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“Hope next time we play, you decide to show up.” The chirp was, by all accounts, pretty tame. Still, after two consecutive losses, it stung. This was supposed to be the season Scott was finally getting his shit together, not losing to a pair of fresh-faced rookies.
“Cheap.” Scott spit on the ice.
“True.” Hollander followed suit, rubbing it in. Really, this seemed unlike the polite, painfully Canadian kid Scott thought he knew. And after yesterday’s quip from Rozanov, the jab seemed a little too familiar. Maybe this rivalry the two had going was a bad influence.
“You’re starting to sound like him,” Scott huffed, and realized the moment the words left his lips that it was the wrong thing to say. He watched as Hollander’s expression changed, the playful smirk on his face falling.
“I’m sorry, what?” His tone had shifted from ribbing to a genuine challenge, and Scott knew he should back down. Whatever Shane had read into his comment, he was ready to drop gloves about it. But Scott wasn’t in the mood to back down. He’d suffered two humiliating losses at the hands of Hollander and Rozanov and a fight sounded like just what he needed to blow off some steam.
“You fuckin’ heard me, Hollander.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
A few minutes later, they were each being restrained by their teammates, refs in between trying to break up the fight while Hollander shouted obscenities past them.
~*~
Alright, so maybe it had been stupid to provoke Hollander like that. Scott could admit that to himself, as he lay awake in his hotel room that night, still puzzling out what he’d said to earn such a visceral reaction from the kid.
Shane Hollander didn’t have a temper. He was the golden boy of the NHL; you could say anything to him and he’d turn the other cheek, taking it with such grace it was almost more infuriating than if he’d come back with something clever. Hell, he was bitter rivals with Ilya fucking Rozanov, for christ’s sake – who knew what kind of nonsense he’d heard out of the Russian menace’s mouth? Still, something about their interaction after the game had struck a nerve, and Scott was becoming more and more sure he knew what it was.
He thought back to the first time he’d met Hollander, at the international prospect cup. He thought of the way Hollander and Rozanov had chatted from their benches in a way that sounded more like friendly banter than trash talk. He thought of Rozanov skating past and muttering a string of numbers. His hotel room. And Scott would know, because he’d been placed right next door.
Maybe he should have realized it that night, when he’d heard voices coming from Rozanov’s room. Two distinctly male voices, and it didn’t sound like they were talking. But no. He’d told himself he’d imagined it. He’d pretended he didn’t notice.
Later, at the MLH awards after Hollander had won rookie of the year, he’d made an offhand comment. “Where’s your boy Rozanov?” And Shane had reacted like he’d been slapped. “No, I mean, not your boy,” Scott had quickly corrected himself, but even then, he’d gotten a strange feeling. Like he wasn’t seeing the whole picture. And maybe he wasn’t, then. Or maybe he’d chosen not to. “We’re not like, friends, or anything,” Hollander had said. He’d sounded a little bitter about it.
Scott groaned, rolling over in bed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d be stupid not to put it all together now. Alright, so there was clearly something there. Hollander and Rozanov. He was maybe less surprised about it than he should have been. Those two had been paired up since the beginning of their careers or even longer. Pitted against one another, forced into the same space to duke it out and find out which one was the best. It was only natural they’d have some kind of relationship. And with all the tension they undoubtedly had between them? Yeah, he couldn’t put it past them if it went beyond platonic sometimes.
But for Shane, the sadness he had in his eyes when he talked about Rozanov, Scott got the feeling there was more to it than that. For him, at least. Shit, he’d really fucked up, hadn’t he?
~*~
It was the middle of the night when Scott dialed Shane Hollander’s phone number. He felt a little stupid, listening to it ring, unsure if Hollander would even pick up. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t. What if he was wrong about all this? Maybe he was just jumping to conclusions. Maybe Shane was already sleeping and he wouldn’t even –
“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded confused and a little groggy. “Hunter?”
“Hollander. Hi. I, uh, I just wanted to…I think I owe you an apology.”
“So you called me at 2am?”
Scott glanced at the clock. Fuck, it really was that late. “Yeah. Sorry. I just wanted to let you know, I didn’t mean anything by it, what I said on the ice earlier. I may have been out of line.”
Hollander was silent for a couple beats. For a moment, Scott thought he’d fallen back asleep, but when he did finally speak, his voice was tight.
“I don’t know what you mean, Hunter. I’m the one who should apologize for overreacting. Honestly, I’m not sure what came over me. You didn’t even say anything all that –”
“Shane. I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry. And that, maybe, to some extent, I get it. And uh, if you ever need to talk to someone, you have my number.” He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh before saying the next part. “I know when I was younger, I’d have liked someone to talk to, you know, who gets it.”
His phone beeped as the line went dead. Hollander hung up on him. Well, shit. That could have gone better. But in some ways, it kind of confirmed his suspicions. If he was wrong, Hollander would have told him he was spouting nonsense and he should go to bed. But no. Hollander had panicked because he knew exactly what all that had meant.
Two minutes later, to Scott’s surprise, his phone started ringing.
“Hello?”
“You know.” Shane sounded even more tense than before.
“I…May have figured some things out.”
“How long?”
“Tonight but…You may not have been as subtle as you thought for…a while now.”
“Fuckkk…” Hollander sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Maybe a panic attack. Maybe both.
“Listen. I’m not–I wouldn’t tell anyone. Obviously. But, and you can totally tell me to fuck off if I’m wrong, but it seems like you could maybe use someone to talk to? Or just to listen? That was…Pretty intense, earlier.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Scott could almost picture the dejected look on Hollander’s face. The same expression he’d worn at the award show afterparty. “We’re not, like, friends or anything.”
“How did all this start, anyway? I didn’t think you and Rozanov were close.” He swore he could almost hear Hollander freeze up over the phone as he finally said Rozanov’s name out loud.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
There was a long sigh on the other end of the line, and a soft thump that Scott could only assume was Shane falling onto his bed.
“We did an ad for CCM,” Hollander started. “A couple of summers ago. Right before our rookie season. He hit on me in the showers. I thought he was just being an asshole, at first, but then…” He trailed off, and Scott nodded as if Hollander could see him.
“Damn, that long?” Maybe he had it backwards this whole time. Maybe this rivalry was only fuelled by whatever tension the two had between them all along. “Is it serious?”
“No,” Shane answered immediately. “Maybe. No, not for him.”
“And for you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I haven’t even heard from him since–since we…” Scott heard Hollander take a ragged breath over the phone and he frowned.
“Shane, did he hurt you?”
“No!” That snapped him out of it. “God, no! I mean I guess I can see why you’d think that, but no, he’s very attentive, actually. Always makes sure he knows what I need.”
“Good,” Scott sighed, relieved.
“Anyway, like I said, it doesn’t matter. We both knew what we were signing up for when we got into this mess, and it’s not like it could be anything else anyway.”
Scott hummed in response. There wasn’t anything comforting he could say to that; he knew as well as anyone how the hockey world would react to high-profile players like Hollander and Rozanov coming out as gay. Even he was too scared to think about the consequences, and he at least wasn’t fucking his rival.
“I’m sorry,” he said instead. “For what I said earlier and for everything else. Sounds…Complicated.”
“Yeah,” Shane laughed bittersweetly. “Thanks for calling, Hunter. I…I really did need someone to talk to.”
“Anytime. Seriously. And if you ever need someone to kick Rozanov’s ass for you, let me know…I’m sure I can find someone brave enough.” Shane’s laugh this time was a little brighter.
“I’m going to go back to bed, Hunter. You should do the same.”
“Sure. Goodnight, Hollander.”
“Goodnight.”