Big Bang

September, 2020
Ottawa

Whether it was North America or Europe, the first day of training camp was pure chaos. Everyone knew this. An MLH club’s camp was like every tryout for every team twenty-four year old forward Derek Briggs had ever played on rolled into one. There were evaluations off the ice: physicals and baseline fitness tests, interviews with coaches and training staff scheduled around that, even nutritional evals. Camp was done for the day by the time he'd even come close to smelling the ice, and everyone was expected—even the undrafted hopefuls like him—to go to Zane Boodram’s house for a cookout.

So, Derek went. He hung out with the other rookies and prospects, listened to them yap about ECHL, OHL, WHL, whatever alphabet soup league they were in, laid low, drank half a Molson and left once people broke off to play video games and sewer ball and whatever other activities. Nobody really noticed that he was there. He’d been sure to thank Boodram and his wife for hosting when he arrived, so he'd done his part.

The truth about training camp was that of the sixty or so guys there, only twenty would be good enough for the roster, and a lot of those spots, even on a bottomfeeder team like the Cents, were already filled by returning guys like Wyatt Hayes and Ilya Rozanov, or up-and-coming first round picks like Luca Haas. Most of the guys he'd compete with would get shipped back to whatever club they'd left or hang up their skates and go to college or something.

So no, Derek didn't care about making friends with the competition. He could worry about making friends when he made the fucking team.

—

“What the fuck?” Hayes skated out of his net, paddle twacking Derek on the shin pads as he swung around the back of it in a loping arc. “What the fuck was that, huh?”

“Lucky shot,” Derek muttered.

“Lucky shot,” Hayes repeated dubiously, following him all the way to the blue line, shaking his head. “He says it's a lucky fucking shot.”

“Alright fellas, let's reset,” Coach Wiebe barked, calling them back to order. Derek nodded, weaving his way through the players yet to run the drill and stopped at the end of line. Eventually, Wiebe blew the whistle and the drill carried on.

Four minutes later, a wall of pads and muscle hit him like a freight train, the thick bar of an arm coming up around him to hold him upright against the unsuspecting contact. It was instantly a scene, all the guys around them making a wide circle to better see what's happening.

“Hazy says this little fucker does my move better than me,” chirps the man holding him, with his very obvious Russian accent. If the contact hadn't made it very apparent, this would have. “Pretty ballsy to do captain’s move on first day.”

Derek rolled his eyes toward the rafters. “Didn't know I needed permission to shoot backhand,” he returned, trying and failing to shake himself loose.

Rozanov’s arm around him tightened, pulling him out of line, toward the unused end of the rink. “Ah, ah. Why you try to run away? We are just talking, huh?”

If they're just talking, Derek's a fucking figure skater.

He's pushed away from Rozanov a second later, the Centaurs' captain gesturing to one of the goalies stretching along the boards, waiting for their turn to swap into the drill. “You. Thirty-one. In net, please.”

The goalie, some AHL guy, Derek thought, drifted over to the net and squared up, holding his glove in the air to signal to Rozanov that he's ready.

“Show me,” Rozanov demanded.

“It was a drill with offense and defense. I just shot where the opening was.”

“Should be easier, then.” Derek stared at him for a second too long. “Fucking do it if you want chance to make team,” Rozanov roared in his face.

That got him moving. “Fine. Jesus.” He collected a puck near center ice and passed it to Rozanov, assuming he'd play the part of the winger in this drill. Rozanov flew alongside him, the two of them passing the puck back and forth easily enough before striding toward the net.

The goalie had a five hole the size of the old Land Rover that Derek drove around, but Rozanov wanted to see him do a fucking Rozanov so he ignored his instincts, cut sharply across the crease, and lifted the puck up and over the goaltender’s pad, pinging the inside the net with a clang against the inside of the crossbar and down.

“There,” he said, back slamming against the boards. His eyebrows rose. “Happy?”

Rozanov, who had stopped short of the goal line, wasn't. He looked irritated, but Derek couldn't figure out why. He'd done as Rozanov had asked him.

“What's your name, forty-eight? Why have I never heard of you?”

“Derek Briggs. I play for Växjö.”

“Växjö? Where the fuck is that?”

“SHL.”

A shadow crossed Rozanov’s face. “Sweden, huh?”

Derek nodded. He thought about mentioning that he hadn't been drafted, but wondered if that was something Rozanov would hold against him. Undrafted guys were lucky to get invited to camp. They almost never played games in the MLH.

Rozanov’s eyes seemed to search his. They darted back and forth in little micro-movements, looking for something. “Get back in line, Derek Briggs,” Rozanov grunted, dismissing him.

“Yes, Captain,” Derek said, ignoring the looks he got from the other players and coaching staff.

Rozanov didn't avoid him after that, which was good, but he didn't talk to Derek, either. He probably didn't really have a need to since Derek spent the next week lumped in with some other guys who felt like hopefuls for the bottom six.

Working with these guys was fine, of course it was, but it was kind of boring. They were slower, still developing confidence and presence. They didn't click easily, didn't really have chemistry.

Obviously the Swedish league was inferior to MLH in terms of skill, but Derek had been on the top line of the best team in his league for a reason. He'd earned that spot, just like he'd earn a place here.

December, 2020
New York City

December was not Derek’s most wonderful time of the year, and no amount of tacky Christmas decorations could change it. If you took that, added that today being the anniversary of the reason why December was his least favorite month and the fact that he'd played like absolute trash earlier this afternoon, it was no surprise he’d made his excuses to avoid going out with the team and instead found his way to the Kingfisher.

“Hey kid,” a very cute bartender in glasses who couldn't be that much older than he is began, palms flat so he can lean over the beat-up counter of the bar, “You, uh, got somebody we can call?”

“I’m good,” he replied, maybe a little slurred, but he’s been drunker than this before. And he was. The alternative was not being good, or worse, bad, which he staunchly refused to be. “Never better.”

“I try telling myself that in the mirror too,” the bartender huffed. “I don't think it's ever helped.”

Derek laughed. “That bad?”

“Well, it's not great,” Kip supposed, speaking loud enough to be heard over the other patrons down the bar who were yelling at some west coast game. It was late in the third. “I’m Kip.”

“Derek.” It took him two tries to actually shake Kip’s hand. Maybe he was a little more than a little drunk. Shit. “I’m really fine.”

“Hey man, no judgement from me. I've got an on-again-off-again who swears he loves me but not enough to come out of the closet.”

“I think you're telling me this because you think I'm drunk enough to forget,” he told Kip, who smiled guiltily.

“Well, I have watched Kyle—” he waved a hand at the man laughing with the loudmouths at the end of the bar, “give you six shots of tequila and at least four IPAs in three hours.”

Derek scoffed. “All things considered,” he spat, “This is tame.”

“I believe you. Hell, I'm sure you can hold your liquor and you'll be right as rain by tomorrow, but I don't feel comfortable letting you waltz out into the night alone. What if you pass out in a snowbank or something?”

“Call it natural selection?” Derek tried.

Kip rolled his eyes. “I know you have a phone. You got a buddy who can walk you back to your hotel?”

“How do you know I’m—”

“A very sad man in town for a sporting event?” His eyebrows rose to echo the question and he jerked his thumb back at the old flat screen behind him where ESPN was showing highlights from the game. The New York Admirals had destroyed them, six to two. To add to his misery, he got to watch Scott Hunter strip him of the puck and score from a different angle. Motherfucker.

“I think you mean an unqueer queer,” he corrected, trying for humor. “A morose homosexual, if you will.” Fuck. He could hear how thick his voice sounded. “One that's shit at puck,” he finished, because apparently he'd lost whatever brain filter that allowed him to keep his mouth shut.

Kip shushed him, casting a stern look toward the regulars talking to Kyle. “You might not want to say that too loudly,” he admonished, whisper-shouting.

“What? That I'm gay?” Louder, Derek announced, ‘I'm not fucking closeted.” He shoved back against the bar, intent on walking out and marching back to his hotel because fuck this, and wound up on his ass in a puddle of melted slush.

—

Kip had given him a towel to sit on and shoved him into a booth near the radiator, where he must have fallen asleep, because he opened his eyes at a shadow eclipsing his eyelids and found himself face to face with his captain. Ilya Rozanov was here, at a gay bar in Brooklyn. No fucking way.

He closed his eyes again, hoping it was some drunken illusion, because fuck.

“Derek Briggs.” Roz’s massive hand pats his cheek, soft at first, then a little harder. “Briggsy, come on, open eyes.”

Derek held out a moment before he accepted his fate. It wasn’t a dream or a delusion, he was caught. Their eyes met again.

“There you are, eh?” Roz patted his cheek one last time and pushed a glass of water toward him. “Drink. Kip let me order some pizzas. You could stand to add a few pounds and grease will help.”

“Why are you here? I thought you guys were going to that club with the—”

The glass got nudged a little closer, interrupting his gesture that probably didn't suggest slutty techno Christmas in the way he'd been hoping it would.

Roz said, “Drink water and I answer.”

Derek drank.

It hadn’t been enough, because Roz gestured for him to continue until he’d downed half the glass.

“Well?”

“I called him,” Kip said, plunking two delicious smelling pizzas onto the beat up tabletop between them.

“One is for you and Kyle,” Rozanov told him. The other bartender’s head popped up from behind the counter when Roz said his name. “As thank you for calling and letting us stay past close.”

Kip smiled at him. He really was cute, in a nerdy sort of way. Not really Derek’s type, though. Too pushy. “I would’ve walked him to his hotel, but I figured it might not give a good impression given where I work.”

“No?”

“This is a gay bar,” Kip explained carefully, flicking a quick gaze over at Derek before his eyes narrowed on Ilya.

“And? Alcohol in gay bar is the same as everywhere else,” Roz said, matter of fact.

“He’s trying to tell you that if someone figured out I was a hockey player, they’d probably think I was gay. And, if anyone saw you come in here, they’ll probably think—”

“I can sneak you out through the back door,” Kip advised. “No biggie.”

“There’s a joke to be had there,” Kyle sassed, coming around Kip to steal the top box. “Thank you for the pizza, Russian hockey daddy.”

“You are welcome, bratty bartender,” Roz chirped back.

Kyle laughed so loud it sounded like a squeal. “Oh my god, this is incredible.”

“And we’re never going to tell anyone,” Kip hissed at Kyle, grabbing his elbow to keep him from flitting back behind the bar with his prize. “This is a safe space, whether you’re gay or not.”

“Yes, obviously, Christopher. But it’s not like anyone’s going to believe me if I say Ilya Rozanov’s gay.” He waggled his eyebrows at Roz. “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

It’s not the compliment Kyle thinks it is, Derek decided. He busied himself with chugging the rest of his water lest he blurt out something a little too honest for polite conversation like suggesting Roz is bothered by it, even if he wasn’t sure exactly which part it had upset him. He might be three sheets to the wind but he hasn’t lost his survival instincts. It was always a little risky with the Russian guys, but Derek was pretty sure Rozanov wasn’t a bigot or a homophobe.

His mentor back in Växjö had told him that Ilya Rozanov was an asshole, but a good man. Someone trustworthy. It was one of the reasons Derek didn’t stay in Sweden when he’d gotten the invite to training camp. The others were a little more straightforward. He might be a loner, but he’s just as competitive as the rest of the guys in the room. Possibly more. He’s got shit to prove to himself and everybody else.

“I am very popular. Far more than Scott Hunter.”

Kip looked away. Kyle blew a raspberry.

Derek blinked because what the fuck was that reaction, but Roz kicked him under the table.

“Is late. Eat pizza and clean bar so you can go. I will pay for taxi home.”

“We’re like a fifteen minute walk,” Kip said. “It’s fine.”

“And it is cold outside, even for big strong Russians with ice in their blood.” Roz gave Kip a stern, kind of expectant look, one that he kept up until Kyle dragged him away.

“They’re going to call you Russian hockey daddy forever,” Derek mused, lifting the lid of their pizza box. Trying to whisper—he hoped he was whispering, anyway, he continued, “Why’d he get so weird about Hunter?”

“Hunter called me to say you were here,” Roz murmured. “You would not give phone to call emergency contact and Kip used to be his smoothie man. Very lucky they did not throw you in snowbank and let you nap for an hour while I got from hotel to here.”

“I thought you were at that rave thing.” He shoved a slice of pizza into his mouth and moaned. It was so good. He inhaled it and reached for another.

“I did not feel like it,” Rozanov admitted. “Why try to drown yourself at gay bar?”

Being drunk made it easier to say, he supposed, because he barely had time to process the words before he said, “Anniversary of my family disowning me.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“Among other things,” he offered cryptically.

“Things like?” Rozanov gestured to the pizza. “We have lots of pizza and time.”

Derek didn’t really want to get into all the business with his parents, the father he wasn’t actually related to, his mother’s not so accidental entrapment with marriage, and the way Derek had never been able to meet their expectations, but how it’d gotten worse once his parents realized he was so very clearly another man’s son. Derek had only ever told one person about all that, in a situation not too terribly different from this one.

Fifteen minutes later, Roz holding a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth for most of it, his expression some nebulous combination of anger and understanding, Derek had told a second. Stupid fucking alcohol. “I’m never drinking again,” he concluded.

Roz dropped his partially eaten slice back into the box. “Fuck your family. If they are why you drink, you shouldn’t.”

He scoffed. “I hate feeling out of control, I just didn’t want—” he looked away. “I spent the last couple years with my roommate. He knew, so I didn’t have to pretend, you know? If we had a game, he made sure the guys left me alone. If we didn’t, he’d order all my favorite foods and we’d watch movies until we fell asleep on the couch.”

Gently, Roz says, “Sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” Derek sniffed. Oh fuck no, he was absolutely not going to cry. Those tears could fuck all the way off. “It was.”

“And is okay if roommate is boyfriend,” he added, making sure he meets Derek’s eyes. “Is not my secret to tell but you are good with me and with team, yes?”

“Thanks, man.” He doesn’t even know how to unpack all that. Hell, he’s not even sure if it even really matters. “You’re a good captain.”

“I am best captain and best hockey player,” Rozanov corrected, smiling when Derek swiped at his eyes and laughed.

January 2021
Tampa, FL

The plane touched down with an awful groan, smoking ominously but intact. Everyone cheered like they had won the fucking cup, then promptly burst into tears. At some point Derek realized he had both arms around Luca Haas, who was weeping into his neck like a child. They had put up the armrest between them to be closer. Derek rocked them back and forth, whispering that it was okay and they were safe, that they'd made it through his own tears.

He'd noticed his fellow rookie over the last few months, how could he not? They weren't on the same line—Luca played wing on Rozanov's line while Derek had moved from fourth line winger to second line center due to injuries, but they ran drills together sometimes when Luca could get Rozanov to stop following him around like an overprotective big brother figure.

Luca was polite and quiet, but sharp. He had an eye for the game that not a lot of guys did. He was always watching and waiting for his moment, all gifted hands and a fuckton of poise. He was something special. He’d gone second overall a couple years back for a reason. He had natural talent, the kind that made superstars like Rozanov want to be his mentor.

They had chemistry on the ice. He'd held Luca's hand while the plane descended shakily and thought, I wanted to see where this goes while Luca had squeezed back tight enough to hurt and whispered I want my mom and Derek I don't want to die, don't you fucking let go. He was so fucking pure and kind, the kind of person Derek wanted to get to know more.

Derek swiped at the back of his hand and looked across the aisle. Roz had his eyes on his phone screen, his expression agonized, but he blinked away the glossy sheen to his eyes without shedding a single tear and hopped to his feet. Derek watched as he physically shed his anxiety for the mantle of a leader.

“Is everybody good?” He asked in a booming voice before proceeding to go down the roster like Derek's fourth grade teacher took attendance: shouting names and waiting for confirmation of life from each person. The only exception was that Derek’s teacher didn't say I love you to each of his classmates afterward.

“Rookies?” Rozanov finished, turning his expectant gaze onto them. Luca still had a hand fisted in Derek’s shirt, and Derek hadn't stopped hugging Luca to his chest. He was probably holding on too tightly, but Luca didn't seem to mind. “Luca?”

“Okay, Haas?” Derek asked him, the words mostly lost in the younger man’s hair.

Luca nodded against him.

“Derek?”

Derek nodded. “We're okay, Roz.”

Rozanov stepped across the aisle to pat Luca on the back. “I love you,” he said, then leaned over him to knock his forehead against Derek's, “I love you.”

He pulled back, surveying the cabin like it was his kingdom. “Okay,” he said softly, as if to himself, before raising his voice again, “Now we go out there, heads held high because we fucking lived,” The boys cheered, “Take bus to hotel and get drunk in lobby bar together.”

The boys roared their agreement. Luca nodded and pulled back, but didn't let go of Derek’s shirt until it was his turn to shuffle out into the aisle. Roz waved Derek on after him, leaning back against the bulkhead and looking down at his phone. He looked small, Derek thought. Small and maybe lonely?

He couldn't help but ask, “You good, Roz?”

“Yes,” Roz said, sighing heavily, “I am. Go now. I will catch up later.” He dropped his gaze back to his phone.

Derek nodded. Then, before he could psych himself out of acting (plenty of their teammates had shouted similar declarations just moments ago), he leaned across the aisle and gripped Roz’s shoulder. “Love you, Roz,” he murmured, like the man had done for the rest of them.

Rozanov stared at him for a second too long before a very fake grin slid over his face. “Of course you do, Briggsy,” Roz told him. “Now stop holding up line. Luca needs his shadow.”

Luca had been waiting for him halfway down the aisle, but he'd turned back, lower lip sucked between his teeth.

“Right,” Derek relented, looking between them before following Luca toward the front of the plane.

They had to walk from the runway to the terminal, so they fell into step beside one another and followed the waving arms of the airport security people. Derek made it about eight steps before throwing his arm around Luca’s shoulders. Luca's arm wound around his waist, and they walked like that for a bit.

“He was messaging someone when we thought we were—” Luca swallowed and looked away.

“Roz?”

“Yeah.”

What Luca didn't say, but Derek was pretty sure they both knew, was that Roz hadn't been like they were expecting. They were expecting some crazy wild party animal, not this half rockstar half golden retriever type character who definitely got laid, but in a way that was… weirdly sex positive and respectful, and definitely not as frequent as most of the league thought.

Most nights, Ilya Rozanov, the best player in Major League Hockey, went home alone. When they were in Ottawa, he got up early on off days to volunteer at a local animal shelter and was always involved whenever some of the guys paid a visit to the local children's hospital.

He was an asshole, but he was also a good person. A damn good captain, too: The kind of guy who turned up shitty dive bars to scrape knuckleheads like Derek out of bars at stupid o’clock after road games and threatened to kick down his door the morning after when he was too hungover to get up with his alarm and almost missed the bus to the airport, and didn't give a fuck about his sexuality.

“I hope whoever he messaged answered him,” Luca murmured.

Derek closed his eyes for a moment and tried to picture Roz’s phone screen before it shut off, but he couldn't. “Me too,” he said, squeezing Luca a little tighter.

The hand Luca had wrapped around his hip flexed in response.

—

It was late when his phone rang. Luca was out in the hall, talking to his mother in soft tones that were rounded out into something soft and soothing through the wall. The TV was on mute, playing some late night rerun of some sitcom Derek had never seen before, captions on. In the bed opposite his, LaPointe and Holmberg were passed out back to back, Bergy under the blankets and Pointer on top of them. At the foot of his bed, Young was quietly snoring on the cot he’d requested from the hotel’s concierge.

None of them wanted to be alone. Hell, even Roz and Bood were bunking together, foregoing the privilege of private hotel rooms—a perk of earning a letter. Even Barrett had gone off after Harris while Derek and his extended gaggle of roommates were at the bar. He was pretty sure Roz and Barrett thought they were being sneaky about sneaking out and having a heart-to-heart. Maybe they were, or at least they would have been if Derek had been drinking like the rest of them. He hadn’t. He hadn’t actually drank since Roz talked to him in New York last month.

It wasn’t like his drinking was a problem—Roz had checked to make sure in the days after his late night at the Kingfisher—but Derek didn’t like feeling out of control. There had been enough of that in his life already.

Still, what was happening was obvious. Harris himself was obvious, with his rainbow pins and dazzling personality, so of course he’d drawn the attention of Troy Barrett, the sad, closeted bastard Derek’s gaydar would have pinged from outer space. He was something of an expert on those, having been one himself for a bit. He wondered how quickly Barrett would make a move, if their near death experience had changed things for him. After tonight, Barrett had probably trauma bonded with them enough to put the drama that clung into perspective after being more or less run out of Toronto.

Derek’s phone stopped ringing then started again almost immediately. The vibration was a soft pulse against his thigh. He looked down at it, then around at the room. His teammates were blissfully unconscious, and if Luca came back in from the hall, he’d step out.

He lifted it up. The contact read ✨MOTHER✨, but it most certainly was not his mom on the phone. The response would probably be similar if he had a good relationship with his mother, though. He tapped to accept and held the phone up to his ear.

The caller was muttering to himself. “Bigrig, pickup your fucking—” a pause. Derek breathed. His former teammate must have heard it and realized the call had connected. “Oh.” Another pause, this one charged with emotion because he’d realized Derek had answered. “Fuck. Say something, Derek.”

“Hey, Hollzy,” he said softly. “I’m alright.”

“Fuck you, I know that. I saw the news. Why did I have to learn that you almost died from ESPN! Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”

Shane Hollander, Derek’s former roommate of two years slash linemate slash mentor, was the strangest man he’d ever met. He was anxious and particular, incredibly awkward, way too earnest, ridiculously literal, and very difficult to get a read on emotionally. Right now, for example: He was acting really angry. And he was, of that Derek was certain, but it was worry that was the actual emotion he was trying to convey. He worried about everything.

That worry made it more real, made Derek’s hands shake a little with anxiety that finally bled its way to the surface. He tried to brush it off. “I didn’t want to wake you up in the middle of the night to say I didn’t die,” he admitted. “Little too close to home. Plus, what if I got on the team bus and it crashed between the airport and hotel?” He sounded manic to his own ears.

“Tell me you’re not alone right now.”

Derek huffed. “No, Mom, I’m not alone. I’m talking to you in a room with three of my teammates—they’re already asleep. My platonic bedmate for the evening is outside talking to his family in Zurich—also a teammate. It’s practically a cuddle pile in here.”

“Did you make sure none of your teammates are?”

“Cap made sure before he and Boodram left us at the bar. We even had a good cry about it and everything.”

He could hear the sound of the espresso machine in Shane’s apartment, the sound of the silverware drawer opening and closing. “Good,” he said, finally. “Nobody’s hurt?”

“Couple bumps and bruises from the descent, but nothing major. Just mildly traumatized and not looking forward to getting back on a plane in thirty-six hours.”

“Plane travel is approximately one hundred ninety times safer than traveling by bus or car.”

“Somehow I knew you’d say that,” Derek groaned theatrically, leaning back against the pillows. He swallowed hard, throat working against the sudden uprising staged by his tumultuous emotions. “You always know just what to say.”

“Lies and flattery? Now I know you're shaken up. You hate when I break out the statistics.”

He laughed quietly. It sounded wet, but Shane didn’t call him on it, even when his voice hitched mid-sentence. “You about to head to practice?”

“Gameday, yeah. Malmö’s in town. Your match against Tampa still on for tomorrow?” he paused. “I think it's tomorrow for us both?”

“Still tomorrow," Derek confirmed. "Got a day to recover, I guess, but I don’t know that we’re going to play very well.” He let his head thump back against the headboard. “Not that we’ve been playing good to begin with.”

“You’re playing fine. This trip’s probably a wash because of the whole near-death experience, but like, give it time, okay? Your season’s not a lost cause just yet.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” He sighed. “There’s no spark. We’re way more talented than we’re playing, even I can fucking see it. I just don’t get why we’re not putting together a complete sixty.”

“You’ll figure it out. Things will click eventually.” He heard the sound of the milk frother, a dull whir and hiss. Shane always drank an oatmilk cappuccino on gameday. “You want me to stay on the line with you until you fall asleep?”

That was the kind of thing Shane did. He never made Derek (or any of their teammates) feel stupid or childish about it, either. “Maybe just until Haas gets back?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think the boys will like it if you show up at the rink with me on the line. I don’t think that’ll make for a productive skate.”

“They won’t mind. It was a bit of a fire drill. Arty and Mats had to tell them to stand down in the group chat. They’re worried. Coach, too.”

“Not as much as you.”

Shane laughed. “No, definitely not as much as me. You still got me saved in your phone as—” “Yeah.”

“Figures.”

They went silent for a while. Derek could hear Shane wandering around the apartment, gathering his keys and wallet, dumping his cappuccino into a travel mug with extreme care and rinsing out his usual yellow mug to rest on top of the machine for use tomorrow. Little details.

Derek was glad he'd gone to camp and made the team. He was damn proud of himself for what he was starting to build with the Centaurs. In moments like these it didn't make him miss what he'd had in Sweden any less. That room was easy and comfortable. He had a mentor in the room, versus his and Shane's weekly phone call.

“So. Haas, huh?”’

“What?”

“Derek,” Shane said pointedly, and fuck him for not missing it. He almost always missed this sort of thing, so why was this the one time he didn’t?

“It’s not—” He double checked to make sure his teammates were still sleeping. When he continued, the words came out in a hushed whisper. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

“You have time, kid. I saw you guys on that power play last week. You should be on PP2 together, especially now that Barrett’s on the roster.”

“Probably,” Derek conceded, breathing a sigh of relief. Of course Shane was talking about on-ice chemistry. “Roz is hell bent on mentoring him. Can barely get time in practice to figure out if we’d actually fit..”

“Rozanov is probably bored,” Shane replied mildly. Derek held back his commentary on why that probably was—Shane was happy to help Derek with professional advice, but didn't like to talk about himself, especially his MLH tenure. “Doesn’t mean he can’t let the kids have a turn for a couple games. Maybe suggest it?”

“Maybe.”

Shane huffed, hearing his uncertainty. “Or don’t, I’m not your mom.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Agree to disagree.”

“Asshole.” Shane sounded just as amused.

Derek looked up from the weird floral pattern on the duvet as the lock to the room whirred and clicked, door swinging open to admit Luca. His cheeks were pink and his eyes red. Shane hadn't been speaking, but he heard the sound of a car door and keys jingling.

“My roomie’s back,” He breathed. “I should probably go.”

“Okay, kid. Call me any time, okay? Day or night. I’ll check my phone between periods.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Exasperated, Shane replied, “You’re welcome, Derek. I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll tell the guys you’re fine and not to text you until after our game tonight.”

“Thanks. I, uh, just—thanks for checking in.” He could feel his lip tremble a little. Luca edged closer, concern creasing his brow. “Love you, man.”

Shane was silent for a moment, suggesting he wasn’t the only one feeling emotional. “Love you too. Talk to you soon.”

He hung up the phone, sighing to himself before looking back at Luca. “Your family okay?”

“I think it was easier for them because they were asleep through it,” Luca admitted, “It kind of felt like I was overreacting. Was that your family on the phone?”

“No. Uh, no family for me,” he said, scooting over so Luca could have more room. “Just my old roommate-slash-liney back in Sweden. He's a worrier, so me and some of the younger guys would refer to him as our mother. The vets on the team thought it was a riot, so it stuck.”

Luca nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Your Roz, then.”

“Yeah, kind of, except you'd have made it no matter what. I don't know that I'd have gotten the invite to camp without him pushing me.” He shrugged.

A hand touched his cheek. “You would have made it. I don't know how you went undrafted.”

Derek didn't have the heart to tell him that the reason he'd gone undrafted was more to do with family issues than talent. He hadn't even told Roz that bit, though he wouldn't be surprised if his captain could guess at it. Maybe in some other universe he would have gone late in the third round like they'd expected before he’d been forced to withdraw from the OHL due to ‘familial obligations.’

“That's kind of you to say,” he settled on. It was easier, for now. They'd had enough of the rough stuff for a while. He pulled back from the touch reluctantly. Luca's hand was warm. “Do you want over the blankets or under? I'll grab one of the extras from the closet.”

“I think the blankets are big enough for both of us,” Luca said plainly, sliding into them on the far side of the bed. His brow crinkled in confusion. It was unfairly adorable.

“Yeah, but, uh.” He coughed, quietly, and looked away. This part was always awkward. “So, uh, I'm not straight and I, uh… I don't want you to find out after the fact and be weirded out.” Luca didn’t seem like that type, but hockey was hockey, at the end of the day, and its reputation for being one of the most conservative sports existed. He’d rather not find out one of his teammates was a piece of shit, but it was kind of unavoidable in this instance. “I obviously wouldn’t, y’know, but—”

“Oh!” It wasn't a bad oh. The sound of it was just punched out of him by surprise. Luca's face did something complicated, processing, then he swallowed. Nodded. “I mean, I kind of figured,” he said hastily. “And, uh, me, too.”

“Cool.” They shared a look, as if recognizing that little extra bit of each other for what it was.

Luca ducked his head, mumbling, “I’m also a pretty tactile sleeper. I might be wrapped around you like an octopus when you wake up, so we’d probably have had the reverse of this conversation tomorrow?”

They laughed, quietly, the tense moment breaking.

“I don't mind,” Derek yawned, then explained, “If you’re an octopus.” He got up to pull back the blankets he'd been laying on top of and shimmied in between them. As an afterthought, he rolled over, turning his phone on silent and turning off the lamp between their bed and Bergy’s.

“Do you mind if I leave this one on? Luca's cheeks darkened as he motioned to the lamp on his side. “I don't think I can sleep yet, and I wanted—”

Derek wiggled closer to the middle of the bed. Luca was smaller than him, but nearly two hundred pounds of hockey player, regardless. They were kind of big people, and it was only a queen. He didn't have to go very far to be close. “You draw, right?”

Luca nodded, grabbing a nice looking sketchpad and equally fancy pencil from the nightstand.

“Draw, if it'll help you turn your brain off. I don't mind.”

“Thanks, Derek.”

They settled, Luca sitting cross legged and leaning against the headboard, Derek on his side, facing him. The sound of pencil on paper was oddly soothing.

He reached out, resting his hand on Luca’s thigh, fingers curling over warm skin and lean muscle. Luca twitched a little, maybe “Okay?”

Luca's drawing hand came down, smoothed back the dark hair falling across Derek’s forehead. “Okay,” he confirmed softly. “Go to sleep.”

February, 2021
Ottawa, ON

The media never asked to speak to Derek.

Well, there was that one time Derek roughed up some AHL call-up in Seattle for going after Luca that they had, but it wasn’t like he’d done anything particularly interesting. He’d mostly acted to keep Rozanov out of the box for retaliation and also because nobody went after the star rookie without being dealt with. He’d embarrassed himself by saying something similar, which prompted Wyatt Hayes to point out that Derek was also a rookie, no matter how many years he played in Europe, and the guys kept poking their heads out of the locker room to flutter their eyelashes at him.

He had also let slip to the correspondent from whatever news station had been polite enough not to comment on his blush that some of his former teammates had nicknamed him Bigrig, because he wasn’t afraid to play a physical game, which Bergy or Pointer had overheard and gotten the boys to chant afterward. It was kind of nice to have that nickname back again. Briggsy was fine, just generic. He liked feeling like he had a presence in the room, a little spot of personality.

(Luca had laughed and called him extra when he’d admitted this, saying it made him sound like one of those yellow toy dump trucks Chounard’s kid liked to run into everyone’s feet at team gatherings. Derek had waggled his eyebrows, reminding Luca that a dump truck was slang for having a nice ass, so what was Luca actually trying to say? Luca had shaken his head, refusing to inflate Derek’s ego, but he had caught Luca looking a couple times after that.)

It had taken a bit—a couple months, a life or death situation, who was counting—but Derek had finally felt like he’d settled in. He liked his teammates, the energy in the room, the way the guys were so tightly woven together under Roz’s leadership. It felt like a family. Like they were building something really, really special. The guys were starting to believe they could actually make a run. Their numbers on the scoresheet were starting to reflect that belief. It probably wouldn’t be this year, but that didn’t mean, ito borrow Roz’s words on the subject, that they couldn’t fuck around and find out.

They came out of Florida swinging, went on a ten game heater, dropped one to Saint Louis after another (not as) turbulent flight south, and came home to host the All Star Game.

Nobody really gave a shit about Derek—he wasn’t an All Star, but Rozanov had insisted that his team would be present, that they would show all the other teams in the league how to be good hosts. It being Ottawa in February limited their options in terms of activities, though. The club scene in Ottawa wasn’t quite what it was in Toronto or Montreal, either, so mostly it meant spending a couple days at the arena followed by nights at Zane Boodram’s house, where he taught the MLH’s top talent what actual spice was like while Rozanov laughed at them or breaking off for dinner then meeting up at Monk’s, the Centaurs’ bar of choice.

So when the news broke that night, on the eve of the All-Star Game, at just after seven in the evening, Derek was sat the bar with a couple of his teammates and a bunch of the best guys he’d ever play against, most of whom probably would’ve figured him to be a fan rather than a competitor if the bar hadn’t been bought out from Wednesday to Sunday. He watched the news hit like a car crash in slow motion.

The TVs in the bar were always muted, except during Ottawa playoff games. Just last week Roz had joked that they ought to test them to make sure the speakers still worked, because they would be needing them soon enough.

“Turn the volume on, please,” someone asked one of the bartenders. Derek was pretty sure it was Scott Hunter, because the voice was loud enough to hear, but still very kind despite sounding panicked and urgent. He heard the little trill of Sportscentre’s breaking news beat, followed by—yup, that had been Scott Hunter—yelling, “Everybody shut the fuck up!"

The headline beside the news correspondent read: ANDUIN & SPEZZA FILES DISCRIMINATION LAWSUIT AGAINST MONTREAL METROS HOCKEY CLUB, MLH ON BEHALF OF FORMER PLAYER SHANE HOLLANDER.

What the correspondent said was worse: “We interrupt your NBA coverage with breaking news out of Montreal where attorneys Anduin and Spezza have filed a lawsuit on behalf of former Montreal Metros Captain Shane Hollander. The eighty-one page brief filed earlier this afternoon outlines allegations of discrimination, defamation, and improper breach of contract surrounding Hollander’s June 2017 departure from the hockey club.”

Somebody behind him dropped a glass. It shattered, but nobody said anything. Hell, it didn’t feel like anyone was breathing. Pressed shoulder to thigh as they were in the overcrowded bar, nobody could see Luca’s hand where it had slipped off the countertop to grab his knee and squeeze hard.

Derek could hear what the woman on screen was saying. Aside from the allegations, she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know: Shane Hollander, since the day he’d arrived to Växjö in Fall of 2017, had been very upfront about his sexuality. He’d been warned up front not to mention anything about his departure from Major League Hockey by the veteran players in the room as well as his coach. Hollander had only offered that the Metros had terminated his contract, it was what it was, and he just wanted to play hockey. Everyone knew something had gone on, you don’t just fire one of the best players in the game mid-contract—nevermind the fact that it had been messy enough that he’d gone to Sweden instead of a competitor, but he sidestepped their prodding like the media trained darling he was, and eventually the guys let it go. Everybody knew Hollander was too good for the league and it had been clear Rozanov was bored now that he was alone at the top—why else would he have gone to Ottawa, of all fucking places?—but like Hollander had said, one of those rare times someone overstepped, it was what it was, and it was over now. For the two years Derek had played with him, he’d been very serious about pushing younger guys to their full potential and taking Växjö to back-to-back championships, virtually incognito since he’d left North America.

Sweden loved hockey—the SHL produced plenty of top end talent, and Derek wanted to be included in that number—but it didn’t have the same notoriety MLH was known for.

As if to prove his point, the feed changed to a highlight reel of a game played by the Växjö Lakers during Pride Week, the team and refs outfitted in jerseys with rainbow gradient logos and other pride specific accents. Number 24 streaked toward the net, passes flying back and forth with his left winger, Larssenberg, to confuse the defending team before he backhanded the puck high blocker. The opposing goalie hadn’t even had time to react, that’s how disgusting it was.

“Motherfucker,” someone swore.

“I didn’t know he was still playing,” remarked a defenseman on Philadelphia.

The comments kept coming, little burbles of sound, hushed and overlapping. Everyone had an opinion, most of them shocked or speculative.

Derek was acutely aware that he was very glad he hadn’t been in North America when the news of Hollander’s contract termination dropped. He remembered seeing the coverage from afar, the speculation all over the place: people suspected him to be mentally ill or guilty of something: actual crime, drug and alcohol addiction, performance enhancing drug use. The Metros, Commissioner Crowell, and the rest of MLH, had simply decided to act like he’d never existed. He was a ghost, a blank space where a legend had been. It had only reinforced the rumors, kept people fabricating stories on the edges of things.

Luca nudged his shoulder. Their eyes met, Luca jerking his chin to indicate something happening a ways down the bar. “Look,” he whispered.

Scott Hunter had tears in his eyes. Beside him, Winnipeg’s Hayden Pike—who had been traded early in the season following Hollander’s departure—was openly sobbing.

A couple steps behind them, Rozanov was standing as still as death itself, right hand extended, hand curled like it had been holding a pint glass. Derek would bet it was the one that had shattered a moment earlier.

“Didn’t you play in the Swedish league?” Luca murmured, point blank in his ear. His expression was worried.

Derek cut him off before he could say anything else. “Yeah,” he said, looking around to make sure nobody was looking at them. “I don’t—not here.”

“HUNTER!” Roz seemed to have come back to himself, his bellowing shocking most of the guys around them into silence. “What the fuck is this? Fucking tell me.”

“Roz—” That was Cliff Marleau, captain of the Boston Raiders, who pushed his way through the crowd that was shoving up towards the bar. “Roz, brother, you gotta chill.”

“I’ll fucking chill when old man tells me what the fuck is going on,” Roz sneered.

Hunter turned to face him. “I just found out, same as you.”

Roz bristled, eyes dangerous, jaw flexing. “You’ve been the player rep for the PA for a hundred fucking years, what do you mean you didn’t fucking know?”

“Shit,” Luca said, just as Roz charged.

Marleau grabbed him, hooked his hands under Roz’s armpits and held fast. “Calm the fuck down, Rozy. Look at him. He’s as fucked up about this as you are.”

Roz’s chest was heaving, eyes darting back and forth, incensed and wild.

“I didn’t even fucking know, either,” Pike blurted, eyes red. “Fuck.” “Of course you didn’t fucking know, Pike,” Roz threw over his shoulder at Pike. “You’re like half a fucking hockey player without Hollander carrying your weight.”

“Come on, Roz. Please.” Marleau sounded a little desperate. Derek didn’t blame him. It was damn near impossible to hold Rozanov down. He was fucking strong.

“I didn’t know, Roz. I swear.” Hunter held up his hands in surrender. As Marleau had suggested, he looked just as shaken as Roz did, in his own way. “What I do know is that I’m going to call Crowell and find out what the fuck is happening.”

Shaking himself free of Marleau, who rolled his eyes but put a hand on his shoulder like it was an insurance policy, Roz nodded tightly.

Hunter looked around the room and continued loud enough for all of them to hear. “In the meantime, I’m going to suggest that you stay out of this. Your organization or the MLH will probably issue talking points in the next hour because most of us have played with him. You’re big boys and can make your own decisions, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you to follow the rules or say no comment. Leave your opinions out of it.” He exhaled, looking like Roz had actually managed to punch him. “And since Rozanov so kindly pointed out that I’m the lead player ambassador for the MLHPA, a word of advice: Crowell doesn’t play nice with guys who run their mouths.”

Rozanov’s eyes flashed, seeming to recognize what Derek did.

Crowell doesn’t play nice with guys who run their mouths, Scott Hunter had said, like it wasn’t the most obvious, damning thing.

Even so, Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, reined himself in. “You fucking heard the man,” he said.

From there, it was quiet, semi-organized chaos.

A couple moments of trying not to make direct eye contact while shamelessly eavesdropping, Derek said, “We should get out of here,” pulling the rest of their gathered teammates’ attention from the TV.

“No way,” Bergy whined. “I want all the juicy details. Hunter just fucked off to call Crowell and Roz wasn’t far behind him.” Roz was probably going to talk to Wiebe and Harris about how to handle things, Derek guessed. The other captains and alternates were starting to clear out as well. “You know the guys who are left are going to start running their mouths without Hunter to chaperone.”

Luca bit his lip. “Derek’s right, Jason. Whatever’s happening is speculation at best and Roz will kill us if we start spreading rumors.”

“You can’t deny that Rozanov’s better with Hollander in the mix,” LaPointe said. Young, standing behind Bergy and Pointer, nodded, but was quickly distracted by the ongoing tv coverage.

“Obviously, Pointer,” Derek agreed, “But I’m not really interested in finding out which of the guys I look up to are against guys like me in the league.”

Luca’s hand spasmed, reminding Derek who had forgotten it was still on his knee. He covered it with his own, moving it over to Luca’s thigh before anyone else noticed.

“Wait—really?” Bergy looked him up and down, like queerness was something he’d simply failed to see on him.

“It’s not a big deal,” Pointer cut in.

“Obviously,” Bergy backpedaled, seeming to realize his reaction might not have been ideal. “I told you guys about my sister and her wife.”

“Guys, it’s fine. I’m not—” he exhaled, trying to keep things as concise as possible. “I’m not looking to make a big deal about it, given, you know,” he gestured at the TV, “But I think I’d be better off going back to my apartment. Best behavior and all that. Roz loves to remind me that I’m still a rookie, even if I’m the oldest one alive,” he joked. He’d actually called Derek the Scott Hunter of Rookies, but it wasn’t clear if that was a complement or not.

“Want us to come?”

They would, Derek thought. They were a matched set, like triplets separated at birth. It was all completely platonic between them, of course, but they were good people. Derek was proud to call them his teammates and his friends.

“Nah,” Luca said gently, pushing himself off his stool. “You guys hang out and get the details at your own peril. Maybe stick with Hazy or something so you don’t get in too much trouble? I’ll go with Derek.”

“Divide and conquer,” Bergy and Pointer said in unison.

Young added, “Good strategy.”

“Go Cents,” Derek deadpanned.

In rapid succession, all three of them punched him gently in the shoulder. “Later Bigrig, Haasy. Love you guys.” They weren’t quite as in sync on their farewell, but likewise didn’t add something awkward like, you know what I mean or not like that or in a brotherly way, dude.

“Love you too,” Derek said. Luca echoed the sentiment as he pulled Derek away from the throng of players, leading them out the side door and into the cold winter night.

Derek’s car was in the lot, which made it easier. They got into the SUV and puffed out cold, humid breaths while they waited for it to warm up a bit.

“You played with him, didn’t you?”

Luca was looking at him, his eyes bright, reflecting the yellow glow of the parking lot’s lighting. His pale cheeks were pink, the way they always were in the cold. It didn’t sound like an accusation, but a statement of fact.

Exhaling through his nose, Derek rolled his head back against the headrest and over. “You look it up?”

“I’ve known for a little while,” he murmured. “After, y’know.” Shrugging, he added, “I liked Roz growing up, but most people say my play style is more like Hollander. I watched a lot of his film, so I, uh, recognized his voice. On the phone, I mean. That was him, right?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Hesitantly, Luca asked, “Were you guys—” he looked over at Derek, then away. “You know…”

Derek almost smashed his forehead on the steering wheel. “What the fuck? No!” He settled for banging his palms on the steering wheel instead. “Did you miss the part where I called him my mom?”

He pulled out his phone, was halfway to showing Luca the contact, how he had Shane saved in his phone, when Luca’s hands cupped the one shoving the device at him. “I believe you, I just, um,” his cheeks darkened, but he made sure to look Derek in the eyes as he said, “I wanted to make sure,” then trailed off, muttering something that might have been before I made an idiot out of myself.

Their gazes held for a moment too long. Heat trickled down Derek’s spine. He was pretty sure his breath had gotten a little too heavy for polite conversation, but Luca was leaning over the console and Derek felt like he was being pulled in like the tide or something, like a magnet or gravity or some flowery metaphor his brain didn’t have time to parse out.

The kiss was gentle, then bruising. Luca seemed pure and innocent on and off the ice, but this was something else. Something that wanted to be confident, like knew what he wanted and was willing to take it if given the right push. It wasn’t particularly filthy, mostly closed lips, then a flash of teeth to Derek’s lower lip and a tug that had him all but melting into it, but damn. What a kiss.

Derek’s eyes were closed. They’d nearly rolled back in his skull, it was that good. “Fuck.”

Luca grinned at him. “I think the car’s warmed up enough now.”

He sighed, putting the Land Rover in drive. It took a couple traffic lights to work up the courage to ask, “You, er, want to come back to mine?”

The look Luca gave Derek suggested he probably didn’t need to ask, but he wanted to be sure.

“We don’t have to, uh—”

Luca’s hand clamped down on his thigh. There was nothing sweet and innocent about the gleam in his eyes. “And if I want?”

“Fuck, Luca,” Derek swore. His foot pressed a little heavier on the gas pedal. “I want.”

—

Having spent the rest of the All-Star break suitably… distracted, Derek thought he could probably be forgiven for expecting the media to have run its course. Surely Ottawa’s beat reporters had spoken to enough of the league’s veterans and top performers, had gotten their fill of soundbites from far more important people.

Instead, what he’d gotten was an ambush of his own making.

He’d performed well, putting up two goals and an assist in the Centaurs’ 6-3 victory over Toronto in their first game after the break. It was the kind of performance out of a guy who made league minimum that made the press want to talk to him.

Except, Derek wasn’t that fucking stupid.

Harris had come into the room about twenty minutes post game, when half the guys were either in the shower, or out of it already, like Derek had been. He’d looked down at his clipboard and called for Hayes, who nodded and marched out like a good soldier, patting Roz on the shoulder. Roz had spoken pre-game, naturally a hot commodity given his position as best player in the league and Hollander’s former rival, which meant he wouldn’t be asked to go out into the scrum.

“Briggs?”

Derek blinked. Luca, towel clad and pink chested from the heat of the shower, bumped kicked at his shin to get his attention, jerking his head toward where Harris stood next to Troy. “Shit, sorry. What’s up, Harris?”

“Media’s asking for you.”

“Uh.”

“You scored big goals, Briggsy,” Roz said. He was still in his pants and leggings, but he’d kicked his socks off and was naked from the waist up. He’d seemed tired tonight, slower moving. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Is good thing they want to talk with you.”

Luca muttered something under his breath and looked away. Roz didn’t seem to notice, mostly because Luca was bent in half, pulling on a pair of socks and speaking mostly to his own feet, but Derek heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like bet they finally pulled you up on Elite Prospects. “Right,” Derek said, resisting the urge to kick Luca in the ankle. “I, uh. Yeah. When do you need me?”

“As soon as Wyatt’s done,” Harris said. “It’ll only be like three minutes, max.” He paused, studying Derek carefully. “Want me to walk you over?”

He said it like a question, but Derek didn’t think it was. It was kind of an open secret that Harris was the team’s off-ice ringleader. He might be just the social media manager, but it was clear he did a whole lot more than post silly content on Youtube or Instagram. Roz respected him, Troy was maybe possibly in like with him, and even Coach Wiebe chatted with him regularly.

And honestly? Derek should probably make sure he knew what was happening before Derek just went out there and got asked about his time in Sweden and not the game they’d just played. “That’d be great, actually.”

Harris led him out into the hall and around the corner. They came to a stop in front of his office, instead of the wide conference room they used for media availability. Owlishly, Harris asked, “Do you want a copy of the talking points I tried to give Ilya?”

“Oh,” Derek blurted. “I didn’t know you knew.” “I didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” he said. “You had an amazing game tonight, so they’d probably want to talk to you anyway, but the likelihood that they’ll ask is pretty high.”

“I figured.” He shrugged. “I’ll take that sheet of talking points if you have it handy.”

Harris nodded, handing it over. Derek nodded his thanks and glanced at it. It was pretty bare bones.

“It’s not ideal—and most of these answers were for Rozanov so they might need a little tweaking—”

“It’s fine. I have some media training,” Derek admitted. “One of the perks of being Hollander’s liney.”

“We used his clips when I was in college,” Harris told him. “He was good at it.”

He still is good at it, Derek thought to himself as Harris led the way to the room where the media awaited them. Hollander had taught Derek a lot: how to say nothing while sounding like he was saying something, how to let what he doesn’t say tell all, how to think around questions to what the reporters really wanted to know. If they wanted a soundbite about Hollander’s time in Sweden, Derek would talk about statistics that were widely available. If they asked about his life off the ice, Derek would shrug and say he ate healthy. If they asked for Derek’s opinion, he would say—

Well, Shane would want him to say nothing. Play stupid, talk in circles, be generic. I played on Hollander’s wing for two seasons in the Swedish League. Yes, he disclosed his sexuality to the team. No, I didn’t find it uncomfortable.

Derek didn’t want to make it worse, but he also knew that the media probably already had an opinion. They’d spin whatever he said however they wanted no matter what.

If he wanted to show his opinion—his support of his former teammate—without getting himself or his team in trouble, he had to act carefully and without obvious motive, but what could he do in the next thirty seconds?

The team lounge was just ahead on their right. Derek froze, looking inside. “Harris, I-uh,” he scratched the back of his head, wincing. “My stomach is a little upset. Do you mind if I grab a drink? I’ll only be a second.”

“All good,” Harris told him, kind and understanding to a fault. “There should be ginger ale in the fridge.”

March, 2021
Montreal, QC

The Centaurs rolled into Montreal on a Tuesday morning ahead of their game Wednesday night. They were on a three game win-steak, looking to capitalize on that momentum to clinch a playoff spot. If they beat Montreal, they’d clinch a week ahead of the trade deadline, hell, it was barely even March. It wouldn’t even be a wildcard spot.

There was bound to be drama when they played in Montreal given Rozanov was Hollander's rival and Derek was his most recent teammate. Derek had accepted that. After what Harris had dubbed The Ginger Ale Incident, where Derek had shotgunned an entire ginger ale before answering any questions—which he quickly realized hadn’t been the slick move he imagined it to be, Derek had circled the date they played in Montreal on his calendar and planned for the matchup (and the media) to be a problem.

Harris had planned everything he could: There would be Derek-specific talking points and no Canada Dry or Schweppes allowed within 5 meters of his person, stomachache or not. Derek had completed a media training workshop (his punishment for betraying Harris’ trust). He would be the last guy they spoke to and Bood would run his mouth overtime to shield him as best he could. Rozanov would do post-game the following night to close the loop.

What Harris couldn’t have planned for was the Voyageurs and Hollander entering into court-mandated mediation the Thursday before.

Harris had mitigated the damage as best he could. The reporters gathered in a tight half circle that was almost like a football huddle around his tiny, uncomfortable stall in the away team’s outdated locker room. He didn't speak French, which Harris had hoped would thin the herd, but it hardly mattered: The media scented blood.

They asked: How do you feel about Hollander’s claims against Major League Hockey and the Voyageurs Organization? Did you know about them? Derek resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said, “No, I was just as surprised as the rest of you when the news broke.”

Pressed, unsatisfied, But how do you feel about it?

The line of questioning was starting to sound like some dark, misleading therapy session. How did he feel about the allegations? Like Shane Hollander wouldn’t have come forward, nevermind publicly, if he didn’t have receipts. He could practically feel Harris’ eyes drilling into the side of his head as if he had x-ray vision for thoughts a player really shouldn’t be thinking while addressing the media. He exhaled slowly, making sure not to look angry or emotional. “They’re not my allegations, so it’s none of my business.”

It got easier for a bit. Did you know Hollander was gay from the start?

Hadn’t he answered this before? “Yes.”

When you played together, what was the reception like by the players in the room?

“As a player, everyone knows he's something special. As for what I think you're asking, the boys didn’t care. We were there to play hockey.” Växjö—and Sweden as a whole—didn’t treat this as some insane thing. Sure, there weren’t a shit ton of out players in the Swedish league but nobody gave a fuck. It wasn’t like Hollander was out there trying to find a boyfriend on the ice.

They asked him other uninspired questions, none of which had anything to do with the upcoming game: How was playing on a line with Hollander (fucking incredible, like I said, he’s one of the best players in the world), if Derek thought there were other queer players in the league (you’re fucking talking to one, he thought, but answered, statistically speaking, I think that’s pretty obvious, mentally reminding himself that not advertising is not the same thing as being in the closet), if he thought Shane had taken a step back because he'd left the MLH (absolutely not).

He’d been lulled into a false sense of security by these incredibly boring, nothing-burger questions, which must have been by design because the last reporter, a short woman with dirty blonde cropped hair looked up at him through a pair of glasses and blinked owlishly before launching into a reporter’s version of check-fucking-mate.

“According to sources close to the mediation, Hollander has a partner who plays in the league. As you lived together for the last few years, can you expand on that? Has he had many partners in the league?”

Everything in Derek’s brain went white static or maybe lightning bright. There wasn't a word for it. He must have blinked a couple of times against the shock, the realization that whoever this woman was, she thought that rumor must have been about him because—

Harris moved so quickly it made Derek’s head spin, derailing his thoughts further. The man had literally thrown himself between Derek’s sweaty body and the wall of microphones held by salivating reporters and said, flatly, “We’re done.”

He needed to say something. The last thing any of them—him, Shane, the Centaurs—needed was them thinking that this was something he was a part of.

Derek’s lips parted. How Harris heard it, Derek didn’t know. The man had mutant senses when it came to potential media blunders.

“We’re done here,” Harris repeated evenly, looking over his shoulder to regard Derek with an expression so calm it seemed blank. It was terrifying to see the business end of Harris. He turned back to the reporters, and a couple of them winced well before he spoke. “Ask another member of our organization a question about unsubstantiated rumors and I will lodge a formal request to have your credentials revoked. Coach Wiebe will be out in five minutes. I'd keep your question focused on the game we play tomorrow."

Then, with the kind of strength that was surprising for a guy whose job was a lot of taking pictures and videos, who was only moonlighting in public relations because one of the PR coordinators was on maternity leave, Harris yanked him hard enough to at least get him upright before dragging him out of his stall and into the hallway.

Derek leaned against the wall while Harris tapped angrily at his phone.

“You stay there and don't breathe a word to anyone who isn't me or Wiebe.” Derek blinked at him, possibly a bit stupidly because Harris held eye contact and added, “Say ‘yes, Harris.’”

“Yes, Harris,” he repeated dutifully. It seemed to break through some of his shock. “They think that—”

Harris hushed him, left hand rising in a way that suggested he was not afraid to slap that hand over Derek’s mouth. “Uh uh. We are ten meters away from the vultures and you better believe they have their ears to the door.

Slouching against the door, Derek folded forward, scrubbing his hand down his face, feeling his lips give, the lower one dragged down with the motion. “Fuck,” he murmured to himself while Harris tapped his foot impatiently, wedging his phone between his shoulder and his ear.

Then, Barrett was there. He shoved a shirt at Derek, which was a ridiculous thing to forget he wasn't wearing. “Harris, would you grab—”

“On it.” Harris immediately turned around. “Just wallet and phone?”

“On the top shelf of my locker,” Derek managed.

Then it was just him and Troy, who ushered him down the hall and toward the exit, looking as awkward as Derek felt. “Here’s the plan, Rook: We're going to take an Uber to the hotel,” he paused as the sounds of the locker room crested, holding out his hand for Derek’s phone and wallet, as well as what looked like a hoodie that possibly belonged to Luca, and—

—and fuck.

Luca had been in the fucking locker room. At least, he'd been in the showers for the first part of the scrum, but he couldn't have seen across the way through the throngs of reporters. How much had he heard?

Did he—he wouldn't possibly think that Derek was this supposed ‘secret partner’ the reporter was trying to suss out, right?

His phone buzzed in Troy’s hand the second Harris handed it over. He lunged for it.

“Whoa, hey,” Troy said, holding his now empty hand up in surrender. He still had Derek's wallet in the other.

“You might not—”

“Sorry,” Derek spoke over Harris. “I just—”

Fuck them for even suggesting it, Luca's message read. Another one came in as he stared at the screen. You're swapping rooms with Dykstra, he overheard the vultures and knows you need a friend. Bergy's at the hotel already, he'll bring your suit and case. Then, simply, 923.

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose in relief, then typed, You gave me your hoodie. Thank you.

“Everything okay?” Troy and Harris were like sentinels on either side of him.

“I think so.”

Luca’s newest text read, Technically I gave it to Troy. Grabbing your duffel once coach finishes with the vultures.

“Look,” Troy began, respectfully looking away from Derek's screen, “I'm sorry that this is all—”

“Roz knows I'm gay,” Derek blurted. “I mean, obviously he kept it a secret, but I, er, I got a little sloppy in New York, like a week before you were traded.”

“Fuck,” Troy said. A not insignificant look was exchanged between him and Harris. Derek didn’t notice, too lost in his thoughts.

“I don't advertise, but I'm not closeted,” he continued. “Sweden wasn't—They’ll probably find photos. Hollander didn't go out with us much, but—”

“Okay.” Harris said.

It didn’t sound okay, but Troy nodded in a way that said he was trying to be optimistic for all their sakes.

“I’ll talk to Wiebe and the PR team about how we handle this. For now, head down, and stay away from any cameras or microphones.” Harris rubbed at his chest in a way that looked like it was meant to self-soothe, but seemed to freak Troy out. “We’re required to make you available unless the Commissioner or the Player’s Association says otherwise, so until then,” Yeah, Derek was not looking forward to Commissioner Crowell learning his name, thank you very much, “I think you’re going to be saying a lot of ‘no comment,’ from now on.”

“Right. Sorry, Harris. I know this makes your life a living hell.”

Harris darted ahead of him and Troy and quickly spun around, grabbing Derek by the shoulders. “Buddy, I am not upset with you. None of us are. Even if that karen’s assumption is true—” Derek went to interrupt, but Harris shook his head, saying pointedly, “And it’s not my business, whether it is or not, nobody here is going to blame you. Ownership is good. Take it from the guy who doesn’t get shit for being out and proud.”

Derek smiled, well aware of the rainbow motifs heavily present in pins on his jacket or decorations in his closet-like office. “Thanks, Harris.”

“No thanks necessary. We gotta stick together, right, Troy?”

“Right,” Troy said. “Roz knows about me, too. He’s a good ally.”

“For sure,” Derek agreed.

A beat passed, and then, Troy asked, “You knew?”

It was probably because Derek didn’t ask for details.

He looked between Troy and Harris with a single raised eyebrow, clocking Harris’ amused look and the beginning of a blush across Troy’s face. “Might have had an inkling,” he said, “But that’s none of my business, you know?”

“We were going to tell everyone,” Troy offered, Harris seeming to soften a little, though he seemed a bit torn, “But then everything happened at All-Star Weekend and we thought it might not be a good time to publicly say…”

“Fuck,” Derek said, then hesitantly, “But like, congratulations?”

They exchanged a smile that was damn near blinding, which might have been the most emotion Troy had shared since joining the Centaurs back in December. “Thanks, Briggsy,” he said.

Harris nodded his agreement, patting Derek on the arm. “Thank you, Derek. I’m going to get back to the madness and hopefully get ahead of whatever stupid rumors they spin from a question you didn’t answer. You make sure you reach out to me or coach before you talk to anyone. Maybe turn your phone off for a bit, but stay with someone from the team so we can get a hold of you if needed.”

“Will do. Sorry and thank you, again. I thought they’d be crazy, but I didn’t think they’d like, conduct a background search or something.”

“Yeah, well, reporters are just as, if not more crazy than hockey players. Now you know for next time.” Harris waved a hand in dismissal. “Get him to the hotel, Barrett. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“On it.”

“And you,” Harris patted his shoulder, “Don’t be a stranger. We stick together on this team. On and off the ice.” He jerked his chin at his partner. “Troy will give you my number. Call me anytime.”

“Thanks, Harris.”

“What I’m here for.” He squared his shoulders, but leaned his hip into Troy as he marched back toward the calamity Derek had left behind.

“Good for you,” Derek murmured, when they stood side by side in the March gloom, a misty not-quite-rain fogging the air between them as they waited for their uber. “Harris is awesome.”

“He really is,” Troy said.

—

They beat Montreal the next evening, officially clinching a playoff berth. It was close, but they had managed a shootout win by dint of Troy and Rozanov performing like superstars, showing up when it counted. Roz was on a rampage: three goals (not including the shootout), a fight, and an assist—pushing the boundaries of how many hattricks a man could have in a single game.

The locker room post game was a pretty raucous affair, the boys wanting to go out and celebrate, debating which club to patron while Roz went out and addressed the reporters. While Dykstra was trying to make his case for some band he liked that was playing a club in town, Derek quickly undressed and hit the showers. Luca’s perceptive gaze followed him the whole way, but he didn’t give any indication to the boys that he’d noticed.

They both knew it wasn’t wise for Derek to go. All it took was one wrong word from a bystander and a phone camera to blow things up out of proportion. The media was looking for Derek to fuck up, reveal something about himself that they could use to tie him to Shane. He was on thin ice already: He’d gotten an e-mail from the Commissioner’s Office yesterday advising that he lay low and refrain from commenting on certain situations that could have negative connotations for himself and his hockey club. They’d reached out to the team’s GM and CEO too, asking that Derek not be made available for comments or featured in any social media content to prevent chatter until things had died down. The one good thing about Shane’s allegations against the league was that the league was apparently too busy to truly concern themselves with fringe players like Derek. They just wanted people to forget about him, which worked out just fine—he didn’t have a social media presence, and the few people in his life he cared about called or texted him directly.

He was dressed and ready to go before Roz got back, but their coach and captain had already addressed the room which meant they were free to go. He raised his eyebrows at Luca, who nodded his understanding, jerking his chin microscopically toward the door with a loaded gaze that suggested he wouldn’t be staying out longer than absolutely necessary.

It was cooler in the tunnels under the arena. He ordered a ride and took a leisurely walk out to his ride share. The halls were mostly empty, the Metros players already cleared out. He tried to picture Shane here, and couldn’t really do it.

As if sensing his thoughts, his phone rang. He saw the name and smiled to himself, even though he had a feeling Harris would tell him not to answer, and held the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Shane,” he said, warmly. He never noticed Roz leaving the large room used for the post-game presser as he walked by. In his defense, he probably didn’t even know the room existed at all. It was a perfect storm of coincidence: He was tired from the game, distracted by the call, and focused on reaching the exit before his ride left without him.

“Congratulations on making the playoffs, Derek,” Shane said, as earnest as ever, voice just loud enough for Rozanov to make out.

Luca shook Derek awake just after three in the morning.

Derek was alert immediately, clicking on the lap on his side of the bed and checking Luca over for signs that something was wrong, like he was about to be sick and needed help stumbling to the bathroom or something. He’d been very, very wasted when he came back to the room two hours earlier, dropped off by an apologetic Bergy and Pointer, who’d been not much better themselves. Young had fucked off to get laid and would definitely be in trouble with Bood for breaking curfew, but if there was ever a time to break curfew, it was after clinching the team’s first playoff berth in years.

“You okay?”

Luca’s hand clamped over his arm. “Shh,” he said, sounding adorably belligerent and thankfully not like he was about to vom. An uncoordinated hand came around to gently smother Derek’s lips. It smelled like beer and possibly something stronger—no doubt he’d been drinking vodka with Roz, who could drink the stuff for hours and never appear even a little tipsy.

A thump against the wall outside their room had Derek sitting up, ready to collect whichever one of their teammates had gotten a little sloppier than they ought to be.

“Come on, buddy. You’re not even on this floor.” The words were a little louder than usual for Hayes, but Derek was willing to bet he wasn’t exactly sober either. He highly doubted any of his teammates were.

“Wrong. I am on the floor.”

“Is that Roz?”

Luca’s bleary gaze was intense, or at least as intense as any person who was blackout drunk and had woken up after about an hour of sleep. “Thinkso?” He slurred, quiet enough that it was more the smacking of lips that communicated his words than any sound he made.

Commotion ensured outside, words Derek couldn’t hear, followed by a sound like an aggressive high five. “Shut your mouth, Hazy. ‘m not drunk,” Roz insisted, indignant, “I got it.”

There was more scuffling, then a series of much louder thuds, and raucous, cackling laughter that sounded painful.

Luca pressed words against his cheek, worried and slurred, mostly unintelligible. Derek could definitely smell the vodka on his breath this close up. “I think—”

“Yeah, I’m going,” he said, kicking the covers off his side of the bed and reaching for the sweatpants draped over the other bed in the room. “You okay?”

“M’okay, B’rig.”

“Baby, you are wasted.” Derek grabbed two of the pillows from the other bed and shoved them against Luca’s back. “Stay on your side. Garbage can’s next to the bed, so don’t get up, okay? I’ll be quick.”

“Kay,” he parroted dutifully.

Derek shoved his feet into the slides he’d left by the door, checked his pocket to make sure he had his phone and keycard even though he’d just put them there, and headed out into the hall.

Roz’s torso was blocking the door, Wyatt leaning against the wall opposite. There were tears rolling down both their faces. The hyena laugh Roz was imitating cut out abruptly when Derek stepped over him, letting the door to his and Luca’s room close behind him.

“The fuck are you doing?” Roz demanded, slingshotting from giggly to furious.

“You’re the one who knocked on the wall, I thought you needed something,” Derek said, keeping it light. Accusing a drunk of being drunk was a recipe for disaster. Derek had certainly been there himself.

“Sorry, Briggsy.”

“I’m not sorry. Fuck off,” Roz said. He added something else, something that sounded vicious, but Derek was pretty sure that was because he’d spoken in Russian.

“No can do, Roz.”

“Captain’s orders,” he slurred. “Go away.”

“Derek has a point,” Wyatt pointed out. “‘f I help you, we’re both gonna end up on the floor.”

“Then leave me here,” Rozanov over-enunciated, each word carefully separated. His eyes were a shockingly bright blue, the color exaggerated thanks to sluggish, pin-point pupils.

Derek looked between the two of them. “Give me your hand.”

“Fuck off,” he repeated, attempting to smack Derek’s hand away. He did so with a shocking lack of depth perception, missing Derek’s hand entirely.

Derek exhaled, hoping Roz didn’t try to fight him too much, clamped a hand around his wrist and pulled. Roz was mostly dead weight, but Derek was ready. He leaned down, got an arm around Roz’s middle, and maneuvered them upright.

Wyatt whistled. “Damn, rook, you’re stronger than you look.”

“I’m going to throw up on you,” Roz said around some furious invective in Russian. He shoved ineffectually at Derek’s grip. “Let me fucking go.”

Derek and Wyatt ignored him. They began the slow walk to the elevator, Roz stumbling between them. They were like bumpers at the bowling alley Derek remembered going to for birthday parties as a kid, giving Roz guard rails to bounce between.

“You got his keycard?” Derek asked when they’d made it to the elevator.

Wyatt went in first, holding up his keycard and tapping the sixteenth floor once the card made the panel beep. “No. He’s going to mine. I hear Young’s out sowing wild oats or whatever, so he can take the other bed.” It only took him one try to hit the button, which made Derek feel somewhat better about abandoning them once he got them up to their room, which he was going to do. Someone needed to keep an eye on Luca.

“I’ll text him to come to my room if he’s back early.”

Wyatt nodded, then blurted, “Wait, aren’t you with Luca?”

Against him, Roz froze.

“Motherfucker,” he snarled, ripping himself free of Derek’s grip. He swayed alarmingly. “You stay the fuck away from him. He’s a good kid.”

“Roz, they’re friends. Today was kind of shitty for him, remember? The reporter and the—” Wyatt gave him a wide-eyed, sheepish look. “Sorry man.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said, reaching out to grab Roz before he landed on his ass in the elevator and refused to leave it. He was well aware that everyone was more or less aware of his sexuality now, even if they weren’t saying it outright. “We’re just rooming together,” he lied, hoping they were drunk enough to believe it. The last thing he wanted was to drag Luca into this.

Rozanov wasn’t having it. He shoved at Derek, managing to slam him into the hand rail that ran the perimeter of the elevator hard enough to hurt, at which point Wyatt wrapped his long, gangly arms around him in a weirdly effective bear hug.

“Enough, Roz. Wiebe knew he and Dykstra swapped.”

“You stay the fuck away from Haasy,” Roz snarled in his face, spitting a little. “He’s a good kid.”

Still holding on for dear life, Wyatt asked, “Brother, what the fuck has gotten into you?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want this fucking—” the rest of it was in harsh, possibly slurred Russian. The elevator pinged to announce their arrival, so Derek threw his arm out to keep the door open while Wyatt frog marched Rozanov out of the cab and into the hallway.

It was the longest five meter walk of Derek’s life getting Roz into Wyatt’s room. Hayes shoved him into the bathroom, where Roz bent over to pull the handle to start the shower and promptly wound up on his knees, puking into the toilet, pausing long enough to tell Wyatt to stop fucking hovering.

“Thank you,” Wyatt began, patting him on the shoulder before adding, “I don’t know what the hell got into him tonight, but, um, don’t take it personally. He’s really fucking drunk.”

“It’s okay.”

Wyatt gave him the kind of look that suggested they both knew it wasn’t, one that said they both knew drunk words were sober thoughts, that Rozanov wasn’t as cool about certain things as he may have insinuated to Derek several months ago, not that Wyatt knew that last part.

“Hopefully he’s drunk enough to forget this ever happened,” Derek said, forcing a kind of lightheartedness he didn’t feel into his voice. “You got him from here?”

“Yeah, kid. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.” he clapped Wyatt on the shoulder and headed out of the room. Back in the elevator, he thunked his temple against the mirrored wall of the cab and selected his floor.

In the moment, it had been easy to focus on the task at hand: getting Roz to a safe spot to ride out what was likely to be a very shitty end to the night and subsequent morning after, somewhere he could be fucked up and blackout drunk without making a scene.

But now, alone in a slow-moving elevator, Derek couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Roz had a point. There was every possibility that the drama the press were trying to drum up around him was just beginning, that maybe people would start to care about nobody forwards like Derek for all the wrong reasons. The league had already quietly cancelled any remaining pride nights, and it was very clear they had no love for players expressing any flavor of queerness. If Shane’s case against the league went to court, it would be years of this. He couldn’t put Luca through that. It was one thing to fuck around a little bit with a teammate, to be casual, garden variety fuck buddies, but Derek liked Luca.

Derek liked him more than like.

—

The thing about Derek was that he wasn’t a stranger to difficult choices. So many important moments in his life had hinged upon them. While the rest of the Centaurs spent the bus ride back to Ottawa sleeping it off or grumbling through a hangover, Derek was thinking about what he didn’t want but had to do while Luca drooled endearingly on his shoulder, dead to the world.

Distancing himself from Luca when they had barely begun to define what it was between them, was more of a tactical retreat than a true breakup. It was strategic. Cowardice dressed up as self-preservation.

In the weeks after the Montreal trip, Derek readjusted to sleeping alone (wasn’t his favorite), snuck the hoodies Luca had left behind at his apartment into Luca’s stall when he was in the showers after practice (made him feel nauseous), and became the busiest man in all of Ottawa, dodging plans with all of his teammates, not just Luca, as if that would make it less obvious. He was pretty sure Luca knew what he was doing, even if they hadn’t actually talked about it.

That was for the best. Talking about it meant it was happening, which it wasn’t.

He kept busy, used the gym at his apartment complex more than the team facilities, and staunchly refused to give himself time really stop and think about it, lest the reality of the situation actually fucking hit him.

As for hockey, it was a good thing the Centaurs had managed to clinch a playoff spot. They’d dropped five in a row, two at home, three across the eastern seaboard. Whatever momentum they’d gained had been lost, and the closest thing to a positive had been the point they’d scraped out in overtime last night against Carolina.

Things were so bleak, Coach made their next practice an optional skate and said they ought to do whatever would help them get their heads in the game. This was the home stretch. Playoffs were just over a month away.

Still, Derek needed to practice. Practice would keep him moving. He couldn’t sit at home and watch sitcoms that made him cry about things he couldn’t control instead of turning his brain off like they were supposed to, and if he looked at his kitchen table he’d see the sketch Luca had been working on that he had gaslit himself into believing he’d forgotten to return. He’s been ordering takeout for a week now and avoiding his kitchen as much as possible.

He eventually scraped himself off the couch and drove to the practice facility. Harris waved to him in the hall, wished him a good workout or skate or whatever it was he decided to do with himself, and left him to it. He could hear voices in the locker room, which wasn’t unsurprising, given it was technically a practice day, but then he heard who was talking and his stomach dropped.

“Briggs had better not show his fucking face,” Rozanov was saying, vehement. “I need to have a chat with Haas when he’s done with his workout. Coach, too.”

“And you’re sure that this is—”

He was talking to fucking Boodram. Fuck.

Derek stopped short of the doorway, taking stock. He could just turn around, pretend he was never even here.

“There are very few things I don’t tolerate, Bood, and this is one of them.” He paused. “I don’t want that little fucker and his bullshit in our locker room. There are other guys. I say we give one of them a shot and see what works.”

This was his literal fucking nightmare. It was bad enough that the league was blatantly homophobic, quietly cancelling the remainder of the league’s pride nights, including Ottawa’s, which had been scheduled for the end of this month, that it had done something to run off his fucking mentor—Derek knew that Shane hadn’t been out when he played MLH hockey, but he arrived to Sweden and was, immediately, which suggested all sorts of things Derek was afraid to examine closely—and Crowell had warned him that he was on thin ice when someone else suggested he was queer despite him never saying one word about it near a mic, ever.

But for Roz to be like this, it was the worst. It would break Luca to find out that the player he’d idolized growing up, who he’d admitted to Derek he was sometimes starstruck to play alongside, was a secretly bigoted asshole. Troy too, he thought belatedly. Then, Harris.

Fuck.

What a fucking long game. He’d really had them fooled.

Maybe he’d fooled himself, the empathetic part of Derek’s brain reasoned. Maybe it was all good until it was in his face, when he had to confront people who were queer and in a relationship. He knew people like that. It was fine, in theory, but when it was real, well, what was something else.

The good news in all of this, Derek supposed, was that Luca wasn’t out. He didn’t advertise, either, and Bergy, Pointer, and Young would rather die than out anyone.

Derek could handle himself. He always had. It would suck—he wasn’t as talented as Troy, so he’d probably get run out of town or sent down to the minors—and in some ways, he’d deserve it. He knew he’d been playing like shit. He’d made it onto PP1 with Roz and Luca, only Roz wouldn’t fucking look at him, even if he was open, and he and Luca were, for obvious reasons, woefully out of sync.

He backed away from the locker room, hoping nobody heard him approach. Maybe he’d just go home and wait for his couch to swallow him up. He’d just about resigned himself to his fate when his phone buzzed.

Heard your practice got cancelled. Mom booked some ice time in Maxville if you’re interested.

When Derek looked up from his device, he noticed one of the many TVs throughout the practice facility. Sportscentre was showing video of Shane in a button up shirt and dress slacks, striding down the front steps of a very old looking building, the sky burnt orange and bruised purple. The banner beneath it pinpointed the location as downtown Montreal, suggesting that Shane was, as his text suggested, in Quebec for in person discussions. The video must have been from the night before.

I’m sure that won’t make things any worse for either of us, he typed out.

What are you talking about? Shane’s response read.

Well, fuck, Derek thought. He texted Shane that he’d be there, braced himself, and marched back to the locker room. Lucky for him, the room was empty: Bood and Roz must have gone out on the ice. He shoved his gear into the duffel haphazardly, not willing to waste on organizing it. He kept his thoughts to things that weren’t the thready sensation of panic doing its damndest to trigger a nervous response. The hollow feeling in his chest was an indicator of an incoming panic attack, and he simply could not do that right now. Not until he made it to Maxville’s skating rink and Shane.

Which, just how far was the town—village, hamlet?—of Maxville from Ottawa anyway?

—

The answer was supposed to be about forty-five minutes, but was actually thirty-six given the way Derek drove. In his defense, it was the weekend, the weather was unseasonably warm, and he had listened to dubstep the entire way, trying to convince himself that there was no room for thought alongside the rapid thrum of the bass.

He had only met Yuna Hollander once, right after he’d made the team out of camp and Shane had insisted he take the Land Rover he no longer had use for, but she was leaning against a car Derek suspected was her own, Shane standing her, his arms crossed over his chest. Their expressions were stormy.

When he parked, Shane was there in an instant. Derek wasn’t sure he’d gotten both feet on the ground before Shane’s arms were wrapped around him, tight and grounding. “Fuck, Derek,” he said, the words flat but not without feeling, “I’m so sorry. Mom told me about—I should have—”

“It’s not your fault,” Derek said, blinking through tears. Softer, he admitted the one thought not even dubstep could erase, the one that made him wish he couldn’t feel anything. “I think I should have stayed in Sweden.”

“Shane.”

The arms wrapped around Derek squeezed a little tighter. He wasn't really sure how long he'd been blubbering on Shane's shoulder. Too long, probably, but his former teammate wasn't the kind of person who would endure prolonged contact if he didn't want to, so Derek stayed where he was.

“I'm serious,” his mom insisted. “Anyone driving by could have a camera.”

“They could,” Shane agreed calmly, “But whatever they'd say would be no different than what they’re already saying.”

Scoffing, Yuna Hollander said, “Yes, except now they'd have a picture.”

Shane sighed, more or less conceding the point, and pulled back to make eye contact. “Come on, Derek. Let’s go inside.”

He grabbed his gear and let himself be guided to the doors even though he could feel his heart thumping to the beat of his anxiety. Were there people inside? Surely there were staff at the rink, it was the middle of the day. He’d seen the sign for the proshop and there were other cars in the lot. He wouldn’t be recognized, but Shane would. Would him being here make it worse? How many more times would he make the wrong fucking decision today?

“I can literally see you spiraling,” Shane’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I need you to take a couple deep breaths. It’s okay. Nobody will say anything.” He huffed, not quite laughing to himself. “Mom’s got everyone here NDA’d within an inch of their life.”

Yuna came up along Derek’s left side, briskly rubbing his upper arm. It was clinical but kind of soothing, weirdly enough. She had his sticks in her other hand, hockey mom to the very end. “Never underestimate the power of an iron-clad NDA,” She told them, flashing a wry smile.

Inside, she split off from them to do whatever she’d been planning to do while Shane skated. Emails, probably, Shane told him. She was buried in work given Shane's current position with the league. Even though this was only Derek’s second time meeting Yuna in person, Shane talked to his mom frequently enough that Derek knew the sound of her voice through the phone. He’d heard it almost daily when they lived together. What he knew about her was that she was strong, wickedly smart, that Shane would do just about anything for her, but that his decision to leave Canada had broken her heart.

Privately, Derek was pretty sure Yuna Hollander would fight the league all by herself if it meant getting Shane back in North America for good.

“So,” Shane began a bit later, when the two of them had spread out in one of the tiny locker rooms meant for a Timbits team. The locker rooms were literally meant for little kids. They didn't even have doors for fuck’s sake. “Did you run away from home, or…?”

Derek looked down, realizing he had pretty much swept everything he kept in his stall at the practice facility into his gear bag. Now that he was looking at it, he realized that the bag had been a little heavier. Hell, there were even two pairs of skates in it.

“I might have left in a hurry,” he admitted. He didn't actually remember packing up his gear. “I was more concerned with running into my teammates.”

Shane stood, stripped off his street clothes, and plopped back down on the bench to start getting dressed. “Uh huh.”

It was about as much an invitation as he'd get with Shane.

“You know how I told you about Roz finding out that I'm gay?” Shane nodded down at his own open gear bag. Derek continued. “And he'd been really cool about it?”

“I remember.”

Derek busied himself with shucking off his clothes and working on getting his lower half dressed before continuing. “After the media in Montreal started in on me about that fake leak or whatever, and then kind of insinuated I was either your boyfriend or knew who your supposed boyfriend was, it wasn't cool anymore. He told me to stay away from Luca, I think because he suspected we were… something,” Derek hurried past that point before Shane tried to dig in on how he felt, “Then our team play went to shit and then I came in today for the optional skate and heard him talking to Bood about how he needed to talk to coach and Luca about me, that I didn't belong on the team.”

The words tumbled out of him in a way that was decidedly too melancholy and bitter to be truly manic. Derek tried to block out the sound of his own voice, hating just how pitiful it all sounded. He hated that his own fucking captain thought so poorly of him when all he’d done was try his fucking bag off.

So what if he’d slept with Luca? They were adults and kept on and off ice separate. Mostly.

“I fucked it all up,” Derek concluded, miserably.

Hands—Shane’s hands—were cold on his shoulders. He pushed down a little, as if the touch could ground him on the shitty little wooden bench he'd possibly dramatically collapsed onto. “Hey. Okay. Let's just—” Shane seemed to reason through something, then he crouched down in front of Derek's folded form.

“Pretty sure you didn't,” Shane said coolly. “You panicked—I can relate,” they shared a small, sad smile. “Let me see if I follow.”

Derek nodded.

“So, you said things were fine with Rozanov—”

“They were.”

“And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't—”

“I guess it was one thing to know I was gay and another thing for me to be with someone where he could see it?”

“Which you weren't,” Shane pointed out.

“No, but like, I think he thought you and I were, like, together and that I was going to hurt Luca?”

A bit too critically, he asked, “Did you hurt Luca?”

“I didn't not hurt Luca,” Derek decided, looking up from his folded hands to meet Shane's steady gaze. “I gave him all his stuff back—” he would not think about the incriminating sketchbook on his kitchen table, no, absolutely not, “And I stopped answering the boys when they wanted to hang out, so it was more like, you know, tactical.”

“Tactical doesn't really work with most people, kid. I think—” he paused, considering his next words. “You should talk to Luca. See what he thinks. Tell him that we're just friends and definitely not compatible.”

Derek flushed, not appreciating the reminder that he'd maybe had a month-long crush on his roommate when he'd made the team in Växjö. Could you blame him? Shane was attractive as hell, though he'd never really noticed Derek’s interest. Their team captain at the time had noticed and pulled Derek aside, telling him Shane wasn't looking for a relationship, but if Derek played his cards right he could gain a very talented mentor.

“Luca knows we're friends. He overheard part of our conversation after Tampa, and then the news broke and it was kind of obvious? To him, at least. He notices stuff.” His lips pressed together as he tried to put together his thoughts. “He was in the room when that reporter tried to insinuate we had a relationship.” He paused. “He was really good about it. Moved things around so we could room together for the rest of the trip.”

“Sounds like he's a good guy,” Shane offered. “And like you might actually—”

“I do, I just don't want to put him through this. He's going to be something special. Generational.”

“Maybe you should ask him what he's willing to be put through.”

“Easy for you to say,” Derek muttered.

Shane winced. “I don't always do things the right way. Most of the time, actually.” He scratched the back of his head. “Kind of obvious given it's taken me this long to confront… things.”

“Things,” Derek echoed blandly. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Shane rose to his full height and kicked at Derek's duffel with his socked foot to get him back on task. He did the same, throwing his shoulder pads over his head and getting them situated before continuing, “I don't think your captain is homophobic. And I don't think he wants you off the team.” He held up a hand to stall Derek's protests. “I know it sounds crazy but I don't think it's you he has a problem with.”

Derek met his gaze. Shane was a shitty liar. It was all in his face, the way he tried to be even more careful, even more regimented with his expression while pretending to be more relaxed. Between that and the slightly defensive edge his voice got, it was obvious.

Calling him out on it was a quick way to end the conversation, though, and Derek needed to talk through it, to find something he could cling to for dear life. He was signed to an entry level deal for the next three years. Even if he requested a trade in the off-season, he didn't make enough against the cap for moving him to be a priority. It was likely he'd wind up scratched or sent to Belleville to rot for the next two years and then wash out and end up another halfway decent flunkie in Saturday night beer league.

He shook his head to try and dispel that awful thought and played along. Kind of. “Okay, let's pretend you're right and he doesn't hate my guts. What's his problem?”

Shane yanked a practice jersey over his head. He looked uncomfortable but there was a little tick in his jaw that usually signaled his desire to push through it. “Rozanov and I were rivals,” he began carefully. “Then, things happened in Montreal and I disappeared from the league and the public eye. I love the guys in Sweden and I love playing hockey, but we pushed each other to be the best and then I ruined that.”

“Technically, Montreal ruined that,” Derek pointed out.

“Semantics,” Shane deadpanned. “He might be taking it out on you—and to be clear, he shouldn’t, but, um, yeah. I know he's not a homophobe, Derek. I can promise you that.”

“Did he know?”

“Know what?”

“About you,” he clarified.

To Derek's right and Shane's left, someone cleared their throat, awkwardly announcing their presence. Shane didn't look, but Derek did. Scott fucking Hunter, of all people, was standing there.

“Shane,” Derek said, stupidly.

Shane still hadn't looked away from him, nor had he acknowledged Scott's presence until he spoke. “My mom interrogate you?”

“Yeah,” Hunter said, wryly. “She's kind of terrifying.”

“She knows you didn't come purely out of the goodness of your heart.” Shane blinked, finally looking away from the side of Derek's face to stare Hunter down.

“I'm the one who called your agent to arrange a meeting,” he argued, stepping into the room fully. “You had to agree to talk to me.” He sounded annoyed. “What's the kid doing here?”

“Visiting my former liney,” Derek said at the same time as Shane’s, “Don’t act like you're not following the media, Scott.”

“So he is your boyfriend,” Hunter accused, eyebrows arching. He looked kind of like someone had hit him upside the head with a stick.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Derek slammed his hands down on the bench. The hollow thwack rang loud in the chilly little room.

“I don't have a boyfriend, Scott,” Shane said carefully, rising to his feet. “I said I was involved with a player. Past tense. Your people read into that how they wanted.”

“They're not my people, Hollander.”

“You sit with them,” Shane responded.

“I represent the Player's Association, not the league.”

“That's not what Crowell thinks.”

Hunter leaned against the lockers that lined the wall next to the entrance. He looked every bit as old and tired as Roz so often accused him of being. "Then let's make one thing very clear, okay? I am not a fan of Crowell. I owe him and the League a lot, everybody knows that, but I know he doesn't play fair. I didn't even know about your contract until after they'd cut you loose. When I tried to reach out, you were gone. Changed your number and whatever else.”

“The Admirals had made it to the finals,” Shane said, not acknowledging Hunter's attempts at contact. “Benson was my rep. It was his last season playing, and—”

“Crowell promised him a job in Player Safety,” Hunter finished. He ran a hand through his hair. “I knew they fucked you over,” he admitted. “I guess they never expected you to call them on it.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane shrugged. “Things change.”

“Right,” Hunter deadpanned. “If Briggs isn't your boyfriend, why's he here?”

“Gay men can have friends, Scott. Hell, a lot of them are even friends with each other. Sorry if that's a crazy concept.”

“Whoa, whoa,” his hands went up as if to suggest innocence. “I know that. And I don't—it doesn't change anything, um, you being gay. I know the suits at HQ are acting like you've committed a crime, but I, um.” Scott swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. He glanced at Derek, “Kid, you remember your little escapade in New York, back in December?”

“At the Kingfisher? Yeah.” Derek looked to Shane. “Gay bar. That was the night Roz was cool with, y’know.” He made a weird and definitely unhelpful hand gesture. Shane seemed to follow.

“How do you think Roz knew where to find your drunk ass?”

“Kip—the bartender,” he clarified for Shane's sake, “Called you. Roz said he used to be your smoothie guy or something.”

Hunter nodded, looking uncomfortable, purposefully slack-jawed. He rubbed at his stubbled jaw. “Yeah. Uh,” he squinted a little. “Kip and I were,” he trailed off.

“You were what?” Shane asked.

Derek looked at him, gobsmacked. Sometimes, Shane was the smartest fucking person in the universe, and other times, times when it came to figuring out how people were, he was… this.

“Boyfriends?” Derek ventured.

“I love him,” Hunter was kind of green. Derek wondered if he'd ever said that to somebody who wasn't Kip before. “But I—this doesn't leave this room,” he stressed, in his most captainly voice. “I can't be fucking out, I mean,” he gestured at Shane. “Look what they fucking did to you. You're the fucking best player since Gretzky and they fucking—” he shook his head forcefully. “I can't imagine what they'd do to me.”

“You—so you guys are closeted,” Shane asked, eyes darting back and forth, studying Hunter, trying to make sense of it.

Derek leaned back, ass nearly hitting the floor. Right. This was not his stall. He swung his legs over, righted himself, and leaned against the brick wall with its peeling white paint. There was blue underneath. He had to tuck his hands around the top of his pants to keep from picking at it.

“Yes,” Hunter began, then, “I am, of course I fucking am, but he's—Kip has never been, and he—we—” He shook his head. “He dumped me. We've hooked up since, and he knows I love him and I know he loves me, but we—it fucking kills him but I have to be—I can't just, like, come out, for obvious reasons.”

“So are you here because you have a guilty conscience, or…”

Both men turned to Derek. Clearly he’d struck a nerve.

“What? I'm not closeted. I don't advertise, and nobody's flat out asked, but I'm going to top out at second line on a Cinderella story team, assuming Roz doesn't convince management to fire me into the sun. On a cup contender, I'm third line at best. I wasn't drafted. I played in Sweden, which up until recently nobody in North America remembered had hockey worth giving a shit.” He shoved a heavy breath out of his nose and looked between them. “I'm a fucking nobody. You're not. Grow a fucking spine and do the right thing or fuck off back to Crowell. Being yourself is fucking hard. I get it. But living like this isn't worth money or fucking clout or whatever the fuck—”

“People look up to me,” Hunter argued. “You don't understand.”

Quietly, but with a steadiness that Derek had always found to be like a compass pointing true, Shane said, “Yeah, I mean, I get that, but at the end of the day, isn't what they're looking up to a lie?”

Hunter gaped at him.

“I got tired of lying, so I told the truth,” Shane said, like it was that easy. It wasn't. Anybody who knew him knew it wasn't. People didn't refuse to talk about major chunks of their history if it was no big deal. “I realized that no matter who is looking up to me or who I’m supposed to represent or be a role model for, none of it fucking matters if I'm lying to myself every day. Bottom line. Because that's what we're—what I—was telling those kids. It's okay if you're Asian, but don't be too different. Keep your head down and fit in and don't let anyone know how you really are. It'll all be over eventually and then you can,” he looked up at Scott. “What? Disappear? Never play hockey again? Pretend the last twenty years of your life never fucking happened?”

“I know it sounds fucking stupid—”

“Because it is,” Shane pushed. His eyes had a sheen to them, almost like— “Because,” he took a shaky breath. “What if something happened to your—to Kip before you're done? Then what? What's it all for?”

There was something about the way Shane held himself, something that screamed pay attention, Briggs, you're missing the fucking point, but Derek for the life of him couldn't figure out what it was. Something had spooked Shane into action, he realized, but he had no idea what.

“Son of a bitch,” Hunter swore. “Hollander. Shane.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said. Derek knew that tone of voice. It was the one he had when he was upset. He'd only heard it a handful of times, feeling absolutely gutted at the way tears dotted Shane’s lower lash line, one at a time. Ordered, always, even when he was hanging on by a thread.

“Not until you tell me—”

“Not gonna happen.” His voice rang hollow. He jerked his chin at Hunter. “You bring your kit?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Get dressed and meet us on the ice.” Shane turned away. His eyes were still glossy, but no tears had fallen. “Come on, Derek.”

His jaw was set. Derek didn't argue.

—

Out on the ice, it was easier. For Shane, at least. He was always crisp and sharp on the ice, like he belonged there more than anywhere else Derek had ever seen him. It took a second to fall back into sync, but it happened, and before he knew it, they were saucing passes back and forth without looking.

“Hunter's taking a while, yeah?”

Shane probably shrugged. It was impossible to tell in full gear. “Maybe he's calling his buddies at the league.”

“You think so?”

“Not really. He's loyal, even if he's a coward.” He spat. “Probably trying to figure out if I was asking a hypothetical or not.”

“Were you?”

Shane shook his head. “Figure it out, Derek.”

Derek accepted Shane's pass, tapped it into the net, bar down. Shane went to retrieve it before it ricocheted off the boards, catching it at the top of the left faceoff circle. “I mean, I know you weren't, just not the specifics.”

“By design.” Shane took off with the puck. Derek followed, trying to strip him of possession. It was a challenge, but he managed to at least stop him from getting a clean shot off. “You got faster.”

“Roz has us skating our bags off.”

“Makes sense.” The reverse was harder. Shane was sneaky, like a damn shadow. He darted around nimbly, then pounced, shoving Derek into the boards with his hips, pinning him down and taking the puck.

Derek caught up with him again, but didn't stop him in time. They chased each other around the rink, Shane eventually, inevitably scoring on the empty net. He whooped as he wheeled around the back of it. Derek glided toward him, folded in half and breathing heavily.

“You haven't lost a step,” Hunter said, behind them. He came over the boards and fired a puck from center ice. It sailed wide, clapping the end boards with a resounding thunk.

“I've been training just as much, if not more, these last few years,” Shane replied coolly. “Everyone acts like I disappeared to Antarctica or something.”

“You kind of did, in spirit,” Hunter said. “Nobody could get a hold of you, your family, or your agent, for a bit.”

“Yeah, well, I had my reasons to go dark. The league made me sign away control of the narrative and let the press run wild. I guess being gay was less believable than me being hooked on PEDs or gambling or some having a secret mistress or family. People still ask Rose if we had a secret love child. News died down the second I made Växjö, but by then everyone already assumed it was all my fault Montreal termed me.”

“I didn't. Hell, I didn't even know. Your team in Sweden never made a statement about you being out.”

“Because they understand that being gay has nothing to do with how I perform on the ice!” Shane snapped. He took off with a puck, stopped dead at the top of the faceoff circle, and unleashed a bullet of a slapshot. It went wide, slamming off the boards with a thunderous bang. “Fuck!”

“Look,” Hunter held up both hands, gliding toward him slowly. “Obviously I know that. I'm on your side. I want you to win this.”

“Yeah, well, you and I might have very different win conditions.” Shane jerked his chin toward Derek, who had been skating around in loping circles looking extraordinarily focused on handling a rogue puck, trying like hell to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. “I want a future in this sport, and that can't happen with things as they are right now.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t think you do.” Shane leaned on his lumber, stick bending slightly. “I want Crowell gone and the Metros organization off the Board of Governors.”

“Jesus fuck.” Scott circled him. “They don't even want to give you money.”

“As a start,” Shane doubled down, ignoring the financial element. “That's the bare fucking minimum. The League needs to change.”

Derek nodded, lifting his eyes from the ice. “You really think you'll get them to agree?”

“They certainly don't want to go to trial,” he answered, giving Hunter a meaningful look, one that invited him to put the pieces together. “They wanted you to come talk to me, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Hunter said evenly.

And, like, what the fuck? Derek looked at both of them, unsure if he’d accidentally blurted that thought aloud. Thankfully he hadn’t. Was this some 3D chess shit? Shane knew Scott was a double agent or something but agreed to see him anyway? That sounded like Shane, or at least like Shane with his mom’s influence—Yuna Hollander was frighteningly intelligent. He certainly wouldn’t want to find himself on the opposite side of an argument with her.

Shane skated over, snowing the boards beside him. “You look like you’re trying to disarm a bomb, kid. Calm down.”

“This is just—” Derek met his gaze, a little helplessly. “Why am I here?”

“Because I kind of fucked up your rookie season,” Shane took the puck he’d been using away from him and sauced it over to Hunter. “That’s not your fault.” “No, not intentionally, but I still did.” He shoved Derek’s shoulder. “What do you think the league wants Scott to find out from me?”

Derek stilled. “I don’t know?”

That wasn’t good enough for Shane. “Guess.”

He shrugged. Hunter glanced at him, looking like he wanted to be sympathetic, but he wouldn’t come out and say it.

What could Hunter possibly need to find out for the league? What would they want to know? What would help them convince Shane to back down?

“Is it about the rumor that you’re with someone in the league?” He could feel his nose scrunch, lips pursing. He squinted, as if that would give the thought shape. “But that’s just a rumor, right? You said it was past tense, but—”

Shane patted him hard on the back, two big thumps. “He’s a good liney, Scott. Might not understand the play every time, but he follows pretty well.” To Derek, he said, “Yeah, Bigrig, they want to know what player in the league I was with. Probably claim matchfixing or something.”

Hunter looked decidedly sick, but didn’t challenge Shane on it.

“But—” Derek held out both hands, stick tapping the ice backward, toe first. “Look, it’s not me, and I really fucking wish everyone would stop thinking it is—”

“They know it isn’t you,” Scott said patiently. “It came up in our last session.”

“Okay, so is there even a player or are they just being fucksticks about this?”

Shane huffed a near-silent laugh. “There was a player,” he said. “He’s not out, obviously.”

“Right,” Scott said. “Thing is, I don’t even know how they know that.”

“Because,” Shane’s eyes were hard. “I told them I wasn’t the only one four years ago when I was fighting for my career. Nobody on my team knew, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them who, but I thought maybe if Montreal knew there were other players out there, they could spin it as a positive thing. Be the first team to be inclusive and welcoming to queer players.” He shrugged. “They told me there was no place in hockey for that ‘woke shit,’” he air-quoted. “The rest was history.”

It was horrifying to picture Shane Hollander, Captain Canada, the golden boy of Major League Hockey, one of the best players in a generation being kicked off his team for his sexuality, even when it seemed like he’d actually done the right thing with the league. He could’ve posted it online and let the pieces fall. Instead he’d tried to trust the league and this was what it had cost him.

Derek was grateful, in a sick and twisted way, because they probably never would’ve met if the League hadn’t acted like it did. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe he could have made it pro in North America without Shane riding his ass on the ice for the last two years.

“I wonder what they’d say if they knew about me?” Scott scoffed. “Crowell likes to think he’s some weird parental figure in my life.”

“Be a real shame if he found out,” Shane remarked.

“You wouldn’t. Tell me you wouldn’t.” Scott panicked.

“Jesus, Scott!” Shane exclaimed. “Of course not. I meant that you could, I don’t know, tell him when he’s on his way out the door. If you wanted to.”

Hunter looked to Derek. “Your sexuality isn’t my business,” Derek told him, hoping his tone conveyed just how serious he was.

“Thank you,” Scott said, “I know this isn’t—I probably don’t have any right—” He trailed off, clearing his throat. When he spoke again it was his captain voice, all business. “I presume that since you know what Crowell and his cronies want, you have something you want me to give them. They’re hoping I’ll come back with a name.”

Shane nodded, slow and controlled. There was a gravity to the way he held Scott’s gaze as he pointedly shifted his grip on his stick to reveal the slightly smudged text written beneath his left glove in sharpie.

If his life were a tv show, this is the point when the cameras would zoom out, transition to a flashback. Derek certainly felt flung back to the room back in Växjö. He could practically smell the sweat and rubber and menthol, feel his back resting against his stall, see Hollander as he had nearly three years ago: as a stranger, an enigma, a lost superstar—across from him, taping his stick before that first practice. It was hypnotic watching loops of white go around the stick. He worked quickly, handle and blade done in maybe two minutes, then blindly reached back, searching the top shelf of his stall for a sharpie. When he found it, he held the cap between his teeth, pried the marker free, and very carefully wrote something down the front of the handle.

One of the guys had nudged him. Mats, he thought, remembering the humid curl of his accent as he whispered, “Only two things off-limits with Hollander: Don’t ask about MLH, and don’t ask about—”

Mats had stopped himself just before Hollander turned back around and sat on the bench built into his stall, propping his stick up next to him, ready to hand it off to the equipment manager if they came through before he brought it out to the bench himself.

The thing was, everybody had superstitions. Guys wrote shit on their gloves and sticks all the time. Derek didn’t want to find out if he was asking about Shane’s dearly departed childhood pet or something. The only thing written on Derek’s stick was his sweater number. He had other things, little rituals like putting on his left sock before his right, but always going right skate first. If he fucked up a play or they suffered a catastrophic loss, he broke his stick after the game so the bad shit couldn’t follow him into the next one.

Of course Derek had wondered, but he’d never asked.

Whoever Lily was, it wasn’t any of his business.

Scott had skated for a bit after he’d gotten what he came for, even though it was awkward. He liked Shane, and Shane liked him, but their relationship had been strained for obvious reasons. Shane had insisted to Derek that he was trustworthy, and Derek trusted Shane, so he tried his best to let it go. He wasn’t certain how Scott leaking the alias of Shane’s former lover to the League would make his life better with the Centaurs, but Shane had insisted that once it hit the news—Shane and Yuna said almost certainly would, just as soon as Shane left Canada and wasn’t there to defend himself, it would definitely take the heat off of him with both Rozanov and the media.

After he’d left, Shane and Derek had gone back to Shane’s parents’ house outside of Montreal, where Derek had met David Hollander, played several very aggressive hands of rummy (Yuna destroyed them all), and eaten what might have been the best chickpea pasta he’d ever had. Then, he and Shane had gone out back, kicked around a football—soccer ball, he supposed, but neither of them called it that anymore—and talked shop. Shane had watched some of his games, so when it became too dark to kick the ball around they’d gone inside to sit at the kitchen table and review film.

Needless to say, they lost track of time. Yuna and David insisted he spend the night in their guest room. It felt like being a kid and having a sleepover, in a way.

Derek didn’t make it home until late the next morning. He pulled his silenced phone out of the glove box once he pulled into the lot of his apartment complex, ready to face reality.

There were forty-six missed calls and close to two hundred messages, not including the team’s very active group chat. The voicemail icon indicated eight messages had been left as well.

He probably shouldn’t have left his phone in the car, he realized. What the hell had he missed? He hoped everyone was okay, and resolved to start with the messages. They‘d be the quickest way to get information.

Except, he hadn’t even tapped on the most recent notification when someone knocked on the driver's side window. He nearly jumped out of his skin, he was so surprised.

“What the fu—”

It was Luca, pink-cheeked and miserable, with dark circles under his eyes. Upon closer inspection, his face looked puffy, like he’d possibly been crying.

Derek carefully began to open the door. Luca stepped back, and he threw it open, reaching for the younger man. “Luca, what happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Your gear was gone,” he said, more or less brute forcing his way into a hug. He was freezing. Derek tucked his chin over Luca’s forehead.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know we’re not—you don’t want to do this, right now, but I thought—” he trailed off, sniffling into Derek’s chest. “You cleaned out your stall at the practice rink.”

“Fuck,” he swore. Luca was shaking in his arms and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was cold or panicking. “Baby, how long have you been out here?” It was March, so it wasn’t like it was freezing, but it wasn’t exactly warm, either.

“I don’t—I was in my car,” he said, gesturing across the lot.

“Good. Let’s go inside, okay?”

Luca nodded into his chest, but let himself be led into Derek’s building, the elevator, and up to his third floor unit. Derek was sure to hold his hand the entire time, squeezing his hand in what was hopefully a reassuring way.

“Are you going to ask for a trade?”

Derek, who had gone back to the doorway to takeoff his shoes after guiding Luca to the couch and pulling the throw blanket around him, jerked. He looked up at Luca. “What?”

“I mean, Rozanov went to Coach about all the noise with you and the media and how you haven’t been playing well, but Boodram told me while he was with Wiebe that he suspected you overheard them talking about you this morning, because he came back for tape and your stall was cleaned out. Bergy, Pointer, and Young all tried getting a hold of you and it went to voicemail and I know you’ve been avoiding me because of all this, I’m not fucking stupid, so I told Rozanov to call you after he finished with Coach because you were missing, and you didn’t answer him either. Coach tried too. I thought—fuck, I think Wiebe asked Carlton to let him know if your agent called him. He figured if this was how you were being talked about, maybe you’d want out?”

That was a lot for someone still bent over one untied sneaker, so Derek abandoned the laces completely and kicked it off. “That’s—wow. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?” He pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

“Bood and Roz?” Derek nodded. “I mean, yeah. Roz has had it out for me since that night in Montreal when we clinched. I don’t know why.” He shrugged and came to stand before Luca, looking down for half a second before dropping down to a single knee beside the couch. “I think he thinks I’m a bad influence on you or maybe a cheater? I guess that’s how the media makes it look, you know?”

“But I know you aren’t,” Luca cut in, voice uncharacteristically sharp. “I—you just started pulling away and then—what the fuck am I supposed to think, Derek?”

They looked into each others’ eyes for a long moment. Luca’s were bloodshot and glossy, searching Derek’s face fervently, like it was a puzzle and he could solve it if he just tried hard enough.

Derek broke their standoff to push his forehead against Luca’s knee. “Fuck,” he swore against the blanket that covered it, lifting his head to return eye contact. “I’m so sorry, Luca.”

“I don’t want your—your fucking apology,” he stuttered, furious. “Fucking talk to me. Please.” His voice broke.

“That’s why I’m sorry, Luca. Shit. I’m—I shouldn’t have done what I did. I should have talked to you, not fucking pulled away, but I didn’t want you involved in whatever it was. Roz has been making my life miserable—people are starting to notice, obviously, but like—” he sighed. “He wanted me to stay away from you, and I don’t want to bring you down. You’re so fucking talented, more than me. You’re the top fucking rookie in the league—”

“Shut up.”

“No. You’re the top rookie in the league and I’m lucky to be on the second line because we have injuries. If we were truly a cup contender, I’d definitely be demoted.”

“Seriously—”

“I don’t want to bring you down. I don’t want you to have the fucking commissioner in your ear freaking out because you’re tangled up in my bullshit. I know what that guy does to people.”

“Have you considered I might not care?”

Derek huffed. “You should. You’ll be playing in this league long after I’m gone.”

Luca’s hand came out from under the blanket to grip Derek’s jaw. “Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s not an unreasonable thing to think about, Luca. I want you to have the tools and support you need to be in this league. I got a lot of that in Sweden from Shane, and you deserve to have it now, from Roz.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t mean that.” Luca was still holding his jaw, so Derek carefully pried his fingers away, and interlaced them with his own, letting them rest on Luca’s thigh.

“I do.” Luca’s pale hair, usually glossy, hung limp and dry over his forehead. Paired with Derek’s blanket wrapped around him, it would have made him look younger than he was if not for the hunted look in his eyes. “I don’t know what happened or why he’s being like this, but that’s not the kind of player I want to be.”

Unsure if Luca was expecting a response, Derek waited for him to continue.

He did, deflating a little, not quite melting back against the couch cushions. “Rozanov can be a good leader. We’ve seen it. Most of the league seems to respect him almost as much as they hate playing him. And yet… He thinks I’m too starstruck to notice that he’s hungover more often than not or too innocent to notice the parade of women he takes home when we go out as a group. He’s spiraling. I think he has been since Tampa. The guys are trying to keep it quiet, but you saw how he was after we clinched. That’s,” Luca shook his head, tried again, “Do you know how much liquor it takes to get Roz that drunk?”

“I didn’t even know you remembered that night, to be fair,” Derek replied.

“It’s a lot.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I told Roz yesterday that if you request a trade, I’d be talking to my agent, too.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head.

“You know they’d never trade you.”

A shrug.

Derek pushed, “I’m serious, Luc’. You’d just put yourself in a shitty situation with Carlton and ownership. You’re still on your ELC. They’d be idiots to let you go, even if it’s what you wanted.”

“I know that!” Luca shoved the blanket aside and pushed forward, almost in Derek’s face. “And obviously I don’t want to leave, but how else do I show someone like Ilya Rozanov that his actions have consequences?” His free hand, the right one which Derek wasn’t running his thumb over the back of, flopped around, casting for an answer that wouldn’t come. “He thought I was being melodramatic when said I didn’t want to talk to him until he fixed shit with you.”

Carefully, and with a wince because he wasn’t sure this wouldn’t make things worse, Derek murmured, “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Luca.”

“It’s about want,” Luca insisted. “Not need. I want to fight for you. For this,” he held up their tangled hands. “I’m going to, whether you like it or—”

Derek leaned forward and kissed him. Luca tasted like stale coffee and cherry chapstick they sold near the register at every gas station, the kind everybody wound up buying when the winter wind dried their skin out and they couldn’t find the fancy shit they’d sworn was in their pocket or cupholder or wherever they left it but had immediately gotten lost. He cupped Luca’s cheeks, cradling his jaw to deepen the kiss, to push him back, make room so he could straddle Luca’s legs on the couch.

“Okay,” Derek said, looking down at him for the first since coming through the door. Luca’s chin was tipped back, lips pink and swollen, eyes slightly glazed, but ever-serious.

“Okay,” he repeated, tentatively. “As in…”

“I want you,” Derek got distracted swiping at a tear that began to trail from the outer corner of Luca’s eye toward his temple. “To be with you,” he clarified. “I didn’t request a trade or any of that. I want to win here. With you, and the guys. Even Roz, even though he hates my guts right now.”

“You mean it?”

“Promise.” Derek pressed a kiss to Luca’s forehead. “I’m sorry for all of it. The pulling away, making you think I’d fucked off to wherever yesterday and not answering your messages.”

“The last part was more me than you.”

“Yeah, but it looked bad enough to freak you out, so,” Luca cracked a small, sad smile at that, and Derek couldn’t stop himself from mirroring that expression if he’d tried. He settled back on Luca’s thighs, but kept his arms around his shoulders anyway. “I was just going to go home after I heard Roz talking about me. Lick my wounds in private or something. Then Shane called me. He’s in Montreal for mediation again and heard our practice was cancelled. He’d gotten ice time at a little community rink so we skated a bit. I went to his parents’ place after. Lost track of time.”

Luca nodded. “You don’t need to tell me this.”

“I think I should,” Derek reasoned aloud. “I think not talking is what made this harder and I don’t want to do that, even if talking is not what I want to be doing after not holding you for weeks.”

Pinching his side, Luca jerked his chin forward slightly, lips brushing his stubbled jaw. “Too bad. You decided we were talking.” He paused, and when Derek didn't start talking, he bumped their foreheads together. “Talk, Derek.”

He swallowed, ignoring the sexual tension shaped elephant in the room. There’d be time for that later, he hoped. “We talked a lot. He told me to stop being an idiot and worry about what matters. Not in as many words, but…”

Luca read between the lines. “He gave you perspective?”

“Yeah. He hates that the media got me involved. It was inevitable, really. He also said Roz was probably pissed about him causing drama and I was just a convenient target, or something. That he’s probably bored.”

“Everyone knows Hollander was his main competition,” Luca offered. “Still doesn’t excuse him acting like an asshole.”

“Definitely not,” Derek agreed. “Shane thinks he’ll chill out in the coming weeks. I don’t know why, but I think—and please, please don’t tell anyone I said this,” He waited for Luca to nod, not that Derek really thought Luca would repeat anything that happened between them, “I think Rozanov knew about him being gay. Shane’s super convinced Rozanov isn’t a homophobe—”

Luca blurted, “You thought Roz was a homophobe?” He looked shocked. “I distinctly remember you telling me he said it was okay if you were queer,” His eyebrows drew closer together as he squinted at Derek, exhausted, yet utterly adorable. “He’s friends with Harris!”

“Sometimes it’s different when someone’s with someone else. Makes it more real.” He shrugged. “Then the media was kind of insinuating that Shane and I were involved and I know you didn’t believe that but, I think maybe he did?”

“Which is better than him being a homophobe,” Luca supposed, “But not by much. He should’ve talked to you about it instead of assuming.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Wait. Does he think—?”

Luca nodded. “Yeah, Derek. Missed that part in the highlights of my conversation with him. He definitely thinks you and Hollander are an item.” He tightened his grip around Derek’s middle. “I don’t think he believed me when I said I knew you weren’t.”

“Great.”

“Well, hopefully Hollander’s right and the media will get distracted by something that isn’t your imaginary relationship.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.”

Neither of them came out and said it, but it was pretty clear that they weren’t looking forward to facing Rozanov’s wrath in the meantime.

April, 2021
Ottawa, ON

MLH insiders finally leaked the name Lily between the end of the season and playoffs, on a Friday morning when everyone was far more concerned with college basketball and there weren’t any games until the following Tuesday, for some stupid reason. Derek made an effort not to check the news so he didn’t find out until Sunday, when Luca checked the group chat at the breakfast bar and updated him while he made them protein pancakes following their morning run.

They'd been inseparable since Derek came back from Shane's parents' place.

“The guys are chatting about Hollander,” Luca said. “There's a picture of his stick?” He coughed. “Not a euphemism, either. LaPointe is convinced he's leading the league on a chase and the name is probably his cat or something. They—whoever their sources are seem to think it's an alias for a player. An active player.”

Derek flipped the pancakes. He wasn't as good at making them as Shane, who had taught him this recipe. Derek didn't use a million timers or little silicone rings to make sure each one was uniform, either.

“I bet they'll be clamoring to talk to you next practice,” Luca continued carefully. “Am I also correct in guessing you don't know who this Lily person is? Assuming they're a person, of course.”

“I don't.”

“That's what Bergy figured, too. He messaged our group chat.”

The other group chat, Luca meant. The one with their friends on the team—Holmberg, LaPointe, and Young—who knew about them now. The trio had been convinced Roz had all but run Derek out of town, especially after witnessing Luca calling Rozanov out. In the aftermath they decided to be honest with the people they cared about.

It had gone really well. LaPointe and Young each owed Holmberg fifty bucks for calling it, but Luca had convinced them to channel those funds into buying them pizza and beer so all of them profited.

“Bergy would,” Derek supposed.

“Your phone is ringing,” he said. It was barely loud enough to hear on the counter.

“Who is it?”

The sound of Luca flipping his phone over was muted by the sound of sizzling hotcakes and running water. Derek was trying to do too much at once, rinsing off the blueberries and strawberries to go with them, so he slapped his hand down on the faucet and went back to scoop up Luca's stack of pancakes before they burned.

“Roz.”

“Let it go to voicemail,” Derek said, but Luca had already silenced the vibration. He came to Derek’s side, holding out the phone with the power-off slider awaiting his finger. He went to comply, but stopped short of the screen.“He hasn't posted anything in the group chat, has he?”

Luca shook his head, then thought better of it. He pulled his own device out of his pocket, frowning as he scrolled up. “No, nothing.”

“Okay, go ahead. I'll see him tomorrow for pregame skate. He can talk to me then. We have plans.”

Luca grinned at him, shoving both their phones into his sweatpants to accept the plate Derek handed over. “I’ll come back for the fruit,” he said, bumping Derek's hip. “Make your plate and grab the syrup.”

The plans in question were nothing more than brunch on the couch watching the live steam of Växjö’s game against Leksand. It was game four of the finals and Växjö was almost certainly going to sweep them. Luca found watching Hollander helpful, and Derek never minded supporting his former teammates, plus they could make out on the couch during intermission. Win-win, in Derek's opinion.

Or, it was, until halfway through the first, Luca's phone started ringing. Luca rolled his eyes, not a terribly uncommon behavior when one got past his polite demeanor, but not one usually directed at his phone. He ignored the call, but the buzzing started back up immediately.

“This is our last day off before we're all in on the playoffs. I want to actually fucking relax,” Luca said, poking at his phone screen, irritated. “Not deal with drama because Rozanov decides he's finally willing to hash it out.”

Derek raised his eyebrows.

Tiredly, Luca poked at his phone before setting it beside his finished plate of pancakes. “I told the guys we turned our phones off. If it's that big of a crisis, they'll come get us.”

“Smart, baby.” Derek laid back against the armrest and opened his arms. “Come here.”

He brought the blanket from the back of the couch with him, slotting himself between Derek's legs, head resting on his chest. If Derek wasn't so invested in the game, it'd be easy to fall asleep this way. He was warm and comfortable.

But Shane scored his second goal of the night in under fifteen minutes, and, well, Derek and Luca both loved hockey.

“Is he playing with his food?” Luca whispered.

“No, it's not like that. He always gives a hundred percent. Even when the game’s over.”

He hummed. “He seems different somehow.”

“You only reviewed his highlights from Montreal.” Derek gestured to the screen. “He plays a more decisive game than that. Has to. It's super low scoring, but he's putting up twenty-eight minutes a night and the rink’s Olympic size. It adds up quick.”

“You say it's super low scoring, yet he has two goals.” Luca poked him in the ribs. Derek laughed, startled and ticklish. His hand spread out, shoving his shirt up to his armpits. “Still three minutes left in the first, Briggs,” he leaned back, pulling his own ratty tee over his head and chucking it behind him.

“Haas, baby—fuck! I'm going to accidentally throw you through the coffee table if you keep this up.”

Luca giggled. It was almost worth getting tickled for. “I don't think it would be an accident if you’re saying i—”

A loud knock made Luca still on his chest. That was okay. Derek had also frozen. “You don't think…” he began.

His forehead thumped against Derek’s chest. He laid a kiss to the skin beneath him before sighing. “I really, unfortunately, do.” He got up, looking over his shoulder for his discarded shirt before shrugging. “Stay there.”

“I can—”

“Stay, please,” He said, so polite it almost didn't sound angry. “I'll make him leave.”

He had almost gotten to Derek's tiny foyer when the shouting started. “I know you're in there, Briggs, open the fucking door!”

Luca ripped the door open, letting it bang against the wall. LaPointe and Young had already put a hole there after going too hard at Bood’s place earlier in the season. Derek, who more often than not found himself their designated driver, had gone to grab more beer at the LCBO and came back to find them freaking out while Luca, tipsy and mischievous, recorded the whole thing, eagerly awaiting Derek's reaction.

“Stop yelling in the hallway,” he said, each word carefully enunciated.

Derek craned his head, trying to see Roz around Luca’s medium frame.

“I need to talk to Briggs.”

“No.” Luca had crossed his arms. His posture was rigid, too, feet slightly wide and planted. “You can talk to him tomorrow before practice. Please leave.” He closed the door in Rozanov's face and locked it.

The banging started up again, possibly louder.

“Stop, for fuck’s sake!” Luca shouted at the closed door, throwing up his hands in agitation as he made his way back to the couch. Once he'd thrown himself down, he said, “I thought Shane told you this would make it better. How is this making it better?”

“I am not leaving until you open this fucking door!” Rozanov yelled.

“I mean, he seems like he's finally willing to talk to me?”

“Optimistic of you,” Luca said. “Maybe if you let him in he'll be gone by the time intermission is over?”

“And you think I'm the optimist?” Derek pointed at himself.

Luca nodded.

Derek leaned over, kissed him sharply on the mouth, and pushed himself upright. He fished Luca's shirt off the floor next to the coffee table and handed it to him. “Would you take the dishes to the kitchen? Please. I'll wash them later.”

“I'll wash them now,” Luca decided, rising to his feet. “Less chance of me getting frustrated enough to punch him.”

“You wouldn't.”

“I tucked supplies between the couch cushions while you were in the shower,” Luca said heatedly. “First intermission was for opening you up. Second was for—” he nipped at the sensitive place just below Derek's ear that never failed to make him shudder. “You know.”

Derek shivered. “You really are mad if you're trying to make me answer the door for our captain with a fucking boner.”

“You don't have to.” Luca's hand on his chin wasn't meant to be sexual, but Derek leaned into it all the same.

“I don’t think he’s going to go away,” he admitted, “And last time I checked, neither of us were into exhibitionism.”

Luca huffed. “If only.”

“I can hear you talking,” Rozanov said obnoxiously through the door.

Sighing, Derek pulled back from Luca, adjusted himself, and warily approached the narrow entryway to his apartment.

The second he unlocked the door, Rozanov shouldered past him and into the room without removing his shoes. “Uh, sit anywhere, I guess,” Derek said lamely.

Luca scoffed from where he was bent over collecting their syrup sticky plates, balancing them in the crook of his arm and heading for the kitchen. He must have muted the television before he’d gone because the only thing Derek could hear was Rozanov’s breathing. His chest was heaving.

Sitting was apparently off the table, so Derek tried again. It came out angrier than it probably should have. “So? What do you want?”

That piercing gaze was back on him, as sharp as Derek had ever seen it turned on someone. Roz could be a scary motherfucker when he wanted to be.“You are not fucking around on Luca with Shane Hollander,” he said. His eyes were bloodshot, like he’d been out late the night before and hadn’t slept enough.

“Technically, it would’ve been the other way around,” Luca called from the kitchen.

“That is not helpful, Luca,” Derek said loudly.

Luca turned on the faucet, ignoring him.

Roz was still staring at him like he was a bug, though, so he continued, “There’s nothing romantic between me and Shane. Never has been.”

He nodded, but he didn’t seem particularly satisfied. If anything, the focus intensified. “So you guys are… what?” He paused, searching Derek’s eyes. His hands came up from where they’d been at his sides. “Friends?”

Derek shrugged. “Yeah, I—yeah.”

Another nod, repeated a couple times as Roz processed or something. “You will give me phone number.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You are friends,” Roz said casually, in a tone that suggested Derek was stupid. “Friends have phone numbers. You will give me Hollander’s.”

Apparently he was serious. Derek saw red. This was fucking unbelievable. “No, I don’t think I will,” he said quietly. “Is that all you came here for?”

Roz blinked at him. “Yes.”

“I won’t give it to you.” Derek swallowed, jerking his chin toward the door, unsure if he was emotionally exhausted or viscerally pissed. “Leave.”

“Briggs, don’t be like this,” Rozanov said, sobering. He scrubbed his hand across his stubbled chin, drawing attention to just how unkempt he looked. “Is just phone number.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you aren’t going to do something cruel to him? Act like he’s some homewrecker or God knows what else because you’re bored without him in the league or whatever the fuck your problem is? Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

“I would not be cruel,” he refuted softly.

“Oh, well I’m sure that changes everything,” Derek said sarcastically, rolling his eyes before resuming his earlier glare. “And I’m supposed to trust you why, exactly?”

“Derek,” Luca was at his right elbow. He hadn’t even noticed the water had stopped running. “I think—”

“Why are you making such a big deal about this? It is just a phone number. I will not be mean to Hollander. He probably will not answer number he does not know.”

“Might have something to do with you wanting him off the team,” Luca pursed his lips, tapping one of his cheeks, “And then, I don’t know, barging into his home and demanding information without even considering an apology?”

Rozanov sighed. “I asked if you were cheating on Luca, you said no. We are good. I do not hate you anymore.”

“Well, I for one am so relieved,” Derek scoffed.

“Good,” Rozanov said.

Luca’s head tilted. “He’s being sarcastic, Ilya. You didn’t, I don’t know, consider asking him before all this? Or me?”

“You would not have told the truth because you are lovesick and like him too much.”

“Don’t talk about my boyfriend that way,” Derek growled, fists clenched. Roz looked down at them, but only for a second. He continued, “Luca is a good judge of character so fuck you for thinking otherwise.” He exhaled, feeling his shoulders drop with the motion.

“If I let you punch me, then will you give me Hollander’s number?”

“What the actual fuck?”

Roz made a confused look. “Win-win. Everybody gets what they want.”

“I want you to stop being a piece of shit to me for no fucking reason. You want a phone number of a man currently suing the people who sign our paychecks because…” Derek trailed off, but Rozanov didn’t fill in the blank. “Those are two very different things.”

“Do you want him to corroborate Derek’s story?” Luca asked.

Both Rozanov and Derek turned their heads to look at him.

“What? This is an argument about the truth, is it not? You’ve been so mad at Derek since the media started acting like two gay men living together had to be fucking, which is a whole other insulting thing we should revisit later—”

“I know Derek is not fucking Shane Hollander now.”

“Yes, because—”

“Derek has never been the one doing the fucking, thank you,” Derek said over Luca, then slapped his hand over his mouth. This was what he did. He got fucking angry, and then he ran his mouth and stupid shit like this came out of it.

Rozanov folded in half, laughing harder than either of them had ever seen. “Luca Haas, you fucking animal,” he said, still laughing. He looked weirdly proud all the same, “I owe Harris so much fucking money. He tried to tell me.”

Luca twitched and Derek threw both arms around him, just in case. “I know we both want to punch him, but I think maybe we shouldn’t,” he decided.

“You’re only saying that because you’re embarrassed,” Luca grumbled at Derek.

“Oh, I want to die, but life persists.”

“I think maybe we should sit,” Rozanov decided. They stared at him, but his attention was focused on the television. Växjö had scored, the boys yelling in each others’ faces as they celebrated, knocking helmets with Hollander. He looked up eventually, face slack with distraction and followed up with an impatient sounding, “What?”

“Now you want to sit?” Derek asked.

—

What followed might have been the weirdest hour of Derek’s life. They watched the rest of the game in silence. Shane scored another goal, his fourth of the game, Artem hit the empty net, then it was over. Växjö had completed the sweep. On screen, the boys piled up on each other, joy and victory lighting up their faces. Derek was happy for them in a weird, bittersweet way. He knew this was where he wanted to be—once all this weirdness passed at least, but—

Luca dug his elbow into Derek’s ribs, a silent demand for attention. He took the hint for what it was and looked over at Rozanov. His gaze was glued to the screen, thumb of his right hand swiping aimlessly across his lips while the left drummed against the armrest of the recliner.

“Why do you want his number?” Derek asked as the teams lined up to shake hands.

It was like a veil fell over Rozanov. He looked away from the screen like someone waking up from a dream, shaking himself slightly as if to ascertain that their reality was indeed real. “I should not have asked that,” he began. “I, ah, owe you an apology, Derek,” he said, quiet and serious in a way that took Derek back to that night at the Kingfisher in New York City, in a hundred other moments before everything had kind of gone to shit, “I should not have treated you the way I did.”

No, he shouldn’t have, but—why now? Derek hadn’t even brought it up. Honestly, he’d bitched about it, he might bitch more about it to Luca later, but if it was done, then it was done. People fought, thought stupid shit. It wasn’t like Rozanov wanted to be his friend. They were teammates. Coworkers.

“I will do better,” he continued. “You too, Luca. I am sorry I made things more difficult. I will stop now.”

They nodded.

He nodded back. “I will not say anything to the team, either. Not even to Harris,” he clarified, looking between them carefully. This was Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, the man beneath the arrogant asshole facade. When was the last time they had seen this side of him? It felt like forever.

Fuck, Derek had actually kind of missed him.

Luca laced their fingers together. Derek squeezed back, giving him permission to speak for them both. “We don’t care about that. The Commissioner, maybe, for obvious reasons but our team’s pretty good, you know? Some of the guys know, so it’s no surprise Harris figured it out. Everyone we’ve told so far has been good about it.”

“Good,” Rozanov said. “You will tell me if anyone says anything bad. I will take care of it.”

“Okay,” they chorused.

“Okay,” he said, like they had made some kind of pact, and rose to his feet. “I will go now.”

He got up, still in his fucking sneakers, which Derek had forgotten about, and left without a goodbye. There and gone in less than what? Ten seconds?

Luca slumped back against the couch. Derek looked over.

“That was weird, right?”

Nodding, Luca pulled his legs up and under himself. “I think, uh—” he waited until Derek had pushed himself back, fully facing him and not the tv, before proceeding. “I don’t want you to panic, but I think I know why Rozanov wanted Hollander’s phone number.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. They blinked though, it wasn’t like some weird staring contest.

“No,” Derek said.

“You saw the way he was looking at the screen,” Luca said. “He practically stopped fighting with you over it.”

“He stopped because I outed myself as a bottom and was mortified, Luca.”

“And why would that matter, Derek?” He said pointedly, eyes wide in a silent request for Derek to lock in. “Why would Rozanov chill out after you told him I’m the one who fucks you?”

“You really think—”

“When you said that, he looked like you’d actually punched him before he started laughing. I think he wanted to be absolutely sure. Taking into consideration the recent news and the urgency with which he needed to speak to you today, after ignoring you for weeks,” Luca exhaled, using his hands to metaphorically shove his logic in Derek’s direction, “And adding in the way he withdrew the second things were calm and you asked him for his reason point blank…” he paused to let his words sink in.

Derek probably looked like a gaping fish or something. There was no way Luca was about to insinuate—

“I’m pretty sure I know who Lily is,” he finished carefully. “And I think that, if you take a moment to examine the facts, you do, too.”

Round One
Montreal Metros vs Ottawa Centaurs
April, 2021

Derek knew, in the way athletes often did, that the Centaurs would win the series.

It didn't have anything to do with the press or management or any of that. It was about how they played on the ice, how they rallied at Monk’s afterward and the TVs blared their highlights at full volume. It was about remembering how to be a team—a weird, not quite forever family that was far from perfect, but you loved anyway.

The Centaurs were finally fucking clicking the way they had been after getting their shit together after Tampa. It felt like it had been forever. It felt like it had been no time at all.

Last game Derek had gotten caught in their zone, unable to change because of a turnover. Roz had come over the boards and even though Derek was gassed he managed not only to strip the Metros player of the puck, but also get that puck to Roz and keep up for a give and go breakaway.

They hadn't played on a line in forever, not even in practice, but it'd felt good. He'd kept up. For a moment, it had almost felt like playing with Shane in Växjö. Rozanov scored, coming around the back of the net to grab him, screaming in his face, eyes bright, no shadow of anger or sadness, all pure fucking joy and love of the game, and it had felt like Derek was finally back where he belonged. He could actually hack it.

Everything was completely, totally fine as long as he didn’t think about Luca saying, I think I know who Lily is.

Game six found them down four-three in the third. They had a minute left on a necessary penalty kill: A goal would have been worse than the slash. Derek slammed the Montreal defenseman he was covering into the corner and was sworn at. He ignored it, swiveled his head to make sure none of his teammates would be trying to run him, and sent the puck around behind their net to Luca.

Neither of them should’ve been out there, but Montreal knew their season was on the line tonight and they were playing like it. If they lost this game, Ottawa would be the ones playing New York in the second round. Barrett and Young had both gone to the dressing room over the course of the last two periods, and Chouinard’s hand was more or less taped in the shape necessary to be able to mostly hold onto his stick.

It wasn’t a crisis, but they were banged up, and it would only get worse from here.

Boodram yelled for them to push. They cycled around, fighting Montreal the whole way but never actually clearing the puck. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been on the ice, but his lungs were beginning to get a little heavy, suggesting it was coming up on the minute mark.

Derek dropped his shoulder and pinned another guy—Gangnon, he thought, catching half of his number out of the corner of his eye—at the blue line. The puck still made it to Hayes, who batted it out of the air and into the corner. Chouinard, fucked up hand and all, collected it and threw it back the way it came. It skipped over the other Montreal defenseman’s stick and finally came out.

Derek surveyed the ice. Gagnon had collapsed toward the Centaurs’ net, and the other d-man was still tied up with Luca.

He could make it. He could see it in his mind’s eye, the play unfolding in slow motion. He darted cross-ice.

One on one with Renaud, who had replaced Miitka in net after the Cents had delivered a devastating defeat to him in game five, was nothing. He’d watched the tape, would shoot blocker side low, unless Renaud flashed the five hole. He reached for the puck to control it, and his stick gave.

“Fuck!” He dropped it and kicked the puck toward the sideboards, trying to dribble it closer to the bench. There was no way if any of the guys came over the boards that they’d be able to play it without getting a fucking penalty or ruining the opportunity, and the fucking equipment manager was nearly at the offensive blue line. He was fucked.

“Stick!” Rozanov yelled, holding his out at the bench. “Take, take—”

Derek reached. He almost fucking dropped it, could feel his chest fucking shaking with panic, but he got it and managed to look up just in time to avoid being run by Gagnon, who had finally recovered. There was a very good chance he landed in the Centaurs’ bench, but Derek didn’t have time to notice. He was too busy making sure he didn’t wind up offside, cutting across.

Renaud had come too far out of his crease, cutting off Derek’s angle.

That was alright, though, because he dropped the puck back to Luca, who had managed to catch up to the play, and came around behind the goal. Renaud got a piece of Luca’s shot. It rang off the post and down to the ice, but Derek was there to tap it in before Renaud could cover it up for the whistle.

“That’s my man!” Luca shouted, jumping Derek as he whooped and their bench went nuts. They were so close, visors clinking together. “Shorthanded, Derek, holy shit!”

“Let’s fucking go, baby!” he screamed, hugging Luca with one arm and pointing with the handle of his borrowed stick toward the bench, giving credit to their captain, who was the only reason this goal had actually come to fruition.

The Montreal crowd booed them furiously. He reveled in it.

Tie fucking game.

It wasn’t until he got back to the bench that he saw the name written in small, blocky letters at the base of Rozanov’s stupid, overtaped knob, ink bleeding a little from sweat and snow.

“I didn't think you wrote on your sticks,” He said to Roz, returning it to him as he came over the boards.

“Ah, no.” Roz shrugged, looking down at it as he tested the give on it, like Derek had broken it in the twelve seconds he'd used it. “Is new thing I am doing.”

Dykstra followed their captain onto the ice. He craned his neck, looking for what Derek had spotted. When he found the blurry ink, he squinted to read it. “Jane?”

Rozanov grinned like someone had just told him a particularly funny joke. “Name of my Montreal girl,” he told them, gliding to center ice for the faceoff.

Play resumed. Derek could feel Luca's eyes boring into the side of his face, could picture his furrowed brow, the slight curl of his lips as he tried to figure out this newest development, which came as a massive blow to his theory about the identity of Lily.

Unlike Luca, Derek couldn't focus on the game and whatever mindfuck Hollander and Rozanov had going on off-ice, either together or separately, so he kept his gaze trained on the ice.

Montreal's doomed power play came to a close with less than a minute left in the regulation. It looked like they were headed to overtime.

Before that, Rozanov blew up Comeau, sent him flailing and sliding on his back, scooped up the puck and, because he could, because he was the one of the best players in the world, finished Montreal off with his signature move.

The bench went ballistic.

Rozanov looked up at the scoreboard and pointed before he was buried by his linemates. Luca smacked a rather slimy kiss to his cheek and yelled in his ear, the lot of them still jumping and jostling and screaming because they were going to end this tonight, “Look.”

Derek did what he was told.

It was pretty easy to see what Luca was getting at: The score wasn’t what Roz had been pointing at, though he would probably tell the media it was. Instead, he was indicating the clock, which stopped when he scored.

Twenty-four seconds remaining.

For fuck’s sake, Derek thought ruefully. There was no goddamn way Rozanov could have done that intentionally, not that Luca would ever let him hear the end of it.

—

Across the pond, Växjo cleaned up for the third season in a row. Derek, Luca, and their friends had packed in front of the TV in Derek's living room to watch the final two games of the series, taking advantage of their recovery time. They flew out to New York later tonight to get settled in ahead of the first two games of the second round. The trio’s suitcases were already packed in his car, his and Luca’s ready by the door.

“He's disgusting,” Bergy said, watching the post-game highlights from his usual spot on the floor. The man was like a cat. “That forehand’s tucking lethal.”

“I'm glad I'm not a defenseman,” LaPointe muttered.

Young, the lone defenseman among them, threw a piece of popcorn at him. “Fuck off. If he comes back to the league next season I'm gonna need all of you to help me cover him.”

“Better start with the bag skates now,” Luca teased.

He slapped his hands over his chest and faked being stabbed in the chest. “I liked it better when you were a shy and nervous rookie.”

“No you don't,” LaPointe rolled his eyes. “You were just saying some shit about his character arc.”

“I was drunk, Richard, don't be a dick.”

“Dick’s literally my name, asshole.”

“I’m just going to take this before Derek murders us,” Bergy reached for it, moving it off the coffee table. He held it over his head for Derek to take. (He had risen from the couch, ready to intercept the bowl before he spent the last hour before driving them to the airport aggressively vacuuming his apartment's shitty carpet.)

“This is why you're the favorite,” Derek said, taking the bowl to the kitchen to dump and rinse.

“I beg your pardon?” Luca roared at his back.

“Oh my god, Haasy, obviously you're his favorite,” Pointer huffed. “He’s gone on you.”

“Shut up, Dick,” he retorted, flushing scarlet.

Derek came back out to the living room and planted a kiss on his cheek. “It's true.”

“Aww,” Bergy and Young chorused, really laying it on thick.

“Yes, yes, we're very cute,” Derek held out a hand to pull Luca up. “Let's get dinner before we have to be at the airport. Dick’s buying.”

“What the actual fuck? Ask the guy with the fucking performance bonus, would you?”

“Dude,” Young made an x with his arms, “we just established that I need a lot of very expensive training this offseason to keep up with the return of Captain Canada.”

“Says the man who made us late because he wanted to put a deposit down on his new Porsche.”

“See if I ever let you drive it, Jason.”

Holmberg snorted, pushing himself up off the floor. “It's funny that you think you were ever going to let someone else drive it.”

“Alright, children, that's enough. Get your shit and get out. I’m hungry.”

“Okay, Mom, we're going,” Pointer said, hopping to his feet. “Jeez.”

Derek felt his eyebrows lift and reached into his pocket for his phone. He turned around quickly, snapping a picture of himself, a blurry blob that was Luca, trying to figure out what he was doing, Holmberg with one boot on, and Young and LaPointe still poking at each other.

Congrats to you and the boys on the win, he typed to Shane, though he'd said the same in their old group chat. He sent it, then attached the picture. Just wanted to let you know you're now the grandmother of these three assholes. They're scared shitless at the possibility of playing against you.

He didn't expect a response. Hollander didn't have a massive group of friends and family, given everything, but he was well respected throughout the Swedish league and would still be bombarded by congratulatory messages, and the team was probably going to go out and get sloshed. Shane wasn't one for that, either, but he'd be a good sport and hang out.

Derek's phone buzzed not long after they'd touched down in New York. It would have been early the next morning in Sweden, too early to be up for the day for someone who had won a championship the night before, but still, Shane had answered him.

I think I'm a little young for that, Derek.

He huffed, looking up at Roz, who also lifted his gaze from his phone. Their eyes met briefly, but Derek’s phone buzzed again, pulling him back to his messages.

Good luck in the second round. I'll try to catch some of your games.

“You good?” Luca asked, rolling both their suitcases toward him.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Shane said he'd try to watch some of our games this round.”

“That'll be nasty timezone-wise,” murmured Luca. They exchanged a glance.

“Unless he's going back to Montreal.” With the season done, it was likely that he would go back to Canada for more mediation. A court date had been set for November, but it was clear that MLH leadership wanted to settle.

What wasn't clear, but what reporters across North America were speculating wildly about, was if Shane had issued terms. Most had it right that he wanted to come home to the best league in the world, but some still tacked greed and wealth onto it, trying to reason their way through some of the rumors that had started when he'd left the Metros and disappeared from the continent.

From being his teammate, Derek knew that Shane wouldn't give an opponent time to yield. He wouldn't issue a challenge then give them time to build a defense. He would come ready and expect them to do the same.

Whatever was going to go down, and it was probably going to go down during the second round, was going to be intense.

In a way, it would be a good thing. Less pressure on them, with the League itself called into question, though he was almost certain every player put in front of a microphone would be asked about it for the rest of the playoffs.

Round Two
New York Admirals vs Ottawa Centaurs
May, 2021

The Admirals were going to go all the way this year, Derek thought, then promptly wanted to punch himself in the face. It was a horrible thought to have with them down two-one. The series was still within reach. Hell, they were coming off a victory.

The thing was that they were tired. The Admirals played cleaner hockey than a team like Florida, who went to the finals often and left a trail of head injuries and slew foots in their wake, but they played just as hard. They were sharp. They punished you for not being on, always. If your head wasn't on a swivel, they'd lay you out. If you tried to fight dirty, they'd sell the call.

Derek's entire left side was a massive bruise, his ribs taped within an inch of their life. Luca was faring better, but he was pretty sure that was because Barrett and Rozanov were animals who would murder anyone who looked at their little rookie the wrong way.

He could admit, with a full season in, that he was playing good hockey—the kind that would make him a utility player in the league—but not his kind of hockey. He doubted any player in his position—too old to really be thought of as a rookie, undrafted and desperate for his opportunity—was. The Centaurs had an all-star first line, but the depth still wasn't there. Not entirely. He'd played wing until Dillon got demoted to the second line, at which point he'd been moved to center after Dillon proved he wasn't meant for that role, either.

The kind of hockey he played was sharper, more European. Or, maybe not purely European. It was more likely he’d been spoiled by playing a lot of minutes with Shane, which had been like a trial by fire, forcing him to pull his weight on a line with one of the best players to ever take to the ice. Playing on the Centaurs second line, he sagged. On the power play, in the back thirty or forty seconds when the second unit went out there, it was a little better, especially if Roz or Luca were double shifted, but not perfect. They still had a ways to go, more pieces to add.

The answer would come in many forms. People. Chemistry. Belief. The foundations of it were in the room.

This year, it was more about—in Roz’s words, when they’d lost those first two games in New York: Fucking around and finding out. The cup would come. They needed to be patient. So what if it wasn’t this year? Nobody had expected them to even make it to the playoffs, much less the second round.

To be fair, though, a lot of the attention wasn’t on them. The Admirals weren’t the favorite to win the cup. Scott Hunter had been playing like an animal, but everyone knew he was streaky, hot and cold. The Centaurs were a story because Ilya Rozanov ran his mouth and the team was ahead of schedule in terms of a rebuild, but ultimately they didn’t have anything on the 2010s Raiders team he’d led to a championship.

No, everyone’s eyes were on the Metros, newly out of the playoffs and forced to reckon with Shane Hollander, who had just scored at a blistering rate of one point nine six points per game in the Swedish Hockey League playoffs and secured his third championship in a row.

Nobody was talking about storylines in the Washington-Florida series, or how a defenseman on Vegas had been suspended for two games for a season ending knee-on-knee hit. They were all talking about Shane Hollander coming back to Montreal like the league was going to war.

There were pieces about how Hollander had turned his back on the city that gave him a shot, how his sudden, wordless departure had broken the very heart of a franchise. Several sport shops offered discounted rates to re-number and letter Hollander jerseys, a call back to an initiative undertaken that first season without him.

Montreal fans were fresh off a loss to Ottawa, of all teams, and justifiably bitter. The league wielded that emotion like a weapon. The insiders could only say what information they were given and try to interpret it based on context, and it looked damning. From a random bystander’s perspective, it looked nasty. It looked like Hollander had thrown a tantrum, wanted out, and had manufactured a reason.

It didn’t help that nobody knew who Lily was. Nobody was coming forward, and sources close to Hollander’s side had said they had no desire to reveal his identity, but rather cite that queer players in Major League Hockey were present and probably always had been.

Some tabloids and small-time blogs considered that fodder for matchfixing. A couple hockey podcasts had special guests who’d played with Shane in Montreal who said that his actions were responsible for the team’s implosion, some even going as far as to say Montreal’s front office had saved them from an uncomfortable future if Shane’s queerness wasn’t just some excuse to extort the league for money he wasn’t making playing for a lesser league.

Not that anybody was asking Derek these days—that ship had sailed when he failed to know anything about the identity of Shane’s Lily—but if you had asked him about the Montreal based commentary, he’d would have probably said something incendiary like Someone really ought to tell Patrice Drapeau that his organization really shot him in the foot for terminating Hollander’s contract—surely supporting would have yielded better results. You know, if he wanted to point blame at someone instead of himself.

The conscience-like voice that Shane sometimes occupied in the portion of his brain reserved for hockey seemed vaguely approving, which suggested it was not, in fact, nearly incendiary enough commentary. Drapeau was an ignorant, shit for brains fuckstick, but he wasn’t actually the real enemy in this whole situation.

That was absolutely, positively, without any shadow of a doubt the MLH’s commissioner. Roger Crowell played the part of a sad, disappointed father who hoped his errant son would return home. He probably had a whole team of people trying to manage his image, make sure he really looked like the victim here, like he was willing to let Hollander take the league for all it was worth.

Derek knew a manipulative bastard when he saw one. He watched Crowell play the victim and thought of his parents, the way they had played this trick, too. It worked for a time. You learned to play nice, take your lumps and do your best to make it work because that was what they said was best for everyone. You don’t want to cause a scene. It won’t go well if you cause a scene.

He shuddered at the thoughts, the memories that kind of slimy, slippery language evoked.

But the thing about a trick, about lies, deceptions, manipulations was this: eventually the audience learned what to expect. They figured out just how the trick was performed and then the magic—surprise, shock, terror—was gone.

Shane had very clearly learned. He let himself be painted as the villain by his former franchise, their city, the nameless MLH executives who hid themselves as Insider Sources. He didn’t tell anyone what to think or how to feel.

He simply named his terms, behind closed doors, just him and them.

The MLH—Comissioner Crowell himself—held a press conference that same evening to ‘come clean about the status of their talks,’ appearing subdued and saddened and all the other things that important, powerful people pretended to feel to convince those around them that they’re hurting for reasons that aren’t power being stripped from them. He said he feared that Hollander’s separation from the Metros organization and subsequent time away from the league had changed him, that he was disappointed by the ask that he resign—he had spent decades building up the MLH brand into a household name, a titan across North America, but felt certain he had failed Shane, somehow. The damages listed in the files documented in the court had certainly suggested it, had they seen?

The rest: the overhaul of the players’ association to keep the league from promoting its interests over the players, removing Montreal’s ownership from the Board of Governors as well as key people involved in the contract termination who were still in their roles, they glossed over. It would require investigation, they said, like they hadn’t had months to look into it already.

Crowell wanted to do this over the summer, between seasons, when people weren’t thinking about hockey. The players and reporters would be out of pocket, resting and recovering to prepare for the upcoming season. Whatever happened would be easier to control, easier to sweep under the rug.

It was a sound strategy, but one that wouldn’t come to fruition.

On May tenth, Shane Hollander’s thirtieth birthday, all hell broke loose.

A recording was posted online.

There were several recordings, actually, but that would come to light later.

This recording, the one the Internet was collectively losing its mind about, had almost certainly originated as a video, but the visual portion had been removed. It had that odd ambient sound most cell phone recordings did, only some of the background noise omitted by the device’s microphone.

The recording began as a quiet rush of words, the ambient sounds of a parking garage in the background. Today is Friday, May fifth, twenty seventeen. My name is Shane Hollander, and my mom said I should record this conversation—which I still think is overkill, for the record. I’m doing this the right way, telling them first. That I'm gay. Fuck, this is so awkward. I'm going to stop talking now.

What followed was a series of pleasantries, Good morning, Phillip, how are the kids? and Bonjour Alexandra, je vais à une réunion, a dozen tiny conversations, followed by what might be the most hostile conversation ever conducted by a management group in modern sports.

The recording, which seemed to have come from the Athletic, had been posted overnight. When people woke in the morning, it was just… there. The Athletic’s correspondent had posted the headline and link. There had been no teaser, no follow-up, no commentary.

Despite this, or perhaps in spite of it, the Internet had done its thing.

It was everywhere: reposts and breakdowns and special reports that were just the recording with commentary were live by the time the Centaurs made it to practice that morning.

Derek and Luca came into the dressing room at the practice rink the next morning to find Chouinard, Boodram, Barrett, and Harris smooshed together in the corner, a semi circle folded in on each other, listening to it on one of their phones. The rest of the team moved slowly. The showers weren't even running. Everyone was listening.

A nudge from Luca drew him from his thoughts. He shook his head at that handsome, concerned face, the silent question there. Do you want to go?

Because Derek had known this was coming. Shane had told him the night before, told him it was okay to tell Luca. He’d said it was a hard listen, that there were other recordings, that it was going to get ugly. Told him to tell Harris no to media, to ignore his phone. Told him to talk to his coach and his captain, to take care of himself.

Even though this felt current to Derek, to everyone, he realized, looking around the room, this was Shane's truth from four years ago. To him, it was over, in a way.

Anyway.

Wyatt sat down in the stall next to him, shoved close, hips and shoulders touching. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, Hazy,” he murmured.

Across the room, Montreal’s head coach Thierault was saying, If there are other fags in the league, let them come forward. Why does it have to be you? That's not the kind of noise this team needs.

He probably saw Derek's red eyes.

Derek had made himself listen to the whole thing, all forty-six minutes and twelve seconds of it, so he couldn't be caught off guard when he inevitably encountered it in the wild.

It hadn't been cut for clarity. As there had been at the start, there was a six minute walk back to his car—the same one Derek had used to drive them to practice this morning—at the end, Shane's breathing hitched and panicky, some of the Metros' staff asking if he was okay while he tried to retreat. It cut off at the end following a watery, awful, This is my fucking nightmare.

A strong pair of arms, ones that were longer and bulkier than Luca’s, wrapped around his chest. Wyatt said, “I can tell them to take it outside, if you want? Or we can—”

“I already listened to it,” he murmured.

The recording itself wasn't the bothersome part. It was the authority, the manipulation, the gaslighting. Familiar tactics once used against him by the people he trusted. Families came in all shapes and sizes. People always thought you were obligated by blood or contract to honor those ties, but not everybody did that.

He didn't really want to explain why it put him in a weird headspace. He'd already had to do that with Luca, who had no frame of reference considering his family was all sunshine and sweetness, but tried so hard to meet Derek where he was.

“It's okay,” he told Wyatt. Luca reached over and took his hand, squeezed tight.

“I know he's your friend. It's okay if it's not.”

He wanted to say something to try and explain that the word friend wasn't enough, but knew he couldn't start that conversation now. How do you say I lived with this person for years, I look up to him, I would fucking die for him and it kills me to know that they could treated him like this, these people he gave everything to. He'd trusted them. And then there was the hockey side of it, this sport they all fucking loved.

If the Metros did this to Shane—they had, word was out, and the League had allowed it, which revealed a scary truth: Derek, Luca, Troy… people like them weren't safe in this league. If Shane fucking Hollander, the best fucking player of his generation, was thrown away for being queer, Derek might as well go back to fucking Sweden and cut his losses.

“Briggsy. Derek. Hey.” Bergy was on the floor, crouched between his legs, looking worried. “I can see you spiraling, brother. It's gonna be okay.”

“It's been a rough morning,” Luca said quietly. He was scared too, but he'd been so brave for Derek's sake.

Fuck, he was going to cry again.

Bergy looked over at Luca. “Hug your man, Haas.”

Luca's voice went cold. “Jason Alexander—”

He hadn't pitched his voice to carry, but Derek understood his concern. “If anyone says anything I’ll handle them.” Bergy clenched his fists, flexing his biceps.

“They'll be going through me, first,” Wyatt said, steel in his voice. It was rare that their lovable, superhero obsessed goaltender was serious, but everyone knew he wasn't a guy you messed with. He didn't have a temper until he did, and by the time you realized it was usually too late to survive the encounter unscathed.

“Thanks, guys,” Derek managed thickly, then Luca was pulling him into his chest, Wyatt’s arms retreating in favor of a warm hand on his back. Luca had pointedly covered the ear Derek had not pressed to his chest with his hand, isolating him from the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, cried, and tried his best to breathe.

Conversation happened around him for a bit, but it was far away, too muffled to really comrehend, and eventually he felt less like he was going to melt into a puddle of saltwater, so he pulled back. Luca pressed a kiss to his forehead.

At some point, Pointer and Young had joined Bergy on the floor.

“Coach came by to make practice optional. He said they're going into meetings about, you know, but that we’re okay. Management is pissed. The Metros do not reflect our ownership’s opinions.” Young spoke softly, matter of fact.

“Oh fuck, was I—” he looked around. Most of the boys were right where they'd been last time he looked, but, “Shit. Has it been that long?”

“Don't worry about that, Bigrig,” Chouinard said from the other side of the room.

“Listen to Chewie,” Hazy said. He'd gone to sit between him and Dykstra. “We're all gonna go out and skate in a bit, but nothing too crazy.”

“Thank fuck,” Barrett said. “I don't know about you guys, but I'm still fucking exhausted.”

There was a chorus of grunts and groans in solidarity, with more than a couple heartfelt Fuck Montreal’s.

“Coach said you're not going in front of reporters… again,” Harris chimed in. Troy’s hand laid on his thigh, unmoving. “Not because you've done anything wrong,” he clarified, “But because management is worried about the League being the League.”

“That tracks,” he murmured. “Shane told me to say no to scrums. It's gonna get worse.”

“What does that mean?”

Derek jumped, whirling around to face his captain, “Roz—”

Rozanov looked like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, if the cookie jar was Derek's back, which he'd been rubbing. Derek belatedly realized Hazy could not, in fact, be in two places at once.

“Not asking details,” Roz clarified carefully, though he certainly looked like he wanted them. “Asking what you need. I am not practicing with team today. I must do boring captain things.”

Shrugging, Derek said, “I’m okay. Just emotional.”

“If you are sure.” He held Derek's gaze for a long moment. It was kind of hard to tell because Roz was almost always electric, but he looked tired in a way that wasn't purely physical. His eyes looked different, a little. Puffy, too, maybe. “I am thinking this is maybe hitting all of us hard,” he decided, before saying to the room, “And I have had enough with the fucking Metros and the League.”

“Yeah, fuck the lot of them,” Bergy said, a hand Derek hadn't realized was there squeezing around his ankle.

Young knocked shoulders with Luca, having picked himself up off the floor. LaPointe shimmied between his and Luca’s legs, surveying the room.

Boodram strode to the center of the room as if sensing a call to action. “We're going to do something about this, right, Cap?”

“I think that is whole team decision,” Rozanov said. “There is something I want to do very much, but I will not force you. The league will want to punish anyone who causes trouble.”

“What are they going to do? Suspend all of us?” Dykstra hollered.

Chatter rolled through the room in waves, but the undercurrent was unanimous. Supportive. To his left, Luca sniffed delicately, swiping at his cheek. “I really fucking love it here,” he said, overwhelmed. Derek nodded into his shoulder.

“Okay, so, coming out publicly is probably out of the question,” Troy said over the noise, rising and pulling Harris to his feet alongside him, “But if you didn't know…”

The room erupted in whistles and cheers as he dipped Harris and kissed him rather thoroughly.

“Fucking finally,” Rozanov said. Bood snorted. “And I know you all will be good about this. There is heart in this room,” he continued, thumping his chest. “Heart is what will win us championships.”

They cheered.

“I think they're all in on the support angle, Cap,” Hazy said. “So what’s the plan?”

Roz smiled a wicked grin, the kind he turned on opponents who met him in the faceoff dot before saying, Would you be more offended if I score now or should I let you think you have a chance before completing the hat trick?

“We are going to pick a side and make sure everybody fucking knows it.”

—

The locker room was loud most days. Dykstra tried to cajole them into letting him play the pregame beats, got booed by just about everyone—this is a safe space, Evan, stop trying to make us listen to fucking country—and things carried on in a pleasant, buzzy drift of guys doing their pregame rituals in their own time before Roz rallied the troops for warmups.

Try as they might to act like it, today was not most days. They trickled in per usual, letting Harris do his usual walk-on photos and video, but it was all business. Derek and Luca walked side by side the way they always did, sometimes chatting, sometimes not. It was a silent day today. They’d said all they’d needed to this morning, in the car on the way here. It wasn’t about them, even though it kind of was: the aftermath of this incident would change the landscape of the league and potentially dictate what life as a queer athlete in Major League Hockey would look like.

There was a lot to be afraid of and they weren’t wrong to be afraid, but they couldn’t let the fear outweigh the hope. They had a good team—good guys, talented ones, too.

Here, in this locker room where every stall had a sweater with the same name and number, there was a lot to be hopeful about. They would go out there tonight as a united front and fight: For themselves, the team, and for their playoff lives, but also for something bigger than themselves.

They would fight for a future where queer players could be out in the league without repercussions. They would fight for Shane Hollander.

He'd haunted the League’s halls for long enough, been the ghost in the room in every playoff and all-star game. Hockey was better with him in it.

The hush in the room wasn't anxious or awkward. It was honed, focused. Some of the guys went out for sewer ball, Luca among them. Derek didn't.

He sat in his stall, forearms braced on his thighs, looking around the room. It was largely empty, Hazy in the corner, pumping himself up for battle, headphones on, back to the rest of them, muttering quietly.

“You good, Briggsy?”

Rozanov seemed to be looking at his phone until he wasn’t. He cocked his head, regarding Derek.

“Yeah. Ready to do the thing, I guess,” he said quietly.

Roz nodded. Looked down at his phone again, then set it down on the bench beside him. “Did you tell him?”

Derek shook his head, understanding who he was from the intensity of the other man’s gaze. “You think I should?”

“I think…” he trailed off, looking around. He continued once he made sure no one else was paying attention. “I want him to know he has support. It is a big thing he is doing. Very brave.”

“It is,” Derek agreed.

“He changed his number, after,” he added, his attention on Derek blunting a little as he spoke. “Or I would tell him myself.”

Nodding, but not quite sure what else to say, Derek offered, “I figured, since, y’know.” Rozanov had shown up demanding it not that long ago. He didn't ask anymore. “Hunter said that, too.”

“You talked to Scott Hunter?” That sharp, pointed focus was back on him.

“Not on purpose,” he groused. There was a momentary release of tension, shared humor between them in the shape of Derek’s words, but the conversation flipped back to its more serious nature.

“Tell him to watch the game tonight,” Rozanov sighed like his next word cost him something, “Please.”

“Okay.” He pulled out his phone and navigated to the messages app. “Should I tell him that you said to, or…”

“Ah, no,” Roz shook his head. “We are—we did not,” he exhaled, folded forward and groaned. “We weren’t friends,” was what he settled on. “But you are. And he should know that he has people in his corner.”

Derek resisted the urge to say something stupid like, I’m like ninety-nine percent certain you’re Lily, my boyfriend won’t shut the fuck up about it and it’s killing us to see you pretend otherwise, even though it breaks my brain to think about it, and picked up his phone. He navigated to Whatsapp.

“You might want to watch our game tonight,” he said aloud as he typed. “Should be an interesting matchup.” He tapped at his phone again and it was done. “Okay, sent.”

Roz huffed. “That is one way to put it,” he said.

“Hey, I’m trying to sell it so he actually watches.”

“Do you think he will?” The thread of uncertainty in his captain’s voice was almost as uncomfortable as the full weight of his stare, but Derek braced for it and held on.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

His phone buzzed.

Discussions moved to League HQ so I’m in NYC. Scott recommended a bar that shows all his games. Enemy territory but it’ll have to do. It buzzed again. Good luck and stop texting me when you haven’t taped your sticks at least twice.

Derek chuckled to himself because of course, then rolled his eyes. He responded to the message with a middle finger emoji before telling Roz, “He’s at the fucking Kingfisher.”

Rozanov swallowed, throat working, face a complicated twist of happiness and sorrow. “I hope Kip and Kyle have ginger ale,” he said. “Is preferred drink of boring Canadians.”

—

A sea of Hollander jerseys took to the ice in warmups. First, the Centaurs in a vortex of red and black. The crowd’s initial cheers grew thunderous, people pouring in from the concourses early to see what all the fuss was about. When Scott Hunter and the Admirals came down the tunnel a moment later, twenty-fours on their sweaters as well, more white than red, they cheered again, the team’s mutual respect for a hometown hero taking priority over the game they were about to play.

It would be a moment people talked about as one you had to be there for as it hadn’t been pre-announced or leaked to the press. The broadcasts, both home and away, had picked it up and ran, sensing that history was being made.

When the press asked after the game, they would learn that it originated in their rooms, that they desired to show their support for a player let down by their franchise and the league. Their captains would say that they accepted that there would be punishment, though their coaches would say that their respective ownership groups would be filing an appeal on the players’ behalf.

It would only be two teams out of thirty two, but it would be a reckoning all the same.

They couldn’t play the game in their Hollander jerseys, but it had been decided that they would be raffled off in the days to come, with all proceeds going to local LGBTQIA+ charities. Watching as the first line went out for the opening draw, Derek wondered if maybe Roz would keep his. He considered asking Harris, but the man was in full-on crisis control mode, made arguably worse by the ability to plan it.

Roz came to a stop in front of Hunter, leaned forward, bore down, then stopped. He leaned back, almost like he needed another moment before he was ready, giving a little jerk of his head toward Hunter’s stick. “What’s that?”

“Uh,” Hunter looked almost kind of handsome when he was confused, in a decidedly not-Derek’s-type kind of way. He moved his glove, showing off a hastily scrawled Lily. “All our guys did it. You know, solidarity.”

Rozanov looked oddly touched, but Hunter didn’t seem to notice that it took him a minute to find his grin. “Ah. Is nice thing. My team did it too.”

“Then why do you look so surprised?”

“I only saw the top part,” Roz leaned forward as the ref swooped in to drop the puck. “Must be your bad handwriting. I thought for a second it was my name.”

Scott rolled his eyes skyward. Derek couldn’t see it from the bench, but he could feel it in the weight of his insult as he said, “You are so fucking annoying,” which was true, but then he froze, as if he'd just realized something.

The puck dropped. Rozanov won the faceoff.

The Ottawa Centaurs would win the game 4-1, but ultimately lose the series. Privately, Derek could admit to himself that despite his heartbreak he was okay with losing that battle if they won the war.

It wouldn’t happen right away. It would take days for there to be an emergency meeting of the Board of Governors, and longer still for Commissioner Crowell to be placed on administrative leave. Justice would come. Never quickly enough, but it would arrive eventually.

Derek and Luca would watch from Monks as Scott Hunter hoisted the cup, then kissed Kip Grady at center ice. Luca would squeeze his hand so tight he might actually succeed in breaking it, their friends shouting begrudging congratulations for the kiss— and only the kiss—at the TVs, even though they were muted because fuck everyone but the Centaurs, even if it was history.

On July first, Shane Hollander would be Major League Hockey’s most popular free agent. Derek's future would feel wide open, full of possibility.

The league would never be the same.