Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander and Scott Hunter's Fight in Episode: s01e03 Hunter, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Protective Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, but not yet

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-19 Completed: 2026-02-21 Words: 4,741 Chapters: 3/3

Mirrors

Summary

It’s not the way he meant it, but if Hollander takes so much fucking offense on the (not even intentional) implication that there’s something more than rivalry going on between him and Rozanov… so be it. Scott isn’t here to coddle some homophobic crybaby.

Scott straightens, squares his shoulders, pulls on all of height, his strength, his anger.

“You fucking heard me, Hollander.”

/////

Or: Scott completely misreads his fight with Hollander in the ice

Notes

Chapter 1: The chirp heard around the world

Look, first of all, Scott isn’t proud of himself for it, okay? It’s been a shitty week, he was in a terrible mood, battling a string of losses and an apparently imposible crush, and he’d just lost to the kid everyone swore was his heir apparent.

“Hope next time we play you decide to show up,” Shane fucking Hollander has the nuts to chirp at him after the final whistle.

Scott isn’t really thinking about the implications. Getting kicked while he’s down by the one player who is famously too polite to chirp is just a blow a little too low for him.

And, here’s the thing, okay? He’s seen the kid, he knows he’s great, talented, ruthless in the ice, fast as lightning. He also knows that his entire career, even before the draft, he’s been pitted against Rozanov like it is the natural order of things, like they were two halves of a whole split during the Big Bang that finally found each other to do what they were born to: collide, again, and again, and again. It must be nerve wracking to be that fucking good, a once in a generation kind of good, only to find that your own fucking generation also holds the only other person who could possibly go toe to toe with you. It must drive Hollander insane. Scott knows he would be furious about it in his place. Particularly if the player in question was someone as rude and crass and fucking annoying as Rozanov. 

So THAT is what he’s thinking when he says:

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

Hollander freezes. Has the Canadian gall to apologize:

“I’m sorry. What? What the fuck does that mean?”

There’s a particular kind of chirp that Scott Hunter swore he would never use. The kind that turns who he is into an insult, the kind that is flung freely both in and off the ice. The kind that implies that there’s nothing worse than falling in love with another man, than desiring an other man, than wanting to fucking ask his crush out without it feeling like the world will end.

It’s not the way he meant it, but if Hollander takes so much fucking offense on the (not even intentional) implication that there’s something more than rivalry going on between him and Rozanov… so be it. Scott isn’t here to coddle some homophobic crybaby.

Scott straightens, squares his shoulders, pulls on all of height, his strength, his anger.

“You fucking heard me, Hollander.”

The kid drops his gloves and Scott grins as he mirrors him.

This is better. It feels good. Fighting back. It’s not self pitying because he can’t fucking win, it’s not because he can’t ask Kip on a date, it’s not because he’s feeling lost and lonely and exhausted of never being enough. Fighting Hollander over this particular chirp feels like a vindication, like he’s standing up for himself… for something bigger.

He lands a good punch. Hollander, surprisingly, lands two. There’s so much anger there, it hurts Scott deeply. Out of everyone in the league, Shane Hollander was maybe the one he least expected to be so outraged by the most minimal gay implication in a chirp. Is it because of Rozanov? Does he actually hate his rival that much?

Hollander is still shouting insults at him while their teams pull them away, fighting like a caged animal.

Scott is… tired. Anger only does so much to stall heartbreak, to soothe that splinter that’s been stuck inside his heart his entire life, that pain, that loneliness, that fear. So much fear.

Things calm down.

He feels a little silly, after… exposed to the word. He’s supposed to be better than this. He is Scott Hunter. He wonders what his parents would think of him right now. Would they be disappointed?

He should be setting an example.

As they skate back to the locker rooms he decides he should at the very least make peace. Hollander is practically a kid still, no matter how talented, and clearly Scott had hurt his ego. Even if the implication of WHY the comment was so hurtful infuriates him, Scott isn’t one to have bad blood with other players for long. He should say something.

Shane is still fuming. He won’t meet his eyes as their teams march down the tunnel and back to their dressing rooms.

“Hollander,” he tries.

The kid’s face snaps up, eyes on him immediately. He’s deadly pale, his jaw set, a bruise blooming under his jaw. But his eyes… there’s fear there. No, fear doesn’t begin to cover it.

Shane Hollander is terrified.

It’s a split second, a shaky breath, a look like he might fight or run or puke. There’s a silent, desperate, plea in his eyes.

Please, don’t.

It hits Scott like an arrow to the chest. He forgets what he was going to say.

Hollander ducks away and back into the safety of his team’s ranks.

Both teams keep moving, until Scott is standing alone in the hallway, still staring at the place the youngest, most talented, most promising hockey player in the world just vacated. He rethinks his chirp, the reaction, the fight.

“Fuck.”

Chapter 2: Doors

Chapter Summary

Scott raises the Tim Horton’s paper bag he’s been carrying five blocks.

“I come in peace. I swear.”

Chapter Notes

Scott Hunter sits in his dark hotel room staring at a wall.

He’s not looking at it, though. He’s seeing, in his mind’s eye, the terrified face of Shane Hollander hours earlier. A kid, with the world on his shoulders. A very possibly queer kid, terrified that he’s about to be forcibly outed. Scott’d done that. He hadn’t meant to but-

“Fuck.”

It’s been so easy to convince himself that he is alone; that the fact that he feels so lonely is because he is surrounded by men who could never understand how he feels, who would never know the pain of the secrets he holds, that would never experience the visceral terror that haunts his every choice when it comes to his personal life. But the fact that he feels alone doesn’t mean that he is.

He knows this. He should know this. He used to know it at some point, specially at first, when he heard his identity being flung around the locker room as an insult, he would wonder if anyone else there could feel the sting of it too. When did he forget?

The rational answer is that there’s only so many homophobic comments and chirps one can hear before he convinces himself that absolutely everyone around him agrees, feels the same, or at the very least isn’t bothered by it. But it’s not like he has spoken up about it either. So do people like him —people like Hollander— think he is like that too?

Scott drops his head between his knees and takes a deep breath. He didn’t mean it like that but does it make a difference?

Maybe. He hopes so.

He grabs his phone and toys with it for a moment before he finds Hollander’s number (they’d exchanged contacts way back when the kid had won Rookie of the Year and had barely texted a couple times in all these years).

He calls.

Scott isn’t old, no matter what Rozanov keeps telling everyone, but he is maybe a little old fashioned in that he believes certain conversations shouldn’t be had via text.

Hollander doesn’t answer.

Scott ponders. Is he still angry? Is he afraid of what Scott might say? Is he asleep already?

They have the day off tomorrow, which is why most of his team has gone off to blow some steam after their loss. He has no doubt the Metros are out there celebrating too. Maybe Hollander is out with them, but the idea is hard to fathom. But who knows?

Admittedly, Scott doesn’t know Shane Hollander well enough to make an educated guess. The kid is hard to read. No, that’s not right. He’s an open book most of the time (anxiety and hunger and fear and amusement blooming in his face so easily). Hollander is hard to get to know.

Which only adds another tick to the boxes he’s creating in his mind about the clues he should be picking up.

No, maybe tonight is not the time.

Scott makes a plan.

Is he overstepping? Probably. Getting Shane Hollander’s home address from his team manager who happens to know because at some point she had their PR team send a “get well soon” card when Hollander twisted an ankle after a particularly rough game and had to miss two playoff games is definitely doing a bit too much on his part. Showing up at the guy’s front door unannounced is probably pushing it too far too.

He rings the doorbell.

This is a bad idea.

Maybe he isn’t home.

The door swings open and Hollander, sweaty and panting, probably having been interrupted mid workout, looks at Scott like he’s debating whether to kill him or make a run for the balcony.

Scott raises the Tim Horton’s paper bag he’s been carrying five blocks.

“I come in peace. I swear.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Hollander steps aside and lets him in. Scott walks fast, afraid that he’ll lose his nerve if he doesn’t. He puts the food down on the kitchen counter.

“Black coffee, I know you don’t do milk or sweetening,” he says. He doesn’t say that it was Rozanov who told him, years ago at some benefit party, while complaining about how boring he believed Shane Hollander to be. “And a chicken wrap. No sauce.”

Hollander closes the door but doesn’t move. He stays there, and Scott again has the feeling that the kid is contemplating making a run for it (better the hallway than the windows, at least).

“What do you want, Hunter?” His voice is barbed wire.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“About what?” Shane pushes.

Scott feels himself stumble a little.

“Yesterday.”

Hollander clenches his jaw but that’s all he does as far as movement goes.

“I chirped you first. I dropped my gloves. You didn’t start it,” the kid sounds defensive.

Scott wonders whether it’s a matter of macho ego, the need to prove he is A Manly Man willing to fight and throw fists. He wonders if it’s his way to distract from what Scott is actually trying to say.

“It was a cheap shot from you,” he concedes. “But I shouldn’t have taken the bait. I was goading you for a fight.”

“Yeah? No shit!” Hollander huffs a laugh and takes one tentative step forward.

“I just, I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

And that’s the wrong thing to say. Hollander freezes again, takes half a step back.

“Imply what?” It’s painfully clear that he’s trying and failing to control the shakiness in his voice.

Not here, then. Not now. Not yet. The kid is too wound up, too afraid, holding himself like he’s at knife point. Scott wishes he could reach out, shake some of that fear away, maybe feel a little less lonely in the process… but he relents instead.

“That you were anything like Rozanov,” he offers an out, faking a laugh. “I mean, one dirty chirp hardly makes you as much of an asshole as him. I get why it pissed you off.”

It works like magic. Shane’s shoulder’s relax as he finally walks forward.

“Yeah, no shit. I don’t think you’d like it if I compared you to him either.”

“Pretty sure he would be more offended than me,” Scott laughs, grabbing Hollander’s coffee and handing it to him.

Hollander laughs, hard. It’s a weird laugh. A happy, easy one.

“Oh, he would hate that,” Hollander says with a certainty that betrays more familiarity than he probably realizes.

Oh.

“Yeah,” Scott struggles to recover his footing, “well, I bet he’d take it as a compliment to be compared to you.”

“I don’t know,” Hollander answers quickly. “We don’t really talk much.”

“Yeah, I imagine you don’t exactly talk,” he says. He doesn’t mean it to sound suggestive.

Hollander freezes, pale. He’s seen that look before. The day of the Rookie award. He didn’t think much of it then.

So it’s Rozanov that sends him spiraling. Poor kid. That’s one terrible crush to have. But he’s not here to judge Hollander’s awful taste in men.

“I mean, with the whole being rivals thing. And the fact that he’s an asshole,” he amends, trying for a smirk. “He’s not exactly friendly.”

“Right. Yeah. No. He’s… he sure is something. But whatever. I mean… I get it, you know? It’s just hockey. You say stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Totally, no,” Scott tries to follow his logic. “And it’s not like- I mean, I wouldn’t actually say anything to hurt you, Hollander. You know that, right?”

The kid looks at him, chewing his lip, and nods slightly. Not entirely convinced, it seems.

“I respect the hell out of you. You’re a great player and a good guy. I just.. I guess the whole apology tour thing was just to make sure you knew that.”

Shane’s eyes are now locked somewhere on the countertop.

“Yeah, you too. I mean… growing up, I only wanted to be you.”

Oh, if you’d known. Maybe you’d wish we weren’t so alike. Maybe we are a little too similar, in this pain.

“Nah, you’ll be better,” he puts a hand on his shoulder that makes him jump a bit. Scott tries his best reassuring smile. “Don’t let the chirps get to you, okay? And, for god’s sake, learn how to fight.”

“Your shiner’s bigger than mine,” Hollander bites back with unexpected heat.

Atta boy. Good. Keep that fire.

“Yeah, well, you got lucky.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, rolling his eyes, more at ease. It’s like chirping is the only language he feels truly comfortable with.

“Anyway,” Scott grabs his coffee (double vanilla shot, which is nice and sweet and not at all the smoothie he was truly craving), “I better get going. Don’t want my team to start wondering where I am.”

“You didn’t tell them you were coming?”

“To apologize for a fight? Hollander, c’mon, I’ve got a reputation to maintain with the guys. You better keep the secret.”

“Of course,” Shane Hollander promises, earnestly. Scott is almost surprised he doesn’t add ‘scout’s honor’.

Same, he almost says. Instead he says: “Take care, kid. See you on the ice.”

He hopes, against hope, that Hollander will get luckier than him. That he will at least be a little less lonely, a little less afraid, that he’ll have the courage to try and share his life with someone.

He feels a little lighter when he steps back outside, closing his eyes to bask on the morning chill. There’s still some uneasiness deep in his gut, an old friend that tastes like regret. He feels like he only half accomplished what he wanted. What if he’d been able to tell Hollander that he knows? That he is gay too? That he isn’t alone? Would it make a difference? He imagines what it would have been like, growing up with an openly queer player on the league… but he discards it almost immediately. It’s a nice fantasy, but who would be that brave?

What he did today is probably the closest he will ever get to that kind of connection. It’s something. For now, it’s enough… it has to be.

Chapter End Notes

This is just Shane and Scott screaming at each other from across the closed closet doors. Poor guys :(

Kinda tempted to do a post-Skip kiss or a post outing epilogue…

Chapter 3: Epilogue: Lighter

Chapter Summary

“Yeah. I just wanted to say, what you did. It was very brave.”

Scott’s eyebrows rise with unfiltered surprise.

“Uh… thanks?

“I mean it, Hunter. I know you think I’m just asshole, but I know what you did was… important, for a lot of people. It will change things, you know? For… other guys.

Chapter Notes

Scott is exhausted. It’s been an intense few weeks since winning the cup and kissing the love of his life on the ice and he feels like he hasn’t had a pause since. Everybody wants a comment, an interview, to get his opinion, to give theirs even if he didn’t ask. Now, after giving his MVP speech and acknowledging his love on national television, he feels like an exposed nerve who everyone is looking forward to poke.

And yet… he’s never felt lighter. A weight that he didn’t know he’d been carrying since his teens has been lifted, and the ensuing ease that has settled in his bones is worth everything else. So is Kip.

Still, he will take a break from the hand shaking and the curious eyes when he can take it. In this case, while waiting at the awards open bar while his boyfriend goes to the bathroom. People have finally tired of him, it seems, novelty quickly worn off, and he’s happy to take a breather with his beer and his thoughts.

Which is, of course, when Ilya fucking Rozanov decides to approach him.

“Hunter,” he says, leaning both elbows on the bar.

“Rozanov,” he replies, dryly. He’s really not looking forward to whatever the league’s most notorious asshole (after Dallas Kent, of course) has to say to him.

The bartender comes by. The Russian gets a beer.

“They don’t have good vodka here,” he sighs. “But I am lucky to like beer too.”

Scott tries to find an answer but comes short. Maybe the Russian isn’t here for him. Maybe if he just sips beer and looks straight ahead, the other man will just leave him alone.

The beer arrives. Rozanov takes a big gulp and stays put.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Of course. No such luck.

“Yeah?” Scott doesn’t mean to sound defensive as he turns his eyes to Rozanov, but he can’t help it. It’s the exposed nerve of it all.

The other man meets his eyes. Scott, being so tense, feels like he can see every detail he might normally miss, like the way Rozanov’s jaw clenches a couple times before his body falls into a relaxed posture.

“Yeah. I just wanted to say, what you did. It was very brave.”

Scott’s eyebrows rise with unfiltered surprise.

“Uh… thanks?

“I mean it, Hunter. I know you think I’m just asshole, but I know what you did was… important, for a lot of people. It will change things, you know? For… other guys.”

Scott looks at him, still struggling to find words. Ilya seems earnest, if a little guarded. A curious combination when it comes to a man that is such a monster on the ice.

“I do not mean that guys will just start running out of their closets now, yes?” Rozanov adds, taking a sip of his beer. “I mean, probably not. There are very good players with a lot to lose, actual important players with big careers, you know? You are lucky you are so old, your career is almost over, have nothing to lose, yes?”

“Fuck off. I just won the fucking cup,” Scott scoffs, recovering his speech just in time to bite back.

“Yes. Good for you. Last huzzah, or whatever.”

“Hurrah.”

“What?”

“Last hurrah,” Scott rolls his eyes.

“Hurrah,” Rozanov repeats under his breath, then takes another sip of beer. “Yes, that. Anyway, I am happy for you. Who knows who will be next to do it.”

“My money is on Hollander.”

“What?”

Scott finds himself pinned under the Russian’s eyes. His entire demeanor has changed into something strange, defensive, like he is about to check him hard against the boards for a chirp. His stomach backflips. The ghost of a feeling, of a doubt, comes back to mind and yells at him to backtrack, to explain before he is taken the wrong way. Again.

“The cup. I mean… Everyone thinks it’s gonna be one of you. My money is on him.”

Ilya relaxes again, a shark grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, we will see. But I am sure Hollander would be happy to know he has your support.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try to win it again.”

“You already won, Hunter,” Rozanov says, sounding oddly ominous.

Before Scott can ask what he means, Kip appears by his side. He easily wraps an arm around his waist. Scott tenses, for a second, feeling Rozanov’s eyes burning on them like coal. Still-buried instincts make him hesitate, fighting the urge to step away from the man he loves before something bad happens.

But Ilya smiles at Kip with something easier and warmer than Scott could’ve predicted.

“Ah, Scott’s boyfriend. It is good to meet you.”

“Uh, Rozanov, right?” Kip hesitates.

Surprisingly, the other man doesn’t seem offended by the hesitation.

“Yes, good. You are learning the important names of hockey now. I just wanted to congratulate Hunter. And to tell you that you are way too hot for a dinosaur.”

“Ha-ha, Rozanov,” Scott rolls his eyes. But Kip laughs by his side and squeezes his waist.

He feels at home.

“I am serious,” Rozanov says, grabbing his beer and starting to turn away. “I believe that couples should be equally sexy. It is important.”

“And who would you possibly believe to be in your level?” Scott scoffs, knowing Ilya thinks too highly of himself to say anything short of a supermodel or something equally ridiculous.

“Only one person can ever be on my level,” Ilya winks at Scott, takes the beer to his lips and walks away looking way too smug.

Scott’s brain shortcuts. No way he could mean-

“What was that about?” Kip frowns up at him, curious. “Babe, you good?”

“Uh, yeah, I just… never mind. Probably just Rozanov being an ass.”

“He seemed nice.”

Scott looks at his boyfriend, shocked. “Nice?”

“And little sad,” Kip shrugs. “But you know him better than me.”

“Hm. I don’t think I do… but yeah. I guess he was trying to be nice. Ready to go home?”

“With you? Always.”

Scott doesn’t think much about it. With everything going on, that night becomes mostly part of a blur… up until the season begins again.

The first time they play the Metros, he wakes up early, drinks a special smoothie next to Kip, kisses him goodbye and heads to the rink early.

He’s expecting to bask on the reverent silence of his home ice, to enjoy the moment and get his head in the game and out of all the noise that has filled his life. What he doesn’t expect is to find Shane Hollander already there.

Hollander is dressed in casual clothes, a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt and a bomber jacket. Immediately, Scott can see that he looks more at ease than the last time they talked.

“Early start?” He asks, approaching him.

“The guys are still at the hotel,” Hollander shrugs, “but I wanted to get a head start.”

Scott smiles and nods. In a way (in more ways than one) he has always know Hollander and him understand this side of each other better than most.

“I… I was also hoping to catch you here,” Hollander adds. “I wanted to- well, I know I didn’t exactly reach out after what you… after the cup and you…”

“Kissing my boyfriend?”

Hollander goes very pink up to the top of his ears.

“Yeah, that. I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t support you.”

“Hollander, relax,” Scott puts a hand on his shoulder and is suddenly transported back to the kid’s kitchen. It feels like a life time ago. “I didn’t expect every single player in the league to reach out.”

“Yeah, but I… you and I, we are… I guess we’re sort of close, and I should’ve said something. I just wasn’t sure…”

“Seriously, Hollander-“

“Shane.”

“Shane,” he amends. “We are good. Really. But I appreciate you saying it.”

The boy finally takes a deep breath and looks up at him. He looks nervous but, unlike their last conversation, he doesn’t look scared.

“I just wanted to say… what you did was very brave. And I know it shouldn’t be, right? Just fucking kissing your boyfriend shouldn’t be brave. But it- it must have been a hard choice.”

“Honestly? Easiest choice I’ve ever made.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I was terrified, but… I just knew it was time.”

Shane nods, eyes lost somewhere far. His brow furrows for a moment, like he is making complicated math. He seems insure how to proceed.  “Right. Of course. Well… anyway…”

“You had a good summer?” Scott asks, pulling his hands back and shoving them into his pockets. He takes a step back, hoping it will help put Shane more at ease

Shane blinks back to the present, and suddenly seems more grounded. His shoulders sag as he smiles fondly.

“Great one. You?”

“Best summer of my life,” Scott smiles.

“So how does it feel?” Shane asks. “Uh… coming out.”

“Like I am a million pounds lighter,” he says honestly. “I never knew how exhausting it was, how much energy I was putting into hiding myself. Now it’s like I can focus on what I truly want to do.”

“Which is?”

“Win another cup.”

“Yeah, in your dreams, old man” Hollander scoffs, then seems to catch himself. His face twists with an apology, like he didn’t mean to chirp.

Scott barks a laugh. “Man, you really do sound like him sometimes.”

Before he realizes what he just said, before he can bite his tongue and quickly deviate to explain what he means, Shane Hollander throws his head back and laughs. It’s a sound Scott has never heard before. Loud and unapologetic, it bounces off the walls of the empty rink.

“I guess after so many years, some of it rubs off.”

That is unexpected. And perhaps a little unsettling.

“Hey, speaking of Rozanov,” Hollander says in a way that sounds… practiced, “we were, uh, talking this summer about doing something. It’s a foundation, for mental health. We wanted to get some other guys involved to teach at a summer camp next year and, well, you were our first pick.”

Scott is pretty sure his brain just malfunctioned. He is not even sure where to start picking this apart. Hollander and Rozanov working together. Hollander and Rozanov TALKING to each other over the summer. Paired with Hollander’s oddly hopeful smile from earlier. The ease with which ‘we’ and ‘our’ rolls out of his tongue as he explains it. And then, the most shocking of it all…

“You guys want me?”

Hollander blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that question.

“You’re Scott Hunter.”

“Shane, I am not exactly the most family friendly guy right now.”

“That’s bullshit. So you have a boyfriend, so what? You’re still… you. It doesn’t change shit. Besides, who cares? You’re great. We think you’d be a great coach.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now. We haven’t even announced the whole thing yet. But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Why?”

Shane shrugs, and there’s a little smugness behind it. ‘You’ll see’ his eyes seem to say.

“Well, I’m touched. But no promises. I don’t know if I want to spend my summer with Rozanov of all people.”

“You’d be surprised,” Shane shrugs.

“So you’re… friends, now?”

“Sort of. Let’s just say we’ve buried the hatchet. We realized there’s things that are more important.”

For a moment, Scott really feels for Shane. It can’t be easy to have a crush on a womanizer like Rozanov. He is really setting himself up for a broken heart of the worst kind. Except… he thinks back to the MHL awards night, Rozanov’s wink, what it implied.

What are the odds the are both crushing on each other?

Non-zero, he knows now. Because if he could fly under the radar so long, who knows who else could be waiting for their time in the sunshine? But still… the two top players and life long rivals in the league? Now, that would be insane.

“Anyway, think about it,” Shane smiles sweetly, pats his shoulder twice. “I hope you won’t be deterred after we kick your ass tonight.”

“Oh, fuck off, Hollander.”

Shane laughs, a different more restrained sound this time, and walks away, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. A new man, too.

It will change things, you know? For… other guys, Rozanov’s voice echoes in the back of his mind.

Scott would be lying if he said it was his intention. He’s just wanted to kiss the love of his life like everyone else, he’d wanted a chance to be himself, but now he wonders if he lifted other weights too, not only his own. His chest swells a little. Maybe he could be for others what he never had.

“Hey, Hollander!”

The other guy stops, turns to him, face failing to conceal his surprise.

“I don’t need to think about it. Count me in.”

Chapter End Notes

I COULDNT HELP MYSELF

(Not doing post fan mail because I’m sticking as close as possible to show canon and I haven’t read TLG and would hate to get it wrong… but maybe in the future once I’m there.)

Thank you all for the kind comments in the first two chapters btw 💖💖💖💖