Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Carter Vaughn, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Team Dynamics, Male Friendship, Carter Vaughn is a Sweetheart, Secret Relationship, Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics, Good Friend Carter Vaughn, Hollanov is very background but they constantly influence the narrative ofc, Carter Vaughn is a Ride or Die, Scott Hunter Has Issues, Episode: s01e03 Hunter (Heated Rivalry)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-11 Words: 4,820 Chapters: 1/1

anyone who's that brave

Summary

Carter's come to a conclusion. His best friend is either a serial killer or in love. No in between.

He's kind of offended Scott hasn't told him anything.

Notes

i'm obsessed with carter i love him so much,,,,, rachel, jacob, crave,,,, give me more of my boy you cowards

Despite what many people seem to believe, Carter Vaughn is not an idiot. Did he go to college? No. Did he do well in school as a kid? Also no. Has he read a book in the past year? Not even a chapter. Plain as day, he is not book smart, and self aware enough to leave all the fancy reading to fancy Eric and his fancy Harvard English degree. Carter couldn't tell you anything about calculus or chemistry or what sort of animals are native to New York--pigeons, right?--but something he could tell you is that something is certainly wrong with his best friend. 

Scott hasn't told him anything, which stings, sure, but Carter isn't going to be the one to force it out of him. Carter's a patient guy. He'll just, y'know, sit by Scott and support him and remind his best friend in the whole world that he can absolutely tell Carter absolutely anything, and Carter will not judge in the slightest. Well, actually, Carter would probably judge if Scott admitted to being a serial killer.  He has that look in his eye sometimes during the face-off that makes Carter forever grateful that he's playing at Scott's side and not against him. 

Whatever's happening in Scott's life has presented itself with the following evidence:

1. He's smiling more. Carter smiles a lot, but Scott's smiling more than Carter, and Carter's sure that he's not the only one to notice. Hell, Greg has noticed and Greg usually doesn't give three flying shits about how anyone's feeling except for a gruff and reassuring pat on the back. Scott's also, like, more supportive, which sounds like a totally asshole thing for Carter to say, but it's like he's been walking on fucking sunshine over the past month. The last Carter saw something like this was when their left wing, Pietr Weber, got engaged to his totally hot girlfriend. So yeah. Carter's very suspicious of Scott's smile. 

2. He's obsessing over a pair of fucking socks. Socks. Listen, Carter has his crazy pre-game rituals too. Carter can't get on the ice until he's had his protein drink that's been shaken exactly twenty-four times and he's washed his hands with citrus scented soap. But these socks? Entirely different level. Carter caught Scott washing them in their bathroom sink last night and when Carter tried to ask him about it, Scott quite literally got blushy and stammered out some excuse about how those tourist socks are somehow compression performance socks that have helped him score the past few games. Carter doesn't need an excuse! Scott could literally just say "I just think they're fun" and Carter would go "oh, hell yeah, man!" and then that would be the end of it. The socks are suspicious. Carter is very suspicious of socks. 

3. He's dodgy. Carter doesn't know every detail of Scott's life, but he knew a lot more about a month ago. Usually, they would go out for drinks after a home game or wind up at one of their places to play some video games or watch a movie or play some drunk poker. Now, Carter's not allowed in Scott's apartment. It's not like Scott has actually said that, but now Carter doesn't see Scott at all outside of hockey. Every single time Carter tries to propose something for them to do, Scott always hits him with the old "sorry I gotta get home tonight." Scott doesn't have anything at home. It's a grossly impersonal million dollar apartment with white walls and stiff furniture and a well stocked liquor cabinet. Carter is very suspicious of Scott's apartment. 

Carter's been accumulating evidence like any good detective should. He's really only about one step away from making the whole red-string murder board, but nobody's dead. Well, nobody that Carter knows of is dead. It would really fucking suck if Scott ended up killing somebody because Carter likes having his best friends not be murders and he likes having a team captain that's a decent guy that the media seems to like. 

So really, this leaves Carter with two options. 

Might as well just ask and get to the bottom of it. However, he should probably bring up Scott's odd behavior in a place where they aren't surrounded by sweaty and mostly naked teammates that really want nothing more than to go home and take a nap and enjoy the rest of their day. Perhaps in a calm and collected environment where there could perhaps be pizza and a cold beer and a comfy couch that Carter will probably fall asleep on. 

"Hey, Scotty--" Carter calls when he catches Scott in the locker room after morning skate. He's sitting on the bench in his boxers and a towel, still dripping from his shower he took about ten minutes ago while Scott was milling about doing solo laps on the ice. "I was just wondering if you wanna go out and--"

"Can't, Vaughnny, sorry," Scott says with a wince. He opens his locker quickly and shuffles through everything inside. An old sweatshirt falls to the ground, the sleeve taking a stick of deodorant and a roll of socks down with it. 

Carter blinks at him. Scott's not usually disorganized. He's threatened to bring in a label maker, especially after he caught sight of the disaster stall that Petrovich's area had turned into. "Man, I didn't even finish my sentence." 

 "Just busy, Vaughn. I'm sorry."

And then Scott walks away to the showers, already pulling off the compression gear that's worn underneath their pads.  Carter purses his lips. They're supposed to play Philly tomorrow, and it's not like Philly is good, but Carter would like his captain to at least have his head in the game. 

Well.

Scott's head is in the game. 

Ever since Scott got smiley, and dodgy, and wearing his stupid socks, they've been on an insane away winning streak. Carter's far from the most superstitious man on the team, but he at least knows how the science of routine works. 

Scott's routine has been working a little too well. 

"Man," Carter huffs as his best friend disappears into the showers. 

After collecting his stuff into his red Admirals duffel bag, Carter slings the strap over his shoulder and shoves his socked feet into their slides. He doesn't look behind him as he leaves through the heavy door of the locker room. 

If Scott won't at least meet him halfway, Carter won't wait for him.

The next night, they demolish Philly on home ice. The Scott Hunter win streak is truly nothing like Carter has ever seen before. His best friend is good, but this is another level. 

At the end of the third period, just half a minute before the final buzzer, Carter passes the puck perfectly to Scott right at center ice and he hurls the puck right into Philly's empty net. 

Carter goes for the celly, the same move that they always commit to after a perfect assist and goal, but Scott's not looking for Carter to wrap up in a hug. 

His best friend is staring intensely into the audience, looking for some sort of reassurance... some sort of acknowledgement. Carter tries to follow his eyeline, but the stands are packed with shuffling people, and the lights are far too bright from where he skates around on the ice. After handshakes are all done, Carter follows Scott into the locker room, where the man is smiling from ear-to-fucking-ear. 

Carter must not look too pleased, for Scott hits him with one of his concerned looks and a "you alright, Vaughn?"

It takes Carter a second to register the fact that Scott is actually initiating a conversation with him before he replies "yeah, no, I'm great." He smiles and nods, because that's what Carter's real good at, right? Smile and nod and wear the A proud on his jersey to back up the C. "Just thinking about that penalty I got in the second." It was for hooking, which Carter still thinks is a load of bullshit, but they managed the penalty kill without letting Philly even get close to Benny in the net. "I swear, the refs have it out for me." He shakes his head at his little joke, even though there's always a bit of merit behind it. Carter's no stranger to a biased referee. 

It also bugs him that Scott didn't come over to challenge the ref like he usually does. 

"Ah, happens to the best of us," Scott says with a shrug as he pulls off his jersey and into a media-approved Admirals t-shirt. Coach Murdock pulls him for some media shit, which Carter isn't all too surprised about. Scott was the player of the game. The big ol' MVP. Just like he was last game, and then the one before that. Carter takes a quick shower underneath the head at the very end of the row. This one has the worst water pressure and a scalding heat. Most avoid it, but Carter finds himself craving the attention of the faulty shower head. As soon as the sweat of the game has been washed away, Carter returns to his stall to change into his more comfortable clothes. 

Scott's still talking to the media. He's wearing those fucking blue and banana socks with his Admirals sweatpants and shirt. He's smiling, damn it. 

He has that spark back in his eyes.

Carter hasn't seen that spark in years. 

Carter sets his jaw. As he sneaks out the back door to the locker room, he fumbles to call Gloria. It's been too long since he's heard her voice, and he needs someone in his corner right now. 

Two weeks later, Carter's in a fancy suit and at some fancy scholarship dinner that Scott invited him to. In one hand, he's nursing a glass of champagne that he doesn't really like but still drinks it to look like he's important. He has his other hand in his pocket, which makes him look like the suave and very handsome athlete that he is. He may be handsome and very suave, but he is also not a single man and just ends up tailing Scott for most of the night anyways.

There are beautiful women and powerful men in every little socialite circle. They're eating tiny little food that does nothing to actually nourish a demanding body. They're sipping shitty alcohol that Carter's convinced people only drink to look rich and expensive. They're laughing in a perfect way that seems to flaunt dollar signs between every chuckle. 

Oh yeah, they also look at Carter like he's the perfect little accessory to help Scott Hunter cope with his sorry tragedy. 

Of course, Carter knows Scott's backstory.

Every single time Carter brings himself to one of these, he listens to Scott's same speech every time. "If you've already heard this, please see yourself to the bar--" Scott says with his fucking media smile. (Not the media smile he had after Philly, though.) Usually, Carter would take him up on that little jest and get himself some actual quality alcohol, but for whatever reason, Carter stays this time. He's away from the crowd, towards the back so he's hidden behind the huge alumni of the same scholarship Scott was awarded all those years ago. 

Carter knows the story now. The whole world knows the story, but not like how Carter does. 

The media and the press get the clipped and polite version. Concise but said with a solemn certainty that garners the most pity to get philanthropists to donate another zero at the end of their charity checks. They get the sadness but not the depression that follows. They get the short and sweet and clean-cut end of it all, but Carter knows that there is no end to Scott Hunter's suffering. He's strong, yeah, stronger of a man than Carter has ever been.

But even the strong break.

And it was just luck that Carter managed to witness the first time Scott crumbled in the Admiral's locker room.

They'd barely known each other a month. 

It was the seventh anniversary of the accident that took Scott's parents from him, and Carter's pretty sure that was the first year that he actually had someone's shoulder to cry on. They didn't talk about it, but Carter could piece together the story. After that, Carter and Scott found themselves as roommates in all the hotels they went to. They worked their way onto the second, then first line as a lethal duo when it comes to assists and hat tricks. They earned their C and A, damn it. 

They did it together.

After that first night in the locker room, Carter held Scott's face with tears in his own eyes and asked for Scott to promise that he would tell Carter anything.

Anything. 

But Carter doesn't know his best friend anymore. 

He's smiling, and Carter doesn't get to know why. Carter can't see Scott's home anymore because there's something in there that he's hiding. They aren't celebrating on the ice anymore because Scott's too busy looking for some sort of mystery person in the crowd and whoever the hell this fucking person is is more important to Scott than his best friend. 

It hurts. 

It really fucking hurts. 

Carter finishes his glass of champagne and sets it on a passing tray. He claps when Scott finishes his little speech and compliments his way with words to a random elderly woman to his left. She doesn't respond, but that's fine. Carter's not looking for conversation. He's looking for that bar. 

He's leaning against the bar top with a proper beer in hand as his eyes roam over the gala and all of its attendees. Carter guarantees half of them don't even know what offisdes means and couldn't explain the rules of goalie interference if they were held at gunpoint. Knowing this sort of crowd--a crowd that all looks pretty much as pasty as most of the NHL--Carter wouldn't be surprised if they owned some sort of share in the most historically dominant NHL teams. They probably bet on the silver of the Stanley and laugh merrily when everything goes right downhill for them all. 

Carter might be a little tipsy. 

He usually gets bitter when he's tipsy.

Some woman approaches him and asks if he'd be interested in sharing a dance, but Carter declines with a gentle smile. He doesn't really trust his feet, and he sure as hell doesn't trust his mouth when someone's that close. He doesn't want to tell someone something they don't need to know, especially when it comes to him or his team. 

The woman frowns and goes to join her friends. Carter watches her go, but his attention is grabbed by none other than his best friend, slow dancing with a gorgeous woman in a dark red dress. It's friendly. Scott keeps her at a respectful distance as she speaks. Though there's a vague smile on her pretty face, there's a severity in her eyes. Scott nods along to what she's saying, attempting to get a word in every other sentence, but she doesn't let him speak for long. 

She pulls him in to whisper in his ear, and then the song is over and she leaves. 

She sidles right up to the side of another man.

One that's staring at Scott like he hung the fucking stars. 

Carter narrows his eyes, then looks to Scott to see if he notices the other man--

And he's staring right back. 

The tension between them is thicker than the shitty fancy liquor that Carter has been choking down all night. Though his vision is a tad fuzzy, Carter can piece together where he's seen that face before. 

Dark hair, dark eyes, a nervous demeanor in the luxury seats right on the glass. 

A man.

That's who Scott's been searching for. 

Shock is cold as it washes down the back of Carter's neck. 

At first, it's disbelief, because who could ever think that Scott Hunter could be gay? Then it's quickly chased away by denial, because surely Carter is misreading something here. Next, it's a wild sense of acceptance as he determines that it doesn't fucking matter if Scott is gay or not because Carter loves gay people. He's not one of them, of course, but like... love is love and all that shit. 

What comes next is hot anger, blooming deep within Carter's rib cage because Scott didn't tell him. 

Carter finishes his beer and sets it on the counter behind him.

Scott's disappeared, along with his mystery man and his date. 

Carter and Scott used to go get shitty takeout after these events. They used to watch a football game and joke around and fuck around playing Chel while half-drunk. They used to fall asleep on each other's couches and wake up feeling like shit but looking forward to morning skate. They made breakfast together. They carpooled together. They bounced around to white-girl music in Carter's car as they made their way to practices. 

They used to be close. 

And over the past few months, Scott's stopped talking to Carter.

Does Carter even know his best friend anymore?

Something within Scott changes before they get on the plane to head to Sochi. They're sharing a cabin with the women's hockey team, and usually Carter would be right in the middle of that huddle pre-gaming and predicting American victory in Russia. The ladies are probably some of the most fun people he's ever met, which is why it hurts a little extra when he confesses he doesn't quite have the energy. He chalks it up to a bad night of sleep, but he knows the real answer.

Carter sits next to Scott near the back of the plane. 

"You alright?" he asks as he cracks open a can of Dr. Pepper. 

"Yeah," Scott says with a tight smile. A fake smile. Carter wants to grab his shoulders and shake him. Carter wants to crush his best friend against his chest. Carter wants to throw Scott a whole party that says 'I don't care if you're gay, I just miss my best friend and want us to be as close as we were'. He was tempted to go into Party City and get the supplies himself, but Gloria managed to talk him out of doing something too drastic. She said she should just talk to Scott. So. Well. Yeah. Here Carter is. 

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Carter continues, taking the first fizzy sip from his can with a grimace. He offers the next sip to Scott, who declines with a shake of his head. "If anything's bothering you, man, literally anything at all, I want to know." Scott's eyes say no you don't, but Carter ignores that. "We're in this together, Scotty. We're gonna take that fucking gold right back to New York, you hear me?"

"Sounds great," Scott says, then looks right back to his phone which shouldn't even be working this high up. Carter's half tempted to crane his neck to get an idea of what Scott could be so focused on, but Scott turns off the device and places it face down on his table tray. "You need something, Vaughnny?"

Carter furrows his brow. "Do I need a reason to talk to my best fucking friend?"

Scott sighs. "Usually you're hanging out with the women's team."

"Yeah, but you're also usually there." Carter folds his arms. "I'm worried about you, man." Scott hasn't been smiling. He's been playing like shit. Coach Murdock has threatened to move Scott down to the second line for the past four games in a row, though he hasn't done anything to actually act on it. 

Something's happened with you and your mystery guy, Carter wants to say, but he bites his tongue. 

"I appreciate that," Scott replies, finally a bit of life entering his dark eyes. "Really, Carter, but I'm fine."

You're. Not. 

"Alright, man," Carter says, then looks forward as Scott turns his eyes out the window at the rolls of white clouds separating them from the rest of the world. 

For all intents and purposes, Scott is not an out man. It took a little while, but Carter can tell that the closet is fucking glass. All it took was for Carter to look in the right direction. 

And here they are, flying right into Sochi.

Carter did his research before coming, because maybe that could be the reason why Scott's game had slipped after a month of playing the best he had ever in his life. Maybe it was the pressure of the Olympics, maybe it was the fact that he's supposed to be leading the Americans to victory over their international enemies, maybe it was the stress of going to a new place at a new time. Or maybe, as Carter discovered, it could be the fact that Scott could be thrown into prison for being out and proud within Russian borders. 

In another plane, one that should be already touching down in Russia, there's a group of figure skaters who are out and proud. 

Carter doesn't get nervous, really. He's a bold guy who's generally unafraid of most things. 

But his heart lurches at the thought of the figure skaters, and it hurts for his best friend, who is hiding behind himself and trying to convince the world he's not who he truly is.

Russian ice cream tastes different. Carter isn't exactly sure how, but it does. He's really only half paying attention, instead scrolling through his phone at the event schedule that was sent out in a massive email. The US has already played their first game, and it was more than easy to knock the Czech Republic right out of the running. There's another hockey game tomorrow, but the US isn't playing. No, that's Canada's game to lose.

"Does your room have that smell?" Scott eventually speaks up.

"Yeah," Shane Hollander, Canadian prodigy and kid right in the way of Carter's gold medal, nods. "J.J. thinks it's black mold."

"He's probably right," Scott affirms with a shrug. Shane's shoulders are practically to his ears. "We won't be here long enough for it to be a problem."

That seems to relax the kid a bit, and Carter lights up. "Hey, the men's figure skating is happening tonight."

"Oh, hey, my buddy Joe's in that program." Shane takes the last bite of his ice cream. "We trained together. Would you guys, uh, be cool with that?"

"Hell yeah," Carter smiles. "I'd love to go out and support anyone that brave."

Both Shane and Scott stiffen, and Carter immediately wonders where he went wrong. 

"What do you mean?" Shane asks, looking down to his ice cream, though he had just scraped out the last bite. 

"Well, y'know," Carter lowers his voice after shooting a look over his shoulder. "I was just assuming that your buddy might be gay." Scott goes impossibly still. "It takes balls to come out here and be like... hey, here's me." Carter offers an awkward smile. "Russia is not safe for people like that." 

The conversation after that dies and Carter kicks himself in the balls for it. 

Fuck. 

So much for being a supportive friend. 

They're out of the ice cream shop within ten minutes with tentative plans to meet up with Shane at the rink in time for the performances. While he goes one way, probably to meet up with one of his Canadian teammates, Carter falls naturally into stride at Scott's side. 

"Sorry about that," Carter quickly apologizes. "Didn't mean to make any of you guys uncomfortable."

"Why would I be uncomfortable?" Scott says quickly and with the slightest of wavers in his voice. "You were just, uhm--"

"Being supportive," Carter offers for him. Though he's looking straight ahead, Carter can't stop sending Scott side glances, trying to assess his reaction. "Really, man, I have so much respect for gay people. They have life kind of rough, y'know, especially if they're a fucking athlete."

"Carter."

"I'm not homophobic, Scott. I know some gay people and they're, like, really cool--"

"Carter."

"I think everyone should be able to live freely how they want and with whoever they want. I'm just really happy for anyone that's able to find their person no matter the gender or--"

"Carter." 

Carter stops, then looks at Scott. 

"Shut up, man," Scott sighs, barely a whisper. As he turns back to continue their walk towards town, Carter catches the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lip and Carter takes that as a success. 

As the final notes of Joe's performance ring, Carter can't withhold his excited yell. "That was fucking incredible!" he says, turning to Shane with a huge smile on his face. Shane, however, doesn't seem to be too into Joe's performance and keeps glancing up to the rafters. 

Of course, Carter has to look as well, and lo and behold, there's Shane's boy Roz. 

God, the guy is broody. When he's not being a total asshole on the ice, Carter guesses that he's being this brooding bad boy that spends all his time picking up chicks to take back to his hotel room. Hell, granted he's back in his home country, he has a whole roster that he can go through.

"I'm gonna find a bathroom," Shane says as he stands. Carter turns to Scott.

"Man, that was insane!" he gushes. "I knew figure skaters were good, but that was, like, next fucking level, man." He exhales. The next skater is getting ready to take their position, but Carter really couldn't care less. "You think we can convince Murdock to get some of the figure skaters to come give us a lesson?"

Scott laughs. He actually fucking laughs. Carter's on cloud nine. "Give it a rest, Vaughnny. Imagine Eric doing pirouettes."

That pulls a full belly laugh from Carter as he entertains the idea. God. All six-five of Eric in full goalie pads awkwardly skating around on Bambi legs trying to look some semblance of graceful. "Holy shit--" Carter wipes a false tear from his eye as he grins. It's almost like they're back in New York, watching a hockey game and lounging on the couch together in Carter's apartment as they wheeze and whistle over some unfortunate mic'd-up moment caught on television. "Man, now I need to ask Murdock to get some figure skaters in. There have to be some in NYC right?"

"Yeah, probably," Scott's grin is wide, but it falters as his eyes trail. 

Carter turns. 

In the rafters, Hollander has joined Roz. Roz doesn't look happy, but Carter doesn't think he's seen Roz look happy in the past few weeks. Losing to fucking Latvia probably doesn't do much to raise his spirits either. Though there's distance between them, there's a void that should be filled, some sort of draw between them that's visible from the stands. They're talking to each other in a way that has Carter feeling awfully like an intruder. He shouldn't be watching this. 

"Um," he says, turning back to Scott. Scott meets Carter's eyes with a set jaw. "Are they?"

"I think so," Scott says quietly. 

"Okay," Carter says gently, digesting the news. Makes sense. Well, actually, it makes no sense which is also why it makes sense. "How long?"

"At least since the skill's showcase."

"Damn..." Carter trails off. "I mean, like, if they're happy I'm happy for them but..." He risks another glance over. Hollander's walking away and Roz runs a frustrated hand over his face. "Are they happy?"

"That's a good question," Scott snorts. 

Carter pauses, then runs his tongue over his teeth. "Are you?"

Scott stares at the ice, at the handsome young man that has taken center stage and waits elegantly, like a swan, as he awaits for the music to start. He has dark hair and dark eyes, muscled yet thin in a way that only a figure skater could be. 

The music starts and the skater begins. 

"Are you happy, Scott?"

The answer comes after a long moment of silence. Halfway into the skater's set, Scott sighs. "I'm really trying to be, Carter."

Carter doesn't wait to lean over the arm rest dividing them to pull his best friend into a hug. "You can talk to me, Scott," he says gently into his ear. "Man, I mean it. Anything." Carter pulls away, meeting Scott's shiny eyes. "You're my best friend. I'm with you until the end."

Scott smiles, then taps his fist against Carter's. "I know. I..." The figure skater finishes his set then disappears through the tunnel to await his results. "I've been lonely, Carter." 

"You don't have to be."

"I know." Scott's throat bobs as he swallows. "I'm starting to figure that out."