seek out Scott's face. Scott can feel them burning into the side of his cheek. I miss you, is what he wants to say. There's a timeline above their heads, a question lodged in Scott's chest. The same one that sits in Carter's, he imagines. They step out of the lobby already falling into a jog, and he swallows down how pathetic and desperate it sounds, and asks anyway.

“Do you think you'll be back in time?”

“For July? Piece of cake. They'll probably have Wilson strap me back together with KT by then either way.”

“Have you seen us?” Scott snorts, and shakes his head. “Unless half the division falls off the face of the earth, we're not making the play-offs. My last game will be in April. At home, which is nice at least. They're planning a thing.”

“Planning a few things, from what I hear. The whole damn city's going to go into mourning.”

“Not if they have you.”

“Don't be stupid. You're Scott Hunter. I'm just some Black kid from Louisiana. They don't want me as their new Captain America.”

“Hey,” Scott reminds him, “last time I checked, the Black kid from Louisiana actually is Captain America. Unless those movies really lost the plot.”

“Oh, they did. But he is.”

“There you go then, they can suck it.”

Carter huffs a breathless laugh. “It's really that simple for you, isn't it?”

“That you know what you're doing and the boys would follow you to war if you asked? Yeah, it's that simple. Not in like an, I don't see race way, I'm not trying to- You know what I mean, right?”

“Hey, did you know it's hard to be gay in Russia?”

Scott laughs, a little chagrined, and Carter laughs back.

“I know what you mean,” he assures Scott. “Honestly, I need to pull a Scotty and delete Twitter. How did you and Kip not lose your fucking minds when everyone was accusing you of being the sole downfall of hockey or whatever?”

Scott shrugs. “You.”

“Be serious, man.”

“I am serious. You. You, and Gloria, and the guys, and Kip's family and friends, were all so welcoming and amazing we could handle it. I know it's easier said than done, trust me, but the team loves you, and that's the most important thing. The rest of the world will fall in line.”

“And what, Jalo will be taking kneecaps if they don't?”

“He will. I have it in writing.” Scott digs for his phone – mostly as a joke, partly to prove it. “The rest of it's just the cabin fever talking. Come on, I know a place. Let's get a smoothie, talk to a human. You're the most charismatic man alive. You've got this.”

.o.o.o.

December 2017 – The Kingfisher, Greenwich Village, Manhattan. Karaoke Night.

“You don't have to do this.”

Carter glances at Kip. “Can I kick him when he says that?”

Kip, apparently, agrees, but Scott bites his lip. He can see the hesitation Carter's doing his damndest not to let show as they mill around the front of the Kingfisher. The Gay Bar. The well-known gay bar, now, frequented by well-known gay Scott Hunter, and his well-known gay boyfriend, that guy he kissed in front of everybody. Scott has felt it himself; a sense of fear like electrical cable bristling underneath his skin, warning that he must under no circumstances walk through that door. But Carter will do it. For him.

“Come on, man,” Carter reassures him – and possibly, himself, hands jammed deep into his jacket pockets. “My sister's a lesbian and I'm marrying an actress. I'm not scared of a gay bar.”

Gloria hooks her arm through his. “You're marrying me, are you?”

“Well, yeah, babe.”

“Yeah, babe?” Gloria's eyes crinkle with laughter and she throws her head over her shoulder, all but rolling her eyes at Kip. “Hockey boys. The romance, am I right?”

Scott knows that feeling too: the one that has Carter gazing down at Gloria like the sun shines from her every cell, so radiant that it bolsters his confidence enough to make him clear his throat, square his shoulders, and push through the door first. Then he stops dead in his tracks.

“Oh.”

That's what I said, Scott almost reassures him, as Carter takes in the brick and sports memorabilia and general... not-rainbow-vomit aesthetic of the place. There's a few bits and pieces, obviously – not least of which is a Scott Hunter Pride Jersey, signed by The Scott Hunter Himself, hanging above the bar – but it's much more low-key than Carter has probably built it up to be in his head. It looks not unlike a sports bar. Carter's shoulders relax a little.

“Dude, you have a cocktail?” he remarks. “The Scotch Hunter.”

“It's basically a Manhattan,” Shawn introduces, “because our dear Kip has decided to fall in love with the straightest gayboy alive.”

Carter glances at Scott, like he's not sure he's allowed to laugh at that. Scott rolls his eyes.

“Vaughny – Shawn. He's a lot, but he's a friend.”

“And the Scotch Hunter has blueberry liqueur?” Gloria notes, reading the little sign posted with the description. “Interesting choice. When in Rome, I suppose?”

“Oh, Scott has a cocktail called that too-”

Kip shoves his friend toward the booth. Carter glances at Scott, whose expression tells him everything he needs to know about the entendres of that particular double. If he's bothered about his best friend getting some for years without telling him, he doesn't show it; simply shakes his head and raises a fist in congratulations. It should feel obnoxious and juvenile, and – okay, it kind of does, but he hasn't had the opportunity to be obnoxious and juvenile about this too often, so Scott is barely biting back a smile when he bumps it.

The group settles into a booth that was not designed for two hockey players and change, and Shawn ends up pulling up a chair instead. Elena is there as well, of course, and a more civil round of introductions go around as Kyle drops off the first of the drinks. Carter sticks with a Corona, but Gloria braves the Scotch Hunter, and the brunt of the social lubricating at first – partly by choice, partly by virtue of the fact that Gloria Freaking Grey is sitting at their table and it takes a bit of a load off the rest of them.

Scott orders a round of appetisers for the table and waits for them by the bar to give himself some space. He understands now why Kip was so keen for him to come here, to share his place, and it's hard not to be visibly, pathetically relieved that the people he has decided to share it with are not running for the hills like he once had. They're settling into it quickly, Carter's body language easing with a beer in his hand and an arm over Gloria's shoulder and Gloria animatedly recounting some story from set, because they're like that; filling the space of the room they are in. Scott loves his friends.

“... and Evan, the guy who plays my brother, he's just the best,” Gloria recounts. “You know, it had been a couple really long days, I hadn't seen anyone other than Dave in ages, and it's so exhausting, going to that place emotionally over and over to get the shot. When I saw his face I mean – that's all real. It's real for Jen, so I let it be real for me.”

There's a chorus of, I love that, it comes through, that's why people love the show – mainly from Shawn and Elena, but Kip does his fair share of fawning too. And Carter. Carter is the most vocal of all of them – urging “tell them about Kenny, Kenny's great” - but as she launches into her next story is when Scott returns to the table with copious plates full of food and a server at his shoulder with more. “Fuck yeah arancini balls!” Carter cheers, all but leaping out of his seat as he helps Scott and the server set them on the table. Immediately, he apologises for interrupting with a peck on the cheek, and passes Gloria one of the cheesier nibbles in a napkin. “Sorry, babe.”

Gloria, unfazed, continues to amuse and delight and Carter turns his attention back to Scott. They've heard a lot of the Kenny stories, so Scott isn't paying too much attention either. Honestly, he's trying not to watch Carter too hard if anything, so it's another relief when he notices the music playing. He cocks his head.

“They do karaoke here? I love karaoke.”

“I know.” Scott smiles. “It's a bit uh – musical theatre heavy, but I thought it might... break the ice.”

He hadn't needed it in the end, but the enthusiasm with which Carter plucks the song menu from the middle of the table is welcome all the same.

“I can fuck with musical theatre,” Carter promises, perusing. “I mean, not literally, but I'll figure something out. Just you wait.”

Kip opens his mouth.

“Don't!” Elena and Shawn snap simultaneously, and Gloria laughs, and they begin the awkward dance to let Carter slip free of the crowded table and over to the MC. When he returns, it's with two microphones, and he flips one over in his hand and holds it out.

“What do you say, baby, want to give them a show?”

What Carter has picked, as it turns out, is not musical theatre, but it's not too far off for some of the crowd. It's a magic only Carter – and Gloria, apparently, and maybe that's why they make such a good pair – could work on a room full of millennial gays so far outside of Scott's experience it's mind-blowing. The opening bars start up and have everybody's attention. There's a mixture of groans and cheers and automatically, Shawn starts humming under his breath, a little do-do doo. Kip looks like it could be simultaneously the best and the worst moment of his life.

“You too?” he hisses, like even he's not sure what he wants the answer to be.

“What?” Shawn scoffs at him. “It's like being a sleeper agent, okay? I can't help it.”

Scott doesn't get the reference, but apparently most of the Kingfisher crowd does, because by the time Carter and Gloria get to strangers, waiting, up and down the boulevard, the room is joining in the chorus and the do-doo-ing like it's a thing. Even Kip caves, and Elena, and so Scott joins in too though he only knows the actual words. Carter dances his way between the tables, charming just about everyone in sight: with dramatic gestures and expressions, sharing the mic and engaging the audience, he's hard to resist, and his song partner being Gloria Fucking Grey doesn't hurt, and soon enough he has them all eating out of the palm of his hand.

.o.o.o.

March 2020 – MSG Training Center, Tarrytown, NY.

9 Games Remaining

Carter walks in, and the locker room explodes into cheers. It isn't long before he's in the middle of a bone-crushing huddle, and Scott whistles them all away before someone can do something stupid, even by accident. In a room full of twenty-some two hundred pound dudes, it's bound to happen.

Still, it doesn't stop Jalo staring when Carter pulls his shirt over his head. The scarring around his neck and shoulders is still pink and healing.

“Jumalauta, Turner better pray he's on the bench Thursday,” he vows. “You're a fucking lucky man, Vaughny.”

“It's just the game, Matti,” Carter assures him. “Comes for us all eventually.”

“Wouldn't if you didn't play so well,” Woody points out. “He went for you on purpose.”

“You're right, I am pretty god-like.” Carter shrugs, like it's a fact, as he checks and double-checks his shoulder pads. “Sometimes mere mortals feel like they have to play dirty to compete. Doesn't mean we sink to their level, alright?”

Gillis, Woody and Jalo share a look, like they'd been hoping for his permission to Unleash Hell. Either way, they're happy to see him, and Scott can't begrudge them a little protectiveness when it brings a spark to Carter's eyes that jogging around Battery Park and doing neck-strength bear-crawls on the basketball court cannot. He is finally back in his element here, surrounded by sound and movement and friends. And when Murdoch calls them onto the ice and nods and says “welcome back, kid,” he just about shines.

Physical conditioning is tough with so long off the ice, and there's only so much off-ice training can do, but Carter has done all of that to within an inch of his life. Scott knows, Murdock knows, a good half of them here by now know that the harder part for a lot of athletes getting back out there, is much more simple and harder to fight.

Fear.

Call it the yips, call it well-grounded knowledge that the sport you love could have killed you not too long ago, it is something Carter chases down with a smile on his face this first practice back, until they dive into the defensive drills. He sweeps the puck forward, gets bailed up, and pulls back. Again, he's racing with it, two defensemen pinch in, and he baulks. Gets a little too close to the boards, and shies away like a skittish horse, leaving the puck to spin out across the ice alone.

“Fuck!” he curses, sailing a wide half-circle to calm down. He throws his head back, taking a deep breath and resisting the urge to scream at his own traitorous body as he finds his water bottle. As Murdock calls everyone else in to regroup, Scott skates over to Carter instead.

"You okay?”

“Did that look okay?”

“You'll shake it, don't stress,” Scott promises. Carter rolls his eyes, glaring.

“Oh, yeah, don't stress, I hadn't thought of that. I've only got like, three weeks to get it together or I'm going to miss-”

Scott shakes his head. No jinxing it. “Endzone circle, Y-axis til failure, let's go.”

“Scott, come on, I'm not fucking five,” Carter protests, but Scott has already started, swooping around the red line that marks the ice a few feet away. As the exercise demands, he lets his body tilt inward, and tilt and tilt and tilt until Carter cringes, and then he loses his balance and flops harmlessly the rest of the way to the ice; landing on the meat of his thigh, sliding a little, and grinning up at Carter as he clambers back to his feet.

“See? No harm done. Your turn.”

Carter's hesitation is everything. The fear is fighting him. Scott can practically see the Tornadoes game playing in his eyes, in the way he blinks at the ice like it's a stranger. But Carter learnt these drills when he was a kid, they all did, and if he's got this far he's no chicken. And if he's going to get any further, he cannot stop now.

“You got this, Vaughny,” Scott encourages. “It won't hurt, I promise. Just do one. Trust me.”

Trust yourself.

Carter nods, drawing a deep breath as he reaches his stick out and touches it to the centre of the circle like the point on a compass. He skates around it, a little slowly at first, but his body knows what it's doing too much to hold back and he speeds up, he smooths out, he starts to lean... Scott watches him fight it; watches him grit his teeth and force his eyes to stay open and his shoulders to stay down and he keeps going around and around and around until both of them must be dizzy, but eventually, he does it. And maybe it's not until failure exactly, maybe he bails early just to be done with it, but either way, Carter sends himself tumbling to the ice and he rolls until he's flat on his back and nothing bad happens. At least, Scott doesn't think so. It's silent for a second, his heart in his throat -

And then, Carter laughs.

.o.o.o.

June 2018 – Los Angeles, California Interdisciplinary Sports Association of America Diversity & Inclusion Gala

Carter's real laugh, and Carter's fake I'm-at-a-fancy-gala laugh, should really be more different than they are. The thing is, Scott thinks, he might actually be enjoying himself in a way Scott has long since been unable to at these things. He can turn on the charm when he really has to, but as the years pass and it feels less important and more repetitive, they only get more exhausting. Carter, on the other hand, just seems to be built for it. Maybe he enjoys the challenge of finding something genuine with everyone he meets. Maybe it's not even such a challenge for him. Maybe it will be, in another ten years, but for now Scott takes refuge in riding his coattails.

“I think you need a drink,” Carter decides at last, and drags him to the bar. Hollander is there, taking a moment to enjoy a ginger ale, and he nods at Carter and Carter nods back, signals for two beers, and leans back against the counter. Hollander nods at Scott, too.

“Hey, Hunter. How're you holding up?”

“Oh, you know,” Carter answers on his behalf. “Baby's first Diversity Gala as one of the Diversities. It's making him kind of twitchy.”

“I am not twitchy,” Scott protests, but the itch he gets at his collar and cuffs at that moment doesn't do a lot to disprove the allegations. In all honesty, twitchy is kind of a good word as he looks around at all these faces who are well-meaning, kind of cloying, kind of invasive, and he wants to talk about Kip, Kip, Kip until he screams but at the same time, he wants to keep Kip's name out of their mouths and guard his privacy like a dragon, so he's had to settle for repeating the same answers over and over until they don't feel like answers at all.

Yes, we've been together for years now. No, I'm not going to tell you how many.

Of course, there has been some negativity, but nothing I can't handle, I just hope that things will improve for the next guy. No, I don't know who that might be.

You're right, I don't know what they would have thought, but I hope they would love me no matter what and they'd love him too, it's very easy to do.

No, I'm not discussing that. Thank you, move along.

“Okay, bud.” Carter takes a long sip of his drink, and he and Hollander share a look, almost like they're laughing. Maybe they are. Maybe they should, since they've probably been trotted out at these things since the MLH first bestowed its bounty upon them, and meanwhile Scott is still trying to find a way to not be simultaneously grateful and bitterly offended every time someone gives him That Look. It was hard enough being the resident orphan; to be gay on top of it, in this sport and under this spotlight, sometimes makes him feel like the most pathetic man alive.

Except maybe Hollander, who is being waved over by a gaggle of ISAA board members and friends. He stares longingly down at his ginger ale for a moment, before swapping it for a beer and conjuring what, for him, counts as practically a smile.

“See you soon, guys. Gotta go answer some more questions about how we fared in the land of the ancestors.”

“Hwa-i-ting!” Carter cheers, which Scott has heard enough this year to know, means good luck in Korean. Hollander flashes a rude finger as he walks away.

Scott frowns. “Isn't his mother from-”

“Yep.”

“And people know that's not-”

“Guess not.”

“This is fun.” He takes a long drink. It doesn't help as much as he was hoping. “Seriously, you guys have been doing this for ten years?”

“Every two.” Carter nods. He sees the festering pout on Scott's face and elbows him. “Come on, it's not that bad, is it? They mean well and they're mostly harmless. I mean, I get it though. Sometimes I'm like, if I have to answer one more question about Serena Williams – but then, I find out some twelve-year-old has a picture of me on his wall and it's like... I swear to God, Scott, it's the best feeling in the fucking world. That someone believes they can do this because I can.”

That, Scott can appreciate. He's been dunked in it for a good year now, and the number of Scott Hunter, you saved my life messages he's gotten is both horrendously sad, and better than he could have ever hoped for.

“Getting drafted to the Admirals was the best day of my life, you know,” Carter continues. “I didn't even really give a shit about the number, I was just hoping Murdock would convince them to pick me. He's basically the reason my parents ever even thought I had a chance in professional hockey - I think they thought it would be easier for me if I went with football or something instead. But I said no, and I thank my lucky stars every day Murdock saw something in me that the others didn't. He still does, and you do, and hell, all the guys do but... I don't know, if he hadn't walked the walk before me, if I'd have ever gotten the chance to prove I'm worth that. That's why I'm here, to prove it. And to walk that walk for someone else.”

Spoken like a leader, Scott thinks; like a man who has never been able to hide, and at least as far as Scott knows, has never truly wanted to. More than that: it's spoken like someone who bleeds Admirals red and won't put up with exclusionary bullshit in their hard-won locker room. Maybe, just maybe – and it's the first time Scott can remember thinking this without immediately being struck down by a clawing, choking sense of his own mortality - it's spoken like the next Captain of the Admirals.

.o.o.o.

April 2020 – Scott's Apartment, Upper West Side Manhattan

One Game Remaining

It's late, and Scott can't stop touching the suit jacket he's hung up in the closet. He has swapped accessory after accessory and settled on a black bowtie, and then tucked a square in the pocket - Admirals red, of course; he has a dozen variations on a theme, but this is one of his favourites. But is it right? He steps back, to better consider.

From the bed, Kip reaches out a hand.

“Come to bed, sweetheart,” he insists gently. “You've got a big day tomorrow.”

He shakes his head. “It has to be perfect. They don't do this for everyone, you know.”

“Scott. If the pattern on your handkerchief is the difference, they weren't doing it for you anyway.”

He's right, of course he's right, and so Scott takes a deep breath and closes his eyes on the suit for a moment. It will still be there in the morning for him to think himself in circles over. For now, there's Kip's hand reaching out to guide him into bed. Kip's forehead against his, breathing steady.

“I love you,” Scott murmurs. “I'm just nervous.”

“I know, baby,” Kip promises. “I love you, too. This is major, it's okay to be nervous. I am so proud of you. And so's Elena, and my dad... oh my God, when they raise that jersey, Dad is going to bawl his fucking eyes out, I promise.”

“And you won't?”

“Me? Oh, no, I'll be a sobbing wreck from the first puck drop. Thank God for box seats.”

Scott laughs. “Last Year Kip would never have said that.”

“Last Year Kip wasn't engaged to a man who's about to make history for like, the fourteenth time.” He smirks, puffing his chest a little with pride, and Scott just has to kiss him about it.

“Promise you won't abandon me once I retire and the fanfare goes away?”

“Please.” Kip snorts. “The fanfare is the worst part. But, you know, if we have to honeymoon in Greece for a month I might be able to come to terms with that, Mr Hunter-Grady.”

The sound of it makes his heart jump. He'd always promised himself one day, and now that day is nearly here. He smiles.

“So strong,” he praises, sparkling with sarcasm. “So generous. You'll even let me buy first class tickets there and back?”

“If I must.” Kip sighs dramatically, and his smirk grows into a full-blown grin as he lets himself collapse back onto the mattress. Scott peppers him with kisses, light and playful, and it's actually exciting, to think about retirement in moments like these. To think about having time - having control, having freedom - seeing Europe in the winter and going skiing or skydiving if he wants to, and eating whatever he wants to and – wanting, whatever he wants to.

Like watching from that box, with Kip and George, as Carter takes the Admirals to another Cup. It's going to happen. Scott can feel it in his bones.

As if Kip can read his mind, his eyes trail back to the suit hanging in the open walk-in robe.

“Carter's going to be there tomorrow, right?”

“Of course.”

“Is he going to play?”

“He passed his tests,” Scott confirms. “He could still bail. Murdock and Wilson won't make him play if he asks to be let off.”

“He won't.”

Part of Scott knows that. Part of him, though, still fears that all the contact confidence drills in the world can't prepare a man for something like this. Fear of the ice is one thing, but compounded onto that is fear of the media, of the inevitable criticism, and that gaping hole in the New York sports world that is about to be left by Scott Hunter's Last Game. It was hard enough for him taking over from Ericsson in '04 when the Admirals were a nothing team who sucked and got as little media attention as the local press could get away with giving them. Now they're a blockbuster, and so is he, and he knows he is leaving some terribly big shoes to fill. Fortunately, Carter has never been one to shy away from a challenge.

And it's not like he's going to be leaving the man out there in the wilderness either. One of the ideas prickling at the back of Scott's mind for retirement is that he's going to speak up more about things once the PR leash is a little looser around his neck. Screw fading away, he's going to throw his weight behind a future for hockey that is more welcoming to the next guy. One that doesn't have to ask – like they did outside the hospital, like they did at his retirement announcement, like they did tonight and will again tomorrow – What do you have to say to fans who worry about DEI's impact on the future of hockey?

“To those fans,” he had rolled out tonight, practiced and careful but pushing, “I say: the Admirals have had a gay Captain since 2004 and a Black coach since 2007, and we've won nine records, an Olympic Gold and an MLH Cup with that combination, so having a diverse team and management has been working out pretty well for us so far.

“If some people out there want to worry about the future of the Admirals because a Black man is running the room next season they're very welcome to their opinion, but I hope they realise that that started before the first iPhone. Harv Murdock brought this team back from obscurity; he's at least as much a part of the Admirals' story as I am, and he's a large part of what's made me the player, the Captain, and the man I am today. I could not be prouder to call him Coach, and I know there's not a man in the red who would disagree.

“If Captain Vaughn represents anything about the future of hockey, it's that the Admirals continue to recognise that we're stronger together, when we respect our differences and welcome all talent to the ice. I look forward to a future where that is true for everyone.”

The reporter had looked a little surprised – maybe even a little impressed. Scott is still so proud of that. And hopeful, too: it may be the end of his playing career, but he still has more to give this sport. The thing is, Scott doesn't know how to play a last game. Try as he might to contentedly accept retirement, he does not know how to face the prospect that after tomorrow, he will never put that jersey on again. Maybe this is how.

Well. This, and getting married in the summer.

.o.o.o.

August 2019 – Scott's Apartment, Upper West Side, Manhattan. Scott & Kip's Engagement Party

“AYYYY!”

Carter flies in the instant the door is opened, slamming into Kip with a hug like a brick wall. Fortunately, Kip is – as of recently – officially engaged to a fellow hockey player, so he can take it. He catches Carter in his stride, beaming, his cheeks already a little red and cheerful as he shows off the ring and leads him through to fetch him a drink. Scott feels the same, although he's hardly had a drop at this point; it must be the sheer, ridiculous joy that is making his head spin as he welcomes Gloria inside with a more mellow hug and a kiss on the cheek.

He pours them both a champagne, much to the disappointment of the gaggle of hockey players currently clambering over his lounge set fighting for the Nintendo controllers. The night is young, he promises: he has plenty of time to mix his spirits and make bad decisions – and so he does. They're here, after all, to celebrate the best one of his life.

There's presents and well-wishes and a catch-up with some of the guys he hasn't seen in far too long. So many of them have kids now. Some of their kids are in middle school now. God, he's been around a while, but it's something special to have these bits and pieces of his family come through his home and meet his future husband, his fiance, his Kip who means more to him than anything else in this world. How he is going to ever find the words to write the vows to convey everything this man his, Scott has no idea, but he's given himself a year to pull it off.

He hasn't told everyone about that part yet. The date. That's for the people who need to know, who need to plan to be there above all else. It's for the people who stay the latest at this little shindig; namely, Carter, who ends up slid down on the couch so far his knees stick out and his chin sticks into his chest and he is still somehow kicking everyone's ass at Mario Kart. Scott presents Carter with the first Save the Date, and doesn't even laugh when his drunken mind has to read it over a few times, stumbling over the fancy script and the formality.

Scott & Kip Hunter-Grady. 16 August 2020.

“Hunter-Grady?” Carter murmurs. “You're hyphenating? Like, officially? Scotty, you are down so bad you want his name on your jersey, that's fucking adorable. And same.”

He clinks his glass with Gloria's, who's in the middle of a conversation with Kip that dies immediately. Gloria looks at Scott. Kip looks at Scott too, and all but mouths, you haven't told him??

Carter watches their gaze flick between each other, and replays what he's just said in his mind. He pieces together a few other things, from that night and beyond – the month-long honeymoon, the contract speculation in the news - and starts to sober up.

“Oh.”

Kip and Gloria excuse themselves to the kitchen as Scott sits down, and maybe breaks his best friend's heart a little bit.

“I'm sorry, man,” he says. “I thought you already knew.”

“I did,” Carter assures him. “I- I'm pretty sure I did, I think I just blocked it out. I never pay attention to that shit when I actually need to, hey? I guess I just kind of thought you'd... play forever.”

“So did I,” Scott says. “But my contract is up at the end of this coming season and when they asked if I wanted to renew, I... said no.”

“Why in the fuck would you say no? You live for hockey!”

“Not anymore.”

Carter looks down at Scott's engagement ring for a second. Then up at Kip and Gloria, who can only do so much to pretend that they're not eavesdropping.

“What are you... going to do?” Carter wonders, and maybe, if the both of them were less mushy inside from sentiment and alcohol, Scott would simply say Kip, and let himself be playfully roasted and have done with it. But they are. So he doesn't.

“I don't know,” he confesses. “Travel, definitely – Kip hasn't seen much of the world, so I want to take him everywhere. After that, I really don't know. Maybe I'll go back to school. Maybe I'll get really into sailing or something.”

Carter cocks his head quizzically and he waves it off.

“My point is,” Scott summarises, “a life beyond hockey, man. It's time.”

Carter nods. Tears fill his eyes and he nods some more, and pulls Scott into a crushing embrace. He buries his face in Scott's shoulder.

“I am so fucking proud of you,” he whispers.

“Me?” Scott blinks. “You're the one who's going to be the next Captain of the Admirals!”

“Me?” Carter pulls back. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Oh my God. Scott. I won't let you down, I'm going to be the best Captain ever, I've got so many ideas...”

The night blurs together after that. It is not revealed to him until later, at the wedding reception, that he and Carter had fallen asleep eventually, red-faced and drunk as two very contented skunks, curled up together on the couch, just like the good old days.

.o.o.o.

April 2020 – Madison Square Garden, Midtown Manhattan. Scott Hunter's Final Game

Everything feels nostalgic, walking the halls of the Garden for the last time. Even using his locker, strapping up his skates... it all feels so solemn and final and beautiful and aching. The smell of recycled air and old beer makes him feel a little misty, which is definitely fucked up, but he's fucked up about hockey and always has been. The boys try to keep their distance with shoulder slaps and head-nods and he wants to hug every last one of them until he cries. Maybe later. It's going to be hard enough to do this as it is.

When he walks onto the ice for the last time, he is alone.

“Here he is, ladies and gentlemen,” hollers the announcer's voice, piped in for the special occasion. “For a very fitting last game at home here at Madison Square Garden – please welcome, O Captain our Captain, Scott Hunter!”

The crowd bursts into applause, and Scott skates out to meet them. He does a few laps, waving and bathing in the admiration of the screaming, crying thousands who love him. There's red jerseys a-plenty in the stands tonight, and oh so many 21s, but even a lot of the white-and-blue jersey side have a sign, have a nod, have a cheer for him when he looks their way. He's a fixture: some part of him is loved across the whole breadth of this sport, and he admires a fan with the respect to show that.

Kip is waiting for him on the ice, and George beside him, both of them with tears in their eyes. When Scott pulls up, he leans in and gives Kip a small, brief kiss. The crowd cheers. Kip does not let go of his hand, but he nods up at the Jumbotron where the image of them is soon replaced by the title card of an audiovisual presentation:

Scott Hunter: Game Changer. Nineteen Years of Legacy.

Scott takes a deep breath. Suddenly, he wishes he'd spent less of last night being a sook and more watching old tribute videos to prepare for the overwhelming flattery and nostalgia that is about to sweep him away like a tidal wave.

The announcer's voice narrates his background and career history. There's pictures of his parents, of course there is, with their peewee hockey team that he was once on. There's old sun-damaged pictures from his St Thomas days, in a worn-out jersey with a stick that's barely holding itself together. There's the one with Murdock, and Monty and the other owners, welcoming him with his very first jersey, and his Rookie of the Year, and -

Apparently, it's not just the announcer who gets to be heard. Kip's fingers tighten in his sleeve as Bennett's voice comes over the speakers.

“Oh, yeah, rookie Scott. He was a scrappy kid, but so proud to be there, you know? Always put the team first, which you don't always see with star players. He's a great teammate, a great Captain, a great friend. And he had great hair.”

“Oh, no,” Scott mutters. He cringes, as a young and rather cocky Scott Hunter with frosted tips straight out of the Backstreet Boys sails onto the screen. Kip laughs, and George laughs and scruffs his hair up and the crowd joins in. And there's a lot more of that to come, blurring together until he's standing outside of himself, soaked in love. More and more of his teammates, past and present, join in to reminisce on his skill, his passion, his generosity.

Then it cuts back to that old, crusty footage. Sun-damaged and a little flickery. Scott braces himself, to see his parents faces again as his father follows him around on the ice with the camera and his mother waits at the net, her hair blowing in the wind. He's maybe eight, ten, something like that, and he doesn't remember this video being taken. He stares, as mesmerised as everyone else in the room, as young Scott shoots his shot and his mother makes a half-hearted attempt to block it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” commentates his father as the puck plonks solidly into the goal, “the next winner of the MLH Cup, Scott Hunter!”

He does a fake, airy imitation of the roar of a crowd, and it's quickly faded into the real roar of the real crowd when he really had brought that Cup back to the Admirals. The clip plays of the team pouring out onto the ice, burying him in their embrace, then cuts to raising the Cup and then -

Well, then, of course, they play the kiss - the Kiss Heard Round the Hockey World, as the announcer calls it - because of course they do, and Scott can't breathe anymore. He pulls Kip in against his chest, leaning his head on Kip's head, his heart pounding against Kip's back like it's the only thing keeping him in one piece as there's another barrage. This time, it's fans dressed up in pride gear and shaking signs and kissing their same-sex partners in the stands and Thank you, Scott Hunter. Thank you, Scott Hunter. Thank you, Scott Hunter.

Around him, the crowd roars, to the point of almost drowning out the clip from last night's interview.

“The Admirals continue to recognise that we're stronger together, when we respect our differences and welcome all talent to the ice. I look forward to a future where that is true for everyone.”

“You heard it here first folks, they're stronger together,” the announcer hollers, “but can they be stronger than the Serpents tonight? Let's find out, shall we? Led by Number 19 Carter Vaughn, back from last year's injury to share the ice with his Captain one last time - welcome back Vaughny, and welcome to Your! New York! Admirals!”

The deafening crowd does not let up as Carter leads the Admirals out of the tunnel, and Scott feels like he's floating as that blazing 19 skates out toward him. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago, both at once, that Scott was watching him be carried off that way unconscious. He has never been a religious man, but maybe Murdock's right: maybe someone, somewhere, was watching over Carter so that he could be here tonight, after everything. Or maybe it's just Carter, watching over Scott.

“Are you sure you're ready for this?” Scott murmurs, as Carter hands him his stick and his helmet.

“Hell no,” Carter replies, “but I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Scott nods, and clips his helmet up, and salutes Carter with two fingers. Carter salutes back, and they head for the red line. The lights go down, and come up again in all their blazing glory.

“I'm just thirty. You know? I'm thirty fucking years old and I'm still basically a barista, I'm still basically living at my dad's, I'm still basically exactly where I was ten years ago. Except like, a hundred thousand fucking dollars in debt or something and I just keep doing it! Because it's what I want! But what I want is stupid! I mean, like, it's not. But it is. Because I'm thirty.”

Scott blinks. “You know none of that makes any goddamn sense, right?”

“Whatever.” Kip snorts. “Like I said, it's stupid.”

He reaches for his tablet again, but Scott picks it up first. He swipes to the open page, and his jaw goes slack.

“You're deferring?”

“I'm not doing anything, I was just looking.”

“Why?”

For one defiant moment, Kip challenges Scott's gaze. Then the set of his jaw unlocks and his eyes fall back to where his hands fold and unfold the arms of his glasses.

“Because,” he mumbles, “I was supposed to be doing something important by now.”

Scott's not even sure what that means. Maybe he will never understand, at least not in a way he can articulate, but it breaks his heart anyway.

“Kip. Baby. My love. That is the stupidest thing you've ever said.” He plucks the glasses from Kip's hands, sets them aside, and leans a knee onto the bed, so he can press their foreheads together. “You are thirty. You are not old. You are not wasting time or money or anything. And you are so, so important, okay? You're everything.”

Kip nods, hesitant and fragile, but at least he's making an effort to let it sink in. Scott presses a kiss to his lips, to double down.

“You're not just a barista. Which, first of all, you're an awesome barista and SoHo would fall apart without you. But you've also got a job in a museum now, talking to people about art and statues and stuff and that's so cool!”

“It's just three days a week, it's-”

“Three days more than ten years ago, isn't it?” Scott challenges. “And you're so passionate and interesting on those tours. It really makes a difference, I should know, I've been on a lot of them.”

“You have?”

“Of course. See, I have a crush on this really cute art history nerd.”

Scott waits, eyes sparkling, and as expected, Kip cracks a smile in spite of himself. Scott kisses the corner of it, then his jaw, and then his collarbone. His fingers ghost over the buttons of the crumpled shirt Kip had only half put on before collapsing in on himself, and Kip unfurls a little, offering up his chest.

“He works at a museum now,” Scott continues, unbuttoning his way down and caressing his way up as he continues to pepper kisses everywhere he can reach. “And he's currently writing the most mind-blowing paper of all time on postcolonialism, locational identity and the repatriation of the Elgin Marbles.”

“You remembered?”

Kip sounds so genuinely surprised that it almost hurts. Scott presses him back into the mattress, and hopes he looks as bafflingly awestruck by the man before him as Kip does.

“I remembered,” he promises, breathless. “I'm even pretty sure I know most of what those words mean, but I'd love for you to explain them to me again. Or change your thesis if you like the Velazquez one better. Or fuck it, drop out. Just make sure you're doing it because it's what you actually want to do, not because you're punishing yourself for not being a world famous hockey superstar by the time you could grow a half decent beard.”

That time, Kip even laughs a little.

“Speaking of which. You live at your dad's?” Scott glances over Kip's dishevelled clothes and spit-addled skin. Pretty sure we wouldn't be doing this at your dad's.

Kip blushes. Cringes.

“Not literally, obviously,” he protests. “I just mean, I haven't paid rent in a while, and I probably still couldn't if I had to.”

“But you don't have to.”

“Yeah, but only because a world famous hockey superstar made me his sugar baby as soon as I could grow a half decent beard.”

It's an old wound in their relationship, and it lands with a sting. Scott pulls back.

“You know I don't think of you like that, right?”

Kip puts a hand on Scott's hip and it feels like an anchor. He looks up with round, sorrowful eyes.

“Sorry. I know that,” he promises softly. “Of course I know that now. It's just... been a rough day. You know how it is.”

Scott does. Some days 'it' rattles around in his brain like a fork in a garbage disposal, so loud he can barely think. Some days, he forgets that Kip didn't grow up practising how to drown out the sound of it like he did – the sound of every man and his dog having an opinion about how you look, what you say, who you are. But he never forgets that the spotlight can be fickle and cruel and it shines down until it burns you and it doesn't care. And he never forgets how it felt when Kip took his hand and walked out into it with him.

So Scott leans down again, and kisses him, and it's quieter than that day, but no less full of love and joy and sweet release. He can only hope it's enough to silence the wheels whirring and grinding in Kip's head.

“I love you,” he says, like a vow, like he can brand it into Kip's skin. “I love you so fucking much. I mean it.”

“Scott.”

Maybe he has succeeded, because Kip's voice is deep and ragged, and Scott could drink that sound for the rest of his life. He needs more.

“C'mere.”

Kip moves with him easily, letting Scott pull him up long enough to strip his shirt and his tank and toss them aside and chase him back to the mattress. He redoubles kissing, touching, running light fingers over every inch of skin until he remembers to slow it down, and Kip shudders beneath him. He remembers, Kip used to have a piercing here. He has a scar, there. He'd thought about getting a tattoo somewhere, but could never decide what to get. Maybe Scott's tongue, maybe his teeth, scraping softly and resisting the urge to bite with I love you, I love you, I love you.

“You are so brilliant,” Scott breathes, taking his time with the buckle of Kip's belt. “You're smart, and funny, and kind. And you're so passionate. You care about so many things, so much, it makes me feel selfish sometimes.”

Slowly, delicately, and following his hands with his mouth, he peels Kip's silky smooth dress pants down his legs and continues -

“I mean, like, the state of the world and- and all that, but even... your barista job, you keep talking about it like it's this nothing thing you don't care about but you do. You show up, you work hard, even though you don't have to, because that's just who you are. You put your heart into everything. They don't deserve you.”

I don't deserve you.

Scott gets to the end of the bed and drops the fabric to the floor, and looks back up along the planes of Kip's body. Whoever decided to bless that man with a figure straight out of Michelangelo, he owes them his life. He takes a minute to drink it in: Kip's lean thighs, his rippling abdominals, his artist's hands grasping at the sheets with the restraint it takes to just lie back and let Scott love him. And when Scott takes too long for his touch to return, Kip looks up and meets his eyes, and - he can't possibly be surprised by how much Scott wants him? He knows that feeling himself, inside out, and it is a crime, it's a sin that Kip could ever feel that way. Scott throws himself at Kip's feet on the bed, and kisses his way up the inside of his ankle and his knee and his thigh like he's seeking absolution, until Kip digs a hand into his hair and Scott could live right there forever. But he has other plans tonight.

“Can I fuck you?”

The answering shiver sends a thrill down to his toes.

I love you so fucking much.

Belatedly, he realises, he should probably close those curtains, but doing so would mean disturbing Scott, and Scott is -

Scott is artwork in his bed, and Kip has never wished harder that he had the knack for painting or maybe photography that his colleagues do. Thousands of poets for thousands of years have tried to capture this: a lover, tossed and rumpled, sunshine dancing across sweat and messy limbs like he had fallen asleep in the middle of laughing. He probably had: the adrenaline crash hadn't hit until like 2am, after the game and the party and kissing and fucking until every inch of them both was exhausted. And now the lock of Scott's fringe is stuck to his forehead and his face is slack against the pillow and Kip doesn't think he's ever seen him so relaxed.

He's definitely closing those curtains. Somehow. He'll never forgive himself if the stupid sun interrupts the best sleep Scott's maybe ever had in his life. Here goes nothing.

Kip extricates himself as smoothly and quietly as he can from the bed, and aside from a little snort and a readjustment where their limbs had untangled, Scott doesn't move. The only sounds this early are their breathing, and the gently awakening city below; even Kip's footsteps are all but non-existent on the plush carpet floor, and the sheer curtains barely grate on their rail, and he re-evaluates. If he's managed to get this far, maybe he should take advantage of being out of bed before he tackles the electric hum of the blackout blinds.

(He risks another glance over his shoulder. Scott is splayed out a little more now, taking over where Kip had been, but he shows no signs of waking up. It's going to be harder to get back in, but that's a sacrifice he's willing to make).

So Kip sneaks out to the kitchen and brews a coffee so hot and fresh and rich he'll never order in again, and grabs his tablet, and prepares to settle in for a day of not doing very much at all. But when he does go to put the blinds down proper, Scott grunts out a little -

“No.”

He hits pause. “Hm?”

“No,” Scott repeats drowsily. “Like it like that.”

Could not be him, but Kip figures, Scott's always been a little odd. At least now he doesn't feel so bad nudging him out of the way to make a space for himself, and Scott wraps himself back around him like the ocean on the shore. Kip pulls up a book on his tablet with one hand and strokes Scott's hair languidly with the other and honestly, he could die here.

“I didn't mean to wake you,” he apologises quietly. “You sure the light's okay? I was just gonna read.”

“Read away.” Scott hums like a purring kitten. “Pretty sure I'm still dreaming.”

“Do you now, or have you ever owned a Golden Retriever?” he teases.

“Tragically, never,” Scott laments, “although I did work with a few, for photo shoots. Especially my rookie year.”

“Photo shoots plural?”

“I was first in the draft! Everyone got really excited. It's never an American. Monty and the guys were psyched, really pushing the hometown hero angle, you know?”

“I thought you said the Admirals never get good draft picks?” Kip frowns.

“Because we're too good. Now.” Scott raises an eyebrow, a cocky glint in his eye, and Kip grins.

There's a distant boom and red, white, and blue explodes into the sky. The crowd beneath them roars, and that feels distant too, as Scott pulls Kip into his arms. They're still, ostensibly, watching, even if Kip is just more aware of Scott's body, his heartbeat pressed against his back, than he is of the celebration. Born in the USA is blaring from somewhere and everywhere, and it's a fucking hilariously ignorant song choice and they do it every year, but this time Kip has something else he'd rather be listening to anyway.

“Hometown hero, huh?”

Scott ducks his head down, and dots a kiss right by his ear.

“I'm from Rochester, technically,” he explains, “which, I mean, it's close enough, but after the accident, St Thomas moved me out here, so I grew up in Brooklyn. When I wasn't on the ice I was hanging out in arcades and comic book stores that aren't there anymore. Busting open fire hydrants in summer. Bodegas, Coney Island, the whole deal. I am New York. They love me, I love them - not just the Admirals, but this whole place, you know?”

Kip knows. He feels it in the way the crowd cheers for Scott, and in the way he wears the Empire State Building emblazoned on his chest with such pride. But it's also in the way he will take any opportunity to voice opinions about the Mets, he knows Central Park like the back of his hand, and he's the least scared of street food of any athlete Kip knows – and he knows a few, these days.

Kip also knows what it's like to love New York. His dad has worked for the City's sanitation department as long as he can remember, and it takes a lot of love for a place to spend your life cleaning it up when it's determined to perpetually out-mess you. It's given him a deep respect for unions and for hard work and for those comic book stores Scott misses so much, and the little barbershops and hole-in-the-wall eateries clinging to life in an ever-growing, climbing, consuming city. It's such a quintessential artists' life: all over the world, he knows, people would kill to work themselves to death here just to be able to do it amongst the brownstones and MOMA and the Met and street chalk and Pratt and Julliard and kitschy little cafes and Broadway and off-Broadway and art, art, art, everywhere he looks.

And.

“Have you ever been to Stonewall?”

Scott's hands tense around his waist. He buries his nose in Kip's hair, and eventually confesses -

“No. Never. They invited me to the anniversary last week, but... I chickened out.”

In his mind's eye, Kip can see the way Scott's cheeks burn with shame and pain and everything he'd hidden before. He remembers how petrified Scott had been of coming to the Kingfisher, as if a neon sign would appear above his head for even thinking about it: SCOTT HUNTER, HOMOSEXUAL. Of course he'd struggle with a visit to the most famous gay bar in the world. Then again, every headline about him basically starts with that these days, so what is there to lose?

Kip draws patterns with his fingers on Scott's forearms where they cross his waist.

“Why?” he asks, as gently as he can.

“I don't know,” Scott replies. Then he sighs and pulls away, pacing back up to the balustrade so he can bury his expression in the crowd and the glass and not watch Kip watching him. “I guess... maybe I feel like I'm going to learn some things I'm not ready to learn in front of everybody. I don't know shit about the police, or AIDS, or fucking, anything, really – anything real, anyway - and they wanted to give me an award. For bravery. For kissing my boyfriend. It's crazy, I feel so selfish. And it's like, I want to do better, I want to help, but every time I open my mouth I feel like I'm going to stick my foot in it. In front of the whole world. I can't do this, I don't even know where to start.”

“Start where you are.”

Kip says it like it's the easiest thing in the world, and it knocks Scott a little off his axis. He turns.

“Hm?”

Kip offers a small, reassuring smile.

“Start where you are, use what you have, do what you can,” he recites. “It's one of my favourites.”

“Isn't that Arthur Ashe? The tennis player?”

“It's Arthur Ashe, the first and best Black tennis player in the country,” Kip corrects him. “And, AIDS victim, AIDS advocate, anti-apartheid activist. There's an ESPY award named after him.”

“I knew that. Shit, I need to pay more attention at those things. Didn't he get arrested?”

“Twice.”

“Damn.”

“That's just being a friend,” Scott protests.

Scott shakes his head, and watches the last sip of whisky dance around the bottom of his glass. Kip sets his drink aside and steps up next to him, close enough to bump shoulders, and tries again.

“Scott,” he breathes. “You tortured yourself for twenty years keeping a secret you should have never had to keep. That's real. The damage it did to you is real. Please, give yourself some fucking credit, okay? Personally, I think you're entitled to be a little selfish. Which you're not, by the way. Not as much as you think. Don't you think Hollander and Rozanov felt better having you in their corner? Don't you think Carter gets taken more seriously because The Scott Hunter personally demands it?”

“Okay. Then be a friend, start there. Be a leader. Be a captain. Hockey. That's where you are. That's what you have right now. And look, I- no offence, but I hope I never understand the level of scrutiny you're under. It's tough enough being five feet to the side of the laser beam. But there'll always be people who think you can never do enough, who think everything you do is wrong - those people are already out there. You can take it. And if you can't, I'll be here. Trust me. Start where you are. It's already helping.”

Scott turns, and Kip is looking up at him with such earnest eyes it takes his breath away for a second. It's daunting, yes, but for Kip to have so much faith in him... Maybe he can do this. Maybe, together, they can figure out what this even is.

“And I can teach you,” Kip offers. “The other stuff. AIDS history, and Stonewall, and all that. Maybe we can go on some random day that's not the biggest queer event in the Western world.”

Scott snorts. That hadn't even occurred to him, not since the invite at least. Fuck, he loves Kip – even more with every passing second, if that's possible, as Kip, eyes gleaming with inspiration, pulls out his phone and paces the balcony and taps furiously as he continues -

“We can have movie nights. How to Survive a Plague, that's going on there. Paris is Burning. You have to watch Moonlight. Please tell me you've seen Brokeback Mountain. Philadelphia. Before Stonewall. Ooh! I get to make you watch Rocky Horror! Okay. Okay. I'm calling Shawn. I'm so excited!”

This is the perfect place to start.