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For reasons Kip can't even begin to fathom, the MLH has decided to hold the All-Star Game in Buffalo this year. In spite of this, Scott puts together a shockingly good case for it being a good opportunity for them to make their first public appearance as a couple. Or. Their first planned appearance.
"It's a few days, so it'll give people a chance to get used to it and figure out how to approach us," Scott says in that careful voice he uses when he thinks he needs to have a rational justification for his emotional needs. "But it's close enough to home that we can easily dip out if things are really bad."
"Nuh-uh," Kip objects. "I could dip. You couldn't, not with so much on the line professionally. And even if you could, you wouldn't, you fuckin' workaholic martyr. If I did need to leave, that sticks you with facing down multiple days of exclusion and harassment with no backup. I don't ever want you in that position."
Scott shakes his head. "I'd leave with you, I swear. I already spoke with Lon and the owners, they're on the same page. All-Star Game is high profile, but it doesn't count towards any season stats or career milestones. It's a good place to take a hard stance, make a show of how we're not gonna tolerate any bullshit, without forcing the rest of the team into a position of making sacrifices. Some of them are on such low salaries compared to me, I could never ask that of them. But Tanner and Marzy are on board, they can be on standby to take my spot if needed, and we've got Alice working on some worst case scenario statements. But I think it'd be good to try. Test the waters, you know?"
It's a convincing argument. Which is how Kip finds himself hovering near the boards of the Buffalo captain's private outdoor practice rink, next to his private alpine-style chalet (not that they're anywhere near any slopes, fuck Buffalo, seriously), watching a bunch of MLH legends coach a gaggle of players' kids through a pick-up game with limited success (the kiddos present range from some very focused pre-teens clearly gearing up for training camps, to a three-year-old who has figured out how to spin in place holding her stick out and become an untouchable cackling whirlwind of death. She's gotten Shane Hollander in the knees twice so far). He's been loosely entangled at the edge of a huddle of WAGs, who made an initial drunk-girls-at-the-club effort to include him, but who have since devolved into a very intense, completely arcane gossip sesh which Kip guesses he needs at least a decade's worth of context to keep up with. He feels very much like he did in eight grade, the shrimpy little dead mom-having art geek at the edge of the cafeteria, too obviously desperate for a friend to actually make any.
Kip has made a point of constructing his life in a way that means he doesn't need to feel like this anymore. He does not need to feel like this anymore. He has friends who love him, he has a dad who loves him, he has a partner who loves him so much he literally put his entire livelihood on the line just to kiss him.
He looks instinctively for Scott and finds him a little ways off, chatting a woman Kip vaguely recognises as Buffalo's PR lead and a man Kip vaguely recognises as Buffalo's general manager. His eyes flick in Kip's direction in that same automatic way. He's been doing it the whole time, Kip realizes, waiting for Kip to look back. He smiles when their eyes meet. Kip returns it, helpless. He gestures with his empty mug - they're having hot toddies - and Scott nods, tries to put his focus back on his conversation but then inevitably slides right back to Kip like he can't help it.
Kip's heart is too full. He might float away.
That feeling carries him from the rink - none of the WAGs seem to notice him leave, which is a relief as much as it stings - as far as the bar, where he gets intercepted by a terrifyingly handsome Russian guy dressed head-to-toe in Northface. He looks kinda like the villain in a 1980s high school sports movie. He's even got his hair slicked back. Kip doesn't exactly enter fight or flight mode, but he can't stop himself freezing up briefly like a startled gerbil.
"You are Hunter's boyfriend," the guy says, looming. He's holding a glass of vodka that probably costs more than what Kip earns in a day, clinking the ice side-to-side.
He looks familiar, but not enough to suggest whether or not he's a potential ally. His expression is indecipherable, verging on cold. Kip's brain throws an equal amount of effort into not making an assumption about this guy's socio-political affiliations based on his nationality as it does into repeatedly slamming the ever-present DON'T GET MURDERED, IDIOT! button.
Luckily, Kip is a short gay artist from Motherfuckin Noo Yawk and therefore has a lifetime of practice riding that line. He clears his face and tilts his chin up in that way he knows reads 'please continue talking, fellow citizen of the world' just as easily as it reads 'who the fuck is asking?'
"Yeah," he says, and nothing else.
The guy's eyes widen and the death mask expression folds into something softer. There's even a tinge of pink around his cheeks, but that could just be the cold.
"Shit, sorry. I forgot about resting bitch face," he says. "I promise I am friend. Ilya Rozanov."
He switches his drink to his left hand so he can offer the right one to shake. Kip returns it, trying not to stare.
"Kip Grady. I've heard a lot about you," he says, which is about the only plausibly positive statement he can come up with on the spot.
Rozanov's face splits into a boyish grin. Kip - happily monogamous, not blind - loses his breath a little.
"Let me guess - Hunter complaining non-stop when I score a hat trick on him twice in one season."
Kip barks a laugh. Fuck it, this dude seems down to clown. "More like he thinks you're a rat-fuck showboater who could stand to have his jaw broken once or twice. His words, not mine."
Rozanov, because hockey players are insane, seems to take this as a heartfelt compliment. "That sounds right. I like rat-fuck, you know, it carries respect. My friend's father, he likes to say I am scallywag, this is not respect. Anyway, I never liked Hunter so much - he is fossil, slave to conformist strategy, stagnant play, no risk - or, was," he corrects himself with a small gesture at Kip's general presence. "Now he makes league history by getting some on the ice, what can I say? Fuck this guy, keeps finding new ways to make rest of us look bad."
"Wow. You know, if you ever need to retire early I think you've got a solid career ahead of you giving Ted Talks."
"Argh!" Rozanov claps a hand over his heart and staggers. "You have career as chirp coach! I am never so devastated!"
Kip knows he's beaming, but he doesn't bother tamping it down. It's such a fucking relief - he's here, he's queer, he's having a normal conversation with his boyfriend's internationally famous coworker.
His eyes follow that thread in his soul right back to Scott and finds him watching again, warier this time. Kip nods reassuringly. Scott's eyes move over, uncertain, to Rozanov, who holds up his hands and smirks, like, nothing untoward. Back to Kip, who gives a lame little thumbs-up. Back to his conversation, now with the air of someone trying to wrap up and move on.
"You know you can do much better," Rozanov warns. "My friend Svetlana follows your instagram, says you are cutest button, too good for this world. Hunter is like old tree from Lord of the Rings."
"Hey, man. I know it's hockey culture, but that's my partner. I'm not gonna be nice to you if you keep insulting him."
Rozanov nods, duly chastised, and crimps down the corners of his mouth like he's impressed. "Fair, fair. Okay. I like you, Kip, you seem like good guy. And... okay."
The energy shifts. Rozanov looks around like he's checking for eavesdroppers. Kip's breath stills in his chest a second before he realises why.
"This thing you and him have done. Are doing," Rozanov starts. Faltering, now. Shy. Less the cocky rat-fuck hockey player, more the scared kid at the edge of the cafeteria, trying to reach out. "Some people in league are... very grateful. You understand?"
Kip is staring again. He forces his eyes down on his empty mug, swirls around the dregs of his drink, the whiskey-stained wedge of lemon. There's a sticky feeling in his chest, big and hard to manage. He swallows.
"I think I do."
Rozanov lets out a little breath. When Kip looks back up at him, it's to find his gaze caught on something out on the rink. Kip follows it.
Shane Hollander has managed to wrangle the hockey stick away from the spinning three-year-old. He's helping her skate around the rink, crouched down moving backwards so she can hold onto him, little hands gripped tight around his index fingers. She's beaming up at him, jabbering away, and he's got this gentle smile on his face, talking back - nothing Kip can hear at this distance, but clearly answering whatever questions she's throwing at him with utmost patience. He looks like he could do this all day.
Kip sneaks a look sideways. Rozanov isn't smiling anymore. His face is split like an overripe peach, softness spilling from his eyes. Kip thinks if he tried to paint his portrait, it would come out like some clumsy over-sweet Dali pastiche. Melting. Bleeding.
Then he blinks and coughs, shakes himself like a cat. Kip sees the seams tighten, the mask twist back into place. Rozanov sips his vodka and only then looks back at Kip with a fixed smile, falters again when he spots the knowing in Kip's eyes.
"I know it's changed a lot." Kip has to tug the words up through the heaviness in his chest. "But not enough, right? Not yet."
Rozanov shakes his head again and smiles like he's in pain. "That is... It is not all for you and Hunter to carry. It is too much for two people."
"I know." Kip swirls his drink some more. "It's not an easy thing. Scott feels it too, I know he does. Responsible, but so limited."
Rozanov drags a hand down his face and blows out a long, gusty sigh. "Is not fair. Not on you, on Hunter, not on..."
He trails off. He is very carefully not looking over at the rink again, keeps his eyes down and clinks the ice in his drink side to side, side to side.
"How long?" Kip whispers.
Rozanov's brow wrinkles and smooths. His voice when he answers is almost too quiet to hear. "Ten years in June."
"Jesus christ."
Kip's hockey knowledge is pretty limited if it isn't directly relevant to the love of his life, but even he knows about that rivalry.
And this whole time...
"Jesus christ," he says again.
"Or - no, this is dishonest." Rozanov swallows and glares at himself, looks around again, takes another drink. "We have been... something, ten years. But only since summer - since the cup final - we have been. Real. Official. Before, we could not - we could not, you see? It was impossible. Did not matter how I felt. How he felt. It was impossible. But now..."
He's looking off to the side with this look Kip can suddenly recognize from a hundred other faces, from faces he knows well and loves best. From his dad, his uncles, his grandfather. From Scott. From school, from protests, from the bar at the end of the night on Pride when the crowds have cleared out, taken the party with them and left behind the wake. Injured and tender, so young but so old, beaten-down, exhausted. This man has never been allowed to cry in public.
Kip's eyes prickle with tears of sympathy, of enormity. He'd known, of course he'd known, that he and Scott were doing something powerful, irreversible. He had not realised what it would be to see it up close. The world is in his hands, and it's as fragile as a newborn kitten.
"Now there is hope," Rozanov manages at last. Clears his throat, drinks again, gives Kip a jerky, formal nod. "And this we owe to you and Hunter. So I want to say thank you. My friend, too. He may tell you himself if he gets chance, but we did not want to crowd you."
Kip couldn't get any words out if he tried. He nods instead. Rozanov smiles like he gets it. Flags down the bartender and gets them both a refill.
"You tell Hunter as well?" he asks under his breath once they're alone again. "I do not think he would like to hear it from us. We break all his records. We let him keep spotlight just this once, yes?"
The smirk is back in his voice. Kip chokes on a laugh and claps him on the back. Fuck, muscles. Fucking hockey players.
"I'll tell him. Thanks for the drink."
"It's nothing. Thanks for the life."
With a final, heartbreaking smile, Rozanov leaves. Kip doesn't watch where he goes. He breathes the steam wafting off the top of his hot toddy and sips, lets the whiskey burn away some of the weight. Rozanov's right. Can't carry it all the time.
A magnificent tree-sized shadow appears in his periphery, and Scott's big hand comes to rest between Kip's shoulder blades, somehow warm even through his jacket and sweater.
"What did Rozanov want?"
Kip looks up at his love. His love. He tries to smile, but he knows it's not convincing.
Scott frowns, tenses. "Hey, seriously, what happened? Did he say some shit?"
"No, no. Hey." Kip catches him by the arm before he can spring himself away and pulls him down for a kiss.
Brief, dry, warm, watched. They're doing this. It's important. It's theirs. Scott breathes out as they part, settled.
"You've got Rozanov's number, right?" Kip asks.
"Uh." Scott blinks. "If not, I can get it. Why?"
"We're inviting him to dinner in the off-season. And a plus one."
"Okay...?"
Kip grins, takes Scott's hand and pulls him back towards the rink, where a couple of Scott's teammates are waving to them. "Tell you later. You won't fucking believe it."
Scott's frown deepens.
Then - there, lightning bolt. Penny drops. He actually stumbles a step.
"Oh, fuck," he breathes.
He jostles back into step with Kip and grips his hand tight, tighter.
"You good?"
Scott nods and shakes his head at the same time. His eyes blazing with that special Scott Hunter mix of furious and elated.
"You're not actually surprised." Kip observes.
"Those goddamn little shits." Scott shakes his head again, slower. "I'm gonna kill 'em."
"Yes, dear. Just not until after I've made them watch The Birdcage and fed them their weight in pasta, okay?"
Scott laughs, loud and bright enough to turn heads and not care, throws an arm around Kip's shoulders. "Deal."