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Scott watches people. It’s a habit he’s always had, both on and off the ice. On the ice, it’s about finding paths for the puck and subtle weaknesses in his opponents. His hockey IQ is part of what allows him to excel in the sport, becoming one of the league’s top scorers and captain of the New York Admirals.
Off the ice, well, it’s more of a defensive mechanism, picking up cues from other people to blend into whatever crowd he is in. If he isn’t caught off guard, then he’ll always be prepared with the right line or action.
So at the 2017 All-Stars Weekend in Tampa, he sees when Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, allegedly arch-rivals who hate each other, act in ways that run directly counter to the popular narrative.
Scott sees the way Rozanov shakes water all over Hollander like a wet dog in a way that’s meant to be obnoxious—and also sees the indulgent smile Hollander fails to hide behind sunglasses that could obscure any looks given to water dripping along Rozanov’s abs or the wet swim trunks clinging to his thighs.
Scott sees, from the bench where all the other players can also, the playful kiss Rozanov smacks onto Hollander’s cheek. Carter scoffs from next to Scott, “There he is, Rozanov being a pest again. Glad he’s finally on our team this year—we are absolutely gonna crush the Westies.” Carter gestures at the scoreboard, where Team East Coast leads by 3.
Carter doesn’t seem to see the pleased adoration Hollander wears on his face, which probably has less to do with the technical skill of the assist Rozanov made for his goal and more to do with how he feels about the guy who made said assist.
Scott has a flashback to the All-Star weekend when those two were rookies, when the league started to do contrived nonsense to pit Hollander and Rozanov into heated contention. Team North America versus Team Europe. Back then, Hollander had done an incredibly bad job of lying about Rozanov giving him his hotel number right in front of Scott during the skills competition.
Looks like the rookies haven’t learned subtlety in the six years since. Except they aren’t rookies anymore. They are seasoned players, both captains of their respective teams with at least one Cup each. Scott feigned ignorance that first year, and each subsequent year, with only the frustration of losing back-to-back to Boston and Montreal bringing out a momentary slip. Hollander had fought Scott over his implication that he was involved with Rozanov, but never followed up, so Scott followed that lead in turn and continued ignoring it.
Scott kind of thought they would have it out of their systems by now, realize that being gay or liking men by itself is dangerous enough in the NHL without the added complication of having relations with a fellow player.
Maybe whatever is between them is more serious, if they are still carrying on a relationship six whole years later. Maybe the only reason nobody sees what Scott sees is that they aren’t looking for it, aren’t asking the right questions. Men are quick to throw homophobic insults and slurs, but slower to actually pick on actual homosexuality. But how long can they continue this song and dance in secrecy? The longer Hollander and Rozanov are together, the more likely they are to be found out.
And did they also feel the crushing weight of having to keep it a secret, to keep it locked up tight in the darkness? Did anyone in their lives know? Or are they twin flames dancing alone in the dark?
The moment Scott thinks about his own relief from coming out to Kip’s friends and then some of his own teammates, the moment he relives that release of tension he didn’t even know his body was holding from forcing himself to stay in a closet, is the very moment Scott knows he’s going to have to stop merely observing Hollander and Rozanov and actually intervene.
Shit.
Deciding to approach either Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov, but more likely Hollander, is a hell of a lot easier than actually telling him Scott knows, maybe even offering to be a confidant. All-Star Weekend is always a relatively chill time, especially this year, as all the top hockey players in the league soak up plentiful Florida sunlight.
It’s also filled with press and fans.
And listen, Scott is from New York, which has some of its worst weather in February, when the snow has mostly stopped falling, but it’s still so bitterly cold that none of it melts, instead turning into nasty sludge. Scott is also going to enjoy the beautiful weather Tampa has to offer. So while he looks for Hollander and Rozanov, and does spot them on occasion, they are always surrounded by fellow hockey players, often at some raucous and drunken event. It’s a short weekend with little time for private conversations as everyone tries to make the most of every moment.
When the final night ends without an opportunity to pull either man off to the side, Scott thinks maybe it’s a sign he shouldn’t poke his nose in business that’s not his, mentally tries to absolve himself from this self-appointed responsibility. Still, he’s distracted as he Skypes Kip, enough that Kip notices.
“Something on your mind,” Kip asks, “other than missing me?”
Scott smiles, heart fond, because he does miss Kip, so, so much. He’s flying back to New York for a home game early tomorrow, but seeing so many other players get to bring their girlfriends and wives and children to Tampa, when Scott had to leave Kip behind, even for the weekend, just served to highlight everything he doesn’t get to have.
Even Hollander and Rozanov are sneaking off with each other.
“I think…” Scott considers how to word this, “that there are other guys in the league that are gay. Or like other men, at least. Guys that I know.”
“What? Who? No, wait, don’t tell me who.” Kip shakes his head. “That’s not my secret to know. But you’re certain?”
Scott nods. “Pretty damn certain. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”
“This is good though, right? It means you’re not alone.” Kip says, with an earnestness that Scott isn’t sure belongs here. “You guys could, like, bond? Commiserate? Help each other out? Bitch about homophobes? All of the above?”
Scott doesn’t think he wants to be in some secret gay group chat with Hollander and Rozanov, but honestly, it would be kind of nice to speak to guys who got it, like really got it—the pressure to excel, the claustrophobia of locker room culture, the unending scrutiny of the press.
“Maybe I’ll try reaching out,” Scott says, then changes the subject to the most recent ongoings that have occurred at the Kingfisher.
Kip gives him a look that says he knows exactly what Scott is doing, but does launch into a story of some wasted couple Kyle had to throw out of the bar last night.
Opportunity strikes when Scott is at the airport the next morning, debating between a strawberry protein shake and a mango smoothie in the refrigerated beverages section at one of the few shops open at ass o’clock in the morning. Why the hell does he have a game tonight? The turnaround time in his schedule is stupid.
As Scott picks out his protein shake, he realizes Shane Hollander is pulling up at the fridge door next to him, scanning through some soda options. Scott takes a quick glance around, which reveals Carter at the snacks on the other side of the shop and no one else nearby.
It’s now or never.
“Hey, Hollander,” Scott says, as Hollander opens up the fridge door.
“Hunter, hi. You going back home or away?”
“Home. You?”
“Columbus, whoo,” Hollander says, with the most sarcastic enthusiasm a half-awake man can muster, which is not nothing.
Scott hums in acknowledgment, contemplating just how to approach this. “Dang, I forgot to ask Rozanov something this weekend. Do you have his number?”
“Rozanov? His number?” Hollander laughs nervously, now more alert, eyes flickering away from Scott to the cold air wafting out of the fridge he holds open, as if he could hide behind the rows of soda. He shakes his head. “Why would I have that guy’s number? I don’t have Rozanov’s number.”
Holy shit.
Scott is momentarily stunned by what is possibly the worst lying he has ever heard a grown adult tell. This is worse than he thought. Hollander should be practiced at lying about this by now. The guy speaks to the press every other day.
“Okay, I’ll ask Volkov,” Scott says with a shrug, referring to the Russian defenseman on his own team, making it seem like no big deal. He lets Hollander regain enough sense of safety to pick his drink from the fridge before saying, “We need to chat. I’ll pay for this.”
Scott plucks the bottle of ginger ale out of Hollander’s hand and heads towards the uninterested man behind the checkout counter. As Carter approaches with entirely too many bags of processed carbs for a three-hour flight, Scott says to him, “Hollzy and I are gonna catch up, captain to captain.”
“Oh, captain to captain. Have fun!” Carter remains oblivious as his chips and candy spill onto the counter.
Hollander can easily grab another soda from the fridge, walk away from Scott entirely, but he follows along, perhaps compelled more by the way Scott is acting than the way Scott holds his drink hostage.
Scott readily finds an empty gate, not yet in use as the Tampa airport is still rousing for the morning, and brings them to seats at the back that face outwards. Overly-caffeinated businessmen walk past without a glance in the relatively empty terminal. He drops into an uncomfortable chair and gestures for Hollander to join him.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Hollander asks as Scott hands over his soda. If he suspects Scott wants to continue the talk about Rozanov, he does a somewhat better job at masking his feelings than minutes prior.
Scott takes a sip of his protein shake, buying himself a second to think. He hasn’t actually figured out what angle to approach this from. He might as well jump into it.
“It’s been six years. More than.” The way Rozanov had skated by at that All-Star game in 2011, dropping a room number ever so casually, spoke to a level of familiarity indicating it was most certainly not the first time between him and Hollander.
“Um, since I joined the league?” Hollander twists open the bottle cap on his ginger ale but doesn’t drink.
“Since you and Rozanov.”
“Since our rivalry started.” He chokes out rivalry like it's old gum sticking in his mouth.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Rozanov and I are rivals.” This statement flows better, but would land more smoothly if Hollander hadn’t bungled lying so hard previously.
“Hollander. I know. You know I know.” It’s been a few years since that time Scott had needled him on ice about it, but it remains one of the only times Shane Hollander has ever fought someone on the ice. Maybe Scott still feels a little bad about it.
Scott watches the way blood drains from Hollander’s face, the glowing tan he picked up from the Florida sun turning ashen. Hollander purses his lips in fury, and Scott wonders if Hollander will try to punch him again. If there exists a more diplomatic way Scott could have approached this with, well, he’s on this clusterfuck of an approach now.
Unlike last time, the fight drains from Hollander before fists are thrown. He whispers, “What gave it away?”
What gave it away, other than how Rozanov had given Hollander his room number right in front of Scott all those years ago? What gave it away, other than how Hollander is too quick, to the point of suspicion, to deny any kind of involvement with Rozanov, even now, even when they are demonstrably friendly with each other when given the flimsiest excuse of a celly on the ice?
What gives it away is how Scott feels like he’s looking into a mirror when he sees Hollander shoot yearning looks at Rozanov. He’s reminded of the fundraiser gala he and Kip went separately to, dancing around each other because that’s all they could do, when all Scott wanted was to dance with Kip.
Saying that would give too much away. Scott settles for saying, “I know what to look for.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Hollander continues to fidget, twisting the bottle cap of his soda open and closed.
“It means, I know what to look for,” Scott repeats, slower, with more emphasis.
He can see the cogs turning in Hollander’s brain as he processes, then reprocesses. Hollander searches in Scott's face for a lie that he won't find. “Wait, you?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“I guess, I mean, I thought—” Hollander glances around, and Scott follows, as his gaze flicks over from a mom picking up the stuffed animal her daughter has dropped, to a man in sweats chugging a large cup of takeaway coffee, to Matheson from Colorado walking briskly to his gate without so much as a glance towards them.
Nobody walking past this empty airport gate gives two shits about Scott Hunter or Shane Hollander or their sexualities. Nobody could overhear them over the bustle of other travelers and the flight announcements going off overhead every few minutes. But it still feels too raw—too dangerous—to speak whole truths out loud in public.
Scott can fill in the sentence that Hollander doesn’t finish. He understands enough. I thought I was alone, perhaps. Or maybe, I thought that there obviously must be other gay men in the NHL, but I would never know who they are because we all have to be so deep in the closet we are moments away from suffocation—the very measures we take to protect ourselves keeping us from finding the people who would understand. Okay, Hollander probably wasn’t going to say quite that much.
“Well,” Scott says with a shrug. He’s only a few years older than Hollander, but that’s a few years more of putting on the brittle mask of heterosexuality, of watching every word he says, of living in hypervigilance. It’s the game they play, it’s the choice they’ve made—or have had made for them, because staying closeted was less of a choice and more of a survival tactic. There are so few of them that maybe they can’t afford to alienate each other. “I should apologize, for a few years back. It wasn’t warranted, throwing him in your face like that.”
Hollander knows exactly what he’s talking about. “Oh god, I really overreacted. Punching you really only could have confirmed for you that you were right.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “But then nothing ever happened after, so…”
“I’ve kept your secret since you two were idiot rookies arranging to hook up right in front of me on the ice. Why do you think I made sure you’d know not to be too loud?” Hollander looks away, rightfully embarrassed. “I’ve kept your secret for going on six years, and I’ll continue keeping it,” Scott says, making explicit that he’s not going to out Hollander or Rozanov.
“Then why are we talking about this?”
“Because you are so bad at lying. Distressingly bad. If you and Rozanov are going to continue whatever this is, you need a better deflection than fuck that guy because it seems like the only reason you haven’t been caught yet is that nobody is asking you the right question. Guys throw around cocksucker and faggot all the damn time, but they’re not leveling serious accusations. If you keep being buddy-buddy with Rozanov while pretending to hate him, that’s weird, and someone who isn’t me is going to ask a question you’ll trip right into.”
“So, what, I should pretend to like him?”
“Are you going to say that you’re not genuinely friends with him, in some capacity?”
Hollander looks stumped, for some reason. Scott cannot imagine that after all this time, they’ve just been having hatesex, not when he saw them embracing so joyfully on ice under the excuse of celebrating goals.
“He’s my rival. I’m supposed to hate him.”
“Rivals can’t be friends?”
“How would I explain suddenly being friends with him?” Despite the resistance, Hollander seems interested in shifting the narrative, if he could only have a way to do so.
Scott gestures broadly around them. “All-Stars. Say it was here, in Tampa. You two got to play on the same team, on the same line. We crushed Team West Coast, and it was in no small part due to your on-ice chemistry. That’s true enough.” Scott will give credit where credit is due. Hollander centering with Rozanov on wing was a devastating first line offensive in last night’s match. “Say you two realized you actually have a lot in common, once you were working together. You’re compatible both on and off the ice. Surely you can pull together some rah-rah teamwork kind of sentiment, you’ve talked to the media enough.”
“You really think that will work? It won’t draw us more attention?”
“Nothing you do is going to stop the media’s obsession with you—you might as well deflect with some semblance of the truth instead of with painfully transparent lies.”
“Like hiding in plain sight.”
“Exactly.” Hollander and Rozanov could hide behind being a hockey bromance that the mainstream news would never think more of. as long as the two weren’t caught in a compromising position.
Hollander takes a sip of his ginger ale, and leans back in his seat, considering what Scott has pitched. “That might… that might work. It would be nice, to not have to hate him. I mean, he’s an asshole, that’s real,” Hollander says, as if Scott isn’t intimately aware of how much of an asshole Rozanov is, “but he’s not a bad person. He’s actually really thoughtful.”
Hollander sort of smile-sighs, as he thinks about how thoughtful Rozanov is, and that, more than any other interaction Scott has observed over the weekend and through the years, is what tells Scott that what these two have going on is more than sex—it’s love.
It’s love that Shane Hollander feels for Ilya Rozanov, just like it’s love that Scott feels for Kip—it’s love and it’s beautiful and they all have to hide it away like it’s a shameful secret. Maybe it’s better that Hollander and Rozanov have each other, to be on the same page to stay in closet, to have some kind of mutually assured destruction threaded within every interaction they have. Maybe it’s worse, because they have double the scrutiny, double the threat of being outed.
Regardless, it’s not a competition on who has it worse in the closet, because all of it is desperately miserable and utterly unfair.
And suddenly, it is so devastatingly infuriating to Scott that they have to hide, that fear keeps them shackled in place. Lest they lose respect from fellow players, from the teams they captain. Lest they lose fans, fickle as they are. Lest they lose their entire jobs, because the homophobes that run the league would certainly drop any and every gay player, if they thought they could get away with it.
It’s not lost on Scott that he’s the captain of the New York Admirals, that Hollander and Rozanov are captains of their respective teams too, that between the three of them, they have every award a forward can win several times over. That the other two even have Cups—multiple in Hollander’s case. They are the gold fucking standards of hockey in this day and age.
And none of them are out, because none of that success is guaranteed to protect them.
Other guys can talk about their girlfriends, show off their wives, and brag about conquests. Some of the shit that gets said in the locker room makes Scott wonder if the so-called puck bunnies are naïve and easily bamboozled by fame, and also makes him worry that maybe these women are ending up in situations where they can’t safely say no to two-hundred pounds of muscle and walk away unscathed. But Scott cannot speak a word about his mutually consensual relationship with another man without fear of losing the respect of the people around him and his very livelihood.
It’s also not lost on Scott that he spotted whatever was happening between Hollander and Rozanov six years ago and didn’t make one goddamned move in the fear that he might incriminate himself. It’s only with Kip’s soft but steady support that Scott is making a move now to bridge the gap between him and other queer men in the league.
“I’ve started coming out to a few people,” Scott says. “Not many. Kip’s dad, his friends. A few guys on the team.”
“What?” Hollander stares at him in disbelief. “Your team knows?”
“It was terrifying, I’m not going to lie. I certainly haven’t told the whole team, just a few guys I really trust. But it's also freeing. Like…finally being able to breathe again, when I didn’t even know I was holding my breath. Do you have anyone in your life you can talk about this with?”
Hollander looks away. “Not really. I’ve barely been able to speak with—with Ilya, about this,” Hollander all but whispers Rozanov’s name, like it’s something precious, something to be protected. “I guess I have Rose, but she more told me than I told her, about me being… and she doesn’t know about him specifically.”
“I’m sorry,” Scott offers, somewhat shocked that he is apparently the only one to know about Hollander and Rozanov. “That sucks, to be alone.”
“Yeah,” Hollander laughs, perhaps more self-deprecating than anything else, if Scott is reading him right. “It really fucking sucks.”
It really does fucking suck.
Scott is never going to get back the decade-plus of years spent living in abject terror that someone might notice he likes other men, the countless nights he spent mentally reviewing his every action to ensure he embodies only the most acceptable types of masculinity, the infinitely many slurs and insults he’s been subjected to directly and indirectly. It’s all time that he spent minimizing himself and contorting himself to fit the bullshit expectations pushed onto him by other people, time he’s never going to get back.
Even now, so much of his time is spent in fear. Less so, because he’s less alone now, having let some people see and know the real him.
It’s still exhausting.
He once thought he could go his entire career completely shut in the closet. Now, even just knowing that some of his friends really do have his back, he feels maybe okay about receiving negative reactions too, if that’s the cost of getting to live his life. Maybe, one day…
“Here, give me your number.” Scott hands his phone over to Hollander—to Shane—mind made up that they at least do not have to be alone. As loving and supportive as Kip is, and as welcoming as both their friend groups have been, that doesn’t fill in for how nobody really, truly understands the crushing pressures of being a gay professional athlete. Maybe he and Shane can be that for each other, so Scott says as much. “And pass mine along to your boy. I didn’t really need his number, but… there’s no reason for us to be so alone. And next time you play in New York, you should come meet Kip.”
“Oh, wow. Um, yeah, I’d love to meet your…”
“Boyfriend.” Scott can say that much, to Shane, here in this empty airport gate in Tampa. It’s another step out of the closet.
“I’d love to meet your boyfriend,” Shane repeats. It’s such a normal sentence, and it’s not entirely new for Scott to hear, but it still feels like a revelation each time he hears it. Absurdly validating. Scott even thinks Shane looks like he’s carrying less tension as he says it, his shoulders less stiff as he maybe imagines a situation where it is normal for a professional hockey player to have a boyfriend. Maybe Shane also hopes to someday experience the normalcy of inviting someone to meet his boyfriend.
“I think that’s my flight they said is boarding soon,” Scott says, gesturing vaguely upwards in reference to the speaker system.
“Right, I should get to my gate too.” They both get up and turn to leave, when Shane adds, “Scott? Thanks for this.”
Scott nods, out of words. Because this? This is nothing, the bare minimum he can do. This is everything, a desperate bid for connection hidden behind concern. And he does think Shane understands both sides of this.
Maybe Scott is projecting too many feelings onto Shane, but maybe he’s not. They can text about it. In the meantime, Scott has a flight to catch, and a boyfriend to return home to.
Bonus:
Shane waits as Ilya processes the information he has just unloaded in their video call, that Scott Hunter has basically known about them from the start. In the time that Ilya stays silent, Shane worries that maybe he should have mentioned the cause of the fight he had with Scott those years ago, that he shouldn't have hid how he thought Scott knew way back.
Then a sly smirk starts to grow across Ilya's face and Shane worries for a different reason. Ilya's eyes all but sparkle as he says, "So we could fucked as loud as we want."
"What? No!" Shane shakes his head.
"He already knew I had best boy in my bed. We make him even more jealous."
"I'm hanging up," Shane lies.
"No, you're not," Ilya says, as he starts taking off his shirt. "I need to finish telling you about what we could have done if you didn't need to be quiet."
Shane laughs, begrudingly charmed and more than a little turned on. He and Scott text on occasion now but this is not something he'll be sharing.