Chapter Twenty-Four
Kip was drunk.
Scott was in Detroit, and Kip was drunk.
He had watched one period of the Admirals away game before leaving his parents’ house and taking the train to the Village. He’d thought about texting Shawn to see what he was up to, but he didn’t actually want to talk to anyone anyway.
Now he was on one of the bar stools at the Kingfisher. Cute, wonderful, flirty Kyle had been setting pints in front of him all night.
It was late. Kip noticed, with some surprise, that there weren’t many people left in the bar.
“Last call, sexy,” Kyle drawled. His lips curved up into a suggestive little smile that had Kip mesmerized.
Kyle’s hair was blond, like Scott’s. His eyes were blue, but not like Scott’s. Kyle’s were a washed-out gray-blue. They were really nice. His bangs kept falling into them. Kip wanted to reach out and brush the hair away.
He was way too drunk.
“S’okay,” he said, with a flirty smile of his own, “was gonna head out anyway.”
“You got plans?” Kyle asked.
“I dunno. Home, I guess.”
Kyle grinned and leaned forward with his elbows on the bar. His face was suddenly very close. “Which way you headed?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Looks like we’re going the same way, then. I could walk with you to the subway?”
And Kip should have stopped the whole thing right there. It had bad idea written all over it.
But, fuck, it felt good to flirt like this. To just have someone be so open and honest about who they were and what they wanted. Kip felt like his old self.
“I’ll be done here in about twenty minutes. Then I’ll make sure you get home safe, okay?”
Kip was ready to politely decline, but instead he heard himself say, “Okay.”
Kyle smiled and slid a glass of water in front of him. “Drink this. I’ll be with you shortly.”
The water was cold and Kip hadn’t even realized how much his body had been craving it. It was nice of Kyle to think to give it to him. Kyle seemed nice.
God, Kip wanted to feel anything other than the all-consuming despair that had gripped him since he’d walked out of Scott’s apartment. He shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed and talked it out with Scott. He knew that now.
But it was too late. Obviously, it was too late. By now Scott had for sure figured out that Kip was not worth the hassle.
At least there was Kyle. Kyle in his faded jeans and his tight V-neck T-shirt.
Kyle with the floppy bangs and the winter eyes and the flirty smile.
Kyle wouldn’t judge Kip for completely fucking up the best thing that had ever happened to him—that would ever happen to him.
Kyle was going to walk him to the subway station because he was nice, and helpful.
And cute, but that part wasn’t important.
Suddenly, Kyle had his jacket on. He wasn’t behind the bar anymore. He was standing beside Kip’s bar stool. “Come on, tipsy.”
Kip slid off the stool and followed Kyle outside. They walked together down the block a bit, and Kip enjoyed the cool night air. Kyle didn’t talk much, which was nice because Kip was sleepy and he didn’t think he could carry on a conversation right now.
Kyle’s hand curled around Kip’s bicep as they walked. “Hello, muscles,” he teased. “You have beautiful arms, you know. I’ve been admiring them.”
“Oh?” Kip smiled sloppily. He did have nice arms, dammit, and he appreciated that someone had noticed.
“Mm. And a gorgeous smile. Look at those dimples!”
Kip grinned wider, showing off the dimples a little. Compliments were awesome.
Kyle stopped walking. “I’d really like to kiss you,” he said. “Can I?”
Oh.
No.
“Um…”
Kyle’s brow furrowed. “Is that not what you want? I thought we were—”
Shit.
Kyle’s face was so close, and Kip’s eyes landed involuntarily on his lips. This was bad, wasn’t it? Kip was with Scott. Was he with Scott?
Kyle must have taken whatever was happening on Kip’s face as an invitation, because he leaned in and pressed their lips together. And for a second, Kip was too stunned, too confused, too drunk to do anything but kiss him back.
Kyle was a good kisser.
But holy shit, no!
Kip shoved him away, and stumbled forward.
“Hey, what the fuck?” Kyle said, catching himself before almost landing on his ass.
“Fuck,” Kip mumbled. “This was… I can’t do this. I wasn’t looking for—I’m sorry.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes! Just… I need to go. Where’s the—Fuck. Where’s the subway?”
“That way. Do you want me to—?”
But Kip had already taken off at a run.
* * *
“You all right, man?”
Scott turned his head to be met with a concerned-looking Carter. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You look a long way from fine, Scotty.”
Scott faced the front of the bus. His team was en route from the hotel to the arena in Detroit to begin the next round of the playoffs, and now was not the time to think about his personal problems.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure you’re not getting sick or something? You look tired.”
“Drop it,” Scott snapped. In truth, he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well in days.
And now he was thinking about his personal problems. Dammit, Carter.
He still wasn’t sure what the hell had gone wrong—if he was mad at Kip, or at himself, or at no one.
He was thoroughly miserable. He felt like he was in actual physical pain, but not like a bruise or an injury; he could endure those.
This was searing every part of him at once.
He wanted to scream, or cry, or punch something.
Or just hide where no one could see him.
Unfortunately, he had a team to lead to victory.
Goddammit, Kip.
Had Kip been unfair? Had he been wrong?
Definitely, about some things. Like, how Scott was ever going to think that Kip wasn’t worth it? If someone asked Scott what he’d be willing to give up for Kip, Scott’s knee-jerk reaction would be everything.
But when he thought about it, that wasn’t really true. And when he thought about it some more, he realized that no one was asking him to give up everything.
Besides, Kip had given up a lot. He had distanced himself from his friends, from his family. He had adjusted his life to accommodate Scott. What had Scott adjusted?
Nothing. He had just been trying to tuck Kip wherever he would fit into his ridiculous, high-profile life.
He didn’t think he had been unreasonable, asking Kip to be patient with him while he figured out a plan. There was no way Kip should expect him to just announce his sexuality to the world. They had only been dating a few months.
But a few months or not, Scott was in love.
Before that first glorious kiss, he had resigned himself to a life without romance.
He had never expected any of this to happen.
It had flipped his whole world upside down.
And now he loved Kip so much that he could barely remember the lonely years before.
He knew, in only a few short weeks, that he wanted to share the rest of his life with Kip. It was staggering.
He’d wanted to, but now Kip was gone. And Scott had no idea how to get him back because he had no experience with this sort of thing.
And maybe it wasn’t fair to Kip to go after him.
What could Scott promise him that would be different?
He was in the middle of the damn playoffs; there was no way he was going to come out before they were over. And after that…
He really didn’t know. When he tried to imagine coming out, it filled him with dread.
For one thing, if he did that he would always be “the gay hockey player.” Even if his teammates, and the fans, and the press, and the sponsors accepted him, his achievements on the ice would always take a back seat to his sexuality.
Scott was as private a person as he could possibly be, under the circumstances.
He didn’t have any social media accounts.
He didn’t go out to clubs or even restaurants all that often.
He didn’t try to be seen (much to his agent’s chagrin).
He didn’t do probing personal interviews, and he generally didn’t talk about himself much.
He had been able to hold on to some of his privacy because he had convinced the world that there was nothing interesting about him. He was good at hockey, he tried to be a good person, and that was it.
Being gay would, without a doubt, be something the world would find interesting.
He couldn’t think about any of this now. He needed to focus. His team, his city, was depending on him.
* * *
“Enough, Hunter! Enough!”
The referee roughly pulled Scott away from the man on the ice. Scott struggled against him, but a linesman took hold of his other arm and helped haul him away from the bloodied Detroit player.
Scott looked at the man’s pummeled face, and at his own busted knuckles. The adrenaline started to fade and the realization of what he’d just done set in.
“Shit,” he said.
Fighting in the playoffs was bad. It was stupid and reckless and potentially costly. Scott wasn’t usually the kind of player to get into actual fights on the ice. He was much too valuable for that.
His opponent got up, slowly. Scott was relieved when he was standing. He would be fine.
Scott’s face hurt. He spat blood onto the ice and was hit with another wave of regret.
He let the officials take him to the penalty box. Huff skated over with Scott’s gloves, helmet, and stick, retrieved from the ice. He didn’t say anything. Scott nodded at him, and looked away.
Fuck.
They were down 4–1 in the third period. Scott hadn’t slept more than a few hours in days. He was a powder keg, and number fourteen on the Detroit team had been playing with matches all night.