Archive of Our Own

“He didn’t get it!” Eric calls out as he opens the front door at home. “Again!”

“Who didn’t get what?” Scot asks. He’s in the sitting room, lying on the couch watching TV. Eric thinks for one second this is normal 20-year-old behavior, until he walks further into the room and sees that Scot is watching a black-and-white silent film and he has some kind of green goop drying on his face.

Eric lets it go. On the spectrum of confusing Scot behaviors, this is so tame it doesn’t even register. Sam comes into the room from the kitchen side and scoffs. “He’s convinced a hockey player is closeted and keeps trying to telepathically communicate with him.”

“I’m convinced because he is,” Eric says stubbornly. “I know how to tell if a big, strong guy is gay.”

Sam narrows his eyes at Eric’s choice of descriptive words. “Well, now I don’t want you communicating with him at all.”

Eric laughs and pulls Sam close. “Oh, Sam, don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not,” Sam says. “You’re old enough to be his dad.”

“That doesn't mean the hockey guy wouldn't be into it,” Scot points out without taking his eyes off the screen, interrupting Eric’s dramatic gasp over Sam saying something so heinous and untrue. Mostly untrue. Untrue in Eric’s opinion. “There’s that whole daddy thing.”

Sam and Eric both pause. “I do not like that you know that,” Eric says.

“Scot,” Sam says suspiciously.

“If some old guy is sniffing around you, I’ll put the fear of God in him, Scot,” Eric says, holding up a fist. Sam doesn’t remind Eric he can’t fight anymore, so he must approve.

“Oh, give me a break,” Scot says, exasperated. “I’m 20. I know things. I’m not looking for a daddy. But a closeted hockey player totally could be. Especially since Eric was a closeted hockey player, too. They can bond across the generational divide.”

“I think you should become a priest so you stop dating,” Eric says while Sam laughs at the generational divide dig.

“Which hockey player?” Scot asks.

“Nope, can’t tell you,” Eric says. He mimes zipping his lips. “I’m not going to out somebody. Especially not a hockey player. On a Cup run. In the Eastern conference. Only hint you’re getting.”

“Did you tell Sam?” Scot asks.

“We have interspousal privilege,” Sam says quickly.

“Yeah,” Eric says. He vaguely knows what that means. He understands spouse, anyway. Sam’s making a lawyer joke about sharing secrets because they’re married. See, Eric can figure things out.

Scot rolls his eyes. “Okay, I don’t really care, anyway.”

“Yes, you do,” Eric says. “You wanted to imagine dating him if you think he’s cute.”

“I’ve done my time with hockey players,” Scot says. He looks down and doesn’t say anything else.

Now Eric’s mad at himself for bringing it up. Scot’s been light on details, which is for everyone’s benefit, but he and Ryan started something up in Ryan’s last year of juniors. Now that Ryan’s in the AHL waiting for a call-up, he got spooked and broke it off. Eric had tried to gently prepare Scot for that possibility all along, because he knew it was coming, but it pretty thoroughly crushed Scot.

Secretly—interspousally secretly, because he’s told Sam—Eric thinks they’re going to get back together. If they were together. It sounds like it may have been more casual than that, and if Eric thinks about what that means he’ll give himself a panic attack, but Scot and Ryan have always had a special understanding, even back when Ryan was threatening to kill Scot every ten minutes.

Maybe Eric’s an optimist. That would be a new part of his life, considering he’s never been accused of that before, but becoming a dad, coming out, and marrying Sam can do that to a man. No one else gets to experience that last one, but other guys probably understand the first two.

Later that night, in bed, Sam says long-sufferingly, “Okay, you can give me your evidence.”

Eric doesn’t have to ask what Sam means. They do this debrief after every time Eric interviews Shane Hollander, the Montreal captain. Eric’s been telling Sam he’s gay for years now. He keeps trying to give Hollander looks so he’ll confide in Eric, but it hasn’t worked so far.

Eric pulls out his phone. “Jamie’s no Nula, but she got video today.”

“Eric, you can’t measure every assistant against Nula,” Sam scolds. “That’s not fair. You happened to get lucky with your first assistant being perfect for you.”

“Why couldn’t she love sports?” Eric despairs. “Oh, Nula, what does the politics beat have that I don’t?” He looks quickly at Sam, uber nerd extraordinaire. “No, Sam, don’t answer that.”

“Just show me the video already,” Sam says, laughing.

Eric nestles close to him and plays the video. It’s Hollander taking questions in a post-game press scrum, but he pinged Eric’s gaydar so hard he was looking around wondering how everyone there didn’t see it. He can’t explain what it is, can’t point to a specific stance or word or tone Hollander uses. It’s just there. Sam hums and Eric knows he sees it, too.

Eric’s the first question. “Petersson lost a blade out there. Are you going to add a drill in practice to make sure everybody knows how to get off the ice with one skate?”

Hollander’s lips twitch up faintly, which means he really liked the question. He’s not usually one for smiles in press. “I like that idea,” he says. “We should do more drills where everything goes wrong.” He even makes eye contact with Eric for a second before dropping his eyes to the microphone.

One of the other reporters asks a question about inclusivity being a distraction. That was awkward as hell when it happened, because everyone shot little half-glances at Eric. “Stupid question,” Sam mutters, squeezing Eric.

“Yeah,” Eric says. His heart still seizes up when that sort of stuff happens. He used to be afraid people were asking questions like that to hint to him that they knew. Now he’s out, so he knows they know, but there’s always a split-second of that old familiar panic.

Hollander’s too media trained to show any distress, but he freezes for a second on the video. “Uh, yeah, um, I think we should welcome anyone who can play. Like the program says, you know, if you can play, you can play.”

“You wouldn’t be worried about someone here in the room taking looks at everybody?” the reporter asks.

Eric meant to skip through that so Sam didn’t hear it. The reporter, a guy named Wilson who writes for an online blog, looked at Eric when he asked, too, and Eric didn’t realize that would show on the video. He wouldn’t have shown Sam that if he’d known.

“Oh, come on,” Sam groans, reaching up and pausing the video.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Eric says tiredly. It’s a lot tamer than he got when he was playing, despite not being out yet.

“No, it’s not!” Sam protests. “Who was that? Let’s sue him.”

“We can’t sue everyone who says this shit,” Eric says. “You wouldn’t have time to do your actual job.”

“Maybe I’ll get out of sports law and switch to civil rights,” Sam says. “I’ll specialize in sports civil rights. There’s definitely a market.”

“Sam, you don’t like court,” Eric reminds him. This is a conversation they’ve had at least once a month since Eric came out. Eric’s the fighter on the ice, but Sam wants to be a fighter in his way, too. He won’t sit back and watch people treat Eric badly without stepping in.

“I’ll get over it,” Sam says. “I don’t like that they act like that around you. And they only do it because they know you won’t do anything about it.”

“Wha—” Eric starts, taken aback. That sounded almost accusatory.

“I didn’t mean it like that, sorry,” Sam says, squeezing Eric’s arm apologetically. “I meant you can’t, or they’ll call you difficult and push you out.”

Eric sighs and presses his face into Sam’s neck. “I just want to talk hockey.”

“I know,” Sam says, running his fingers through Eric’s hair. He sighs, too. “And all this in front of the closeted guy. That’ll help.”

“Yeah,” Eric says. “Watch.” He rolls back over to his back and hits play on the video again.

Hollander sucks in a breath and darts a look at Eric. He swallows hard. Eric didn’t have much time to get over his shock at the question and focus on Hollander’s reaction, but he sees it now and his stomach drops. Christ, the kid shouldn’t have had to see that.

“I don’t worry about that,” Hollander says, voice toneless the way hockey players always get when you’ve lost them. He looks to the side, where the team’s PR rep was, and the video ends. That put an end to the press scrum.

“I didn’t really think about Hollander when that happened,” Eric says. He puts his phone on the nightstand, trying not to remember the look on Hollander’s face. God, Eric’s used to that shit. He knows Hollander must be, too, but he wishes he didn’t have to be.

“You don’t have to think about anyone else,” Sam says. He wraps his arm around Eric’s waist and kisses the side of his neck. “That was targeted, Eric.”

“Yeah, it was targeted,” Eric agrees. “But Sam, I don’t care. I can take that. I’m out now, I’ve got you and Scot. It was targeted to me but it hit Hollander, too. How long’s that going to keep him in the closet?”

“Sometimes I hate this sport,” Sam says quietly. “I’m sorry. But I do.”

“I know,” Eric says. He kisses the top of Sam’s head. If anyone deserves to hate hockey, it’s Sam. That was always Eric’s justification for not coming out. “Sometimes, I do, too.”

He rarely admits that. He knows Sam already knew it, especially with all the Erica business, but Eric tries so hard to ignore the worst of it and just focus on hockey itself. There’s no way around it, though. The sport Eric loves with every part of himself doesn’t love him back.

It’s easier to ignore now that he’s retired, especially here at home with Sam and Scot. But there’s no denying he’s been kicked out of the hockey boys’ club since he came out. He knew he would be. It was his excuse for not coming out after he started at the station. He braced himself for it. It still hurts.

When Eric first came out, there were rumblings about not letting him in the dressing room for after-game scrums. Greg fought hard for him, and Eric will always be grateful for that. Luckily, some of his old teammates were still around the league at the time and a few of them got loud on his behalf. That was a welcome surprise, considering most of his teammates didn’t like him all that much while they were playing together, but they were decent guys who knew it wasn’t all about Eric individually.

Crowell, the slippery bastard, stayed out of it until it was obvious Eric’s lawyer—Sam, of course—would have a stronger case than the league’s lawyers if they went that route. Then he put out a bland statement that said basically nothing in either direction. Eric’s never had a direct conversation with the man. He wasn’t commissioner when Eric played, and he never reached out for any kind of private meeting with Eric when he came out.

But in the end, Eric got to keep going into the dressing rooms. He still gets dirty looks sometimes from players or coaches. It’s usually just looks. Wilson took it further than anyone else has on the professional side of hockey. The general public is a different story, but they’re easier to block out. Sam doesn’t let Eric look at any comment sections on the internet.

“This was supposed to be fun and silly,” Eric says, chagrined. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You’re not the one who made me sad,” Sam says. “But you can get fun and silly now if you want to.” He smiles at Eric. He knows Eric would always prefer to be goofy instead of serious.

“I can be very silly, Sam,” Eric says.

“I’m well aware,” Sam assures him.

“It’s not just Hollander,” Eric tells him. “In the league, it’s not just Hollander who’s in the closet. Hunter, too. From New York. For sure. I’d put money on it. And I’m getting a vibe from Rozanov, too, the Boston captain.”

“You think there are three gay NHL players?” Sam asks, amused. “You were the only one for so long and now they have three?”

“You know, the kids today,” Eric says with a shrug. “They’re all gay.”

“Are you sure you’re getting a vibe from any of them or do you wish you were getting a vibe from any of them?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean you can’t look.”

Eric rolls over Sam and presses him down into the bed. He can argue his case about all three of those guys later—this is more important right now. “The only one I want to get a vibe from is you. What would I want with some 20-something kid? No way. Too young for me. Besides, you know I’d never share a bed with anyone who could be better than me at hockey.”

Sam laughs hard. “Oh, well, good thing I have no interest in learning.”

“No, don’t say no interest,” Eric says, kissing his way down Sam’s neck. “I’m still holding out for my fantasy of playing a strip shootout with you.”

The first time he brought it up, Sam asked who he’d done that with. The answer truly is no one. Eric didn’t date before Sam; he hooked up with guys and never saw them again, and there wasn’t a lot of foreplay. The strip shootout idea is an Eric McNally original, courtesy of a fantasy he had about his billet family’s neighbor when he was 17. He’s been waiting almost three decades at this point.

“Maybe for your 50th birthday,” Sam says.

“Don’t tease me, Samuel,” Eric whines. If Sam puts the possibility in his head and doesn’t deliver, Eric may never recover.

“No teasing.” Sam reaches down and pulls Eric’s shirt over his head. “I’ll work on my shooting skills for the next four years.”

“Oh, I love you,” Eric breathes. He stops his journey down Sam’s body—a herculean task, to be sure—and looks up at him. “Not just for hockey sex fantasy related reasons.”

Sam huffs. “Okay, thank you for the clarification. I know the hockey sex fantasy is a big one for you. You’ve been waiting since you were 17. I have to make it worth the wait.”

Eric’s not worried about that. But he has no choice but to reward that kind of dedication and consideration.

Eric’s on his way out the door to a beer league game when Scot stops him. Scot does his classwork the same way he has since he was in junior high: he spreads everything out on the living room floor and makes a huge mess. Sam won’t even walk into the room while Scot’s doing his thing. The chaos physically pains him.

They’re more than happy that Scot decided to stay close for university and live at home, but this is one thing Sam wouldn’t have missed if Scot chose to move out. Eric constantly tells him he has to suck it up. As far as Eric’s concerned, they deserve 12 extra years with Scot at home. Other parents get 18 years; they should, too. Scot’s not really on board with the plan to stay until he’s 30, but at least they get him for now.

“You’re going to the New York game on Friday, right?” Scot asks oh-so-casually.

“Yeah,” Eric says, suspicious because Scot’s never asked a casual question.

“Maybe I could…ditch my afternoon class and come with you?” He hasn’t once met Eric’s eye. Eric sighs. Ryan plays in New York. He’s not anywhere near where the Admirals play, but Eric knows Scot’s asking for Ryan.

“Is that…” Eric stops. He was going to ask if that’s a good idea, but he decides against it.

Scot’s 20. Eric promised to notice him grow, and he did. He saw Scot growing and maturing all along the way, and now Scot’s an adult. It’s good for him to make his own decisions, even if they end up being bad ones.

And as far as bad decisions go, a weekend trip with Eric to go see the guy who fought off Scot’s bullies throughout junior high and the beginning of high school seems like the best they could hope for. He just also happens to be the guy who broke Scot’s heart.

“Okay,” Eric says instead. “Wait, what’s your afternoon class? Is that your psychology class?” Sam comes up behind Eric and Eric shifts his bag to block Sam’s view of Scot. Sam knows how Scot does things, but it still stresses him out. He doesn’t try to see around Eric’s bag. Over his shoulder, Eric tells Sam, “Scot wants to skip class and come to New York with me.”

“New York,” Sam says, realization on his face. “Ah.”

“Psych’s my Friday morning class,” Scot corrects. “Afternoon is that group fitness class I took for the easy credit.”

Sam snorts. PE has always been far and away Scot’s least favorite subject. He’s not unathletic by any means; his years of skating prove that. But he simply doesn’t enjoy physical activity besides skating. It’s one of his more baffling qualities, in Eric’s opinion. Eric would’ve taken a whole schedule of PE classes in school if that had been allowed.

But that’s probably why Eric ended up a professional hockey player and Scot’s getting a degree in drama.

“I still can’t believe you took that class in the first place,” Eric says.

“I registered when I was in a vulnerable place,” Scot says.

“Didn’t you sign up because a guy you kissed at a party said he was taking it?” Sam remembers.

“Like I said, I was vulnerable,” Scot says. “Can I come with you or not?”

“Yeah, of course you can,” Eric says. “You can always come with me.”

“Okay, thanks,” Scot says, rolling his eyes because he can tell Eric wants to turn this into a big moment where he affirms Scot’s place here.

Eric flipped through one of those parenting books Joan gave them all those years ago and gave up when he saw the sentence about that. Words of affirmation. At that point it was like asking Eric to go to the moon. But he’s gotten better at it. Now he’s so good at affirmation Scot gets annoyed by it.

“Maybe I’ll rearrange my meetings and come, too,” Sam says.

“Really?” Eric asks, grinning at him. It’s always a treat to get Sam and hockey at the same time.

“I have to see if I get a ping off the New York one,” Sam says.

“You will,” Eric says. “Alright, I have to go. If I’m late Brown’s going to put Howser at center and he cannot backcheck.”

“You don’t play center,” Sam says, confused.

“No, but I get to the rink early to tell him not to put Howser at center no matter how much he asks,” Eric says.

“So you refused to be the captain of this team but you backseat captain the whole time,” Sam concludes.

“Brown knew what he was getting himself into,” Eric defends himself.

Sam leans around Eric’s bag and gives him a kiss. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Eric says. It’s a lie. Sam gives him a dirty look but doesn’t argue. He runs away from the doorway before Eric moves and gives him a clear view of Scot’s mess.

Luckily, Eric gets there in time to make sure Howser can’t play center, so they win. He realizes he may possibly be a bit too intense for a beer league game. But they shouldn’t have let a retired NHL player on their team if they didn’t want him to be intense. Also, Howser is welcome to work on his backcheck if he’s serious about playing center. Eric doesn’t think that’s an unreasonable ask.

Eric’s surprised to see Joey and Carla on Friday when they’re leaving for the airport. “Hi, Mr. and Mr. LaTour!” Joey calls out. He knows their real names, but he still calls them both Mr. LaTour. They love it.

“Hey, didn’t know we had the whole crew,” Eric says. “Hank’ll be jealous.”

“Then he shouldn’t have gone to school in Vancouver,” Carla says.

“Yeah, his mom tells him that every day,” Eric says. It’s possible he rubs it in Joan’s face that his kid stayed close and hers didn’t. Not often. Just sometimes. It’s his duty as her little brother.

“We’re not actually flying with you,” Scot says. “I was thinking…maybe we could drop you off at the airport and take your car?”

“To where?” Eric asks. He’s not a car guy, in the sense that he doesn’t buy fancy cars or know how to fix them or anything, but he’s not in the habit of handing over his keys to a bunch of 20-year-olds with no questions asked.

“To Rochester,” Scot says innocently. “It takes as long to fly there as drive.”

“Ah, Rochester,” Sam says. “Interesting. Is something going on there?”

Joey and Carla laugh while Scot rolls his eyes. “Everybody just shut up.”

“Does Ryan know you’re coming?” Eric checks. He doesn’t want to have to point out that Scot might not be a welcome surprise if Ryan’s trying to keep his sexuality under wraps.

“He invited us,” Scot says.

Sam gives Eric a look behind Scot’s back. Eric shrugs. They can’t tell Scot what to do. And it would be hypocritical for them to tell him to leave Ryan behind.

Eric stops himself from asking if Ryan invited Scot dressed like that. Scot’s in a purple shirt covered in ruffles and he’s wearing heels. But Ryan’s known Scot since they were 12, and Scot’s never toned himself down. If Ryan invited him, he knew how Scot was going to dress. Eric’s not going to even hint that Scot should change himself. He learned his lesson, and he’s not going to let anyone else do it to Scot, either.

“So what are we doing after the game?” Joey asks Carla once they’re on the road. “We know what they’ll be doing.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Eric complains. “Not with dads in the car.” He’s not under any illusions here, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that his son’s going to go have sex after the game. And now he’s acknowledged it internally. Horrifying.

“Oh, sorry,” Joey says.

“Won’t Ryan be tired after the game anyway?” Carla asks. “I thought that was more of a tomorrow morning thing.”

“Nah, he’s only 20,” Eric says before he can stop himself. “He’s got young legs.”

“You’re making it worse,” Sam accuses, cringing.

“I’m sorry,” Eric says. “God, okay, someone change the subject. Carla, teach me something about women.”

“I think it’s too late for you,” she says.

“That’s fair,” Eric decides.

It’s a short flight to New York, but long enough for Eric to go over the rosters for the game while Sam does whatever he does to contracts so guys can’t get traded someplace they don’t want to go. “Oh, wait, do I have to be alone at this game now?” Sam asks while they deplane. “Won’t you be in the press box?”

“Nah, I’ll sit with you,” Eric says, throwing his free arm around Sam’s shoulders. “I love watching hockey with you. My two favorite things.”

Sam does not return the sentiment. Rude. But understandable, if Eric’s being honest. He’s not allowed to cheer in the press box, but when he’s sitting in the stands with Sam he can. And he does. Loudly.

Eric nudges Sam after the third time Hunter looks up during warmups. “See?” Eric murmurs. “Notice how he keeps looking at us?”

“Maybe that’s because you’re the best-looking guy here,” Sam says.

Eric wiggles his eyebrows. “Why, Sam, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re buttering me up for something in that hotel room later.”

“Like I need to,” Sam says.

“You’re right,” Eric agrees. “You’re all the buttering up I need.”

“Oh, thank you,” Sam says with a snort. “I think you’re right. About him.”

“Ha!” Eric says. “You’re feeling it?”

“I’m feeling it,” Sam says. “Though we obviously still don’t know him. And it’s hard to say when he’s trying to hide it and we’re just watching him play. But…yes.”

“I am so good at being gay now,” Eric says proudly.

But quietly, because they’re in public, and he doesn’t want anyone to figure out what they’re saying. If it were just about him, he’s good enough at being gay that he could be loud. But part of being good at being gay is not outing someone else. Sam taught him that.

Sam cracks up laughing. “Oh, you’re so good,” he agrees, rubbing Eric’s arm. “Everyone’s so impressed. There goes Eric McNally, so gay.”

“Well, I’ve definitely heard that one,” Eric says, thinking ruefully of being called Erica and sissy and fairy his whole career. Sam laughs again, so Eric can’t be too caught up in painful memories.

The Leafs take the game, which has now knocked Hunter and New York out of the playoffs yet again. The kid’s been in one hell of a slump. It may be beyond a slump at this point. There’s a real possibility of a trade in his future if he doesn’t start winning games.

Eric dips into the locker room for a few questions, but he doesn’t want to stay long while Sam’s waiting. He makes eye contact with Hunter across the room. Perfect. He can try his telepathy on him. Maybe he’ll get it better than Hollander.

But he sees panic flash across Hunter’s face. It’s only there for a split-second before Hunter’s face goes blank. Eric knows he saw it, and it makes his stomach twist. Hunter’s terrified Eric will get too close. Eric remembers the feeling. He leaves without asking Hunter anything.

He has to go back up to the general admittance part of the rink to find Sam. “Ready?”

Sam looks at him while they walk outside to get a cab. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Was that blog guy in there? Did he say something again?”

Eric shakes his head and presses his hand to Sam’s back. “No, Sam, it’s not about me. I’ll tell you when we get back.”

Sam searches his face for a second and nods. “Okay.”

They get back to the room and Eric sighs. “He was scared,” he tells Sam. “Hunter. He didn’t want me to talk to him.”

Sam absorbs that. “Because you’re gay,” he concludes. “And he’s afraid if people see you talking too much they’ll know he’s gay, too.”

“I know it doesn’t really make sense, Sam,” Eric says. “But I would’ve been afraid of the same thing.”

Sam pulls him down to sit on the bed. “So you…?”

“Didn’t ask him any questions,” Eric says. “I’m not going to make it worse for the guy.”

Sam smiles at him. “Yeah. You’re looking out for him.”

Eric shrugs. “Trying.” He looks over at Sam. “What convinced you I’m right?”

“The way he looked at us,” Sam says. He shakes his head. “He kept his looks short. But he couldn’t stop looking over. Because…I mean, I don’t know the guy, obviously. But if it were me, it’d be because I wanted to see two guys together. I used to look at couples like that. When I was single and I felt like I’d never find anyone.” He strokes his hand through Eric’s hair, frowning a little. “He seemed sad.”

“His parents died when he was a kid,” Eric tells him quietly. “I think family’s kind of a tough subject for him.”

He hates thinking about that. He thinks of Scot every time Hunter’s story comes up. They even have the same name, though Hunter’s got the normal number of Ts. He wonders if Hunter had to sit in a bleak office with everything he owned in trash bags, too. Remembering the way those trash bags split right when Sam got Scot inside the house always makes Eric’s chest hurt. Like the kid wasn’t having a hard enough time after his mom died.

And as far as Eric knows, Hunter didn’t go to a new home with a family. He stayed at boarding school. The dad part of Eric always takes over when he thinks of Hunter’s life, and he wants to protect him.

He can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened to their Scot if they weren’t there. He would’ve gotten eaten alive in some foster home until Billy finally came to get him, and God only knows how he would’ve fared in Brazil or bouncing around the Americas with Billy.

“Oh,” Sam says, sounding hurt. “He didn’t get adopted or anything?”

Eric shakes his head. “He got a scholarship to a hockey school and stayed there.”

“No family,” Sam murmurs. Eric can tell he’s thinking about Scot, too. It’s impossible not to. “And he’s in the closet and terrified on top of all that.”

“Yeah,” Eric says. “He probably doesn’t have a lot of real friends.”

Eric never did. He was too scared to let anyone get too close, because they might find out he was gay. He didn’t even tell Joan until after he retired, when he and Sam had been together for eight months.

“I look at him and think of you,” Sam says softly. “How scared you must’ve been. How lonely.”

“I was lonely,” Eric admits. Sam already knows that. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, anyway, and Sam knows everything about Eric.

Eric was so lonely it hurt sometimes. He’d go to team events and see the other guys with their families, their wives and kids, and he knew he’d never have that. The few times he tried to force himself to make it work with women made him lonelier. Nobody knew him, not all the way. Nobody could know him. He couldn’t let them.

Sam was a lifeline in every way, not just the loneliness and learning how to love someone for the first time. Sam was Eric’s lifeline when he got hurt and suddenly had to retire. One hit in practice thrust Eric into a brand new world, a world he couldn’t understand—a world where he wasn’t a hockey player anymore. And there was Sam, steady and funny and smart and gorgeous, right at Eric’s side.

Sam was the first person to know Eric completely. He was the first person to see past Eric’s anger and find his heart through all that hockey equipment. He was the first person to show Eric that life could be more than hockey.

Eric presses closer to Sam, feeling a wave of those old hurts. Phantom hurts, because he’s healed from them now. But he knows Hunter’s feeling that now. At least some portion of it, anyway, and even some of it is too much.

Sam sighs, petting at Eric’s hair. His touch pulls Eric out of his morose memories and back to the present, this life Eric never could’ve dreamed up. “Okay,” Sam says. “You can telepathically become friends with him.”

Eric snorts. “Alright, I’ll work on it.”

“No offense to your Leafs, but I was kind of hoping he would win tonight,” Sam says.

“Sam!” Eric says. “How could you?”

Sam shrugs unrepentantly. “Gay solidarity.”

“But what about gay solidarity with me?” Eric asks. “I’m your husband, Sam!”

“You don’t play for the Leafs anymore,” Sam reminds him with exaggerated patience.

Eric huffs. “Fine, root for the hot young guy with the tragic childhood.”

Sam’s laughing at him, but that’s okay. He scratches the back of Eric’s head and says condescendingly, “Don’t worry, I know your childhood wasn’t great, either.”

Eric can’t stop himself from laughing. His childhood definitely wasn’t great, with his dad who pushed too hard and yelled too much and always pointed out Eric’s shortcomings and had such strict rules about being a man. Sam usually jokes about Eric’s childhood a lot less than Eric does, because it makes him sad. But sometimes the opportunity is too good to pass up.

“Does that mean you’ll root for the Leafs?” Eric asks, making his voice as piteous as possible. He gives Sam his best puppy dog eyes.

“How about I promise I’ll always root for you,” Sam suggests evasively.

“And I can tell myself that extends to the Leafs?” Eric asks.

Sam kisses him. “You can tell yourself anything you want.” He’s still making fun of Eric, but Eric doesn’t mind. It’s an honor and a privilege to have Sam mocking him.

Eric’s next encounter with one of the closeted guys is Rozanov. But instead of Eric looking at him from across the room, Rozanov comes to him. Rozanov corners Eric as he’s leaving the dressing room after press.

Corners is a bit of an aggressive term; it’s not like Rozanov chases him down. But he moves toward the door at the same time Eric does, and it’s clear he’s trying to stop Eric.

“Hi,” Eric says, half-question. He doesn’t get a lot of players seeking him out. Not even in a homophobic way—he’s press. He tries to stay away from the kinds of questions he hated when he was playing, but still. Players don’t want to deal with him any more than they have to.

“You talk to Hollander,” Rozanov says.

“Uh, yeah,” Eric says. He’s baffled that Rozanov would be asking about someone from a different team, let alone Hollander. “I talk to anyone who’ll talk to me. It’s my job. I’m a journalist.”

“You…” Rozanov looks away and Eric doesn’t know if it’s a translation issue or what. He’s going to ask Rozanov if he should call for one of the other Russians who’ve been speaking English longer when Rozanov lowers his voice and says, “I see you look. At Hollander.” One eyebrow twitches up pointedly.

“Whoa,” Eric says. He holds up his hands defensively. “Whoa. No way, buddy, do not try to accuse me of—I’m married, okay, and I’m very happy with Sam. And I’m not—Hollander’s not—he’s a kid. You two are barely older than my kid, and maybe some people say it’s not the same because he’s not my biological son but I promise it’s the same, okay, he’s my son, and I’m not looking for—I don’t need—” Eric blows out a breath and tugs at his collar. Jesus Christ. Of all things to say in the dressing room. “I’m going to assume you’re not being homophobic.”

He doesn’t know if Rozanov will catch the hint in his words and tone. Like Eric told Sam and Scot, he can read when guys like to fuck guys. He had to be able to read that or he would’ve ended up either as a 33-year-old virgin until Sam came along or getting his face bashed in a few times along the way to meeting Sam.

Rozanov fucks men. Eric can tell. But if Rozanov can tell Eric can tell, he might lash out. Eric might’ve, back in his playing days, although he doesn’t know if it would’ve changed things if the person who could tell was already out.

Rozanov’s giving Eric a look like he’s being crazy. Which, okay, that’s fair. Eric doesn’t like to panic-rant in front of non-Sam people. Scot, Joan, and Nula are also acceptable, and well-versed in his awkward babbling, but Sam’s always his first choice. Sam reminds him to breathe. Rozanov didn’t do that, so now Eric’s gulping air like he was the one on the ice.

“…What?” Rozanov finally asks. “I—” He shakes his head. Yeah, he probably didn’t catch all of that. The kid’s English has improved a ton since his rookie season, but Eric wasn’t exactly enunciating. Or finishing sentences.

“Are you trying to say I’m…I’m a creep?” Eric asks, barely above a whisper. “Because I’m gay and I’m here in the dressing room?”

Rozanov’s eyes widen. “No,” he says. “Not in bad way. Not in…” He mutters something in Russian and matches Eric’s almost-whisper. “Hollander is good-looking man. Some people say. So maybe you look. Is allowed.” He looks like he ate a lemon, though. He doesn’t seem like he thinks it should be allowed.

Eric stops before he blurts out why he looks at Hollander. Just because he’s clocked Rozanov doesn’t mean he can out Hollander to him. He assumes they’ve noticed it in each other, but he can’t be sure. It’s not like they hang out together off the ice.

And maybe they don’t see it on the ice. Eric knows his gaydar is a lot better now after being out for close to a decade. He hangs around other gay guys now and makes actual friends with them instead of hooking up every once in a while on the road and keeping his head down the rest of the time.

He’s going to err on the side of caution here, because the fallout of a pro hockey player getting outed before he’s ready to come out would be astronomical. Eric knows that all too well.

“If I’m looking at Hollander, it’s strictly professional,” Eric says firmly. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

“I do not worry about Hollander,” Rozanov says. He backs up, out of Eric’s way so he can leave the dressing room. “I just was noticing.”

“Okay?” Eric says, confused. This entire interaction makes no sense, and Eric knows it’s not his fault, for once. Rozanov was the one who sought him out, not the other way around. But Rozanov goes back to his stall now, so Eric shrugs and leaves.

It’s not until he’s pulling into the driveway that it occurs to Eric that Rozanov might’ve been trying to hint back to him the way he’s been trying to hint. Maybe that was Rozanov trying to show solidarity, warning Eric in case other people think he’s focusing on Hollander too much.

He’ll have to test his theory out the next time he sees Rozanov. He doesn’t know when that will be. Eric’s not traveling for the playoffs since the Leafs are out, so he probably won’t get a chance to talk to Rozanov again until next season. At least it gives Eric time to try to figure out how to ask Rozanov if he’s signaling to Eric without outright asking.

It would be a lot easier if Eric were trying to sleep with him. He knows how to do that subtle approach. Or he did 13 years ago; he doesn’t do that anymore since he has Sam. But this, trying to tell Rozanov he knows his secret but doesn’t want to use that to his advantage, is new for him.

At any rate, Boston gets knocked out in the second round, but Eric’s still busy watching the games and breaking them down for Penalty Shot. It’s looking like Hollander and Montreal are going to bring the Cup back to Canada, and even Eric’s Toronto-loyal heart is excited.

He’s watching game four, where Hollander’s thrashing Tampa Bay almost single-handedly. Eric shakes his head. God, if only Toronto would’ve gotten him. Hollander throws a no-look stretch pass to Pike, who sends the puck toward the goal for Stedlund to tip in.

“Jesus, that was textbook,” Eric says. “Hollander’s on a tear.”

“Oh, that’s the one you think is gay, huh?” Scot asks, looking up from painting his nails to squint at Hollander on the screen. He nods. “I agree.”

“All of our gaydar in this family is synced up,” Eric says smugly.

“I don’t like when you say gaydar,” Scot says, wrinkling his nose.

“Kid, I’ve been using my gaydar longer than you’ve been alive,” Eric points out.

“I still don’t like when you say it,” Scot says with a shrug. “It sounds like you’re trying to sound young.”

“My generation invented that phrase!” Eric says defensively. After a second, he adds, “I think. We’ll have to ask Sam. But it’s either my generation or older. We were saying that in my day.”

“You’re sounding old and making my point,” Scot says under his breath.

“My dating day,” Eric clarifies. “Well, my dating around day. I still date Sam, obviously. Important to keep the romance alive, don’t forget that. Not that I dated back then, you know. I was just sleeping ar—okay, anyway.” Eric winces.

“Ew,” Scot complains. “Stop!”

“Sorry, I should not have told you that,” Eric says, though he’s pretty sure Scot already knew the basics. “Although…” He glances at Scot. “Look, don’t give me details, but aren’t you and Ryan…?”

“Eric, we are not talking about this,” Scot protests hotly.

“Okay, okay,” Eric relents, holding up his hands in surrender. “But if you need to talk. We can. I might die if I actually think about it, and you know I’ll babble so much I’ll hardly say anything, but you can—you can tell me anything, Scot. I promise.”

Scot backs off his deep scowl. “I know,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’m not afraid to tell you things. You and Sam have been really good dads.”

“Oh, come on, you ambush a man with feelings in his own living room while he’s trying to watch a hockey game?” Eric asks, outraged. He’s trying to cover for how choked up that made him. He knows he’s doing a bad job. “Now I have to cry in front of the puck?”

Scot rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing now. “You’ve always been great at the dorky part of being a dad.”

Sam comes in, eyebrows raised. “That’s not your yelling at a hockey game voice,” he says questioningly.

Rather than rehash the feelings—he’ll do that later, when he and Sam can tear up without Scot mocking them for it—Eric says, “Scot agrees with my gaydar.” He grins at Scot while he says it, because part of being a good dad is lightly torturing his son. “See, Sam, Scot thinks he’s gay, too!”

“I didn’t disagree,” Sam points out. “I just said you don’t know him. And you can’t talk to him with facial expressions and no words.”

“Yeah, no, Sam’s right about that part,” Scot says. “Your facial expressions are crazy.”

“Oh, so when I was trying to be closeted it was oh, Eric, everyone knows, you can’t hide anything, and now my facial expressions are too subtle?” Eric asks huffily.

“Well, no one said subtle,” Sam says. He gets to joke about that, Eric figures, because he’s the only person Eric can talk to with facial expressions and no words.

“I think Ro—” Eric cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to gossip about Rozanov or Hunter if Scot didn’t pick up on them himself. He knows Scot won’t tell anyone, but still. Eric feels like he has a duty to keep their secret, even from Scot.

“What?” Scot asks.

“Nothing!” Eric says, too quickly and vehemently.

Scot shakes his head and blows on his nails. “This is another example of you not being subtle.”

Eric can’t do anything about that. He does the only thing he can do: he focuses on the hockey game in front of him. At least some things in life will always make sense.

“Hey, Joan,” Eric says, cradling his phone between his ear and his shoulder while he unlocks the front door. Scot says nobody calls anymore and everyone just texts, but Eric doesn’t care. If his sister calls him, he's going to answer.

“Do you guys want to get dinner this weekend?” Joan asks. “Hank’s coming home Sunday but I’m not cleaning up for him.”

Eric snorts. “Like he’d notice if you did.”

“Luckily, I learned not to work hard or clean up for boys early,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” Eric says graciously, because he was the first messy one she stopped cleaning up after. Sam’s the only person who can get Eric to pick up after himself.

“Or we could do next weekend,” Joan says. “As long as I get a few days to hang out with Hank myself before he abandons me for that girlfriend.” Joan likes that girlfriend, the girl Hank’s been dating for a year now, but the two of them have a jokey competitive thing going on that Eric doesn’t understand.

“It’ll have to be this weekend,” Eric says. “We’re going to Vegas next week for the NHL awards ceremony and everything.”

Hollander and Montreal won the Cup, and Hollander won the Hart. Eric voted for him, and it wasn’t because of any gay solidarity. It was objective. It’s pretty much been between him and Rozanov every season since their rookie season, anyway.

“Ooh, fancy,” Joan says. “You get to see Sam in a tux, huh?”

“One of my top 10 favorite sights,” Eric says with a grin.

“One of the top 10?” Joan asks. “I’m going to tell Sam he’s not number one.”

“He is number one!” Eric cries defensively. “Just not in a tux.” Not in anything, but he’s not going to say it.

But Joan obviously gets it, because she laughs and says, “You’re gross.”

Eric’s still got Vegas on his mind when he finds Scot in the kitchen, eating a bowl of leftover pasta. His schedule’s a little wacky since his finals ended, because he’s coaching a skating camp and doing private lessons. He looks like he just woke up. Eric can tell because Scot would never in a million years let anyone outside of this house see his hair flattened like that.

“You want to get off work and come to Vegas with us for the awards thing?” Eric offers. Scot doesn’t have to worry about getting fired. He was a junior regional medalist two competition seasons in a row back when he competed, and all the kids he coaches love him. If he wants a few days off, the rink will give it to him.

“Uh, no, thanks,” Scot says.

Eric blinks. “You don’t want to come hang out in Vegas for a few days with my credit card?” he asks incredulously.

“That is very tempting,” Scot admits, because one thing that hasn’t changed since he was 12 is his love of shopping. “But…” He bites his lip. “Um, Ryan’s going to be back at his mom’s for all of June. Or longer if…” He shrugs, blushing.

“Gotcha,” Eric says, trying not to laugh out loud. Scot can try to pretend this is casual all he wants, but skipping out on shopping to hang out with Ryan tells Eric the truth.

Part of him is worried, of course. There are so many ways for this to go south even without adding the pressure of Ryan being a closeted pro player. The distance would be a big enough hurdle on its own. Adding in Ryan’s schedule, road trips, and being closeted sure as hell won’t help.

But for right now, they get the summer. So Eric can relax. If he needs to help Scot through another broken heart six months from now, he will. Right now he’ll enjoy teasing Scot and Ryan.

He wasn’t expecting to get the opportunity so soon, though. The morning he and Sam are leaving for Vegas, Eric’s making coffee and eggs while Sam re-packs his suitcase for the third time to make sure everything’s in the exact right spot. Eric hears footsteps behind him and turns and finds Ryan, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.

“Burlington,” Eric says, trying not to show his surprise. Scot’s never brought anyone to his bed at home. Or if he has, he’s been sneaky and hasn’t let them stay the night for Eric to run into in the morning.

“Hey,” Ryan says. He chews at his lip and looks away. He doesn’t look up for some light ribbing, still smarting from a third-round exit in his playoffs, and seeing him here, so obvious that he slept over with Scot, isn’t putting Eric in much of a teasing mood.

There are a lot of things Eric wants to say. He wants to ask are you going to hurt my kid again? He wants to ask do you really think you can keep this under wraps? He wants to ask why’d you take that penalty so late in the third in game five against the team with the second-best power play in the league?

He doesn’t ask any of that. Instead, he says, “You want eggs?”

He’s Scot’s dad, and he was Ryan’s coach once upon a time, so all those questions are pertinent, but right now he’ll just be a fellow hockey player letting Ryan lick his wounds after getting knocked out of the playoffs.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. They eat without talking, the only sounds the ticking of Sam’s antique clock in the corner and their scraping forks. Eric’s biting his tongue so he doesn’t start babbling. He knows that won’t make Ryan more comfortable, and it definitely won’t make himself more comfortable. Finally, after a full plate of eggs, Ryan says quietly, “I’m going to work hard this summer. And if I get called up, I’ll be in Buffalo. It’s close.”

Eric taps his fingers against the table. “It is close.”

“We can see each other.”

Eric knows Ryan isn’t talking about him. “He’s going to go to your games? Are you going to talk to him in public? Are the other guys on your team going to see you with him?” Scot’s not a guy who can play straight and fit in with the boys. That’s why Eric was so afraid of him when he first came to live with them.

Ryan looks down at his empty plate. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Eric says softly. His chest aches. He hurts for Ryan and he hurts for Scot and a part of him hurts for himself, too, his terrified past self. “I don’t have the answers. But think it over before it gets to that point.”

“I will,” Ryan says.

“Talk it over together,” Eric adds. “Don’t just give him a set of rules. It’s his life, too.”

He can’t help the note of bitterness in his voice at that. Eric did it all wrong with Sam, and it made everything worse. He caused more hurt for Sam than he should’ve. He can’t change it now, but maybe Scot and Ryan can at least do things a little differently.

Ryan nods. “Okay.” He’s not the snarky kid who used to yell slurs at Sam and Eric. And Eric doesn’t think this is solely maturity from growing up; Ryan…cares about Scot. He really cares. He’s taking this seriously.

Eric sighs. It’s like everywhere he looks these days he sees a confused, closeted hockey player. His history repeating itself in front of him, over and over. He thinks wryly of how he always felt so alone. Now he knows of four different guys in the same boat, and it’s not a fun boat to be in.

But this time can be different. Eric can’t do anything for Hunter, Hollander, or Rozanov, other than be there if any of them want to confide in him, but he can do more for Ryan. He knows Ryan. He can help.

“Alright,” Eric says. “Well, when I get back from Vegas we’ll get to work.”

Ryan looks up. “Huh?”

“I’ll help you,” Eric says. “We’ve got, what, three months before training camp? If you want to impress the coaches and get a spot, you’re going to have to listen to me.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. He ducks his head, smiling. “Thanks, McNally.”

“Yeah, remember you’re saying thank you when I’m waking you up at 5:30 in the morning to run,” Eric warns.

“5:30?” Ryan echoes, making a face.

“5:30,” Eric says firmly. “And you’re going to follow the nutrition plan I give you, too.”

Ryan grumbles and slouches in his chair, looking for all the world like the little punk who egged Sam’s car every Sunday for a month after Easter. “Fine.”

Sam comes in, practically buzzing from organizing his suitcase. God, Eric can’t believe he’s so in love with such a nerd. The man gets high off packing perfectly. Eric even packs a little nicer now, because Sam was so alarmed the first time he saw Eric tossing things into a suitcase without folding anything.

“Ryan,” Sam says, surprised. He leans down to kiss Eric good morning and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

Eric shrugs at him, telling him silently he doesn’t have answers here. All he knows is Ryan clearly slept here, which Sam picked up, too.

“Good morning,” Ryan says, voice polite. Now Sam looks weirded out. “Yeah, no, manners aren’t for me,” Ryan decides.

Sam snorts and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Why start now?” he agrees. Ryan laughs and drinks his coffee.

“I’ll make you eggs,” Eric tells Sam, getting up out of his chair.

Sam doesn’t protest or say he can eat cereal. Scot forbade them from eating cereal for breakfast eight years ago, and now it’s stranger not to have a real breakfast. Eric likes making Sam breakfast. Once he got his head out of his ass and realized he needed to focus more on Sam than his fears and hockey, he started making Sam breakfast almost every weekend.

Eric can feel Ryan watching them, which is a bit funny. Ryan’s lived down the street since he was nine. He’s seen them plenty, inside and outside of the house. Eric’s not sure what’s left to observe. And he’s not going to act differently with Ryan here. He hands Sam the newspaper and cooks him eggs like it’s any other day.

Maybe that’s what Ryan needs to see. He’s thinking about everything differently now if he’s considering trying out a real relationship with Scot. Maybe he wants to see what a happy relationship is.

Eric likes being that example. Even back when he was still in the closet, when they weren’t as happy as they are now, they were still happy. Sam’s his best friend. At least Ryan’s got that part down already with Scot.

When they’re leaving, Scot says quietly, “Sorry. I was going to get up before him and…give you a warning or something.”

“It’s okay, Scot,” Sam assures him. “It’s your house, too. You’re an adult.”

Eric looks at Scot for a second. “As long as you know what you’re doing.”

Scot shrugs, avoiding Eric’s gaze. “Well. I guess.” Neither Eric nor Sam press it. There’s really no knowing what you’re doing when it comes to this sort of thing.

“Go easy on the house while we’re gone, okay?” Eric asks. “Sam can’t come home to anything broken.”

“I’m not 12 anymore,” Scot says, rolling his eyes. “If I broke something I’d at least hide it.”

“Oh, thanks for that,” Sam laughs.

Scot gives them hugs, because he’s never had a phase where that got uncool, and Sam and Eric have one last silent conversation about whether or not it’s a good idea to leave Scot and Ryan here alone. But Scot and Ryan are 20, and Sam and Eric are going to be late if they don’t leave, so they call out their goodbyes and go.

“In our house,” Eric bursts out when they get in the car. “I told you, Sam!”

“You told me what?” Sam asks, face all wrinkled up in confusion.

“I said if we let the kid in our house, he’d deflower someone,” Eric says. That had been one of his panic-rants, way back before they’d met Scot. Eric’s fears of Scot being a liquor hound and a womanizer are pretty hilarious after taking one look at Scot.

It takes Sam a second to figure out what Eric’s saying, and then he laughs. “You said a girl,” he reminds Eric. “Thank God we never had to worry about that.”

“We have other things to worry about,” Eric says, less amused now.

He thinks of the month Scot spent all but rooted to one spot on the couch after Ryan ended things the first time, the way Eric would get home from work and hear Scot crying in the shower. He doesn’t know if he can handle that again. Eric would rather take a slapshot to the mouth than have Scot in that kind of pain again.

Sam sighs. “Well, he’ll learn. He’ll learn to wait or he’ll learn to leave.” He reaches over and rubs the back of Eric’s neck. “And maybe, if he’s lucky, waiting will be the best decision of his life.”

Eric leans into Sam’s touch. “You want to get remarried since we’ll already be in Vegas?” He looks over at Sam. “Wait, don’t they do that state-by-state? Is that legal in Vegas?” Eric barely knows his own country’s laws, let alone anyone else’s. All he knows is it’s been legal for him and Sam to get married at home since a year after they met, but Eric made Sam wait another five after that.

“Yeah, Nevada’s legal,” Sam says. “Their Supreme Court’s deliberating on it now for the whole country, actually. Their decision should be out soon.”

“Oh, so we should come back and get married in every state when they let us?” Eric asks. He’s always been a firm believer in visualization and positive talk. It was an essential part of learning hockey. He’ll apply it here for the Americans.

“How about we skip all that and go straight to a second honeymoon?” Sam suggests.

“Sam, you’re the smartest man alive.”

They can’t get down to the fun stuff right away when they get to Vegas, since they have to get to the awards show. Although seeing Sam in a tux is part of the fun stuff. It’s an excruciating amount of foreplay, but it’s better than not seeing Sam in a tux at all.

They get to pass the red-carpet type stuff the active hockey players get roped into. They didn’t do all this when Eric was playing, thank God. They went in, got their awards, and partied. The idea of Eric back in his closeted asshole days doing a red-carpet interview is hilarious. He didn’t even sign autographs half the time back then.

The award ceremony itself is long, like these things always are, and not nearly as funny as the people writing the jokes thought it would be. Or maybe it’s the delivery. Hockey players aren’t known for their charisma, generally speaking. Now and then somebody squeaks through with a personality, but there are a lot of awkward pauses and flat line readings tonight.

Finally, they get to the good part: the afterparty. This is, technically, a work event for Eric. And though Eric prefers the type of work event where he gets to be on the ice, an open bar does a lot to close the gap.

Eric leaves Sam to hit said open bar and get them drinks. Sam knows guys here, too; he’s friendly with some of the other reporters, through Eric, and he represents a few Leafs players. He knows how to work a room a lot better than Eric does, even amongst hockey players.

Eric gets caught up talking to a fellow retired player at the bar, rehashing their old glory days, and he feels bad about leaving Sam for so long. Until he gets closer and realizes Sam’s talking to Ilya Rozanov. Okay, that’s a surprise. As far as Eric knows, Sam’s never met or spoken to Rozanov until now.

“Wow, how is McNally getting you?” Eric hears Rozanov ask. He’s got a smirk on his face and he’s…he’s leaning toward Sam. Rozanov is hitting on Sam, Eric realizes disbelievingly. That’s what Eric’s seeing right in front of him. This goddamned goon is hitting on his husband.

It’s not like Eric’s never seen anybody hit on Sam. Sam is, Eric thinks he can say with no bias, the best man alive, inside and out. Of course people want to hit on him. Men and women. In their early days together, Eric would seethe in a corner and do nothing about it, because he’d never let anyone know they were together. He hated other people hitting on Sam.

Now he doesn’t mind it as much, because he can put a hand on Sam’s back and agree with whatever somebody’s saying while making it clear they’re together. It’s nice, in a way, to see other people noticing how sexy Sam is. It’s nice to see them notice but then realize Sam’s only going home with Eric.

This is an escalation from Rozanov, sexuality-wise. Flirting with one of the two guys everyone in this room knows are gay is certainly a bold choice. Maybe he’s banking on the obliviousness of hockey players to outweigh the hypervigilant homophobia.

Sam laughs awkwardly at Rozanov’s advances. He may be the only person who matches Eric in discomfort when he’s being hit on. Well, when he’s being hit on by people he’s not interested in, anyway. He’s always been plenty comfortable with Eric hitting on him. Right now he’s probably unsure how to respond, because Eric’s told him so many times how important staying closeted is for a hockey player.

“Uh…” Sam casts a glance around and lands on Eric. His eyes widen pointedly. He wants Eric to come bail him out. Eric is more than happy to do that. Sure, he likes people appreciating Sam, but he likes it best when he’s at Sam’s side.

“Can we help you, Rozanov?” he asks, handing Sam his drink and putting his now-free hand between Sam’s shoulder blades. He relishes the way Sam’s muscles relax at his touch. They’ve been together a long time, but that’s never gotten old. Sam acts a lot calmer outwardly than Eric does, but he holds a lot of tension in his shoulders and neck. There aren’t many feelings better than knowing Sam can loosen up with Eric at his side.

“I’m telling this man, he is so good-looking and you are not. How does marriage work? Is charity?” Rozanov flashes Eric a smile. There’s an edge to it, for some reason, and Eric’s baffled. He feels like he’s missing something here. Also, he’s kind of offended, because yeah, Sam’s definitely out of his league, but Eric’s pretty sure he’s a good-looking guy, too.

Eric laughs, deciding to just blast through the awkwardness. It’s been his only strategy for his whole life. “I know,” he says. “Sam’s a lawyer, you know, they have to do pro bono work for the less fortunate.”

Sam snorts and takes a drink. “That’s not actually required.”

“Oh, great, you’re just biding your time?” Eric says.

“Yeah, I’ve always heard the first 13 years are the easiest, so I’ll wait a little longer,” Sam says. He grins at Eric and Eric wants to ditch this party to take him back to the hotel.

“I’m sure men are always wanting you,” Rozanov says.

“I don’t know about that,” Sam says. He’s going red around the ears. He looked at Rozanov when he talked, because he’s polite, but his gaze keeps coming back to Eric. His face says he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act. Most people back off once Eric makes it clear he’s with Sam. Rozanov isn’t doing that.

“Women, too,” Eric says. He doesn’t want to add to Sam’s discomfort, but he thinks it’s important to be honest about Sam’s attractiveness. Sam’s blush deepens.

“Of course,” Rozanov says. “Best of both worlds, yes?”

Alright, this is getting out of hand. Eric slides his arm more possessively around Sam’s shoulders and lets his eyes go a touch frosty. “Sam doesn’t need any other worlds.”

Rozanov isn’t intimidated, of course. He’s bigger than Eric, which sucks, and they all know it’d be career suicide for Eric to get into a fight with a player, let alone one of the league’s biggest superstars.

But Rozanov holds up his hands in surrender, which is more gracious than Eric was expecting. He’s looking at someone behind Sam and Eric. “Yes, very happy, I see,” he says. This time the smirk doesn’t quite make it across his face and his expression is more of a twisted smile. “Excuse me,” he adds.

“Wow,” Sam says under his breath while Rozanov walks off. “That was weird.”

“I told you,” Eric reminds him. It’s important that Sam remembers Eric was right and Rozanov’s into men. He earns himself an eyeroll.

Eric and Sam both turn in time to see Rozanov brushing past Hollander. He looks a bit closer than he needs to be, even with how crowded the room is, and then Hollander looks at Rozanov and Rozanov looks at Hollander and—

Whoa. That was one hell of a look.

“Oh, my God,” Sam murmurs, grabbing Eric’s arm.

“Oh, my God,” Eric agrees, poking Sam’s shoulder a few times. “You saw?”

“I saw,” Sam says. “I can’t believe this.”

“I told you,” Eric crows, though he has the presence of mind to keep it quiet. “I was right! For both!” Eric gasps as things click into place. “That’s why he was hitting on you! Remember, last time Boston played in Toronto he said he saw me looking at—and he thought I wanted—so he was getting me back!”

“Oh,” Sam says, because of course Sam followed that. No matter how ridiculous Eric gets and how many sentences he starts and doesn’t finish, Sam figures out what he means. Nobody in Eric’s life has ever been able to follow his scattered thoughts the way Sam does.

Eric feels so fond he wants to kiss Sam right here, crowd be damned. He won’t, because even being out and married doesn’t stop him from getting hives at the idea of kissing Sam in a roomful of hockey players over the age of 14, and because Sam’s really not into big public displays of affection, but he’s going to kiss Sam the second they’re out of this room.

Eric snorts. “I mean, I told him I didn’t want him. I said why would I want that kid when I’ve got Sam? No reason to be jealous.”

“So he wasn’t hitting on me because he actually wanted to?” Sam asks. He makes a little face and shrugs.

Eric’s jaw drops. “Are you disappointed?”

“I’m not disappointed,” Sam says. It’s a lie. Sam rarely lies, but Eric knows what his voice sounds like when he does. “I mean, I’m not disappointed because I wanted someone else hitting on me, especially not some 24-year-old,” he clarifies. “But…” He shrugs again and huffs, cheeks going deliciously pink like they did while Rozanov and Eric were fawning over him.

“Aw, Sam,” Eric says, catching on. Sam was flattered, and Eric ruined it. “He wasn’t lying.” He still isn’t going to kiss Sam in here, but he rubs his arm. He can’t believe this is making Sam insecure. “Everybody wants to hit on you. We walk into a room and people think, who’s that hot guy with that thumb?”

Sam laughs. “No, they don’t. You don’t look like a thumb. You know they all swoon over you and those dimples.”

“I’m complimenting you right now,” Eric informs him. “We can switch in a minute.”

“Boy, if I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that,” Sam mutters.

Eric gasps, offended and delighted in equal measure. He squeezes Sam’s arm. “Hey. He has eyes, okay? Maybe he hit on you where I could see to get back at me, but he was definitely hitting on you because you’re hot.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe he’s looking for a daddy.”

“Stop,” Sam says, laughing. He pushes Eric gently. “At this point, he’d be my sugar daddy. You’ve seen the salaries on these kids.”

“You’re supposed to say you wouldn’t want him!” Eric says indignantly.

“Oh, right,” Sam says, pretending to think that over. “Well…”

Eric shakes his head and threads his arm through Sam’s. “To treat me this way on our second honeymoon.”

“Sorry, I’ll do better on the third,” Sam promises.

They mingle some more, but Eric’s about ready to leave. The shine wears off on these parties very quickly, and Eric’s been doing this a long time. He must be getting old. It sounds so much better to go back to the hotel with Sam and order room service. Though that’s never been bad.

There is one last thing he wants to do before they go, though. He finds Rozanov at the bar and comes up behind him.

“Rozanov,” Eric says.

Rozanov turns around. He rolls his eyes and sighs when he sees Eric. “McNally, I am not scared of threats. But okay, I will back off husband if you are so scared I take him.”

Eric rolls his eyes right back. Rozanov does his cocky asshole bit so well, but Eric’s a lot older. He can tell it’s a front. Possibly because he did the same thing back in his playing days. He wasn’t as good as Rozanov, at faking the persona—he mostly just was an asshole—or on the ice, painful as it is to admit.

“No, listen,” Eric says. He leans a hair closer and lowers his voice. “You go hit on him again, I’ll buy you a drink.” He doesn’t have to buy any drinks, since it’s an open bar, but the sentiment holds. He’ll send Rozanov a bottle of something expensive.

Rozanov’s eyes go wide and he bursts out a shocked laugh. “You are asking for threesome?”

“No, Jesus,” Eric hisses. Good Lord, he didn’t even consider that he’d come off like that. “Just…” He shrugs uncomfortably. “Look, you are—I guess—an okay looking guy.” He holds up his hands before Rozanov can get any ideas. “Not my type, I’m not trying anything here, but fine, and you’re young, you’re in your prime, you won the Cup last season, it was—Sam was flattered, okay? It made him feel good.”

Rozanov blinks a few times. His incredulous look softens a little. “You want me to hit on husband so he feels good?”

“Not like—I can make my husband feel good, okay?” God, that came out sounding weird. Rozanov laughs and Eric’s blushing so hard he’s going to start a fire. “Shut up, just—”

“Okay, I understand,” Rozanov says. There’s a hint of sweetness in his smile now. It disappears into a smirk. “I go romance husband for you now.” He shoots Eric a wink over his shoulder.

Eric shakes his head. He hangs back at the bar and keeps his eyes on Sam while Rozanov makes his way over. This isn’t some kind of cuckolding fantasy or whatever the hell. He just wants Sam to get that confidence boost back. It’ll be too obvious, sending Rozanov back, but it’s not like Eric can ask anyone else.

He watches Rozanov sidle up to Sam and winces. He doesn’t want to see Rozanov touch Sam. He isn’t, though. Rozanov’s standing close, but he’s not actually touching. That’s good. Sam’s not a huge fan of random people touching him.

“Hi, um, McNally.”

Eric blinks, tearing his eyes away from Sam’s face, and looks at Hollander. “Hollander,” he says. “Hi. Congrats on the Hart.”

“Thanks,” Hollander says. “Oh, I guess really thanks, since you voted for me.” He shrugs, a little awkward.

Eric snorts. “Yeah, well, 90 points in the regular season alone.” It was almost a unanimous vote.

“It wasn’t my best season,” Hollander says with a frown.

Eric laughs. Only Hollander would come away from winning the Cup and the Hart and find shortcomings. “Sure.”

“So you, uh, were talking to Rozanov,” Hollander says. Eric has to bite down another laugh. These two are not as subtle as they think. And good Lord, they’re jealous. Hollander must not have seen Sam, or he’d know Eric’s not looking for anyone else.

“Yeah, that’s my job,” Eric says neutrally.

“He’s talking to—isn’t that your—” Hollander swallows.

Eric raises his eyebrows. “My husband. Sam.”

“Husband,” Hollander breathes. He drops his eyes to his still-full glass. He swallows hard again and nods. “Okay.” He looks so uncomfortable, and Eric thinks he knows exactly what’s going through the kid’s head.

Eric’s throat gets tight. He remembers being Hollander’s age, still playing, and feeling like sharing his life with anyone was impossible. Eric never would’ve thought of the word husband and imagined he could have that. Of course, when he was Hollander’s age and still playing he couldn’t have had a husband, strictly speaking, since it wasn’t legal, but Eric didn’t think any relationship was possible, and he knows the legality of it doesn’t make it seem any more achievable to Hollander. At least Eric didn’t have anyone to pine over at the time. That would’ve made it even worse.

He told Sam he used to be lonely, and he was. But he was as angry as he was lonely. Angry he couldn’t be normal, as he thought of it then, and be another hockey player with a wife and a few kids he could put on the youth team. He was angry he couldn’t just focus on hockey to block out all the loneliness and anger. He did it his whole life, but as the years went on, forgetting all the outside distractions got harder and harder.

“Hey,” Eric says, the thought of distractions making him remember that press scrum debacle. “Thanks for, uh, speaking up. With that stupid reporter.”

It feels ridiculous to thank Hollander for that, pretty much the bare minimum possible, but there are a lot of players who wouldn’t have said anything. Eric wouldn’t have before he was out. He would’ve taken the safe route and kept his mouth shut so he didn’t draw anyone’s attention.

Hollander stares straight ahead while he nods, shifting his weight to his other foot. “Oh. Yeah.”

“People are getting better these days,” Eric adds. “If you saw, a lot of people were mad he said that. So it’s getting better. There are people on—” He stops before he can say our side. “Obviously some people still don’t like it. But that’s changing. You know, more people are starting to, uh, support…it.”

He doesn’t say being gay, because that’s a lot to throw in Hollander’s face out here in public. But he hopes this makes Hollander feel better. Eric doesn’t know the kid, but he knows he has to be worried about his secret getting out. There’s no way a hockey player wouldn’t be worried about that, especially one at Hollander’s level. He already gets trotted out as representation when the league wants to pat themselves on the back for diversity. He’s got added pressure Eric didn’t.

“Mm,” Hollander says, nodding again. Eric glances at him, hoping by some chance Hollander will meet his eye and get what Eric’s trying to hint, but Hollander doesn’t look at him.

Eric sighs internally. He’s not going to get more blatant. Not here, and not with some guy he doesn’t know. He holds out his hand for Hollander to shake, which he does after fumbling with his glass, and says, “Call me up if you ever need anything.” Hopefully that’ll stick in Hollander’s brain for however long it needs to.

“Oh,” Hollander says. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” Eric counters. “You brought the Cup back to Canada. Not the right team, of course, but hey, it’s closer.”

Hollander huffs a quiet chuckle. “My mom wouldn’t like you saying it’s not the right team.”

“Oh, then don’t tell her I said it,” Eric says, holding up a hand. “I’ve talked to your mom. She could rip me to shreds better than you or any of your teammates could.”

Finally, a real laugh out of Hollander. “Yeah, she could,” he agrees.

“Tell her to give me a call if she ever wants to get into broadcasting,” Eric says. “There are so many guys on those panels she could replace.”

He’s earned himself an actual smile now. “That would be cool.”

It’s far and away the most successful interaction Eric’s ever had with Hollander. Hopefully that’ll help the kid start putting the pieces together and realize Eric knows he’s gay. It might be a lot to ask out of a guy whose brain seems to be at least 90% hockey, though.

Hollander gets pulled away into a conversation with his GM, and Eric’s trying to fight the crowd to get back to Sam. That’s definitely been enough flirting from Rozanov. Eric’s not worried or anything, but all he wanted was Rozanov to boost Sam’s confidence. They don’t need to make a meal out of it. That’s Eric’s job.

Before Eric can get back to them, Vaughn from New York spots him. “Hey, McNally!” he calls. He’s always very enthusiastic to talk to Eric, trying a little too hard to prove he’s okay with Eric. But considering there are players who won’t talk to Eric at all, he’s grateful for Vaughn and his overeagerness. “You going to do shots with us?”

“Oh, no way,” Eric laughs. “Not this kind of shots. I’m heading out. Leave the partying to you young guns.”

Vaughn’s with Hunter. Hunter doesn’t seek Eric out like Vaughn does, but he doesn’t avoid him the way some guys do. He’s always polite when Eric has questions but he’s never too familiar. Eric knows why. He doesn’t hold it against Hunter. If there had been an out reporter when Eric was playing, Eric would’ve been avoiding him so people wouldn’t associate him with anyone gay. Hell, he was afraid of Scot for that reason when they first met, and Eric was retired and Scot was 12.

“Ah, one of these days you should come to family skate and really hang out with us,” Vaughn says.

“Sorry, you’re not catching me cozying up to New York,” Eric says. “I’m an objective journalist, but my ice loyalty lies with the Leafs.”

Vaughn and Hunter laugh at him for that. “We’ll see if you change your mind after we win the Cup,” Hunter says.

“Can I quote you on that?” Eric jokes.

“Hell yeah, you can!” Vaughn says. “Get ready. We’re coming for it.”

Eric laughs. Hunter and Vaughn have obviously both had a few drinks. “Alright, guys, well, I’m off to get my husband and get out of your hair.”

“I think it’s so cool you bring him to this stuff,” Vaughn says, way too earnest now. “That takes balls, man.”

“Oh,” Eric says awkwardly. Vaughn’s praising him, but he obviously doesn’t realize he’s still highlighting that Eric’s different, that he has a reason to not bring Sam to these kinds of things. “Well. Uh. Thanks. It, uh.” Eric clears his throat and doesn’t let himself look at Hunter. “It took a long time for me to get here. Doesn’t happen overnight. I was—you know, I didn’t—I mean—I hid Sam for a long time, and I…now I don’t. It’s not—I’m just trying to be like everybody else with the guy I love. Well, not like everybody else, because I’m not trying to be straight. Anymore. Not that I—” Eric cuts himself off with a quiet groan. God, why couldn’t Sam be at his side now? He would’ve stopped Eric three halting, terrible sentences ago.

Vaughn’s nodding seriously, like Eric’s making sense and sharing wisdom. From the corner of his eye, Eric can see Hunter’s face drop. Great, Eric probably scared the guy off even more. Maybe he’s got a little secret thing like Hollander and Rozanov, and Eric’s rubbing it in his face that he and Sam get to be open.

“Well, you’re definitely tough, dude,” Vaughn says. “Telling everybody must be so hard.”

Eric swallows hard. “Yeah, it, uh, it gets easier, but…takes time,” he says. If he keeps talking, he’s going to babble some more, and he doesn’t want to make it worse for Hunter. “Okay, well, enjoy your summer, boys,” he pivots. “If you’re up my way, let me know. We’ll skate around.”

“For sure,” Vaughn says.

“See you next season,” Hunter says.

Eric tugs at his collar while he walks back to Sam. He’s got to get out of here and take this tie off. Wearing a tie is hard enough anyway, but now he keeps getting hit with emotions. He can’t handle emotions and a tie at the same time.

Rozanov’s walking away from Sam when Eric finally gets close. He smiles at Eric, an actual smile and not a smirk. “Ta-da,” he says, doing jazz hands. “Flirting is done.”

Eric snorts. “Thanks.”

Rozanov nods. “He is good man,” he says without looking at Eric.

“Yeah, he is,” Eric agrees, smile taking over his face. That always happens when someone compliments Sam.

“You are…” Rozanov keeps his eyes trained forward, not looking at Eric. “You are happy. With people knowing.” He cuts his eyes sideways toward Eric and then away.

Eric’s heart leaps. He knows that’s as close to an admission as he’s likely to get from an active player. “I’ve never been happier in my life,” Eric says softly. He watches Sam nod and smile at someone and smiles back reflexively. “You know that feeling when the puck hits the net? Or winning the Cup?”

“Yes, I know well,” Rozanov says, almost taunting.

“I won a Cup my rookie season back in Edmonton, thank you very much,” Eric reminds him.

“You scored goal in playoffs to win Cup?” Rozanov asks. This time he’s definitely taunting.

Eric rolls his eyes, because no, he did not, and Rozanov obviously knows it. He took a hooking penalty in overtime in game one of the final series and got benched until game three, where he promptly picked a fight with a guy who’d been playing nine years and had at least 30 pounds on him.

He wiped the ice with Eric. Eric’s ears didn’t stop ringing for two weeks and he was out the rest of the series. He’s got the ring and his name etched on the Cup forever, but he’s always regretted how that series went. And he never won another to make up for it.

“That wasn’t my point,” Eric says. “The point is, you think that’s the happiest you could ever be, right? Like those are the best feelings in the world?” Rozanov shrugs and Eric shakes his head. “Not even close. Nothing compares to walking down the street holding his hand and our kid walking with us. And I know, it sounds—” Eric huffs. He doesn’t know if it’s possible to explain this to someone in the thick of his hockey career. Eric never would’ve believed it back then. “It sounds so gay. You think it makes me sound like a sissy. And I don’t even care. I always thought I had to keep it secret because I could never live without hockey, but I know I can. I could give up hockey if I had to, as long as I have him.”

Rozanov swallows and looks down into his drink. “I do not think you sound like sissy.”

Christ, Eric’s stomach hurts. Rozanov sounds fucking wistful. Eric hears that longing in his voice, and he thinks of Hunter looking down while Eric talked about finding the bravery to be with Sam, and he thinks of Hollander whispering husband, and he thinks of Ryan and Scot. He wants to go grab Sam and get the hell out of here.

He doesn’t want to be reminded of all this, the heartache and yearning and fear. He doesn’t want to see that in the 13 years since he retired and the eight years since he came out, nothing’s changed. He thought it was bad enough when he lived it, but knowing all these younger guys are going through it and there’s nothing he can do feels worse.

Eric wishes he could just walk away. Tell Rozanov you’ll be fine and take off. He probably would’ve back when he was younger. Before Sam. Before Scot. But he can’t. He looks at Rozanov and sees himself, sees Scot and Ryan. He sees a scared, hurt kid. He’s an adult, fine, but a young one.

And Sam was right—Eric’s old enough to be his dad, so Rozanov does seem like a kid. Turns out being a dad to one kid makes it hard to turn it off for any kids. Eric already didn’t get through to Hollander or Hunter tonight. Rozanov seems at least somewhat receptive.

Eric doesn’t look at him, but he says softly, “I know you’re in the hard part.” Rozanov goes rigid, but he doesn’t interrupt or move away. “And I know you have more to worry about than I did.” Eric’s not a politics whiz by any stretch of the imagination, but he knows Russia wouldn’t take kindly to their superstar hockey player coming out. At least Eric didn’t have to worry about the whole government coming after him. “I don’t have answers or anything. I’m not going to say you have to do it for…” He almost can’t make himself say it, but he looks at Sam, smiling, and he gets the word out. “For love. It’s, uh, it was worth it for me. But I was already retired, and I don’t know if you have someone who…” Eric shrugs. There’s not a polite or non-cheesy way to say who’s as good as Sam. In Eric’s mind, it’s not possible. “Anyway. I don’t really have anything to say here. Just, you know. I get it.”

“Okay,” Rozanov says. It’s not a lot, but he’s not pretending he doesn’t understand what Eric means and he’s not getting mad, so it’s probably the best Eric could hope for.

“Anyway,” Eric repeats. “Thanks again.” He nods toward Sam. “I’ll send you something. Have a good off-season.”

“Goodbye, McNally,” Rozanov says, eyes on the ground.

“Bye,” Eric says.

He doesn’t know if that did any good or made things worse. He hopes it didn’t make anything worse. He’s tired now. He gets through the crowd to Sam and holds onto his elbow. Sam turns to look at him with a smile.

“Hello there,” Eric says, kind of jokingly like they don’t know each other.

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Hi?”

“I thought I’d try my chances at taking home the hottest guy here,” Eric says.

Sam laughs. “Yeah? You’re doing your own flirting now instead of enlisting younger guys to do it for you?”

“What do you mean?” Eric asks innocently.

“I know you asked Rozanov to come back and flirt with me again,” Sam says.

“What?” Eric repeats, feigning shock. “I don’t know what you—of course not. Sam, that’s crazy. Why would I ask another man to flirt with you?”

“Because you thought it would give me an ego boost or something,” Sam says. He squeezes the back of Eric’s neck. “Thank you,” he says, smiling at Eric. “But you’re all the ego boost I need.”

“Good,” Eric says. “You ready to go?”

“Absolutely,” Sam says.

Eric wants to hold his hand but doesn’t. He should, especially if he’s trying to be an example to Hollander, Hunter, and Rozanov, but he can’t do it. He guides Sam out with a hand on his back, though. It’s not as good as Sam deserves but it’s better than Eric used to give him.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice or mind. They don’t hold hands a lot, anyway. It’s just something Eric keeps track of, all the moments he could’ve gone bigger, more affectionate, and chickened out. It feels especially bad tonight. He did the hard part already. He came out. He gets to be married to Sam and bring Sam to parties like this and everyone knows Sam’s his husband. He shouldn’t be holding back when being open is a privilege not everyone gets, a privilege he never thought they’d get.

It’s moot now. They’re out of the hotel ballroom. Eric stops Sam and kisses him, because he told himself he would as soon as they got out of the room. They get back to their room and Sam puts his hands on Eric’s shoulders once he’s hung up both their jackets.

“You seem a little sad,” Sam says. “What’s wrong? You were right.”

“Yeah,” Eric sighs. “But I remembered what I’m right about is some young guys in the closet while they’re playing.”

“Right,” Sam says, sighing too.

“And for a second I thought, oh, well, it must be better if they have each other. Not so lonely, like I was. Especially with that look, so we know Hollander and Rozanov are…whatever.” Eric makes an aimless gesture with his hand. Sam will get what he means. “But that’s so stupid. Sam, I know it isn’t better.” He gestures at Sam. “It hurts worse to hide the person you love most in the world.”

Sam sighs again. He unties Eric’s bow tie and sets it on the bed before he sets to work unbuttoning Eric’s shirt. “You don’t have to apologize for that every time it comes up.”

“I didn’t apologize,” Eric points out, though he was heading in that direction and Sam knows it.

“Eric,” Sam murmurs. “I don’t hold it against you.”

“I feel like maybe you should,” Eric says, unable to meet Sam’s eyes.

“I know you do,” Sam says. It’s far from the first time they’ve talked about it. He pushes Eric’s shirt off his shoulders and Eric obediently holds out his arms so it’ll drop. Sam catches it before it can fall on the ground, because he won’t leave clothes on the floor even in a hotel. He folds it and puts it on the bed next to Eric’s tie and wraps his arms around Eric. “That’s in the past. And I know you’re thinking about it right now because of those guys. We can be sad for them, but you don’t need to be sad about us. We’re happy now.”

“We’re so happy now,” Eric interjects around the lump in his throat.

Sam kisses him. “So happy,” he agrees. “We don’t know how any of those guys are going to handle things. We don’t know if Hollander and Rozanov love each other. It could be casual sex and nothing else.”

“Could be,” Eric says, unconvinced. He knows casual sex and he knows love, and that look Hollander and Rozanov shared didn’t strike him as the former.

“Maybe they’ll come out. Maybe they won’t. But you’re there. You’re showing them what they can have. I know it’s easier said than done. But at least they get to see that you did it. Okay? And if they decide they want to talk to someone, they’ll know they can reach out to you.”

“But Sam, I…” Eric swallows hard. “I didn’t do anything. To help or—or to change things. You know, with the league.”

“You came out,” Sam says, incredulous now. “Eric, that does change things.”

“I didn’t do it while I was playing,” Eric points out. “That would’ve done more. And I didn’t…I don’t know, I mean, Sam, why didn’t I start that You Can Play thing? I should’ve done something like that. I came out for me and for us and I didn’t think about—about all the kids who needed more help.”

Sam shakes his head and sighs. He pulls Eric’s belt through the loops and pushes his pants off his hips. “No matter what I say, you’re going to find something to beat yourself up about.”

Eric shrugs. He has plenty to beat himself up over. He’s made a lot of mistakes in his life. Sometimes he just needs to sit in those regrets and his guilt so he remembers not to take Sam for granted. He didn’t deserve Sam staying, not the way Eric acted those first five years together. He feels like he got away with something, and he can’t feel bad about having Sam with him. He can only be happy and grateful he gets Sam. So he has to feel bad about other things to balance it out.

“It’s been eight years since I came out and nothing’s changed, Sam,” Eric says dejectedly. “In the league,” he amends, squeezing Sam. Obviously they had changes at home. All for the better.

“A lot has changed,” Sam counters gently. “Can you imagine there being any kind of acknowledgment of gay rights while you were playing?”

Eric huffs. “No,” he admits. The only acknowledgment of gay existence period while Eric was playing was when guys threw slurs at each other.

“And we did fight,” Sam reminds him. “You think it isn’t a big deal that we fought to keep you in the locker room when they were trying to push you out?”

“I guess,” Eric says. He hated every second of it. He hated the scrutiny and the commentary on his life and the way Sam stayed up late every night with his laptop and a notepad, muttering to himself about case law and the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and all the other stuff Eric barely understands.

“You bring me to hockey stuff now,” Sam says. “You walk into pro hockey events and introduce me as your husband. Eric, that’s a big deal.”

“Okay, that’s true,” Eric says. He won’t downplay that.

It’s a big deal for them, personally, after the way Eric handled their early relationship. He didn’t even want Sam to show up to Scot’s hockey game without an entourage to shield him. And he knows what Sam means. It’s a big deal in the wider world, in the league. Vaughn may have gone about it a little clumsily, but he told Eric as much tonight.

“This type of change takes a long time,” Sam says, rubbing Eric’s back. “Longer than eight years. But you were the first step. Like an avalanche. One rock has to go first, right?”

“I don’t know,” Eric says. “I don’t know how avalanches work. Wouldn’t it be snow instead of rocks?”

“I don’t know either,” Sam says. “Whatever. I’m a lawyer, not a…geologist?” They’re both laughing now. Eric’s chest feels settled, not that fluttery burning feeling that means he’s screwed something up again. “If you think you need to do more, you can start now, you know,” Sam adds. “I’ll be right there with you.”

“I know you will,” Eric says softly. He’s never had to worry about that.

Sam kisses him. “So instead of feeling bad about what happened in the past, let’s be happy about right now. And the future.”

“Like my 50th birthday when you give me a strip shootout?” Eric asks, lips close to Sam’s ear.

Sam smirks and starts loosening his own tie. Eric takes over. He’s down to his underwear and socks and Sam’s still fully clothed. He should’ve remedied that faster. “What if I beat you in the shootout?” Sam teases. “Are you going to kick me out of bed?”

“Sam, if you beat me in a shootout, we are never leaving our bed again,” Eric says. He’s already got goosebumps just thinking about Sam scoring goals.

“Mm, I better work hard, huh?” Sam murmurs while Eric undresses him.

“Speaking of hard,” Eric says. Sam laughs again, that special laugh only Eric gets to hear. Eric holds Sam’s face in his hands and kisses him long and slow and deep, like Sam’s the only air he needs. “I love you, Sam,” he says, lips still brushing because he didn’t back up for real.

“I love you, too,” Sam says. He pushes his hand through Eric’s hair and kisses him again. “We’re happy, Eric.”

“We’re happy,” Eric echoes. It’s the truth. Even when things go wrong, even when bad things happen, they’re happy. They have each other and they have Scot. They have a family they built together.

Eric still wishes he’d done more to change things for these guys coming up behind him. But maybe Sam’s right and he had to be the first little pebble. Maybe one of these guys will be the bigger rock to kick off the real change.

That’s a tall order; maybe they’ll all have to work together, along with more guys further down the line. Eric will be there. He doesn’t know how much help he can give or what he can do since he’s retired, but he’ll be ready. He’ll cheer them on and fight any battles for them he can. He’ll look into doing more. He’ll speak up more. The next time Wilson or any other idiot makes some stupid comment, Eric won’t just ignore it, hoping no one sees his shaking hands.

But like Sam said, he doesn’t have to worry about any of that right now. Right now, he’s got Sam waiting for him, smiling at him, loving him. Sam is so much more than Eric ever dreamed of or deserves, but he gets him every day. So Eric puts the fears and worries and pain out of his mind, and he focuses on what he’s got right here in front of him.