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Scott remembers when he liked the MLH Award Night. For the first few years it had been fun. Winning an award, seeing his friends across the league, and celebrating with free booze was a great way to end the season.
In the last few years though, the awards had gotten fewer and his friends all started bringing dates and leaving early. Recently he’s found himself half dreading this event, thinking of it like an obligation more than anything else.
Now at 28, the rooms have blurred together and he never quite escapes the feeling of being alone in the crowd. It’s all the same swirl around him, same lighting, same music, same conversations on loop. And worse, he’s still in the same place, talking to the rookies, except now they call him Mr. Hunter.
He tries not to let that get under his skin. Tries instead, to be generous and remember what it felt like when the older guys started making space for him, back when he was the one hovering at the edges of conversations, waiting to be let in. He takes another drink and then looks back at where Shane Hollander, the newest rising star, is standing anxious and expectant at his side.
“Uh, what would you say,” He says with an easy smile. “If me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do some shots with the three rooks? Would you be into that?” The rookie's face lights up and Scott gives himself a mental pat on the back.
“Fuck yes, I would.” It’s endearing how enthusiastic he is and Scott can’t help but smile. He’s liked this kid since his draft but he has to admit he’s been following his career a little closer since All Stars Weekend. It’s none of his goddamn business really but it’s also impossible not to add up what he saw.
Between the muttered exchange from him and Rozanov on ice, not to mention the unmistakable realization halfway through the night that he should probably grab his earplugs if he wanted any sleep at all, he couldn’t help but draw his own conclusions. He didn’t pry, didn’t follow up, but it had loosened something in his chest. Proof, maybe, that he’s not the only one moving through the league like this.
“OK.” He says happily, taking another sip of his drink, “Then where's your boy Rozanov?” He asks scanning the room for the pain in the ass Russian. He isn’t paying attention enough to notice the kid goes stock-still.
“My what?” Hollander says next to him, sharp and fast.
“Rozanov?” he says, eyes still looking around, “You know, you two are always together at these things. Where’d he end up?”
“I don’t– what do you—” Hollander’s voice has gone panicky and Scott finally turns back to take him in.
The Rookie is sheet white and tight in his shoulders, his eyes have a slightly wild look about them and he’s shaking. It takes him a beat but then Scott puts together what he said with how the other player heard it.
“Hey,” Scott says, the casual tone dropping away. “Hey, kid. Relax. It’s fine. I’m not—”
Hollander shakes his head, backing into the bar like he needs something solid behind him. “You can’t—please don’t—”
“I’m not saying anything,” Scott jumps in quickly, stepping closer but keeping his movements measured. “I’m not—hey, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
Shane’s breathing is off. Too shallow, like he can’t get enough air in.
“I can’t—” Hollander chokes out. “I can’t—if anyone—if they find out—”
Yeah. Not a conversation for here.
Scott reaches out, taking him lightly by the elbow. He’s careful to keep his touch confident and firm without tipping into force.
“Okay,” he says, low and steady. “I fucked up. Let’s get some air. Come on.”
Hollander doesn’t argue, past the point of doing anything but resisting the panic attack.
He lets Scott steer him toward the back of the room, though his steps are uneven, like he’s not fully aware of where his feet are landing. In the press of people, no one notices anything odd and the noise of the party swells around them and then drops away as Scott pushes through a side exit he spotted earlier.
Scott finds them in what looks like an emergency stairwell. It’s quieter than the party but the kid is still gasping, trapped somewhere inside himself.
“Up,” Scott mutters, looking toward the roof. “We’re going up. Let's get you some privacy.”
They take the stairs carefully, Hollander leaning on him more with each step. By the time they push through the rooftop door, Shane is fully pressed against his side, breath hitching, his body heavy and wracked with tremors as the night air hits them.
Scott barely registers the temperature change. His attention is fixed on the way Hollander’s breath keeps catching, uneven and wrong.
“Okay,” Scott says quietly, guiding him forward onto the open stretch of the roof. “You’re good. Everything is ok. Just—”
“Hollander?” A voice interrupts Scott's commentary and he looks up only to suppress a curse.
Rozanov is standing near the edge of the roof, a forgotten cigarette burning low between his fingers. His usual posture, loose and cocky edged with something sharp, is gone; replaced by an alertness focused entirely on the Rookie next to Scott.
“What happened?” Rozanov asks, already moving toward them, cigarette flicked away and forgotten.
Scott adjusts his grip slightly, steadying Shane as he doubles over under a new wave of fear.
“Panic attack,” he says. “I think. We were talking and there was a misunderstanding.” He knows it’s insufficient and Rozanov’s face looks thunderous. He runs an anxious hand through his hair, bracing himself for the other man’s famously sharp tongue.
Instead of picking the fight Scott can see building, though, Rozanov switches his attention fully to Hollander.
“Okay,” he says, eyes scanning in the Canadian. “Okay. Understood.” Scott notices that there is a tone in his voice when he focuses on Hollander that borders on gentleness.
He steps in close, not crowding, but near enough that Hollander doesn’t have to look far to find him.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says, sharp enough to cut through the noise in his head. “Look at me.” Hollander doesn’t respond. His gaze is unfixed, darting somewhere past Rozanov’s shoulder.
“Come on Hollander. Eyes.” Louder this time. Firmer. “Look at me.” It takes a second but finally Hollander’s eyes catch on his.
“There,” the Russian says. “Good. Stay looking here.”
Scott shifts slightly to give them space, but doesn’t let go completely. Hollander is still leaning into him, weight uneven, and Scott’s concerned that he’ll fall over if he steps away too fast.
“I can’t—” Hollander gasps. “I can’t—”
“You can,” Rozanov cuts in, not unkind, just certain. “You are breathing. You are just doing it wrong.”
Scott almost huffs at that. It’s so very Rozanov and yet has a sweetness that feels foreign.
“Slow it down,” Scott adds, matching Ilya’s tone, keeping it steady. “You’re okay. Nothing’s happening. You’re fine.”
Hollander’s gaze flickers between them, not sure of quite where to look. Overwhelmed, he shakes his head, a small, frantic motion. “No, I—if anyone—”
“No one is here,” Rozanov says sharply, overriding the spiral before it can build. “No one cares. It’s just us.”
It seems to partially land, at least enough to interrupt the momentum of a new wave of panic. Rozanov lifts his hand, not touching the other Rookie yet, just holding it in his line of sight.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In.”
He demonstrates, slow and deliberate until Hollander tries to drag in a breath to match. It’s too sharp, but closer.
“Out,” Rozanov murmurs.
Hollander exhales in a rush.
“Too fast,” Rozanov corrects immediately. “Slower. Again.” There’s an edge to it. Command, more than comfort. But Hollander doesn’t flinch from it. If anything, it seems to steady and pull him in.
They do it again, breathing together, slowly getting in sync. For a beat, it’s not just Hollander following Rozanov’s lead but all three of them breathing in the desert air together. Scott can feel the tremors under his hand, the way Hollander’s body is still caught in that feedback loop of panic but shifting, incrementally. Each breath landing a fraction more evenly than the last. He feels his own tension flowing away as well.
“Good,” Scott says, low. “That’s better.”
Rozanov glances at him, quick and assessing, but he doesn’t argue. It surprises Scott slightly, he would have expected by now for Rozanov to get in his face, push him out of whatever moment was happening here. Instead he just returns his attention to where Hollander is holding himself tight, his fingers curling against Scott’s sleeve, gripping tight without seeming to notice.
“I can’t—” he says again, weaker this time. “I fucked up—”
“Nyet,” Rozanov snaps. His eyes flick back to Scott, suspicious. “And if you did, I fix.”
Scott opens his mouth to defend himself then closes it again. Instead he looks back to Hollander.
Hollander sags, just a little, his weight shifting but before Scott can adjust, Rozanov steps closer, closing the gap without hesitation. His shoulder presses into Shane’s other side, steady, solid.
“Hold on to me,” Rozanov demands. Automatically, Hollander leans into him as if his body recognizes the support being offered before his brain catches up.
Scott eases his hold a fraction, not pulling away entirely, but letting Hollander redistribute his weight. For a long moment, the three of them stand together, precariously balanced, Hollander carefully braced between them.
Shane’s head dips forward, then tilts slightly toward Ilya, just enough that it brushes his shoulder. Ilya goes tense but doesn’t pull away.
“Better?” Rozanov asks after a while.
Hollander gives a small nod, “Yeah,” he manages, his voice rough. “I think—yeah.”
Scott smiles carefully, “Good, I’m glad.”
The Rookie’s breathing is slower now, but not quite normal, and Scott isn’t sure he’s fully out of the woods. His hands still shake faintly where they hang at his sides.
When Hollander looks up at Scott he can see the panic is still there, hovering under the surface.
“You can’t tell anyone.” The words come out low and urgent. “You can’t,” he says again. “Please. I can’t—if anyone finds out—my parents, the team, I—”
“Hey,” Scott says quickly. “Easy. I’m not here to out you,”
Beside him, Rozanov shifts, his posture tightening, as he starts to put together the cause of Hollander’s distress. Scott can see the distrust in his face but also the flash of fear. God, he thinks, they’re just kids really.
Scott lifts his hands slightly, non-threatening. “I mean it,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”
There’s a long pause and then Shane whispers, “How did you know?”
It takes all of Scott’s willpower not to laugh but he holds it together. “Rook, you two aren’t exactly subtle. I literally had the room next door.”
Ilya looks offended. “We are subtle.” He looks like he’s gearing up for a fight but Scott doesn’t have it in him tonight.
“Rozanov, at the best of times you’re as subtle as a brick to the face.” he says with a deep sigh, “No one else noticed but I literally had a front row seat to the two of you at All Stars.”
Despite everything, Hollander lets out a breathy laugh.
Progress, Scott thinks. The nineteen year old looks slightly better now although still shaken.
Scott nods toward the steps on the far side of the roof. “Come on. Sit before you fall over.”
They move together, the three of them, settling on the low concrete ledge. They arrange themselves carefully with Hollander between them. Seated, he leans fully into Rozanov, as if his strings were cut as exhaustion replaced adrenaline. Ilya doesn’t comment, just shifts to make more space.
For a while, no one speaks, letting the low roar of the city below them fill the silence. Scott watches the way the two of them mold around each other, something tight and quiet settling in his chest. It’s just this side of awkward but probably the best any of them could hope for at this moment.
“So,” he says eventually, gentler now. “How long have you two been together?”
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “It is nothing.” His voice is casual but his body language has gone tense.
“Mm yes,” Scott says. “And I’m retiring next year to take up figure skating.”
The Russian sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks tired, Scott thinks to himself, the bravado slipping off his face.
“It’s… not serious,” he says. “We just—”
“Hook up,” Hollander blurts out.
It’s too loud and sharp and Scott notices the way the kid won’t make eye contact with either of them. Next to him, Rozanov is staring off into the distance, his body totally still.
Scott tilts his head. “Right...”
For not the first time that night he can’t help but think how young and afraid they are really. It makes him sad in a way he can’t fully name. Somehow as lonely as he has felt in this league, it seems so much worse to be faced with a lifeline and be unwilling or unable to take it.
“I don’t care what you call it,” he says finally. “But this?” He gestures absently to where they’re still leaning into one another. “It’s not nothing.”
Neither of them argue but they also don’t say anything.
Scott exhales slowly.
“Look,” he says. “I’m not here to lecture. God knows I’ve made worse decisions.”
Rozanov snorts again. “Old Man Hunter? Hard to believe.”
Scott smirks faintly before his simple fades. “You’d be surprised.”
Rozanov looks like he wants to get another dig in but Scott waves him off.
He knows this is the part where he could stop. He could leave this conversation as just a Vet helping out a Rookie and willing to turn a blind eye. He could hope they sort it out and would be able to continue to keep his own life neatly compartmentalized like he always has. It would be fine, probably safer too.
For once though, he’d like to be brave.
“Being gay in this league,” Scott says quietly, “is lonely as hell.” He’s said it outloud, his voice steady, and there's no taking it back now.
It takes them a second but Scott can see when they put it together. Hollander’s gaze goes sharp, leaning forward while Rozanov snaps his eyes up to search Scott’s face. For his part Scott just keeps talking, past them out to the skyline.
“I don’t talk about it,” he continues. “Obviously. I’m not out. And this isn’t something you can discuss.” He shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “I got good at… managing it. Vacations. Anonymous hookups. Places where no one knows my name, or if they did, they didn’t care.”
He lets out a soft, humorless breath. “It works. Sort of.”
Hollander is openly staring at him now.
“You’re—” he starts, then stops.
Scott glances at him. “Yeah.”
Rozanov studies him for a long moment, like he’s trying to find the angle of the lie and coming up empty.
“…Does anyone know?” he asks finally.
Scott shakes his head. “No.”
“Not your family?” Hollander asks, voice still rough from the panic.
Scott huffs out a quiet breath. “Not much family. No one knows, no one can know.”
There’s a small shift beside him. Hollander curls in a little more where he’s leaning into Rozanov, like the answer confirms something he was already afraid of.
Rozanov’s jaw tightens. “So what is plan?” he asks. There’s an edge to it, not quite confrontational, but not far off. “You just… do this forever?”
Scott looks out over the city again. It’s easier than looking at them.
“Yeah?” he says honestly. “I told myself I’d figure it out, find a system that works. That at some point it wouldn’t just be…whatever on vacations.” He gestures vaguely. “And then one day you look up and you’re twenty-eight and nothing’s changed so that’s the plan.”
The words settle heavier than he intends. He feels so unbelievably old right then, like he’s talking back to himself a decade ago and painting out the grim path in front of himself. He’s never said it out loud before and he finds he can’t stop.
“It’s not just the hiding that's lonely,” he adds. “It’s… everything that comes with it. You start keeping distance without meaning to. From your teammates, from your friends. You don’t let people get too close because if they do then they’ll know and then it’ll all be over.”
Hollander swallows. “That sounds… miserable.”
Scott smiles faintly. “Yeah. It is. But you get to have hockey.” Both of them flinch almost in unison. It’s a damning thing to say but it is also true. There’s a beat as he watches the two men in front of him, both lost in their own thoughts.
“I just—” Hollander starts, then stops. His fingers twist together in his lap. “I’m not—” He exhales sharply. “I’m not gay.”
Scott doesn’t react. But he does watch as Rozanov raises an eyebrow, his mouth quirking into an ugly approximation of a smile.
Hollander presses on, faster now, like if he doesn’t say it all at once he won’t say it at all. “I just—like, it’s just him. It’s not—” He gestures vaguely toward Rozanov without looking at him. “I’m not—this isn’t—”
“You do not have to explain,” Rozanov jumps in. Absently, Scott wonders if he’s trying to stop Hollander for the Canadian's sake or his own.
Hollander ignores him.
“I’m here to play hockey,” he says, more quietly now. “That’s it. That’s what matters. And if—if this gets out—” His voice tightens again. “You’ve heard the shit guys say. In the room. On the ice.”
Scott doesn’t even bother to nod, they all know what the culture is like.
Hollander lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s not even—like, they don’t even think about it. It’s just… normal. And if they’re already saying that kind of shit—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what happens if it’s not a joke anymore.”
He trails off, not ready to say the rest of it out loud.
“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” Scott says, keeping his voice steady. Hollander nods, but it’s jerky, uncertain.
“I just—” he says again, quieter. “I don’t want to lose this. Hockey, I mean.”
“I know,” Scott says.
And he does, god does he know. Somewhere in the last decade he made a deal for this life and he isn’t sure even now if he would go back to change it.
Beside him, Ilya shifts, his shoulder pressing more solidly into Shane’s.
“I am bi,” he says, abruptly.
Rozanov is staring directly at Scott as he says it, the words landing with a challenge under them. Hollander goes still where he’s still leaning against Rozanov, looking up at the Russian.
“But it does not matter,” Rozanov continues. “Because I am not—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “It is not just the league.”
Scott nods slowly, the pieces coming together. “Russia.”
Ilya lets out a short, sharp breath. “Da.”
He drags a hand through his hair, agitation bleeding through now that the words are out.
“If anyone knows…” He shakes his head once. “I am done. Not just hockey. Everything. My family—” He stops again, this time harder. “I do not get to come back from that.”
Hollander is staring at the ground now, his expression tight, like he’s trying to process something too big to hold all at once.
Scott watches them both for a moment. These fucking kids, he thinks again. Just… trying to map out a life in a system that doesn’t leave room for them.
“I’m not telling you to come out,” Scott says finally. “I’m not a hypocrite. Everything you just said?” He nods toward Hollander, then toward Rozanov. “That’s real. Those are real risks.”
He leans back on his hands, grounding himself before he keeps going.
“You have to be smart. You have to protect yourselves. No one else is going to do that for you.”
Ilya watches him closely, still wary, but listening. Hollander meanwhile is nodding again, slower this time.
Scott exhales.
“But…” he says. He hesitates, choosing the words more carefully than he has all night. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
Neither of them speaks. Scott looks between them, then pointedly at where they’re still pressed together without seeming to notice.
“What you have,” he says, quieter now, “whatever you want to call it… that matters.”
Hollander’s fingers tighten in his own sleeve. Ilya doesn’t move at all.
“I’m not saying it has to be…a thing,” Scott continues. “But having someone who knows? Someone who’s in it with you?” He shakes his head slightly. “That would’ve made a difference for me.”
He can see that his words finally land. Hollander’s shoulders shift, like something is easing despite himself, while Rozanov’s posture loses a fraction of its rigidity.
“You don’t have to decide what it is,” Scott adds. “Just… don’t throw it away because you're scared.”
Predictably, Rozanov puffs himself up at that, “We’re not fucking scared, Hunter.”
Scott hides a grin. He’d love to take Rozanov seriously but it is honestly adorable, like a cat puffing himself up after its tail gets pulled. Out of the corner of his eye though he’s watching Hollander.
Hollander who is looking not at Scott, but at Rozanov. For a moment, something softer flickers across his face before it’s gone again, replaced by that familiar anxiety.
“I don’t think,” Hollander says, a question in his voice, “We’re throwing anything away either.”
Scott almost smiles.
“Good,” he says.
And he means it.
The tension slowly bleeds out of the night, replaced by a quiet, meandering, conversation. They talk about hockey mostly. Systems, plays, the season. It’s easier ground, familiar territory that they can all tread together. It’s unfamiliar, Scott realizes, the ease of it. He’s not watching his own reactions but instead fully present with the two of them. It’s nice.
Scott finds himself laughing more than he expected. Rozanov is, annoyingly, funny. He’s definitely sharp and a little mean. But there’s a looseness to him here that doesn’t show up on the ice. He’s got a sideways humor that catches Scott off guard.
Hollander meanwhile listens more than he talks, but when he does, it’s precise. He sees the game in angles, breaking things down in ways that make Scott rethink his own instincts. At some point, Hollander’s head tips all the way against Rozanov’s shoulder.
He doesn’t seem to notice he’s done it but Rozanov definitely does. He doesn’t react but his eyes keep flicking down with a softness that seems out of place on his face. Scott looks away then, giving them that space. It’s tender and makes his own chest ache in a way he isn’t ready to examine yet.
By the time someone checks their phone and realizes it’s nearly two in the morning, the city below them has quieted down.
“Blyat,” Ilya mutters. “I have flight in....four hours”
Shane straightens slowly, blinking like he’s coming back to himself.
“Right,” he says. “Yeah.”
They all stand, a little stiff from sitting. There’s a moment of hesitation then Scott pulls out his phone. “Give me your numbers.”
The two of them glance at each other, strangely hesitant. But Scott makes a hurry up gesture at them before they give in.
“Text me,” Scott says. “If you need anything. Seriously.”
Hollander nods. “Okay.”
Rozanov studies him for a second, then says, “You too.”
“Careful Rook.” Scott says, smiling faintly. “I might take you up on that.” Rozanov grins his sharp smile right back back
“Good. I am very generous to elderly.” he says.
The two of them head toward the door, slightly stiff from too much time sitting on cement. As they go Scott hears them talking.
“I’ll walk you,” Rozanov murmurs, his arms hovering behind Hollander’s back, not quite touching.
Hollander hesitates. “You don’t have to—I mean—I’m not—I don’t—” But Rozanov just rolls his eyes.
“I am not trying to have sex with you, Hollander. You look like you will fall asleep in elevator.”
Hollander flushes. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
Something warm and complicated settles in Scott’s chest as he watches them. He did something important tonight, he thinks. It still stings though watching them walk away.
“Get him home.” he calls after them.
Rozanov nods once and Hollander gives Scott a small, earnest look. “Thank you,” he says.
Scott just shrugs. “Anytime.”
For a minute, Rozanov meets his gaze square on. Scott might be imagining things, but he thinks something has changed there. His gaze is sharp still but less angry, more determined, than when they first locked eyes this evening. Then Hollander pulls at him muttering about flights and the Russian turns away.
They disappear through the door together and for a long time, Scott doesn’t move, just stares down at the lights of the strip. Absently he realizes that he feels heavy with a quiet grief for something he never really had. How different would it be today if he had someone who knew him that way?
He tries, briefly, to picture it.
Not the logistics of it or the risk. Just what it would feel like to have someone in the room who knows. It’s harder than it should be to imagine.
For a decade, hockey had been enough. He’d built everything around that truth, shaped himself to fit it so cleanly there hadn’t been space left for anything else, and he’s not sure when that had changed.
Scott exhales slowly, the cool air settling into his lungs.
It’s easier, he thinks, to imagine the two Rookies bickering their way through the hallway, then his own alternative life. He can still see the way the two of them move, carefully trying to not acknowledge the way they keep leaning into one another.
Scott huffs, bittersweet at the thought. They don’t know what they have yet. They’re too young and scared. Too busy just trying to hold on to think about what’s next. He hopes they keep at it anyway.
Maybe, he thinks, they won’t get caught. He hopes, selfishly, that they won’t make the same choices he did.
He takes a breath, drags a hand over his face out of habit, and then pushes himself upright.
The night has stretched on longer than he meant it to. He should go back downstairs, see if anyone is still around to make his goodbyes to, and then pack up to go back to New York. He’s not naive and one night doesn’t change his reality. If he was smart, he'd turn around and face that fact.
Instead, he takes a moment and reaches into his pocket, feeling the weight of his phone there, two new numbers sitting inside it, small and improbable.
He takes a breath and then starts a new group chat.
Good talk Rooks, don't be strangers.
Before he can over think it, he hits send and shoves the phone back in his pocket. It's not much, he thinks, but maybe it's a start.