Chapter Text
Ambrosia is the mythical food or drink of the Greek gods, often depicted as conferring longevity or immortality upon whoever consumed it.
Early March, 2010
New York City
The absolute worst part about flying was the landing. Not the jarring, rubber-burning impact of the tires hitting the tarmac, but the dreadful, irrevocable finality of the seatbelt sign chiming off.
It was the sound of the spell breaking.
For five and a half hours, suspended thirty thousand feet above the continental United States, Kip Grady hadn’t been America’s Golden Boy. He hadn’t been the tragic, broken figure skater who collapsed on global television, and he certainly hadn't been the PR nightmare currently giving US Figure Skating executives an ulcer. For five and a half hours, he had just been a nineteen-year-old guy, tucked into the dim, pressurized cabin of a Boeing 757, safely anchored by the heavy, radiating body heat of the man sitting next to him.
But the moment the chime echoed through the cabin, the heavy hand that had been resting possessively on Kip’s thigh for the entire flight twitched, tightened for one brief, bruising second, and then retreated.
The absence of Scott’s touch felt like a sudden plunge into ice water.
"Showtime, kid," Scott murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that Kip felt more than he heard over the chaotic noise of athletes unbuckling their belts and dragging down overhead luggage.
Kip turned his head, his gaze lingering on the familiar details he'd spent the last five hours committing to memory. Scott Hunter still looked exactly like the apex predator he was on the ice—solid, stoic, and fiercely contained in the slightly wrinkled navy USA Hockey track jacket and dark jeans. His chestnut hair was pushed haphazardly back from his forehead, his jaw dark with a few days' worth of scruff. He looked tired, but the hazel eyes tracking Kip’s face were sharp and impossibly tender.
"I don't want to get off the plane," Kip whispered, the confession slipping out before his PR-trained brain could stop it.
Scott’s jaw flexed. He leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, close enough that Kip could smell the warm scent of sandalwood and worn leather clinging to his collar. "I know," Scott breathed, his voice dropping to a register meant only for Kip. "But we have to. Just keep your head down. I’ll call you tonight."
Kip swallowed hard, forcing a nod. He had to be a professional. He had to put the mask back on.
They grabbed their duffel bags from the overhead bins, joining the slow, shuffling herd of athletes filing out of the cabin. But they barely made it onto the carpeted jet bridge when the illusion completely shattered.
"Hunter! Yo, Scotty, hold up!"
The booming voice echoed down the enclosed corridor. Kip stiffened. He didn't even need to turn around to recognize Carter Vaughan—the loudmouthed winger who had interrupted them in the Olympic Village dining hall weeks ago, making a crack about seeing Kip "out of the sparkles."
Carter was jogging down the jet bridge to catch up, his navy USA Hockey duffel slung over his shoulder.
Scott stopped walking. The unspoken reality slammed into both of them simultaneously: they couldn't walk through the terminal doors together. Not with the media already in a frenzy over Kip's Olympic meltdown, and definitely not with the New York Admirals' press team waiting on the other side of security.
Scott shifted his body, subtly blocking Carter's line of sight to Kip for one brief, agonizing second. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He just gave Kip one slow, heavy look—a silent, fierce promise that this wasn't the end, just an intermission.
"Go," Scott murmured, the word barely a breath.
The physical withdrawal was instantaneous and violent. Kip felt hollowed out, as if a vital, weight-bearing beam inside his chest had just been kicked away. He gripped the strap of his duffel bag, turned his back on the only safe harbor he had left, and walked toward the terminal alone.
Stepping past the secure concourse doors and into the sterile, fluorescent-lit baggage claim of JFK International Airport was like stepping into a meat grinder. The second he crossed the threshold, the noise hit him like a physical blow.
“Christopher! Christopher, over here!”
“Grady, where is David Vance? Has your agency dropped you?”
Camera flashes exploded in a blinding, strobe-light assault. The paparazzi had essentially laid siege to the arrivals hall. Immediately, the chaotic swarm of athletes was violently segregated by their respective PR handlers.
Kip felt a hand clamp aggressively onto his bicep. It was a junior handler from his management agency, her face pale and tight with stress. "Keep moving, Christopher. Do not engage. Just smile and wave. We just need to get you safely out of here."
He was practically dragged to the left, swallowed by a sea of flashing bulbs and screaming reporters. He didn't look back. He couldn't.
"Manhattan office. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning," the handler ordered over the noise of the terminal. She ushered Kip swiftly through the sliding glass doors and out into the freezing New York drizzle, practically shoving him toward a familiar, idling Toyota Camry before immediately retreating back inside to handle the rest of the PR fallout.
"Kip! Get in, kiddo!"
The familiar, booming voice cut through the media static. Kip yanked the passenger door open and collapsed into the warm car, shutting the noise out.
"Dad," Kip choked out, the tight, suffocating panic in his chest loosening just a fraction.
His dad leaned over the center console, wrapping him in a crushing, one-armed hug. He smelled like stale bodega coffee, Old Spice, and the familiar, dusty scent of the Queens apartment. "God, it's good to have you home," his father said, his voice thick with emotion, slapping Kip’s back hard enough to make his ribs rattle. "I know we talked about it back at the Coliseum, but my ears are still ringing from how loud that crowd got. That Gala performance... you showed them, Kip. You really showed them."
"Thanks, Dad," Kip managed to say, pasting on the bright, boyish smile that had secured him millions in endorsements. It felt like his face was going to crack.
The ride back to Queens was a blur of neon storefronts and rain-slicked pavement. Kip sat in the passenger seat of his dad’s sensible Toyota Camry, his head resting against the cold window glass. His dad kept up a steady stream of chatter—talking about the neighbors who had watched the broadcast, Elena’s frantic text messages, the state of the plumbing in the apartment—trying to fill the silence, oblivious to the fact that his son was actively grieving the loss of a presence that had become his entire world.
Kip kept his phone clutched in his lap, his thumb mindlessly rubbing the dark screen.
He couldn't stop thinking about where Scott was right now. Probably riding in the back of some sleek, anonymous town car toward the quiet isolation of his Manhattan apartment. Or maybe he was heading straight to that garage out in Brooklyn where he kept his '68 Chevelle, just to stand in the quiet and be alone.
Nobody drives the Chevelle but me. But you can ride shotgun.
The memory of Scott's gravelly promise sent a sharp, freezing ache through Kip's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to commit the phantom weight of Scott's hand on his thigh to memory.
When they finally pulled up to the familiar, brick facade of his childhood home in Queens, the exhaustion hit Kip like a falling anvil. He dragged his duffel bag up the narrow, squeaky stairs to his bedroom, dropping it onto the faded carpet.
The room was exactly as he had left it two months ago. The walls were still plastered with vintage skating posters, his old medals hung from a corkboard, and his bed was pushed into the corner beneath the window. It was safe. It was home.
But as Kip sat on the edge of the mattress, the silence of the house pressing in on him, the reality of his situation settled over him like a suffocating shroud.
He was nineteen years old. He was a two-time National Champion. He had survived David Vance, and he had survived the Olympic crucible. But sitting alone in the dark of his childhood bedroom, hours away from the man who had pulled him out of the wreckage, Kip realized a terrifying truth.
He didn't know how to exist without Scott Hunter anymore.
***
"Eat the crust, Kip. I didn't pay for an extra-large pie just to throw half of it out."
Kip blinked, dragging his gaze away from his phone screen and looking up across the small, formica-topped kitchen table. His dad was halfway through his third slice of pepperoni pizza, a napkin tucked into the collar of his faded t-shirt. The fluorescent overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a warm, slightly yellow glow over the cramped kitchen.
"I'm eating," Kip said defensively, picking up a half-eaten slice. It tasted like cardboard.
He set it back down, his eyes immediately darting back to the blank screen of his phone resting next to his paper plate. It was nearing eleven o'clock. The adrenaline of the arrival had completely worn off, leaving behind a cold, hollow knot of anxiety in Kip's stomach.
Vancouver felt like a fever dream. The isolated corporate condo, the understanding, the raw, unfiltered honesty they had shared—it all belonged to a pocket universe that had officially ceased to exist the moment they landed at JFK.
Scott was a millionaire NHL franchise player. He had endorsements, an apartment in Manhattan, a gruelling schedule, and a carefully curated public image. Kip was just a kid with a shattered reputation, eating cold pizza in a walk-up in Queens. The frantic voice of Kip's deeply ingrained perfectionism whispered that the Olympic magic was bound to wear off. Why would a guy like Scott Hunter risk his entire career for this?
Kip's phone buzzed, vibrating violently against the table.
He snatched it up so fast he nearly knocked over his glass of water.
[From: Scott]
Made it back. Paparazzi camped outside my building, but I'm in. You safe?
Kip let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his shoulders dropping two inches as a fierce, involuntary smile broke across his face. He quickly typed back.
[To: Scott]
Safe. Eating pizza with my dad. Miss you.
He stared at the words for a second, his thumb hovering over the backspace button. Was "miss you" too clingy? Too soon? He swallowed hard and hit send anyway.
The reply came almost instantly.
[From: Scott]
Miss you too, kid.
Kip's jaw ticked as he glared at the screen. He hated when Scott threw that word around—it made him feel like a child desperately trying to keep up with the adults. He stabbed his thumb against the touchscreen.
[To: Scott]
I'm nineteen. I'm not a kid.
Three gray typing dots appeared.
[From: Scott]
I know.
[From: Scott]
But I like your reaction. You all bristle. It's adorable.
[From: Scott]
Call me when you're alone.
A hot, involuntary flush crept up the back of Kip's neck. He bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a ridiculous smile.
"Who's got you blushing at your phone like that?"
Kip jolted, his head snapping up. His dad was watching him over the rim of his soda glass, his eyebrows raised in gentle amusement. "Is that Elena? Tell her to let you sleep."
"No, it's not Elena," Kip mumbled. He quickly turned the phone face down on the table. "Just... a friend. From the village. Checking in to see if I made it past the media mob."
A sharp, heavy pang of regret twisted in his stomach. His dad had been nothing but supportive when Kip had come out to him last year, navigating the new reality with an endearing, clumsy carefulness. Lying directly to his face felt like a betrayal, a dirty secret polluting the safety of their kitchen.
The teasing edge in his dad's expression melted into quiet, genuine support. The corners of his eyes crinkled with a sudden, knowing look that made Kip's breath catch, but instead of prying, he just took another slow bite of his pizza. "That's good, Kip. Really good. I know it's a shark tank out there right now. You need people in your corner." He paused, his voice dropping to a gentler register. "He a nice guy?"
Kip felt his heart do a painful, erratic flutter against his ribs. He's the best guy, Kip thought fiercely.
"Yeah," Kip said softly, picking at the edge of his paper napkin. "He's really nice."
Two hours later, the house was completely silent. His dad's snores rumbled faintly from the bedroom down the hall.
Kip sat cross-legged in the center of his childhood bed, the room illuminated only by the pale, watery glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. He pulled his knees to his chest, took a deep, steadying breath, and dialed the number.
It didn't even ring once.
"Hey."
Scott's voice was a low, rough rasp, heavy with exhaustion but incredibly warm. Hearing it in the pitch-black quiet of his room made Kip's chest ache violently.
"Hey," Kip whispered back, pressing the phone tightly against his ear. "You're still awake."
"Can't sleep," Scott grumbled. The sound of shifting fabric echoed through the receiver, painting a vivid picture in Kip's mind of Scott sprawled across a massive mattress, probably shirtless, staring at the ceiling. "It's too quiet here."
Kip squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against his knees. The hollow knot of anxiety he’d been fighting all night suddenly tightened into a painful lump in his throat.
"Scott...?" Kip started, his voice wavering, betraying him instantly.
"I'm here. What's wrong?" Scott’s tone shifted immediately. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by that sharp, focused intensity—the protector snapping to attention. "Did your agency call? Did someone follow you?"
"No. No, nothing like that," Kip rushed to say, digging the heel of his hand into his eye to stop a sudden, humiliating sting of tears. He felt so stupid. "I just... I've been sitting here all night, thinking."
"Dangerous territory," Scott murmured softly. "Talk to me."
"It just felt so different today," Kip confessed, the words tumbling out in a rushed, quiet stream. "When we had to split up at the airport, and Carter was there, and the press... It felt real. The Village was like this bubble, you know? And I just kept thinking... what if the bubble pops? What if you got back to your apartment and your life and realized that hiding a disgraced nineteen-year-old figure skater wasn't exactly what you signed up for?"
Silence stretched over the line, heavy and absolute. For one terrifying second, Kip thought he'd pushed too far.
Then, Scott let out a long, ragged exhale.
"Kip. Listen to me," Scott said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a fierce, uncompromising sincerity. "We talked about this, remember? I told you exactly what I was signing up for. There is no bubble. It was never an Olympic fling, and I don't give a damn about my 'real life' if you aren't in it. Do you understand me?"
A tear hot-tracked down Kip's cheek, slipping off his jaw to soak into the fabric of his sweatpants. "Yeah."
"I am lying in a bed that's way too big, in an apartment that feels completely empty, and the only thing I've thought about since they dragged you away from me at JFK is how fast I can get you over here tomorrow." The absolute certainty in Scott's voice was an anchor, dragging Kip back from the edge of his own panic. "I got you. I'm not going anywhere."
Kip let out a shaky breath, a small, watery smile breaking across his face in the dark.
"Okay," Kip whispered. "Okay."
"Good," Scott said, his tone softening back into that warm, gravelly rumble. "Now, tell me you don't have to face those PR vultures tomorrow."
"I do," Kip groaned softly, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. "My handler told me at the airport to be at the Manhattan office at ten. It's going to be a bloodbath."
"You'll survive it," Scott promised, though the smile faded from his voice, replaced by a low, fiercely protective edge. "And if they give you too much shit, tell me. I'll take a hockey stick to their boardroom."
Kip let out a startled, wet laugh, his chest aching at how terrifyingly serious Scott sounded. He knew Scott wasn't completely joking. He'd actually do it, Kip realized, a warm thrill shivering down his spine.
"I think a hockey stick might violate my contract," Kip whispered.
"I'll pay the fine," Scott replied without missing a beat. "Just text me when you're done. We need to figure out how to sneak you past my doorman."
***
The Manhattan offices of Apex Sports Management were designed to make athletes feel simultaneously very expensive and very small.
Kip sat at one end of a sprawling, frosted-glass conference table, the collar of his Oxford shirt feeling two sizes too tight. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the midtown skyline, but the room itself felt like an interrogation cell.
Across the table sat Harrison Vance—David Vance’s older brother, and a senior partner at the agency. Both brothers were calculating and emotionally detached, but where David maintained a stoic, authoritative facade right up until a situation completely spun out of his control, Harrison was pure, unfeeling corporate machinery all the way down. He was just a spreadsheet in a tailored suit. Flanking him were two PR executives Kip vaguely recognized from damage-control emails.
Sitting slightly apart from them, at the far corner of the table, was Peter Callaghan.
Kip’s stomach had dropped the second he walked into the boardroom and saw him. Kip had practically worn out his VHS tape of Callaghan’s ’98 Olympic long program when he was eight years old. Callaghan was the absolute standard—an Olympic silver medalist and two-time World Champion who had transitioned into a notoriously elite, highly selective coaching career. He sat quietly, dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal suit over a slate-blue shirt, his dark hair threaded with a distinguished touch of silver at the temples. He was flipping through a thick file—Kip’s file—his sharp, aquiline features giving absolutely nothing away.
The agency had clearly brought him in as an independent consultant to assess the wreckage, and Kip felt small and painfully inadequate under his scrutiny.
"David's sudden resignation has left us in a highly volatile position, Christopher," Vance said, steepling his manicured fingers on the glass. He hadn't asked Kip how he was doing. He hadn't asked about the bruised hip from the brutal crash in the Free Skate. He only cared about the fallout. "The sports networks are desperate for an angle. We need to control the narrative before they paint you as a completely unstable asset."
Kip dug his fingernails into his own thigh under the table. He stared blankly at the polished surface, remembering the low, protective gravel of Scott's voice in his ear the night before. I'll take a hockey stick to their boardroom. God, he wished Scott was here.
"We need a comprehensive apology tour, and we need to project stability," one of the PR reps chimed in, sliding a dense folder across the glass toward Kip. "We pair you with a reliable, agency-approved coach here in New York. You keep your current Olympic programs—the public already recognizes them—and we focus entirely on rebuilding your image through controlled exhibition appearances. No competitive pressure until next season."
Kip felt the blood drain from his face. No competitive pressure. The phrase echoed in his head, completely drowning out the mention of his old programs or an agency-approved coach. They weren't just trying to manage his image; they were trying to bench him. They wanted to strip away his competitive career right before the World Championships and parade him around on an exhibition tour just to produce safe, predictable revenue.
"No competitive pressure?" Kip echoed, his voice rough, panic beginning to prickle at the base of his skull. "You want me to skip Worlds? It's in three weeks. I can't just do an exhibition tour. I need to train."
"You don't have the leverage to make demands right now, Christopher," Vance cut in flatly. "You collapsed on international television. You lost your coach. If you step out of line now, you are a complete liability. You will skate the exhibition tour, and you will do it quietly."
Kip opened his mouth, his heart hammering against his ribs, but before he could speak, a folder snapped shut at the end of the table.
"The only liability in this room is that strategy."
Every head snapped toward the corner. Callaghan tossed Kip's file onto the glass table. His voice was rich and melodic, carrying a quiet, unshakable authority that instantly sucked the oxygen out of the room.
"Peter," Vance said, his corporate composure tightening. "We asked you here to evaluate his technical readiness, not critique the PR rollout."
"I am evaluating his readiness," Callaghan replied smoothly. He turned his striking, piercing blue eyes toward Kip. They didn't look at him with pity, or see him as a damaged asset. They looked at him with an intense, analytical focus that made Kip want to sit up straighter. "Your brother is an excellent technician, Harrison. But he over-manages his skaters' mechanics. He restricted Christopher's natural stride until he was skating like a metronome—safe, predictable, and exhausted. If you force him to skate those exact routines under an agency babysitter, you'll end his career."
Vance bristled. "Worlds is in three weeks, Peter. Nobody in the US Figure Skating association can choreograph and teach an entirely new Free Skate from scratch in twenty-one days. Who exactly is going to take him on?"
"I am," Callaghan stated simply.
Silence slammed down on the boardroom. Kip felt his breath catch in his throat. Peter Callaghan taking him on? It wasn't just a lifeline; it was an absolute coup that even the agency couldn't argue with.
"You're taking his contract?" Vance asked, sounding genuinely thrown off balance. "We haven't discussed terms. As I just said, there's no time to overhaul his routines."
"We aren't starting from scratch," Callaghan said, ignoring him completely. He kept his gaze locked on Kip. "I was in the stands in Vancouver, Christopher. Your Short Program succeeded because you had the adrenaline to push through the restrictive choreography. But your Free Skate was a biomechanical disaster. The routine relied on intricate, lyrical transitions that killed your momentum. By the four-minute mark, your legs were dead."
Kip’s heart executed a violent stutter-step against his ribs. He stared at his childhood idol, a hot, uncomfortable flush creeping up his neck under Callaghan's sharp, appraising scrutiny. The coach was brilliant about the mechanics, but completely wrong about the reason. If only he knew, Kip thought. The memory of David cornering him in the dark tunnel flashed through his mind—a sharp spike of remembered adrenaline that tangled immediately with the echo of invasive reporter questions and the toxic weight of a thousand internet comments. His legs hadn't died from the choreography; they had died from the suffocating, paralyzing terror.
"Then I watched your Exhibition Gala," Callaghan continued, his voice taking on a thoughtful, appraising weight. "When you dropped the classical posture, your knee bend improved. Your edge control deepened. You generated massive speed because you stopped fighting your own body. You are a power skater, Christopher. David spent years forcing you to skate like a lyrical one, and it is suffocating your actual mechanics."
Callaghan leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "We don't have the time to redo everything from the ground up. So we make minor adjustments to the Short Program to better match your natural stride. For the Free Skate, we keep the exact jump layout and technical skeleton. But we strip out the lyrical connective tissue and replace it with something that actually lets you breathe. If you want the job."
Kip looked at the thick, suffocating PR folder lying on the table, and then up at Peter Callaghan. The anxiety that had been crushing his chest all morning suddenly cracked open, letting in a blinding rush of adrenaline.
"Yes," Kip breathed out, the word barely more than a whisper. Then, stronger, he let his shoulders drop out of their rigid alignment. "Yes. I want the job."
Callaghan’s lips curved into a warm, surprisingly genuine smile. He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket with an elegant flick of his wrist.
"My terms are non-negotiable, Harrison," Callaghan said smoothly, finally turning back to the senior partner. "I handle his training. You handle the press. And we send him to Worlds."
He didn't wait for Vance to argue. Callaghan tapped his knuckles lightly against the glass table in front of Kip. "I have ice booked at Chelsea Piers at two o'clock. Go home, pack your bag, and don't be late."
He turned and walked out of the boardroom without another word, leaving the heavy glass door swinging shut behind him.
Kip sat in the sudden, echoing silence of the room, Harrison Vance’s furious glare burning a hole into the side of his head. Kip just let him stare.
Under the table, his hand was already wrapped around his phone, his thumb flying over the screen to type out a text.
[To: Scott]
I survived. And I got a new coach!
***
The Sky Rink at Chelsea Piers was a cavernous, freezing sanctuary suspended over the gray, choppy waters of the Hudson River. At two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, it was completely empty save for the echoing scrape of carbon-steel blades cutting into fresh ice.
Kip skated a slow, wide perimeter, trying to shake the adrenaline jitters out of his calves. He felt exposed. For the last six years, every single practice had been meticulously structured and ruthlessly policed. Now, there was just Peter Callaghan.
Glancing toward the sound system, Kip swallowed hard. The older man was leaning against the boards, watching him. He didn't have a clipboard. He wasn't barking orders.
"Alright, Christopher," Callaghan's voice drifted over the ice, easily carrying through the empty arena. "Let's see what we're working with. Short Program first. Give me the technical layout."
Kip nodded, skating to the center of the rink and falling into his starting pose.
The sweeping, elegant strings of Tchaikovsky’s Garland Waltz filled the rink. He took a breath and pushed off. Almost instantly, the familiar rush of the short program took over. It was a routine built on momentum, and he leaned into his deep outside edges, carrying immense speed into his jumps. He launched into his opening Triple Axel, snapping tight in the air and landing on a flawless, running edge. Riding that adrenaline, he carved a wide arc across the ice, setting up for his most difficult jumping pass. He drove his toe pick down and vaulted into a massive Quadruple Toe Loop, immediately firing off a Triple Toe Loop combination before landing with a sharp, triumphant spray of ice.
When the music faded out, Kip was breathing evenly, his chest puffed with a familiar, confident high. He skated over to the boards, grabbing his water bottle off the ledge.
His new coach gave a slow, approving nod.
"Very solid foundation," Callaghan said, a genuine edge of impressed respect in his voice. "Your rotational speed on the Triple Axel is staggering, and that Quad-Triple Toe combination is an absolute weapon. Very few skaters in the world have the raw power to land that back-to-back with such immense height. But your edge entry into the Lutz is too shallow—you're fighting the curve of the ice instead of riding it. And the adrenaline is the only thing carrying you over the clunky transitions in that step sequence. We are going to rework the entry to the Axel to conserve your energy, but the mechanics are absolutely there."
Taking a long drink of water, Kip nodded, a hot, bright rush of pride blooming in his chest. He had fought relentlessly to stabilize that quad-triple combination, and hearing his childhood idol acknowledge it as a weapon was exhilarating. The critique that followed didn't sting at all—it was direct, strictly technical, and completely devoid of David's usual suffocating condescension.
"Take two minutes," Callaghan instructed, leaning back against the glass. "Catch your breath. When you're ready, I want to see the Free Skate from the top."
Two minutes later, the confident high evaporated entirely. A cold, heavy stone plummeted into Kip's gut as he skated back to the center of the ice, his muscles preemptively locking up as he struck his starting pose.
The first heavy, oppressive brass notes of Prokofiev's Dance of the Knights blasted through the speakers.
It wasn't just music. It was a sensory trigger that violently dragged Kip back to the freezing, concrete tunnel of the practice rink. The heavy, militaristic march instantly overlaid the pristine Chelsea Piers ice with the stifling weight of a blood-red velvet jacket.
He could practically feel the rigid fingers digging into his bad shoulder, could hear the venomous, completely unhinged whisper hissing directly into his ear.
You are a convenient distraction. You are throwing away an Olympic Gold medal to get on your knees and suck some hockey player's cock!
The sheer, suffocating terror paralyzed his legs. Kip fought his own momentum just to hit the strict, classical lines of the footwork sequence, but his breathing had already shallowed into frantic gasps.
Stop acting like a dirty little faggot!
He set up for his Quad Toe Loop. The phantom memory of the Vancouver rink hijacked his spatial awareness. He dug his toe pick in and launched upward, but his core was completely loose, the axis tilting drastically to the right. He came down hard, his ankle buckling, his gloved hand violently scraping the ice just to keep himself from wiping out.
You look like an amateur.
Panic flooded his system, hot and blinding. He pushed his locked, screaming muscles to accelerate across the rink for the second jumping pass. The Quadruple Salchow. He drove his weight down and vaulted.
He pushed too hard. The phantom memory of the slip made his right shoulder twitch mid-air, a devastating muscle memory replicating the exact mechanical error from the Olympics. The rotation was wild, completely uncontrolled.
His blade didn't even catch the ice. Kip crashed down hard onto his right hip and shoulder. The brutal, unyielding impact jolted straight up his spine, knocking the air out of his lungs in a sharp hiss. He slid across the frozen surface for ten feet, a heavy mass crashing violently into the base of the boards.
Pain flared up his side, entirely drowned out by the roaring panic in his ears. Kip scrambled to his hands and knees, his chest heaving violently. He stared down at the scuffed ice, bracing himself. He knew exactly what came next. He waited for the crisp, dismissive disappointment. He waited for the terrifyingly calm instruction to get up and run it again, Christopher, and do it right this time. The music suddenly cut off.
The silence in the rink was deafening. Kip flinched, his gloved hands trembling violently against the ice. He couldn't catch his breath.
He heard the deliberate, heavy crunch of blades. Callaghan hadn't just stopped the track; he had stepped onto the ice. The skates stopped a few feet away.
The coach didn't yell. He didn't offer a cold critique about rushing the entry or losing the axis. He crouched down into Kip's line of sight. Kip braced himself, but Callaghan’s voice was sharp, immediate, and entirely professional.
"Are you hurt? Hip? Shoulder? Wrist?"
Kip shook his head blindly, keeping his eyes fixed on the ice. "No. No, just the bruise."
A firm, gloved hand appeared in his line of sight. Kip hesitated for a fraction of a second before gripping it, and the older man pulled him steadily up to his skates. "I—I can hit it. I'm sorry. Let me run it again, I just—"
"Stop," Callaghan cut him off, his tone brokering no argument.
Kip finally looked up, his face pale and wet with nervous sweat. The former Olympian was staring at him. There was no pity, just a heavy realization.
"You aren't fighting the mechanics," Callaghan said quietly. "You're fighting a psychological anchor. This choreography is conditioning you to panic, and the music is dragging you under." Callaghan studied Kip's trembling shoulders and shallow breathing for another second. "Go to the boards. Get a drink. Take five minutes and breathe."
Kip nodded jerkily, skating slowly to the barrier. He grabbed his water bottle, his hands still shaking as he tried to force his heart rate down.
Callaghan turned and skated back to the sound booth. When Kip's breathing had finally started to even out, the coach's voice called over the ice.
"Do you know Khachaturian's Masquerade Waltz?"
Kip blinked, leaning against the plastic barrier.
"Of course." Every elite skater knew it. It was a sweeping, dramatic classic—usually reserved for pairs routines.
"Good. No jumps. No footwork sequences," Callaghan instructed. "I just want you to find the downbeat and stroke. Feel your edges. Cross over and carry your speed through the curves. Let the rhythm push you. Go."
The speakers cracked to life. It wasn't the creeping dread of Prokofiev. It was the heavy, swirling, dramatic drive of Khachaturian's waltz.
Kip dragged himself up. His hands were still shaking, but the oppressive, suffocating walls of the tunnel were gone. The sheer, relentless triple-meter momentum of the waltz required immediate movement.
He pushed off. He didn't try to perform. He just did exactly what his coach asked—a fundamental stroking exercise. It was raw and desperate at first, but as the aggressive, sweeping strings swelled into something fiercely liberating, Kip leaned deep into his outside edges. He let the unadulterated speed take over, crossing over the ice and letting the momentum pull him violently through the turns. He skated until his lungs burned for a different reason, until the furious brass and spinning rhythm finally drowned out the phantom echo of the tunnel.
When the track ended, Kip drifted to the boards. He slumped heavily against the plastic barrier, resting his cheek against the cold rim, gasping for air.
He heard the scrape of blades as the coach stopped a short distance away, watching his new student with a profound, appraising silence.
"The speed is there," Callaghan finally said. The professional, evaluative edge in his voice had vanished, replaced by a genuine, deep respect that Kip had never heard from David. "You have a terrifying amount of raw power. You are a completely different skater when you aren't trapped in a cage."
A hot, furious blush crept up the back of Kip’s neck, burning all the way to the tips of his ears. Hearing his absolute idol validate his talent like that—speaking to him like a peer, not a broken asset—made the breath catch in his throat. An incredible, dizzying adrenaline high flooded his exhausted muscles.
The older man picked up his jacket from the bench. "Tomorrow morning, we start figuring out how to rebuild your jump entries and transitions around that power. Eight a.m. sharp, Christopher."
Kip caught his breath, pushing himself up off the boards. A wide, irrepressible grin broke across his face. He didn't feel like a perfectly managed, PR-approved asset anymore.
"I'll be here," Kip said, his voice raw but bright. "And... it's Kip, actually."
Callaghan paused, studying him for a second. Then, the intense, professional mask melted into a warm, heartfelt smile.
"Eight a.m. sharp, Kip," he said gently, and stepped off the ice.
***
Scott drummed his fingers against the leather steering wheel of the Grand Cherokee. He was parked just down the block from the main entrance of the sprawling Chelsea Piers complex, the engine idling low to keep the heater blasting against the brutal bite of the New York afternoon.
His own legs felt like dead weight. The first Admirals practice back from the Olympic break had been a brutal grind, though it had been damn good to be back on the ice with his boys—especially Greg and Eric. Still, the physical exhaustion barely registered over the low thrum of his anticipation. He sat slouched in the driver's seat, wearing dark aviators and a thick black beanie pulled low over his forehead. It was a necessary camouflage against the predatory swarm of paparazzi currently camping outside his Manhattan apartment building, desperate for a shot of the returning Olympic captain. He had absolutely no intention of giving them one.
His eyes tracked the sidewalk, scanning the sporadic flow of pedestrians until the heavy glass doors of the rink swung open.
Scott’s breath hitched slightly in his throat.
The familiar figure jogged down the pavement, a black Züca bag rolling noisily behind him on the concrete. The younger man had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up against the wind, but he was practically vibrating with energy. His cheeks were flushed a bright, healthy pink from the ice, his hair an absolute mess spilling out from under the hood, and a massive, uncontainable grin stretched across his face. He didn't look anything like the quiet, rigidly guarded athlete Scott had flown back to New York with.
He was a radiant, chaotic mess, and to Scott, it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
Spotting the stealthy, black-tinted Jeep, Kip jogged over. He popped the rear hatch to heave his Züca bag into the trunk before yanking the passenger door open and climbing inside.
"Hey," he breathed, practically bouncing in the leather seat.
Scott pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look over the rims. A slow, answering smile tugged at the corner of his own mouth. "Well. Someone looks like they survived the PR bloodbath."
"I did," came the excited rush of words. "I survived the agency, and I got a new coach. An actual coach! It was insane."
"Yeah?" Shifting the Jeep into drive, Scott pulled smoothly away from the curb, blending into the chaotic midtown traffic. "Who?"
"Peter Callaghan."
He blinked behind the aviators, keeping his eyes on the road. "Who?"
An exasperated noise filled the cabin as Kip twisted in his seat to face him fully. "Peter Callaghan! Olympic silver medalist? Two-time World Champion? The absolute legend of US men's figure skating? He basically told my agency to shove their exhibition tour and said he's taking me to Worlds."
"Never heard of him," Scott said deadpan, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin.
"Oh my God." The younger man groaned, throwing his hands up. He paused, visibly trying to translate the information into an acceptable format. "Okay. Look. He is like... the Marlon Le-moo of figure skating."
Scott nearly choked on his own spit, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "The who?"
"Le-moo!" Kip repeated earnestly, totally oblivious to the butchery. "You know, the Canadian guy. The one with the cups."
"It's Mario Lemieux, kid," Scott corrected, his voice entirely flat, though his chest was shaking with silent laughter. "And for the record, I know exactly who Peter Callaghan is."
The skater stared at him, his mouth falling open in betrayal before he reached over and punched his shoulder hard. "You’re such a dick!"
A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled through the small cabin. But as Scott glanced over at the passenger seat, catching the starstruck, flushed awe still lingering on Kip's face, a strange, utterly irrational twinge of jealousy spiked in his chest. Callaghan was older, distinguished, a legend in that world.
He immediately clamped down on the feeling, forcing his jaw to relax. It was stupid. Kip was finally smiling again. That was the only thing that mattered.
But the kid had terrifyingly sharp instincts.
The excitement melted into something slower, something far more observant. Narrowing his eyes, Kip tracked the subtle tightening of Scott’s jaw before a sly, deeply satisfied smirk formed on his lips.
"Wait," he said slowly, leaning closer across the center console. "Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Scott scoffed, keeping his eyes fixed rigidly on the brake lights ahead of them.
"You are," Kip practically crowed, his voice dropping into a teasing, impossibly fond register. "You're jealous of a forty-something-year-old figure skating coach."
"I am trying to drive us to the underground garage so we don't get mobbed by the press, you little menace," Scott grumbled, though he couldn't fight the helpless, affectionate smile breaking through his scowl.
Ten minutes later, the heavy metal gate of the private parking garage rattled shut behind them, effectively locking the rest of the world out.
They took the private elevator up in silence, the playful banter fading into a heavy, electric tension the moment the metal doors slid shut.
When Scott unlocked the door to his apartment, the quiet of the space settled over them. It was smaller than the corporate condo in Vancouver—he didn't have that kind of NHL money yet—but it was comfortable, high up, with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning, panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline.
Kip dropped his Züca bag by the door, toeing off his sneakers. He wandered a few steps into the living room, his head tilting back as he took in the skyline.
"Scott, this view is—" he started, turning around.
The words completely died in his throat.
Scott had used the brief distraction to play entirely unfair. He hadn't just kicked off his shoes and dumped his coat. In the five seconds Kip was looking out the window, Scott had stripped off the heavy gray hoodie, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and tossed them both over the back of a nearby chair.
He stood in the entryway unapologetically bare-chested, letting the dim light from the hallway catch the heavy, solid cut of his chest and the sharp lines of his abs. He watched with immense satisfaction as Kip completely froze. The skater's eyes went wide and dark, his gaze dropping to take in the sheer, physical reality of an elite hockey player standing in his living room. Kip swallowed hard, his jaw slackening as his brain visibly struggled to compute.
A slow, intensely knowing smirk curled the corner of Scott's mouth. He knew exactly what kind of effect he had.
"So," Scott murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze flicked deliberately down the short hallway toward the bedroom. "Should I order us some food, or..."
There wasn't a second of hesitation.
"Or," Kip whispered, breathless and absolutely certain. "I pick or."
Before Scott could even brace himself, the distance between them evaporated. The younger man practically launched himself upward, arms wrapping tight around his neck as Scott’s hands instinctively caught his waist, hauling him up against his bare chest.
Kip kissed him like he was starving. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and heat that tasted like pure adrenaline and absolute safety. Letting out a low groan against his mouth, Scott tightened his grip and carried him down the dark hallway, leaving the rest of the world far behind them.
