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XXX
“Can I fuck you?” Scott asked in a dreamy tone, still blown away by the fact the beautiful man in his arms was real, and that he was his. He carried Kip towards the bed (their bed), the younger man’s legs locked around his waist, feeling as natural to Scott as the handle of a hockey stick in his hand or a pair of skates on his feet. Laying him down on the mattress, still awaiting his answer, Scott gazed at him as though he was his entire world (because in a way Kip really truly was, ever since he made that first smoothie with extra banana).
“Absolutely,” Kip agreed earnestly, their mouths finding one another, tongues dancing eagerly, making up for all the time they’d missed when they were apart.
If Scott had some supernatural capability, he might consider freezing the moment. How wonderful would it be to stay interlocked so intimately with his sweet Kip forever? Both safe, happy and cherished, with face-splitting grins and love-struck eyes. Never having to step outside and be confronted with a disgusted glare or hear any cruel slurs. But then of course, how sad would it be to never walk out in the sunshine together? Or to continue the rest of their lives as a couple and create countless more memories.
So no, maybe Scott Hunter wouldn’t really freeze the moment if he had the power. He would just enjoy these kind of moments with his lover whenever he could, and do his best to protect him, (to protect them both), any time they may face some less beautiful moments or hateful people.
XXX
The new season was off to a rough start. Practices were awkward. There was definitely a divide within the team. Much to Scott’s relief, some of the other players were supportive of his coming out. Carter Vaughn had even made the effort to join him at the Kingfisher and officially meet Kip. Scott was truly grateful for that.
A few of the other team members were seemingly indifferent about it all. He couldn’t really complain about that. A lack of reaction was certainly preferable to a hateful one. Of course, just as Scott had always feared, the ones who did have a problem with a gay man skating around the ice rink were the loudest, never shy about making their revulsion and anger known. Their behaviour was a strong reminder as to why Scott had locked himself away in the closet for so long in the first place. Never in his career of playing Hockey had he left practices with so many bruises. It seemed every asshole on the team wanted to bash him up against the barricades. He might have made suggestive quips about them being desperate to shove him against a wall if he possessed more sass and confidence.
“You ok, man?” Carter checked after Scott endured a particularly rough shove against the barriers, reaching a hand out to the Captain’s shoulder.
“Fine,” Scott moved back before Carter’s hand could land. Not because he had an issue with his teammate being tactile or considerate, but because he didn’t want to give the dickheads on the team any ammunition to accuse him of ‘spreading the gay’ or a reason to start giving Carter any shit. “Carry on,” he encouraged before skating away.
XXX
Things were not going well on the ice during the official competitive games either. Homophobic players were refusing to pass the puck to their Captain. Hockey sticks were ‘accidentally’ swinging into shins. Their Coach was at a loss. He had words of wisdom for when they lost games, inspirational speeches to motivate them and lift spirits, impassioned praise for their victories. But he didn’t have a clue how to handle a group of grown men acting like the Gay Captain might have some kind of gay cooties.
It was a difficult position for him to be in. Unprecedented in fact. Scott couldn’t blame the Coach for not knowing how to diffuse the tension. Scott didn’t know how to fix it either.
The environment in the locker rooms was the worst. For most practices and game days, Scott arrived already in his kit, fastening his skates on in the hallway rather than being in the locker room with the team. And he skipped the showers afterwards, just taking off his skates and putting on his sneakers before leaving as quickly as possible. He didn’t join in on any team nights out (not that he had attended much before), and he barely bothered with pre-game speeches knowing that most of his team weren’t prepared to even listen.
Miraculously, despite it all, the Admirals weren’t spectacularly losing each game night. They could definitely have played far better. Some of the passes would have likely resulted in more goals scored if the team were prepared to function as a proper unit and actually work together. But Scott was more determined than ever to play well, to prove himself. He was far from being a young Rookie anymore, but he was still Scott Hunter. Being gay didn’t erase his hockey talents and he would damn well prove that. But he couldn’t win a hockey game by himself or with only two or three supporting team members. If things continued this way then the Admirals would soon start losing.
XXX
The next game was against the Boston Raiders. The team Scott had least been looking forward to facing since his coming out spectacle. He was dreading facing Rozanov on the ice. Everyone knew the Russian was an asshole. Typically he chirped at Scott for his age. Annoying, but not actually malicious. Scott knew most other players endured much worse insults from the Raiders Captain. Scott wasn’t looking forward to seeing the smirk play on Rozanov’s mouth when he gleefully called him a ‘cock-sucker’ or a ‘faggot’ or probably worse. The majority of his own teammates were already spitting such vile things at him, so no doubt Rozanov would relish the opportunity to hit him where it hurt too.
XXX
Feeling zero hope for a victory but still determined to play as skilfully as he could muster, Scott skated out onto the ice. Face-to-face with Rozanov, he did his best to keep his expression impassive, bracing himself for the tasteless jokes and the hurtful slurs. The taunts and jeers came, roaring loud in his ears. But not from Rozanov, or any of the Boston Raiders as a matter of fact. The foul language was being hurled at him by his own teammates. Possibly some jeering from the crowd too but he did his best to block that noise out and focus on the puck gliding across the rink.
With little help and effort from his teammates, Scott swept across the ice, hurling the puck into the net and at least earning the dignity of scoring the first goal of the game.
“Good goal,” Rozanov said skating up behind him. “For old man,” he chirped.
Scott was momentarily stunned. It had been the perfect opportunity for the other Captain to attack his sexuality. It was what he expected. But instead his opponent stuck to the jibes about his age.
“Your boyfriend,” Rozanov continued and Scott gripped tight to his hockey stick, not prepared to let the curly-haired man say a bad word about Kip. “He is very cute, yes. Why does he settle for dinosaur?”
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov,” Scott replied half-heartedly as he skated away. He was relieved (and confused) that Rozanov wasn’t tearing him a new one for being gay, but he didn’t want to let his guard down and be lulled into a false sense of security. Surely the Raiders were biding their time, trying to psyche him out before unleashing the homophobia.
The game continued. A perfect opportunity for the Admirals to gain another goal was lost due to one of the rookies opting to pass to the homophobic player rather than the homosexual one. But as the Raiders stormed down the rink, Scott raced after them, intercepting the puck and preventing a shocked Rozanov from what could have been an easy goal.
“Not bad, Hunter,” Rozanov commented sounding begrudgingly impressed. “Hot sex with cute boyfriend gives you more energy I think.”
“Fuck off,” Scott retorted irritably. Though he wasn’t really irritated with Rozanov (still a little wary of the guy), but really it was his own teammates he was frustrated with.
They didn’t have to like him. He didn’t need their approval, and he didn’t expect them to become allies and start waving rainbow flags. But he did need them to pull their heads out of their own asses and play like a real team if they were to have any chance at winning another cup.
“Hunter, look out!” a voice warned. Cliff Marleau maybe?
Scott didn’t quite move fast enough as another player deliberately swung his hockey stick into his stomach. Then another hockey stick slammed into his back. The blade of a skate connected with the back of his leg, and he dropped down to one knee, wheezing.
The crowd grew louder. Maybe they were cheering for Scott to get beaten to death, maybe they were yelling for him to be left alone. He couldn’t really tell. It was all just noise. He found himself surrounded by angry hateful homophobes wielding hockey sticks. And not one of the attackers was a Boston Raider. They were all Admiral’s, his own teammates. The people he had considered his family before he had met the man he loved.
His thoughts turned to Kip. His lovely boyfriend would be in the bar with his friends back home, watching the events unfold on the T.V screen, no doubt horrified. For a petrifying moment, Scott worried that he might not ever see Kip’s face again. He feared he might die right there on the ice. That he wouldn’t be Scott Hunter the Hockey Player anymore. He wouldn’t even be Scott Hunter the Gay Hockey Player. His contribution to Hockey would be entirely forgotten. Instead his legacy would just be that ‘gay guy who got bashed and killed on the ice’.
As a hockey stick came towards his face, Scott raised his arm in an attempt to block the hit. He has the vague thought that he can hear Marleau shouting again. Carter too. And Rozanov shouting something in Russian. He couldn’t understand the words. But he believed he understood the anger and terror of the emotion.
Somehow, the hockey stick doesn’t strike him in the face. For several moments, Scott isn’t really sure of what’s happened. But it slowly begins to register in his mind. He was getting queer bashed on the ice, by his own teammates, in front of the crowd and the viewers at home. It would be all over the news within the hour and for the coming days. And Rozanov, the one player in all the league Scott was most dreading being face-to-face with, was the very man that was now defending him.
With great effort, Scott found it in himself to get back to his feet. He raised his own hockey stick and took a fighting swing.
XXX
Somewhere between the ambulance ride and arriving at the hospital, it occurred to Scott that Ilya Rozanov probably just saved his life. But the Boston Captain was badly injured for his troubles. It had been Scott they were targeting, but when Rozanov raced to his defence he took the brunt of the attack. He was harshly reminded of how young the Raider really was seeing him on a stretcher, bloodied and bruised with a neck brace, eyes wet with unshed tears. He had reached his hand out weakly, asking for somebody, whimpering their name. Scott had leaned closer to try and make it out but decided he must have misheard. Rozanov couldn’t have been asking for ‘Shane’.
XXX
It took a while, but after having the back of his leg stitched up and an x-ray to confirm no broken bones, as well as giving a statement to a male and female police officer, Scott was finally allowed to get up from the hospital bed. Naturally, the first thing he did was call Kip, reassuring him that he was ok, it had certainly looked worse on the T.V scree, and that he would get back to New York as soon as he could. But first he needed to go and visit Rozanov.
XXX
Seeing the designated ‘bad boy’ of the Hockey world pale and frail in a hospital gown with beeping machines and wires was not a good experience. Knowing that Rozanov was in such a bad way because he tried to help him made Scott feel inexplicably worse. As he cautiously approached the bed, it occurred to him that the younger man had no parents or other family coming to see him. He was without a mother or a father, just like Scott. A terrible thing for them to have in common.
“Rozanov?” Scott asked gently, sitting gingerly at the chair beside the bed, still sore from his own injuries, but he was more than capable of enduring the pain. He got away with just a few hits. Rozanov had taken a proper beating. Fuck, he could have easily gotten himself killed. And once again it hit Scott that if Rozanov hadn’t acted so quickly then he likely would have ended up dead on the ice tonight. “Can you hear me?”
Rozanov opened his eyes and looked to him. Just the slight turn of his head looked like it took more effort than it ought to.
“Hunter,” Rozanov’s voice was small, unrecognisable almost. None of the cocky smugness Scott was accustomed to. “You survived, yes?” He coughed a little, clearing his throat, as though trying to make his words come out stronger. “Did not die on ice of old age?”
“Fuc-” Scott cut himself off. It did not feel appropriate to say ‘fuck off’ to somebody who had risked his life to save his. “You were asking for someone before,” Scott said instead. “I don’t think I heard properly. Did somebody contact them for you? Are they on their way?”
“My Shane,” Rozanov mumbled, his expression turning worried.
“Mishayne,” Scott repeated, deciding that it must be a Russian girl’s name. “Is Mishayne on her way? Do you need me to call her, let her know which hospital we’re at?”
“No, no,” Rozanov made to shake his head but quickly stopped, grimacing in obvious pain, clearly regretting the action. His eyes fluttered closed again, clearly bothered by the hospital lights. “Shane,” he sighed, a neediness to his tone that Scott would never expect to hear from the arrogant Hockey Captain.
“Shane?” Scott asked, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Fuck, Hunter,” Rozanov groaned. “Hollander… Shane Hollander.”
“Shane Hollander?” Scott repeated, still not any clearer about what the younger man wanted. He wondered if maybe Rozanov had been bashed in the head and didn’t understand what he was saying? Or perhaps he himself had been hit in the head with that hockey stick after all and was now experiencing some weird unconscious fever dream?
“Yes, Shane Hollander,” Rozanov said, his tone getting stronger, his accent sounding thicker. “Very pretty… quite good at hockey… boring, just like you… folds clothes before sex.”
“I must be dreaming,” Scott mumbled to himself.
“Me and Shane having sex is your dream, yes?” Rozanov just about managed to smirk. “He will be worried… maybe he even has panic attack… I need to, I need to let him know is ok.”
There’s a soft knock on the door. Scott turns, expecting a Nurse or Doctor and hoping to ask them if Rozanov’s head is ok. But it is in fact Marleau who invites himself inside. The Boston player has a nasty looking bruise spreading across his face, the ugly purple kind that will likely intensify to an almost black before it heals. He also had a bandage taped across a presumably broken nose, and his left arm is resting in a sling. Clearly he was caught up in the fight too.
“You look like shit, Rozy,” Marleau said, though it was clear from his face, tone of voice and body language that the words were said with affection, and he was relieved to see his Captain was conscious. “Hunter,” he nodded to Scott awkwardly. “You ok, man? I tried to warn you. I saw them coming raising their sticks to swing and…”
“It’s ok, I’ll be fine,” Scott shook his head. Though he really wasn’t sure he would be. He didn’t want to give up playing Hockey. But trying to carry on playing with the Admirals seemed like suicide at this point. He was lucky that the Boston Raiders (Rozanov in particular) were there to defend him. Things could have gone differently had they been playing a different team.
“Did someone get a message to your girl?” Marleau asked Rozanov gently.
Scott frowned slightly, still trying to work out what was going on. Apparently there was a girl, but Rozanov had been talking about Shane Hollander. Something about him being pretty… boring… and folding his clothes before sex. Giving it a quick thought, Scott believes folding clothes before intimacy is something the Metros Captain might do. But how would Boston Raider Ilya Rozanov know that? And why would he want Hollander to visit him in the hospital?
“Is not girl,” Rozanov grunted. He tried to sit up, the movement clearly painful for him.
“Whoa, easy man,” Marleau chided as he carefully guided the Raiders Captain back down with his good arm. “Let yourself rest. And now isn’t the time to pretend your Montreal girl doesn’t mean anything to you. She would have been watching the game right? If she cares about you even half as much as I know you care about her then she must be terrified right now. Where’s your phone?” he asked. “I’ll call her,” he offered. “Let her know you’ve still got your rugged good looks,” he teased with a wink.
“Phone,” Rozanov pointed, the raising of his hand seeming to take a lot of energy. “Nurse would not bring to me… say I have concussion.”
“You do have a concussion,” Marleau informed him crossing to collect the phone.
“Is lie,” Rozanov insisted. “Just terrible headache.”
“Passcode?” Marleau asked.
Rozanov closed his eyes, biting down on his lower lip, seeming hesitant, perhaps even a little shy, Scott thought.
“Roz?” Marleau prompted. “I can’t call her without the passcode.”
“What Montreal girl?” Scott couldn’t help but ask. “And what does it have to do with Hollander?”
Marleau flicked his gaze to Scott, giving him some kind of warning glare. He then looked back to Rozanov, his eyes gentle, thumb poised over Rozanov’s phone.
“Roz, passcode?” Marleau requested again.
“8-1-2-4,” Rozanov answered.
Marleau tapped the number in without comment while Scott struggled to process the fact that Rozanov’s passcode consisted of his and Hollander’s jersey numbers.
“Jane, right?” Marleau asked, something playful in his tone.
“Jane?” Scott repeated. “So… there’s a Montreal girl… or there’s a not a Montreal girl… something about Hollander… and now there’s a Jane?”
“All of the above, man,” Marleau answered calmly as he hit the call button. “… Stay calm, Jane,” he said down the phone in a very soothing tone. “Your boy’s a tough kid. He’s gonna be just fine… Of course I know about you two… Just stay calm, he’s ok. It looked worse than it was… Yeah, Hunter’s fine too… He’s been asking for you. Just get your ass down here… Whoa, seriously, he’s ok… Calm down, just breathe… Oh, hey,” it seemed as though Marleau was talking to somebody else now. He gave the details of the hospital and room number before hanging up. “Already on the way, man.”
“He is?” Rozanov looked so hopeful. “Is not panicking?”
“Slightly panicking,” Marleau admitted. “But he’ll be fine. He’s on his way. Pike’s driving him.”
“He… Pike?” Scott still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.
“Reigning hockey champ’s not so smart is he?” Marleau grinned at Rozanov.
“No, boring too,” Rozanov drawled as he eyed Scott. “But he’s hot so…”
“Fuck off,” Scott responded automatically.
“This is how New Yorkers thank their men in shiny armour?” Rozanov huffed. “I am hero.”
“You really are, man,” Marleau told him proudly.
“Yeah, I um… I meant to say… to say thank you,” Scott said.
“Done terrible job so far, old man,” Rozanov quipped. “I saved your life probably and you do not even bring me get well gift.”
“Quit playing with him, Rozy, he’s had a rough night,” Marleau said softly, giving Scott a brief wink.
“Thanks, Rozanov,” Scott spoke up. “You really did fucking save my life tonight. And I came to see you to… make sure you’re ok… and to thank you… and I wanted to make sure the person you were asking for got here but… you wanted Jane? Not Shane Hollander? Maybe the doctors should check you over again. I think there might be some head injuries or something.”
“Hunter,” Marleau sighed. “Shane… Jane… Shane… Get it?”
“He does not… is too stupid, too old,” Rozanov stated.
There was a slightly too-loud knock at the door.
“Is Shane?” Rozanov asked hopefully, but it was Carter who walked in.
“Hey, motherfuckers,” Carter greeted awkwardly. “Everyone ok?” he looked between the three of them.
“We’re good,” Marleau confirmed. “You?”
“Broken pinkie finger,” he admitted a little embarrassedly holding up his left hand. If nothing else, it at least made Rozanov laugh. “Got to respect what you did on the ice today, Roz,” Carter said. “You were a real hero.”
“I am best hockey player in league,” the Russian boasted.
“Not what I meant,” Carter replied, mildly amused. “You saved Scott’s life tonight. Thank you.”
“Was nothing,” Rozanov said dismissively.
Silence hung between them all for a while.
“Any idea what’s gonna happen with the team?” Marleau asked.
“What team?” Scott scoffed.
“We’ll figure something out,” Carter offered optimistically. “There’s a vending machine down the hall. You boys want anything?”
A few minutes later, Carter returned with an armful of snacks, sitting down beside Scott along with Marleau as they kept Rozanov company.
Since the man who saved his life wasn’t alone, Scott stepped out of the room to call Kip again. He reassured him that he was fine, let him know Rozanov was alive and well, his cocky personality still very much intact. He confused his boyfriend with some rambled nonsense about Shane and Jane and let him know he would be on his way home as soon as he could, but he felt he owed it to Rozanov to stay until his Montreal girl that he may or may not have showed up.
‘Isn’t Shane Hollander from Montreal?’ Kip asked.
‘So?’ Scott responded down the phone.
‘Montreal… Shane… Jane?’ Kip asked.
‘What? Shane? Jane? I don’t understand,’ Scott replied.
‘Oh, it’s a good thing you’re a pretty face and a hot body,’ Kip told him. ‘And a bonus that you’re not a serial killer. Or even a spree killer.’
Returning to the hospital room, Scott played things over in his head. Shane… Jane… Shane… Jane. Shane had to be Hollander. It couldn’t be some other Shane. But who the hell was Jane?
XXX
Hours later, Hayden Pike stepped through the door with Shane Hollander. For some reason, Hollander had brought a bouquet of flowers. Lilies to be exact. Scott had never really had a rival throughout his hockey career. Was it normal to bring flowers to your arch enemy while they were in hospital he wondered.
In several quick strides, an emotional looking Hollander was at Rozanov’s bedside, holding his hand and tentatively caressing his face. Now Scott was pretty sure rivals didn’t do that. He glanced to the other men in the room, expecting them to look as shocked and confused as he did, but they weren’t and that just baffled Scott further.
“Shane,” Rozanov sighed happily.
“Ilya,” Hollander murmured, his voice so emotional and tender, not the monotone Scott usually heard from him. “You scared me.”
Scott didn’t know what the following Russian words from Rozanov meant, but they felt strangely reassuring and intimate.
“You brought me lilies?” Rozanov grinned brightly, some colour seeming to return to his face as he reverted back to English.
“I brought you lilies,” Hollander confirmed. The expression on his face was subtle, but definitely fond, and it looked as though Rozanov was equally endeared with his longtime rival. None of it made sense to Scott.
“I thought for a moment that you were…” Hollander trailed off, choking out a sound that seemed to resemble a sob, unable to finish the thought.
“Hey, ssh, ssh, is ok,” Rozanov reassured, his thumb sweeping over Hollander’s cheekbones, wiping away a tear. “Your boyfriend is strong. Will be back on the ice and beating you in no time.”
“My boyfriend?” Hollander asked, and finally somebody in the room seemed as stunned as Scott was.
“I think so, probably, yes,” Rozanov answered with a shy but happy grin that looked so strange on his typically arrogant and intimidating face. “Gimme kiss,” he requested and Scott gaped as Hollander bent down and pressed their lips together. And it definitely wasn’t the first time they had done that. Those sets of lips were clearly very intimately familiar with one another.
“Um… what… how… why?” Scott asked staring at the pair in shock, a small part of him wondering if this was how people had felt when he invited Kip down onto the ice and kissed him. “What the actual fuck?”
“They’re in love, obviously,” Carter responded easily, not nearly as surprised as Scott felt he ought to have been.
“But… but…” Scott spluttered looking to Pike who just shrugged, smiling at the couple with a mixture of fondness and slight discomfort. “What about Jane?” he asked Marleau who also seemed far too unsurprised that two rival players were kissing and mumbling affectionate reassurances to each other.
“Hunter, you idiot… Shane is Jane,” Marleau explained.
“And… you all knew?” Scott asked in disbelief.
“Yeah,” they answered in unison like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Wait… what?” Hollander didn’t release Rozanov’s hand, but he did look awkwardly at the others in the room, fingers fidgeting nervously. Rozanov too seemed caught off guard by the fact the others claimed to have known. “You… you knew… since when?”
“Since the All Star’s game, motherfucker,” Carter replied with a cheeky smile. “You two were flirting like crazy. And you practically grew your own vagina and ovaries watching Roz play with the kids in the pool.”
“Fuck off,” Hollander flushed while Rozanov smirked. “Hayd?” he turned to his friend. “You knew before tonight? You never said anything.”
“Didn’t seem like you were ready to share,” Pike responded. “But I’ve known for a while.”
“How?” Hollander demanded to know.
“I, um… We were both in bed,” Pike explained. “Separate beds, in the hotel room,” he added hastily as a dark expression crossed Rozanov’s features. “And I got a glimpse of the dick pic he sent,” Pike seemed to cringe at the memory. “Once I realised Boston Lily was a dude and that you only hooked up in Boston and Montreal it wasn’t hard to work it out. Honestly, the way you two look at each other is not subtle.”
Carter nodded his agreement.
“Did you like my dick pic, Pike?” Rozanov teased. “Or did you go home and cry to your wife because my cock is bigger than yours.”
“Fuck off,” Pike retorted.
“Oh yeah,” Rozanov looked thoroughly amused. “He cried. My dick is bigger, yes?” he asked Hollander.
“Of course,” the Montreal Captain replied, Pike looking mildly betrayed.
“And how long have you known?” Scott asked Marleau.
“Yes, how long?” Rozanov looked rather curious.
“Since forever,” Marleau claimed. “Two young Rookies giving each other bedroom eyes on and off the ice. So obvious.”
“Wait, this has been going on since Rookie season?” Scott asked.
“Yeah,” Hollander admitted quietly and Rozanov frowned.
“No, was summer before,” Rozanov insisted.
To Scott’s relief the others at least looked surprised about that.
“Um… you’re not gonna tell people, right?” Hollander asked. “Because we’re not ready to be… public.”
“No worries, man, we can all keep a secret,” Carter said.
“Just secret for now, one day I will scream from rooftops and tell everyone,” Rozanov claimed.
“Ilya,” Hollander chided gently.
“People should know,” Rozanov said, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Everyone, I’m fucking Shane Hollander!”
“Ssh,” Hollander hushed him, blushing an interesting shade of red while Rozanov laughed gently, still looking worse for wear but undeniably happy with his not-rival at his side.
XXX
Stepping out of the hospital room, Scott hobbled down the corridor a little way and rested his forehead against the pane of a window. He was still trying to understand how Hollander and Rozanov were anything but rivals. And since the summer before their Rookie season no less. Flickers of memories played in his head, small moments that had likely been signs that he’d missed. How flustered Hollander had gotten over Scott casually referring to Rozanov as his ‘boy’. The Canadian’s out-of-character violent reaction on the ice when Scott said he was starting to sound like Rozanov. With the information Scott now had, Hollander’s panicked eyes and angry outburst at least made more sense.
“You really didn’t know?” Hollander asked, Scott turning from the window to face him. “There were so many times I thought you’d heard something, seen something… that you might…” The words ‘out us’ went unsaid.
“I never would have guessed,” Scott responded. “And obviously I never would have outed either of you if I did know… It’s funny. You always did kind of remind me of myself, but I didn’t realise we had quite so much in common,” he admitted. “What’s your plan here, Rook?”
“I’m not a Rook, not for a long time,” Hollander pointed out. “And… we haven’t got everything figured out just yet. We’re only just starting to be honest about how we really feel. But what you did that day you won the cup definitely makes things easier.”
“You think?” Scott scoffed slightly. “Look at where we are. Look what those assholes did to him, and that’s without knowing that you two are…”
“I know it’s not all sunshine and rainbows,” Hollander acknowledged. “But it’s not all doom and gloom either. In case you didn’t notice, there’s three straight hockey players in that room who support us. That’s not nothing.”
“I guess not,” Scott agreed. “Anyway… you don’t need to stand in the hallway with an old fuck like me. You should get back in there, take care of your boy. And I really need to head home and get back to Kip.”
“Sure,” Hollander nodded.
“And hey, I just gotta say,” Scott said gesturing towards the door to Rozanov’s hospital room. “Rozanov… he’s a pretty great guy. Still an asshole,” he added and Hollander actually grinned wide.
“Still definitely an asshole,” Hollander confirmed.
“But you could do a lot worse,” Scott said. “Seems like he’s one worth risking it all for… Never tell him I said that. I’m sure his ego’s big enough already.”
“Yeah,” Hollander smirked. “Nine inches.”
Scott closed his eyes and shook his head, choosing to ‘forget’ that particular piece of information.
XXX
After a terrible game, his first experience of being queer-bashed, having his life saved by Ilya Fucking Rozanov, getting stitches in his leg, learning Rozanov and Hollander had been in a secret relationship since the summer before their Rookie season and having the knowledge that the Boston Captain had a nine-inch-cock… Scott Hunter finally returned home to his New York apartment with Kip.
His boyfriend had fallen asleep on the sofa wearing one of Scott’s hoodies. Scott gently woke him up, collapsing into the younger man’s arms and accepting every adoring kiss.