Work Text:
November 2018
“Can you believe this shit?” demanded Matti, shoving his phone under Scott’s nose. Scott had just gotten out of a session with the physical therapist where the cupping had created a circular pattern of bruises from his neck down his right shoulder. Scott was tired, sore, and ready to be home on the couch with Kip. He was not interested in watching yet another edit of some hockey drama.
“Seriously, Scotty, this is fucking wild!”
“I’m not watching a twenty-minute YouTube video of some shit Ilya Rozanov said,” reiterated Scott, batting the phone away from his face.
“Oh it’s not just Roz!” crowed Carter from across the room. He was holding his phone as well. “It’s him and Hollander.”
Scott’s head jerked up to look at Carter’s face. The memory of Rozanov telling Hollander his room number at the 2011 All-Star Game was burned into his memory. A moment of shock recognition he never had been able to shake no matter how many times he told himself he was imagining things. He felt lightheaded and nauseous, like the first and only time he’d let Benny take him to hot yoga. But—he didn’t read ‘scandalized’ on either man’s expression. They looked, well, shocked. Scott took a beat and waited for his teammates to explain. Scott had a lot of practice at keeping his mouth shut and letting others come to their own conclusions.
“They’re starting a fucking charity together,” continued Carter. “Hollzy and Rozy. When the hell did those two become fucking buddies?”
The grin was unstoppable. Unavoidable. Not for the first time Scott was relieved his team thought he was tragically boring. Even coming out had ultimately not done much to change that perception.
“That’s wonderful,” said Scott, trying to project ‘deeply moved by activism and charity.’
“I guess,” said Matti. “But you have to say it’s weird. They hate each other.”
“Hmmm,” said Scott, as if he’d never spared a passing thought for the league’s most marketable rivalry. And certainly had never noticed anything friendly between the two men. “What’s the cause?” asked Scott, as casually as possible. Talking about the charity was safer.
“Oh. I don’t remember.”
Scott rolled his eyes. A promising start.
“Something to do with mental health,” said Carter, and Scott nodded. A good, if slightly trendy cause in sports. But certainly something hockey needed to be better at.
“Oh right! That was the other crazy part. Did you know Rozanov’s mom, like, well, like killed herself.” Matti basically whispered the world “killed,” like it was a bad word.
That did shock Scott. He rocked back a little and stretched his neck. Scott understood better than most that what a person did on the ice had little to do with the kind of person they were off it. Some of the biggest enforcers in the league were absolute softies. Some of the nastiest pests could be extremely thoughtful. And Scott had reason to believe that Rozanov was a more complex character than he liked to project. But there was a special club for people who lost their parents young, and Scott had had no idea Ilya was also in it. Scott’s chest felt tight thinking about it. Maybe he had been so sure he was seeing one thing it hadn’t occurred to him that secrets came in many forms.
“I still don’t understand how the fuck they became friends!” complained Matti.
Scott showered and headed out as quickly as possible, though it was hard to get away once the news spread through the rest of the team and all anyone wanted to do was speculate on when and where Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander became close enough to start a venture this personal. Scott murmured non-committal things about them both playing in Canada now and then claimed he was late for a date with Kip.
When he got home, Kip was at the computer in the office. Scott couldn’t see him, but he could hear the lo-fi beats that usually meant Kip was working on a paper for class.
“Hey babe,” Kip called. Scott dumped his stuff unceremoniously so he could hurry to his boyfriend in the other room.
“You in the middle of something?” Scott asked. He wanted to kiss Kip’s neck but had learned that it was best not to interrupt if Kip was in a flow.
“I could take a break,” Kip said, to Scott’s relief. He kissed Kip briefly and then reached around him to grab the mouse. He’d been turning this thing over in his mind the entire drive home and was desperate to share it with Kip. To talk about it somewhere safe.
“Can I show you something?” Scott didn’t wait for an answer, opening up YouTube into a new window, careful not to disturb any of the tabs Kip had open for whatever the hell he was writing.
“’Course, sweetheart,” said Kip. He sounded worried. “Something wrong?”
“Do you remember Ilya Rozanov? From the party they threw in New York after I came back from the MVP awards.”
“Yes,” said Kip. He sounded slightly annoyed. “I do watch hockey, you know. He’s kind of a big deal. And he was, like, the only person who came to the event who isn’t on your team.”
“Of course,” said Scott and kissed Kip’s temple because his boyfriend was wonderful and smart and would definitely be able to tell Scott if he was right or if Scott had been jumping to conclusions. Or should be jumping to more conclusions. Scott hit play.
It was a typical press conference. Rozanov and Hollander sat at a plain as hell table in some conference room in Montreal, one of those big banners for their new Irina Foundation in the background. At first, Hollander did most of the talking while Rozanov frowned slightly. Then Rozanov cut in to share about his mother. Kip gasped. Scott didn’t blame him. The two men continued to answer more questions, but the tone shifted slightly in the wake of Rozanov’s confession to be less skeptical and more thoughtful. There were many questions about the rivalry which were easily deflected. On the ice, fierce competitors; off the ice, two men with similar values. It was really, really well done.
Scott had always appreciated players who could manage the press and could calibrate their image. The Rozanovs of the world annoyed him with their seemingly careless machismo and aggressive charm. But he recognized in Shane something of his own practiced answers. And since coming out and slowly acquiring a team of people who could help him manage the higher level of scrutiny on his personal and professional life, Scott had gained even more of an appreciation for these moments of careful brand maintenance. Even still, an announcement like this raised more questions than either Hollander or Rozanov seemed willing to answer.
“Wow,” said Kip, at last. “That’s really, well, really something. But it’s cool they’re using their platform for a cause like this. It definitely is a conversation hockey needs to have.”
“That’s what I said,” agreed Scott. He felt slightly smug that he and Kip were so aligned on this.
“Giving you ideas?” asked Kip. He turned around in his chair to look at Scott. Scott and Kip had discussed starting a charity a few times. But Scott couldn’t even remember what they had discussed. His eyes focused on his boyfriend’s wonderful face. Kip was wearing those blue tinted glasses that were supposed to help with staring at screens all day. Kip’s vision had deteriorated after his first year of grad school and he’d needed to increase his lens prescription. Scott had bought the computer glasses after extensively reading how to counteract eye strain. Kip looked extremely nerdy and extremely kissable.
“Yes, but not the ones you mean,” said Scott, trying to answer Kip’s question. Kip’s lip twitched and Scott realized that remark, combined with the way Scott was currently staring at Kip’s adorably spectacled face, might have sounded a bit more suggestive than he meant it.
“Not those ideas. I mean, not-not those ideas. But…I need to tell you about something.”
Now Kip was frowning. But he didn’t say anything.
“This is not something I have ever told anyone. I’m not even sure I should be talking about it now. But if I don’t tell you I might, I don’t know, spiral about it.”
“Okay. Concerned now,” Kip murmured.
“The All-Star Game, 2011, I heard Rozanov tell Hollander his room number.”
There was silence. Kip continued to stare at him as if Scott had more to say.
“In a sort of, uh ... covert way.” Scott added. He looked down and made his eyes slightly wider as he waited for Kip to catch up.
“WHAT!”
“Yeah. It was in the middle of the fucking game. I was sitting next to Hollander when Roz started talking to him. I was listening in because I assumed he was chirping and Hollander came off as kind of shy. But then, suddenly, room number.”
“So they—?”
Scott shrugged.
“2011?”
“Their rookie season.”
“Woah.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure? I mean, you must be. It’s been seven years and you still remember it.”
“Rozanov had the room next door to me,” Scott confirmed. Kip’s eyebrows climbed and he sucked in a deep breath. “I didn’t, I mean. I went out with friends that night and got back around eleven. But someone definitely came by around midnight.”
“And?”
“And I put in ear plugs and went to sleep. And I tried really, really hard not to think about it.”
“Huh,” said Kip. Kip ran his fingers along his face and scrunched his forehead. When his finger passed over the frame of his glasses he absently took them off and dropped them on the desk.
Scott thought about telling Kip about how angry he had been that night in Nashville. How lonely. How jealous. He had felt ugly and disgusted with himself. The earplugs that had stood him in good stead for years on the road had worked their usual magic, but he hadn’t slept, and he hadn’t been able to stop imagining it. Hollander and Rozanov…so young, so stupid, so reckless…so brave. And, crucially, together. That night was the loneliest Scott had felt since he’d first joined the NHL. At least to that point.
Kip pursed his lips and Scott wondered if boyfriend was reading his mind. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Kip reached over and took Scott’s hand. Then something seemed to occur to Kip because his grip on Scott’s fingers tightened and his eyes bulged.
“Scott, Rozanov went to fucking Ottawa. On purpose!”
Scott’s head jerked in a knowing nod.
“That’s pretty close to Montreal, isn’t it?”
Scott nodded more forcefully.
“All this time? Since 2011!”
“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “But I don’t think it was a one-time thing. Or didn’t, at least. I’m kind of struggling right now with what I thought might have been happening, but also, I could have been really…projecting.”
“Wait, seriously? When else did you see them together?”
“Honestly, not that often. All-Star games, MLH Awards. This one weird moment at the Olympics in Sochi. They never hung out or anything. But they wouldn’t, would they? Not if they were keeping a secret like that.”
“I guess,” said Kip. For the first time a note of skepticism had entered his voice. “But what if they really are just friends, but wanted to keep playing into the public rivalry. I mean. They were drafted at the same time. They might have just exchanged numbers and...texted…okay, I do hear it. That does sound dumb. If they were normal friends they would just hang out with everyone else. So that means they are not normal friends. But…well, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re banging. You know? They could have a different connection they don’t want people to know about.”
Scott sighed. He did know. He’d been thinking about it since he’d watched Rozanov talk about his mother’s death while being driven back to his apartment. Mental health was its own kind of taboo. It was almost unthinkable that someone as supremely annoying as Rozanov might have depression. Or some other problem. But if he did—and if Shane Hollander did too—and if somehow they both knew that about each other, then they might have a friendship based on a shared support group or something like that. Scott might be letting his own experiences color what he was seeing. And if that was the case, Scott felt even worse about what he’d said Shane. Shane, who was definitely gay, but maybe wasn’t even with Rozanov like that. He had to tell Kip before the shame of something dumb that he’d said four years ago burned a new ulcer into his stomach.
“You remember when Hollander and I got into it? This would have been 2013 or 14. Before the Olympics, at least.”
“How could I forget,” said Kip. “Completely changed my opinion about him. He went from hot Canadian boy-next-door to a prick who sucker punches people when he’s winning 10-0.”
“That wasn’t the score.”
“Well, he was definitely winning. It was insane. I mean, it was fucked up. I shouldn’t be using the word insane,” said Kip thoughtfully. “Considering.”
“Yeah,” agreed Scott who had also been struggling not to call the whole situation ‘crazy.’ “The thing is.” Scott swallowed. “Before he punched me, I might have...heavily implied I knew about Shane and Roz.”
“WHAT!” Kip said for the second time. Kip looked stunned. “What did you say to him!” Scott winced a little. Secretly he’d been hoping this wasn’t as bad as he remembered it being. Just another chirp that went a bit over the line. But there was no way out of this.
“I had just lost on the road at Boston,” explained Scott. “Roz had been just unbearable all night. When the game was over, I told him to ‘go fuck himself’ one more time and he said, and I remember this very clearly, ‘It’s more fun if you’re there.’”
“Damn.” Kip pressed his lips together. His expression a little unreadable.
“Fuck, you think that’s funny.”
“A little. Okay, just little. But obviously you thought he was clocking you. It wasn’t just, normal chirping.”
“If it had been anyone else, I don’t think I’d have registered it at all. But I did wonder if he knew something. Thought about it all night. Roz does that to people. I kept thinking if I had the moment back, I’d let him know I wasn’t a good person to mess with. Anyway, the next day I’m in Montreal and Hollander starts in on me, the same kind of shit Roz was saying all game.”
“He read you?”
“No. No. Just shit about how I was off my game.”
“So you got pissy at Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander of Canada? And you chose violence?” There really was no justifying this. And Kip was too smart not to see that.
Scott groaned and dropped his head. “I’m so horrified with myself.”
“I’m just trying to understand,” said Kip, his voice taking on a soothing tone. “I don’t know the guy. I just know his reputation. There aren’t compilations on the internet of Shane Hollander antics. But he did sucker punch you. So you’re saying he’s verbally attacking everyone on the ice. And that drove you to…out them?”
“I didn’t out him! Oh god,” said Scott. His head was in his hands. “I was tired. And angry. And it was such a shit season to that point. You and I had just met, but the whole idea of you still seemed impossible and like I was kidding myself. And no, Shane isn’t a silent killer. At least not verbally. He’s a nightmare to play against but he doesn’t usually engage in Rozanov levels of psychological torture. Which is why when he came at me sounding just like Roz, I uh, told him I noticed.”
“What exactly did you say to him?”
“‘You’re starting to sound like him.’”
“Oh.” Kip smiled and then put a hand over his mouth as if to push the grin back into his face.
“And then,” Scott confessed, because there was no stopping this now, “when he asked what I meant, I doubled down.”
“Oh babe.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s kind of fucked up.” Kip meant it. But he also seemed on the verge of laughing. “It’s also extremely cunty.”
“I know. That’s why he took a swing.”
“Poor kid. He probably thought you were being homophobic.”
“Fuck. I know. I know. But there is still something else I need to tell you.”
“I’m so glad I’m seated. I feel like a priest. Confess all your sins, my son.”
“Don’t be gross,” said Scott. “Just, okay, I love you, but I still wouldn’t be telling you this if I wasn’t just trying to make sense of this whole press conference slash Ottawa situation. I told you a bunch of athletes and even some hockey players reached out to me after I came out. To talk about their own experiences being closeted?”
“Yeah,” said Kip.
“Well, Shane was one of them. At the start of the 2017/2018 season. Right before he told his team.”
“Oh,” said Kip. Unlike before, this “oh” was fairly flat. Kip bit his lip.
“You knew!”
“About Hollander? There were rumors. People have been talking about it at the Kingfisher since last season.”
“Really?”
“You do know where I work, right? And what, in some hockey related circles, I’m pretty notorious for? People have reached out to me about stuff too.”
“Right.”
“But it was just a rumor. I figured you would tell me if it was something I should know for sure. And Shane Hollander honestly got a lot of attention in gay circles for years on account of the Calvin Klein campaign. So, I was taking the rumors with a grain of salt. But he definitely is?”
“Yeah.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“What?”
“That he hasn’t come out. Honestly, when I heard the rumors it made me kind of annoyed all over again. Captain of his national team, two cups, and he doesn’t even have to be first. He could have taken some of the pressure off you if he’d gone public.”
“Kip. That’s not fair.”
“I know. I know. I don’t want to relitigate this.”
“And it would be…well, it would different if two MLH players dated each other,” Scott reminded him. “Particularly those two players.”
“The NWHL does it all the time.”
“Aspirational, but not the same, and you know it.”
“Okay, Scott. I think, yes. I think on balance this is pretty strong evidence. A lot of it’s circumstantial. There is some plausibility that’s it’s just the mental health stuff. But, overall, I buy it. Ilya Rozanov came to Scott Hunter Night the other year because he and Shane Hollander have been hooking up since rookie season. And now they have created an entire mental health charity to be together so they can hang out in public.”
The words sat between them in all their ridiculousness. Both Scott and Kip started to smile and then started to laugh.
“See, now I don’t buy it anymore when you say it like that,” said Scott when he caught his breath.
“Yeah. I think we made some leaps in logic. Hooking up doesn’t mean you’re in love. Like, particularly at 18. And it seems rude to assume the charity is just an excuse to hang out when it’s clearly really personal to them,” said Kip, extremely reasonably.
“So what do I do?”
“What do you do?” asked Kip in confusion.
“Well, I need to text them, right. Maybe call. Congratulate them on the charity.”
Kip was laughing again. Scott rubbed his face.
“What do I say?” moaned Scott.
“Great job boys! As your queer elder, I’m very proud of you.”
“Queer elder? Now you sound like Roz!”
“Look, just tell them you think it’s awesome, and that they should let you know if there is ever anything you can do to help. People are gonna be jerks. So just, don’t be a jerk. End of the day, this is their business. It’s not like they’ve come out. No gay bat signal has summoned you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“If they want you to know, they’ll tell you.”
“Right.”
“It would be fucking amazing if they came out, though,” sighed Kip. “Since rookie season!”
Scott felt that familiar nauseating jealousy. It was like an old bruise that you forget you have until you hit it just right and then the pain seems to sink through you. It wasn’t reasonable. Scott had never been so happy in his entire life. But he felt the weight of all the years he’d denied himself happiness. He wanted to tell that unhappy man in 2011 to hold on just a bit longer. Happiness was coming. And maybe Scott had taken a long time to get brave. Maybe he could have kissed Elliott in juniors. Maybe he could have tried harder, earlier, to be himself. But he would wear his scars proudly so that the people who came after him wouldn’t have to wait.
Kip’s arms went around him and Scott exhaled and let his body fall onto his boyfriend’s. Kip’s fingers began to trace the bruising on his neck from PT.
“You look like you fucked an octopus,” said Kip.
Scott barked out a laugh and yanked his boyfriend out of the office and toward the bedroom.
March 2021
“Love wins!” yelled Kip. After another second of staring at the video playing on his husband’s phone in silence, Scott rolled over to his nightstand. He groaned. There were already numerous missed calls from global news outlets. It was going to be a long fucking day for Gay Hockey Batman.