Chapter Text
February 7, 2014
Athletes are a tall bunch, altogether. It makes it hard to stand out in the glorified high school marching band that is the Opening Ceremony. With everyone in the same uniform, too, Janice would have expected her quadrennial habit of tweaking Scotty’s nose would require her to first track down Vaughny, who as one of very few black men on the team, is far more immediately recognisable.
Unfortunately for her and for Scott, it’s not necessary, because that fucking hair shines out like a beacon. Janice is already planning her sharpest what the fuck when she hears Scott’s pitiful words.
“It looks fresh, don’t you think?” Scotty says, with the slight nasal tone in his voice that, for anyone else, would mean a mild cold. For Scotty, it’s a voice that says he’s one second away from a mental breakdown.
“Interesting look, Scott,” Janice asks, because an insult won’t give her information and she can’t even fake a compliment. “You doing alright?”
“Why do people keep asking that? I’m fine!” Scott says. He sounds like he’s going to cry. “Shit, sorry Janice. I didn’t mean to be harsh.”
Janice feels a little bit of rage pooling in her belly. It’s not her fault: all the girls are defensive of Scott. He’s the only reason they get paid a living wage, after all, having spearheaded the (slightly embarrassing, but much appreciated) process where a few of the American MLH guys contribute to the US Women’s Team’s between-season incomes. It’s half the reason they’re so competitive each year, and though Scott likes to pretend it’s a team effort, they all know more than half of the fund comes from his pocket. Considering Janice’s income from the Olympic committee stands at a mere $12,000 a year, Scott is basically the only reason she and Carol aren’t living in Jersey.
Janice bats Scott away with some crack about him looking like Carol as she thinks it through. Someone has hurt him. She needs to find them, and kill them. The girls will help. None of them can resist the urge to coo over Scott, like a baby bird in need of shelter, from the moment they first see those big doe eyes. Between the twenty-three of them, they should be able to bury the body somewhere no one will find it.
“Well, we clearly both have good taste,” Scott says. “It’ll go well with Gold.”
The fake bravado is the closest he’s sounded to human thus far, at least. The broken little catch in his voice is repressed.
Janice congratulates him on his newfound confidence. Vaughny calls him a jinx.
“There is no God,” Scott says. The broken little catch is now just outright devastation. Janice is going to disembowel someone. “Of hockey or anything else.”
Oh fuck. The one reliable part of Scott’s personality is his continued strange, clinging devotion to that shitty fucking church. Janice is glad he’s letting go, but she’d always thought he’d… detach from the church itself, but keep believing. One of those annoying “spiritual” people who you can’t help being friends with, because even though they’re churchy as fuck, they’re still nice. Atheism is a cry for help from this strange little man.
Janice tries to catch Vaughny’s eye, because what the fuck has he let happen to Scott? They’re supposed to be a team! But Scott’s big head is in the way.
It’s a genuinely horrible look for him. Scott’s the handsomest man she’s ever known, and when she’d shaken hands with him twelve years ago and introduced herself, it had been the last confirmation, if she ever needed it, of her sapphism. She looked at this insanely pretty man and thought yeah, no thanks.
He then looked at her and decided, unlike the rest of his shitty team, that he was going to be her friend. He stuck it out, through her defensive, caustic bullshit, treated her like one of the guys. Over the years, he even turned his shitty team around too, though Janice is confident most are just going with the flow and will go back to their misogynistic bullshit the moment it gets convenient.
Scott’s changed a lot since then, become more reserved and withdrawn for reasons Janice has never been able to fathom, but the one constant has always been that Scott is a peacock. He keeps himself preened and pretty like it’s the most important thing in his life. And the pièce de résistance had always been his ‘Frenchfro’. To see this horrible little Ken doll fuckery on his head…
Janice sits politely through the ceremony. Cherisse, her alternate, is shooting her looks that she can only translate as what the fuck is that thing on his head? Janice doesn’t have an answer. She watches Scott, but he seems to have completely checked out, glassy eyes staring into the middle distance.
*
“What the fuck is that thing on his head?” Cherisse asks, not thirty minutes later, as they wait for the rest of the team to arrive for their post-ceremony debrief.
“No fucking clue,” Janice says. “But we’re not getting distracted, alright? Canada is going down this year.”
“Understood, mon capitaine,” Cherisse says. “But I’m making him wear a hat if he wants to watch our games. That would be a distraction…”
“Be nice!” Rachel says, plopping on the grungy little Russian couch with far less caution than the disgusting thing deserves. “He’s a nice guy!”
“No nice man has hair like that,” Cherisse says. “The bleach infects boys’ brains and turns them into monsters.”
“Good thing Scotty’s one of the girls, then,” Rachel says.
“I think it’s hot,” Claire says, letting her absurdly long legs rest off the edge of the couch.
Janice frowns at her in disgust.
“What? I don’t think it looks good, but I’d let still let him fuck me,” Claire says.
Cherisse snorts derisively. “You’re not his type,” she says.
Janice shifts her frown to Cherisse, instead. “What have we said about outing people?”
“It’s not outing if we all already know!” Cherisse insists. “Besides, his hair couldn’t be gayer if it was a rainbow afro.”
“We don’t speculate, we don’t out, we don’t gossip,” Janice says. “You know that.”
Cherisse sighs. “I am only concerned. This is America’s year, and if we both win, that haircut will be immortal. Our children will see it. Our grandchildren.”
Well, when she puts it like that, she has a pretty good fucking point, but Jenn – always the last to arrive – is poking her much nicer bleach job through the door, and it’s time to focus.
“Alright!” Janice says, marching to her feet. “We are going to get TEAM USA etched on those medals if it fucking kills us all, do you hear me?”
“Yes, mon capitaine!” her girls chorus.
“You know they don’t etch the winner on the medals, right?” Cherisse says, sotto voce.
“Fuck up,” Janice says. “Now, ground rules! We are in Russia, a regressive hellstate, so we will be employing the buddy system!”
A chorus of groans. Honestly, you’d think Janice was the one who forced two dozen lesbians into a homophobic dictatorship.
*
February 10, 2014
“Well, he’s playing well,” Cherisse says. “Maybe the hair has magic powers?”
Scott is connecting every pass with ease, like he’s never even heard the word ‘pressure’, and poor Latvia is bearing the brunt.
“He’s playing mean,” Janice says. “They’re up 7-0, why is he still going flat out? Does he want to make Latvia cry?”
“Goal difference?” Cherisse says, confused. “I don’t know, why did you score that ninth goal against Switzerland?”
“Because I’m mean,” Janice says. “Scott isn’t. He doesn’t bully poor European— oof.”
Scott slides past one defender, then a second, and air dekes the goaltender, letting the puck fly to the right, catching it on his stick, and sliding it around the stunned little Latvian man into the left corner of the net. It’s exactly the kind of disgusting, flashy move you’d expect from a first draft pick who needs to be humbled, and it’s the last thing you expect to see in international play. Yet it works: the buzzer goes off, and a stunned Russian crowd is silent, then cheering.
“I would cry,” Cherisse says. “That hurt.”
Scott doesn’t even celebrate his freak goal, just slides back to the blue line like it’s a perfectly normal day for him. The Latvian goaltender looks like he’s considering homicide, and a few of Scott’s teammates actually slide behind him for protection.
“If any of the girls try that in practice, step on their feet for me,” Janice says.
“I don’t think any of them are that stupid,” Cherisse says. “I think only you could do that move.”
“And Bouchard,” Janice says darkly, thinking of her counterpart on the Canadian team.
“Bouchard isn’t stupid either,” Cherisse says. “Just smug.”
Janice hasn’t forgiven Canada for last Olympics, or the two before that, but Bouchard’s increasingly condescending smirks are the icing on the cake. She hates that woman. Unfortunately, Bouchard is, undeniably, the only forward in the world who can keep up with her, and no amount of World Championship wins can soothe her hatred. She needs to win, because Carol won’t visit her in prison. She already said.
*
February 13, 2014
“I need your help,” Vaughny announces to the rec room the girls claimed on day one.
Claire and Cherisse don’t even bother to look up from their game of pool. Liz and Ash are mildly interested, at best. Vaughny is a nice guy, sure, but this deep into the tournament, distractions of any kind become irksome.
“It’s about Scott,” Vaughny says, directly to Janice.
Claire and Cherisse do look up this time, but Janice waves them back down. She can handle this.
“What did he do this time?” Janice asks.
The post-Latvia press-conference had been bad enough, between the don’t you think that last goal was a bit mean? (Answer: “I was just trying to create a moment of joy in this bleak existence.”) and what is the purpose of continuing so strongly after you’ve already won (Answer: “You can be 7-0 up with three minutes to go and still find a way to mess up so horribly that it tears the fragile remnants of your fickle hope to pieces.”) But as long as Scotty isn’t asking for help, Janice will back down. She has her own fight, and as Russia’s little shitshow against Latvia proved, nothing is guaranteed.
“He told Rozanov that he’s… I don’t remember what he said exactly, but something about a supernova of suffering?” Vaughny says.
“Poetic,” Cherisse pipes up, because apparently this is what they’ve turned into. A pack of gossips. They are now literally the bitches that Janice hated most in high school.
“It was fucking terrifying,” Vaughny says. “One second he was all forgiving and kind, and the next, he was like you will destroy everything you love because you are broken inside, like me.”
“Oh God, he’s gone full emo,” Claire says. “Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot?”
Vaughny looks at her, confused.
“I’m bi,” Claire says. “We’re not all lesbians.”
“That’s not the bit I was confused about,” Vaughny says. “How can you even look at him with that hair?” Vaughny shakes himself. “Anyway, I’ve tried talking to him, but… I think I need backup here.”
“What the hell do you think we can do that you can’t, Vaughny?” Janice asks. “You’re his best friend.”
Vaughny looks around, like he’s checking for a tail, before saying “It’s about the gay thing.”
The shift that happens in the room is instantaneous. Claire starts holding her cue in both hands, halfway between a club and a spear. Cherisse, the fastest of them, sprints to and bars the door. Liz and Ash join Janice in forming a little triangle around Vaughny.
“What was that, Carter?” Janice asks, warning in her tone.
“Look, I know you know,” Vaughny says. “And I know. And Scott doesn’t know that I know. But I think he knows that you know.”
“The fuck did he just say?” Liz asks.
“It’s me, come on!” Vaughny says. “You know I’m not a bigot! We’ve got that, you know. Outsider solidarity?”
Vaughny’s confused as he says it, like the words have been fed to him by someone else, but it does calm them all down.
“You think Scott’s having a breakdown because he’s…” Janice thinks of a euphemism, just in case someone is listening.
“Banana-flavoured?” Vaughny suggests.
“Ew,” Janice says.
“I think he met someone,” Vaughny says. “He was texting someone non-stop, and he was super happy, and then… the hair.”
“Bad break ups are the number one cause of shitty bleaching decisions,” Ash says. “Right above wanting to fuck a hockey player. I’m going back to my book, but Vaughny, bud, you’re on thin ice. No blabbing to anyone outside this room.”
Slowly, the rec room resumes its previous activities. Cherisse returns to the pool table. Claire lowers her club-spear. Janice wonders at how well an Amazonian themed calendar would go for team fundraising, then thanks her lucky stars for Scott’s support scheme. She does not look good in green.
“I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t desperate,” Vaughny says. “He’s just getting worse, and tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.”
“I can do it, if you’re busy?” Cherisse offers.
“No!” Janice says.
Cherisse will push exactly the wrong buttons, and as much as she hates to admit it, Janice is by far the kindest member of the team. She’s the only one who can do this job.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow after our game,” Janice tells Vaughny. “Unless we lose, in which case you’re on your own.”
“Thank you!” Vaughny says. “Good luck against Slo… whichever one you’re playing. Vakia?”
“Sweden,” Janice says, trying to keep the judgement out of her tone. It’s not Vaughny’s fault he was educated in America, when she got sent overseas to an all-girl’s Catholic boarding school. Great job curing her lesbianism, mom and dad! “You’re playing Slovenia.”
*
February 14, 2014
Sweden is no trouble, thankfully. Claire is irked at letting a goal in, but they win by five, so hopefully it lights a fire under her belly for Canada.
Janice manages to answer the incredibly stupid journalist questions with her usual lack of patience. Yes, she is aware Canada will be more difficult. No, she did not take this victory for granted. Yes, she is a lesbian. No, she cannot say more. No, she is not Russophobic (what?) No, she is not sleeping with Bouchard (she is married! To a woman who doesn’t devour human souls every morning.) Yes, she does appreciate the MHL’s assistance in their team’s funding (she doesn’t even mention her rage that Crowell is taking credit for it, when he deserves as much respect in her mind as a cockroach does for walking on its gross little legs).
Suffice it to say, she’s not in a great mood when Vaughny meets her in the athlete’s village after. She lets him lead the way to the shitty twin-share where Scott is apparently brooding, and lets herself in without warning. If Scotty was jerking off, he’d lock the door, and anything short of that she’s seen before.
“Done punishing me?” asks a defeated Scott, chasing warmth from a bowl of soup instead of just eating the thing.
“Hi Scott!” Janice says, bright and kind as she can manage.
Scott spills his soup, panics about it for about five minutes – neurotic clean freak that he is – and finally makes an excuse to leave.
“Is that how you treated your boyfriend?” Janice asks.
It’s harsh, but Scott’s a big boy, he can handle it. Though up close, she can see things she hadn’t noticed before. Scott is skin and bones, looking lighter and hungrier than she’s ever seen him. Why is he eating soup when he should be downing dumplings and kebabs like no tomorrow? Is he sick?
Scott is frozen. The word boyfriend seems to have broken something in him.
“You know, the guy who broke your heart?” Janice prompts, seeking confirmation. “The reason you went and got this… fuckboy fuzz?”
She doesn’t know where the title comes from, but it really does fit. It’s fuzzy, and he looks like the world’s biggest fuckboy. If he’d looked like this when they met, Janice would have turned tail and ran.
Scott is having a panic attack, she’s pretty sure. So much for he knows that you know.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Scott says, in a tone so sad and broken that Janice feels an instinctive pang in her chest. Poor baby. She shakes herself, but the thought lingers, instinctual. “Please don’t,” he continues. “Please.”
“Ah,” Janice says, trying to get a hold of herself. “Proper closet case. Well, that’s harder. Carter?”
Vaughny provides the necessary physical comfort, which is good, because Janice can’t do that. She does, however, know the trick to getting a guy through a panic attack: distractions. She asks about his boyfriend (Kip? What a name. Is he Swedish or something?) and he lets out bits of his sob story. He’s crying into Vaughny’s shoulder as he says it, somehow not catching the desperate help me looks Vaughny is shooting at Janice.
“Wow,” Janice says. “You weren’t kidding. Big gay mess.”
Vaughny bitches her out, but what the fuck is she supposed to say? Scott is a broken man, and she’s a fucking hockey player. Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she knows jack about mushy emotional shit. Still, she tries her best. Asks a few more questions, cracks a few jokes. Vaughny questions her role here again, but she’s already here and they’re both out of the depths, so she’s trying everything she can. Reminding Scott of the hypocrisy of the league. Tracking down his boytoy’s Instagram (it shouldn’t be as easy as it is, but there’s only one Kip Grady in New York who looks to be both hot and openly gay, and Scott’s confirmation makes it clear.) Shoving it under Scott’s face, to show see, still available!
Scott crawling desperately back from her, like he’s a vampire and she’s hoisting a crucifix, should be objectively funny. In years to come, they’ll laugh about it. But the sheer agony in his eyes at the thought of Kip with someone else…
And suddenly, Janice is angry. She hates feeling powerless, and she has no idea what to do here. Does she call Kip long-distance and scream at him to put this broken vase back together? Does she play relationship mediator? Does she convince Scott he can do way better and hunt down that skier she’s 100% sure is gay?
Anything is probably better than what she does, which is basically call Scott an ungrateful pussy and tell him to woman up. She’s already regretting it as she marches out the door. Unfortunately, she also has no idea what to say to fix it, so she just keeps on walking, all the way to the rec room.
“How did it go?” Cherisse asks.
“Bad!” Janice says. “Very, very bad!”
“Are we killing someone?” Claire asks sincerely.
“I think that would just make things worse,” Janice says, disappointed. “Fuck, I made things worse.”
Cherisse pats her on the shoulder. “He’s already got the worst haircut on Earth, how much worse can it get?”
“You’re probably being too harsh on yourself,” Claire says. “I’m sure—”
“I’m tired,” Janice says simply. “I just… I’ll apologise to him tomorrow.”
*
February 18, 2014
“Why the long face, lover?” Bouchard asks tauntingly at the faceoff.
Janice grits her teeth. Scott’s been avoiding her, at one stage outright sprinting away at the sight of her. He’s still bullying his opponents, last night’s semi-final featuring a humiliating half-rink goal to take USA into the Gold medal game. Carol, upon hearing what Janice had said to him, had let out a long oooooof. Her mind won’t stop dwelling on his most recent bit of impromptu emo poetry last night: Victory is meaningless, I’m just here not to humiliate my country. And fucking Edith Bouchard thinks she can throw Janice off with fake-flirting?
Janice wins that fucking face-off. She imagines the puck is Edith’s fucking face as she shoots five-hole to equalise. She doesn’t have any of the emotional calm or clarity of her last three Olympics. But then, she lost those ones, and her rage seems to be doing her some big fucking favours right now.
“What’s the matter?” Bouchard taunts at the next. “Mad you’re not the biggest bottler on team sister-fucker now that Hunter’s emptied the bottle on his head?”
“Not your best,” Janice says, through her teeth.
“Or maybe wifey isn’t too pleased about our little affair?” Bouchard asks.
Janice does not understand why Bouchard hates her so much, or vice versa. It started sometime in their first Olympics, and it hasn’t died since. God knows Janice has spit plenty of bile at her over the years, most of it far more impressive than this little effort. But Bouchard usually isn’t so pissy, nor so uncoordinated in her attacks, and Janice knows there’s an opportunity here. Maybe an injury, or an ego-trip, or just that plain old villain of age, but Bouchard isn’t at her best, and Janice? Well, she’s at her fucking peak.
She wins the faceoff. She slides the puck to Cherisse, who slides it right back. Janice, The Queen, the greatest female hockey player of all time (or second greatest, according to some) lines up the perfect shot. She steels herself. Aims her stick. And passes it off.
The goaltender is so shocked that she doesn’t even notice the puck sliding in behind her as Cherisse slaps it in. 2-1, with three minutes to go.
Janice’s heart is in her throat. She’s never felt this fucking anxious before. But weirdly, it’s her own words that carry her forward.
Grow a pair. Of fucking ovaries.
She needs to hold her nerve for three fucking minutes. Easy. She needs her whole team to hold their nerves for three fucking minutes. Less easy. But she trusts them, these girls who’ve trained with her, bunked with her sometimes, bled with her.
Still, she can’t prevent the last second breakaway. She’s off the ice when it happens, spitting mad about it too, and Bouchard clears one defender. She clears a second defender. She dekes to the right…
And Claire bats the puck away, as easy as breathing. Right into the stick of Liz, who shoots a long-shot goal… and lands it.
3-1. Thirty seconds to go. They haven’t won just yet. There’s still so many ways it can go wrong, and Scotty was right, you really can fuck these things up last second, but not this time. The siren blares. They won. They fucking won.
“Thank you, Edith Bouchard,” someone is saying in the huddle. Coach, maybe? “For being a fucking idiot.”
Janice laughs. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes, and Janice knows Bouchard will come back stronger for it. But honestly, trying that shit in an Olympic Final? Cocky doesn’t begin to cover it.
She sees Scott and Vaughny in the dedicated athlete’s space of one of the largest crowds she’s ever played in front of. Vaughny is stunned, but Scott is smirking a little around dead eyes. Mine was better, he mouths. True: he had actually landed his, and they were up 7-0 at the time. Or maybe he’s saying buy cos lettuce, Janice’s vision isn’t that good, but either way, she mouths right back, you next!
For now, though, she accepts the one accolade that she’s been chasing for her whole career, her whole life, really, as the medal is slid onto her neck. Gold does look good on her. She doesn’t have to lie to herself about that.
*
February 20, 2014
“Shut the fuck up!” Cherisse shouts.
The celebrations grind to an immediate halt.
Janice frowns. The girls might be a little rowdy, but Team USA has two golds in ice hockey! It’s never happened before! Of course they’re—
“-were in love, and I lost them,” comes Scott’s voice, slowly increasing in volume as Cherisse fiddles with the remote. “Because I was a f— sorry, I can’t swear, right?”
Classic boy scout. Janice swore many times in her interview.
“I couldn’t be true to myself, to us, the way he needed me to be.” Scott says.
They all go silent.
“Did he just?” Claire asks.
“Fuck,” Janice says. “Fuck. This is bad.”
“It’s fine, right?” Liz says, clearly trying to convince herself. “They made, like, allowances and shit? For us to be here?”
“For those of us that are already out, yeah,” Cherisse says, with dawning horror. “But coming out on TV is basically illegal.”
“Get everyone you can,” Janice says. “Any sport, any country, I don’t care, just not Russia! I want someone at his door 24/7!”
“On it,” Cherisse says. “Who’s getting him?”
“I am,” Janice says. “Claire, Ash, with me!”
Janice is tall at 6’2, but Claire and Ash are towering, at 6’5 and 6’4, and Janice thinks she needs someone to tower over Scotty as she shakes him and tells him what an idiot he is.
They sprint in the direction of the arrivals area, anxiously waiting for the Team USA bus. Janice’s heart leaps out of her chest at the sight of the black SUV… until Scott and Vaughny shuffle out of it onto the asphalt, and she sees the little American flag on the hood.
“You idiot!” Janice says, the moment she sees them both.
“Can we get somewhere safe first,” Vaughny whispers. “I don’t like this cloak and dagger shit, and I don’t know if you noticed, but I kind of stand out.”
“We all stand out, we’re fucking gigantic!” Janice says, but she sees Vaughny’s point. They manoeuvre around Scott, the four of them around him and him in the middle, hoping for the anonymity of their Team USA jackets to be sufficient to hide their fifth member.
“You ever play Assassin’s Creed?” Vaughny asks.
“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Janice asks.
“Never mind,” Vaughny says.
“Is this a dream?” Scott asks. “Because I’m feeling a little hazy right now.”
“Just keep walking!” Janice hisses.
It’s a short walk to the rec room, but not enough to stop Scott from talking, apparently.
“Thanks for everything you said,” Scott says. “I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t said it.”
Way to rub it in…
“Do you think he was watching?” Scott asks.
“Scott, priorities?” Ash says, always a bit timid despite her size.
“What’s the point of my life if he’s not in it?” Scott asks, completely fucking sincere.
“We could have befriended anyone in the MLH, and we chose Princess Peach,” Claire says under her breath.
“Princess Peach pays your salary,” Janice reminds her.
“How do you know about that?” Scott asks.
Janice gives him her best bitch, please expression. “You’re the richest dude in the league, pretty boy. The only one with national sponsorships?”
“Probably not for much longer, huh?” Scott says. He gets downcast. “I’m so selfish.”
“Oh yeah, the sponsors are totally going to want you less now,” Vaughny says. “Everyone hates a stupid romantic.”
“There are going to be so many shitty hallmark movies spoofing that speech,” Janice says.
And Carol is going to make her watch all of them, she can already feel it.
“We’re here!” Ash says, pushing into the residential corner of the village.
Cherisse has done her job. They pass at least twenty athletes of various different sports, sitting peacefully in the hallways. Sure, they probably couldn’t do anything if weapons get drawn, but hopefully their mere presence can avert that shitshow.
“What are you all doing here?” Scott asks.
“Trying to stop you getting arrested!” Cherisse says.
“I mean, they’d probably just deport him, right?” Vaughny asks.
“Sure. Or an angry Russian mob will form on the streets, break down the doors, and murder him,” Cherisse says. “Let’s hope if they do murder you, they scalp you first. It’ll make a much prettier corpse.”
Janice is reminded, once again, that she is somehow the nice one.
“My hair isn’t that bad!” Scott protests. “Oh, whatever. Thank you, all of you!”
*
26 February 2014
Janice is separated from Scott at border security, so she doesn’t actually see the reunion until later.
There’s no audio, but Scott does basically crumple into his boytoy’s arms. Janice is glad she doesn’t have to murder anyone, though she’s not sure all her girls share her sentiments. Maybe she should set up a murder mystery night, or something…
At any rate, Janice settles mostly back into her usual routine. She and Carol enthusiastically make up for lost time, gossip about the trip. Carol is holding something back, though, and Janice finally has to tell her to spit it out, because she actually fucking hates guessing games. Maybe that’s a no on the murder mystery night, then…
“Are you still friends with Scott Hunter?” Carol asks.
“Yes,” Janice says.
In years gone by, their friendship had ebbed and waned around Olympic years, Scott always uncomfortable around her and Carol for reasons that now seem obvious. This time, though, Janice had extracted an iron-clad agreement to stay in touch, which Scott had enthusiastically agreed to. It makes her wonder if maybe he’d missed her friendship in the in-between years as much as she’d missed his.
It also makes her wonder if she can get tickets for some of his games.
“You want to meet him?” Janice asks.
“See,” Carol says. “I… you know his boyfriend, Kip?”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Janice says.
“He’s… kind of… one of my clients?” Carol says.
“Wait, you cut his hair?” Janice asks. “How fucking small is this world?”
“I mean, there aren’t that many LGBT+ salons in Brooklyn,” Carol points out.
“There are probably three on this fucking street,” Janice says.
“Very funny,” Carol says. “Anyway, I… you can’t tell him this, ever, alright, but I need to tell someone, because it’s killing me.”
Janice raises her eyebrow. “Did you kiss a boy, Carol?”
“Gross!” Carol says, pushing her so hard she almost slides off the bed. “No, it’s just… the week before the Olympics, Kip came in, all sad, right? And he said he wanted a change.”
Janice freezes. “Not the fuckboy cut.”
“No,” Carol says. “Not… that… fuckboy cut.”
“What did you give him? He looked normal to me!” Janice says.
“Well, I told him I wasn’t going to do it, and it was a terrible idea, and to do something else to get over his breakup,” Carol says. “But he asked me for a mohawk.”
Janice cackles.
*
1 March, 2024
The aftermath of meeting the fucking President is naturally a fucking surreal one for Janice, but she wouldn’t be so successful an athlete if she couldn’t roll with the punches and bounce right back up. She isn’t letting this opportunity slide, and if the guys are in the same hotel, that means the other penthouse apartment must contain…
“Hello?” Kip says, opening the door with his shirt off and his abs displayed.
“Bad start,” Janice says, crossing her arms.
Behind her, Cherisse cracks her knuckles. Liz smiles, which is twice as intimidating.
“Uh, am I being mugged?” Kip asks.
“No, Kip, of course not,” Janice says. “We just thought we’d give you a nice little talk about what would happen if you hurt our buddy Scott again.”
Kip freezes. It’s a gratifying reaction for about three seconds, and then he steps away from the door, revealing a very unimpressed Scott leaning against the wall beside him. His short-cropped brown hair restores the uptight professional look that he’d always aimed at, but Janice has seen his true self, so it’s not nearly as effective as he probably hopes.
“Ah, good!” Janice says. “You’re here! Makes it much easier.”
Janice barges right in, Cherisse and Liz behind her.
“You are not giving my boyfriend a shovel talk!” Scott says. “He’s a good guy! I was the problem!”
“I don’t know, Scott,” Kip says. “I kind of want to see where this goes. Plus, I mean, I’m still perfectly capable of fucking up.”
“No you’re not,” Scott says, mushy. “You’re completely perfect. Anything you do to me is completely deserved—"
“So here’s the deal,” Janice says loudly. “Scott is… well…”
“An idiot,” Cherisse says.
“Exploitable,” Liz chimes in.
“Kind of delicate,” Janice finishes.
“Your friends are mean,” Kip tells Scott.
“But he’s also a really nice guy,” Janice says. “He is the only man I will go to bat for. Even though I sometimes want to hit him with that bat.”
“Around the head,” Liz says, gesturing a wide swing. “To knock some sense into him.”
“Elena's shovel talk, she calls you sunshine,” Scott grumbles. “And your dad calls you the perfect son. I get idiot who needs more concussions.”
“Anyway!” Janice says. “Before I played full time, I was a gardener. Dug a lot of holes.”
“I was a forensic scientist,” Cherisse says.
“I was an undertaker,” Liz says.
“And Ash doesn’t mention it, but she’s a hobbyist potter with a rich girlfriend, so she owns a kiln. Kilns get way hotter than incinerators do.” Janice says.
“Plus, we all have… so much pent up rage,” Cherisse says. “It wouldn’t even be about you specifically, it would just be about having an acceptable target.”
“Can’t you target Crowell,” Scott coughs under his breath, before seeming to realise he’s just wished death on a person and descending into Catholic guilt. “I mean, please stop threatening my boyfriend! He’s not the pathetic—”
Liz punches Scott lightly on the arm. He stares at her, disproportionately sad and doe eyed.
“No negative self-talk!” Liz says.
“I get why you’re worried,” Kip says. “Scott is way too hard on himself, and he doesn’t tell people things.”
“Exactly!” Janice says.
“And he’s already proven exactly how stupid and borderline suicidal he can get when he’s upset,” Kip continues.
Scott, she notices, is refusing to interrupt Kip, even as he gets increasingly red. Either he’s completely whipped or he realises that his dramatics were seriously fucking dumb. Maybe Cherisse had a point about the bleach leaching into his brain…
“I promise, I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe,” Kip says. “And if I fuck up, you’re welcome to toss me in that kiln. But I’m not going to. Because Scott is perfect, and I am going to worship at the altar of him, the way he deserves.”
Scott is blushing at the… praise? These queens need some chill.
“Good,” Janice says. “I figured you two were equally freaky when Carol told me about, well…”
Janice trails off significantly, and Kip blanches.
Threats of murder are all well and good, but gay humiliation? That’s a far stronger weapon in Janice’s arsenal, and one she’s much more willing to use.
“Dinner at yours next week?” Janice asks, as she and the girls walk out.
“Sure,” Scott says. “When did you meet Carol?” he asks Kip, as Janice shuts the door.
“Alright,” Janice says. “I want you both to know that if you ever get in a relationship like that, it’s a trick to harvest your organs.”
“I’m glad they took each other off the market,” Cherisse says. “That much crazy needs to be contained.”