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Part 1. Around the time of Kip’s birthday, Scott has a Gillette photoshoot. Feeling sad about missing Kip’s birthday at the Kingfisher, Scott seeks advice.
Scott flinched as the soft hairs grazed his cheekbone.
“Almost done, handsome,” murmured the 60-something woman. He was in a makeup chair in a trendy warehouse in Soho while Eileen applied his makeup for a Gillette ad campaign. This was just one of many parts of his job, and lately he was feeling particularly tired of the smiling and pretending. His agent would disagree. The photo shoots were lucrative. The charity galas built his brand. The interviews kept him relevant. To everybody else he was a body, a voice, and an athlete. All Scott Hunter wanted to be was Kip’s boyfriend.
He sighed as he thought of Kip, who was probably at home. It had been a stressful few days, first with the fans at the diner, and then with Kip’s obvious disappointment that Scott couldn’t – wouldn’t? – go to the Kingfisher with him for his birthday. He had hoped that going out for lunch would help, but he knew it wasn’t enough. He wanted to give Kip everything he deserved, but he couldn’t stop thinking of the sadness on Kip’s face when Scott had said no to the Kingfisher.
Eileen paused, brush in the air. “You ok, doll?”
“Yes,” Scott replied in his low baritone. He met her eyes in the mirror and smiled reassuringly. Eileen reminded him a bit of his mom. “Seriously, those bruises needed help,” he smiled, nodding towards the remnants of last week’s slash, now completely invisible under Eileen’s magic.
“Oh honey, this body doesn’t need any help,” she winked.
And then a different voice. “You look pretty.”
Scott’s gaze snapped to the mirror as his eyes caught the reflection of a smirking Ilya Rozanov. What the fuck was he doing here?
“Rozanov,” he responded, his voice more strangled than he wanted it to be. Scott scanned Rozanov’s reflection. Ilya Rozanov was shirtless, his perfect body glowing under the makeup lights, his pretty mouth in a smug smile. Scott leveled his gaze on Rozanov’s eyes, feeling oddly flustered.
“Are you in this campaign?” he asked, realizing it was a stupid question.
Rozanov smirked again. “They needed sexy hockey player, not dinosaur.”
Scott glowered. This was going to be a long day. Rozanov was the league’s most prolific chirper, which on one hand was impressive considering that English wasn’t even his first language.
Rozanov approached the chair beside Scott. Scott raised an eyebrow as Eileen planted a kiss on his cheek. “This one’s my baby,” she explained to Scott, adjusting Rozanov’s curls and patting his cheek. “See you handsome boys next time,” she cooed as she left the room.
Rozanov sat down and regarded Scott curiously, his face now relaxed. Scott hadn’t spoken to Rozanov off the ice much, maybe not all. He was accustomed to him running his mouth on the ice, and everyone had heard about his escapades off the ice. But this version of Rozanov seemed different. Settled.
“Hunter, you look stressed.” It was said plainly, no hint of teasing.
“Did they –”
“No need for small talk,” Rozanov interrupted him. “You are bothered by something, and it is not me stealing your razor deal.”
Scott narrowed his eyes but Rozanov continued to patiently hold his gaze. Fuck it. If the tabloids had anything to say about it, Rozanov would have some advice.
“Girl trouble,” Scott started, his voice breaking slightly on the word girl. Rozanov’s eyes scanned his, waiting for him to continue.
“I’m dating someone, uh, really special. No one knows, so please – please don’t mention it to others. I’m a really private person,” he added quickly, glancing up for Rozanov’s reaction. Rozanov would be a good poker player, Scott thought. His face wasn’t giving much away, but his attention was fully on Scott.
“It was her birthday, and I’m worried I messed up.” Scott thought again about Kip’s face when he had insisted he couldn’t go out in public. “She wanted me to meet her friends but I wasn’t, uh, comfortable, being seen.”
Ilya nodded once. “You are scared, is normal. And since you are so old,” he winked, “you are probably also brave. This is simple problem. You need to be brave and take your lover out to do her most favorite thing in the world.”
Scott’s face broadcast a flicker of a smile as he thought of Kip: lounging on his sofa, reading a history book, so damn cute in his glasses. What would Kip want? Not just to read a history book in Scott’s apartment, but to be out in the world with Scott, experiencing his passion in real life.
“Thanks man,” Scott said, honestly. “I think I know what to do.”
“Prezhde vsego, ne lgite sebe.”
Scott raised an eyebrow at his rival.
“Just something from Dostoyevsky,” Rozanov shrugged lazily. And then his face rearranged itself into his usual mask of arrogance and impertinence. “Too bad you are as terrible at romance as you are at hockey.”
“Fuck you Rozanov.”
Rozanov grinned as an assistant hurried into the makeup room to lead them to the photographer. Fuck him, Scott thought, as he found himself trailing behind Rozanov at his brand shoot. But he had a point. Scott would be brave. He would take Kip to the Met and have a real date – one that Kip would love.
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Part 2. Scott investigates the fallout of Shane Hollander’s concussion
“Oh shit, did you guys see that hit on Hollander?” Carter Vaughan called out as he sauntered into the Admirals’ locker room.
Scott looked up from taping his stick. He and Kip had spent his rare off-night together, and he hadn’t caught up on the game highlights yet. They had been busy with other activities.
Bennett nodded solemnly. “It was a bad one, I really hope he comes out of it ok.”
The chatter continued around them, mostly about Hollander, some about other games. Bennett turned to Hunter and said in a low voice, “Did you see how Rozanov reacted?”
“What do you mean?”
Bennett shrugged, but his eyes held Scott’s for a few seconds longer than usual.
*************************************
After a full day of practice, game review, and physio, Scott was finally home, his body wrapped around Kip’s on the sofa. The smell of roast chicken wafted from the oven. Kip’s fingers were tracing lazy patterns in his hair while he told Scott about the co-worker he didn’t like, a customer who only wanted banana in her smoothie, and Elena’s date with a professional model.
“I love hearing your voice,” Scott murmured, tilting his head back to look at Kip.
Kip grinned and brushed his lips against Scott’s. “And I love complaining about Blake and banana lady. Wait until you hear what I saved for the bedroom.”
“Oh yeah?” Scott laughed, but his eyes darkened as he returned Kip’s kisses. This version of his life, cuddled up with his boyfriend, talking about nothing, was perfect. His hockey was better than ever, thanks to Kip. Wrapped in Kip’s arms, Scott was almost able to ignore the intrusive thoughts fighting for airtime – the worries about being discovered, the unfairness to Kip – and that led to him remembering he needed to watch the Hollander replay.
“Hey, would it be ok if I looked at a hockey thing quickly?” Scott murmured into Kip’s lips. Kip pulled back slightly to regard him.
“Of course. As long as it’s not that terrible hit on Shane Hollander.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was scary, that’s all. I’m – I’m scared of you getting hurt.” Kip’s eyes softened with concern.
Scott sat up and pulled Kip into him, running his thumb across Kip’s cheekbone and down to his jaw. He kissed Kip slowly and deeply. “Thank you for worrying.” Kip nipped at Scott’s bottom lip in protest. “Seriously, since my parents died, I don’t think anyone has really worried about me.”
Kip placed his hands on Scott’s shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. “I worry about you. I love you. And I will kill you if you get hurt.”
The words sat in Scott’s stomach like a brick. Getting hurt was not what scared him, it was the knowledge that Kip would not be the one to receive the call. Or even worse, he imagined the scenario of Kip coming to a hospital room and being unable to see him. Or of this leading to them being outed. There it was again – the deeper fear of being found out. Did Shane Hollander have a similar secret?
Sensing Scott’s discomfort, Kip moved his hands to Scott’s, his thumbs making little circles in Scott’s palms. “You can watch it,” Kip said quietly, his hands doing most of the communicating. “I’ll be right here.”
Scott watched the recording four or five times in deep concentration. At one point Kip got up to check on the chicken in the oven. It was bad, no doubt about it. Hollander had been blindsided by Boston’s Marleau and appeared to be semi-conscious on the ice. He was stretchered off the ice, which for all the violence of hockey, was not a frequent occurrence.
The thing was, it was actually a clean hit. And Bennett had been on to something.
Scott pinched his iPad screen to zoom in on Rozanov’s face as he stood beside Hollander’s body. It was blurry and his visor was covering his eyes, but Rozanov looked panicked. Scott couldn’t tell what Rozanov was saying to the refs as he skated circles around Hollander, but he appeared to be shouting. Later in the replay, as the cameras had finally moved away from Hollander, Rozanov could be seen standing in front of Montreal’s bench.
Kip’s hand was on his thigh now as he rewound to the seconds before Marleau made contact. Hollander was stickhandling through the neutral zone, his fucking eyes looking behind him instead of where he was going.
“He was looking back,” Kip observed.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve made that mistake since I was 8.” Scott manipulated the screen again, this time to interrogate Hollander’s face.
“He’s smiling,” Kip said. Even with the pixelation they could see Hollander’s face explode into a smile as he looked at something – or someone – behind him. Scott had spent time with the kid, on All Star teams, at the Olympics, at MLH events. He had never seen him… happy. Focused, yes. Serious. Earnest. Completely at home on the ice – but never joyful.
“He looks like a kid,” Kip mused, “like he’s playing a game. I mean an innocent, fun, game, not a professional hockey game. Does that make sense?”
Scott nodded. Free – no, blissful. Hollander looked fucking blissful.
“What is he looking at?” Kip asked.
“Well, what do you make of Rozanov’s reaction?” Scott asked as he restarted the video post-hit. As Kip concentrated on the aftermath, Scott thought back to all the times he had seen Hollander and Rozanov together. There was that All Star game when Rozanov was chirping at Hollander across the penalty box. And that same year’s MLH awards when Hollander nearly had a panic attack at Scott’s mention of Rozanov. Scott frowned. Was that six years ago? Scott recalled his time with Hollander in Sochi. Scott had buried it, filed it away somewhere dangerous and murky, but he was pretty sure it was Rozanov that Hollander was talking to up in the nosebleed section.
Kip paused the iPad, squeezing Scott’s thigh affectionately. “I mean, I’d probably be screaming and throwing myself on your unconscious body, but there’s no way Rozanov is not in love with that man.”
The room went blurry for a second. Scott’s chest felt tight, panicked over the closeness of this situation to his. Over the idea of being outed by TV viewers. Over the simple fact that a man could not comfort his – lover? Scott looked out to the New York skyline to anchor himself, confusion mixing with something else. Hope? What if he wasn’t the only gay player in the league? But the hope of it all felt tenuous, fragile under the TV commentators and armchair experts and the history of homophobia in hockey.
“I’m going to talk to him,” Scott mumbled.
Kip looked at him, somewhat alarmed. “Shane Hollander?”
“Uh, Rozanov. I have his number from something.”
Kip kissed him gently and stroked his face. “I love you. The chicken will be ready in 20 minutes.”
Still dizzy, Scott moved to his bedroom and perched on the edge of his bed. Pulling up Rozanov’s contact, he contemplated what to say. Rozanov might not be ready for a secret society of gay hockey players – Scott probably wasn’t. And besides, wasn’t Rozanov into girls? He tapped at his phone.
Hey, I wanted to check in on Hollander.
He deleted it. Too direct.
How are you? That was a scary hit on Hollander. You ok?
He pressed send and stared at the white screen. His knee bounced with nerves.
Then three dots appeared, and disappeared. Scott let out a breath. Then the dots again, pulsing.
Thank you for checking. Hollander is okay.
Scott nodded. The response disclosed nothing about Rozanov. Or maybe it did. Scott heard the oven door open and close as he typed another message.
That’s a relief. And you?
The message sat there, unsent. Was he crossing a line? He barely knew the man after all. Scott weighed the facts – he didn’t want to ‘out’ Rozanov and Hollander in any way but he wanted to let Rozanov know he was… he was an ally? It sounded ridiculous. Was this even any of Scott’s business? Slowly, he deleted the message and placed his phone on the bed. Scott’s eyes traveled to his dresser where the only visible object was an unassuming box holding his Olympic silver medal. He had the sudden urge to throw the medal out the window along with all the masks and disguises he wore. “Captain America?” That might be what his fans thought of him, but they had no idea who he really was.
In the kitchen, Kip was removing the roast chicken from the oven, its smell wafting through the condo like the family meals Scott remembered from his childhood. Scott scanned his multi-million dollar penthouse with its designer furniture, perfect boyfriend, and Olympic medal, and he contemplated his future. He wanted it to be with the man he loved, and actually, he wanted the world to know. Sighing, he thought again about Rozanov’s broken posture beside Hollander. He pushed off the bed.
Kip was standing over a salad, his cheeks glowing with the heat of the oven. He smiled as he watched Scott return to him. Scott stood behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.
“I love you,” he whispered into Kip’s ear.
“Mmm, I know.”
After dinner that evening, Scott saw the response from Rozanov.
I am also okay. I was able to visit Hollander and see that he is recovering. It was relief. I hope things are going well with your partner. Loving someone can be hard.
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Part 3. Brokenhearted after his fight with Scott, Kip drags himself to the Kingfisher’s first book club meeting.
The door to the Kingfisher slammed shut behind Kip, nearly knocking him over. He sighed, defeated. His hoodie was soaked with rain and his feet were damp.
At least he hadn’t cried today, which was a first since he had walked out on Scott.
He definitely didn’t want to see people, particularly at a book club meeting, but Elena had insisted he come. The book club had been Kyle’s idea, who had pitched it to his manager as a way to build community at the Kingfisher, but really – as he explained to Kip and Maria – he just wanted to meet smart, hot men.
Elena had inserted herself into choosing the first book, which is how they had ended up with a feminist post-apocalyptic novel by a Belgian Holocaust survivor. Talk about a pick-me-up.
Ducking his head as he approached their corner table, Kip observed his friends. Shawn was regaling the gang with one of his stories. Elena looked beautiful and professorial with chic glasses and a scarf, and Maria and Kyle were laughing along with Shawn. There were two or three other people he didn’t recognize – hopefully big smart men for Kyle.
Pulling up a chair beside Elena, Kip struggled out of his damp hoodie.
“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” she said, pulling him into a hug.
“Ugh, you owe me,” he mumbled into her hair that smelled like coconut and something expensive.
Elena patted his leg and turned to the group. Straight backed and regal, she tapped her book on the table. “Welcome to the Kingfisher’s inaugural book club meeting. Everyone say ‘thank you Kyle’ to our staff host.”
The group thanked Kyle in campy unison.
Elena continued. “Our first book is ‘I Who Have Never Known Men’ – ”
“Also known as, Kip’s recent dating life!” Shawn quipped. Kip shot him a dirty look.
“He has a point,” Kyle chimed in, attempting to take the attention off Kip. “Don’t we actually know men very well?”
The group laughed as Elena looked on in frustration. She finally banged her book on the table.
“Hello, this is not funny. We chose this book –”
“You chose this book,” Maria cut in.
“Fine, I chose this book because we are living through dark, uncertain times, and this modern classic is here to help us navigate.”
Kip’s friends groaned while the newcomers looked uncertainly around the table. Elena opened her mouth to continue her lecture when the sound of the Kingfisher door banging closed interrupted her. The group turned as one to see a well-built man backlit by a sudden burst of sunlight. Dressed in a black leather jacket and a black baseball cap, he was tall, broad shouldered, and extremely attractive. Kip’s gaze raked downwards to his massive thighs pulling at Adidas joggers as he strolled towards them. Incongruously, he held a tattered paperback.
“This is book club meeting?” he asked, a faint accent layered on his deep voice.
Elena, who had never in her life been speechless, stared back at him with an open mouth. Kip flinched as both Kyle and Maria kicked him under the table.
Shawn was the first to recover. “It sure is, darling. I hope you’re joining us?”
Grinning, the man took off his jacket to expose a cut-off black tank that highlighted his muscular shoulders and biceps. Reminded of Scott’s beautiful body, Kip looked away quickly, catching Elena’s eye in the process. She was mouthing something at him, her eyes flared open in urgency.
“What?” he hissed, using the commotion of the arrival to hide their conversation.
“Ilya Rozanov!”
Kip nearly fell off his chair as his head swiveled. Yes, it was Rozanov. What the fuck was he doing at the Kingfisher? Kip’s mind raced. Of course, Boston was playing the Admirals in the playoffs. They had a game last night that Kip absolutely hadn’t watched from bed while eating an entire cheesecake. Today was a break day, with the second game in the series tomorrow in New York again. So Rozanov decided to spend his day off at a gay bar for a book club on a feminist dystopian novel?
Elena looked as shocked as him, but it seemed no one else recognized Rozanov. Shawn looked back and forth between Elena and Kip with intense concern as Kyle offered Rozanov a drink. Maria was actually fanning herself.
“So…” Shawn said, his tone signally for them to pull themselves together. “We were just getting started. Elena?”
Elena cleared her throat. “Yes, the book. ‘I Who Have Never Known Men.’ Maybe, we uh – “ she made the mistake of making eye contact with Rozanov, losing her train of thought. “Uh, maybe we can go around the table and see who liked it?”
Kip had never seen Elena like this. He smiled, which gave him the confidence he needed to start.
“I hated it,” he announced to the group, seeing some nods and some frowns. “Elena, you made us gays read a book about living in cages? It was too traumatic for me. The whole thing was depressing.” Elena rubbed his leg under the table in apology.
Shawn went next. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really understand it. What happened to the world?”
“I don’t think it matters,” Maria responded. “I think that’s the point – to force us to accept uncertainty. I actually liked it. Once you got past the dystopian-ness of it, I appreciated the theme of resilience, and as a woman, I liked how the women took care of each other. It felt timely.”
Kip kept stealing glances at Rozanov, trying not to stare. He seemed relaxed, listening actively while sipping his beer. Around them the others debated the premise, the themes, and whether any of it was applicable to being queer in America. Kip felt tired. The relevance was undeniable. His ex-boyfriend – white, male, a millionaire – could not even come out.
“Of course it’s applicable,” Kip stated flatly. “In addition to the whole cage thing, the book tells us that the struggle for identity is hopeless.” His friends looked at him with concern. They weren’t used to seeing him this way, and only Elena knew about him and Scott. Although he had been out and proud nearly his entire life, with supportive family and friends, the past months had shown him a different reality.
“I disagree.” The voice was deep, the accent adding to the sense of authority. The group turned to look at Ilya Rozanov, his arm casually flung over the back of Kyle’s chair.
“The girl teaches us that the struggle for identity is something that happens inside, that humanity is existing even in worst times, even without society.” He put air quotes around the word ‘society’ while the group gaped at him. He continued. “Maybe,” he shrugged, “this book is telling us to care less about what other people think.” Sipping his beer, Rozanov glanced at Kip. “This takes courage – to love without…” he gestured with his hands, “knowing for sure.”
Silence followed. Kip sat up a bit, remembering Rozanov’s reaction to that awful hit on Hollander. Kip’s voice was quiet. “The child loved through all her small actions of care,” he supplied. “By just being there.”
Rozanov smiled, gentle and sad. “Yes. Here, I like this line.” He flipped through his novel, pages with underlined text and dog-eared corners visible. “Da,” he murmured, frowning as his finger searched the page. “‘I was forced to acknowledge too late, much too late, that I too had loved, that I was capable of suffering, and that I was human after all.’”
“Beautiful,” said Shawn, his voice shaky. “My guy, are you a literature student or something?”
“No,” Rozanov smirked. “Just a fan, and good at reading people.”
The conversation was lively after that. Kip accepted a beer from Kyle, Maria managed to brush against Rozanov multiple times, and Kyle left his phone number for Rozanov on a napkin. By the end, Kip was feeling more like himself and proposed they read his favorite book – The Song of Achilles – next.
“It’s a retelling of the story of Achilles and Patroclus before and during the Trojan War,” Kip explained. “Many – most? – historians believe they were lovers, and this novel is a gorgeous depiction of their love. But let me warn you, this book will wreck you.”
“It is the best,” Rozanov agreed, solemly. Everyone turned again to look at their own personal book club Achilles. “It is about pride. And the battle between fate and…”
“Free will?” Kip offered.
“Da, yes. And has a good rivalry,” he winked. He cocked his head to look directly at Kip, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Similar message to this month’s book – it takes courage to love.” His cheeks flushing, Kip looked away, confusion coursing through him. Rozanov tapped his novel on the table. “Anyway, I have to go. Thank you for good discussion.”
The group stuttered out goodbyes and followed him with their eyes as he gathered his jacket and strolled towards the door. Kip’s brain was short-circuiting. Did Rozanov know who he was? Did Scott send him? He pushed his chair back and walked quickly after him. He threw open the door to find Rozanov standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, dark sunglasses on. The rain had stopped and the sidewalk glistened around him.
“Hey, um,” Kip stammered, “this is a weird question, but do you know who I am?”
Rozanov smiled. “Not really, probably no.”
“Of course,” Kip nodded, embarrassed. “I guess – it’s just that I’m going through something that your comments really spoke to.”
“Yes,” Rozanov supplied. Not a question. Kip shifted uncomfortably, the sounds of birds and cars and shouting all around them. Rozanov regarded Kip. “There is a line from the book you like,” he said slowly, his eyes lifting towards the sun now bright in the sky. Kip’s skin prickled. Was Rozanov about to recite the The Song of Achilles?
“‘He is half of my soul,’” Rozanov began.
Kip shuddered upon hearing the most iconic line of the book, easily his favorite part. He whispered his response. “‘I can recognize him by touch alone, by smell.’”
They looked at each other in mutual awareness. Rozanov’s expression was peaceful, knowing, whereas Kip felt undone. Rozanov’s expression told him that he, like Kip, held these lines in his heart, and that they meant something to him. They didn't need to say the rest out loud.
‘I would know him blind. By the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.’
Heart thumping in his chest, Kip swallowed, unsure of what to do or say next.
Rozanov smiled, his face open and trusting, completely unlike what people saw on tv.
“Good luck,” he said, as he turned and walked away. He was already around the corner when Maria and Elena came through the door.
“Girl,” Maria managed.
Elena pulled Kip into a hug. “You ok?” she asked.
“Yeah. Really good.”
“Wait, did you get his number?” Maria exclaimed.
Kip smiled. “No, I have what I need. I just need to – get it.” He hugged them both and jogged towards the subway. He would figure out how to make things right with Scott.