Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Eric Bennett & Scott Hunter, Eric Bennett/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Eric Bennett, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Coming Out, Closeted Character, Good Friend Eric Bennett, Biphobia, sorta - Freeform, Literal Sleeping Together, Kissing, scott hunter is a hot mess, Touch-Starved, No Smut, scott hunter vs. his body's need for connection

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-20 Words: 2,258 Chapters: 1/1

I know you (I give a damn)

Summary

Scott Hunter is on his annual anonymous European gaycation. Eric Bennett is on a photography trip in the same city. Surely nothing can go wrong.

Notes

- I changed the timeline. Eric is freshly divorced, but Scott has not yet met Kip and is still in his "secret European sex trip" era. Eric has also not yet met Kyle.
- This was going to be fully platonic but then Eric looked at sad Scott and my thumb slipped.

Enjoy!

Eric Bennett crouches down, sun beating down on him, and adjusts the angle of his camera. He shuffles sideways until he sees the sun break through the branches of the olive tree in his viewfinder and -- there!

He clicks the photo and gets to his feet. Hockey, paintings, photography, and books. He loves his life. He has a job that lets him play all day and that pays him enough to buy paintings and take trips -- he's done Florence, Rome, and now Athens (a last-minute addition on impulse) in this trip. After he and Holly split up a few months ago, he decided he needed a proper break on his own, somewhere to get his head on straight. Looking at the world through a camera has always made him feel more focused, more in charge of his senses, and so he decided to find some more world to look at. He only really takes photos over the summer -- he can't quite get in the headspace of photography during the season. It's too busy -- besides, he loves his teammates, but he can't imagine stopping on the street with one of them to quietly admire the quality of the light through the leaves. Vaughny might take an interest, except he doesn't usually stand still long enough, and Scott would just do that thing he does where he glances up out of the corner of his eye, nods, and then puts his head back down, staring at the ground like his life depends on it. A lot of the guys would just shrug.

But out here, he's just another American photographer, and he can  linger as long as he wants on a tree, a building, a rock, as long as he's polite and steps out of people's way. He packs his camera up and adjusts his scarf -- a wholly unnecessary, pretentious black-and-white-striped thing he picked up on a whim. He can't decide whether he loves it or hates it. It's itchy and awful, but he's pretty sure at least three men have checked him out in it, which lights a strange satisfaction in his core. Maybe this version of him looks bisexual. Maybe he likes that. 

But damn, it's making him too warm. It's hot in the summer in Athens. He takes it off and shoves it in his bag, feeling the shameful relief of looking like his usual self again. He takes a drink of water and walks in the direction of his hotel. He feels his shoulders relax as he strides through the streets unrecognized. 

----

Nobody recognized you. Nobody recognized you. Nobody recognized you. Scott chants inside his head as he dives into the bathroom of the club. It's a single stall, and he's alone. He presses his back against the door, breathing heavily. 

Scott Hunter is having a terrible time in Athens.

Every year, he forgets how scary it is, and every year, he goes anyway. He has to. It's less scary than home, and, to his everlasting disgust, he can't actually play properly unless he's gotten fucked in the last few months. The summer trips guarantee that the first half of the season, at least, will go okay for him. The second half always seems to be cursed. 

He's currently in a gay club (yay) alone in the bathroom (not yay). His heart is still going a mile a minute. And for what? He'd heard a couple American (Canadian?) accents at the bar. Not discussing hockey or the Admirals or New York or sports at all. Just American accents. Fuck.

He breathes and plots his escape route. He'll go back to the hotel. He'll try again tomorrow. If nothing else, he can jerk off at a new longitude. 

He waits for about 45 minutes before he dares to open the door, hoping it gives the Americans time to leave. He walks out of the club slowly, heart in his mouth, trying not to notice or be noticed by anyone. He opens the door and steps out onto the street.

---

Eric pauses on his way to the hotel to check out a little hole-in-the-wall art gallery. He lingers over a painting of a ponytailed soccer player in yellow, pink, and blue. Sports in full color. He buys it. As he tucks it carefully into his backpack, he turns away from the shop, taking in the buildings across the narrow street -- he's always on the lookout for interesting architecture. Directly accross from him is a club with a big rainbow flag outside and some truly gorgeous second-floor windows. He traces the window moulding with his eyes for a few seconds, before his attention is caught by the door swinging open. A man steps out, looking unsteady and a bit wild. Eric steps forward unconciously, as if the man might fall -- as if Eric could help him from across the street.

Unfortunately, the curb is much closer than he thought, and Eric trips, rolls his ankle, and crashes loudly to the ground. 

---

As Scott steps out of the club, he looks around out of habit. The road is mostly empty, except for one guy across the street with a backpack and one of those big professional-looking camera bags. He's about to turn right when camera guy trips and falls off the curb with a surprised shriek. He turn to look at the man. He's alone. As Scott watches, the man picks himself up and sits gingerly on the curb.

Scott sees his face. 

No. No, no,  no. Scott turns away quickly and begins to walk in the opposite direction. It couldn't have been Benny. No. Some other guy with the same build and the same backpack and -- the same camera bag Scott had bought Benny for his birthday five years ago.

Eric wasn't supposed to be in Athens! He'd said Italy when Scott had asked, super casually, hey, what are your vacation plans? Eric was not supposed to run into Scott.

Scott is almost a block away by the time he realizes he has, technically, left an injured teammate on the ground.

Fuck.

He does have his pride as a captain to maintain.

Maybe he can turn around and pretend to be coming from somewhere else. Did Eric see him exiting the club?

Fuck. If Eric saw him, he has to talk to him anyway. But if he didn't...

Nope, the uncertainty's going to bother Scott forever. Fuck. 

He turns around. 

----

Eric sits on the curb, breathing heavily. He's not used to falling off the ice. And fuck, his ankle hurts.

The street is deserted. The man from the club is disappearing down the street, and there are no cars. He can stand up, but he wants ice for his ankle, the sooner the better. He contemplates standing up and asking the people at the bar for some. He stays seated instead, gripping his ankle.

Down the street, the man from the club turns and approaches him. Is that --

His face breaks into a smile. "Oh my god! Scotty!" he cheers.

Scott looks like he's seen a ghost and shushes him urgently. Fair. Eric's being very loud. Not good tourist behavior.

"Eric," Scott says. "Are you okay?"

"Oh my gosh, Scott, that's so crazy that you're here! How's your trip been?"

 "Not great," Scott says. "Are you okay?"

"Just fell. I think I need ice. Could you ask in there if they have any?" Eric nods at the club.

Scott hesitates. "I'll ask in the art shop. They might have some."

Irritation flares suddenly in Eric. "What, you can't go into a gay bar?"

"No -- just --"

"We live in New York, Scott."

"It's not like that --"

Wait. This was club guy. Scott was club man. Scott had already been in there. And left looking wrecked. 

"Wait. No. I saw you leave there. You looked awful. Fuck. Did someone in there hurt you? I'll kill them."

Scott's face is doing something complicated. 

And maybe Eric's brain is sluggish on ankle pain and summer sun, but -- "You didn't hurt someone in there, did you?"

"What? No!"

"Okay, because you're giving me some real confusing vibes right now, dude."

Scott runs a hand over his face. "Okay. I'm getting your ice. Hold on." He disappears into the club. 

Eric rubs his ankle and thinks about nothing. Scott comes back moments later with a Ziploc bag of ice and hands it to Eric.

"Thanks, man," Eric says, pressing it to his ankle with relief.

Scott sits beside him in silence. Once Eric has checked over his foot thoroughly, satisfying himself he'll be fine with ice and a little careful exercise, he turns his attention to his teammate.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Scott looks rigid with tension.

"You can't tell anyone." Scott says. 

"Can't tell anyone that...?" Eric asks. Scott visiting a gay bar on vacation didn't really mean anything. Not necessarily. But...

Scott collapses his head into his hands. He's not breathing right. Fuck.

So it probably did mean something. 

"Hey," Eric says gently. "It's really okay."

"It's not."

"Scott, I'm not going to tell anyone."

Scott's head is still in his hands. His voice comes out muffled. "Okay."

"I promise."

"How do I know?"

"Because you're my best friend is how."

Scott looks up. "Still?"

His face. He looks -- wrecked. Eric kind of wants to -- huh. He files the thought away.

"Still. Come on. Where's your hotel?"

"Across town."

"Okay. Let's get you a taxi."

"I, uh. I don't think I can be alone right now," Scott forces out.

"I'll come with you to yours, or we can go to mine. I'm right up the road."

"You got a hotel here?" Scott asks.

"Yes?"

"But there's -- there's like three... of these... clubs on this street."

Eric looks at him, amused. "Yes."

"Okay," Scott says, still confused.

Eric gets to his feet and pulls Scott up. "Where are we going, Cap?"

"Um. Yours. If that's okay. At least for a minute. Don't want to deal with a taxi ride."

"That's fine." Eric hasn't let go of Scott's hand. Scott lets go, and they walk up the street together in silence.

---

Scott feels untethered. He walks automatically behind Eric until they get to Eric's hotel -- an adorable little bed & breakfast type of place. They go in and up to Eric's room. 

The world didn't end. Probably. 

"Can I get you anything? Water, snack?"

"Uh, water, probably."

"Sit down." Eric gets a bottle of water out of the minifridge and hands it to Scott. Scott perches on the edge of the single chair in the room while Eric sits on the bed. He opens the bottle and drinks half of it in one go.

"So, uh. Do you have questions?" Scott manages weakly.

"Can I give you a hug?"

Oh. Scott nods, and Eric gets up and hugs him.

The chair is too small for both of them, so they end up on the floor. Eric's arms are wrapped around Scott. Scott wants to relax, but something still has to be said. 

Eric beats him to it.

"Just, uh, so you know," he begins haltingly. "I'm, um. Bisexual."

What. The fuck.

Scott breaks out of the hug. Stumbles back towards the door.

"How long?" is all he can say.

"How long?" Eric asks, confused.

"How long have you been hiding, dodging every question about sex and women and girlfriends and you should take that one home, Scotty, she's hot as fuck and being fucking terrified with every breath you take?" Scott doesn't care if he's being fair or not. "No, you get to be married and go home and fuck Holly and not get any questions, ever, and then you, what, split up with her and suddenly decide you're going to explore men? And you just, what, tell me? Have you ever even seen the inside of the fucking closet door, Benny?"

Eric just sits there.

"I can't fucking -- I come to Athens or Berlin or Cypress or wherever every summer just so I can get fucked and maybe not play the worst season of my fucking life out of a preponderance of sexual fucking frustration -- and then you turn up -- which you weren't supposed to, by the way -- and --" He stops, chest heaving, having run out of words.

Eric ignores most of what Scott said in favor of asking the question that's been on his mind for an hour: "What happened in the club?"

Scott stares back at him. "American tourists," he mumbles.

Eric's eyebrows shoot up. "Recognized you?"

"No. I don't think so. I mean. I just got scared," he says, staring down at the floor. 

Neither of them says anything for a while. 

Eric doesn't dignify Scott's tirade with a response. It wasn't really about him, anyway. 

"I really, really wanted to get fucked today," Scott mutters. "Stupid American tourists."

Eric sighs. "Come here."

"What?"

"You look like you need to be held."

After a moment's hesitation, Scott goes to the bed. He kicks off his shoes and lies down. Eric just spoons him.

Scott's breathing calms down slowly.

"Can I kiss you?" Eric whispers. Scott nods. Anything. Anything for some connection to the world. 

Eric kisses the back of Scott's neck. Scott's body finally relaxes. He never really feels safe, but this -- this is close.

Eric keeps pressing little kisses to the back of Scott's neck, to his shouderblades, to anywhere where notices tension. Scott relaxes into it. He's started crying at some point, quietly and inevitably.

He laces his fingers through his best friend's, and they both slowly fall asleep.