Breaking the Ice – Bonus Scene: After the Cameras
LGBT Novel Editorial
Note: This scene is set after the events of Breaking the Ice and assumes you’ve read the main book. No major plot spoilers beyond the established HEA, just extra softness, banter, and found family.
After the Cameras
The last camera crew packs away the final light stand, and the apartment falls into a silence that feels louder than the interview ever did.
“You didn’t tell me there would be three microphones,” the captain grumbles, tugging his T‑shirt back into place as the door clicks shut behind the producer.
“If I had,” the journalist says, leaning against the kitchen doorway, “you would have feigned a mysterious lower‑body injury and skipped the whole thing.”
“I could still claim trauma,” the captain replies. “Media‑induced.”
He says it like a joke, but his shoulders are high and tight around his ears, the same way they get after playoffs press conferences. The journalist crosses the room in three steps, palms sliding up the captain’s arms until his fingers hook lightly at the back of his neck.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”
The captain exhales, long and reluctant. “You’re the one who convinced me this was a good idea.”
“And it was.” The journalist nudges their foreheads together. “You were perfect.”
“I said ‘uh’ forty‑seven times.”
“That’s called authenticity.” He smiles. “Besides, you only glared at the camera twice. My editor is going to weep with gratitude.”
The captain’s mouth twitches. “I glared at the camera because it was pointed at you.”
“Protective instincts. I’ll add that to the list of things I love about you.”
The word hangs between them for a second—love—still new enough that the journalist feels it echo in his ribs every time. The captain’s eyes soften in that way they only do off the ice, in private spaces like this apartment or the dim locker room long after everyone else has gone home.
“Did I… say the right stuff?” the captain asks, quiet now. “About the team. About us. About… being out.”
There it is: not media trauma, exactly, but the deep, careful worry that carried him through the whole coming‑out process. Not for himself—never really for himself—but for the rookies watching, for the kids in small towns, for the teammate who’d once pulled him aside and whispered “I think I might be like you.”
The journalist slides his thumbs along the line of the captain’s jaw. “You said we belong in this league,” he says softly. “You said no one should have to choose between loving the game and loving the person who waits for them after it.”
“That sounded cheesy.”
“It sounded true.” He presses a quick kiss to the captain’s mouth. “And if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with your slapshot.”
The captain huffs out a laugh. “Violence is not in the official media strategy, babe.”
“Good thing we’re off the clock.”
He kisses him again, longer this time, until the leftover adrenaline in the captain’s muscles begins to bleed away. When they part, the journalist can feel the difference: the loosened shoulders, the less guarded eyes, the way the captain’s hands finally settle at his waist instead of hovering like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.
“You didn’t eat,” the journalist says, because he is incapable of not noticing. “You picked at the fruit plate and drank three coffees. Sit. I’ll heat up the stew.”
The captain opens his mouth to protest—he always does—but there is resignation in the curve of his lips as he lets himself be steered toward the couch.
“You’re the one who did media all afternoon,” he mutters. “I should cook.”
“You cooked yesterday,” the journalist points out. “Today is my turn to pretend I remember your grandma’s recipe.”
“You wrote it down.”
“On a napkin,” he says. “Which you then turned into a line‑combination chart.”
The captain actually blushes at that. “It was a good chart.”
“It was an excellent chart,” the journalist agrees. “It did not help me remember whether the bay leaves go in at the beginning or the end.”
“Beginning,” the captain says automatically, then scowls. “You tricked me.”
“Interview technique,” the journalist says, already halfway to the kitchen. “Works every time.”
He can feel the captain’s gaze on his back as he stirs the stew, adding a little more salt, a splash of lemon, the bay leaves at exactly the right moment. It’s domestic and unremarkable and somehow more intimate than the kiss they shared on national television a week ago.
Behind him, the captain shifts on the couch. “You know,” he calls out, “the guys saw the promo. The one where I said you were the best thing that ever happened to my season.”
The journalist grins at the wooden spoon. “Oh? And?”
“They said I was soft.”
He turns, leaning against the counter. “You are soft,” he says. “Incredibly. Devastatingly.”
The captain narrows his eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Never.” He brings over two bowls, sets them on the coffee table, and curls up beside him. “I’m saying your softness is my favourite thing about you. Well. One of my favourite things.”
The captain eyes the stew like it’s a tactical decision. “Name three others.”
“Your backcheck,” the journalist says promptly. “The way you talk the rookies through a bad game. And the fact that you just did a national interview while wearing the socks with tiny cartoon pucks on them.”
The captain glances down at his feet, offended. “They’re lucky socks.”
“They’re adorable.”
He nudges the journalist’s knee. “You didn’t answer the important question.”
“Whether you sounded right?” The journalist’s voice softens. “You did. You sounded like yourself. That’s what matters.”
The captain sits with that for a moment, spoon idly tracing circles through broth. “When I was a kid,” he says slowly, “I used to imagine giving those post‑game speeches they show on TV. You know—the ones where the captain thanks the fans and talks about the team being a family.”
“You do that now,” the journalist points out.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I never imagined being able to say ‘my boyfriend’ into a microphone afterwards.”
The journalist’s throat tightens. “You didn’t today,” he says gently.
“No.” The captain’s smile is small, but real. “But I knew I could. That’s… new.”
They eat in companionable silence for a while. Outside, snow taps at the window; the city hums a muted, distant lullaby. Inside, the apartment smells like stew and laundry detergent and the faint ozone of studio lights that haven’t quite cooled.
After a few minutes, the captain sets his empty bowl aside and leans back. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “Objectivity, I mean. Keeping your distance from the story.”
“Sometimes,” the journalist admits. “But then the story looks at me like this—” he taps a finger against the captain’s chest, over his heart—“and asks if I want to go to bed early and sleep for twelve hours, and I decide bias is a small price to pay.”
“We can’t sleep for twelve hours,” the captain says, though his eyelids are already drooping. “Morning skate.”
“You can,” the journalist counters. “I just have to sit in the press box and pretend I’m not emotionally compromised when you hit someone into the boards.”
“You do a terrible job of pretending,” the captain says. “The guys said you fist‑pumped after that last power‑play goal.”
“That was journalistic enthusiasm.”
“It was bias.”
“It was love,” he says, softly enough that it barely crosses the space between them.
The captain looks at him for a long moment, all the noise of the day finally stripped away. In the dim light of the living room, without cameras or microphones or the weight of the crest on his chest, he looks simply—miraculously—at ease.
“Yeah,” he says. “It was.”
He tugs the journalist closer until they are a messy tangle of limbs and blankets on the couch. The television remote stays abandoned on the table; the world can wait.
Tomorrow, there will be more practices, more interviews, more questions about what it means to be the league’s out captain and his annoyingly talented boyfriend. Tonight, there is stew, and socks with cartoon pucks, and the steady sound of a heartbeat under the journalist’s ear.
It is, he thinks as he drifts toward sleep, the best post‑game show he could have imagined.