Archive of Our Own

June, 2020

“I hate him.”

“I know.”

“Do you, though?”

Ethan Korogyi gave Vincent Lemaire a deeply unimpressed look. Despite that, his hand continued to stroke up and down Lemaire’s bare spine, calloused fingers tracing every bone in a touch so gentle it was almost ticklish. “Of course I do,” he said, with his typical quiet stoicism. “I’m the only one who understands.”

Lemaire swallowed. “Yeah. You are. Sorry.”

Korogyi flattened his hand between Lemaire’s shoulder blades and pushed him down so they could kiss. On the television on the other side of Lemaire’s bedroom, Shane Hollander finished his lap with the Stanley Cup and screamed in Hayden Pike’s face for a few seconds before he passed off the trophy to his alternate captain. Hollander was sweaty and drenched in champagne. He grinned, glorious as a gladiator in an arena, probably high off the adrenaline and shining with it.

“Don’t look at him,” Korogyi said against Lemaire’s lips, speaking the words into his mouth. “Look at me.”

Lemaire tore his eyes away from the television. Beneath him, Korogyi blinked, slow and sedate, his lips slightly swollen. His mouth was always so pink.

Korogyi’s hair was dark and straight, always falling perfectly around his face, and soft to the touch. It was the opposite of Lemaire’s blonde curls, which he slicked back every day to keep them from falling into his eyes. Korogyi's eyes were dark; Lemaire’s were blue. His skin was pale as milk, and even living in Minnesota for a decade hadn’t robbed Lemaire of his natural tan. Korogyi had four inches of height on Lemaire, and they both pretended like Lemaire didn’t resent him for it.

All the ways they were different. Someone could have marketed the hell out of them, spun a rivalry about the two of them, if they hadn’t been locked so deep in the shadows that hardly anyone in the league even remembered they were there.

What a bitter pill to swallow, every single day.

“I hate them,” Lemaire said again. It was a whisper. "Both of them."

Hollander was the only person on the screen, but Korogyi knew who he was talking about, of course.

Ethan Korogyi and Vincent Lemaire had been playing third fiddle to Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov since 2010. Somewhere along the way, they started playing a duet.

Korogyi and Lemaire had the unfortunate luck of sharing a rookie year with Hollander and Rozanov. Lemaire was drafted in 2009, at least, and he’d gone second overall to the Minnesota Nomads, who’d kept him on their AHL team for the first year. The guy who’d gone first overall tore his ACL in the same year and never played professionally again, so vindictively, and to himself, Lemaire often considered himself the true first-round pick. The only one that should have mattered, at least. But no one talked much about the 2009 draft anymore.

Korogyi was the unlucky one, really. The 2010 draft had been the subject of international speculation and remained the highest-viewership draft in NHL history. At least, the first five minutes were. How many people had tuned out the second Hollander went to Montreal, making the rankings of the wunderkinds official? And how many people had stuck around for long enough to see the Houston Drillers pick Ethan Korogyi, who had once been called ‘the best American youth player in a generation’? Not as many, that was for sure. It was as if suddenly, in an instant, that had all stopped mattering.

It was hard to go from being amongst the best players in their respective leagues to being two steps behind. Always on the back foot.

Always behind Hollander and fucking Rozanov.

Lemaire had watched the entirety of the 2010 draft with gritted teeth. He’d watched Hollander’s sour face, his shitty attempt at hiding how upset he was, and Rozanov’s blatantly pleased gloating, and gritted his teeth. When Korogyi went third, he’d still been watching. Lemaire had seen the quiet, happy grin that stayed calmly affixed to Korogyi's face all day, and he’d seen beneath it, to the rage that simmered below the surface.

He had recognized it, because Lemaire had already hated Hollander and Rozanov even then. He’d captained Team America to two consecutive losses at the WJC, after all. And it wasn’t because they were the better captains, or had the better teams. It was solely because of them.

How fucking unfair was that?

Lemaire hated how often their lives had intersected in the relatively small world of hockey. Korogyi hated it too.

Try to imagine it:

If you’re Ethan Korogyi, you do all of that, and then you go third overall in the draft. You’re behind Hollander and Rozanov, that fucking Canada-Russia Cold War of a rivalry, jackasses who already have brand deals with CCM, Adidas, Reebok, fucking Rolex. The league loves them. The fans love them. You tell yourself third overall isn’t that bad, and maybe it wouldn’t be in another year, but this year? No. Third doesn’t matter. Third doesn’t matter at all.

You buckle down. You get your mind right. You focus up, even though you were drafted early so your teams are shit, and it’s on you to somehow miraculously make everything better, and you’re not good enough to be famous like Rozanov or Hollander, but apparently you are just barely good enough that all the veteran players on your fucking losing team hate you for it. Whatever. Fuck them. You are still going to be great. One day, people will say you went second or third in the draft, and they won’t even mention those other assholes.

You become alternate, then captain. Hollander and Rozanov did it first, though, and Rozanov got an ESPN TV special showing off his million-dollar car collection because he’s got a fucking Ducati sponsorship, and when they gave Hollander the C he still had baby fat on his cheeks, and The Athletic ran an entire front-page story about his boring life and his boring parents and called him “The face redefining what hockey means, and what hockey is,” as if that nonsense meant anything.

Hollander isn’t redefining shit. He’s got the personality of a dead carp, and he plays like it. Rozanov plays like a criminal and like he doesn't even care. They're good, but they're not passionate like you. They're good, but they couldn't possibly want it as much as you do. Still, Hollander and Rozanov both sign their next contracts for damn near 10 million fucking dollars a year, even though everyone sucks Hollander’s dick for somehow being ‘team friendly’ despite that.

You scrape by with four or five million on your bridge contract, and that should feel good. It should feel better. You’re twenty-three, and you’re putting both your siblings through college, and no one’s writing articles about you. So seriously, fuck them.

You start to realize that you’ll never go a season outscoring them. Every fucking year it's Art Rosses, Richard Rockets, and Lady Byngs, and they lose to each other just as often as you lose to them, but there is no joy in seeing the sullen disappointment on Rozanov’s face or the poorly concealed bitterness on Hollander, because at least for them, it's still a competition.

They compete against each other, but no one ever thought you could win in the first place. It wasn't even a question.

That sucked. Of course it sucked. Fuck them.

Hollander just won his third Stanley Cup. Ethan Korogyi and Vincent Lemaire were lying in bed together, watching him celebrate. Neither of them had ever even made it to the Western Conference Finals.

The only leg up they had on the Hollander-Rozanov duo was that they were, in fact, both Olympic gold medalists. They had gone in 2014 under the captaincy of Scott Hunter, and had collectively scored four points in the entire tournament, so no one ever seemed to give a shit that they had been on the winning team, but who the fuck cared? They had gold medals, and neither Hollander nor Rozanov could say that. (And just for good measure, fuck Scott Hunter, since everyone was so willing to attribute their victory to him, as if he didn't have a roster of twenty-five guys backing him).

They fucked in Sochi, actually, wearing those medals. Heavy against sweaty, hairy chests. Champions, finally. Lemaire had never been so hard in his entire fucking life, and Korogyi had never been so eager.

No one knew who they were, and they’d never mattered. There weren’t a lot of eyes on them. It was easy, back then, to ask to room together. They’d already established that pattern by 2014.

“What are you doing?” Lemaire asked, yanking his attention off the screen.

Sprawled over Lemaire’s bed, all pale skin and dark hair, Lemaire's very own Snow White, Korogyi shrugged. “Trying to get your attention.”

Lemaire swallowed. “You always have it,” he lied.

Neither had ever felt so understood.

“Good luck tonight,” Korogyi murmured. "I hope you win."

“Come on,” Lemaire had scoffed. "I already feel like shit, you don't have to rub it in, man."

Korogyi smiled that strange, small, ineffable smile. Lemaire had finally torn his eyes off Hollander and Rozanov just to study it up close, in person. “I know the feeling.”

“Yeah,” Lemaire, who had felt so awful and furious and bitter that night that he was humiliatingly close to tears, realized. “You do.”

They had been friendly after that. Everyone knew about their friendship, but again, no one cared. They were just two guys who hung out whenever their teams played together, and no one questioned it. No one looked twice. Even as captains of their teams, no one fucking noticed.

Maybe that was easier. But they still resented it.

They had been together since 2012 when they had both made it to the playoffs. (So had Rozanov and Hollander). After Game Five, Lemaire told his teammates that he needed a night to recoup and invited Korogyi over to his house. When the front door had closed behind him, Lemaire had cradled his face, curled his fingers through that impossibly soft hair, and kissed him. Korogyi had kissed back, and the next day, in Houston, they went to his house after Game Six, and when the Drillers beat the Nomads in Game Seven, Korogyi still went home with Lemaire. At that point, Lemaire had just been hoping that the Drillers would make it to the Finals, that maybe one of them would beat Rozanov or Hollander to that benchmark, or even to the Cup, but it hadn’t happened.

Still, during that series, they had gotten together. And they’d been together ever since. It just made sense, maybe. They didn’t question it, and so it was easy.

Houston and Saint Paul were one thousand miles apart. They played three or four games a year against each other, and there were no other NHL cities close enough to justify traveling during other away games. Both of them had been to All-Stars, but they weren’t picked every year, and they weren’t always picked together. In-person meet-ups were few and far between, the Western Conference so spread out that anything more was difficult, but at least the summers were all theirs. Korogyi was from Virginia, and they owned a house on the beach there. Lemaire’s parents had no idea who Ethan Korogyi was, and Lemaire would never allow them to meet him, but Korogyi had introduced Lemaire to his entire family in 2014. It had gone well. They didn’t care about the gay thing. Lemaire wasn’t even sure if he cared about the gay thing, or if it ever bothered Korogyi. Sure, they kept it quiet, but it never seemed to matter anyway. Nothing mattered.

Lemaire had spent a few Christmases with them in the intervening years. They were nice. The Korogyi clan made him feel at home in a way he’d never experienced before. He was thinking about inviting his little sister to their next holiday party. She had pink hair and didn’t talk to their parents anymore. She would probably take the news pretty well.

During the season, they had an open relationship. Korogyi slept around more than Lemaire, but that didn’t bother him. Every night, they were on the phone together. When they were in town together, they could go out whenever they wanted, and over the years it had stopped feeling risky. No one really paid attention to them.

Houston was a big city with a small hockey market; conversely, Saint Paul loved its hockey team, but it was still fucking Saint Paul and most Americans had never even heard of it, which is why they were the Minnesota Nomads. Not even the Minneapolis Nomads. Fuck, even that was humiliating.

Rozanov and Hollander had both played on Original Six teams. God, seriously, fuck them. Their cities fucking worshipped them, it was so unfair. The fact that Rozanov was able to throw it all away for no good fucking reason only angered them more—in fact, it was probably the thing Korogyi hated the most about either of them. Lemaire had listened eagerly to Korogyi's long FaceTime rant about Rozanov's inexplicable move to Ottawa, the massive contract he had signed, and all the games he was losing now. "I don't care if he's losing!" Korogyi had seethed, and Lemaire's mouth had been slightly opened in awe at witnessing the rare loss of composure. "It's fucking unfair that he gets to choose to lose." Korogyi hated Texas. He detested it. "Rozanov can just leave, and make an extra four million dollars, and still sell a million jerseys every year. He still has fans. He could go wherever the fuck he wanted, and there are no fucking consequences for him. I would give anything to have that kind of sway."

"Anything?"

Korogyi, pacing in front of his propped-up phone, had paused. "Almost anything."

Maybe, technically, in the long run, it made things easier for Lemaire and Korogyi that they weren't worshipped like Hollander and Rozanov. They didn't like to admit it, but it was true. They could get pizza in downtown Houston, and if they held hands, at least they only had to worry about regular Texas homophobes instead of paparazzi. There were a few Midwest Rednecks in Saint Paul, but it was mostly safe for them to go jogging together around the Mississippi River, or walk a mile into Minneapolis to see the sights. Lemaire was recognized only occasionally and only ever in Minnesota, and Korogyi almost never. Their jersey sales were middling across the league. It was… whatever.

No. They hated it. Lemaire more so, but they both hated it.

It hadn’t felt any better when Rozanov and Hollander won the Cup back-to-back three fucking years in a row. Three fucking years. They coasted through to the finals like it was easy, hearing all the praise and probably sucking each other’s dicks about it when they weren’t pretending to be mortal enemies in front of the cameras just to sell more jerseys, more bobbleheads, more expensive watches and athleisure. Three fucking years! And Hollander just rounded them up to number four!

Because, and this was always the worst part about it, they were just that good.

That’s why they hated them. The real reason why. Even Lemaire knew it, and Korogyi would never admit it in so many words, but he didn’t deny it, either.

Korogyi and Lemaire were good. They were very good. They would always be the best players on their teams, probably. They would always be captains or alternates, and they would always be picked for media. They would do charity visits to sick kids in hospitals, and they would be asked to attend women’s hockey games to stir up some extra hype, and they would do it, because those were the only opportunities they ever got. They had minor sponsorships with hockey gear companies, a few random laundry detergent brands, and local businesses, but they were never asked to do advertisements or model designer clothing. (Jesus fucking Christ, they weren’t even as hot as Hollander and Rozanov. What a miserable existence.)

They were good, but Rozanov and Hollander were the best. Lemaire and Korogyi were even great some days, some seasons, but Rozanov and Hollander were halfway through their careers and destined for spots in the Hall of Fame. The museum probably had their plaques ready to go.

They were legends already, and Lemaire and Korogyi would be forgotten after they retired. They wouldn’t set records. Their names wouldn’t appear on the Cup more than once or twice if they were lucky. They were the kind of player who kept the league running on a day-to-day basis, who got pucks in nets enough to win games, but not enough to dominate championships.

They were there. Better than most, and not good enough to be memorable.

And in that torturous liminal space, that bitter and brutal purgatory, they had each other.

Since the first handshake. Since the first kiss. Jesus, since the first time Lemaire had seen Korogyi on his television and recognized something inside him, something deep, something familiar:

The need to be great. The knowledge that they never would be.

Or maybe they would slip into an obscurity so solid that no one would ever question how much they loved each other. They could go about their lives with a comfortably full shared bank account and a marriage license with both their names on it—hell, maybe Vincent would take Korogyi’s last name and give up his shitty parents and spend the rest of his life as Vincent Korogyi, and there would be no legacy at all for him to look back on in disappointment.

That wouldn’t be so bad. They would have each other, either way.

In that way, at least, they were unique. Hollander could pull some three-month PR relationship with a Hollywood starlet, and Rozanov could keep a revolving door of runway models in and out of his bed, but they would never know a love like theirs. On that alone, Korogyi and Lemaire had them beat.

Korogyi kissed Lemaire’s forehead, pushing back his curls. He hadn’t gelled them back, so they were as frizzy and unkempt as if he had played a full game. “Have you decided if you’re visiting your parents next week?” Korogyi asked him quietly. “It’s fine either way.”

Lemaire hadn’t decided until just then. He kissed Korogyi’s chest. They were athletes, and their pulses were slow, so he had to keep his lips pressed to his skin for a moment before he felt Korogyi’s pulse thrum through him. “No,” he said. “I’m not. I want to go straight to Virginia, with you.”

“Okay.” Korogyi’s fingernails scratched over Lemaire’s skull. “I’ll book the tickets.”

“Thanks.”

On the television, the commissioner handed Hollander the Conn Smythe. Was that his second or third one? Lemaire couldn’t keep up.

“I hate them,” Lemaire said for the dozenth time that night.

Korogyi sighed. “I know.”

“I love you, though.”

Korogyi glanced at him, one eye squinted. He had a way of smiling that always made Lemaire’s stomach flip. It was small, enigmatic, almost a smirk but a little more gentle than that. He did it to everyone—hell, it had been the same smile he wore in all the pictures of his draft day—but still, it felt special when he directed it at Lemaire.

It grew, just slightly. “I know.”

Lemaire scoffed and punched his shoulder lightly, the angle awkward. His knuckles landed on the 91 stamped on Korogyi’s shoulder, a tattoo long since healed. It was tacky to get your own jersey number printed on your skin, but it definitely helped that Lemaire had been number 16 since peewees, and that he had those numbers printed above his left knee.

91. 16. Lying in bed, tangled up together, it was hard to tell which was which. Maybe they had always been destined for each other.

“Say it back, Ethan, or I swear to god...”

Korogyi sighed, put out, and stole another kiss. “Okay. Fine. I love you, too.”

“One day,” Lemaire said, with the intonation of an oath, “I’m going to marry you, and we’re going to be the first. They’ll never fucking beat us to that, okay?”

Korogyi smiled. “Okay.”

+++

March, 2021

“What the fuck!”

Okay, it was official.

Fuck Hayden Pike, too.