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Scott Hunter, in all his years of being gay and in the closet, has developed a fairly refined gaydar.
He knows what to look for in facial expressions and body language. He knows the difference between a man looking for a DL hookup and a gayby who doesn’t yet understand the swirling in their gut. He knows what it means to have a blacked-out photo on Grindr, he knows the etiquette of cruising in cramped New York bathrooms, and he knows the feeling of not knowing exactly why you want to be close with someone: a mentor, a friend, a man.
All this to say, he recognized it pretty quickly in Shane Hollander.
To anyone who didn’t know what to look for, Shane was just an average rookie; wide-eyed, breathless, with a certain air of I can’t believe I made it, all wrapped up in a perfectly polite, competent, Canadian golden boy package.
Nobody in the league was primed to notice just how deep that awe ran. The wide eyes were a plea for attention and he lost his breath from more than just being in the presence of hockey stars. Scott noticed the way he leaned into conversations, hanging on to every word, every detail that could make a friendship out of a passing introduction - the disguised hope of maybe something more. It was easy to see who Shane had a crush on, if one had the eyes to look.
It helped that Shane seemed to have a crush on Scott himself.
He had to admit that it was, frankly, incredibly endearing. Every interaction had Shane wide-eyed and slack-jawed, clinging to small details from Scott’s childhood and invitations to afterparties and shots that Scott figured Shane might not take otherwise. He took every opportunity to try to clue him into the fact that he wasn’t alone. He’s not sure the message ever got through.
Scott made sure to keep a good bit of distance between them and never said anything that would give the poor kid any ideas. He was cute, and as much as Scott was happy to be his adolescent crush, he wasn’t at all interested in being anything but a mentor. He was happy to be a friend, sure - a confidant, even. Nothing more. He knew Shane’s thing for him would fade with time as he accepted himself and found a more suitable man to fawn over.
“Okay, I get it, Shane Hollander had a big fat crush on you in his rookie year - you promised me tea!” Kip tosses a throw pillow at Scott’s face, but his smile is teasing.
“It’s important context!” Scott defends, trying not to let his hot chocolate spill from the unexpected assault.
It had been a while since the best day of Scott’s life. Winning the Stanley Cup was one thing, but ushering Kip onto the ice and kissing him, celebrating with him for the whole world to see, was maybe the one thing that could top it.
He had since won an award, made a speech, and had far too many conversations with far too many people. He’s happy the whole fiasco is over, even as brand deals and sponsorships keep him busy, so he can settle down with his boyfriend and spend some quality time.
Which, as it turns out, consists mainly of gossiping. Scott felt a little bad about revealing what was probably a well-kept secret, but it’s not like either party ever asked him not to tell - that would require telling him anything in the first place. Everything he passes along to his drama-hungry boyfriend is pure speculation.
“I think I understand the context, get on with the good stuff,” Kip demands, and Scott can’t help his smile as he acquiesces.
He flips through his memories for the right moment to pick back up.
Probably the 2011 All-Stars game.
Ilya Rozanov-
“Rozanov?” Kip’s eyebrows raised, his eyes bulging. He doesn’t know much about hockey beyond the Admirals, but he is aware of Rozanov - and his reputation. “Famous womanizer, devil on ice, ‘biggest asshole in the league’ - quoting you, by the way - Ilya Rozanov. Why is he here?”
Scott blinks. “Uh, because they’re-”
“Shane and Rozanov are endgame?” Kip looks doubtful. “Is he even into guys?”
“Yes, he talked to me after the awards ceremony, didn’t I tell you this?” By the baffled look on Kip’s face, Scott concludes that he did not, in fact, tell Kip this. “He, I mean - he basically came out to me.”
Kip’s eyebrows inched even higher, and he splayed his hands out to prompt Scott to continue.
Scott wasn’t sure what he had been expecting when he made that speech. He wasn’t shocked at how quiet the room got when he brought up the kiss, how thick the air felt; he was pleasantly surprised by some of the players who approached him with congratulations, and disappointed by a few who didn’t.
What he absolutely didn’t expect was Ilya Rozanov.
On a balcony overlooking the skyline, both men were escaping the chaos of the afterparty for a breath of fresh air. Both were tense. The two had never made proper conversation, so all Scott knew about him was his reputation, his attitude on the ice, and his relationship with Shane. (Kip scoffed, and Scott shot him a look. He was the one who interrupted.) So now, standing next to the man he had been indirectly keeping tabs on for years, he really had no idea what to say. If he should say anything at all.
Luckily, Rozanov said something first. “Congrats on MVP,” he nodded, his gaze locked to the cityscape. “It was deserved.”
Scott huffed, folding his hands into the pockets of his tux, still trying to figure out what to say. ‘I kissed my boyfriend on center ice, maybe you can too?’ Absolutely not.
“And the coming out,” Ilya continues. “Congratulations. It was very… important. To some people.”
Scott Hunter had been called “brave” more times than he could count. His kiss after the cup win was brave, extraordinary, groundbreaking. Never had he been called important, in a voice so quiet and fragile and filled with hope. Never had a compliment made his heart squeeze with sympathy.
“Many things are possible now.” Ilya nods like it means something, his eyes glassy and still looking straight ahead. “Things that were not possible before. There are people who are not so scared, after what you did.”
If Scott hadn’t known, if he hadn’t been keeping track of Ilya Rozanov through Shane Hollander for the better part of a decade, it may not have hit so close to home. He may have still put together that this was a quiet sort of coming out, Ilya bringing him into the know without saying the words. The full context made Scott’s heart bleed. He remembers the fear and isolation of having only one person in the entire world know you, and he knows how long Shane and Ilya have been trapped in that world.
“Nothing to be scared of, when you’re not alone,” he had said. It came out sort of breathy and pained, and he hoped Rozanov was smarter than his boyfriend and picked up on the meaning folded in.
Ilya nodded. Adjusted his suit, took a breath, and with one last muttered “Congrats,” he was gone. Scott thinks he might have been about to cry, and he couldn’t be upset, because Scott himself had to take a few minutes to let his cheeks dry.
Kip, for his part, looks a bit misty-eyed. “Ok,” he cedes. “Rozanov likes men. Shane and Rozanov are endgame. I won’t doubt you again.”
Scott laughs, shaking his head. “Can I tell my story now?”
Kip nods.
As he was saying.
Ilya Rozanov was a spitfire player, and the only thing bigger than his ego was his skill. Rozanov and Hollander were forced to butt heads, become archrivals for the media, and everyone expected them to play into it or take it a little too seriously. There was a fire between them, for sure, and whenever they were in a room together, it felt like electricity.
So it was odd when, right before that first All-Stars game, the two started talking. A normal conversation with no apparent malice. Scott couldn’t hear the words over his own half-hearted conversation with the player next to him (he can’t even remember who), but he heard enough to understand the tone of the conversation; It was soft, friendly, and almost fond.
He did not miss the numbers, hurriedly spoken over the boards, and the familiarity of them made his stomach drop.
1221. Eerily similar to the 1223 on his hotel room door. It would be a wonderful coincidence, and only coincidence, if he hadn’t already had an awkward run-in with Rozanov that morning. If Rozanov hadn’t been exiting the door marked 1221.
It seemed Hollander had already found another love interest.
He cleared his throat, trying to pull Shane’s attention. He made small talk, tried to figure out how to breach the subject, taking note of how nervous and cagey Shane got. This was new, then. He ended up only letting Shane know Scott would be close by. He tried to fit a lot of meaning into the words; Your thing with Rozanov is okay with me, he tried to say, but please keep it down. Remember that hotel walls are thin. Remember that not everyone is so discreet. If he breaks your heart and you need someone, I’m right next door. He tried to fit in a nice pull with his eyes.
As usual with Shane Hollander, he probably understood 0% of that subtext.
Ilya never let him get too close, but he was able to check in with Shane the few times a year the Admirals played the Metros. He’d catch him outside the rink, or on the rare occasions he would go out with his team, and make sure he was doing ok. Their public image never changed, of course, but he was able to keep tabs on how things were going from Shane’s eyes; the poor boy was a terrible liar.
“Where’s your boy Rozanov?” he had asked, once. Shane sputtered and panicked. Their relationship seemed to be going steady, if he was worried about getting caught.
When there was trouble in paradise, he would deflect and sip his drink, a quiet hurt settling in his eyes.
“The Sochi Olympics were when I realized Shane didn’t fully know what… whatever they had was,” Scott hums.
“What?” Kip tilts his head, confused. He looks like a puppy. Cute.
“Well - Okay.”
Scott never really got over Shane’s face when he and Vaughn found him in that cafe: staring at his phone with such an intense battle of worry and anger in his eyes. Scott figured he was probably texting Rozanov, or trying to anyway.
It was as Vaughn had said; Russia isn’t good to queer people, not then, and not now.
During the figure skating showcase, Shane had made some excuse about a bathroom, but Scott had spotted Ilya watching over the arena like a ghost. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest when he saw Shane make an appearance as well.
It, sadly, didn’t surprise him when Shane returned in a markedly worse mood than when he left. Anyone could have told him Rozanov was in a bad mood, and it wasn’t just the first-round loss to Latvia.
Scott didn’t watch much figure skating after that. He watched Shane’s expressions, the emotions he was never able to hide, trying to solve the puzzle of their relationship like he was strategizing breaking through an opposing team’s defense.
“Is it now that we get to that fight?” Kip interrupts. “Because I’ve been wondering about that for a while. You say you’ve been trying to be this mentor, looking out for him, but…”
Scott huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He almost looks embarrassed. “We can… skip to that, sure.”
“I mean,” Kip starts, rolling the blanket on his lap between his fingers. “I remember, I was at school in Boston, we were… on and off. We had just gone off,” Kip winced.
Scott nodded. “That definitely didn’t help my mood. It was a pretty bad loss, though.”
Scott remembers it clearly; Shane had chirped at him (which was already out of character), a smile on his face, and Scott knew he was going for friendly banter.
Unfortunately for him, Scott Hunter had no more energy for being tactful.
Truthfully, he thought that by this point, Shane would have realized Scott had put the puzzle together. He couldn’t possibly think they were being incredibly clever, and Scott wanted, after all this time, to be able to speak plainly to Shane.
“You’re starting to sound like him.”
He hadn’t even said it much like a chirp. He tried to keep his tone level, as if he were teasing a friend over coffee, rather than poking the bear that was Shane’s relationship with Ilya Rozanov. He even doubled down, tried to goad Shane into finally, finally opening up.
Shane… didn’t take it well.
That was maybe an understatement.
Scott Hunter realized three things the day Shane Hollander dropped his gloves.
One, Shane did not mess around when it came to Rozanov. If their relationship was in danger, he would throw down in an instant, despite his reputation as a pacifist. It was heartwarming, and Scott had smiled, happy that Shane had something - someone - to fight for.
Two, Shane had not understood any of the subtext Scott had tried to push towards him. Ever. He hadn’t picked up a single hint that every time Scott brought up Rozanov, he was inviting Shane to open up and talk candidly with someone who would get it.
Three… Rozanov was really rubbing off on Shane.
“I think I remember ‘go home, you’re 45 years old,’” Scott chuckles, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. Markedly kinder than Rozanov’s ‘dinosaur,’ but still. He’s not even 35!
Kip lets out a startled laugh, his expression caught between horror and delight. “He didn’t.”
“He did,” Scott nods. “In hindsight, I don’t blame him. He hadn’t picked up on all my hinting; he probably thought I was about to hatecrime him.”
Kip shakes his head with a laugh. “Athletes, you can never just talk.”
Scott huffs, hiding his smile behind a sip from his mug. “And then,” he hums. “There was Rose Landry.”
“Oh, Shit,” Kip whispers, settling farther into the couch.
Rose Landry was… well, she came as a surprise to Scott, at least. He had been so sure he clocked Shane as gay, but the media portrayed them as two people in capital-L Love. The one time Scott could pin down Shane in this stretch of time, he had tried to mention it, with little success.
(“Did you even say the words, or did you keep hoping Shane would suddenly understand your subtext?”
It was Scott’s turn to throw a pillow at Kip.)
The thing is, hockey never lies. One can often track a player’s moods or relationship status by how they play, and both Shane and Rozanov were far from their best. Rozanov, especially, was downright irritable in this stretch of time.
Right up until the most recent All-Stars game.
Scott was not in attendance, and he couldn’t say he was truly upset. The more time he got to rest, the better. Still, having to get his updates second-hand through fucking Vaughn proved… frustrating. The man was as straight as an arrow and hadn’t been subjected to the tumultuous relationship between the league’s favorite rivals, so the most he got out of the man was “They’re weirdly civil!” Which seemed to line up with Shane and Rose mysteriously disappearing from the media cycle.
They hadn’t broken up in any public capacity, but Scott would bet his Stanley Cup and every moment associated with it that the two were no longer involved - if they ever were in the first place.
The hockey, once again, didn’t lie. The reporters had called their chemistry “Magic,” and, well. Scott could have told you that in their rookie season. The way they played against each other from the start was instinctual, a perfect balance of knowing themselves and the other, every habit and thought laid bare for the other to react to. It was obvious they loved playing hockey against each other.
Put them on the same team, and they become an unstoppable force.
“So,” Kip hums. “They’re good now, you think? Since All-Stars? I mean, this has been quite the rollercoaster; you have to tell me they get a happy ending.”
“Babe, we watched the Raiders/Metros game. You saw how he was hovering when Shane went down, right? Poor kid looked like his entire world fell out from under him.”
Kip winces in sympathy. “Shit, I forgot about that… If that wasn’t a hovering boyfriend, I don’t know what is.”
Scott nods in agreement. “And the fact Rozanov didn’t go back to Russia this year. Granted, there’s not much left there for him, but…”
“You think he’s staying with Shane?” Kip asks.
Scott shrugs as he downs the last of his hot chocolate. “He certainly hasn’t been spotted in Boston.”
Kip nods, satisfied. “So… Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have been in a secret relationship since 2011-“
“- Or before.”
“Or before, with hockey and their rivalry as, what, foreplay?” Kip continues even as Scott starts to laugh. “Shane didn’t realize you were trying to mother hen him that whole entire time, and gets hella defensive every time you even say Rozanov’s name because they can’t have the public know about them. They’re a bit hot and cold, Shane gets a beard but can’t keep himself away from Rozanov, and now they’re spending the summer together.” Kip turns to Scott, who is simply looking at him, amused. “Did I miss anything?”
Scott shakes his head softly. “Have I sated your ridiculous need for queer hockey conspiracies?” he asks, resting a hand on Kip’s thigh.
Kip rolls his lip between his teeth, his eyes raking up and down Scott’s torso. “For now,” he concedes, a hand finding its place on Scott’s chest.
Scott smiles, already leaning in, his head tilted. “Then maybe we can think of another need I can tend to.”
Kip groans as their lips meet, his arms wrapping around Scott’s neck, pushing Scott down onto his back and straddling his knees on either side of Scott’s hips.
Somewhere across the border in Canada, with a hand carding through blond curls and the comfort of a crackling fire chasing away the fear of the outside world, Shane Hollander sneezes.