Kip may have gotten up extra early on Saturday to put some additional care into his appearance.
There had been nothing he could do about his uniform, but he’d at least made sure his nicest jeans were clean, and he had decided to wear the stylish new sneakers he had bought a couple of weeks ago that he could not afford at all, but had not been able to resist.
He’d even bothered to fix his hair up a bit, despite knowing he had to slap his stupid ball cap over it. He flossed. He tucked mints into his pocket to cover up his eventual coffee breath.
He arrived at the shop ten minutes early after a relatively relaxing commute, and was not at all surprised to see that he was the first to arrive. He got to work prepping, taking special care to make sure they had the ingredients for Scott’s Blue Moon Over Brooklyn smoothie ready.
Twenty minutes after the shop opened at six, Kip was still alone. Again, not a huge surprise given that it was Jeff who was scheduled to work with him, but it was grating.
At six-thirty the phone rang; Jeff was calling in “sick.” Kip couldn’t even conjure up the energy to be angry, especially since this might mean being all alone in the shop when Scott...
You are way too excited about the possibility of a two-minute interaction with a man who is not at all interested in you, Kip.
Saturdays were always way quieter than weekdays. The morning crawled, with just a trickle of customers to break the monotony. Kip ended up pulling out his phone and, of course, reading old articles about Scott Hunter.
There were a lot of articles. Most of them had the same information: Scott had been born and raised in Rochester, and had always been the best player on any team he played for, right from his adolescent days. The articles often highlighted his generous devotion to charities, especially those that help sick children, and described him as an outstanding role model on and off the ice.
The other thing the articles always mentioned was that Scott Hunter was one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. He had never been linked to a woman for any significant amount of time (interesting), and he tended to dodge any questions about his private life (more interesting).
Kip was busy saving the photos from Scott’s GQ article onto his phone when the door opened. He scrambled to shove his phone into his pocket as Scott Hunter entered the shop.
It would be ridiculous to say that Scott’s face lit up when he saw Kip, but...that really was what it looked like.
“Kip!” he said, a delighted smile spreading across his sweat-slicked face. “I was worried you might not be working today.”
“You were?” Kip asked, too shocked to say anything more intelligent.
“I just mean...” And did Scott Hunter seem embarrassed? “I like to keep as many things the same in my routine as possible, and you made the other two smoothies, so...”
“Must be something about the way I make ’em,” Kip said, bravely attempting a flirtatious smile.
“Must be.”
Kip gathered the ingredients and started dropping them into the blender. “I watched the game the other night,” he said. “That last goal was really something.”
“Thanks.” Scott sounded like he truly appreciated it. “I felt good about that one.”
He smiled at Kip, whose mouth went dry. He turned on the blender before he could say something stupid like, What do your abs taste like?
“All alone today?” Scott asked as Kip handed him his usual.
“Yeah, uh, I was supposed to be working with someone, but he called in sick. I don’t think he’s actually sick. He’s kind of useless.” Kip cringed inwardly as he said this. As if Scott Hunter gives a shit about your co-workers.
“Sorry to hear it,” Scott said. “I’ve had teammates like that.”
Kip laughed, because was Scott Hunter seriously comparing their two lines of work?
“You, uh, you mind if I drink this here?” Scott asked, as if there weren’t tables and chairs right next to him. “I just...have some emails to read.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and waved it in the air.
“Of course, yeah,” Kip said, not able to believe his luck. Scott sat at one of the little bistro tables with his back to the door (and his face to Kip). Kip tried hard not to just stare at him as Scott scrolled through emails on his phone, occasionally sipping from his blue smoothie. He was drinking it very slowly, it seemed.
After fifteen minutes, Kip left his station behind the counter and went to work wiping tables that didn’t need to be cleaned at all.
When he was at the table next to Scott’s, he took a chance and broke the silence. “You sure this isn’t going to mess up your game? Breaking routine like this?”
“What? Oh, no. I don’t have to do everything the same. I mean, I’m not that obsessive.”
“Sure,” Kip said, with a bit of a smirk.
Scott grinned and even laughed. “I probably do seem weird, don’t I? Acting like this smoothie is a magic potion or something.”
Kip shrugged. “I’ve read about athletes. You’re all nuts, right? Putting your uniforms on a certain way, not changing your socks, not shaving...”
Scott pointed an accusing finger at him. “Hey, only in the playoffs, and that is a time-honored tradition!”
“Totally normal, then.”
Kip could not believe what he was about to do, but he had to test the waters. Just a little.
“Not saying I mind it,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “You guys always look so rugged by the time you hoist the cup. Like a bunch of hot lumberjacks.”
Scott looked at him, and Kip could swear the ghost of a smile passed over his lips.
But then Scott stood abruptly, and the smile was gone. “Well, I should get going.”
Kip wanted to die. He had just been flirting with Scott fucking Hunter and now Scott was going to leave forever because what the hell, Grady?
“Thanks again, Kip,” Scott said. He was kinder than Kip deserved.
But, when he got to the door, Scott stopped and turned. “Would you like to go to the game tonight?”
“What?”
“No one is using my tickets. I could give you two, so you can bring...someone...if you like.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Kip gaped at the impossibly gorgeous celebrity filling the doorway of the shop, who was offering him a gift for no reason. “If you’re sure, I would love to go!”
“I am sure, and I’m happy to hear that. Just give them your name at will call.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight, then,” Kip said, like an idiot.
Scott just smiled and left.
* * *
Kip should not have been at all surprised that Scott Hunter’s personal seats were phenomenal. Six rows from the ice, on the blue line facing the home bench. Just unreal.
“Shit,” Elena said. “I know Equinox has a box here, but these seats are way better.”
“I can’t believe we’re here. I can’t believe we’re using Scott Hunter’s tickets!”
“It’s a weird date, though. You’re here with a woman, and he’s at work.”
“It’s not a date.”
“I’m sure he gives tickets to every smoothie shop clerk.”
Kip had been trying not to think too much about why Scott had given him the tickets. “He’s just thanking me because he thinks I’m in some way responsible for his hot streak. Like I said, he’s nuts.”
“Nuts about you, maybe.”
“Don’t be dumb.”
“Kip,” she said, placing her beer into her cup holder. “You do know what you look like, right?”
“What do you—?”
“You’re hot, Grady. Extremely hot.”
“I’m...okay.”
“No, listen to me. You are ridiculously good-looking. Do you think I’m happy that you’re gay? I am not.”
Kip rolled his eyes. “As if. And besides—” he lowered his voice to a whisper, leaning in “—we don’t know that Hunter is...on my team.”
“Don’t we?”
“No! I mean... I get hints that maybe...”
“Like how we’re sitting in his personal seats because he personally gave you his personal tickets when he visited you at work for the third time this week?”
Kip was blushing now. “He’s just superstitious,” he mumbled, “that’s all.”
The players came out on the ice to warm up. Kip watched them all skate around, go down on the ice to stretch, take turns lobbing easy shots at their goalies. He tried, but failed, to not pay too much extra attention to #21, Scott Hunter. The man was doing a deep lunging hamstring stretch that showed how flexible he was. Kip imagined what that position might look like without the heavily padded hockey pants.
His undersexed brain took him on a wonderful journey for a few minutes, and he was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice when Hunter skated by the glass in front of them—looking like he’d skated right off a promotional poster in his crisp red, white, and blue uniform—and nodded at him.
No. Not at me. Must be at someone sitting behind me.
Kip turned his head. There was no one sitting behind him yet. No one in front of him either.
Huh.
The warm-up wrapped up, the Zambonis came out to clear the ice, and then the spectacle that was the pre-game show started. The lights went out and videos of the Admirals in action were projected onto the ice while rock music blared. There was dry ice and pyrotechnics, and when the players came storming out, the place hit a fever pitch.
Kip was struck by two things: Scott Hunter was a big star. Like, really big. A mammoth superstar athlete and this city loved him. It seemed like half the people in the crowd were wearing his jersey. And when Scott’s name was announced as the game’s starting center, the crowd was deafening. He was not just a guy who liked blueberry smoothies and was nice to the shop clerks who made them. This guy was New York.
And Kip was here as his guest.
Holy fuck.
The other thing that struck him was that Scott commanded a lot of respect from his teammates. Kip could see the way the younger players would glow when he clapped them on the shoulder and complimented them on a good play. Even the referees seemed to like him, giving him little taps on the elbow after they explained a penalty decision to him.
The game was incredible. Scott was incredible. He not only scored a goal each period and assisted on another one, he also made the crowd roar when he leveled a Tampa winger near center ice with a huge hip check. Kip was the most impressed when Scott broke up a fight before it happened, calming his teammate down with a firm hold on his arm and words that Kip wished he could have heard.
It was undeniably sexy to watch Scott displaying so much skill and authority throughout the game. He was spectacular.
“That was so fucking great!” Kip said, far too loudly, as they made their way to the subway after the game. “I want to go to another one! I want to go to all of them!”
“Well, you’ll have to wait, superfan,” Elena said. “The Admirals hit the road for the next two weeks.”
Kip should not have felt as devastated as he did by that news. Suddenly the idea of working an entire shift without seeing Scott seemed unbearable.
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.