Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Anxiety, secrets are fancy lies, shane and scott worry, ilya and kip worry about their worriers, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, fluff and just about everything

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Updated: 2026-04-05 Words: 13,661 Chapters: 2/3

The Chirp Gone Wrong

Summary

Shane Hollander didn’t have many secrets. Secrets were just lies and lies were hard. They required a constant and exhausting amount of maintenance. Secrets had to be selfishly hidden and mercilessly protected. They required a magician’s uncanny talent to smile and laugh, pulling the audience’s attention to the left hand while simultaneously warping reality with the right.

No matter how he looked at it, Shane knew the truth. A secret was a lie, and Shane Hollander could not lie.

Shane’s mind, riddled with anxiety and a compulsive need for facts, plans, plays, just couldn’t hold all the frayed and sharp edges of a secret (a lie) and not fatally cut himself.

aka. Shane’s other secret was this. He had a hero and that hero was Scott Hunter.

Notes

I don't need to tell you that I love these boys. None of us would be here if we didn't. This is about me wanting to see Shane and Ilya and Scott and Kip interacting and supporting each other with the same intensity that I need air.

Chapter 1: Practice

The first time that Montrel played New York after the fight, Shane Hollander woke up at 4:30 in the morning in an indistinguishable hotel room in New York and could not go back to sleep. After lying in the darkness of the room, trying to go back to sleep, trying not to think about the upcoming game, about the statistics of the Admirals offensive line, about Hunter, and the fight, the fight, the fight.

 

Fuck.

 

He wasn’t going back to sleep, and he had to stop thinking. And start breathing. Yes. That was the plan. Stop thinking. Start breathing. Now.

 

In the next moment, he practically flew out of bed, dressed quickly, shoved his feet in sneakers, and pulled a hoodie over his head before heading out to try to run off all this stupid thinking.

 

He didn’t know the area well, but he reasoned that if he circled the same couple of blocks, he would be fine and wouldn’t get lost. Probably. He told himself that the hotel reserved for a bunch of hockey players was probably not in a location where Shane needed to worry (too much) about muggings, murders, and overly conversational, well, people (that last one being more of a personal wish). The air was crisp and the sidewalk wasn’t too busy, so Shane was able to keep a punishing rhythm of not thinking about last time he played the Admirals, the statistics about murders of convenience, and The Chirp Gone Wrong.

 

Which lead to the fight with Scott-fucking-Hunter.

 

The thing about chirping is that it is essentially lies meant to upset and fluster your opponent. The calculating but seemingly offhand ribbing of other players, or anyone they may know, with untrue criticisms. Shane supposed, or rather he knew, with first-hand experience, that most players were very, very good at this cutely monikered series of lies. Chirp. Chirp, chirp. Shane did not lie well and the only person who he felt comfortable routinely criticizing for their performance, or lack thereof, was himself.

 

As a result, chirping was like a foreign, incomprehensible language that Shane was expected to learn and fluently execute and he was failing miserably. So, when another player came at him, first time, Shane was eight, and Martin St. John shouldn’t have even known those words, much less in relation to Shane’s mother, all he had been able to say was, “No.”

 

Shane went on to win the drop from a stunned Martin St. John who stood there blinking and saying, “No… no, what?”

 

Shane worried (oh god, when didn’t he) about his skills at the chirp. He wanted to understand, join, contribute to the goddamn chirping narrative, he really, really did. He stayed up at night trying to think of comebacks to already missed chances in the hopes that in the future, he would have something stronger and better than No. He got older and braver and, honestly, it was difficult for his mother to enforce the ‘soap in your mouth’ rule when he was half a foot taller and played for the NHL. Under these new circumstances, and in lieu of No, he adopted the safest, somewhat normal response.

 

Fuck off.

 

Creativity was for people who weren’t Shane Hollander. Crippled by his own mind, focused on hockey, on the puck, on the rub of the collar of his stupid jersey, on the timer, on the odd mismatch of paint in the bathroom at the hotel he was currently staying, on the play, on all the what ifs, on not falling, not failing, not disappointing, Shane just didn’t have time for chirps.

 

Fuck Off it was. (Boring, Hollander, boring, boring, boring.)

 

Ugh. Fucking Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov, whose first language wasn’t even English, for god’s sake, and was still one of the most fluent speakers of Chirp that Shane had ever encountered. He toyed with learning Russian, but Shane thought maybe Rozanov’s chirp would be so magnificently merciless in his mother language, that if Shane understood what he was saying, he would explode, like a mortal hearing the unfiltered voice of God.

 

Rozanov was ruthless, with a cultivated precision that sometimes took Shane’s breath away, and oh god, Shane’s voice when he hissed his only coherent chirp, ‘fuck off’, on the ice should in no way sound the same as when he whispered ‘fuck off’ into sweat dampened skin, but here he was. (Hm, Hollander. Yes. Fuck. But you, not off.)

 

The times that Shane spent retrospectively trying to mentally counter Rozanov Chirps, both on and off the ice, where equal parts frustratingly futile and mortifyingly arousing.

 

Maybe Shane’s mind was his worst enemy and anxiety his only fucking friend, and maybe he was agonizingly boring, but he was not a quitter. So, he practiced the art of chirping, like he practiced stick drills, or box breathing, or how to smile like he was a real boy while in front of a camera.

 

He practiced chirping in his head, to his mirror, in the car. At first it was overwhelming and he knew he could never say a single derogatory thing about anyone’s wife, sister, or mother (Fuck you, Martin St. John), and he felt wretchedly uncomfortable throwing around ambiguously sexual innuendos, so he tried one line. Simple. Over and over. “Maybe next time you will show up.”

 

Rozanov had said something similar to Shane, and it had been devastating. Shane thought that he might die from the mental montage of all the things that he hadn’t done to prove that he was giving his all out there, dragging him down like a weight into an ocean of doubt, until his lungs were crushed by the overwhelming pressure of his failure to perform the one thing, perhaps the only thing, he was good at. (Hm, no, Hollander, maybe not only thing.)

 

But Rozanov was smirking and Hayden Pike, somewhere beside Shane, had laughed and rapid-fire returned a chirp that Shane couldn’t come up with because he didn’t speak this stupid, fucking language. Shane couldn’t remember what Hayden chirped back to Rozanov, but Rozanov laughed, too, and then, they went on, smiles wide without a care in the world, while Shane tried to shake off the feeling of drowning.

 

It wasn’t even the first time that Shane was acutely aware that what was devastating to him could be easily shrugged off with amusement by most other people. It still hurt the same, though.

 

So, he decided that this chirp was safe. He could say it, “Maybe show up next time”. So easy, no pressure, and maybe he would smile, share a quick laugh, and fit and belong. A small, insignificant chirp among a jungle of chirpers, but finally in the damn jungle.

 

Shane practiced and then realized that he couldn’t just chirp anyone. The pressure, the unknown, the unpredictable. He couldn’t handle it. It couldn’t be Rozanov, fucker that he was, because it would be like handing a sloppily completed paint by number to DaVinci and expecting him to be impressed. Shane needed someone else, someone safe.

 

Shane knew that Rozanov thought that he was the only secret that Shane had. (Boring, Hollander, so boring.) And, fair, their relationship, hookup, thing, whatever, was, in fact, the biggest, deepest, and most dangerous secret Shane ever had, but it wasn’t the only one.

 

Shane’s secret was this. He had a hero and that hero was Scott Hunter.

 

When Shane was eleven years old, Scott Hunter was first draft pick for the New York Admirals and Shane adored him. Hunter was eighteen years old, serious, committed, and so fucking talented. But more importantly, to Shane at least, he sometimes didn’t look comfortable in the limelight, during interviews, or even in his own skin. Shane wouldn’t wish his anxiety and constant worry, worry, worry on anyone, but sometimes, the camera would zoom in on Hunter’s face and Shane could see the war with anxiety reflected in Hunter’s expression, in the firm resolve of his jaw when the questions started, and in the concealed panic behind shifting eyes when things weren’t going as planned.

 

At the end of Hunter’s first season in the NHL, (knocked out in the first round by game four, but everyone knew the Admirals would never have gone that far without Hunter), Shane’s mom took him to a charity game in New York. Shane had just had his birthday and was carrying the accumulated sixty-five dollars he had received.

 

After the game ended, the players (Shane couldn’t recall any of the other players, save Scott Hunter) signed merchandise available for purchase (all proceeds going to charity). Shane waited patiently in the long line to the merchandise table while his mom chatted with a group of people Shane didn’t know about upcoming training camps.

 

The closer he got to the table, the more he hoped he had enough money to buy a jersey. Scott Hunter’s jersey, specifically. There were photos and pucks and other miscellaneous items, but that wasn’t what Shane wanted. His heart fell when he clocked the price of a large jersey. He resolved himself to an admittedly awesome poster of Hunter mid-shot on the net, when he saw a tiny jersey for fifty-five dollars, plus tax. It was perfect. Shane wasn’t sure who needed such a small jersey, but it wasn’t like he was planning to wear the jersey anyway. Once Scott Hunter signed it, Shane would frame it and hang it and maybe stare at it every single chance he got for the rest of his life.

 

Purchase made, he moved silently to the line in front of Hunter’s table. He looked for his mom and saw her across the rink. Just to check, he didn’t need her, but just to make sure, make sure that she was there. She waved and smiled and Shane waved shyly back.

 

“Hey, kid. You’re next.”

 

Shane startled and looked forward only to realize that Scott Hunter was smiling at him and giving him his own wave. Shane waved back even more shyly, and Hunter’s eyes crinkled with silent laughter. “I don’t bite. You can come a little closer.”

 

Shane tripped on air but arrived, mostly standing, in front of Hunter. “Hi. I’m Shane Hollander.”

 

With a soft huff of amusement, Hunter nodded toward Shane. “Hi. I’m Scott Hunter.”

 

“Oh, I know.” Shane smiled like that sun had taken residence behind his eyes. “I play hockey.”

 

“That’s, um, that’s awesome. I, well, I also play hockey.” Hunter chuckled and returned the smile. “Should I be watching my back, Hollander?”

 

“I don’t, well, I’m not sure. I...” His words trailed off and Shane ducked his face in embarrassment. No, he could do better than that. This was Scott Hunter. He would understand. With a deep, steadying breath, Shane lifted his face and after a quick nod, met Hunter’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Holy shi…” Hunter’s grin increased tenfold. “ You have something for me to sign, or are you just here to herald a warning?”

 

Shane thrust the tiny jersey into Hunter’s hands. Hunter shook it out and lifted an eyebrow in question. “This for your baby brother or sister?”

 

Shane blinked and blinked again. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. It wasn’t just a little jersey. It was for a little person, a child, a baby. Heat burst across Shane’s face. “Yes, um, that,” he whispered and Hunter nodded slowly.

 

“Okay, then.” He grabbed a Sharpie and scrawled his signature inside the tiny two of the twenty-one under the block letters, ‘HUNTER’. “I guess until they can wear your number, this will do.”

 

Hunter blew on the ink and then carefully handed the jersey back to Shane. “I’ll see you soon, Hollander.”

 

“Yes. You will. Thank you, sir.” Shane nodded and couldn’t believe he said that to Scott Hunter before he practically ran back to his mother.

 

That was his answer. Shane could chirp Scott Hunter. Hunter who was kind to a kid that all but declared he was coming after him. Hunter who had commiserated over a cocky, Russian asshole (and NOT come out of his room while Shane stood outside the door of aforementioned Russian asshole). Hunter who invited two scared rookies (or maybe just one and why the hell would he know where Rozanov was?) to drink shots with the old guys. As if seven years made someone geriatric by any definition.

 

Hunter who whispered, ‘one, two, three, four, hold’ under his breath in dark hallways before stepping into the press room, a ‘real boy’ smile on his face.

 

Shane could chirp Scott Hunter because Hunter was safe.

 

The game that night was fast and hard and exhilarating, and Shane enjoyed playing against Hunter almost as much as he enjoyed playing against Rozanov. The Admirals lost and Shane would have run their defensive line into the ground at the next practice had it been his circus and his monkeys. No one could say that Hunter hadn’t left it all out on the ice, but a chirp was a re-branded, dressed up lie and he smiled at a bent over Hunter before chirping, “Hope next time we play, you decide to show up.”

 

The thing is, Shane couldn’t remember what Hayden chirped back to Rozanov the day that they both laughed it off like Shane’s mind wasn’t attempting a full-scale mutiny, but he did remember what Hunter said, face blank and tone harsh. “You’re starting to sound like him.”

 

Shane’s smile fell. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

Hunter stood up. “You fucking heard me, Hollander.”

 

No. No, no, no. Scott Hunter wasn’t safe and Shane was drowning. He only remembered flashes of what happened next, fists and anger and unadulterated fear, ‘he knows, he knows, if he knows, who else knows?’ and his dad saying later that night holding an ice pack over his eye, “What the hell did Hunter say, Shane?”

 

On Shane’s third circle around the block, he stopped in front of a smoothie shop. The storefront was cheesy, but the lobby was empty and Shane wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel. He pushed through the doors and shuffled up to the counter. A man who had been wiping down the counters started speaking before he looked up with a bright smile.

 

“Still superstitious, I see. Oh. Sorry. I thought. Well, ha, I thought you were someone else.” His bright smile turned into an embarrassed grin. Which Shane returned, tugging on his neck, because secondhand embarrassment was real, and took a step backwards.

 

“Ah, no, sorry. I mean, I don’t know who you were expecting, but it isn’t me, obviously, and I’m sorry.” Oh god. Well, he wasn’t thinking about the Chirp Gone Wrong now, was he? “So, I… sorry.”

 

The man laughed, but it didn’t sound mean. “Nah, I’m sorry and the rules are we can’t both be sorry. Isn’t that, right?” he called off to his right and Shane heard a seemingly affirmative hum.

 

Shane forced a small smile and stepped up to the counter. The man, Kip, if his tag was right and really, why wouldn’t it be right, looked at him for a moment and Shane waited for the recognition. A beat. Then two. “What can I get you?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Kip breathed out a chuckle and then pointed at the menu. “What would you like to order?”

 

“Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry.”

 

“No, that’s me, remember. Them’s the rules.”

 

Shane nodded and wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Oh, right.” He quickly looked over the menu and what were these choices? And the calories listed right there, like tiny landmines of information that Shane’s brain merrily jumped on. “I’ll have a large, um, ice water?” Shane could hear the question in his own voice and winced. “Um, please.”

 

Kip’s smile became softer, and Shane would swear that his eyes sparkled with humor. “A large ice water coming up.” He turned and grabbed a cup before filling it with ice.

 

“Your name is Kip?” A soft hum over the sound of water filling the cup. “Oh, is that short for Christopher? I never understood that particular nickname. Like Richard to Dick or Robert to Bob. Or Charles to Chuck. Like Margaret to Peggy or Maggie, although maybe I can see that last  one… sort of.”

 

Kip laughed and Shane waited for the anxiety associated with making a complete fool of himself to rise up. Instead, Kip snapped a plastic lid on the cup and set the water with a straw beside it in front of Shane. He leaned on his elbows, chuckling, and all the anxiety disappeared. “Nah, you’re right, it makes no sense, whatsoever, but it’s my name. Thanks, dad.”

 

Shane wrapped his fingers around the plastic cup and popped off the lid before taking a big sip of his water. “Well, um, it’s a name. I mean, a good name. Your dad is good, I guess. I mean, he is good at naming things. You. Specifically. Oh. My. God, what do I owe you?”

 

The grin across Kip face should probably hurt. “Element of life. No charge.”

 

Shane shook his head and set the water back on the counter before pulling out his wallet. “No, that’s not right. I shouldn’t have even come in here if I wasn’t going to order something real.”

 

“Water’s real, bro,” came a voice from the back and Kip shushed the young woman sitting on a stool who was staring almost obsessively down at her phone.

 

Kip turned back to Shane and held up his hand. “Really. No charge.” Shane knew that the doubt showed clearly on his face and once more anxiety rippled in the back of his mind. Can’t even order a damn smoothie at a smoothie shop. Christ.

 

“So, what brings you to New York?”

 

Shane jerked and nearly knocked his water over, but Kip’s quick reflexes moved the cup away. He quickly snapped the lid back on and handed Shane the straw with a raised eyebrow. Shane put the straw in the cup. “Sorry. Sorry. Um, how do you know I’m not from New York.”

 

Kip’s smile was fond. “New Yorkers aren’t big on sorries, I’m sorry to say.”

 

Shane snorted into his straw and caused his water to bubble. “That… that makes sense.” Shane smiled back and saw Kip tilt his head like he was figuring something out. “Um, what?”

 

“You look familiar, but I don’t know why.”

 

Shane looked down and suddenly found his water fascinating. “I am, ah, here for work, I guess.”

 

Kip seemed to shake off his pensive look and said, “You guess?”

 

“No, I know. I know, I’m sor…”

 

Kip gave Shane a stern look and then grinned before purposefully looking at his watch, which probably said something close to 5:45. “Early start to the workday?”

 

Shane shook his head. “Oh, no, not really. I just couldn’t sleep. The last time I played, um, worked with this te… group, I reacted badly… horribly, really, to something that someone said and tonight, today, I have to see them again, and I just feel bad. I guess.”

 

What the fuck was he doing?

 

Kip hummed. “Shit. That’s awkward. I’m sorry…”

 

Shane made an amused sound in the back of his throat.

 

Kip continued, “Which I can totally be since we already established that I was the sorry one. But, look, I’m not sure what happened, and I don’t know you, but you don’t strike me as an instigator. Whatever happened, I’m sure you had your reasons. A quick apology, which I promise you, you have in the bag, and things will smooth over, yeah?”

 

Shane fiddled with the empty straw wrapper and absently heard the door behind him open, but he needed to say this, get it out, say it to someone. With his head down and his voice lower, he said, “No, he’s, the other guy, I mean. He is a good person, and I said something that was not true. And I knew that. He worked hard, harder than most anyone else, really. And I knew it wasn’t true, but I was trying to fit in, shit. And I stupidly, so stupid, I thought he’d be okay, he’d understand that I was just trying to fucking be like everyone else, but I said something that wasn’t true and he, he deserved to chirp, I mean, respond accordingly, but it should have been a snarky lie and it wasn’t. It wasn’t and he probably didn’t even know.” Shane swallowed once, twice before whispering, “And I just, I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt. So, I, fuck, responded somewhat… less accordingly.”

 

Shane looked up from the wrapper, but Kip was looking comically wide-eyed over his shoulder. A throat cleared behind him and Shane turned to see Scott-fucking-Hunter standing there with feelings on his stupid face. No. Nope. No.

 

“Oh my god.” Shane slammed his eyes shut and turned back toward the counter. Opening his eyes, he fumbled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and shoved it into the ‘Tips Keep Us Motivated’ jar. “Thank you,” he mumbled at Kip who reached out like he was going to grab Shane, but Shane snatched up his water, turned back to Hunter and without meeting his eyes, said very apologetically to Hunter’s shoes. “Sorry, and, um, sorry. I’ll see you tonight, I guess.”

 

“Hollander,” Hunter said but Kip’s words rode over whatever else he might have meant to say.

 

“Jesus, Scott, what did you chirp to that kid?”

 

Shane dumped his cup in the first available bin he found on the street and ran back to his hotel. He ran across the lobby and bypassed the elevator to run up six flights of stairs. Once in his room, he navigated through the dark, the blackout curtains still drawn. Shane kicked off his shoes angerly (at himself, what the fuck? What the actual fuck was wrong with him?) and then found them from under the bed and next to the dresser to straighten them before he fell into the bed. He burrowed under the covers and the pillows and pulled everything so tightly around himself that he felt trapped. If he were trapped, then maybe so were his feelings. Hide them, bury them, choke them off before they did the same to him.

 

With trembling fingers, he found his phone in his pocket and opened his messages.

 

Jane: Scott Hunter knows. And, maybe Kip. (6:31am)

 

Lily: Scott Hunter knows shit all and what is a Kip? (6:33am)

 

Jane: Smoothie guy. (6:34am)

 

Missed call from Lily. (6:34am)

 

Lily: How have you even seen Hunter? Game is tonight. Answer phone. (6:35am)

 

Missed call from Lily. (6:35am)

 

Lily: Answer fucking phone, Jane. (6:36am)

 

Missed call from Lily. (6:40am)

 

Later, Shane got up, took a shower, ate, and dressed. Mostly he just tried to breathe. Shane’s mind was at times so open to stimulation that it felt like there wasn’t a noise, a movement, a taste, a smell that wasn’t vying ferociously for his attention until he wanted to fall to his knees and surrender from the onslaught. When he pulled the door shut to his hotel room and offered Hayden a weak smile with the assurance that he was ready to take on Hunter and the Admirals, he felt hysterically aware of the subtle shift of the world beneath his feet.

 

At times like this, it was a constant battle to focus and choose what he wanted to hear and see and feel. He had to consciously force his numb extremities and his muffled ears and his stinging eyes to do what he wanted and not spontaneously combust. Through the fog, Shane heard Hayden tell a story about glue, the twins, and Jackie’s wedding ring. Shane hoped he would tell it again sometime when he could track the details and appreciate the next level insanity of Hayden’s life.

 

As he warmed up and counted silently to ten in Russian (he wasn’t proud, but he had to take the security where he could find it), forward and backward, forward and backward, he was also painfully aware that Scott Hunter was watching him. The intensity of that attention crawled up and down Shane’s arms and burrowed into his stomach, until he could hardly swallow for the nausea.

 

The buzzer rang and Coach said words that Shane didn’t hear and the next thing that he knew, he was across from Hunter at the center line.

 

He didn’t look up from the ice, tracking the curve of their sticks and the gentle back of forth shuffle of their skates as they waited.

 

“Hollander.” Maybe Hunter had said his name gently, but it felt like a hammer to Shane’s frayed thoughts.

 

Shane squinted harder at the ice, he squinted so hard that maybe it would block his ears, but then, jolted when Hunter’s stick knocked hard into his own. The ref gave an admonishment, and then it happened again.

 

Shane yanked his eyes up to Hunter’s and the man grimaced. Yes, that was an appropriate face when standing across from Shane, the humiliation of this morning startlingly fresh in his mind.

 

“Hey, listen to me. We are both going to show up tonight, you hear me. This is where you belong, where I belong, and fuck the rest of this noise. We don’t need to lie, not…not about this. We. Show. Up.”

 

Shane blinked and felt the weight of that. ‘Not about this,’ he said and Shane remembered Kip’s wide eyes focused on Scott Hunter like he was the only thing he could see. Oh.

 

The ref said something about getting ready and just how long had he been standing on this ice across from Scott Hunter. This part was meant to go fast. He was going to die before the damn puck ever hit the ice. The noise, the smell, the air… it was killing him.

 

“Hollander!” Hunter snapped and then hit his stick harder.

 

This time, Shane fought back, the arena narrowed down to ice, and cold, and Scott-Fucking-Hunter. “F-fuck off,” he gasped and it felt like the chirp (his chirp) ripped from his soul but then a smile spread wickedly across his face. “I always show up, Hunter.”

 

“Damn right,” Hunter grinned.

 

The puck dropped and Shane showed the fuck up.

 

Lily: Good game. Told you. Hunter is loser who knows shit all. (11:32pm)

 

The next morning, Shane forced himself to get up early and make the walk back to the smoothie shop. He didn’t like unknowns, the unpredicables, he wouldn’t be able to function without planning for shoes to drop and he expected shoes to drop all of the time. (Is this like the raining of pets, but with shoes? English is so fucking stupid.)

 

At the end of last night’s game, before his team was able to swarm Shane, Hunter nudged him at the buzzer and weakly pointed at the score. 4-3, in overtime. Montreal Metros. Shane’s body tried to freeze despite the fact that he was gasping for air and so fucking alive. Some of the tension must have showed on his face because Hunter grinned and shook his head. “Fuck off, Hollander,” he huffed with an amused sigh.

 

Shane beamed and braced himself for Hayden coming in hot from the left. “Fuck off, Hunter.”

 

“Goddamn brat.”

 

When the door opened, Shane heard the gentle chime of the door. Kip looked up and slowly put the blender he was cleaning down before coming around the counter.

 

“Listen, Hollander, um, Shane. Can I call you Shane?”

 

Shane gave the barest of nods and stepped back until he was pressed against the door.

 

“I need to know that you won’t,” he started and Kip shook his head sadly. He slowly reached forward like Shane was a frightened animal and pinched the fabric of his sleeve, drawing him into the store.

 

“No, of course not. Full disclosure, I didn’t know who you were. I’m new to this hockey thing. But I do know Scott Hunter. In fact, I saw the fight on tv and was there last night. That was a hell of a game and Scott watched your winning goal like a billion times, smiling like a damn idiot when he wasn’t cursing up a storm and planning a frankly insane practice for the defensive line. Every suggestion ends with someone puking. I was a little scared, if I’m being honest.”

 

“Oh, I see.” Shane’s brain did a bit of a blue screen over most of that because that couldn’t be right, but held on to that last bit. “Yeah, it’s a good call. I’d do the same. Fuck around and find out.” Kip laughed out loud, his head thrown back. Shane reached up and tugged viciously on the ties to his hoodie. “You were, you were with Hunter after the game, then?”

 

Kip rubbed his hands over his face and sighed like it was his last breath. “I think we both know there’s a big ass fucking elephant in this room, right?”

 

“Yeah, it sucks.” Shane swallowed. “I won’t say anything. How can I? I just needed to hear. I don’t like unknowns. I’d rather know what the pitfalls are, I need a plan, I can’t…”

 

Kip reached out and grabbed Shane’s fingers, carefully extracting them from the ritualist strangling he was unconscious attempting.

 

“I hoped that you would come back in. I told Scott that and he said that you come as a set with an angry, Russian gremlin. It had the opposite effect than what I think he was going for. Not gonna lie. I’m going to be looking for this gremlin, but only because I love a puzzle, and I just can’t imagine you with someone that makes Scott that irritated. Doesn’t seem your type.”

 

Shane felt himself wince. This relationship, thing, whatever with Rozanov didn’t hurt because Rozanov wasn’t his type, but rather that he knew in the chaos of his anxiety ridden soul that Shane wasn’t Rozanov’s type.

 

“Huh,” Kip said and then grinned. “Nah, I change my assessment. I think you can own a Russian gremlin, and I hope he deserves you.”

 

“I could tell you, it’s only fair,” Shane whispered.

 

“Fuck no. Where’s the challenge in that?” Kip looked down and when he looked up again, he had determination in his eyes. “Look. Can I get your number? I’m not going to bother you or use it against you. It’s just that wrangling this elephant alone is exhausting. Maybe we can commiserate this uninvited guest together?”

 

“Oh.” That was a surprise. But Kip was right. Shane was tired of holding this secret by himself. “I hate secrets. I hate them. I can’t lie and a secret is a silent lie. I’d rather face the consequence than obsess about the fall out.”

 

Shane recalled a time when he was thirteen and his friends wanted to sneak out.

 

At age twelve, he stood in front of his parents and shuffled his socked feet, toes digging into the plush carpet. “I, well, I am. I would like to,” he began, and both of his parents nodded encouragingly. “It’s just that Derek and Richard and some of the guys want to go out to the lake, you know, and skate, later. Tonight. At ten o’clock.” Shane’s fingers tugged at the cuff of his sweatshirt, worrying, worrying, worrying. “I am going to sneak out tonight. Um. At ten.”

 

He remembered Richard’s excitement as he suggested that they should all sneak out and meet at the lake. Crawl out their windows and no one would know. He remembered Derek and the other boys grinning and nodding. It will be brilliant. A secret. A lie.

 

His mom blinked, once, twice, and his dad grinned. “Is it sneaking if you tell us?”

 

Shane felt a wave of anxiety that tasted faintly like failure. It was a flavor of anxiety that he was acutely familiar with. He couldn’t even sneak correctly. The other boys knew it. Made a concentrated effort to make sure that Shane understood it was a secret, like they were anticipating Shane’s failure.

 

Before the feeling could take hold, his mom leaned forward and brushed her hand over Shane’s fingers. “Shane, do you want to go to the lake?”

 

No. “Yes. Of course, yeah. I just, I wanted to let you know. I will wear my jacket and gloves. A hat, obviously, because it is cold. I know it is cold. And I’ll go out my window and make sure that I leave it open, but just a little, enough that I can get it open when I get back. I don’t want to let the heat out or anything. Electricity is expensive. I don’t need to heat the whole outdoors.” He looked up from his toes, a little smirk on his face at the familiar phrase his mom used to remind his dad to make sure the door was closed. His father made an exaggerated sound of offense. “I will be quiet, okay. You don’t have to worry about me waking you up or anything.”

 

Shane stopped rambling when his dad’s fingers wrapped around the wrist that his mom wasn’t already holding.

 

“If you want to go, son, you can go. You don’t even have to go out your window. You can use the front…”

 

Shane interrupted. “No, no, it has to be my window. They have to know that I did… Richard and Derek and the others, they will be going out their windows. I have to go out my window. I have to.”

 

His dad smiled softly and tugged Shane’s attention away from what he thought was a frown on his mom’s face. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. Sneaking means out the window.”

 

“David,” his mom whispered, and it sounded like a disappointment. With who? With Shane? With his dad? Both?

 

His dad squeezed his mom’s knee and stood up. “I like this plan. Let’s you and I go practice.”

 

Shane felt his eyes widened and heard his mom make a sound like an aborted laugh. “Practice?”

 

“Sure. That’s what Hollanders do. We practice. We get good at things we struggle with at first. We get good, we practice more, and then we get great. Right, Shane?”

 

Something felt off, but he was already failing at sneaking and maybe with practice he could make that feeling go away. Practice helped. A plan. Step by step. “Yes, practice is good. That’s okay, right, mom?”

 

His mom squeezed his wrist before releasing it to cup his cheek lightly. She stood up and gave his dad a kiss on his cheek before clapping her hands once. “Of course. In fact, what if I go to our room and see if I can hear you?”

 

Relief. He didn’t need to keep this secret, tell this lie, and he could still be a successful sneak. In fact, he would be sneakier than the other boys because he would have practiced.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Shane helped his dad position a potted pine tree in front of a stool (the window was higher than Shane had anticipated) so that no one would see it. Sneaking out was going to work. He could do it, but there was more. “Dad,” Shane said softly and stared at the tracks that their booted feet left outside of his window.

 

His dad nudged the pot with his foot before he gave a quick nod. “Yeah, Shane?”

 

“What if tonight, what if, when we sneak out, what if someone falls, or something goes wrong, or, or, or like a beaver, or a bear, or rogue loons…”

 

His dad chuckled and pulled him against his side. “I believe that the bears and beavers are all asleep, hibernation and so forth.”

 

Shane nodded and pushed his face into his father’s arm, letting the warmth chase away the chill on his nose. “I should have remembered that.”

 

His dad gave a thoughtful hum and Shane smiled into the tremors against his face.

 

“I think that you have this sneak thing down. Mom only heard us the two times.” Another hum. “Hey, you know what I’ve been wanting to try?”

 

Shane pulled back and looked up at his father, his brows furrowed. He might not have bears and beavers to worry about but there were still worries. Worry about the what ifs still scraped over his mind. Hurt, scared, alone… “Um…”

 

“Night bird watching.”

 

“Wh-what?” he stuttered

 

“Yeah, no, I’m very interested in this. I’m thinking I’ll start tonight. I can get up at ten after ten, because I will still be sound asleep at ten, having not been woken up by anything unusual.”

 

Shane felt his mouth fall open and forced himself to close it. “And then, then what?” he whispered.

 

“Then I’ll head down to the lake, but very, very quietly. I don’t want to be seen or heard. Birds are easily startled, you know. Especially, rogue loons.” His dad winked down at him.

 

Shane choked a little and blinked up at his dad. “So, you will be watching the lake when I am…”

 

“When the night birds are out to play, yes.”

 

Shane pushed his face into his dad’s arm once more. The grin he hid almost hurt for all its intensity. His voice was muffled when he said, “Do you want to practice now, um, before we go in. Maybe you could show me where you will be and then I will know where you are if…” Shane’s dad nudged him lightly and Shane nudged back. “I can help you decide if that’s a good place?”

 

“Of course!” His dad said and laughed. “Hollanders always take practice seriously!”

 

Shane pulled away and then shrieked when his dad’s gloved hand ruffled his hat, obscuring his eyes.

 

His mom’s voice drifted from inside the house. “I heard that. More practice!”

 

Kip laughed at the end of his story. “Yeah, I can totally see that.”

 

Oddly, Shane thought, there was no judgement in Kip’s voice. No indication that he thought Shane was a freak.

 

“I have a signed Scott Hunter jersey!” he blurted and blushed. “He’s, well, he’s amazing.”

 

“Yeah,” Kip sighed but there was a tinge of sadness. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

 

Shane gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry. This world sucks.”

 

Kip nodded and rocked back on his feet. “Don’t we know it. So, number?”

 

“I’d like that?” Shane heard the stupid question coloring his voice.

 

“Would you though? Would your angry gremlin?”

 

“He’s not actually mine.” Shane fumbled for his phone before unlocking it and handing it to Kip. “For what it is worth, I think you and Hunter are… great. Tell him, I’m sorry. He has to contend with these stupid elephants, too, and I let mine shit on his face.”

 

Kip chuckled. “The way I heard it, he tossed his elephant in your face first.”

 

Shane didn’t have a response to that. He hadn’t considered that Hunter might be just as terrified as he was. Kip handed him back his phone. He said his goodbyes and shot off a quick text to ‘Smoothie guy”.

 

Shane: Elephants, the metaphorical ones, suck. (6:01am)

 

Smoothie Guy: The kicker is I really like elephants. Have you seen the documentaries about people volunteering in elephant orphanages? Soooo fucking sweet. (6:15am)

 

Shane smiled at his phone and picked up the pace. He had a flight to catch.

 

He really liked Kip and maybe it was stupid and it was absolutely risky, but he was so fucking glad to have met him.

 

Shane: In the top five of my bucket list. (6:16am)

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Chapter Summary

Kip has decided to collect sad, queer hockey players, Scott's words, not his.
Up next? An angry, Russian gremlin.
This will only end in tears, probably Scott's and Hollander's... again, Scott's words. Not his.

Chapter Notes

I am so sorry that this has taken forever and a couple of days to update. I got bogged down by the timeline, and consistency in points of view, and then I spent the day, THE WHOLE DAY, shredding documents and finally, i decided the timeline is mine to play with or straight up ignore. Points of view can change and no one will get hurt.
I really hope it was worth the wait.

“Jesus, Scott, what did you chirp at that kid?”

 

Every time that Scott Hunter came home, he worried that this time, Kip wouldn’t be there. He was getting better about that. He no longer had to collect himself in the hallway outside his condo before pushing it open to see if his heart was where he had left it.

 

He understood now that Kip would tell him if something was wrong, if his feelings had changed. Kip didn’t hide. Except for the things that Scott asked him to hide, and now, when Scott took a moment before opening the door, it was to remind himself that he didn’t deserve Kip and more heartbreakingly, that Kip deserved someone better than Scott.

 

“Hey, I’m back,” he said as he pushed open the door and dropped his bag. He sat down and untied his sneakers to toe them off before snagging the bag again and working his way into the living area.

 

“Welcome home, babe.” Kip’s voice greeted him and Scott took his first real breath since brushing his lips over Kip’s that morning and heading to practice. As if listening to his thoughts, Kip said, “How was practice? Who cried first?”

 

Scott snorted and tossed his bag into the utility room to handle after he said his hellos. Snagging a water bottle from the refrigerator that he drank half of before the door even closed, he worked his way across the room where Kip was working on something at the dining room table. He was wearing his glasses and the water caught halfway down Scott’s throat causing him to choke. Kip turned around and his smile said that he knew exactly what the issue was.

 

“At some point, you will become immune to my Clark Kent persona,” Kip said with a wink and Scott snorted and then choked some more. “Or maybe you’ll die. Cut that out!” Kip chuckled and stepped up to give Scott a kiss.

 

Scott leaned down and tried his damnedest to show Kip just how alive his ‘persona’ made him.

 

“No, no, I see what you are doing,” Kip whispered and pressed a kiss to Scott’s lips, once, twice, three times. “Stop it.”

 

Scott laughed and pulled away to nuzzle the side of Kip’s face. “You first.”

 

Kip huffed and pushed Scott back but didn’t take his hands off his chest. Kip never made it a secret that he loved Scott’s chest. “Fine. I’ll be good. Now, tell me, please.”

 

 “Johnson cracked first. He told me that he’d name his unborn baby after me if I showed mercy.” Kip raised an eyebrow in question. Scott swooped down and kissed said eyebrow. “I did not show mercy.”

 

Kip threw his head back in a laugh which Scott took as permission to kiss his throat. “That’s my big, bad wolf of a boyfriend!”

 

“By the end of practice, and if my tally is true, I think there will be a lot of little Hunters out there. Oh, and Fitzgerald did puke once we got into the locker room. I feel a little bad about that.”

 

Kip turned back toward the table but not before he muttered, “Fuck around and find out.”

 

Scott felt a zing of anxiety race up his spine at even the hint of Kip’s interaction with Hollander the week before. It never failed to make Scott remember the hunch in Hollander’s shoulders and his voice, soft and hurting.

 

“It should have been a snarky lie and it wasn’t. It wasn’t and he probably didn’t even know.”

 

Pushing the feeling aside, Scott pushed up behind Kip and wrapped his arms around him with his chin on his shoulder. Like this he had a better view of what Kip had been working on so intently when he got in. On the table was what appeared to be murder board like he saw in crime procedurals.

 

In the center of the board was a picture of Hollander at the draft. Kip had circled his face in red marker. It had inadvertently still captured a large part of Rozanov’s stupid mug. Oh, the irony.

 

“What is this?” he said incredulously while briefly scanning over years’ worth of schedules and a messily scrawled timeline of events that probably meant something to Kip’s ‘investigation’ but looked random as fuck to Scott. He pointed to a list of Russian names. He scanned the first few names.

 

Feorov, Tampa

Alexeev, Carolina

Pavlishchev, New York

Kuznetsov, New Jersey

Rozanov, Boston

Kuznetsov, Pittsburgh

Preobrazhensky, Toronto

Antonov, Toronto

 

Kip pulled Scott’s hand down to his stomach and blinked up at him wide eyed and innocent. “We have to name the baby, Scott, and apparently, after today, Hunter is taken.”

 

“Wh-what?” Scott sputtered, insanely glad that he didn’t have a mouth full of water.

 

“Please, you’re not that good, Hunter.” Kip dragged his hand back up to his mouth and licked it.

 

“Did you just lick me?!”

 

Kip laughed and elbowed him off his back. “I’m looking for the angry, Russian gremlin.” Kip hummed and made a note under the list. “Eastern conference.” He pulled another list from under that and scrawled “Western Conference”.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Scott muttered and wiped the back of his hand down Kip’s back. “’S gross, you know that, right?” He pulled a chair out before sitting in it and dragging Kip onto his lap. With his chin once more resting over Kip’s shoulder, he said, “You don’t need the Western Conference.”

 

Kip squawked and squirmed around until he was facing Scott, knees bracketing his lap, as he swatted playfully at his chest. “Don’t give me any hints!”

 

Scott pushed his face into Kip’s neck and felt Kip run his fingers through his hair. “I could just tell you,” he mumbled into the soft skin of his neck. He tried to ignore the twist of unease.

 

“No,” Kip said, “You didn’t out him after he found out about us, I’m not going to let you do it now. You’re a good man.”

 

Scott made a noise that he was embarrassed to admit sounded like a growly purr. Kip giggled. “Hollander said he would tell you,” Scott reminded him.

 

“Yeah, but his face looked about as sick at the thought as yours does.”

 

Once again, Scott thought about Shane’s voice, soft and insecure and so full of resignation.

 

“I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt.”

 

“Hey, hey, I’ve told him and I’ll tell you. No more sorries. He didn’t know you were hurting, and you didn’t know that he was hurting and now we can all hurt together, okay?” Kip sort of lost his momentum at the end and melted forward into Scott’s chest. “It’s great.” That last bit was a lie and they both knew it.

 

Suddenly Kip set up and grabbed Scott’s chin. “Except for the gremlin. I must find him and make him ours.”

 

Shane chuckled and Kip’s hand slid down his throat before falling into his lap. “Ours? Are we collecting sad, queer hockey players now?”

 

“No, you’re right. Not ours, mine. I already have two and now I want three.” There was a bit of unholy glee in Kip’s eyes and for reasons Scott didn’t want to investigate further and would probably make him regret everything later, he imagined Rozanov’s punk ass grin and shuddered. This would only end in tears. Most likely his and Hollander’s.

 

“Not this one, you don’t. You really, really don’t.”

 

Kip laughed and crawled off his lap. He snatched his phone off the table and started typing. Scott tugged playfully at the belt hook of his jeans. “I feel ignored. I am ignored. Who are you texting?”

 

Kip turned the phone around. Scott read the previous two texts:

 

Kip: The gremlin’s name sounds Russian, right? It’s not like Smith because his dad was from Montana, right?

 

Shane: Very Russian.

 

Kip had just sent:

 

Kip: SH just got back. There were tears and puke!

 

Scott watched the dots play along the bottom of the screen for a moment before disappearing, then reappearing, this disappearing once more. A few seconds went by and then:

 

Shane: ha. They deserved it.

 

And then:

 

Shane: Boston.

 

Kip chewed on his lip. “That’s weird. Did I miss something?”

 

Scott knew his mouth had fallen open and when he looked up at Kip, he saw the moment that realization hit and he immediately grabbed his list from the table. “Oh. OH.”

 

“Yeah,” Scott said and waved his hand like a very lackluster game show host. “Angry, Russian gremlin. Ilya Rozanov.”

 

Kip leaned back on the table and his hand with the list clutched in his fingers fell against his thigh. “Oh, that sucks,” he whispered and then, “But they hate each other. I don’t even know anything, and I know they hate each other.”

 

Scott shrugged and tried to come to terms with this sudden shift in his reality. Hollander just outed himself and Rozanov. Scott had thought he knew. He was nearly almost positive and after the overheard conversation at the shop, he was sure, but this was different. Now he knew.

 

Hollander was notorious for playing by the rules, he never stepped a toe out of line, and he never aired his or anyone else’s laundry. Even after their fight, when Hollander thought that Scott was mocking him, rubbing salt into an inadvertently exposed wound, he had stared right into the camera in the press room and said, ‘It was a misunderstanding on my part. Scott Hunter is a legend. I accept full responsibility and will take the fines levied accordingly. Thank you.’

 

Hollander was so much braver than Scott. He thought his world was falling down around his ears and still upheld his integrity. He knew Kip for less than three days, and still, trusted him and Scott with something this important, this devastating, this… precious.

 

“Look, Kip. I don’t know how or when, and I really…” Scott ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes until they hurt. “Really, really don’t know fucking why, Rozanov is such a shit, but I need you to text Hollander back now. He’s probably freaking out. So, text back, please.”

 

“Yeah, oh, shit.” Kip fumbled his phone with one hand and rested his other hand against Scott’s chest. “Honey, of course.”

 

Kip opened his screen and there were several new texts from Shane.

 

Shane: You guessed right? You know?

Shane: He gave me permission, okay? I mean, obviously.

Shane: You probably think it is weird. It IS weird.

Shane: Kip?

Shane: Kip?

 

Kip: Your angry, Russian gremlin is hot af

 

“Kip!”

 

_/_/ \_\_

 

Jane: I did something

 

Lily: Wow. Go crazy.

 

Jane: Fuck you. I told Kip. About you.

Jane: You said it was okay.

Jane: Right???

Jane: Right?!?!

 

Lily: Yes. Is okay.

Lily: What is a Kip again?

 

_/_/\_\_

 

Shane read the text with a goofy smile on his face that lasted for all of ‘oh my god, what have I done’. It was over, he couldn’t take it back. It would be fine, right? Kip was good. Holy shit! He didn’t even know Kip. A week of texts did not a life-long-relationship-built-on-trust create.

 

“Shane.”

 

He started at the firm tone and looked up from his phone with wide eyes. His mom was looking at him expectantly and he immediately looked at his dad for a clue. As was their way.

 

Leaning back into his chair, the light coming through the windows of their hotel suite to wash across the table, his dad gave him a reassuring smile before saying, “You are looking a little flushed. Are you sure you are feeling okay?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I feel fine.” He wrapped his fingers around his ginger ale and took a quick sip. “I’m glad that I got to see you. Have a safe trip home. I love you, but I need to head to practice.”

 

“Of course, Shane, be safe and have a good practice,” his mom said and patted his hand.

 

Shane made to get up but halfway to standing he changed his mind. In a display of clumsiness that showcased how his mind and his body didn’t communicate except in their war to make Shane look like a fool, his knees seemed to give out, and he collapsed back into his seat, rattling the table.

 

“Shane!” His dad nearly stood up himself and his mom’s eyes widened in concern.

 

“I’m fine. I’m fine, I just. I remembered something I wanted to tell you.”

 

If he had thought that his mom and dad were concerned with his less than graceful attempt to sit back into his seat, that was nothing compared to his mom grabbing for his dad’s hand and then nodding like she was facing a firing squad, but not with fear, no, with frantic concern. It made Shane feel like maybe he was the one facing the firing squad.

 

His mom and dad shared a look. “Go ahead, Shane,” his dad said.

 

Just what did they think he was going to say?

 

“I made a friend when I was in New York.” Holy shit, was he twelve? Maybe his mom would make him a fucking snack while his dad ruffled his hair and called him ‘his little buddy’.

 

Shane watched as his dad exhaled back into his chair, and his mom inhaled sharply, her back ramrod straight. It should have made Shane laugh, their nearly comical reaction. Instead, it made Shane’s mind start spinning out of control. What did they think he was going to say?

 

His dad reacted first and reached across the table to grab his hand, gently uncurling his fingers. Shane only realized in that moment that they were curled so tightly into a fist that he could feel his nails biting into his palms. What did they think he was going to say?

 

“A friend,” his dad said with a smile. “That’s great. Another hockey player?”

 

Shane tried to force air into his lungs but that suddenly felt impossible. Was it the last air he’d ever breathe? Was this his dying breath?  Unable to take in a breath, he instead forced out the last of the air that he could find within himself and gasped, “Wh-what did you think I was going to say?”

 

His mom said, “That you were quitting hockey,” and his dad said, “That you were gay.”

 

A beat and then, “That you were gay,” his mom said nodding toward his dad, while his dad waved a hand at his mother, “That you were quitting hockey.” And then both in unison, “Shit.”

 

What? What, what, what?!? For the briefest (eternity) of moments, the noise was so loud in Shane’s head, and it burned so bright, that the light, the noise, everything that made Shane who Shane was, imploded upon itself into a void of silence. Shane hung there, in that void, in that moment, in that eternity, until a single point of clarity broke through the darkness and nestled against Shane’s panic.

 

We don’t have to lie… we show up.

 

“Yes.”

 

Both of them looked at him blankly before his dad cleared his throat. “Yes? Yes to what, son?”

 

His mom whisper yelled, “Oh my god, are you quitting hockey?”

 

And then… well, then Shane was laughing. He had to push his chair back from the table so that he could bend over in his chair and hold his stomach. The laugh went on and on and by the time he realized that he was crying and sobbing and chuckling all at once while holding onto his stomach and the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him on earth, his parents were visibly upset. No, they were so far beyond upset, they were freaking out.

 

“Shane! David, do something” His mom knelt on the floor in front of him looking between him and his dad who stood behind her. “Shane, Shane, breathe with us, come on, sweetheart.”

 

Shane grabbed onto the hand that his mom had rested on his chest and reached out for his dad with his other hand. Once he had a hold of them both, he took several deep breaths and after one last sob-tinged giggle, he said wetly, “I’m gay and the problem that you are focused on is that I might qu-quit playing a game?”

 

His mom sat back on her knees and twisted the hand holding his until their fingers threaded. “Oh, Shane. We know you. We love you. Always, no matter what. You being gay is who you are, and we will always, always, always love who you are.” She sniffled and turned to smile up at his dad. Looking back at Shane, she said seriously, “However, if you quit playing hockey, I think we all would agree that would be something of a concern.”

 

His dad laughed and knelt on one knee next to his mom before pulling all of them into a hug. “To clarify, and don’t think I’m not getting back to this friend you made, being gay is not a problem that needs to be solved. It is not a problem at all. You being happy, you being you, that is all that matters. That said…” His dad grinned. “Your first word was goal. The first pair of shoes you ever grew out of had knives on the bottoms. The year you turned four, you ran around with a black marker and drew hockey pucks on everything, the neighbor thought you were marking their house with the Black Spot of Death, and, finally, we have a tiny New York Admirals jersey in your trophy room at our home. Quitting hockey would certainly signify a problem. Who you love just means that we might be lucky enough to have two sons in the future.”

 

Shane heard his mom whisper, “My sweet David.”

 

“Oh,” Shane whispered. He gently pulled his hands back from his parents, only to watch as they grabbed each other’s hands and smiled at him. Shane felt a smile spread wide and uninhibited across his face. “Oh, that’s… that’s oh.”

 

His mom wiped at the corners of her eyes and stood with his dad’s help. “Yes, oh. Now, don’t leave your father hanging, about this friend…”

 

“Stop saying friend like that. He is just a friend. He, well, he has a boyfriend.”

 

“Hm.” His dad nodded and then with an obviously exaggerated nonchalance said, “And do you?”

 

“Do I what?”

 

“Have a boyfriend!” his mom and dad said as one.

 

Shane opened and shut his mouth and then hopped to his feet, spinning around his parents with a gracefulness he rarely showed off the ice and certainly hadn’t shown in this conversation. He bolted toward the door. “I have practice! Love you. Bye!”

 

_/_/ \_\_

 

Jane: I did something

 

Lily: Again. Twice in day?

 

Jane: Fuck you. I think I came out to my parents.

 

Lily: Think, like conceptually, a hypothesis to a purposed action?

 

Jane: Wtf. The New Yorker has changed you.

 

Lily: You seem to be doing this often.

 

Jane: Doing what, thinking?

 

Lily: Being you, but out loud.

 

Jane: …

 

_/_/\_\_

 

Kip loved Scott. Like love love. So much that it was ridiculous and scary and too fast but too slow at the same time. He loved him so much and so big and he wanted to tell everyone, all the time, everywhere.

 

That, however, was not what Scott wanted, or what Scott could give. And Kip was really okay with that, okay? Really. Really, really. He got it. Scott’s life wasn’t Kip’s. Scott’s first love was hockey, and hockey was a possessive, hyper-masculine, homophobic bitch.

 

Now, Kip watched Scott, ball cap pulled low and sunglasses covering his handsome face even inside the art gallery. Scott swore he wanted to go with Kip, he wanted to pick art with him, to cover the walls of ‘their’ home, and Kip was just so fucking happy to stand next to Scott, but Scott looked like he was waiting for his eminent execution to be announced.

 

It was heartbreaking and Kip thought it probably was for both of them. But the truly devastating thing was that it hurt them both for different reasons. Scott because of a secret that in order to protect, he would willingly let kill him, and Kip because he wanted to exorcised the same fucking secret. He wanted to scream it for the world to hear, watch it die and finally, finally release Scott from its grasp.

 

They turned another corner and Kip heard a whispered conversation to his left. “Is that him? Holy shit! I think it is!” His lungs and heart jointly decided to mutiny inside his chest. He turned to look at Scott.

 

Scott drew in a breath that sounded like a silent scream and started to move. Kip could feel the panic radiating off him. He frantically grabbed Scott’s sleeve, words tumbling over themselves in his mouth without ever coming out, “Please wait, don’t leave, please, stay, stay with me,” and then caught sight of a man, standing in front of a full wall painting, colors bursting across the canvas like an assault to the senses. Ten feet away, a girl and a boy, whispered and pointed. “It’s him, right?”

 

Kip tightened his hold on Scott’s sleeve and yanked hard until they were both kneeling behind a large potted plant.

 

“What the hell, Kip?” Scott whispered, panicked, while batting childishly at the palms. “I have to get out of here, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, Kip…”

 

“Shut up!” Kip hissed and smacked his hand over Scott’s mouth. “They aren’t talking about you! They are talking about him!”

 

Scott blinked at him stupidly for longer than seemed necessary and Kip fleetingly thought he was lucky he was so cute. “What? Who?” he mumbled into Kip’s palm. It tickled and Kip had to cover his own mouth with his other hand to keep in a giggle. Because it tickled and because this was absolutely ludicrous.

 

After collecting himself, he removed both hands and nodded toward the man. He still stood in the same spot, his blond curls crushed by the sunglasses that had been pushed back on his head. His hands were in the pockets of his tailored pants, pushing his casual blazer back in a way that exposed his waist and chest. Kip licked his lips. Dat ass…

 

Scott separated the huge green leaves, like a comedically inept spy, and sucked in a breath. “Is that fucking Rozanov?” His head immediately snapped toward Kip when he heard the soft click of a picture being taken. “What the fuck?”

 

Kip grinned and typed frantically on his phone.

 

Kip: (Attached, a picture of Ilya Rozanov, partial obscured by a large green leaf, looking like a god in front of a painting, the light from the gallery windows nearly setting his curls ablaze. Hunter’s profile can just be made out.)

Kip: There are two works of art in this picture and one of them is hideous.

 

Shane: Wtf. And yes, hideous. Christ.

Shane: Wait, where are you? Why does it look like you are crouching? Is Hunter hiding behind a fucking plant?

 

Kip: (Attached, a selfie of Kip smiling and Scott looking at the camera like he was consciously trying to teleport himself anywhere but where he was. Several leafy palms appeared to be smacking him in the back of the head.)

 

Shane: …

 

Kip held in his giggle but not his scream when someone said in a lazy, accented drawl behind Scott, “I did not know there would be dinosaurs here.”

 

His head snapped around so quickly that it hurt. Ilya Rozanov was kneeling beside Scott, a grin across his face. Kip pointed shakily and gasped, in no way theatrically, “Angry, Russian Gremlin!” Scott, in an embarrassingly delayed reaction, slapped at Rozanov and like a line of dominos, Rozanov lost his balance and fell into Scott, who fell into the plant.

 

Kip: (Attached, a picture of Scott Hunter laid out on the floor, dirt and green leaves covering his face and the floor. His facial expression is completely blank. Eerily so. Ilya Rozanov is sprawled over Scott’s chest, his designer glasses amongst the debris. His face can’t be seen but the curls on his head were not spared from the onslaught of dirt and leaves. The picture is slightly fuzzy, like the picture was taken by someone shaking.)

Kip: We have been asked to leave the gallery.

 

Shane: They say you should never meet your heroes.

 

_/_/ \_\_

 

Scott did not start his day thinking that Ilya fucking Rozanov would be in his guest bathroom after getting kicked out of an art gallery, but here they were. It was fine. So fine. Abso-fucking-lutely fine.

 

He placed the kettle over the burner and turned around to lean against the counter. Kip had his glasses on with his head down texting, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Scott made a move to push off from the counter to wrap his arm around Kip’s waist and chastise him for ignoring him again, when he heard a chuckle from across the room.

 

“Oh, now I see,” Rozanov said and Scott watched the asshole strut, fucking strut, across the living room before he slipped onto a stool. He made a show of checking out Kip before turning slowly to look at Scott with a smirk on his face. “I guess is better than little blue pill, yes?”

 

“Oh, fuck off, Rozanov.”

 

Kip looked up from his phone, smile on his face. “Scott, he is so much better than I ever imagined! So angry. So Russian.” Kip ran his eyes up and down Rozanov’s frame long enough that Scott was across the kitchen and behind Kip with his arms around him before he actually finished the thought. He felt Kip chuckle more than heard it. “And such a fucking asshole.”

 

Rozanov spat out a laugh. “Yes, this I have heard before. The… ah, what did you say? Gremlin? This I have not heard.”

 

Kip was texting again and Scott heard the kettle whistle. “Gremlin, loud, chaotic, fucking annoying.” He glared at Rozanov until the asshole laughed and then turned to switch the kettle off and gather mugs for tea. “I’d offer you tea, but I’m sure that you want to leave,” Scott said flatly but Rozanov interrupted.

 

“Tea is good. Thank you.”

 

Scott jerked and the hot water splashed out of the cup, a drop dripping on his thumb and making him hiss. Kip looked up from his phone long enough to make sure that Scott was okay and looked back to his phone, his brows furrowing slightly.

 

“Yeah, okay. Sure, Rozanov. Tea. Why not?”

 

After giving Kip is cup, he pushed another across the island. Rozanov wrapped his fingers around the cup and carefully lifted it to his mouth. Taking a sip, he nodded. “Is good.” Another sip. “Hollander did not,” Rozanov began and then waved his hand between them. “He did not share all the details.”

 

Scott blinked. “Details?”

 

“Yes, details, like how old man Hunter is shacked up with a Kip.”

 

Kip snorted. “A Kip?”

 

“Yes, I have been asking again and again and again,” he said, his voice sing-song with a heavy dose of bored. “‘Hollander, what is a Kip?’ And now I see, Kip is caretaker of dinosaur.”

 

“What the fuck does Hollander see in you, man?” Hunter asked and ignored how rude he sounded.

 

“I am so glad that you asked. There is my charm, and my superior hockey stats, skills, and, of course, my nine inches of…”

 

“Stop,” Scott snapped while Kip said, “Please continue.”

 

Rozanov grinned, “Kips are fun, I think, yes?”

 

“Shane is a good guy,” Kip said off a smile. “Of course he wouldn’t out us without permission. I know he was concerned about getting yours.”

 

“Yes, Hollander is good at being concerned. He is, um, very good.” Rozanov went silent for a moment. “When you all met, he was very, very concerned, I think.”

 

Scott did not fidget, but he very much wanted to. Kip just nodded.

 

“He, Hollander, asked me for permission. He tells me a story with smoothies and Kips and Hunters. Is very boring and ridiculously Canadian with many sorries. He is very, very good with sorries.”

 

“Why do you call him Hollander?” Kip asked.

 

“What else would I call him? It is his name.”

 

“Yeah, but you aren’t on the rink and he is your boyfri…”

 

“He is not,” Rozanov snapped. “He is my nothing.”

 

“Why would you say that?” Kip asked quietly. “Shane is…” Kip’s voice trailed off as he looked down at his phone.

 

Scott took a drink from his own cup and then just sat there. And Rozanov sat there. And Kip absentmindedly drummed his fingers between sips of his tea and stared fixedly at his phone. Just when Scott was considering screaming so that something would happen, Kip looked across the island at Rozanov.

 

“I think I did something to upset Shane.”

 

The sound of Rozanov’s cup hitting the counter startled Kip. “What?”

 

Kip set his phone down gentler than Scott had ever seen. “I was asking him about your relationship.”

 

“There is no relationship,” he said harsher than Scott liked.

 

Kip went on undeterred. “Yeah, that’s what he said, but come on, he obviously lo…”

 

“Hollander obviously does not do anything, because he has said to you that we are not in a relationship. I think we listen to Hollander, yes?”

 

Kip grinned and Scott heard warning bells. Kip had on his hound dog face, ready to chase down any lead with a tenacity that Scott normally found endearing. Today he wanted to push Rozanov out of their home and lock the door and beg Kip to leave this alone. Kip continued, “Please, he is so down for you. Neither of you…”

 

Rozanov cut him off again with a sharp shake of his head, and Scott watched as he grabbed the edge of the counter until his fingers were white. “What do you mean that Hollander is upset?”

 

Kip narrowed his eyes but then looked down at his silent phone in concern. “We were chatting and I was teasing him a little. He hasn’t responded back and something just feels off, you know?”

 

“Call him, Kip,” Scott said and ran his hand over Kip’s back. Rozanov frowned but didn’t say anything. Kip hit the call button and held it to his ear. Several rings and they could hear the phone flip to voicemail. He lowered the phone.

 

“I was only teasing, I mean, he told me the two of you were together…”

 

“Yes, together, like two people who fuck.” Scott felt Kip flinch. “Like two people who meet every few months in shitty hotel rooms and then don’t stay the fucking night. Christ. We can’t all have whatever the fuck this is.” He threw his arms wide encompassing the apartment and the two of them standing there speechless. “Maybe we don’t want it! Fuck!” He grabbed at his hair with both hands and then rubbed at his face with an exhausted burst of breath. “Maybe we fucking can’t have it even if we did. Christ.” Rozanov yanked his own phone out of his pocket. With quick fingers he dialed and brought the phone to his ear. They all heard it go to voice mail.

 

“Hollander,” Rozanov bit into the speaker, harsh and commanding, “you will count to twenty backwards… in bloody Russian because I know that you fucking can, and then you will call me back. Now.” He ended the call and growled.

 

Scott frowned. “I don’t know if that tone is helpful, asshole.” Scott was bombarded by images of Shane in that smoothie shop, vulnerable and somehow smaller than Scott possible.

 

“Do you understand… no, you can’t,” Rozanov whispered harshly. “He, Hollander, he deserves, he wants, fuck. He is so brave and so fucking scared.” The vibration of his phone had them all looking down at the screen. ‘Call from Jane’ flashed across the screen. “I can’t be…” He shook his head angrily and then snatched the phone off the counter and up to his ear. “Hollander.” He snapped and then after a beat, gentler he said, “Good boy.”

 

Rozanov shoved away from the counter and walked back toward the guest bedroom. Scott and Kip watched him and heard, “Count again, so that I can hear. No, no, no, you are good, so good. I help.” The door closed.

 

Kip leaned back against Scott and Scott held him tight. Kip reached up and grabbed Scott’s arms, yanking them tighter around him. “I think that I…oh, fuck, Scott. I think that I fucked up.”

 

_/_/ \_\_

 

Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed. Scott and Kip had moved to the couch. They hadn’t said much and Kip stared out the window as the sky turned dark. Finally, they heard the guest room door open. Rozanov stepped into the room with his blazer on. Dirt smeared down on arm and there appeared to be a piece of palm jutting out from a pocket.

 

“Thank you for the use of your shower.”

 

It sounded so stilted that Scott couldn’t help the snort. Kip immediately elbowed him in the gut.

 

“Is Shane?” Kip started, sitting up straighter.

 

Rozanov nodded his head. “Fine. He apologizes, again and again. As I say, very Canadian.”

 

Scott shifted and moved to the end of the couch, sitting on the arm. “Hey, I want to apologize as well.”

 

“Me, too,” Kip said.

 

“Is fine.”

 

“Look, obviously, we read things wrong, but if you need anything, to talk or something…” Scott momentarily considered just running full tilt at the window and letting gravity solve all the awkwardness.

 

Rozanov closed his eyes as if the entire world was conspiring to kill him. Scott had never related more.

 

With a sigh, he opened his eyes and said flatly, “Yes, I will not be doing that. Not ever.”

 

Kip scooter closer. “I fucked this up, but Shane and I started talking because it is so fucking hard to be alone in this.”

 

Scott nearly died when Kip’s voice cracked. That was on him. He knew that. “Kip…”

 

Rozanov stared unblinkingly at Kip for several seconds and then a smile that Scott had never seen crossed his face. Soft, kind, painfully genuine. “You have no idea what you have done for Sh-Hollander.” Like the moment cost him something, Rozanov looked around the darken apartment and shuffled his feet. “It is good for him to not be alone. To maybe, I don’t know, be himself.”

 

Scott heard Kip’s quiet sniffle. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

 

Rozanov’s smile cracked and fell. “See you at tomorrow’s game, old man. I’ll see myself out.”

 

_/_/ \_\_

 

The sound of the arena washed over Kip and filled him until he was nearly bursting with it. Excitement, obviously, and joy, seeing Scott doing something that was so important to him, that made him so happy. But, also, anxiety, fear, hundreds of voices cheering now, but that could turn, shift, in a heartbeat, if they knew. Sometimes. Kip sat in his seat and convinced himself that they all knew. That someone would tap him on the shoulder and ask him to leave because he and his love didn’t belong in this arena and sure as hell in New York Admiral’s darling Scott Hunter’s bed.

 

Scott skated by and smiled with a head nod. Kip forced a smile, but he knew it was real. It was hard to smile at Scott and not have it be real. Across the rink, the Boston Raider’s were warming up. Kip watched Rozanov flit between players, the way that Scott did. Both of them excellent captains.

 

Kip glanced down at his phone, scanning past texts.

 

Shane: I’m sorry.

 

Kip: Shane…

 

Shane: Not in New York. I call all the sorries.

 

Kip: YOU didn’t do anything. It was me. I pushed and didn’t listen. I should have listened.

 

Shane: He and I… it’s complicated.

 

Kip: Yeah, I’m getting that. Angry, Russian gremlin in our kitchen helped drive it home.

 

Shane: I’m sorry

 

Now, Kip responded.

 

Kip: Okay. No more sorries. I just want to be your friend. I want you to be my friend. If you want to talk complications with gremlins, cool. If not, what are your thoughts on Cliff Marleau? Straight as a fucking arrow, but his mama did well.

 

Shane: OMG. I don’t… I’ve never… huh. Maybe.

 

Kip: So, like me, you’d climb him like a fucking monkey?

 

Shane: OMG! Shut up

Shane: Don’t tell gremlin

Shane: Or the dinosaur.

 

Kip: Shane!

 

The game was exactly what the fans wanted from a New York/Boston match-up. Fast and mean.

 

Kip tried not to jump every time that Scott was forced into the boards, and, in a game like this, it happened a lot. Rozanov was everywhere, chirping, and shoving, and being an annoying little shit if the look on Scott’s face was any indication.

 

In the third, Rozanov dropped gloves with a New York defender. From the spray of blood, from both men, it looked personal. However, when the ref pulled them apart, they both had bloody smiles on their face. This game was fucking weird.

 

As Rozanov skating toward the tunnel, it looked like his legs gave out and he fell hard onto his knees. Immediately, Marleau and the medical team were at his side. Rozanov swatted at them but ultimately let them help him off the ice.

 

Kip’s phone exploded.

 

Shane: Is he okay?

Shane: It looked like a broken nose, they bleed like a bitch, but what was that on the way out?

Shane: What the fuck. Jesus. Is he okay, Kip!

 

Kip: Shane, it’s okay. I’m sure he is fine. He’s back on his feet.

Kip: Also, I am not a doctor. Wtf.

 

Shane: He isn’t answering my text.

 

Kip: He was literally just on the ice and then probably taken to wherever they take grown men who beat the shit out of each other while wearing knife shoes.

 

Shane: Medical! Do you know how to get there?

 

Kip: No and whatever is going through your admitted gorgeous mind, I repeat, with my whole heart, NO.

 

Shane: Just tell them you are family.

 

Kip: I’m not sure that I have enough time, no patience, to tell you all the reasons that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say.

 

Shane: Please. Just check. Please.

 

Kip: OMG, you can fuck right off with your pleases. Jesus Christ. Save me from attractive IDIOTS on skates.

 

Shane: I’m sorry, I’m confused. Are you going?

Shane: I’m sorry.

Shane: Kip?

 

Kip: I’m fucking going.

 

It was surprisingly easy to get access to medical and Kip was already composing his rant to Scott about how easily crazy fans, or well-meaning friends of ridiculous, apologetic, anxiety ridden idiots, could, also, gain access.

 

Rozanov was on a exam table, nose stuffed with gauze while the medic gently cleaned a gash on his forehead. Kip heard the man hum and then say, “Probably a couple of stitches.”

 

The medic turned and clocked Kip standing partially hidden behind the door frame. Kip smile in a way that he hoped was the equivalent of ‘I belong here’ or at the very least, ‘nothing to see here’.

 

“Only authorized personnel allowed in Medical. Leave now or I will have someone escort you.”

 

No. Such. Luck.

 

Rozanov shifted his attention from his hands to Kip’s face. His eyes got comically huge. “What…”

 

Kip stepped into the room with his hands up like he was approaching a wild animal, or a medic that wrangled hockey players for a goddamn living. “I’m family. Roz… um, Ilya is my, um… cousin.”

 

The medic’s eyes narrowed and Rozanov’s eyes were at risk of popping right out of his head.

 

“Cousin,” the medic repeated slowly, like he was saying something so idiotic that it actually burned his mouth. Kip was almost impressed. The medic flicked is eyes to Rozanov who tried to twist his face into something maybe stoic and Russian but instead looked like he hadn’t shit in several days and also had been punched in the balls.

 

“Is my cousin, da, Kip.”

 

The medic, god bless him, nodded his head slowly. “You, the Russian Menace, Ilya Grigoravich Rozanov, favored son of Mother Fucking Russia, and your cousin… Kip.”

 

“Yes, da,” Rozanov said and it sounded like a fucking question.

 

Kip stepped closer. “Da, um, on my mother’s side.”

 

The medic just shook his head. “What-the-fuck-ever.” He moved to collect a thin needle and thread. “You want to get murdered by a stalker, that’s on you, Rozanov. You better not tear your fucking stitches.”

 

Kip’s phone buzzed. Rozanov’s eyes immediately went to his hand.

 

“Is that?”

 

Kip held up his phone and snapped a picture.

 

Kip: (attached, a picture of Rozanov on a medial exam table, blood dried from his nose and down his chin. More blood covered the front of his jersey. The medic stands to his side, fingers of one hand feeling around the gash while the other holds a needle close to the skin. Gauze is packed into his nose. He looks like shit.)

Kip: My cousin appears to be fine.

 

Shane: Shit, stitches? Okay. Cousin??? Wtf.

Shane: Okay… thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.

 

Kip looked up and Rozanov raised an eyebrow in question.

 

The medic gave a quiet admonishment to ‘hold the fuck still’.

 

Kip grinned and said, “Jane says you look hideous.”

 

Rozanov snorted so hard that the gauze shot out of this nose and blood splattered across the medic’s chest and face.

 

“God-fucking-dammit!” the medic shouted jumping back and Rozanov yowled, the needle and thread, which was still attached, going with him.

 

Kip laughed until his legs gave out and he slid down the wall.

 

He laughed even harder when a hand, seemingly from nowhere, reached in and yanked/dragged him out of the doorway. Nearly lying on the ground now, Kip looked up into the face of his honey bunny, boo bear. “Hey.”

 

“What the actual fuck, Kip,” Scott growled and then hefted him up by his armpits and pushed him forward like they were escaping from enemy territory.

 

Kip's laugh echoed down the hallway.

 

Kip had acquired the angry, Russian gremlin and it was SO worth it.