Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Episode: s01e03 Hunter (Heated Rivalry), POV Outsider, Canon Compliant, Homophobic Language, author is canadian and uses canadian hockey slang

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of if we collect all the pieces, maybe we can make a quilt

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-20 Words: 820 Chapters: 1/1

rubber and glue

Summary

The obligatory "Scott Hunter knows" fic.

Notes

CW: homophobic language (f slur) used

“I love you,” Ilya Rozanov says. He’s standing next to the home bench, offering celebratory taps to his teammates as they come off the ice. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

Scott is doing the same thing on the visitor’s side, if more subdued. It hadn’t been a good showing for the Admirals. It hadn’t been a good showing for him, either. He’s not superstitious—okay, not that superstitious—but he really has been ass for every away game this season, and he’s starting to suspect that maybe it stems from the lack of pregame blueberry-banana smoothies. That, or the lack of a certain smoothie barista wishing him a good game.

 

The last of the players clear the ice. It’s just Scott and Rozanov now. Scott moves to leave, but Rozanov calls after him. “Hey, Hunter!”

 

Scott doesn’t get off the ice fast enough.

 

“Too bad you cannot play at home every night! It’s better for you, right?”

 

Rozanov’s been talking shit all night. You think he’d get tired of it. You’d think Scott would be used to it, too; God knows they play against each other enough. 

 

Scott laughs, a little meanly. Mostly, he’s just mad at himself. For the game. For a lot of things. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov!”

 

“Aw, it’s more fun if you’re there!” Rozanov chirps back, grinning wide, and Scott’s stomach drops. He has to remind himself that Rozanov doesn’t know, he’s just being a dick. A sex-crazed, hyper-macho, ultra-pest that’ll say anything to rile up anyone and then run and hide behind Marleau the minute the gloves hit the ice.

 

Rozanov doesn’t know. No one does.

 

A day later, Scott is doubled over after the final buzzer rings out. He’s more gassed than a 5-1 loss deserves, even if it is the second of a back-to-back on the road. But Scott felt like, if he just skated fast enough, maybe that’d make up for his poor play, so he skated fast. It didn’t. It turned into a track meet out there and Montreal took over. It was worse than Boston. 

 

Fuck, Scott’s never felt so washed-up.

 

Hollander stops next to him in a shower of snow. “Hope next time we play you decide to show up,” he says. As far as chirps go, it’s not the worst Scott’s heard. It’s friendly. Scott and Hollander are friends; God knows they see each other enough.

 

Scott thinks about Rozanov saying basically the same thing in Boston. It makes his chest tight.

 

“Cheap,” Scott says, because it hurts, a bit, having the Golden Boy of hockey disappointed in him.

 

Hollander spits onto the ice. “True.”

 

And suddenly Scott is sick of standing here and taking it. He’s been humiliated all night; he’s not going to suffer one more indecency. He’s just starting to get his breath back, and so he takes a deep, fortifying breath in and says, “You’re starting to sound like him.”

 

Scott might as well have called him a faggot. Later, Scott will feel badly about it, and send Hollander an apology text that tries to sweep everything neatly back under the rug. Right now, though, the sharp words feel at home on his tongue, giving him a sort of righteous vindication that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

 

Instantly, Hollander’s easy fluidity evaporates. “I’m sorry, what?” he asks, like he genuinely can’t believe it.

 

Scott takes his hands off his knees and stands to his full height. “You fucking heard me, Hollander.”

 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

Scott just raises his eyebrows. He expects Hollander to—well, Scott doesn’t know what he expects, but it sure isn’t Hollander skating towards him, grabbing him by the crest on his jersey. 

 

“Shut the fuck up!” Hollander shouts at him, all traces of the Lady Byng candidate well and truly gone. “Who the fuck are you? You’re fucking forty-five years old! You’re fucking dust!”

 

Pretty much immediately, teammates are grabbing them, pulling Hollander off Scott. He didn’t do much damage. Neither of them had dropped the gloves, they were just scrumming it up, getting in each other’s faces and beaking at each other.

 

“Jesus, Hunter,” Vaughny says. “The fuck did you say to him?”

 

Scott shakes his head. “Must’ve struck a nerve,” he says, like he doesn’t know exactly why Hollander lost his shit, like Scott didn’t do it on purpose; like Scott doesn’t remember everything he heard at the All-Star Game: Rozanov skating past the bench and saying, “1221.” Like Scott doesn’t know what giving someone your hotel room number means when you’re young and stupid and all you’ve ever known is hockey. When you’re a hockey robot made to score goals and jerk off. Like Hollander didn’t go red right then and there. 

 

Scott’s not going to say it’s a poorly-kept secret, but it’s a secret he knows. Luckily for Hollander and Rozanov, Scott’s good at those.

Works inspired by this one

[Podfic of] rubber and glue by kbirb pods (kbirb)