Work Text:
Hollander skated up to Scott during warmups.
“What are you doing after the game?” Shane asked, looking anywhere but him.
Scott grinned. He was in a good mood and up for a bit of chirping. Hollander was a respectable captain, unlike someone like Rozanov, so it was always in good fun. “Probably go to a bar.” He would probably just go home to Kip. “Celebrate our big win against Montreal.”
Shane huffed. “Not a chance.” Scott had expected it to have a bit more bite.
“You okay, Holzy?” Hollander kept glancing around like he thought someone was following him. There was a light sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat and they hadn’t even started playing. “You look like you have a fever or something.”
“If you have a few minutes after the game,” Shane glanced around again and said lowly, “I want to talk.”
Hollander turned and skated away without looking back. What the fuck was that?
Scott expected Hollander’s performance to suffer because of his weird mood, but he was playing harder than ever. Like he had something to prove. The Admirals fought hard, but the game ended 4-3 for the Voyageurs. A respectable loss against one of the best teams in the league, but Scott still hated to lose.
When he changed and made his way out of the locker room, Hollander was there, leaning back against the wall across from the Admirals dressing room. Hollander didn’t say anything, just jerked his head to the side and started walking.
Scott followed him down the hallway and around a couple corners until they were alone in the quiet alcove by the equipment rooms. Scott wondered if Shane mapped out their route ahead of time or if he just wandered until he found somewhere that felt safe.
Shane turned to him, but didn’t meet his eyes. “Have you ever met Roger Crowell?”
That certainly wasn’t what Scott was expecting. He had no idea what he was expecting. “Yeah, a few times.” He shuddered at the memories. Crowell was not his favorite person.
“I met him this morning.” Hollander said flatly. “He asked me to come to the New York office before the game.”
Scott nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe Shane was looking for advice from a veteran. He could try, but honestly Crowell kind of scared him too.
Shane blew out a breath and let his head thunk back against the wall. He seemed to be thinking carefully about his next words. “Have you heard any rumors about me?”
Scott’s blood ran cold. He had heard a rumor about Hollander. That he was gay. That he came out to his team. Half the league had probably heard it by now. Clearly someone on his team wasn’t keeping it quiet. Scott had heard the odd comment about it in the Admirals locker room and shut that shit down quick. He had no doubt that things were different on other teams. He wondered what it was like on the Voyageurs.
“I have.” Scott said cautiously. He wanted to make sure Shane knew he had an out. “Could just be a rumor, though.”
Shane still wouldn’t look at him. “It’s not.” Scott’s chest felt tight. “I’m gay.”
Even after years of being out and proud, it still made Scott nervous to hear those words. He tried to be a role model, but he was still very much in the fake-it-til-you-make-it stage. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be out of it. But he was getting better slowly. Kip helped a lot. Did Hollander have anyone helping him?
Shane’s eyes were full of panic, and it felt like looking in a mirror at his younger self. Role model time, Scott. You got this.
“Welcome to the club.” Scott cringed a little, but Hollander actually let out a nervous laugh, so he guessed it wasn’t that bad.
“Crowell heard about the rumor too.” Shane said quietly.
“Shit.” He’d had enough conversations with Crowell to know where this was going. “Is that why he wanted to meet you?”
“Yes?” Shane ran a frustrated hand through his still wet hair. “He’s so confusing.”
“Yup.” Scott settled his back against the wall next to Shane. He could practically feel the stress radiating off him in waves.
“He talked about you too.” Shane said. Scott wasn’t surprised. As the only openly gay player currently active in the league, his name got brought up in a lot of conversations. “He said the league supports you, but it also felt… threatening?” Shane pushed off the wall and paced back and forth as he tried to explain. “I think he wants to make sure I don’t follow your example.” Scott always tried to set a good example, kept a clean image, played a strong game, but of course the only thing Crowell saw was his sexuality. He would always be an embarrassment to the league he gave everything to.
Shane stopped pacing and cracked a smile. He finally met Scott’s eyes. “He doesn’t want me kissing my boyfriend on live TV when Montreal wins the cup this year.”
“In your dreams. It’s New York all the way this year.” Scott laughed, then paused as an idea hit him. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Hollander’s smile quickly fell, his face turning into a mask of something closer to neutral.
“Sorry, none of my business.” Scott tried to cover quickly. “Crowell talked to me too after that. Lots of empty promises of support mixed with vague threats. I think that’s just his style.”
“He doesn’t like the advocacy you’re doing. I don’t think he likes the advocacy I’m doing either.” That sucked to hear. Shane wasn’t even talking about the queer community. The charity he started with Rozanov was all about mental health support. “Same for Barrett.”
“Troy Barrett?” Scott had never particularly liked Barrett. His chirps leaned heavy on tired homophobia and sexism. But Scott had also seen his latest social media posts since his blow up with Dallas Kent and his sudden trade to Ottawa. He was standing up for survivors of sexual assault. Maybe he had turned over a new leaf.
“Yeah. Crowell said it makes the league look bad.” Shane explained.
“Crowell said that to you?” It seemed like an odd inclusion for a conversation about the “right way” for players to be gay.
Shane shook his head. “He said it to Troy.” He clarified. So Troy must have told Shane.
“I didn’t know you and Barrett were close.” Scott quirked an eyebrow at him.
“We’re not.” Shane shook his head again, but there was something more in his expression. “Crowell’s just after him too.”
“So, you and Barrett are, what, starting a club of players Crowell hates?” Scott asked. It honestly wasn’t a bad idea.
Shane smirked like there was a secret Scott hadn’t been let in on. “Maybe we should.”
Scott was hit suddenly with a crazy idea and his stupid mouth spoke faster than his brain could think. “Is Troy…” Scott shouldn’t ask. “Are you and him…?”
“What?” Shane sputtered. It wasn’t a denial.
“Good for you guys.” Scott couldn’t even imagine how much more complicated his coming out would have been if Kip was another player. “You’d look good together.” Scott’s brain unhelpfully supplied a very distracting picture.
“Barrett and I are not dating.” Shane said firmly. Scott almost believed him. He raised his hands and let the topic go.
“I’ve got your back if you need anything.” Scott imagined they'd have a long road ahead of them.
Shane hesitated and then stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”
Scott shook it. “I thought I was alone for a long time.”
“Me too.” Shane smiled softly. “Until we saw you kiss your boyfriend in front of the whole world.”
“We?” Scott grinned. So Shane’s mysterious partner watched hockey. It felt like confirmation of his Troy theory.
“Me. I. When I saw it, I mean.” Shane stammered to correct himself.
Scott waved him off. “I’m glad to have you on the team.”
Shane smiled, nodded, and turned to walk away.
“When the Admirals win again this year,” Scott called after him, “I’ll invite you to whichever gay club throws the next Scott Hunter night.”
“In your dreams, old man.” Hollander threw back over his shoulder. He sounded like Rozanov.
Scott thought of the first Scott Hunter night, after the MLH awards. It was the best night of his life, coming off the high of winning the cup and MVP, coming out to the world, and getting to celebrate with the man he loved. He had danced all night with Kip and his closest teammates. Oh, and Ilya Rozanov, for some reason.
Rozanov who had looked perfectly comfortable dancing with handsome men in a gay club. Rozanov who came to the Kingfisher every time he played in New York. Rozanov who chirped constantly, viciously, on the ice, but never stooped to homophobia or sexism. Rozanov who had given Shane his room number at that All Star Game back in 2011, right in front of Scott. Scott had passed it off as some weird chirp at the time but now Shane’s young, flustered face came rushing back to him.
It had always been Hollander and Rozanov, hadn’t it? Scott thought of Shane’s weird reaction after his first MLH awards when he won Rookie of the Year. He had been so nervous when Scott had assumed he would know where Roz was. He remembered the only fight he and Hollander had ever had on the ice. Scott had been so fucked up at the time missing Kip and worrying about his game, that he barely remembered what had started it. Now it came back to him sharply. He had told Hollander he sounded like Rozanov and that, for some reason, had gotten enough under Shane’s skin for him to throw a punch.
Scott thought of the joint press conference when they announced the Irina Foundation, when Shane had put a gentle hand on Roz’s arm while he talked about his mother’s battle with depression. Hollander had clearly already known. Rozanov apparently trusted him with his secrets.
Every All Star Game shifted in a new light. Sure the league was always pushing to get Hollander and Rozanov to compete, but Shane and Ilya seemed to relish it just as much. They usually sat together, despite their near constant fighting. They always competed in the same events.
In Scott’s closeted days, he never could have thought of something like this. He would have assumed he was projecting. He would have been too scared, too wrapped up in his own head, to even notice the signs, but now…
Suddenly there was no doubt in Scott’s mind. Shane’s boyfriend wasn’t Barrett. It was Ilya Rozanov.
This time he managed to keep his mouth shut. Shane kept walking and disappeared around the corner. Scott needed a beer. And to see Kip. Not to talk about this, maybe just for a hug. He was taking this secret to his grave.