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Reasonable, good-head-on-his-shoulders Scott Hunter is in the back of a VIP section in Boston, commiserating on getting knocked out of the playoffs in the first round by Boston. Anyone with a wife or good sense went home an hour ago. Scott has neither, so here he is on the long side of 30 surrounded by rowdy 20-year-olds excited to see their captain letting loose. He is idly checking his phone when Muller sits down next to him. Muller is an excitable 23-year-old Canadian rookie recently brought back from a conditioning stint. Scott doesn’t know him well, but knows when a kid is trying to impress him. Muller crows, “Getting to that point in the night, eh, Cap?”
“What?” Scott shouts.
“Gotta shoot your shot with whoever you’ve got local,” Muller says, pulling up his phone and scrolling through his contact list that reads: Boston Amber, Boston Emily (?), Boston Marina, Boston Paige. “I keep ‘em organized!” he adds with the enthusiasm of a kid showing off his bug collection.
Before Scott can say anything, Jalo claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “Muller, kid, the Lone Hunter doesn’t roll that way. He keeps his shit discrete.”
Scott grimaces: he hates this nickname. Worse still, he does, in fact, know someone local. A round of drinks sends the table into a blur of activity. With the chaotic energy of a 20-year-old who will think about the consequences in the morning, Scott picks up his phone, scrolls to Kip’s name, and sends three letters: Hey
It’s just past midnight. Maybe Kip is asleep. He stands up, veers toward the bar, making his way through a crowd of people, saying some variation of “next season.” The world is not quite spinning, but his limbs feel loose, like all his joints are rubber and the brakes that hold him back from impulse have fallen off. Maybe he could dance. He hates dancing. Maybe Kip will ignore him. He’s leaning on the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice him, when he feels the buzz in his pocket.
Kip: watched the game n hope your not beating your self up, did everything you could. next year is the one
Scott: You watched ?? Ya nexf year
Scott: Hope the crowd at the Kingfisher wasn’t too disappointed
Scott is fishing, hedging a bet. Someone comes up and asks for a photo, and he agrees to the distraction. His pocket buzzes.
Kip: not in nyc in boston rn. at a straight bar downbtown?? crowd was very happy lol but i did my best to cheer loud when you were on screen
Scott: What bar? Rookies brought us to some spot in North End, The Grand
Scott puts down his phone and flags the bartender. Like watching the ocean from the shore, he can feel the alluring promise of a bad idea coming like a swell a hundred feet out. It’s just a matter of whether there’s anything in the water to crash or if the bad idea will wash away. He wills himself not to check his phone while he orders another vodka soda, extra soda. When he cannot wait any longer, he flips it over.
Kip: huh funny. i’m at ginny’s in the north end
Scott swipes to Google Maps: Kip is a fifteen-minute walk away.
Scott: Funny thats pretty close
Kip: very funny indeed
Kip: probably not a good idea for the ny admirals captain to show up here tho
Scott: Where should I go that is safer
Scott watches the typing dots appear and reappear, and then:
Kip: come find me
And then the message fills with a link to location sharing, Kip’s small icon is a moving bubble in downtown Boston. The world narrows to the point on the screen. He closes one eye to focus on it better and then downs his drink in one, grabs his jacket, and shouts a goodbye to the group at large.
It’s a warm May evening, and Scott is in his league-mandated button-down and suit pants, blazer in hand. His tie, he realizes, is back at the club somewhere. He undoes another button and fishes out his phone to see Kip’s location, which has advanced toward him. With the speed he ran out of the club, he hasn’t even responded to the last message. He texts back quickly: On my way, don’t go too far, and sends his own location back.
Scott picks up his pace, immediately aware that he is in Boston after the Raiders have won, and the likelihood of being recognized is significantly higher than usual. The faster he walks, the better.
He has adrenaline to burn: the alcohol, losing the playoffs, Kip responding to his text. It rushes under his skin, stirring something in his body; loose chaos ready for a win. The evening is hot for mid-May, oceanic, briny air in this city that has stuck glass skyscrapers next to historic buildings. Scott follows the shortest path to the dot on his screen with no attention to streets or directions. Downtown Boston has winding streets that Scott’s New York brain cannot compute. He’s staring down at his phone, watching the Kip dot nearby, when he hears, somehow behind him: “Scott?”
He whirls around to see Kip, across the street, lit by the streetlight, his own phone glowing in his hand. He is dressed more appropriately for the weather: shorts that cut across his thighs, a short-sleeve button-down open over a tank top. Fit, summery. A new version of Kip.
“Hi,” Scott answers, crossing the quiet street without even looking for cars.
“You found me,” Kip says, the look on his face is he sly smile of a fox that caught its prey. Scott feels desire pooling in his stomach just at the sight of him.
“Modern technology,” Scott says, stupidly, holding up his phone, as he walks closer, careful to be steady in his steps. The alcohol makes the world feel smooth, a puck gliding toward the goal.
“I’m sorry about the—game,” Kip says, the last word coming out as a dropped, stumbling whisper as Scott walks straight into his personal space.
“We don’t have to talk about hockey,” Scott responds, his voice a husky whisper, matching Kip. He glances around. He ducks into the doorway of a building, and Kip follows.
“Sounds good to me,” Kip agrees.
Close and alone, the world hushes. Scott’s heart rate is up from his speed walk; the thrum of it is in his neck, mouth. He wants to pour it into Kip. He brings a hand to Kip’s face, steadying himself by cupping Kip’s jaw with one hand, concentrating his eyes on Kip’s mouth. Leaves the swimming world to concentrate on just the arch of his lips and the shape of his jaw. Scott’s own lips part unconsciously. He moves his thumb into the ghost of a dimple on Kip’s chin and grins, “God, it’s good to see you.”
“Are you drunk?” Kip asks, his stubble a gentle scratch against Scott’s fingers.
“A little. Are you?” Scott answers, looking up into Kip’s eyes, and moves his hand from a soft cup to a firmer hold.
“A little,” Kip admits, “Sobering up now,” he flexes his jaw slightly into Scott’s hand: an acknowledgment, a dare. They pause, staring at each other. The first time they have seen each other in six months. Scott can feel the pulse in Kip’s neck under his fingers. It’s up. He presses his fingers lightly into Kip’s neck, not to scratch but just to let his brain know this is real. He has so much to say and so little desire to say it.
“I have roommates,” Kip breaks the silence.
“I have a hotel room to myself,” Scott says, taking his hand back.
“Okay,” Kip steps dangerously close, and says. “Let’s go. Now.”
Scott wants to devour Kip whole; feel, press, have. He turns away to stop himself from pushing the whole length of his body against Kip, out here in public, and calls his car service.
“Should just be a minute,” he says, turning off his phone and adjusting the blazer tucked under his arm, glad he has something to hold onto, something to do with his hands.
Kip doesn’t say anything, just watches. Scott comes over and leans against the wall next to him. Kip adjusts imperceptibly, so their legs are pressing against each other. The silence feels heavy but not tense. Scott has the feeling of a start of a good practice game: ready to go, can’t stop grinning. When the car rolls around the corner, Scott says, “That’s us.”
Kip gets off the wall first, placing one hand on Scott’s thigh to push off for leverage, his fingers dangerously near his groin, drawing an unexpected gasp from Scott.
They climb into the back of the large, dark SUV. Scott unabashedly turns and stares at Kip’s profile as it flashes with streetlights, his eyes closed, leaning back against the car seat. Scott rests a hand on Kip’s thigh, which makes Kip’s eyelids flutter but not open. His only response is to open his knees wider, until Scott is cupping Kip’s whole thigh, pressing possessively and close to his crotch, just barely pressing with his pinky.
“Scott,” he breathes, a warning and an encouragement at once. He squirms just slightly, and then the car makes a sharp turn and throws them against each other. The world lurches with it, and the tension is broken briefly. Scott falls ungainly against Kip, both laughing like caught schoolchildren.
And then suddenly they’re at the hotel, disarmingly bright lobby lights as Scott walks briskly to the elevator, Kip following closely. When the elevator doors close, Scott steps deliberately away, leaning against the mirrored side of the elevator so they're opposite each other. “Cameras,” Scott says and glances pointedly up.
Kip rests his hands behind him on the bar that runs around the elevator, pushing his chest forward. Scott is confident he’s flexing, too. He has a smirk on his face as he rejoins: “Would be a good show.”
The tension that began on the street, built in the car, now feels thick as molasses, a growing storm. Something big, something worth the bruise. Scott pushes tomorrow away, concentrates on the tendon on Kip’s neck that he is going to cover with his mouth again. The elevator dings, and Scott walks them briskly to his room.
When the door clicks shut behind Kip, they step together at once, crashing into each other. It’s a messy open kiss, tongue first. Scott can taste beer, smell Kip’s cologne, and feel the roll of his tongue against his own. He relishes the feeling of hot skin under his hands as he untucks Kip’s undershirt with a yank and drags the knuckle of his thumb down the length of Kip’s back to relearn the shape, movement of muscles and sinew. Kip responds by bodily walking Scott backwards, until the back of Scott’s legs hit the bed and he sinks back, pulling Kip with him.
At the edge of the bed, legs half off of it Kip grinds his thigh between Scott’s legs, sucking, biting his bottom lip. Scott hooks a leg around Kip’s and flips them easily in one fluid movement. Kip makes an indignant noise, a gasp as Scott presses into him, kissing his neck, that delicate tendon, and then he sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed. He buries his face between Kip’s thighs, mouthing through nylon shorts. Scott sinks his fingers into the waistband of Kip’s underwear and shorts and pulls both off, freeing Kip for Scott’s waiting mouth.
Scott is kneeling on the plush hotel carpet in suit pants that are tight around his knees, in supplication before his ex-boyfriend. He holds Kip’s hip down with one hand and uses his other hand and mouth to make Kip writhe beneath him. Scott is a little too far gone to maintain rhythm, but his best effort still has Kip clawing at the sheets. Kip knows what Scott wants to hear: encouragement, not praise, Scott knows how Kip likes it. When Kip’s moans of “just like that” turn desperate, Scott pulls off with a long bead of saliva.
“Fuck,” Kip says, sitting up to look at Scott kneeling at the edge of the bed. Kip is flushed red across his chest, wearing only a tank top rucked up across his belly. He says with a laugh, “You’re still dressed.”
“I got carried away,” Scott answers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Kip elbows higher onto the bed and says with a gentle force: “Undress for me.”
He crosses one arm behind his head, rests the other lazily on his stomach, inches away from his dick, still wet from Scott’s mouth. He tilts his head like his command was a question.
They do not break eye contact as Scott undoes the buttons of his shirt. Maybe if he were more sober, he’d feel embarrassed, do a bad striptease. But it feels deadly serious. Kip begins palming himself as Scott shrugs out of his shirt. Scott forces himself to keep his eyes on Kip’s face and not watch, admiring Kip’s half-lidded stare and parted lips. Scott steps a little clumsily out of his pants, and Kip’s arm begins to move in earnest. He listens to Kip’s deep, grounding breath through his nose and takes off his boxers and socks. Kip flushes and preens from being watched.
“I didn’t expect, I don’t have condoms,” Scott says.
“That’s okay,” Kip’s breath hitches with another stroke, “Don’t make me wait anymore.”
Scott walks back to the bed, the world stilling around the storm in his chest. He lays down next to Kip and pulls him in close and teases him with a slow kiss. Kip’s body arches as he says, needy and low, “Please touch me.”
Scott licks his own hand with the wide flat of his tongue still watching Kip’s unfocused, needy gaze. Kip grabs his wrist, licks Scott’s hand from the base of the palm to the tips of his fingers and then back down, slowly and deliberately.
They’re on their sides as Scott wraps a hand around them both and brings them off together, steady, no more lingering. His leg thrown over Kip, tensing his thigh, Kip’s hand is a fist in his hair, pulling Scott’s head to the side so he can gasp, grind into his neck. Into Kip’s increasingly desperate noises, Scott groans, “wait, wait,” the bloom of pleasure coursing through him through the friction of spit, precum, and skin. Then finally he pulls his head back so he can pant “Now, yes,” and watch Kip’s face as they come at the same time, shaking, shuddering and intense.
“Holy shit,” Kip says into Scott’s forehead, cupping his neck as they both tremble with the aftershock.
Scott rolls onto his back, suddenly aware of how sweaty he is, how close Kip is. He shuts his eyes to collect himself as the sobering effect of his orgasm reminds him that he is in bed with heartbreak. He needs something to do, to not look at Kip after spending the last hour barely letting him out of his sight. He goes to the bathroom, cleans himself and then returns to the bed with a damp towel for Kip.
He is languid, cool water prickling on his skin under the blasting hotel AC. He stares at the ceiling. Kip hasn’t said anything; he hears only the soft noise of the hand towel placed carefully on the nightstand.
“My alarm is going to go off at 5, I have an early flight,” Scott says, turning to look at Kip, finally. Kip looks sleepy, peaceful.
“Okay,” Kip says and curls onto his side, opens his arm for Scott to scoot back into him, “C’mere.”
This: not texting him, not kissing him, not remembering how he liked to be touched, not the look on his face as he came—this is the bad idea. Being held again.
Scott folds himself into Kip’s arms. Pain is the future, reprieve is here, now. Kip slinks his arm across Scott's chest and pushes his knees up so Scott is fully engulfed. Scott cradles Kip’s arm against himself, feels Kip press a kiss into the top of his spine. Falling asleep like this, enveloped, there is nothing in the world outside their bodies.
Scott wakes, as usual, five minutes before his alarm. One of Kip’s legs is wedged between his, his hand resting on his hip. It feels so warm and protected, like he’s at the bottom of a bath and not under a mid-tier hotel coverlet. Slowly, rising to the surface, his brain catches up to his body. His tired, sluggish mind paints a picture: grinding on Kip’s thigh, morning sex, afterglow. But instead the scraping hollowed feeling of a mild hangover takes over. Whatever sense of self preservation he did not have last night is here now. He has to get up, he has to pack, leave, and go back to New York. Dread, slow and clawing, fills his chest, ruining the warmth. He shifts gently away from Kip, turning off his alarm and quietly stepping into the bathroom, only turning on the light once the door is closed. In the mirror he can see a red mark on his neck of a burn from Kip’s stubble. He touches it cautiously. The shower head is too low, it pummels his chest with an intense water pressure. He turns the handle cool and lets that be the only feeling, for a moment.
When he steps out of the bathroom, Kip rolls over, his voice is groggy with sleep when he says, “You really have to go already?”
“Yeah,” Scott says. He hesitates and then sits down next to Kip in the bed. Kip props himself up on an elbow and rubs his eye. He looks rumpled, adorable, straight from Scott’s most cherished memories. “It was nice to see you,” Scott’s voice is morning soft, unused.
There is a visible flurry of emotions across Kip’s face that Scott cannot identify before he says, “I miss you.”
The honesty of it hits Scott like a physical force. He wants to say, I miss you so much it feels like I had an organ harvested; and I still love you; and how are you; tell me about your life; and what did this mean to you? He settles for, “I miss you too. I’m glad you texted back.”
Kip has a sad little smile on his face. He puts a hand on Scott’s towelled leg. “Text me when you’re back in New York?”
“Okay,” Scott agrees. He gets dressed and packs, falling into the hotel pattern he has honed over the years. Dirty laundry in the same packing cube, shoes in the same spot, everything the same so unpacking, repacking is easy. Other guys pack haphazardly, expecting a housekeeper, or a wife they treat like one, to deal with the explosion of their suitcase. He doesn’t like relying on other people to clean up his mess; he packs with precision.
He’s in his second-day suit, he’ll have to go without a tie, by the time he’s dressed Kip gets out of bed and puts on his boxers.
“Check out isn’t until 11. If you want to stay you could get room service—not on me, the team will pay,” Scott says.
“Should I ask them to leave it in the hallway?” Kip asks, earnest but reserved.
Shame flashes through Scott, hot in his mouth. He waves a hand, “Up to you.”
Kip goes to the bathroom and Scott stands, does his final room check, unsure how to say goodbye when Kip comes back into the room. He walks up to Scott and places a finger on the red spot on his neck, mostly hidden by his collar, and says, “Shit, sorry.”
Scott closes his hand over Kip’s and says, “Don’t be.”
They kiss goodbye with the tenderness of two people holding something delicate between them, a fragile object of thin glass. The tidal wave is here, and he’s being swept out to sea. The ache in his chest is physical, not a metaphor, a blunt force of hurt right in the center of his body that radiates into his limbs. As the door closes, he sees Kip standing stock still in the middle of the room.
Downstairs, his teammates are waiting, looking bedraggled. Half the team took a charter flight home right after the game: it’s just the strays in the lobby. Scott hopes their general state gives him a cover, but, as he should’ve known, the 20-year-olds are surprisingly spry. He plays up his hangover with a weak salute before crashing into a chair. It's surreal to be down here surrounded by his normal life, knowing Kip is just a few storeys above them. He could just turn around and get back into bed. Instead, he’s here like nothing happened, the pain of losing another run at the Cup smashing into the new bruise of a night with Kip. It's like there's another version of him piloting the body that moves from chair to car to plane.
Once they’re in the air, everyone’s ties loosen, no one bothering to change for such a short flight. Scott keeps his shirt buttoned to the neck and keeps his window open to watch Boston recede, watch the clouds take over. He closes his eyes and settles into the ambient airplane white noise, teammates arguing, protein bar in hand. There will be a car waiting to take him home at the airport. He’ll be piloting his body into post-season debriefing, administration, bulking, and recovery. He has a team to support and motivate.
Their chartered airplane has WiFi only at cruising altitude. At the top of his messages is still the conversation with Kip, and within it, the location sharing is still on: a circle containing the letter K, hovering back at the hotel, softly pulsing like a heartbeat.