by Rachel Reid
When he was at home in bed that night, he couldn’t help but wonder if Scott was at all unhappy about going on the road, away from his safe routine.
He was being stupid. Scott was a professional hockey player who was not going to be missing his dumb smoothies while on the road. Kip sighed, and resigned himself to at least two weeks of Scott Hunter–free shifts at work.
Chapter Three
Scott watched the island of Manhattan disappear as the plane pushed through the thick clouds that had covered the city for days.
He felt off, but he didn’t know why. It had nothing to do with his game because he was playing better than he had all season. The team was on a winning streak, and they were free of any major injuries. Plus, the team’s private plane was taking them to Phoenix, which would give them a nice break from the bitter cold of January in New York.
His agent was happy again, at least. A couple of weeks ago Scott had received a very panicked call from Todd Wheeler, the man who had represented him since his college hockey days.
“We’re in real trouble here,” Todd had said. “The sponsors don’t like what they’re seeing from you. Gillette is saying they won’t renew next year. Even Under Armour is getting nervous. Fucking Under Armour, Scott! We can’t lose them!”
If the conversation was supposed to have motivated Scott, it hadn’t worked. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known he was playing terribly, or that he had been happy about it.
“Believe me, Todd,” Scott had said. “No one is more disappointed in me than I am.”
But yesterday Scott had received a very different phone call.
“Whatever you did to get your game back, keep doing it!” a relieved-sounding Todd had said.
Except Scott couldn’t keep doing it. He would be on the road for two weeks, mostly playing teams in the Western Conference. The Admirals had seven games scheduled, ending with one in Toronto, before they flew home. Scott never minded being on the road. He liked his teammates, and he wasn’t a nervous flyer like some of them. He also, unlike most of the team, didn’t have a wife and kids that he had to leave behind.
But for the first time in his career, Scott felt—absurdly—like he was leaving someone behind.
Scott’s seatmate, and one of his assistant captains, Carter Vaughan, was particularly excited about their upcoming stop in Los Angeles. He had been seeing Gloria Grey, a very famous and extremely attractive television actress, for a few months now. “Nothing serious,” Carter had insisted the last time Scott asked him about her. “Just two beautiful, chill people enjoying each other’s company whenever we’re in the same city.”
Scott thought it might be more than that, but he didn’t say anything. He was the last person who should be nosey about other people’s love lives.
Carter had his headphones on already. Since there was nothing to look at outside the window, Scott pulled out his book. It was a dumb spy novel, but it was something to pass the time with.
Scott tried to read, but his mind kept wandering. It kept conjuring the image of a charming smoothie shop clerk with stunning hazel eyes and the cutest smile...
He turned his head so Carter wouldn’t notice his goofy grin.
He had come to the game last night. Kip. Scott had nodded at him, but Kip hadn’t done anything in return. Maybe he hadn’t seen. Maybe he’d thought Scott was weird.
Either way, it had made Scott absurdly happy to see him sitting in that arena. Happier still to see that he had brought a female friend with him, because Kip had implied that he was attracted to men. At least, Scott was pretty sure that was what had happened. He was hopelessly clueless about flirting.
He frowned. Kip might be bisexual. Maybe that woman he had been with was his girlfriend. She had certainly looked pretty enough.
Scott was not bisexual. What the world didn’t know was that he wasn’t straight either. He’d known he was gay for a long time. Since he’d played junior, actually. He’d had a terrible crush on a teammate then, one he’d been sure was unrequited. Even if it hadn’t been, he’d known Jacob would never act on it. Would never admit it. Making a move on him would only have gotten Scott a black eye, or worse. It could have cost Scott his career if word had gotten out. Because hockey players weren’t gay. No NHL player was ever gay.
Scott knew, now that he was older and wiser, that there was no way that was true. But it didn’t change the fact that no one in the league had ever been openly gay, or even openly bisexual. NHL players married young, had a bunch of kids, and took the family to the cottage in the summer. NHL players golfed and drank and played poker and ate steak and went to strip clubs and slept with puck bunnies and used words like fag and queer liberally.
So Scott kept his love life to himself. Or lack thereof.
It was hard enough to be discreet when you were just an average anybody. It was infinitely harder when you were a superstar athlete. Scott couldn’t go online and hook up with random men; he would always be scared one of them would talk to the press. He felt the same way about sex workers. He avoided gay bars and clubs, not that he would necessarily be into that sort of thing anyway. He was a terrible dancer.
Most of his sexual encounters happened during the summers. He would go away to exotic places where people didn’t know a damn thing about hockey. Italy, Spain, Brazil, Greece. Places where he was just one of many young, fit men looking for one thing.
Summer had been a long damn time ago.
What Scott didn’t do—what he never, ever did—was flirt with shop clerks in Manhattan. Because that would be stupid and careless and not at all worth the risk. He would certainly never give them a hint that he was interested in men. Scott had gotten good at concealing that fact; he’d had years of practice, after all.
But there was something about Kip.
Scott couldn’t even name it. Obviously he was good-looking (he’s fucking gorgeous, Scott, come on), with those dimples and those eyes. At the game last night, Scott had finally gotten a glimpse of Kip when he wasn’t wearing a ball cap and apron. He’d like to get a much closer look sometime.
Jesus.
So, yes, he was attractive. Lots of men in New York were attractive. Hell, lots of men on Scott’s team were attractive. So that wasn’t the entire reason why Scott couldn’t stop thinking about him.
There was just something about him. Scott wanted to talk to him for hours, and find out everything about him. Show him everything. Give him everything.
His reason for returning to the shop on game days wasn’t a ruse. He sincerely felt that it was important to stick to routines when his game was going well. He had been playing the worst hockey of his career before he’d walked into that shop and Kip had served him that smoothie, and he’d been on fire ever since.
In more ways than one, if he was being honest.
* * *
“Hey, stranger.”
“Hey, Dad,” Kip said as he went to the cupboard to grab the cereal box. It was Kip’s day off, which meant a rare morning at home.
“I never asked you how the game was the other night,” his dad said.
“It was awesome.” Kip grinned to himself as he said it. “Really.”
Dad sipped his coffee and looked at Kip from where he sat at the little kitchen table. “It was awfully nice of Scott Hunter to give you those tickets.”
“It was.”
“I don’t think there’s a person in Brooklyn your mother hasn’t told about that.”
“God, it’s not a big deal.”
“We don’t have a lot of excitement in our lives.” Dad smiled.
Kip joined his father at the same round table he’d been eating breakfast at his whole life.
He loved his parents. He loved this house, but he also desperately wanted to get out on his own.
“How’s Elena?” Dad asked.
“Great. You know, completely impres
sive in every way.”
“No job openings for you at Equinox Tech?”
“What the hell would I do at Equinox? I’m just a history nerd like my old man.”
“Well, what about the New York Admirals? Are they hiring?”
“Yeah, team historian.”
His dad chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “So this thing with Scott Hunter—”
“There is no thing with Scott Hunter.”
“All right...” his dad said in that singsong tone of Fine, none of my business.
“Seriously, he just...thinks the dumb smoothies I make are good luck or something. Nothing to do with me.”
“Your mother will be very disappointed to hear that.”
Kip rolled his eyes, but smiled.
“I think Megan’s going to be here for dinner tonight,” his father said. “Andrew too.”
“Oh. Nice.” Megan was Kip’s big sister, and Andrew was her boyfriend. The two of them lived together in Williamsburg.
Whenever Megan came home for any occasion, it just reminded Kip that she had to come home. She was almost four years older than Kip, but still...
“You planning on being here tonight?” his dad asked.
“Sure,” Kip said, forcing another smile. “Where else would I be?”
* * *
Scott slumped against the wall of the steam room, exhausted and frustrated. They should have won this one.
They had played their backup goalie, a kid from Sweden named Tommy Andersson, and it hadn’t gone well. But Andersson wasn’t to blame. No one had helped him.
Scott ran his hands over his sweat-slick face and into his damp hair.
Scott hadn’t even showed up tonight. It had just been a terrible effort by the whole team, and it should have been an easy win.
Coach Murdock had already made them feel ashamed of themselves. He’d walked into the room, shook his head, and walked out—worse than being screamed at.
No one came into the steam room to bother Scott. They knew better.
He sighed and stood up, tightening his towel around his waist. He needed a shower. And something to drink.
He walked into the lounge area, still wearing his towel, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He downed it in one go, then turned to see Greg Huff sitting on the counter behind him.
“So that was a shit show,” Huff said.
“You’re not kidding,” Scott said. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“I mean, I’m not the captain, but maybe like, ‘Hey, fuckheads. Stop playing such shitty hockey.’ Or something.”
Scott smiled a little. “That was more or less what I was thinking.”
“Poor Andersson, man. I feel sorry for that kid.”
“Yeah...” Scott said, looking in the direction of the dressing room. “How’s he doing?”
“Wonderful. How do you think he’s doing?”
“I’ll talk to him. You’re off the hook. Got our only goal tonight. Nice one too.”
Huff gave him a lazy salute. “What I’m good for.”
It was true. Greg Huff was one of the best sharpshooters in the game. He had incredible aim, and had been an NHL all-star for eight consecutive seasons because of it.
Scott grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. Huff put out his hands in a catching position, so Scott threw him one as well.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Scott said. “But tell Andersson to stick around, all right?”
“Will do.”
If Scott could have a whole team of Greg Huffs, he’d be thrilled. Greg was a real dependable, stand-up guy, and a tremendous team presence on and off the ice. Not the flashiest player, and not the biggest guy by a long shot, but a huge contributor to the team.
Scott went to the showers. A couple of other guys were in there. Most of the team had already showered and were getting ready to go back to the San Jose hotel.
One of the guys in the shower was Frank Zullo. He was the only player on the team Scott just didn’t like. He was a great defenseman, no question, big and tough and a brutal fighter when necessary. But he was also a bully, and a bit of a creep, really. There were plenty of guys like Zullo in the NHL.
Scott made the water a little hotter, letting it wash away this terrible game. Tomorrow morning they flew to Chicago. They had a night off, then a game the following afternoon. Then a short night flight to Toronto for a game the next evening, and then home to New York.
He left the showers and went to the lockers. He put on some shorts and a T-shirt and went to find Andersson in the dressing room. The young goalie was packing up his gear, looking miserable.
“Hey,” Scott said, sitting on the bench beside Andersson’s enormous goalie gear bag, “I’m sorry we didn’t help you out there tonight.”
Andersson huffed an angry laugh. “I fucked up,” he said in his heavily accented English.
“We all did.”
“I looked like a fucking idiot out there.”
“Murdock made the right call, putting you in,” Scott said. “I don’t blame you a bit. I blame the rest of us. It’s just psychological. Putting the backup goalie in makes us cocky, I guess. Like the coach thinks this game should be a walk, so we all believe it, and then...”
“Then I look like a fucking idiot.”
Scott tilted his head in acknowledgment. “We’re all going to be replaying our mistakes tonight when we’re in our beds. No one on this team is proud of themselves tonight. But no one blames you either. I need you to know that.”
The young goalie gave him a reluctant smile. “Thanks,” he said. He stuffed the last of his gear into his bag and stood. “I’m gonna head to the hotel. Replay some of those mistakes. And then I’m gonna forget all about it and get ready for the next game.”
“Good man. You’re rooming with Burke, right?” Scott asked, just to make conversation as they walked out of the room.
“Yeah.”
“Man, I’m sorry. Good luck.”
Tommy laughed. “Yeah, thanks. I pretend I can’t understand him when I need him to stop talking.”
Scott laughed too. Tommy’s English was excellent.
“I’m gonna get my stuff together,” Scott said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tommy.”
“Goodnight.”
* * *
Kip scanned the crowded pub until he spotted Shawn sitting alone at a small table. Shawn grinned across the room at him.
“Hey, man,” Shawn said, standing and hugging Kip when he reached the table. “Glad you could make it out.”
“Been around straight people too much lately,” Kip joked, releasing Shawn and settling into the wooden chair across the table from him. It was the same pub they’d been coming to for years—the Kingfisher. It had the same worn, cozy feel of any decades-old English-style pub, with dark wood and dim lighting and beer signs on the walls. A television at the back of the room showed local sports. At a glance it didn’t look like a gay bar at all, or at least not what most straight people probably pictured a gay bar being. But the men sat a little closer, and the bartenders were, in Kip’s opinion, a little hotter. He loved this place.
“We got a cute server,” Shawn said. “You’ll like him.”
“Aw, I can’t compete with you.”
Shawn shook his head and raised his pint glass. “Too clean-cut for me. He’s all yours.”
Shawn was a complicated guy. He was handsome, all dark skin and soft eyes and a warm smile. He was also an impeccable dresser, always looking like a J.Crew catalog model.
He and Kip had fooled around a bit in college. Nothing too serious, but they had both been eager to experiment. Shawn had a thing for bad boys, though. Despite his straitlaced appearance, he had always been drawn to men with tattoos and an air of danger about them. Kip was just an eager-to-please nerd who couldn’t fi
gure his own life out.
Their server stopped by the table, and Shawn hadn’t been kidding. Slim, athletic build and blond hair falling in his face—the guy was exactly Kip’s type.
Kip gave him a flirty smile as he ordered because he couldn’t help himself. He received one in return, and the man introduced himself as Kyle.
Shawn laughed after Kyle left. “Always so fucking smooth.”
“As if,” Kip said. “I’m a mess most of the time.”
“Nah, you’re all charm. That boy is already thinking about telling you when his shift ends.”
Kip looked over his shoulder toward the bar where Kyle was waiting, presumably for Kip’s beer. “Well...”
“But first, we have something to talk about,” Shawn said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been thinking about when we were out with Jimmy and Chuck last week.”
“Oh?” Kip could really use that beer.
“First of all, I feel like we maybe ganged up on you when we were—”
“Asking me what the fuck I was doing with my life?”
“Encouraging you to pursue your dreams.”
“Right.”
Kyle, the wonderful angel, came to the table with Kip’s pint of local red ale. As he leaned to place the glass on the table, he took the opportunity to rest a hand on Kip’s shoulder. Kip felt the tips of his fingers brush the back of his neck. “Let me know if you need anything else,” Kyle said, the double meaning lost on no one.
“Look,” Kip said to Shawn, after enjoying a parting smile from Kyle, “I know you guys just—”
“I have a proposition for you,” Shawn interrupted.
Kip raised an eyebrow. “Those never ended particularly well before.”
“A business proposition. And I remember a few of those previous times that weren’t bad at all.”
Kip smiled into his beer. “Me too.”
“I propose,” Shawn said, “that you apply for a better job.”
Kip fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Like where?”
“I have a friend...”
“A friend, huh?”
“He works at the Museum of the City of New York.”