Chapter Text
Scott Hunter was currently witnessing a shot accuracy competition, the same one for which the record on the board belonged to him. He knew the two new rookies, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, were good. Freakishly good. There was a very real chance that one of them was going to knock him off the top today. He just hoped, that if it were to happen, it would be Hollander. Shane was polite, talented and annoying earnest, the kind of kid that you didn't necessarily mind losing to. Rozanov on the other hand, was a little shit. Scott had met enough players in his league career to know that Rozanov was trouble. He was loud, cocky and constantly looking to rile players up. An asshole that he was sure would start a fight on the ice just because he could.
Scott crossed his arms and watched them line up for their turns, his jaw tightening. Records got broken, and the rookies that joined were only getting better. That was part of the game, but if Rozanov walked away with his? Yeah. That might actually ruin his day. Maybe Scott was being dramatic, but in the recent match that the Admirals played against Boston, he had to pull his players back more than once because of Rozanov.
"The record for this event currently held by the New York admirals Scott hunter, is 4 takedowns in 8 seconds." The announcer boomed, which pulled Scott out of his thoughts.
Rozanov played first, breaking his record and and sending a smirk in Scott's direction. But that smug look didn't last long after Hollander shaved a second off Rozanov's time and skated back exhilarated toward the bench, bright eyed and practically buzzing. And Scott couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. He got distracted looking at a man who was dancing in the stands.
“Good job,” Scott heard the heavily accented Russian speak in his direction. He would have usually ignored it, had it not been the only nice thing he had heard Ilya Rozanov say since he got drafted into the NHL. Rozanov's reputation as a shit talker had preceded him, and so far, he had lived up every word of it.
“Thanks.” Hollander responded softly.
“You had fun last night?” Was Rozanov trying to needle Hollander into reacting? Did they have plans together? Maybe they were friends underneath the media driven rivalry.
“Last night?” He could hear the confusion in the nicer rookies voice.
“With your team. Dinner, drinks.” Oh, so they weren't together. Scott was surprised at Rozanov's interest in the life of the dark haired male beside him.
“Oh. Yeah, I mean, I had fun, but I didn’t get drunk.” Rozanov's reaction to that a strong raspberry. "You?" Shane asked, keeping the conversation going for some reason.
“Yeah, it was great. No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans.” Rozanov was clearly trying to chirp Hollander. Their rivalry had been splashed across headlines for weeks and the media loved potraying them as polar opposites. The rookies themselves seem to enjoy being put against each other, their reactions to obvious attempts to get a headline were always funny comments that showed up on Scott's social media.
“Oh,” Shane said slowly. “So what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?” Nice one Hollander, Scott thought.
“I think I’m going to bed early tonight,” He heard Rozanov announce randomly.
“Yeah?” The dark haired male responded. He heard some shuffling from his right, and as Rozanov skated away in front of him he heard him quietly tell Shane, "1221." Scott blinked. Did Rozanov just give Hollander, his number one rival, his room number in the passing. Like it was the most normal thing in the world? He had no idea what the hell that was about, and his eyebrows pulled together as he watched Roanov skate off into the distance. Not only was he stuck in the room right next to the aggravating rookie, but now he also had to wonder what made the Toronto captain earn that invitation or warning. Were they doing illegal substances together? As a senior player, was he required keep an eye out for problems for other teams?
Scott turned a little to look at Hollander, but he didn't look confused, instead, he looked flustered.
“Nice shooting, rook,” Scott said, unable to keep his curiosity in.
“Thanks.” The Canadian responded.
“Glad to see Rozanov didn’t hold my record for more than a minute.” Shane huffed a soft laugh. “What did he want, by the way?" Scott asked curiously.
Hollander shrugged. “Oh, nothing. Just shit talking.”
“He’s an asshole, right?”
Shane hesitated. “I mean… yeah. Basically.” Scott felt the radars in his head gear up as the conversation took place, Hollander didn't seem like he was talking about a rival, the kid was too polite for trash talk, but this felt careful, evasive. Like he did not want to say much about the Russian. Shane didn't seem like the type to stir drama, which meant that this dodgy behavior was probably a reason. And Scott wasn’t about to pry, he hated vets who stuck their noses where they didn’t belong, but he also wasn’t going to ignore it completely. He felt responsible for the youngest players in the league, no matter the colors they wore. They were rookies. They were still kids trying to survive a competitive sport.
So Scott made a choice. Just this once, he’d play warden, subtly. A gentle reminder that he was around watching and would step in if anything got out of hand.
“Lucky me,” Scott said dryly, “I’m in the hotel room next door to him.” Scott revealed. He saw Hollander pale under the bright lights. The message was clear, if they started something, Scott would know. It was an interesting reaction. Maybe they were upto something unregulated tonight.
A second later Shane was called on ice and he scrambled to get away from Scott as fast as possible, shooting a quick "Bye" in the older man's direction. Interesting indeed.
Later that night Scott returned to his room with thoughts of the rookies completely erased from his mind, until he heard a quiet thud against the door of Room 1221. The doors were thick enough to give the residents of the room plenty of privacy, but he could swear he heard a muffled moan through the door. If Rozanov had someone in there… whatever, it was not his business. But was he seriously inviting Hollander, his so-called rival up to his room for..what, exactly? A fight? Some kind of chaotic ritual Scott didn’t want to know about?
Scott rubbed a hand over his face.
He did not get paid enough to monitor rookie drama for another team.
Four months later (Las Vegas)
Shane Hollander lifted the Rookie of the Year trophy, spotlights glinting off the polished silver as cameras captured the moment to post across various mediums. Scott Hunter clapped politely along with everyone else, smiling at the rookie who was grinning happily.
At the afterparty later that night, Scott cornered the rookie next to a table, holding a suspiciously fizzy drink.
“That better just be ginger ale, rook.” Scott said with a stern face, teasing the young rookie who looked flustered at the thought of being caught drinking.
“It is, Mr. Hunter,” Shane said quickly, “I wouldn’t indulge in front of you.” Mr. Hunter damn, it made Scott feel older than he was. This sport, and others, aged people up faster, retired players young, but another part of him was eagerly waiting for the time where he could fade away into the shadows and live life on his own terms, with a loved one by his side.
Scott snorted. “Congrats, man.”
“Thank you.”
Scott leaned in, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “So uh… what would you say if me and some of the other old farts wanted to do shots with the three rooks?”
Shane blinked at him and then broke into the biggest grin. “Fuck yes I would.”
“Good. Now, where’s your boy Rozanov?” Scott asked casually, looking around the room with raised eyebrows. He didn’t see the other rookie anywhere, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t also fishing for a little information. He couldn't get the last interaction he witnessed between the two out of his head, and he wanted to see Hollander’s reaction to the implication that he and Rozanov were close enough to know each other’s location.
Shane reacted exactly how Scott expected, he blinked and staightened up, squaring his shoulders and looking just a little constipated.
Shane stared. “My what?”
“No, I mean, not, not your boy.” Scott waved a hand. “Just like, it's always Hollander and Rozanov right?” The gears in Scott's head had started turning again. Scott Hunter knew he was gay, he was closeted, but he knew it as surely as he knew that the sun rose everyday. He also knew that he didn't get to hang out with other queer people due to the nature of his job and secrecy, but he always thought he had a reliable gaydar. And it was tingling.
“I don’t know where he is.” Shane’s voice tightened, and Scott caught onto it. “We’re not… like… friends.” Something about Hollander’s flustered face, his too quick denial, the way he tensed at the mere mention of Rozanov was slowly making all the pieces of the puzzle slot into place.
Scott raised a brow. Sure. Right. But he let it go.
“I’m sure someone else will grab him,” he said.
Rozanov didn't show up, but shots were poured and toasts were made. Hollander kept glancing toward the exit, almost like he was waiting for someone. Eventually he slipped out, mumbling something about needing to find his parents, and Scott watched as he disappeared from his line of sight. Scott shrugged and started talking to the third rookie, about some shot he had executed a few years ago. After a while, Scott needed a little air and moved towards the terrace to take a breather, and once he exited the doors the dry Vegas heat hit him as soon as he stepped outside. He started to move towards the balcony to look at the night city lights, but then he froze.
Next to the balcony stood the missing rookie, Ilya Rozanov... and Shane Hollander.
Not friends? Scott’s eyes narrowed, trying to make out the expressions on their face.
They were talking animatedly, almost intimately. But from their body language it didn't seem like a fight, atleast not the type of ones you get to see on ice. Shane seemed to be wide eyed and frustrated, and Rozanov who he could see more clearly has his jaw set hard enough to crack.
A sharp “Fuck!” from Rozanov echoed through the night.
Scott tried to breath softer, ready to step in if the fight escalated. Was it a fight? It seemed...
The two didn’t move apart, instead, they got closer. They seemed locked onto each other like magnets. They were still talking, and they were definitely too close. And then Scott took a startled step back, as Ilya Rozanov, rookie of the Boston Bears grabbed Shane Hollander from Montreal Voyagers and kissed him.
Scott stepped back into the shadows before they could see him.
“Holy…” he whispered to himself.