Work Text:
“Hey, Hunter!”
Scott huffs. Just the sound of that voice has his jaw twitching.
“Too bad you can’t play at home every night, right? Is better for you, huh?”
He looks over to see Rozanov staring at him from across the ice as he fist-bumps the rest of his teammates. How one man can contain so much ego without his fucking head exploding is still a mystery to Scott.
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov,” Scott says as he turns to follow the last of his own teammates into the tunnel.
“Is more fun if you’re there!” Rozanov calls out cheerfully. Scott just rolls his eyes and continues walking.
From anyone else, Scott might have taken the jab as some poor attempt at a homophobic insult, but from Rozanov it almost sounds genuine.
…No, it sounds almost knowing, in a way that makes Scott’s skin crawl.
He shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous, his mind too frayed and muddled from their brutal loss and his own subpar playing. Surely Rozanov doesn’t know anything.
Surely, if anything, Scott is just projecting what he knows about Rozanov. What he’s known for years now.
Scott thought, on some level, that knowing Rozanov is another closeted player in the NHL, that he’s dealing with a secrecy that’s objectively bigger than Scott’s own secrets, would endear him to the man over time.
It hasn’t. Scott still hates the fucking guy.
What Shane Hollander could possibly see in him, Scott will never understand.
--------
Scott hunches over on himself, hands on his knees, breath heavy and harsh in his throat.
Fuck this awful roadtrip. He thought he was out of this slump, but obviously not. If Boston beat them yesterday, Montreal absolutely trounced them today. If it were a case where Scott was playing at the top of his game but the Voyageurs were just the better team that night, Scott could accept that more easily.
But Scott isn’t playing anywhere close to the top of his game, and Scott can’t accept that, not at all.
“Hope next time we play, you decide to show up.”
Scott darts his eyes over and sees Hollander looming over him. Except he’s not actually looming— he’s simply standing tall and proud after his victory, an open-mouth smile on his face.
As far as chirps go, it’s pretty banal. His tone is far more light and friendly than Scott usually hears from some of the other players— which makes sense. Hollander isn’t known for his shit-talking, in fact he’s known for his complete lack of on-ice antagonization. Hollander plays a very clean game, lets his skill on the ice stand for itself.
Scott should just make his own quick quip in response and skate off. Something that matches Hollander’s energy.
But Scott isn’t feeling very light, nor is he feeling particularly friendly.
“Cheap,” he states, voice flat. He follows it with a quick spit— not at Hollander, but certainly in his direction.
Hollander’s expression hardens. “True,” he says, far less teasingly, followed by his own wad of spit.
And— fuck this.
What the fuck is Hollander doing over here? Isn’t it enough that he won the game? That he got to watch Scott humiliate himself on the ice?
…Isn’t it enough that Hollander probably saw Rozanov two weeks ago when Boston was playing in Montreal and they got to do… whatever the fuck it is the two of them do when they’re together? Got to have something together, while Scott is currently pining over a man he knows he can never actually have?
And Scott knows he’s being unfair. He knows the gravity of Hollander’s situation. Knows he should drop it, should let the words that are clamoring just beneath his tongue die there unspoken.
But Scott isn’t feeling light. He isn’t feeling friendly, he certainly isn’t feeling teasing, and he definitely isn’t feeling fair.
So instead of biting his tongue, he opens his mouth and says, “You’re starting to sound like him.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Slowly, Scott lets out a long breath, rising from his slumped position. Looks over at Hollander, who’s staring at him with an open mouth and a narrowed brow.
Just let it go, his subconscious mind pleads, a mantra playing on loop. Scott ignores it.
“You fucking heard me, Hollander.”
Hollander continues staring at him, any remaining trace of friendliness wiped clean from his face. He blinks.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Hollander spits out.
Scott skates closer. A rush of adrenaline, so different from what he usually feels on the ice, seizes at his chest— usually during a game, he doesn’t get so lost in his own head, lost in the overwhelming swell of his own emotions.
But today is different. Today he feels like a man possessed.
“I think you know exactly what it means.”
Despite everything, Scott still isn’t expecting it when Hollander drops his gloves— the other man is quick, and Scott barely has enough time to react, to roll with the punch that Hollander is throwing at him, his fist just grazing Scott’s cheek. Before Hollander can land another one, Scott is dropping his own gloves and grappling at Hollander’s jersey.
“Shut the fuck up,” Hollander seethes between his teeth. There’s a wild look in his eyes, one that Scott has never seen from the normally-composed Canadian. It’s a look that Scott didn’t even think Hollander was capable of. He wrangles Scott’s jersey in turn. “Mind your fucking business. Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.”
A laugh curdles its way out of Scott’s chest, an awful, mangled sound. “Oh, you think I don’t understand?”
At the proximity they are to each other, completely in each other’s faces, Scott can see the minute shift in Hollander’s expression, watches as shock sparks in his eyes, followed by something much more indecipherable…
…But, with a terrible prickling sensation in the back of his mind, one that Scott can’t fully process through the heat of his anger, he thinks it looks an awful lot like fear— fear, muddled with disappointment.
It’s gone in an instant, however, replaced again by Hollander’s own fury. He attempts a punch to Scott’s side— a hard hit, but thankfully it lands on his padding.
“You don’t understand,” Hollander snaps, inches from his face. “I thought you were different! But no, you’re just another fucking asshole! Same as the rest of them!”
Scott feels hands on his arms and shoulders, yanking him away from Hollander. He absently notes that Pike and Boiziau are doing the same with their own captain.
With the help of the linesman, their teammates manage to pry them both off of each other, but it isn’t without struggle.
“Dude, you need to cool it!” Carter shouts in his ear, Scott just barely hearing him over the roar of the crowd, the roar of their teammates, the roar of Hollander himself.
Scott ignores him. Instead he pushes against Carter’s grip on him, meeting Hollander’s furious eyes as he spits, “You’re so fucking naive.”
Only then does he allow his teammate to drag him back towards their bench, off the ice and away from the ensuing chaos.
They don’t even make it to the locker room before Carter stops them both in the tunnel.
“Scott. You good, man?” Carter asks warily, brow raised.
Scott takes three deep, long breaths. Alone now, out of the stark arena lighting, away from the relentless Montreal fans who’d been cheering for his downfall, Scott finally feels his racing heart start to calm. “Yeah. Yeah I’m okay.”
“That’s just not like you,” Carter says, before his lips curve into something of a smirk. “But it was a bit funny, seeing you finally lose it. What the hell did you say to Hollander? I’ve never seen him act like that, either.”
Scott bites the inside of his cheek, embarrassment starting to creep up the back of his neck as he recalls exactly what he said to Hollander. He shakes his head.
“Nothing, just shit-talking. Apparently I struck a nerve.”
Apparently. As if Scott didn’t know exactly what he was doing— Hollander came at him with a friendly quip. Scott went for the fucking kill.
Carter snorts. “Well if it makes you feel any better, I doubt that anyone is going to be actually discussing our game performance tonight, not with that stunt.”
It doesn’t make him feel better, not really. But Scott just forces out a laugh, nods, and continues their walk to the locker room.
--------
The entire flight back to New York, Scott feels an overwhelming amount of guilt.
At first he tells himself he has nothing to be guilty over. Hockey players get into fights all the time, trade barbs and insults as easily as breathing. They’ll be throwing fists at each other one night and getting drinks together the next. It’s just part of the game, part of the culture. No one holds a grudge over such things. It isn’t personal.
…Except that Scott made it personal. He made it very personal.
On one hand Scott thinks he should just try and let it go. He’s already said too much, he should just let Hollander draw whatever conclusions he may and move on. Scott doesn’t need to be any more involved than he already is.
But then Scott thinks of that look in Hollander’s eyes, the one that Scott brushed past in the moment but practically guts him now.
You’re just another fucking asshole, Shane had said. What it sounds like in Scott’s memory, however, is you’re just another fucking homophobe.
Maybe Scott is jumping to conclusions. Maybe he’s just projecting again. He hadn’t said anything remotely homophobic, all he told Hollander was that he understands. Which he does. He understands more than Hollander knows, understands there’s something going on with him and Rozanov— but what’s more is he understands how oppressive the closet feels.
And Scott won’t let anyone tell him he doesn’t understand how suffocating it is.
But now, with a clearer head, Scott thinks that isn’t what Hollander had been referring to at all— it’d simply been Scott’s own baggage rising like bile in his throat. No, Hollander wasn’t talking in such broad strokes, he was simply talking about Rozanov.
You don’t think I understand? Scott had said.
You don’t think I know you and Rozanov are fucking? Well I do, and I’m mocking you for it, right here on the ice, is what Hollander so easily could’ve heard.
Scott buries his face in his hands. Obviously he doesn’t want anyone to think of him as homophobic… but he especially doesn’t want Hollander to think that. Even if Scott still has no plans to come out to him, he knows he still wants to be a friendly face to Hollander.
Over the past couple weeks, he knows more than he ever has what a terrible, awful burden it is to hide such a secret. He doesn’t need to make Hollander feel more alone than he likely already does.
Scott sighs, sinking further into his seat. He’ll figure this out, figure out how to make it right.
But first he really needs a fucking smoothie.
--------
It’s about a week later when Scott finally brings himself to call Hollander.
Thankfully it’s pretty easy for any NHL player to get the phone number of any other NHL player, with how often people are moved and traded. He got Hollander’s from Huff, who in turn got it from the Voyageurs starting goalie.
It’s early in the morning, early enough where Hollander likely isn’t busy with his day yet, but not so early as to be rude to make a call. He thought about texting him first, not sure if Hollander will accept a cold-call from an unknown number, but he decides to just bite the bullet and call him.
He’s probably unreasonably nervous… though maybe that’s not the right word. Embarrassed might be more accurate— embarrassed by his own behavior, and embarrassed to be calling and apologizing over some chirping. It just wasn’t something that players did.
But Scott knows it wasn’t just standard chirping. And he knows he at least has to try.
To Scott’s mild surprise, Hollander answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Hollander,” Scott says. “It’s Scott. Scott Hunter.”
“Oh,” Hollander replies, followed by a pause just long enough that Scott starts to doubt himself further, before Hollander continues, “Uh, hey, Hunter. How are you? What’s up?”
“I’m good,” Scott replies automatically, before he shakes his head. “Listen, I’ll cut right to it. I wanted to call and apologize.”
“Oh,” Hollander says again, this time sounding much more surprised than wary. “For what?”
Scott blinks. “Uh. For the game last week. For what I said to you, after. Look, I— ”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Hollander cuts him off, tone carefully neutral. “It’s just, y’know, chirping, yeah? Part of the game. I threw the first punch anyway. We can just forget it, really.”
No, that was definitely me who threw the first punch, Scott thinks to himself. “Yeah, yeah we can just forget it if you want, but first I just… I need to tell you that you were right. I shouldn’t be talking about things that I don’t understand. And, look. I know I was definitely being an asshole that day, and I’m sorry. I said some things I shouldn’t have. But… I don’t know how much this means after the fact, but I need you to know, I promise you I’m not just another asshole. It’s important to me, that you know that.”
Another pause, this time much longer and much worse than the first. Fuck, had he said too much? Scott thinks over his words, cursing himself. He hates this, he’s terrible at this, talking in riddles. As much as he wants to be blunt with Hollander, to just come out and say, I know you’re gay, and despite how it might have sounded I promise I wasn’t coming from a place of homophobia. I’m gay, too. I’m hiding, too… Scott knows he’s far, far too cowardly to reveal himself like that.
Years ago, Scott thought he was sparing Hollander by not revealing the truth between them, both the truth Scott had just accidentally discovered about Hollander and the truth about Scott himself.
Now, he’s not so sure.
But still. As unfair as he’s being, maybe it can still be enough.
Maybe.
“…Hollander?”
“Hi, yeah, sorry,” Hollander says in a rush. “I… I appreciate that, Hunter, really. Thank you for saying that. And I’m sorry, too. I also lost control of my temper, it wasn’t a proud moment for me. Let’s just move on, yeah?”
Scott lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah, for sure, man. Thank you.”
This time it’s Scott who pauses, before he says, “Pretty sure we don’t have another regulation game against each other until March, so I suppose I’ll be seeing you at the Olympics?”
Hollander huffs out something of a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll see you there. Though I don’t think you’ll be too happy about it once Canada wins gold.”
It’s that same friendly, teasing tone that Hollander used last week. But this time, instead of in vitriol, Scott replies in turn. “Pretty sure it’s bad luck to be counting your medals already, Hollander.”
Hollander laughs, and Scott is relieved when it doesn’t sound as forced. “We’ll just have to see then, won’t we?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“I… well. Thanks again, Hunter. See you in February.”
Scott says his own goodbyes, hangs up. Stares unseeingly at the phone in his hand.
He feels lighter than he has in days, but there’s still a tightness in his chest that won’t quite go away.
Scott keeps telling himself that there’ll come a time where he’ll directly come out to Hollander— to anyone, really. And yeah, maybe now he feels a little lighter about the whole thing…
There is comfort still, in knowing he isn’t the only queer player in the NHL, but that comfort isn’t enough— he still knows he’s not ready. Not now, not today.
But soon, maybe… maybe one day he’ll discover the push he needs.
Eventually. Maybe.
Hopefully.
Scott averts himself from that specific line of thought and instead thinks back on his conversation with Hollander, a bit compulsively maybe, over what exactly he said… but he finds himself snorting when he remembers what Hollander said to him, his little chirp before saying goodbye.
And yeah, okay. Scott still knows he shouldn’t have said it at all, and he definitely shouldn’t have said it how he did.
But Hollander really is starting to sound like Rozanov.
Though this time, when he thinks of the two of them, thinks of how Hollander reacted to Scott’s words, thinks of that wild, high-octane look in Hollander’s eyes… he thinks that Hollander and Rozanov might be much more compatible than Scott had initially given them credit for.