Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Eric Bennett, Kyle Swift, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Homophobia, Repression, Bane of All Social Ills - Podcasts, Shane and Ilya in the Background as Spectres of the Hockey World, Beginning of the Shane/Ilya/Svetlana Love Triangle No One Was Asking For, Slurs, Voyageurs Group Chat

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-04 Completed: 2026-04-09 Words: 8,023 Chapters: 2/2

Fake It

Summary

One of Shane Hollander's rookies comes out of the closet and Scott Hunter watches the situation develop. And watches. And watches.

Notes

I wrote something short!!!!!!!! Which didn't include like two thirds of what I had in my outline lol.

In other news, I "aged up" Scott (and Kip though it's not as obvious) because I didn't realize the dude is supposed to be *3* years older that Ilya lmao. What are the old jokes about??? Even in pro athlete circles, three years is not that long. So, Scott is 30 here.

Chapter 1

Scott Hunter couldn’t believe that he’d dragged his team, his beloved New York Admirals, to the semifinals of the Stanley Cup. And that he was considering throwing the game, seventh in their series against the Montreal Voyageurs because, on the tail end of the third period, while the Admirals had a three-to-two advantage, Scott’s left winger had said something that prompted the Voyageurs’ left winger to take a swing at him with his stick. Which resulted in an instant penalty that inspired excited cheering from the home crowd and victorious shouting from Scott’s teammates.

“Got the little fag,” Blair Lange, Scott’s left wing, chuckled as their coach set up their power play unit.

“Man, what did you say to him?” asked one of the defensemen. “Not even pests can get through that asshole.”

Scott skated to the side in attempt not hear whatever rancid homophobia Lange had spat at the only out queer player in the MLH. He edged closer to the penalty boxes, though fuck him if he knew why, peering at where Xie was seething. Another Voyageur, Gilbert Comeau, skated towards him and passed him a bottle of Gatorade.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Comeau said, as Xie accepted the bottle. “Three minutes left on the clock. If Shane doesn’t pull a goal out of his ass from a penalty kill, you might be fucking murdered tonight. They’ll still be finding pieces of you in Central Park six months from now.”

Scott skated back to his team, snakes squirming in his belly. Was that hyperbole? It had to be, never mind all the rumors about what the Voyageurs’ locker room must be like. They had the one player earlier in the season who went crazy and killed his family, then himself. Apparently after getting into a fight with one of the Voyageurs’ top forwards, Jake Merrell. Over one of their cute younger players.

Or so the more sensational true crime podcasts claimed. After that unimaginable tragedy, the fact that the Voyageurs had one confirmed bisexual player and at least one more credibly rumored to be some type of queer, was hardly a blip. There was no end to amount of lewd speculations about the wild orgies that must be going in that team.

Scott shook his head. He had to focus on the game; he was--they were so fucking close. If they won the Stanley Cup this season, then Scott might finally. . . something. Something had to change.

Maybe not this season, thought. Hollander did pull off a goal, with a mere nine seconds left on the clock. The Montreal fans on the crowd exploded into ecstatic cheers. Hollander himself, Scott was close enough to see, merely squeezed his eyes shut as Boizaiu threw his arms around him.

Scott went over to the Admirals' goalie, Eric Bennett. "Fuck, sorry," said Eric.

"We still have overtime," said Scott. There was no fucking way they'd break the tie in the nice seconds left in the third period.

They didn't break the tie at all, as it turned out. Two minutes into overtime, Dylan Xie redeemed himself by scoring a fourth goal for the Voyageurs, earning them a spot for the Stanley Cup series

Scott started his off season by going to The Smoothie Shop (as he was calling it in his head, like it was the only place that sold smoothies in NYC) every day after his morning run. If he ended up memorizing the cute barista’s schedule and timing his runs so that he’d always find him at the counter, then that wasn’t creepy. It wasn’t like anyone else would ever know it. He was an off season pro athlete, so one would bat an eye if his workout schedule was a little wonky.

The cute barista—Kip, per his name tag—had the softest-looking wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a kind smile. He had already learned his order and even added some extra blueberries at the top, which Scott had decided was a good sign. He’d also verified that Kip was gay, or at least bisexual, since he’d overheard a friend of his offer to set him up with a guy while they worked the counter. None of this was creepy. It wasn’t Scott’s fault that Kip and his friend had chatted while he sat at the counter pretending to mindlessly scroll on his phone.

That morning, Kip and his friend had turned on ESPN since Scott was the only customer at the shop, once again pretending to scroll while they chatted.

“Oh wow, the Montreal team,” he heard Kip saying. “Turn it up a bit.”

The Montreal team? thought Scott.

“The Montreal team?” said the friend, a beautiful woman with long, dark hair sitting a couple of chairs away from Scott at the counter. “Oh my God, what sport? You’re into sports now?”

“Hockey,” said Kip. “And yes, I started watching when the cute rookie came out as bisexual.”

“Dylan Xie is a fetus, Kip,” said the friend (Scott had to learn her name). “Don’t tell me you’re crushing on that child.”

“I’m not saying I have a crush on him,” said Kip. “But I’m watching the team’s games. It’s nice to see an openly queer guy succeeding in some macho sport.”

Yes, it was fucking amazing. Scott wondered if Xie knew what he meant to the queer community, to little boys everywhere who thought they could never be in a locker room because they might accidentally look at an attractive teammate for too long. Or the current closeted MLH players (statistically, Scott could not be the only one) who were watching in awe as he became a contender for rookie of the year. A longshot contender, but still.

“Question for the rookies,” the interviewer was saying, “would you have kept playing hockey if you hadn’t been drafted for the MLH?”

Scott listened with half an ear. The answer was always the same—they would have tried for the AHL or CHL, or college hockey. Of course, they would have kept declaring for the MLH draft until they aged out. Scott didn’t think dudes were lying; he honestly had no idea what he would have done if he hadn’t been drafted. But he would have kept playing hockey. The Voyageur rookies would say the same. The rich one from Boston had said as much and Babikov was in the process of saying it while Jake Merrell looked bored out of his mind sitting between him and Xie.

The league had instituted a policy of not letting the rookies near reporters without a more experienced player to “guide them” after Xie abruptly came out of the closet in a post-game press conference. As though Shane Hollander hadn’t been standing right next to Xie when that happened.

“I would have kept playing in some kind of hobby team,” Xie said when it was his turn to answer, “but I was going to college. Not all US colleges have hockey teams, though, so I wasn't really planning for college hockey.”

What the hell? Even Merrell seemed to wake up a bit.

“Harvard has a hockey team,” said Babikov.

“You thought you were going to Harvard?” said Carmichael—the kid from Boston. Scott had forgotten his name.

“He got into Harvard,” said Babikov.

“I told you that in confidence!” said Xie, reaching past Merrell to slap at Babikov’s shoulder.

Merrell placed a hand on Xie's head and gently pushed him back. “Behave.”

“Damn, he’s hot,” said Kip’s friend.

“The big one with curly hair?” asked Kip. “He’s a rookie too, you know?”

“The dude with the buzz cut,” said his friend.

Scott agreed, he was sad to say. Jake Merrell had been his teammate during his first season and Scott’s second, and Scott had avoided him like the plague. To the point that he’d overheard Merrell complaining that Hunter hates my guts for some reason to another player. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Scott had merely been terrified that if he let himself hang around one of the nicest and hottest guys he’d ever met, he’d get caught staring at his ass. Or blushing at him like a lovesick fool. Or God forbid, checking him out at the communal showers.

It was. . . something to see Merrell play on the same line as the league’s only out queer player. To watch him handle the kid with exasperated affection and platonic touches. How would he have reacted all those years ago if he'd ever caught on to Scott's crush?

“In confidence?” prompted the interviewer.

“This is sensitive information,” said Merrell, amusement obvious in his tone. “We have to be thoughtful about how we put it out to the public.”

“Very funny,” said Xie. “I did get accepted, but I didn’t go. The only thing more obnoxious then someone bragging about going to Harvard is someone bragging about getting into Harvard, but then not going.”

“Guess you bragged to Babikov,” said Carmichael, rolling his eyes.

“Mostly he was ranting about the University of Miami rejecting him,” said Babikov.

“Why do I even tell you things?” cried Xie, before turning to the reporter. “But for real, I’m good enough for Harvard, but not the University of Miami? Even though I'm a Floridian? It doesn't make sense.” He visibly pulled himself back. "But I'm over it."

“What were you planning to study?” asked the reporter.

“Mechanical engineering,” said Xie. “And another major I hadn’t decided yet, for fun.”

“He mentioned theoretical mathematics,” said Babikov.

“For fun?” said Carmichael, horrified.

“What do you mean ‘theoretical’ math?” said Merrell. “What other type is there?”

Scott was confused too.

Up on the screen, Xie launched into a monologue about the difference between theoretical and applied mathematics, but how he would’ve gone for something else since he would be doing a decent amount of math for his engineering degree. Maybe astrophysics. Or something completely different, like philosophy or literary analysis. “Or art history! I never had time to study art in high school, and you can tell so much about a culture and time period if you can understand their artistic output!”

“Oh my God,” said Kip’s friend. “This poor boy must feel like he’s talking to roided out hamsters all the time.”

Scott would be offended, but in all honesty, he hadn't realize that people went to college to study art history separate from regular history. God, was he a fucking idiot?

Kip laughed, loud and happy, and Scott happily enjoyed a quiver of excitement to learn the sound. "I'm just glad to see they can be smart," Kip said to his friend. "Maybe some of the hot older ones are deep."

"I'm sure," said the friend, chuckling. "Which ones are your favorites, which I assume are the hot ones because no fucking way you bothered to learn the rules of hockey."

"Hey, my dad is super into hockey," said Kip. "He even tried to get me to play when I was a kid, so I get gist of the game. The forwards, the defense dudes, the goalie."

"Expert analysis," said the friend. "Favorite defense dude, go!"

"I don't know their positions," Kip rolled his eyes. "But! Favorite players, get ready."

Scott tried not to make it too obvious that he was listening.

"The hot Russian from the Boston team."

"I'm sure that's what his Mama calls him," said the friend, while Scott felt irrationally betrayed. There was no way Kip knew what an obnoxious douchebag Rozanov was; not if he followed hockey casually.

Besides, it might be scummy to be annoyed at a man who had suffered such a terrible accident mid-season. They didn't even know for sure if Rozanov would play again next season, though Boston insisted that he would. They were probably right. Rozanov had already been sighted around his neighborhood, usually with the same beautiful girl with curly hair. Some significant Russian socialite, apparently a relative of the late Sergei Vetrov. From the pictures that Scott had seen shared in the Admirals' group chat, Rozanov looked healthy, so no doubt he would be back next season. But, at what level? Rozanov was--or had been--one of the best centers in the league. Obnoxious or not, it would be a tragedy if the accident had restricted his ability to play.

"Merrell," Kip added to his list of hot hockey players, pointing at the screen, where Jake was wearing his official Voyageur t-shirt while Xie explained that he wanted to learn Russian to read Dostoevsky in its original language.

"Agreed on him," said his friend. "And the Russian too. His name is Ilya Rozanov, by the way."

"And my dad's favorite player," said Kip, "Scott Hunter. Don't know if he's any good, but he definitely looks good."

Scott coughed up a mouthful of blueberries.

Kip and his friend turned to look at him, both alarmed. When Scott looked up, he watched in horror as recognition became evident on the woman's face.

"Oh my God," she said.

"Are you okay?" asked Kip. "Can I get you some water?"

"Yah-no-sorry," gasped Scott, looking away from the woman's dark eyes.

"Scott Hunter," she said.

"What?" said Kip, as he filled a glass with water. His cheeks grew pink when he stepped closer and got a good luck at Scott's face.

"Uh, I'm gonna. . ." Kip's friend giggled, then hopped off her stool. "Excuse me."

Scott smiled nervously and accepted the offered glass of water. He was sad to note that Kip looked a little anxious, maybe because he was dealing with a customer. Maybe because he was dealing with a big, muscled guy from a macho sport who might be melting down with homophobia because another guy said he looked good.

"It's alright," said Scott, with a small cough. "I'm flattered. Not every day I get listed with one of Sports' Illustrated Sexiest Men Alive."

"Huh?"

"Rozanov," said Scott, like an idiot. "The hot Russian from the Boston team." Who had just turned twenty-two, compared to Scott's full blown thirty. Did that matter? How old was Kip, Scott wondered.

Kip laughed, still blushing and not quite meeting Scott's eyes, but his shoulders relaxed. "Nice to meet you. Officially. I'm. . ." He pointed at his name tag. "Kip. Christopher."

"I know," said Scott. "Because of the name tag! I mean, I come here a lot. The smoothies are very good."

Scott was proud that after that, the conversation mostly smoothed out. Into a very generic customer-client one, but still. They'd spoken about something besides smoothies. Not really. They talked mostly about blueberries and how Scott had been getting the same order for good luck all season, but at at least was beyond the usual 'hello' and 'do you need anything else?' And Kip's cute dimples were more pronounced than ever when he smiled goodbye.

Scott wasn't not considering coming out. He knew that being the only anything in a group was difficult so even though he and Xie had exchanged maybe three words during the season, Scott coming out would still help him. If only by taking some attention away from him. More attention away from him. His defiant declaration that he was bisexual had faded to the background after Thompson's murder-suicide.

The background was pretty heinous, though, and easy to find with the help of social media algorithms. Scott might have some weird masochist tendencies because every day, while he was at the gym doing his more repetitive cardio, he punished himself by listening to hockey podcasts and YouTube videos. Hockey bro podcasts and YouTube videos, to be specific.

Xie was a popular subject, more so than Thompson since he was still alive to provide new material. By simply existing. Long after Thompson had been relegated to the seedier world of amateur true crime "documentaries", the hockey bros discussed what they'd taken to calling "the Xie issue".

"So, the upcoming MLH awards," Hockinator was saying to his microphone and to his guests, two other hockey podcast bros. He was a stout man with a graying beard, broad muscled shoulders, and a bit of a pot belly. "Rookie of the Year? I think everyone knows it's going to either Wagner or Xie."

"It's gonna be Xie," said the guest on the right. "Kid scored the winning goal at the Stanley Cup."

"Wagner's stats are better," said the guest on the left. "He scored twelve goals more than Xie overall, and he played less games."

"Because the LA Kings got eliminated in the quarterfinals," said Guest-on-the-right.

"Doesn't matter. The award is 'Rookie of the Year', not 'Rookie Whose Team Won the Stanley Cup'. Or even 'Rookie Who Scored the Winning Goal at the Stanley Cup'."

Scott hat to agree with Guest-on-the-left. Xie was good, better than anyone had been expecting, but Jamie Wagner was excellent, first draft pick of the season, and probably approaching Hollander and Rozanov in skill. He hadn't gotten as much publicity--all of it had gone to the Voyageurs and the Bears, as was usual--but anyone who followed the sport seriously could see that Wagner was something special. Though it was a little less impressive for him then it had been for Rozanov and Hollander, considering he had two brothers in the league and his parents had been a pro hockey player and a professional hockey coach.

"It's gonna go to Xie," said Hockinator, with his usual authoritative tone.

"Really?" said Right. "Surprised to hear you say that, man. Don't you think Xie is overrated?"

"I do," said Hockinator, sipping from his large black mug, which was decorated with a rifle, of all things. "But I see the PR push the League is, unfortunately, going for. Xie is everywhere, and not for his skills. Or hockey at all--the kid doesn't seem to care about it. Ask him about hockey, and you get a three word response. Ask him about butterflies or some shit, and you get five minutes of rambling about how he was going to Harvard."

Scott decided that he'd had enough and switched over to music. Some punchy work out songs to pump him up, and to help take his mind off how shitty people could be. It was obvious to him that Hockinator hated Xie because he was a homphobe, but one intelligent enough to realize how dumb he would sound if he said so outright. So he decided that Xie was "ungrateful" instead. Not serious about the sport. Arrogant. And that the league kept "pushing" him out of some nefarious marketing ploy.

It was disingenuous, designed to make people who dared call him out on his shit hysterical. Scott hated it more than the hyper religious grifters who insisted that God would smite the league for allowing sin on the ice. Less than he hated the assholes who claimed that the MLH was unsuitable for children since they refused to fire a queer eighteen year old.

Later that evening, as he got ready for a night out with the guys, Scott still ruminated. Should he come out? How would he do it? Official press release? Wait for someone to ask his opinion on Xie?

He'd been expecting that earlier on, right when Xie came out. He was captain of the New York Admirals and, while he wasn't one of the top centers in the league (hadn't lived up to that potential), he wasn't nobody. If nothing else, New York City's prestige seemed to have rubbed off on him. But no one had asked Scott anything about it. Within days, Toronto's Dallas Kent had gotten himself into hot water by posting absurdly homophobic and racist memes on his official MLH social media account.

He'd been forced to make a stilted public apology about it. About the racist memes linking J.J. Boizaiu, one the few Black players in the league, to slavery in the antebellum South, anyway. The homophobic attacks had not been explicitly mentioned in his apology. None of the players who had joined in the online mockery, including the Admirals' own Josh Clymer, had been made to apologize. The league had merely quietly fined all of them and made quick donations to a couple of anti-racism non-profits in the USA and Canada.

Then, before that had blown over, Voyageur Wayne Thompson had murdered his wife and child, then set their house on fire while still inside. As far as anyone with sense could tell, Xie hadn't been involved at all. The season had trucked along, studiously ignoring the quite literal fire blazing near them. What other option did they all have? Scott had done his best to make it clear to his team that he expected professional behavior from them, and kept playing.

Xie and his coming out was, at most, a curiosity by now. He kept playing, and quite well. The league had more or less removed him from press conferences, but he was visible enough in the Voyageurs' official social media PR stuff.

Scott watched his stuff rather obsessively. Not even his play style, but his reels from the Voyagerus official PR team. Just to see if someone had snuffed the light out of the kid. He was doing so on the subway, on his way to meet the guys.

"Dylan, do you think you'll get Rookie of the Year?" asked the PR person from behind the camera.

"Not really," said Xie.

"Why not?" asked Carmichael, who was being interviewed at the same time. "Listening to Hockinator lately?"

Xie snorted.

"Do you listen to him?" asked PR.

"Yeah, I'm a big fan of the podcast, if you can believe it," said Xie. "Or I guess I was. Not anymore."

"He's not your biggest fan, yeah?" said Carmichael.

"Not because of that," said Xie. "I just don't have time to listen to anything; haven't listened to his podcast in months. God, I haven't read a book since camp; maybe I forgot how to read by now!"

"He says you're overrated," said Carmichael, in a sing-song voice.

"That I remember from earlier on in the season," said Xie, rolling his eyes. "You know, it's wild. I've been listening to Hockinator--or I had been--since I was, like, fourteen. When I was going jogging and stuff, or as background noise when I was doing my homework, and he was going off on some poor dude who did something stupid on the ice, and I would be like, yeah. . . that was a stupid shot, he shouldn't have missed that pass. You're right, Mr. Hockinator. If I was the one playing, I would simply not have made a mistake."

Carmichael chuckled. "That was me too."

"And now?" Xie laughed. "By the end of third period, I'm on autopilot. End of third period on the seventh game of a series? I bet you can chart the deterioration of my critical thinking skills on a graph." He looked at Carmichael and laughed. "We're in the other side of it now."

"With Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell, in your case," said Carmichael.

"I know!" said Xie. He and Carmichael sort of collapsed on each other in a fit of giggles.

Scott clocked that this most have been filmed in the middle of the semifinals, or perhaps the Stanley Cup itself.

"I'm just trying to keep up, most of the time," said Xie. "And sometimes I think I did well. Then I watch the game after with the team and Shane's sitting next to Hayden like usual, left eye just twitching every time I do something stupid on screen."

"Remember that penalty you got game seven against the Admirals?" said Carmichael. "We all thought he was actually going to murder you."

Xie laughed nervously. "And I can't even get defensive. About Hockinator, I mean. Me from nine months would look at my games be like, who is that idiot and what is he doing? I take some insane shots I really have no business taking; Hockinator's not even wrong about that."

"You miss every shot you don't take," said Carmichael.

"And sometimes you miss the shots you do take," said Xie. "Did Wayne Gretzky ever say that? Because that's also true."

"So you don't take the criticism personally?" asked the interviewer.

"I try not to," said Xie. "It's not really about me. I mean, it's literally about me, but not for me, you know? It's really for the fans. They don't know what playing professional hockey is like. I sure didn't."

The reel cut off there.

Did Xie not notice the homophobia? Had he been instructed not to mention it? Had he mentioned it, but then the Voyageurs' PR team edited it out? Or was Scott seeing phantoms? It was possible Xie rubbed Hockinator the wrong way for the same nebulous reason people didn't like each other sometimes.

Scott needed to stop obsessing about this. At least for tonight. He was going out with Eric and the rookies. The rookies, of course, would notice nothing. But Eric? As most goalies, he was very perceptive and would ask what was wrong if Scott acted more anxious than usual. Scott would rather not worry his friend. He squared his shoulders and shook his head slightly, like a dog coming home to escape a sudden storm, and entered the club Eric had selected.

Since Eric had chosen it, it had a classier atmosphere than most dives the average hockey player would pick. Some of the screens were playing what looked like documentaries rather than sports. The walls were decorated with all sorts of trendy-looking art stuff, which mostly went over Scott's head. He spotted the guys and strode towards them. Eric smiled him briefly, then looked back at his phone screen. Unusual for him, bordering on rude. Scott watched him scratch at his stubble as Gustav Huusko, their Finnish rookie D-man, handed him a menu printed on expensive paper.

"Look at all the vegan stuff they have," said Gus, in his accented voice "And all the non-alcoholic beer."

"Eric's so classy," said Blair, rolling his hazel eyes. "I bet if he wasn't married, he would be getting all the smart chicks."

"Smart chicks are too much trouble," said Drew Hudson, their rookie center for the fourth line.

Scott tried to smile at them. Rookies talked about women constantly, and most of them were not as gross as the older players. Unfortunately, age did not inspire men to respect women more, at least not in Scott's experience.

"Watching something interesting, Eric?" asked Scott, in an attempt to shift the conversation topic.

"Voyageurs PR reels," said Eric.

"Yeah?" asked Gus. "Xie again?"

"Oh, yeah," said Eric.

Scott watch the rookies swarm Eric with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Had Eric also developed a plausibly non-homophobic grudge against Xie?

"This kid is so condescending," said Eric.

"Really?" said Scott, ready to be wounded. For some stupid reason. What did he care if Eric didn't like Xie? He knew it wouldn't be homophobia. Eric was too smart and decent for that.

"Yes, you have to love it," said Eric. "Hockinator's constantly going off on players having a slump and let's face it. Your average hockey player doesn't have the vocabulary to stand up for himself."

"Gramps, are you calling us dumb?" asked Blair.

"Very much so," said Eric, without taking his eyes off his phone. "This last Voyageurs' reel is going viral on hockey internet. Hockinator's gonna have to respond."

"You have beef with Hockinator?" asked Drew, their rookie fourth line center.

"Of course," said Eric. "Man talks like I'm the only goaltender in the league who's ever been scored on."

"He's not too impressed with our cap here, either," said Blair.

Scott shrugged. "Only one he's impressed with is Hollander. Not even him, lately."

"Eric, why don't you respond?" asked Drew.

"I won't acknowledge him," said Eric. "That would only give him publicity. None of you assholes blab to anyone that I'm whining about him, okay? Plus, no one's asked me about him."

"And you're the Eric Bennett," said Drew, pouting. "If they haven't asked you, they're sure as hell not gonna ask us."

"What Eric means is," said Scott, "don't go picking fights on social media. Remember, you're the pro hockey players, not this Hockinator troll. No matter how many listeners or followers he has." He mentally shuddered at Clymer's participation in Kent's social media 'mistake'.

"You know," said Eric, "I'm pretty sure he's burned about Xie's Harvard comment--how people who humblebrag about getting accepted but not going are annoying. Something like that."

"Hockinator was going to Harvard?" asked Drew.

"No, Xie was going to Harvard," said Blair. "That's how he knows all his big words."

"Boy, he knows some adverbs and basic math," said Eric.

"Hockinator keeps saying he would've been drafted into the MLH if he hadn't torn up his ACL," said Scott, peering at Eric. Was his friend a little tipsy? It wasn't like him. Eric was on the my-body-is-my-temple types.

"And now this kid calls him a fan who couldn't possibly understand what playing professional hockey is like." Eric sighed. "Beautiful."

"Xie's not wrong, though," said Blair.

"That makes it better, boys," said Eric. "That makes it so much better."

For some reason, Blair, Drew, and Gustav all decided to stay in New York City for the off season. Odd, though it was one of the most famous cities in the world. Scott supposed that the rookies hadn't had time to truly enjoy it while playing a season for the MLH. Regardless of the reason, Scott was happy enough to have them. All three volunteered for his Summer Youth Hockey Club, which was a huge relief since Eric had decided to take an extended summer cruise with his wife Holly.

It was great for the kids to have a trio of energetic teens to play with, though Scott had to step in multiple times to stop hare-brained ideas to sprint across the ice.

God, I'm getting old, he mused as he watched three five year olds attempting to climb Gus like a tree. Cynthia, one of the women's hockey team players who also volunteered for the program, skated over to remind them of safety protocols.

"Huusko, your helmet," said Cynthia.

"Right, sorry," said Huusko, hand flying up to pat his wispy, light blond hair.

Scott made himself go over and help with the hyperactive kids. He didn't know why, but this year's camp wasn't lifting his spirits the way it usually did. He found himself feeling impatient and annoyed, and he hoped the kids weren't noticing it. Cynthia certainly did, but Scott politely waved her off when she tried to ask him what was wrong. She didn't look convinced, but also couldn't do much besides nod goodbye before leaving with her wife.

Something squeezed at Scott's chest when he saw Cynthia's wife hold her hand. Well, not something. Jealousy. How come lesbians could be around children and only the most unhinged of bigots seemed to have a problem with it?

And now he was turning into an asshole seething because one of his friends was in a happy relationship. Scott shook his head, said goodbye to his rookies, and resolved to take a long run along central park to clear his head. Afterwards, he decided to make an unplanned stop at The Smoothie Shop even though Kip wouldn't be there.

Except he was, and looked pretty harried. A long line of busy annoyed customers waited as he fiddled with one of the blenders.

"Buddy, it's been five minutes," said an older man wearing a red baseball cap. "Get it together, or I want a refund."

Scott opened his mouth.

A lithe blond man with bleached hair stepped out of the line. "That's alright, sir," he said, stepping behind the counter. "I'm here for backup."

"Kyle, you don't work here," hissed Kip, finally managing to pull the lid off the blender. Sugary fluid and chunks of strawberries hit his chest. "F--ur-gh."

"Let me clean up here," said Kyle, gently laying a hand on Kip's shoulder. "Just go handle the counter; see if anyone wants pastries and sodas or something."

Kip's shoulders sagged for a second, then he bumped foreheads with this 'Kyle' before plastering on a customer service smile and turning towards the line of exasperated clients. Scott turned around and left the shop as he started to apologize for any inconvenience.

Who was Kyle? A boyfriend? Probably. Likely. Kip was a handsome young man living in one of the world's major cities. He was very clearly not closeted. What did Scott expect? That Kip was harboring some impossible crush on him? That he was waiting for. . . what? For Scott to grow some balls and come out of the closet?

He ate his protein-heavy dinner in the silence of his wonderful NYC penthouse that evening and did his best to be thankful for all the positive things he had in life. Wealth. His health. Good friends. Respect from his peers. Kind of. The version of Scott Hunter he'd invented at fifteen or so and presented to the world enjoyed significant levels of respect. Scott had been wearing him for so long that he wasn't sure if there was another version of him left.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

This was originally really just one part, but Shane kept referencing this shitshow in the next story and it was screwing up the flow. So I put it here.

Content note at the end.

Voyageurs Group Chat

Patrice Drapeau
ok no one panic
but the rooks are currently in the everglades livestreaming a little memorial service to the Thompsons

Shane Hollander
what the fuck

David Taylor
wtf is an everglade?

Patrice Drapeau
Florida swamp
I'm guessing they're hanging out at Xie's

Gilbert Comeau
you know it's not that bad
not sure why they're streaming but it's not completely awful

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
lmao
where are we on a scale of Taylor revenge porn debacle to Kent posting race porn on main to literal murder suicide?

Jake Merrell
above revenge porn, below race porn, nowhere near murder suicide

Hayden Pike
well they're calling each other slurs now

Greg Cornick
these are the low tier ones though
PG shit
we're good

Shane Hollander
why are they fucking streaming?

Patrice Drapeau
Jeremy set up the camera so he definitely fucked up

Shane Hollander
i'm gonna call them

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
wait!
they're gonna freak if *you* call them
let me handle this

Hayden Pike
great now they're talking about how much Jake and Shane hate each other

Jake Merrell
I count to 3 in my head not 5 every time Hollander says something shitty

Shane Hollander
I *would* 100% win a fistfight between us

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
well their phones are on silent
might as well sit back and enjoy this train wreck

Shane Hollander
you'd said you'd handle it!

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
I tried but their phones are on fucking silent mode
you want me to fucking teleport to the everglades?

Scott noticed an unusual number of rapid notifications coming from the Admirals' group chat, which was very odd for the off season. He figured some dudes were having an awkward, very public argument and sighed, reaching for his phone. Within the minute, he followed a link to Jeremy McAllister's livestream feed with some bemusement.

The four young men--boys, really, McAllister might not be twenty yet--standing around some kind of lamp. The picture quality was crisp, but it was a pretty static set up. Scott could not see any of their faces and the details of their outfits were vague. Xie's hair had been wrapped under some red cloth. They were all wearing shorts and their big D-man was shirtless; the other three wore plain white sleeveless t-shirts.

"It is hot as fuck here," said the kid on the left.

With a sense of dread beginning at the pit of his stomach, Scott started the video from the beginning and settled on his couch. What were the stupid rooks doing?

"Why the hell are we recording this, Jeremy?" asked one of the boys--Carmichael, Scott recognized. "Aren't you tired of having cameras on you?"

"It's a keepsake, bro," said McAllister, as he fiddled with the camera with a comical look of concentration on his young face. He had the beginnings of what might some day rise to the level of a five-o-clock shadow. "This might be the last time we hang out together as teammates. Some of us might get traded."

"Okay, dudes, put our phones on silent mode," said the big one, who must be Babikov. "We will be respectful."

"This is stupid," said Carmichael, but he complied. "This entire swamp is a pressure cooker."

"Joe, we're in the fucking Everglades and it's the middle of summer," said Xie. "What exactly did you expect when you agreed to come here?"

"I thought we we're going somewhere with AC."

"You are such a pussy crybaby it's unbelievable," said Xie. "Sorry we didn't bring an entourage of servants to cover you in chilled towels, Mr. The Third."

"Fag," said Carmichael.

"Better a fag than a retard!"

"Guys, let's not complain or argue, please," said McAllister. "We're here to be one with nature, our emotions, and God."

"Fuck you, Jeremy," said Joe. Carmichael, the rich kid from Boston. "And fuck nature too; it's hot as fuck here."

"It's good for us to sit in discomfort sometimes rather than avoid our emotions," said McAllister.

"I told you to pick one!" yelled Carmichael. "Either pastor's son talk or therapy talk. We can't handle both. I'd rather listen to Xie babble about quantum fucking mechanics."

"Maybe you would learn something, dipshit," said Xie.

"Can we just do the thing?" said Babikov. "I'm sweating faster than I can drink Gatorade."

"Okay, let's get to it before Dollar Tree Hollander and Merrell here kill each other," said McAllister, squaring his shoulders and adopting a prayer position.

"Hah, which one of us is which?" said Xie.

"Well, you're obviously Hollander since you're Asian," said Carmichael, changing his posture. "Thank you, Shane, for that excellent suggestion."

"Thank you for bringing that up again, Jake," said Xie. "Your insights are always appreciated."

Carmichael started giggling. "You know they're pissed off when they start calling each other by their first names; can practically see Merrell counting to five in his head."

"Nik, Nik!" said Xie, patting Babikov's shoulder with excitement. "You're the enforcer. Who d'you think would win in a fight, Shane or Jake?"

"Tough call," said Babikov. "I'd give Shane the edge 'cause he's a little bigger and gets more focused the angrier he gets. Like a terminator aura."

"Dear God, Our Lord and Savior," said McAllister, firmly. "We're here to finally say goodbye to our teammate Wayne Thompson and his family. Sorry this isn't a real fire, but Joe and Nik have been whining about the heat since we got here."

Oh, fuck no. Scott squirmed in his couch, wishing he could reach into the screen and slap these stupid rookies. Why the hell were they streaming this? Why even record it?

"We're sorry it's taken so long," McAllister continued. "It just happened a bad time, I guess. It was just bad. Anyway, we're here now. I'll start." McAllister took a deep breath. "Dear Michael, I'm sorry about what happened. You were a very sweet kid, and very smart too. You learned French at school and everything; that was very cool. I hope that it was quick and you weren't scared. Dear Linda, I didn't know you well and what little I knew wasn't good, but you didn't deserve that. I hope it was quick for you too."

Scott didn't have contact info for any of the Voyageurs. He bet the kids had their phones on silent anyway.

"Wayne, I knew you best," McAllister continued. "I started out in the fourth line my rookie year, and you were nice to me. I guess because we're both sons of pastors, or something. I don't know. It doesn't matter anymore. But I was grateful to you that first year since I was out all alone in freaking Montreal, freezing my ass off, trying not to suck. And boy, did I suck! I was annoying--still am, I can tell. But I'm a much better forward now, so people just gotta deal."

"I'm sorry I got moved to the second line. Wait, I'm not sorry about that; I meant I'm sorry I started ignoring you after. I didn't mean to, and I didn't think you'd care since you were super old."

Thompson died at thirty-one, Jesus Christ.

"I didn't think about you at all, honestly. Hayden and J.J. are more fun to hang out with. Beaty too."

"Hurry up, Jeremy," said Carmichael. "We're fucking cooking out here."

Xie kicked his foot lightly.

"And then I was fucking mad," said McAllister. "You shouldn't have attacked me, and you shouldn't have put my name on your awful suicide note. You scared the shit out of my Mom. And I should've listened to Jake and called the police that day when Coach asked me if I wanted to press charges. If I'd done that, maybe Michael and Linda would still be alive. Maybe you would still be alive. That just comes to me every once in a while, y'know. I'll be thinking about that for a long time. Maybe until I die, and it's not fair."

The boy sighed. Sniffled. Stayed quiet for while.

"But anyway," he said after a bit. "I'm a Christian so I will try to forgive you. I know God forgave you and maybe you're in heaven now, not suffering. I think I can hope for that much at least. I'm sorry."

There was another long silence.

"That's it," said McAllister. "I'm done. Go ahead, Dylan."

Xie copied McAllister's stance awkwardly. "Dear Michael."

Scott needed a fucking drink.

"I only met you once, at Hayden's Canadian Thanksgiving thing," said Xie. "I agree with Jeremy; you were very sweet and smart, and maybe you could've been a pro hockey player if you'd gotten to grow up like you said you wanted. Statistically, the odds were not favorable--they're not favorable for anyone--but hey, I did it. I'm sorry that happened to you and I hope you were asleep for it or something, and it didn't hurt."

Maybe it was time to plan a vacation to a country where no one spoke English, Scott thought idly.

"Dear Linda," Xie went on. "I didn't know you at all, sorry. And I'm sorry people are saying you deserved it because of the paternity fraud. That was a shitty thing to do--being honest--but I don't think you deserved to be killed over it. The cheating is whatever, I guess. I don't know why these guys are so offended about it. Like they don't have different girls in every city in North America. I do hope it didn't hurt for you either, but I know it did. No way he didn't make you suffer first."

There was a moment of pained silence.

"Dear Wayne," Xie continued. "We didn't hang out much, not even during camp. I can't say that I noticed. There were a lot of guys in camp and. . . anyway. I know I was one of the guys who made fun of you at Hayden's party. I shouldn't have done that; I didn't like joining in and I don't know why I did it. I wanted to fit in, I suppose. I'm sorry if I added to your. . . stress or pain. I hope, if you still exist, you're at peace. That's it."

"You next, Jonas," said McAllister.

"I don't know what to say."

"Just say whatever comes to mind," said McAllister. "This is a safe space."

They were fucking livestreaming. Scott rubbed his eyes.

Carmichael rolled his eyes, but he squared his shoulders. He didn't adopt a prayer position. "Dear Michael and Linda, I'm sorry you died like that and I hope it was quick. Dear Wayne, I don't know why the fuck you did that. We spent a lot of time together before you--before. I thought you were an asshole and you sucked at hockey. Our worst player, no doubt. I kinda liked that because it meant that I wasn't the worst, but I never said anything. Not because I'm a decent person, mind you, but because you were bigger than me."

"It's not about you," hissed Xie.

McAllister kicked his ankle.

"I guess I'm supposed to look back and apologize for looking at you weird, or something," said Carmichael, "but that's crazy. You killed a little kid. Why the fuck did you that, man? The wife--yes, Dylan I know men cheat too, but it's not the same."

Xie groaned.

"I'm not saying it's fair, or that it makes sense," said Carmichael. "It's just how it's like. We live in the world we live in, and this lady knew that. Anyway. Everyone rest in peace. Praise be to God. I'm done."

"Okay," said McAllister. "Nikolai?"

"Dear Wayne," said Babikov. "I know why you did it. It wasn't that you were bad at hockey, or you thought Jeremy hit on you, or we made fun of you at Hayden's party, or even that your wife cheated on you." Babikov's voice was flat. The other three boys glanced at each other nervously. "You did it because you were a coward," Babikov continued, "who didn't want to look like a cuck. So you killed a little kid over it. You were not a good person. I know I'm not supposed to say that, but it's the truth. I hope hell is real and you're burning in it."

The other boys stood quietly while Babikov sipped on a bottle of blue Gatorade.

"That's it," said Babikov. "I don't have anything else to say."

"Uh. . . um." McAllister took a deep breath.

"Fuck it, Jeremy, turn that shit off," said Carmichael, gesturing at the camera. "I need to get fucking high."

"Joe!" yelled Xie, rushing to follow Carmichael off the frame. "What drugs? Is it cocaine?"

McAllister made a frustrated noise and followed them.

Babikov looked at them, took another gulp of Gatorade, and reached for his phone. Thank fucking God. The boy froze the second he saw his screen, then peered in the direction of the camera. And then he shrugged and calmly walked towards it, waved sheepishly, and cut off the stream.

It was, of course, a PR shitstorm. Bigger than the original murder suicide, even. Scott wasn't surprised--there was just so much to latch on to. Hollander and Merrell hated each other? But they played together so fucking well. Jeremy McAllister maybe hit on Wayne Thompson? And Wayne Thompson attacked him? Over it? And Henry Theriault asked Jeremy if he wanted to press charges? For assault, presumably? Merrel thought he should have? Carmichael was on drugs? Cocaine?

The initial slurs were barely a blip in anyone's radar.

Everyone who cared about hockey was wondering how this clusterfuck of a team won the Stanley Cup. But win, they had, so a within twenty-four hours, they trotted out Theriault, Hollander, and Merrell for a friendly interview at ESPN. Both men sat next to each other and robotically recited canned PR non-answers. The only notable moment was when Hollander said "I always appreciate Jake's insights" and Merrell visibly had to stop himself from laughing.

As for the rookies, the MLH's official statement was that the stream had clearly been an error and asked the public to give their athletes grace and privacy as they processed their grief. Within a few days, the entire episode had devolved into a series of breathless YouTube videos and an endless stream of memes. And merch. Scott had to admit that the "I hope hell is real and you're burning in it" t-shirts were cool.

That weekend, Scott thought about it during a quick ten-K jog around Central Park. Why was he squeezing himself into such a tiny box, anyway? Would anyone actually give that much of a shit if Scott Hunter didn't have a squeaky clean image? There sure wasn't anyone making merch about his unapologetic condemnations of dead murderers. He didn't have a Stanley Cup to show for his years of merciless discipline.

So when he walked into The Smoothie Shop, he did so determined to at least ask for Kip's number. What was the worst that could happen?

Chapter End Notes

This is about the murder-suicide and how four dudes under twenty try to "cope" with it. There are slurs.