There was a small mob of reporters standing outside the players’ entrance. Scott pushed past, ignoring them. When he got through the doors, he found Carter waiting.
“Coach is calling a team meeting,” Carter said. “The message just went out to everyone. But he wants to meet with the captains first.”
“Okay. Right. Where’s Huff?”
“In the coaches’ room already.”
Scott followed Carter into the small room that was normally reserved for coaches’ meetings. Greg Huff was sitting in one of the chairs.
“Hey, guys. How’s your day going?” Huff asked.
Scott folded his arms and leaned against a wall. “It’s kind of terrible now. Started out great, though.”
“Is that so?” Huff asked, with a bit of a leer. Scott flushed and looked at the floor.
“What’s going to happen, do you think?” Carter asked. “With Zullo?”
Huff turned his calculating gaze away from Scott. “Fuck knows, but it’s gonna leave a hole in our defense if he’s gone.”
“Trade deadline’s next week,” Scott said. “Great fucking timing, Frank.”
Coach Murdock entered then with the assistant coaches. He bent forward over the table, hands pressing down onto the wood, and glared at everyone.
“Zullo,” he said, “is being put on waivers. He is no longer a part of the New York Admirals. We will be bringing someone up from Hartford to fill the vacancy until we can find a more permanent solution.”
Scott’s eyebrows raised. “That bad, huh?”
“That bad,” Murdock confirmed. “We will be calling a press conference within the hour. I will be there; Zullo will not.”
“What about the game tonight?” Scott asked.
“We will have to shuffle the defense lines around a bit, but we will make do.”
Scott didn’t like the sound of that, but what choice did they have?
“The rest of the team will be here for a meeting in half an hour,” Murdock said. “You boys start talking like we’re doomed, and we’re doomed. Focus on the game tonight. This is no different from an injury. We’ll adapt.”
“No problem, Coach,” Carter said.
“Of course,” Scott said.
The three players left to wait in the dressing room for the rest of the team.
“Holy shit,” Carter said when they were away from the coaches, “was not expecting that.”
“Nope,” Huff agreed.
Scott was still mad at Zullo, but he felt like a weight had been lifted too. This was definitely going to be a long-run positive for the team.
“It’s for the best,” he said, leaning back in his cubby until his head hit the wall. “We can’t go into the playoffs with a distraction like Zullo.”
“No question,” Carter said.
The three of them sat in silence. Then Carter said, “So, Scott...”
“What?”
“You’ve got a glow about you this morning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Huff knows what I’m talking about.”
Scott looked at Huff.
“It’s true,” Huff confirmed. “You’ve got a glow.”
“Maybe I’m just glad Zullo is gone.”
“Nah. You had it before that,” Huff said.
“Mm,” Carter agreed. “I think Scotty was getting some last night.”
“Definitely,” Huff said.
“I—” Scott started. Then he surrendered. “Maybe I was.”
Carter clapped his hands together and beamed. “Atta boy, Hunter!”
Scott tried like hell to fight it, but he was grinning like an idiot within seconds.
“Look at this, Carter! He’s blushing!” Huff said.
“Adorable.”
“Mind your own business, guys.”
“I don’t need to know who she was,” Carter said, “but I do need to know how she was.”
“Well, you’re not gonna find out,” Scott said.
“Judging by the shade of red Hunter is right now, I’d say she was pretty excellent,” Huff said.
“I’m not telling you guys anything. Shut it.”
“It’s no use,” Carter lamented. “Scott’s a gentleman.”
“Damn right.” Scott hunched forward and stared at his feet, trying to control the heat that was turning his face beet red. Memories of the previous night and of that morning were rushing back, though, making his struggle futile.
He remembered waking up to find Kip propped on one elbow, gazing down at him all rumpled and sexy. The look on his face had been so...well, not loving, obviously, but...affectionate.
Then he remembered Kip touching himself for Scott. Getting himself off. His face when he came, all slack and euphoric. How beautiful he’d been in the afterglow.
“I’m, uh, I’m going to get a coffee.” Scott strode quickly toward the lounge. There was no way he was going to let himself get aroused while he waited for his teammates to arrive. This meeting was going to be uncomfortable enough.
In the lounge, Scott loaded a pod into the coffeemaker and waited for the water to heat up. He texted Kip. You still at my place?
Kip: No. Left about twenty minutes ago.
For some reason Scott had liked the idea of Kip being in his apartment, even when he wasn’t there.
Kip: Everything all right?
Scott: I think it will be. I’ll talk to you about it later.
Kip: Ok.
Scott: Sorry again for rushing off. I had a great night.
Kip: Don’t apologize. I had an amazing night. Thank you.
Scott smiled. When can I see you again?
Kip: Insatiable!
Scott: I am.
Kip: Call me later? When you’re done. We can figure it out.
Scott: Deal.
* * *
Kip had been trying to relax at home all day, but he kept wondering how Scott was doing, and what was happening with Zullo. If Scott was upset, or worried about the game tonight. If he’d gotten to go for his game-day run, even if he couldn’t buy a smoothie from Kip. Did the routine even matter to Scott anymore?
There had been a midday press conference, which Kip had watched in case Scott was there. Instead it had just been his coach, Harv Murdock, addressing the media.
Murdock announced that Zullo had been cut from the team. Kip didn’t know much about Frank Zullo other than what Scott had told him last night, but Scott had to be at least a little relieved that he was gone.
While he’d been reading the updates on the Zullo situation online, Kip had also checked out the Admirals’ upcoming schedule. It looked like Scott would be in town for a while. The Admirals played five games over the next week, including the one tonight. The next game was against the Brooklyn Scouts. Then there were two home games at Madison Square Garden, and an away game in Boston next Saturday.
Kip wondered how much of the next week he could spend with Scott. He didn’t want to push.
He had expected it to be Scott when his phone rang around one o’clock, but instead he had been surprised by a call from the Museum of the City of New York. They wanted him to come in for an interview. Holy shit!
“Absolutely,” he had stammered into his phone. “Definitely. Yes. Thank you.”
He had cringed at himself, and then scrambled for a pen so he could jot down Monday, 3:00 on his hand. He’d have to go to the interview straight from work. Jesus, how was he possibly going to not look like a total wreck?
It was over three hours later when he heard from Scott. He was stretched out on his bed, reading a novel, when the phone rang.
“Hi. Sounds like you’re having a day,” Kip said when he picked up.
He heard Scott exhale into the receiver. “Yeah. It’s been nuts.”
“How are you?”
“Frustrated. Angry. Relieved. I don’t know.”
“Did you get to go for your run?”
“No. I hit a treadmill pretty hard here at the rink, but no. Everything is just a mess today. Can’t quite get my head focused. I hate feeling like this.”
“That sucks. Sorry.”
“The day started out great...”
“You just gotta get your head back to where it was this morning,” Kip suggested.
“That’s exactly what I was trying not to do. But I kept getting...distracted.”
“I know I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
Scott laughed a bit. “What are you doing? You heading to work yet?”
“Soon. The event is in Brooklyn, at the museum, so I’ve got time. I don’t have to be there until six or so.”
“Oh.”
Kip wondered if he should tell Scott about his job interview. Why? So when I don’t get the job he can know exactly how big a failure his boyfriend is?
Instead, he said, “Hey, I was thinking about seeing if Dad wanted to go to the game with me tomorrow afternoon. The one here against Brooklyn.”
“Yeah?” Scott’s voice brightened a bit with this news.
“Yeah. He’s always been a Scouts fan, though obviously I’ll be cheering for you.”
“Obviously. I can probably get you tickets. Let me look into it.”
“Oh. No. That’s all right. I can—”
“It’s no problem. Those tickets are expensive.”
Kip frowned. “I can buy them.”
“I know,” Scott said gently. “I’m not trying to insult you. It’s just, I mean, it’s easy for me to ask for them and then you can save your money for something else. It’s no trouble at all.”
“Fine,” Kip said, because he didn’t want to get into an argument, and he really could use the money. But he wouldn’t make a habit of accepting these sorts of things from his millionaire celebrity boyfriend.
“So what’s your schedule like this week?” Scott asked, his voice a little lower.
“I work Tuesday to Friday. Nothing in the evenings, though.”
“I’m in town all week.”
“I know. I checked.”
“I’ve got long morning practices on Monday and Tuesday. But you’ll be at work anyway...”
“Maybe we could—” Kip said, at the same time that Scott said, “Will you come to my place tomorrow night?”
“Sure, yeah! Yeah, of course,” Kip said. “Be kind of convenient for work the next morning too. If you let me get any sleep, that is.”
“I will. I promise. Eventually.”
They both laughed, then Scott said, “Shit. I have to go. Sorry. But... I’ll see you tomorrow, right? And I’ll let you know about those tickets.”
“Yeah, tomorrow. For sure. And good luck tonight.”
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”
“Okay. Bye, Scott.”
They ended the call, and Kip started to get ready for work while his boyfriend...got ready to lead his team to victory against Montreal.
Kip shook his head. When would this stop feeling so surreal?
* * *
Scott woke up alone on Sunday.
He’d been waking up alone pretty much his entire life (roommates aside), so it shouldn’t have felt as jarring as it did.
He went to the kitchen to make coffee, then turned on the television to watch SportsCenter. They were showing highlights of the game last night, and there were a lot of them. The anchors were commending the outstanding performance by the entire Admirals team, especially given the circumstances.
It had been a hell of a game. Scott was extremely proud of his team, coming together for a massive win over Montreal.
The news on the television turned to the Zullo incident. There was footage of him leaving the police station, stony-faced and not speaking to the reporters.
For some reason it wasn’t as satisfying as Scott had imagined it would be. Zullo was an asshole, no question, but it still made his stomach twist to see a teammate hit rock bottom like this. He sincerely hoped that Zullo would use the league’s rehab program and get his career back on track.
But he didn’t have time to think about Frank Zullo right now. Zullo was a grown man, and he had made his own bed. Scott had a game to get ready for.
* * *
Kip didn’t spend nearly enough time with his dad. They lived in the same house, sure, but they never did stuff together anymore. Kip left for work most mornings before his parents were awake, and he tended to go to bed early. The dumb smoothie job really took a lot out of him.
Kip watched his dad as he cheered on his beloved Scouts. They were both drinking beer and eating Nathan’s crinkle-cut fries from the concession stand. It was a good afternoon.
Scott had come through with the tickets. His dad had been thrilled that morning when Kip had suggested they go to the game. Kip had lied about where the tickets had come from, saying he’d bought them cheap off a friend who couldn’t go. He wasn’t sure if Dad believed him, but if he didn’t, he wasn’t saying anything about it.
The crowd was loud. They roared for every hit, every shot, and every save. It was getting late in the season, and these games mattered.
By the third period it was 3–2 for the Admirals, and Scott had scored one of the goals. The building was tense as the game entered the final minutes. With just under six minutes left on the clock, the Admirals got a penalty. They would be shorthanded for two minutes.
Kip leaned forward and chewed on his thumb. “You got this, Scott,” he said under his breath.
The Scouts weren’t going down without a fight. They kept the action in the Admirals’ zone and gave the goalie, Bennett, a workout. After one save, Scott shot the puck at the blue line to clear it out of their zone, but one of the Scouts defensemen caught it on his stick before it could cross the blue line. He fired it at the Admirals’ net, and Kip could see what was going to happen before it happened.
“No, Scott. Fuck. Don’t!”
As the puck rocketed toward the net, Kip could only watch, horrified, as Scott threw his body in front of it. He dove through the air and caught the puck somewhere in his midsection, where his padding was light.
He went down hard.