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Scott Hunter doesn’t quite know how he’s managed to piss off the most even-tempered guy in the league, but he figures he must have fucked up even worse than usual this time.
It’s not unusual for Scott to get into a fight. Heck, from ages 7 to 15, when puberty took him from the smallest kid in his class to the biggest in 3.4 seconds, fighting was his claim to fame. That was Scotty, he would get down and drag his little knuckles across your face, and he packed a hell of a punch for his size. A bit condescending, but far better an introduction than poor Scott, his parents, well-. He stopped fighting once he actually started hurting people, but since his classmates magically learned how to stop making cracks about his dead mom the moment he got taller than them, that worked well enough. It’s a talent that’s carried him through twelve years of professional hockey, and that makes him the best paid player in the league. Scott can admit he’s not nearly as talented as Rozanov or Hollander, but he’s his own enforcer and always has been, and that plus being a decent enough captain and centre has him locking up a few too many zeros on the Admirals’ salary cap.
Scott can even admit, to his shame, that he kind of likes fighting, sometimes. He doesn’t love inflicting pain on others, but sometimes words fail and he’s never been one to take disrespect lying down. Plus, he’s been in pain all his life, and something about having a focal point makes it a little bit easier. A split lip, a bloody nose, a massive bruise on his hip, all signs that he’s still here, still breathing. He doesn’t provoke fights, but if one comes his way, he finds himself with that same giddiness he had as a little kid, punching out bullies and smiling grotesquely through the blood.
Chirping, though? Chirping was insults, bigotry, meanness disguised as sport. There was nothing respectful or empowering about a chirp. Chirping was "Little Poorphan Scotty" scrawled on his locker, was angry gamblers in his twitter mentions, was fucking Brad from his dorm stealing Scott's mom's wedding ring, the only memento of hers he let himself carry on his person, and crying like a little pissbaby to his daddy when he got caught.
Scott tolerated chirping, to an extent. He wasn't going to lay out some idiot rookie for wanting to be like his idols. And sometimes, it could be funny. Tasteful. But he sure as shit didn't dole it out himself, and he took breaches of The Rules seriously. You don't target a guy's family, religion, or anything they can't control. You don't chirp after the final whistle. You definitely don't chirp a guy about how much he sucks whilst smiling like it's a good chat between friends. So when Montreal’s Golden Boy Shane Hollander, a guy who he actually kind of liked, delivered what he in hindsight recognises as a fairly tame blow, he retaliated. He didn't know what the fuck was up with Rozanov and Hollander (he knew what he wanted it to be, but the chances of there being not just one, but two other gay players, Captains even, was clearly just wishful thinking on Scott's part) but he did know it was a sore spot. And so he pressed, hard.
He felt bad for it afterwards. He was spoiling for a fight, but Hollander isn't a fighter, not like him. He's not fucking Brad, either. Heck, maybe that was baby's first chirp, and he picked Scott because he thought he'd make a calmer target (bad choice if so, but touching nonetheless). It's not like The Rules were written down anywhere. They were an unspoken accord at best, a deluded imagining of Scott's at the worst. And as much as it hurt that the kid he'd once almost been a mentor for now saw him for the mediocre player and person he was, he couldn't deny the truth in the kid's words. Hollander probably just got so offended at the state of Scott's hockey that he felt the need to say something, and in that case, waiting until the whistle was almost polite, like he was giving Scott a chance to wake the fuck up. So Scott does what he hasn’t had to do in a very long time, and he sends the first text.
Scott is guided to a table by a stiff-backed waitress who kind of looks like she wants to harvest his entrails, and figures this must be one of Hollander’s favourite haunts and she’s annoyed about the fight. He resolves not to consume anything that he doesn’t see being prepared, orders a can of ginger ale for the kid and a sealed water bottle for himself, and settles in.
When Hollander arrives – 10am, on the dot, because the kid is unfailingly punctual – he receives the same hateful look from the waitress, so maybe Scott was just being paranoid. He orders them two “Chef’s specials” in fluent French, and the waitress’ face clears up. Ah. Not a hockey fan, then.
When Hollander turns to him, Scott is surprised to see a fiery guardedness to his gaze. “You wanted to talk?” he prompts, dispensing with pleasantries, and Scott wipes his palms on his dress slacks.
“Yeah, I think maybe you and I got our wires crossed last night, and I just want to apologise for my part in it.” Hollander’s eyes narrow, like he’s expecting more, and Scott feels like a little kid again, fessing up to a B- and accidentally mentioning that he popped his shoulder out again and slid it into place instead of getting help. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and” he mouths the word Rozanov “But I know it’s a sore subject for you, and I was shooting to kill because I was in a bad mood.” Truth be told, and Scott will never admit this – to Hollander or anyone – but Scott can have a bit of a thin skin about this stuff. He skates until he can’t anymore, gives everything he has on the rink, and it just isn’t enough. He tries to sum that up for Hollander, and settles on “Hockey is pretty much all I’m good at, so when I start sucking, I get a bit sore. But that’s no excuse. It wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry.”
Hollander nods, taking a sip from his ginger ale without raising the can from the table and holding eye-contact all the while. It’s a little odd, honestly. Hollander usually looks him everywhere but in the eyes. “Thank you, for saying that. But I don’t know what you mean. There’s nothing between me and that individual.”
Scott can’t resist an eye-roll, and Hollander’s eyes flash with warning. “Look. I heard what he whispered to you, on All-Star’s Night.” Hollander doesn’t react to this at all – good, he must have guessed that one already. “I know you wouldn’t do anything untoward. And I would never tell.” Hollander’s eyes are starting to water, like he’s holding a staring contest with Scott and doesn’t know when to break it, so Scott just ploughs forward. “I get it, Hollander. I’m the exact same way.”
Hollander does look shocked, at that. The anger finally drops from his expression, and what replaces it is the face Scott sees in the mirror every day: a guy desperately seeking someone who understands. “Shane, not Hollander,” he corrects, and Scott does an internal little jig at the progress. He loves making friends. “You too?”
“Yeah, I know. I hide it well. But I always hated the performative bullshit too.” Hollander nods rapidly, like it’s the worst thing in the world, and Scott smiles gently at him. He’s a good kid, this one. “You and… him… are a lot alike. Not in personality, but... you've both had a lot of pressure on you from a young age. Now me? I had to go through that alone. But I'm glad you and Rozanov are friends, even if you have to hide it from the league.”
Shane makes a face like he's just come out of a trance. "Sorry, what was that?"
Scott’s been told that he has a pretty soporific voice, so he just calmly restates it. "You know, how you have to fake being "rivals" for the sake of the league? I get it, all these stupid media rituals. I get so tired of the tragic orphan routine. But hey, we all got roles to play, right?" He shoots Shane a grin, which is not returned. He frowns instead. "You ok, rook?" He slips into the old nickname almost by accident, but Shane seemed so happy a moment ago and now he’s back to staring a hole into Scott eyes, like he expects Scott’s soul to fall out and give him the answers he’s seeking. "I would never tell, don't worry. I was goading you into a fight because I kind of wanted to be punched, which... is a long story, but you're entitled to your secrets."
Scott is grateful that the food comes then – though a quick glance tells him the “Chef’s Special” is in fact the blandest combination of salmon, rice, and arugula salad Scott has ever seen arranged on a plate – because it gives Shane a moment to recalibrate. He takes a bite, and notes it’s at least well-seasoned even if it reminds him of hospital food.
“How did you figure it out? That we were… friends?” Shane asks, before chomping down on a forkful of rice so quickly it’s like he’s trying to stop himself from saying more.
“Well, there aren’t that many things you two could be doing in that hotel room. And you were a bit defensive, so maybe I was a little worried that you were doing something you… weren’t supposed to.”
“Weren’t supposed to,” Shane echoes, paling noticeably, his hand shaking on his fork.
“Hey, hey, no, don’t worry, kid,” Scott slips into his Captain Voice. “I know you wouldn’t fix matches, you love hockey too much, you wouldn’t have it in you. And, I mean, obviously you’re not doing roids.” He gestures at Shane’s arms.
“Fuck off,” Shane says, still pale, and Scott smiles. The kid, in truth, is impressively built, but he’s glad the jibe can get him out of his head for a second. He wishes he was the same, but comments like that mostly lodge in his chest like little spikes, and cut as hard going in as they do when he rips them out.
“And I imagine it’d be pretty bad for the whole rivalry storyline if people knew you were ducking out of parties to chill in your hotel rooms together. So, obviously… friends. What else could it be?”
Shane looks at Scott so intensely that he begins to sweat. There is, of course, one other thing it could be. One thing that Scott has carefully not mentioned, expecting a heterosexual hockey bro wouldn’t even think of it. Has he overcorrected? Did he damn himself by not mentioning the thing that seemed obvious to him, but that most players would rather die than suggest? “And you didn’t have any other theories?”
Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Is this twink onto him? Did he imagine that little emphasis he put on you? “Well, no, I mean, nothing else comes to mind,” Scott stammers. “Anything on your end?”
Don’t say it. Do not utter a word. Scott will go to the ends of the Earth to keep this secret. He will flip this table. He will hire a professional beard. He will flirt with Hollander’s mother. In public. It’ll be the end of this thing with Kip, the only bit of joy in his grey life, and his heart gives a brutal little shudder at the thought. “Nope,” Shane says, breezy as anything, and Scott tries to avoid pressing a hand into his chest to make sure he hasn’t had a cardiac episode. “Nothing at all. You’re completely right.”
“Right,” Scott says, and quickly scours his brain for a different topic. Sadly, only one comes to mind. “And you know… I mean, it’s great that you want to defend your friend, but in a real fight you probably shouldn’t be pulling your punches.”
Shane furrows a brow. “I wasn’t pull- were you pulling your punches?” He looks outraged at the very thought, like he wants to have two-hundred-twenty pounds of muscle pounding into him full bore.
“I mean, yeah? I don’t actually want to hurt you, Hollander. I like you.” He smiles his prettiest smile, the one that gets Kip to stutter over his words. It’s clearly working – the foul-tempered waitress is caught in its beam, and she blushes back at him – but Shane is unaffected. Maybe it doesn’t work on straight guys? It works on Vaughny… or maybe Shane’s just busy, tugging at his shirt, and- oh fuck. In the spot where Scott had shoved him back, yesterday, there’s a purpling bruise, and God. He’s a monster. He hurt Hollander. The kid’s twelve years old and he’s bruised him, and Scott knows now, why his life sucks so bad, if this is what he puts out into the world-
“Scott. Scott.” When he comes to, Shane has both hands on Scott’s shoulders and is gently shaking him. It’s not the best way to wake him out of a panic spiral, but it’s not the worst either. Memories of being drenched in ice water whenever he zoned out in juniors come to mind. “It’s fine. It’s just a bruise. And I’m the one who started it, remember?”
“Yeah, but you were so nice, and I was so awful-“
“I called you an old man? And a pussy? My mother lectured me for an hour about misogynistic language.” There’s no scorn in Shane’s eyes, which is better than most players when they get called out for their views on women, but the reminder that Shane is a Stand Up Guy is also a cold reminder that Scott is a disgrace to humanity.
“Yeah, but that was barely anything. You didn’t bring up the nasty stuff. You… God, kid, I’m so sorry. I’ll do better, I promise.” And he will. He can’t keep doing this, can’t keep flipping out whenever he has a bad run of form. He knows how much it hurts him when someone pokes at his insecurities, and he basically told Shane to his face I know you’re lying, nyah! Who the fuck was he to police someone else having a secret? He keeps dozens. His sexuality, for one, the fact that he’s too piss weak to take a chirp for two, Kip for three. The only honest thing Scott could ever do is admit he’s washed and free up the Admirals’ salary cap for someone more deserving, and he fully expects to drag his feet on that for another decade if he can get away with it.
Shane’s hands are still on Scott’s shoulders, which the kid seems kind of uncomfortable with, but he’s not dropping them. “Out of curiosity, Scott,” Shane says, a weird little glint in his eyes. “What is the nasty stuff?”
Scott scans back to the last few matches. “You know, like ‘You must be glad your parents are dead so they don’t have to see their name next to the biggest choker in the league’, or ‘I thought I saw someone in the crowd for you, so I called the Ghostbusters’.” A third one which he won’t mention is ‘What does Crowell’s dick taste like?’, but that’s got less to do with the blatant homophobia and more the disgust Scott feels about Crowell’s borderline possessive interest in his affairs. He’d honestly rather sleep with Zullo.
Shane crushes his can of ginger ale in his fist, and Scott realises something. “But hey, none of those were from Montreal! Most of it’s Toronto, sometimes Boston.” Why were they talking about this again?
“You know that’s not ok, right? They can’t talk to you like that.” Shane says, looking insulted on his behalf. Bless. He’s heard similar directed Shane’s way, but the kid seems to tune out all extraneous noise on the rink and probably doesn’t even notice.
“I can’t punch everyone who’s mean to me, kid.” It wouldn’t be fair, to begin with. Scott’s punch, as they’ve already established, is nasty. “I was a scholarship kid, you know? Always the butt of the joke. If you respond to it, they just get worse. All you can do is be better.”
“Be better,” Shane says, speaking the words in unison with Scott. He shakes himself out of it. “I was the same. Not the scholarship bit, but… the other kids always made fun of me for being so obsessed with hockey. So I just decided to beat them at everything.” Shane looks somewhere in the direction of Scott’s feet, and finally they’re in familiar territory. “I’m sorry. For what I said, for skating over. I could tell you were having a rough time, I didn’t have to rub it in.”
“Water under the bridge!” Scott says, sincerely. Most of his fights don’t end like this, in a good conversation and understanding. He knows he’ll be beating himself up for it for a few days to come, but this is progress, real progress. Maybe he’s not quite as fucked up as he thought? He can’t wait to tell Kip. Perhaps he should examine the fact that his self-worth now revolves around Kip’s opinion of him, but he pushes that aside. “Just… maybe don’t tell your Boston buddy? I figure if he sniffs weakness, he’ll be twice as bad, and that kid almost makes me cry sometimes.” It’s an exaggeration, Scott hasn’t cried since 1996, but self-deprecating humour is the lifeblood of male-bonding, and it’d be nice to make a true friend out of Shane.
“No, seriously,” Shane says. “If I had any idea your feelings would be hurt, I never would have said it. And I don’t think he would have, either.” Ok, so Shane taking the opportunity to politely call him a massive pussy after shouting it at him on the rink is maybe a little much, but Scott did break the no-loved-ones-on-the-ice rule, even if accidentally, so he figures they can call it even. “You should talk to him, maybe? I feel like you’d have some stuff in common.”
“Yeah, I’ll leave that one to you, pal.” Scott foresees no universe in which Ilya Rozanov is anything other than the yappy Russian who pops by every few months to crush Scott’s spirit and laugh at his squishy insides, and he thinks he can live with that. “So I should really head off to pack for my flight, but I hope I’ll see you in Sochi?”
“We have a match before then,” Shane reminds him, because the kid has a freaky memory for hockey dates. “But yeah. Thanks, for clearing the air. I feel… a lot better.”
“Me too, Shane.” He feels awkward asking, like a small child, but “Maybe we can text sometime? You know, if you’re in New York. No pressure.”
Shane nods. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”
