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The gala is beautiful, of course. Beer for all the guys, champagne for the men in suits. The MLH is, somehow, making a killing off the press from the ending of the last season, even if the commissioner can’t seem to say anything nice about it.
Hunter himself is going around. He says hello, but doesn’t stay too long at any table. People whisper after he leaves. The boyfriend isn’t here, Shane notices.
Jesus. Shane’s hands are clammy, but fuck, if Hunter can do that— if Hunter can do that, Shane can at least make conversation.
The next time Hunter passes by Shane’s corner of the gala, he reels him in. “Hey, man.”
“Hollander.” Hunter quirks a smile. He really is handsome. “Hard to believe I knew you when you were a rookie. Time flies, huh?”
Shane laughs awkwardly. “Yeah. Sure.” He clears his throat. He looks at Hunter’s shoulders, because he’s shorter than Hunter and because he doesn’t want Hunter to see anything Shane isn’t ready to show. Quietly, he says, “I wanted to shake your hand, after the cup.”
Hunter huffs out a laugh.
“But with the injury and all,” Shane continues, “travel felt like pushing it a little. Still.”
Hunter scratches the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed. “That’s kind of you, Hollander.”
“It’s.” Shane swallows. “What you did. That took courage.”
“Easy to have when you got a good support system.”
“You have that?” Shane looks up at him. Hunter doesn’t seem like an unhappy man. Somehow… somehow, he did it. “You have people?”
“I mean, you saw the most important one.”
“I know, but…” He’s not here, Shane thinks, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s not enough. That’s not for Shane to say either. What he really means, anyway, is, How could that be enough? How did you manage it? How did you let it out? How did you escape the cage that was built decades before you were born? Can you show me the way?
Hunter claps him on the shoulder. He bends down to catch Shane’s eye, and says, “It’s possible, rookie. I swear to you, it’s possible.”
Shane blinks. He can’t cry. He can’t cry at the gala talking to Scott Hunter, because he knows people will talk. I was just moved by his bravery, Shane imagines himself saying. He’s already explaining it away. It’s easy for us straight guys. It takes a lot of guts to be yourself.
So he smiles, a little, and holds out his hand. “Congratulations, Hunter,” he says, and Hunter takes his hand. “On the win, and the cup.”
Hunter laughs out loud at that one, big and booming, and Shane tries not to shrink away from the eyes that turn to them. He’s allowed to shake Scott Hunter’s hand. He’s allowed to make him laugh. He’s allowed to call his boyfriend a win.
“I appreciate that,” Hunter says. “Maybe I’ll see you up there someday.”
Shane’s already won a cup, but he knows that’s not what Hunter means. “Maybe,” he admits, shakily, and Hunter releases his hand. “You probably better go schmooze some more, huh?”
“Yeah, I’ll make the rounds.” Hunter presses his palm against the table. He hesitates for a moment— too long, Shane thinks. He’s working up to something. Hunter says, “I just… if you see Rozanov. Tell him I say hi.”
The terror shoots down the back of his neck, an instant freeze. He trembles. But Hunter doesn’t look malicious about it, doesn’t look any way except the way he has all night, buttoned up and serious but with a weight off his shoulders no one knew was there in the first place.
So Shane doesn’t deny it. He says, “All right. If I see him around.”
“Good.” Hunter knocks his hand against the table once, and says, “I’ll see you around, Hollander.”
“See you.” Shane watches him leave, and inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, slowly and carefully. And maybe, just a little, he smiles.