Chapter Text
Tampa, Florida; 19:00 ET
When Scott arrived, it took him a moment to notice it.
But it was when Carter circled the whole table for the third time that he had to admit the reality of it: he did not have a place at the New York Admirals table.
Matti looked ready to go over to the nearest League official and gently scare them into solving the issue, when another approached and pointed out a table at the centre of the room with six chairs.
Scott went over, and indeed there were his and Kip’s names. He internally resigned himself to a long evening when he saw who else was going to be sitting at the table.
“Well, at least they didn’t pride it up.” Kip joked. At least Scott hoped he was joking, and not introducing the prelude of another half-hour social justice rant. He loved his husband, just a bit less on days where he held things like a lecture on the long-lasting cooperation between the lower industrial working class and the queer community, that has ended with his team deciding they ought have their own unions, team by team.
They did. It’s called the MHLPA. They’re particularly bad at their job but that was another subject entirely.
“Please, honey, don’t start.” His husband huffed. “If Drover overhears you when he arrives, this will end up all over social media in minutes.”
“Babe, who will not understand this? It’s ludicrous. They put all the gay couples together. What is this, Diversity Inclusion and Equality kindergarten from hell?”
It was Scott’s turn to sigh. “It’s just one night. One night of no social justice. One. For me?”
He was aware he was being quite the hypocrite, considering there even was such a thing as the gay players table because he’s French-kissed passionately his now husband in front of all of New York, his team, way too many League officials and every single viewer of the 2017 Stanley Cup final. But also considering he didn’t really like galas—he always felt out of place, like he didn’t know how to act—and would have to spend an entire evening sitting next to Ilya Hollander-Rozanov, he figured he’d earned some relative peace at least for that evening.
Who was he kidding? He loved his husband’s nerdiness. Kip was currently working on his PhD thesis—although he wouldn’t let Scott read it—and seeing him pour over books, typing away and rattling off random ideas and facts in the morning light of their kitchen was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
Kip bit his lip, and Scott felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him. “I swear to try my best. But if Crowell announces some new dumb policy…”
The New York captain gave a fond headshake. “I’m sure Ottawa would beat you to the punch. Literally.”
“Speaking of the League’s bane, look who’s arrived.”
Scott looked up at the direction of Kip’s nod and saw the Centaurs standing around their table counting chairs and looking confused. He noted right away the absence of their captain and their best scorer. How shocking.
“Think they decided to play hooky?” Kip whispered.
Oh, they’re hooking up alright.
“Rozanov would totally refuse to show up, but Shane would never not show up. They’re going to be seventeen minutes late.”
“That’s a specific number.”
“I’m speaking from experience.”
After a moment, Barrett and Harris seemed to have given up on arguing about the four missing places with the nearest event official, so Scott gestured them over.
“Really, a gay men table?” Harris Drover immediately said, while somehow keeping his peppy demeanour.
“See, I told you it was obvious.” Kip declared cheekily before turning toward Harris fully. “I bet the wonder couple is going to love this.”
Troy groaned, and slumped in his chair, although he did a good job at hiding it. “Ilya is going to talk about it for weeks.”
“Just so we are clear, Shane is going to come in and rearrange the entire cutlery. And if you say anything, Ilya will not show mercy.”
“We’re aware he’s autistic, Harris.” Scott pointed out.
Troy huffed. “The only person who doesn’t know that is Shane himself. But considering that he hates me, I’m forbidden from bringing it up.”
“He doesn’t hate you, love. He just has to get used to-“
“A Troy Barrett who doesn’t chirps slurs at people?” The Rochester native suggested. He could not help but admit to himself he had long shared Shane Hollander-Rozanov’s opinion. People can only change so much. But he believed in giving second chances and that Ilya Hollander-Rozanov was a good enough judge of character to not allow anyone even remotely dangerous near his husband.
An awkward silence fell over the table.
“Ok, this is uncomfortable. Subject change. Why is Montreal here? They suck, in every sense of the word.” Kip did not like charged silences, Scott knew.
“Don’t get me started.” Barrett declared. “Something about last year’s unfinished awards.”
“So now it’s all of us who must suffer the Voyageurs and Toronto because Crowell sadly did not completely die last year? How is that our faults?” Harris was basically pouting.
“Let’s remain polite, I wouldn’t put it above Crowell to have miked the table.” The New York captain urged gently. “And it was lucky that it was at the awards where some of the WAGs were doctors.”
His eyes kept flickering to the place markers.
“I can tell you already Lisa Hayes won’t lift a finger to save him if it comes down to it.” Troy assured. He sounded like a man with personal experience with the woman’s in question
“Does either of you have a pen? Like a proper marker, not an ink pen.”
Barrett shrugged. Harris shook his head, and pointed at the Centaurs’s table. “Luca must have brought his drawing supplies, why?”
He didn’t receive an answer. Scott just stood up and walked across the room.
“Hi, Hunter.”
“Hi, Boodram. Kid, I was told you’d have markers?”
Luca Haas understandably made that cute confused face of his. “Yes, Mister Scott Hunter Sir, why?”
Scott internally sighed. How many times would he have to tell the kid not to be so formal? Did he call his captain Sir? Probably not. If so, he’d love a video proof. “Scott is fine. I’d need a black marker. I’ll bring it back right away, of course.”
He made his way back to his table and corrected those stupid place markers.
Scott Hunter Hunter-Grady
Christopher Grady Hunter-Grady
He left Harris and Barret’s place makers as they were since they’d both kept their own last names, as was standard Canadian law.
Shane Hollander Hollander-Rozanov
Ilya Rozanov Hollander-Rozanov
Once he was done, he swapped Shane and his husband’s place markers so the ex-Russian wouldn’t be next to him all night, and Shane wouldn’t have to sit next to Barrett.
He handed Luca Haas his marker back just as the missing couple finally arrived. Decided to save everyone some time so they could leave as soon as possible, he simply pointed at their table. “You’re sitting with us.”
Ilya grinned, but his husband gave him a look that said BEHAVE. Scott appreciated Shane’s effort, but he had seen Ilya Hollander-Rozanov hold himself back once and only once in all the years he’d known him.
“They made a gay men table? Do they think we’re contagious?”
“Probably, Milyy. They’re stupid like that. Well, let’s get this over with, da? Hunter is on borrowed time, don’t want him to fall asleep midway. It’s hard being old.”
Lord, give me patience. Or just get me out of here.
As he sat down again, their table now complete, Scott knew this was going to be either the best or worst award ceremony of his career.