Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Carter Vaughn, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Carter Vaughn, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Luke Gillis, Eric Bennett, Zane Boodram, Victor St. Simon

Additional Tags:

Good Friend Carter Vaughn, POV Shane Hollander, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), POV Ilya Rozanov, i swear to god hollanov is end game it's just gonna take a minute, LGBTQ Ally Carter Vaughn, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Growth, Coming Out, this is a love letter to carter vaughan, carter and shane are best friends argue with a wall, Breaking Up & Making Up, can you call it a breakup if you only sleep together once and then go ghost?, also the make up is several years later, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Protective Carter Vaughn, luke will be here but he's in like 8th grade at the beginning of this fic so it'll be awhile, HOLLANOV ENDGAME.

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-11 Updated: 2026-05-15 Words: 12,213 Chapters: 3/?

cornelia street

Summary

During his first World Juniors, Canada's Shane Hollander met America's Carter Vaughan in the hotel lobby and the rest is history.

This story is a look at a Shane with a best friend who tugs him out of his shell, a friend who pushes him to expand his circle, who helps him find the confidence to stand up for himself. His journey isn't without pitfalls, but one change, one extra person solidly in his corner who loves every jagged piece of him, takes him to new places and lets him take new risks.

-

Or: what would happen if Carter 'Ally' Vaughan was Shane's best friend and maybe, just maybe, the gays were a little messier?

Chapter 1: olympians

January 2014

“I hope next time we play you decide to show up,” Shane said, a little smile on his face like he was proud of himself.

 

Scott was having a shitty fucking week.

 

Like jot it down in the books as one of the worst stretches of days in his life and Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were not making it better.

 

He’d been playing like he’d never learned to skate, every person who tried to talk to him felt like a drum pounding in his head and every person who tried to touch him felt like pins pressing into his skin. It was a slump. Every athlete had experienced a slump and, despite that fact, Scott was fairly certain that his slump was the worst slump of all time. He couldn’t see the other side, he couldn’t imagine steps in a process that would make this better, he could feel himself sinking into the inky black darkness, and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to stop.

 

He was sad, he was angry, he was bitter, and he decided the best way to deal with it would be to drag someone, anyone, down with him. It seriously fucking sucked that Shane Hollander – beautiful, rosy cheeked, Golden Boy Shane Hollander - had been unfortunate enough to be standing there when Scott finally snapped, “cheap,” he shot back.

 

He watched, from some strange distance, as Shane’s expression faltered, like he’d realized he’d somehow miss stepped but wasn’t sure how, “true,” Shane spat, clearly deciding to just barrel on ahead. The rational part of Scott’s brain knew that Shane moved through the world a little different than average; he recognized patterns no one else saw, he memorized stats like it was second nature, and he played hockey like it was what he was put on this Earth to do with a single-minded focus Scott wished he could replicate. That rational part of Scott’s mind was screaming at him that this was Shane’s attempt at fitting into a mold, that he was just chirping for the sake of chirping. It was tame, a comment that might’ve even been tinged with something like concern if Scott had allowed himself to analyze it, but the rational part of Scott’s brain had gone offline, had sunk somewhere deep into the recesses of his conscious never to be found again.

 

“You’re starting to sound like him,” Scott said and then that rational part of Scott’s brain came slamming back in as whatever was left of Shane’s smile fell.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Shane said, his voice cracking slightly even as his shoulders squared, his spine straightened, and every muscle went taut.

 

Fight or flight, Scott’s brain supplied.

 

His rational mind, the part that still had Shane in his phone as ‘Rook’, the part that’d spent time trying to be someone Shane could trust in this League that chewed talent up and spit it out, the part that tried not to recognize how gorgeous Shane’s big brown eyes looked when his expression went soft, was scrambling for purchase, begging to be let back in. But the part of Scott’s brain that was stuck in a slump, the part that’d been itching for a fight, for anything that’d make him feel anything, won out by a landslide, “you fucking heard me, Hollander.”

 

Shane’s whole being went hard, lit with a fury Scott had never imagined he’d see, and the next thing he knew Shane’s fist was connecting with his jaw. Scott felt his head snap back and every nerve ending that’d gone dead as he sunk deeper into that lonely, quiet abyss lit up. It was reckless and stupid and so fucking shitty but Scott felt alive for the first time in weeks. He grabbed onto Shane’s jersey and landed a hit over his pads, his rational mind breathing out a sigh of relief that the beast that’d taken him over had at least known not to actually hurt Shane.

 

Shane’s mouth was still running, listing off a stream of insults that Scott wasn’t actually hearing, and then Hayden Pike was there. His arms wound around Shane’s waist, less like he was trying to pull him away from Scott and more like he was trying to pull him back into himself. It was that, the iron grip Hayden had on his friend’s jersey as he simply repeated Shane’s name over and over in a voice tinged with worry that was trying too hard to be soothing, that had Scott letting Carter and Cale drag him back without any sort of protest.

 

He watched Shane deflate, sinking back against Hayden with a haunted look in his eye, and just before J.J. Boiziau stepped in, blocking Scott’s view, he could’ve sworn he saw Shane’s lips form the words, “he knows.”

 

“What the fuck was that?” Carter asked, his voice hard in a way it rarely got.

 

Carter liked Shane, was always trying to tug him out of his shell during All Star games, had been talking about how excited he was to have the chance to see Shane more during the upcoming Olympics, and had openly admitted that Shane was at the top of the list of people he called when the noise in his head got too loud. They’d been friends since Shane’s first year at World Juniors and Scott knew they still texted often, that Carter might’ve been one of the only people Shane regularly communicated with outside of his team, and Carter (like the rest of the hockey-watching population) knew full well that Shane wouldn’t start a fight if he hadn’t been pushed to his breaking point.

 

Carter was clearly pissed, clearly aware that Scott was to blame, and clearly about to fight Scott himself if he didn’t like the next words out of Scott’s mouth.

 

“My fault,” Scott admitted quickly, “it was my fault.”

 

“Apologize,” Carter bit out before dropping his grip on Scott’s arm and skating away, his edges catching the ice with a fervor, like he couldn’t get away from Scott fast enough.

 

It wasn’t worth it.

 

Feeling alive for that split second in the heat of a fight was absolutely not worth putting that haunted look on Shane’s face or that anger in Carter’s frame.

 

* * *

 

February 2014

Shane threw himself on his shitty little twin bed in the Olympic Village, exhausted from the flight, keyed up with nerves, and buzzing with a low-level anger that hadn’t left since a month prior when Scott Hunter nearly blew up Shane’s life at center ice. None of this was helped by the fact that Rozanov hadn’t responded to him in weeks, nor was it helped by the research spiral Shane had gone down on Russian politics. He felt like there were bugs crawling under his skin, like one wrong move would end in disaster.

 

He knew he wasn’t being subtle. J.J. had been regarding him with concern for the past week of training and his worry had only become more apparent as Shane got more and more withdrawn the closer they got to touch down.

 

Carter would know what to do. He’d know how to hold Shane together without being asked, but Carter wasn’t here and Shane knew J.J. wanted to help, he just wasn’t sure how; he wasn’t sure how to mimic Carter without pressing the wrong buttons and sending Shane over an edge he’d never be able to crawl back from.

 

Greg Huff, their third roommate, was somewhere with the other Admirals and Shane was certain he’d come back with Carter in tow as soon as he found out Huff was rooming with Shane so he had very little time to pull it together. His best friend could obviously see him like this without Shane feeling so embarrassed he’d have no choice but to crawl into a hole and die, but Huff was nowhere near making that list.

 

“Capitaine,” J.J. said, his voice deliberately calm, “how do I make it better?”

 

“I feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin,” Shane responded, looking up at J.J. and knowing that his expression was a little wild. “Carter would climb into my bed and refuse to let go until I calmed down.”

 

There, he’d given J.J. the information and J.J. could respond however he wanted. Shane didn’t think he could ask, didn’t think he could tell J.J. that he needed to be physically anchored to Earth otherwise his brain was going to float off into that place nobody could reach. J.J. nodded once, very seriously, and then kicked off his shoes, pulled off his jacket that’d touched several different bus, plane, and airport seats over the past too many hours, and then climbed into bed next to Shane.

 

The beds were small, barely built for one person their size let alone two, but that maybe made it better. The limited space forced J.J. to press close to Shane, to drape himself half on top of Shane’s body, pressing him into the mattress with a solid line of contact along his side. J.J. slung an arm across Shane’s waist and Shane let himself curl toward his warmth.

 

This was stupid.

 

Of all the places for Shane to have a minor breakdown requiring physical contact he could currently only get from his male teammate, Russia was probably the least convenient.

 

And then J.J. made it about 600% worse when he asked, so quietly Shane wouldn’t have heard it if they weren’t pressed chest to chest, but with enough weight that Shane was certain it’d echoed to Moscow and back, “what does Hunter know, Shane?”

 

They hadn’t asked again after they left the ice a month prior.

 

Hayden and J.J. had simply moved on, had let Shane exist in his haunted anger without forcing him to face it, but they weren’t in Montréal right now. They weren’t in a controlled environment where Shane could let it all build up until the walls came crashing down, they were somewhere unknown, foreign and slightly dangerous, and J.J. was right to ask. He was right to force Shane to face it, to give a piece of the burden to someone else to hold so it wouldn’t drag him under.

 

“I’m gay,” Shane whispered.

 

J.J.’s grip on his waist tightened before he adjusted enough to wrap both arms around Shane, hauling him into a hug that felt like it was stitching every fractured piece of him back together. J.J. dropped a kiss into his hair and Shane just burrowed closer. J.J. didn’t ask how Scott knew, didn’t ask if Scott knew specifics, he didn’t ask Shane to explain, didn’t ask him to say more, to dig out more pieces of his rotten heart and put them on display, he simply held on.

 

“Okay,” he said after a minute, that Quebecois accent that felt like home curling softly around the syllables, thick with emotion, “who else knows?”

 

“You,” Shane answered.

 

And that was it.

 

Rozanov could probably guess, though he didn’t know the details. Scott was the same. He clearly knew something, but not everything, there was no way he could.

 

Shane hadn’t even admitted it in his own mind until he’d said the words out loud so, really, J.J. was the first person to know for certain, even before Shane himself.

 

“Okay,” J.J. said again. Shane felt him nod slightly and could just tell J.J. was formulating a plan. J.J. loved plans, though it was always a toss-up if they would end in disaster or success. “You stay safe here. If Hunter wants to talk, you don’t talk to him alone. Make sure Carter’s there or find me and bring me with. When we get back to Montréal, we can maybe talk more. Maybe you tell Carter, maybe we tell Hayden, maybe you don’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone, ever, Shane. We can take this secret to the grave, no problem. But I know now, you don’t have to hold it alone, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Shane echoed.

 

* * *

 

Scott watched Carter’s face light up when Huff mentioned he was rooming with Shane and J.J. and then he watched, with dread settling in his chest, as Carter remembered that Scott was standing there and immediately deflated.

 

Greg winced a little, his hands tucked in his pockets as he forced himself to meet Scott’s eye and said, “he’s keyed up, Scotty. I don’t know how it’d go if you walked in.”

 

“How keyed up? Like not talking, eyes distant keyed up or stomping and muttering?” Carter asked, like he somehow knew the scale. For all Scott knew, he probably did. There was a difference between being friends who called and texted and hung out when they were all in the same place and being friends who could pinpoint the exact amount of stress the other was under with a few seemingly random pieces of information, and Scott was starting to realize that Carter and Shane might just be the later.

 

“There hasn’t been any stomping or muttering. He’s playing too fast, though. Reckless, almost. It’s like there’s nothing behind his eyes, Vaughny.”

 

“Is he talking?” Carter asked, his tone urgent.

 

“Only when he has to.”

 

Carter rocked back on his heels a little, his eyes fluttering shut as he forced himself to take a breath, “J.J.’s with him?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Okay,” Carter said, taking another breath and then clearing his throat, “he’ll be fine, you guys want to go explore? We’ll be busy here soon.”

 

Greg easily agreed, seemingly alright with Carter’s conclusion, but Scott felt anchored in place. There was something, some fluttering emotion hidden behind all the nothing he’d been feeling, that made him ache to see Shane with his own two eyes, to confirm for himself that he was truly alright.

 

“Later, Scott,” Carter said, gripping onto the sleeve of his jacket and tugging him along and, since Carter Vaughan was apparently New York’s foremost expert on Shane Hollander’s moods, Scott found that he could do nothing but follow.

 

* * *

 

Later didn’t come until a full week after the Opening Ceremonies.

 

Canada had won their first two games against Norway and Austria and the United States had won their first game against Slovakia and had another day before playing Denmark and Carter had dragged Scott’s pouting ass out onto the beach, which apparently existed in Russia.

 

Scott was very quickly realizing he had zero concept of how goddamn big Russia was. Maybe, if he’d been in a better mood over the past couple of months, he’d have taken the time to learn a thing or two. As it was, he was pissed at himself, pissed at hockey, and pissed at the world.

 

They were walking in silence, Scott stewing in self-pity and Carter simply putting up with it, when they noticed a familiar figure strolling along the sand, his hands in his pockets, looking impossibly soft and almost painfully adorable in the white fleece Team Canada had given all of their athletes. Scott was pretty sure Carter wasn’t thinking the same thoughts, but at least they were on the same page in terms of approaching, “Shane Holllanderrrrr!” Carter called out, a massive smile on his face as he picked up the pace, almost running in his excitement to get to Shane.

 

Shane whipped around and a matching smile spread across his face as he darted the last couple of steps forward and let Carter wrap him up in a massive hug, taking him clean off his feet and spinning him around once before setting him back down. Shane let out a laugh that went a long way toward pushing away the inky darkness Scott had found himself swimming through and Scott wondered, once more, why he was such a fucking idiot.

 

Fighting Shane to feel something, snipping at him until he got a rise like a middle schooler with a crush, had not been the way to go.

 

“Hey Scott,” Shane greeted, his smile turning forced.

 

“Shane,” he responded, trying to ignore the way Carter winced at whatever expression must’ve been on Scott’s face. “I’m so sorry, that was so fucked up, I didn’t mean-”

 

“Holy fucking shit,” Shane cut him off, “Jesus, Scott, not here. Are you stupid?”

 

Scott paused and just stared, trying to figure out what he was missing.

 

He’d pushed too far, telling Shane he sounded like a guy he hated, like the antithesis of himself, like the person who’d once skated a little too close to their bench at an All Star game to whisper –

 

Oh, holy fuck.

 

Scott was so stupid.

 

Scott was so monumentally stupid it was a wonder he found his own way out of bed each morning.

 

“Yes,” he answered, blinking a couple of times and wondering if he should maybe just walk into the ocean. “Yeah, I’m actually fucking stupid.”

 

Shane stared back and then looked skyward, whether he was praying for patience or hoping to be struck down was anyone’s guess, “you didn’t know.”

 

“I knew,” Scott corrected, “I just forgot.”

 

Shane looked back at him then, honey brown eyes glossy with unshed tears and Scott very quickly realized that he would never, not once in his remaining time on this Earth, win an argument with Shane Hollander if he was forced to contend with those eyes.

 

“Shane, I’m so sorry,” Scott repeated, genuinely incapable of saying anything else. Those eyes were lethal weapons, targeted directly at whatever shredding grip Scott had on his sanity.

 

“Well, there’s nothing to know now,” Shane said, blowing out a harsh breath, “I mean, there’s things to know about me but nothing else.”

 

Scott had to try far too hard not to smile at that admission.

 

He needed to get it the fuck together. Shane might be gay, or at least vaguely into men, and there might not be anything between the two most talked about players in the League at that very moment, but that didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be something with Rozanov in the future after the uncertainty of their early 20s and whatever insane pressure Rozanov was under in his home country wore off, and it certainly didn’t mean that Shane would ever be into Scott.

 

Carter was staring at them like he wasn’t entirely sure they were all speaking the same language but could somehow tell that now was absolutely not the time to ask any clarifying questions.

 

“Anyone wanna watch figure skating?” Carter asked.

 

* * *

 

Shane was trying very hard to pretend that he hadn’t seen Scott Hunter - the stupidly hot man he’d had a poster of in his high school bedroom despite not even vaguely being a fan of the Admirals - visibly light up at the layered admission that there wasn’t anything going on between him and Rozanov.

 

It was pretty damn difficult not to think about, though, so he was beyond grateful that Carter had sat himself down between them and immediately started off on a tangent about everything he’d ever learned about figure skating. Which, apparently, was quite a lot.

 

Shane tried to stay focused on Carter’s ramblings, but his eyes were caught on a familiar outline, hidden in the shadows at the edge of the arena. Part of Shane wanted to run toward him, to rip his heart out and lay it at Rozanov’s feet, to ask why there’d been nothing but radio silence, to simply see with his own eyes that Rozanov was okay. But he’d been pushing his luck already. Telling J.J. he was gay while in the Olympic Village in Russia had probably taken at least 85% of his good Karma points and not at all subtly checking out Scott as he’d led them off the beach and toward the arena had more than likely drained the rest.

 

He couldn’t put himself at risk and, more than that, he couldn’t put Rozanov at risk.

 

It was starting to become clear that there wasn’t anything there beyond lust, or maybe that there couldn’t be anything there beyond lust and mutual respect, but Shane still cared about him as a person. He still wanted to see him succeed, he still wanted him to be safe, and approaching him now would only invite pain.

 

And maybe, just maybe, staying here and listening to Carter yap would save Shane from the heartache of Rozanov confirming this was nothing for just a little longer.

 

He felt someone poke his cheek and startled slightly before realizing it was just Scott, “yeah?” Shane asked, clearing his throat and turning toward Scott instead of that distant point on the horizon. Scott’s thumb ran across his jaw for a second before his arm rested more comfortably over the back of Carter’s seat and his hand settled on Shane’s shoulder, pinching the fabric of his fleece between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“This is soft,” Scott said, seemingly to himself before he cleared his own throat and looked up at Shane, “you mentioned you knew one of these skaters, which one was it again?”

 

Shane smiled, feeling himself light up with joy at the chance to talk about his friend, and watched Scott’s whole expression melt. Shane wasn’t really sure why, but he found he’d do anything to keep that soft look in Scott’s hazel eyes and that sweet smile on his lips, “Joseph Bell,” Shane answered, “Joe, I think he’s up next.”

 

* * *

 

As if Russia couldn’t get any worse, Ilya was forced to stand there and watch Scott Hunter toss his arm casually around Carter Vaughan’s shoulders to poke Hollander’s cheek to get his attention.

 

Ilya watched Hollander startle slightly before turning toward Hunter like a sunflower toward the sun.

 

It was nothing; so subtle that no one else would’ve noticed it. But Ilya knew what it was like to have Hollander look at him like that. He knew what it was like to draw Hollander’s full attention; he knew what it was like to hold the weight of that gaze in his hands. No one else would be able to see that moment and know that Hollander was harboring feelings.

 

Hunter’s whole face went soft and Ilya just knew he’d been subjected to the full force of Hollander’s big brown eyes. It was the freckles that made Ilya’s heart race, but those eyes were something incredible all on their own.

 

Hollander could keep a blank face better than most anyone Ilya had ever met, but his eyes very rarely followed along. But something had been wrong. For months, maybe, but at least since that fight with Hunter. Every interview, every close up on the ice, Hollander’s eyes had been as blank as his face. It was unsettling, to see eyes that were normally so full of emotion go quiet. He’d been playing just as well, if not better, than normal, but it was like his mind had been turned off.

 

He didn’t look like that now, though.

 

Even from the rafters, Ilya could tell that Hollander’s gaze was no longer blank.

 

Ilya wanted to know why. Wanted to know what had driven him out of his mind and what had reeled him back in. But Ilya didn’t have the right. He’d left months of text messages unanswered and he knew, without a doubt, that if Hollander approached him now he’d only drive the wedge further.

 

* * *

 

“You planning to show up?” Shane asked as Scott crouched down across from him for the first face-off of the Gold Medal Game. Scott couldn’t help but grin. Shane’s eyes were crinkled up with the force of his smile, he looked free in a way Scott had never seen, and Scott felt giddy with it.

 

“You’re on, Rook,” Scott shot back.

 

The game was tied 1-1, a goal each from Shane and Carter, until the final minutes of the third when Scott finally caught a pass from Carter, right in front of Canada’s goal, and snapped it straight into the top shelf. The goal light went off but Scott held off on his celebration until the final buzzer sounded four and a half minutes later.

 

He, strangely, didn’t want the week to end. He wanted to stay here, in this liminal space outside of the NHL schedule, where they weren’t stuck in the unending cycle of travel and exhaustion. But that was the life he’d signed up for, it was the debt he had to pay to play the sport he loved.

 

But he had a gold medal around his neck and an odd little feeling that his slump was finally in the rearview.

Chapter 2: award season

December 2008

“Hey,” a voice greeted as Shane walked into his hotel, “Shane Hollander, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Shane responded, shivering a little as the hot air pumping into the lobby started to settle into his frozen skin, “Vaughan?”

 

“Carter Vaughan,” he confirmed with a bright smile. His grin was a bit crooked, the dimple on his left cheek slightly deeper than the one on the right, and something about it made Shane almost unconsciously smile in response.

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Shane found himself saying, taking the offered hand, “your team’s been playing really well.”

 

“Not as well as yours,” Carter laughed, nodding to the couches tucked in a little alcove opposite the front desk, “you have a minute? I wanted to ask you about how you drill your kill units.”

 

“Sure,” Shane agreed easily, finding it oddly simple to slip into the conversation.

 

He didn’t have many friends back in Ottawa; he talked too much about hockey and he spent too much time on the road, his local teammates didn’t much like him because he claimed the spotlight and even his fellow World Juniors teammates held onto a similar attitude.

 

There were very few people at his level, no one really, outside of Rozanov, and there seemed to be even fewer people who were comfortable with admitting that he was better than them, in any sense of the word, in the process of befriending him. But Carter wasn’t posturing, he wasn’t searching for some way to put Shane down, he seemed to truly want to talk to Shane and by the time he had to leave for practice, he’d added Shane’s email to his contacts and had promised they’d stay in touch.

 

* * *

 

June 2014

There was actually no way that anything about this night was going to go well.

 

The League, for some reason beyond Scott’s understanding, had decided it would be the peak of comedy to have Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov present the award for sportsmanship. It was, distantly, funny. To everyone who didn’t know just how badly this could go. So, really, it was funny to literally everyone except for Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, and Scott Hunter.

 

In the months since the Olympics, Scott hadn’t gotten any further information out of Shane. That’s not to say they hadn’t talked, because they’d talked. A lot. They’d just masterfully avoided anything and everything having to do with Rozanov.

 

Scott sat in the audience, at a table between Carter and Shane’s empty seat with Gilbert Comeau across from him between Eric Bennett and J.J., and watched the dynamic duo walk onto the stage like they were being held at gunpoint.

 

“Jesus,” Carter muttered, propping his elbows on the table and covering his eyes like that’d make any of this better.

 

“Oh no,” Comeau whispered, the words carried on a huff of laughter as his eyes darted over to J.J..

 

“Capitaine is not happy,” J.J. said, seemingly finishing Comeau’s thought.

 

Scott had to agree.

 

Rozanov was hamming it up for the cameras, his hand lingering on Shane’s back several seconds too long as he took a selfie, and Shane looked like he was trying to set him on fire by sheer force of will. They still somehow opened the envelope, announced the winner, and exited the stage without major conflict.

 

Then five minutes passed and neither of them had reappeared.

 

And then ten.

 

Finally, as everyone at their table - including Eric who’d probably only spoken to Shane once - was getting ready to abandon all sense of propriety and leave in search of Shane, he walked back into the room, his face carefully blank.

 

He settled into his seat next to Scott and only that close could Scott make out the tears clinging to his lower lashes, “Shane,” he whispered.

 

His spine was rigid and his shoulders were tucked so far up it was like he was trying to disappear. Scott realized rather immediately that he was trying to make himself small, something that Shane Hollander should never do. It hurt Scott to see Shane that in his own head, so he couldn’t imagine how much Shane himself was hurting.

 

Scott took a quick glance around the room and decided to risk it; he moved his chair an inch closer and then reached out and tangled their fingers together under the cover of the tablecloth. Shane immediately squeezed back, like the only thing keeping him anchored was Scott’s hand in his, and his shoulders dropped a fraction.

 

In that moment, Scott was reminded of just how young Shane was.

 

After three full years in the league, he tended to seem more like a veteran player but he was only 23; freshly 23, only a month away from 22. He was barely over a year older than Scott had been when he moved to New York after playing two years of college hockey. Scott had six years on him and in that moment, he felt the weight of every year. It felt like it was Scott’s responsibility to keep him safe, to shield him from whatever might hurt him.

 

Scott was so thoroughly distracted by Shane, so singularly focused on making sure he was okay in the middle of a crowded room without drawing attention, that he almost missed the curse Carter bit out. He didn’t, however, miss any of the way J.J.’s whole body shifted. Between one second and the next, his chair went from an appropriate foot away from Shane’s to pressed directly against it. His arm wrapped around Shane’s shoulders and his head ducked low, almost like he was blocking Shane -and very possibly Shane and Scott - from view. It happened so smoothly that no one outside of their table even noticed the movement and Scott had to wonder just how much practice J.J. had in hiding his captain in a crowd.

 

Scott looked up, trying to figure out what had happened even though he had a pretty decent clue, and caught sight of Rozanov settling into his seat next to Cliff Marlow with that cocky little smirk on his face, looking like he’d just won some sort of prize. Scott had never felt anger rise in his chest so quickly but he could tell, without even having to look, that his anger paled in comparison to Carter’s.

 

He was in the seat to Scott’s right, almost physically vibrating with fury and Scott was genuinely concerned that Carter was about to commit a crime in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

 

J.J. was whispering in quiet French, the words barely even half familiar to Scott after only two seasons playing juniors in Quebec, but Shane seemed to be calming down. He cracked a smile as the next presenter made their way on stage and J.J. smiled back, settling more comfortably into his seat but keeping his arm wrapped firmly around Shane. Scott had a momentary, wild thought that he should start practicing his French. Or maybe Shane spoke another language Scott could learn, one that wasn’t as common in their Canadian-heavy profession. He probably did. He was one of the smartest people Scott knew.

 

Shane squeezed Scott’s hand once more and then let go in favor of reaching out for his water and Scott tried not to obviously mourn the loss as he looked up at Rozanov and found him already looking back.

 

His expression flickered once, just the barest hint of something before that damned smirk was back in place and, somehow, that made Scott even angrier.

 

* * *

 

Right, so, Ilya might’ve miscalculated.

 

He’d followed Hollander into that bathroom for … reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. And then Hollander had snapped, his eyes had gone wild and he’d looked at Ilya like he was personally responsible for every ounce of pain he’d ever felt as he asked, “what the fuck do you want from me, Rozanov?” and Ilya had said he’d wanted Hollander to suck his dick.

 

Ilya had looked into Hollander’s teary gaze and still decided to go for the joke.

 

It was how they worked, though. That push and pull, but this time he was pretty sure he’d pushed too far. Hollander had melted as Ilya kissed him, had fallen into that easy trust that always came after the battle. His eyes had been glassy when they pulled away and he’d listened as Ilya offered a bet, that whichever of them won would get whatever they wanted. He’d nodded as Ilya told him he wanted Hollander to go back out into the audience and watch Ilya win MVP.

 

Everything had seemed fine, and then Hollander had turned to leave and Ilya had watched in real time as his whole body went rigid, any trace of relaxation gone in a second. He’d wanted to yank Hollander back in, wrap him up into a hug until his shoulders went lax and press kisses across his constellations of freckles, but by the time Ilya had even processed the urge, Hollander was gone.

 

And now, Ilya found himself on the receiving end of absolute death glares from an entire table full of New York and Montréal’s finest – including, to Ilya’s minor horror, Hollander’s two strongest enforcers - while Hollander sat there staring into space like nothing strange had happened.

 

Why those six had been sat together, Ilya had no fucking clue, but he’d like to find whoever made that decision and tell them they sucked.

 

* * *

 

Ilya won the Hart.

 

He’d won the Cup, he’d won the Conn Smythe, and now he’d won the Hart and he knew it still wouldn’t be enough. He knew his father would still find a reason to claim he’d failed.

 

But at least he’d get to have Hollander. He’d won their bet, it was his night.

 

It was Ilya’s night, so why was Hollander glued to Hunter’s side?

 

Ilya wasn’t going to give up that easily, though. He pulled out his phone and fired off a text, the first text he’d sent in their thread in eight months, the only text at all in the past six months aside from Hollander’s congratulations after he’d won the Cup.

 

Some emotion, something cloying and suspiciously like guilt, bubbled up in his chest. But Ilya pushed it aside.

 

* * *

 

Shane’s phone buzzed in his pocket with an odd sense of foreboding and he almost didn’t want to check, but his hand was already moving without his input and then he was standing there, in a room full of League execs and his colleagues, reading a message from Lily that simply said Penthouse 1, and he felt like every stride he’d ever made toward proper emotional regulation had shattered on impact.

 

“Ça va?” J.J. asked.

 

Shane tried to force his shoulders to go down, tried to force himself to act even sort of casual, “ce n'est rien. Je vais bien.”

 

“Menteur,” J.J. responded.

 

Liar.

 

J.J. was right, wasn’t he?

 

Shane was a liar.

 

He’d spent years lying to himself about his own sexuality, he’d spent years lying to his friends and family about the same thing. Still, months later, J.J. was the only person he’d actually told. Scott and Rozanov knew, in the abstract sense, but they didn’t actually know. He hadn’t told his parents, he hadn’t told Hayden. He hadn’t even told Carter.

 

Now, he was lying about being fine.

 

He wasn’t fine.

 

He was heartbroken and anxious and scared out of his mind and it felt like his heart and head were fighting; his heart wanting to run, to listen to Rozanov’s beck and call, while his head was screaming at him to stand the fuck up.

 

Shane looked up at J.J. and hoped even half of what was running through his brain was being communicated by his face and J.J. simply nodded once before grabbing Carter by the back of his jacket, Shane by his forearm, and heading for the balcony door, yanking both of them behind him. He paused a couple steps away from their group, causing Shane and Carter to bump into him almost comedically, and scanned the room, “Boodram!” he called, his voice just barely audible over the din of the crowd, “Victor! Allons-y!”

 

Carter caught Shane’s eye, an amused grin on his face, and Shane couldn’t help but grin right back.

 

It was an instinctual response after all these years.

 

Carter smiled and Shane smiled back.

 

“Diversity hires!” Boodram cheered, slamming into the minor pileup J.J. had caused when he stopped walking and throwing his arms around Shane and Carter’s shoulders, shaking them in excitement. “Do we have a crisis or are we just sick of boring white people?”

 

“Un peu des deux, Boodram,” J.J. answered.

 

“You forgot the rookie from Brooklyn,” Carter said.

 

“Ah, fuck,” J.J. muttered, turning over his shoulder to catch Shane’s eye, “what’s the kid’s name again?”

 

“Quinn Sullivan,” Shane said, trying not to laugh out loud at J.J.’s inability to remember names. The kid had literally just won Rookie of the Year. “He’ll respond to Sully, though.”

 

“Sully!” J.J. yelled, far louder than his other call outs, clearly trying to make Shane break while also trying to startle the poor rookie.

 

Quinn whipped around, his eyes going wide as he caught sight of what was probably a pretty entertaining scene; J.J. Boiziau, Shane Hollander, Carter Vaughan, and Zane Boodram in a minor dog pile while Victor St-Simon nearly skipped across the room in his excitement to join them. The kid looked at Shane, specifically, clearly realizing that he was his safest option out of the group, and Shane just nodded, cocking his head a little in invitation. Quinn smiled, a little awed, a little amused, and then peeled away from his teammates to join their group.

 

Shane could see several people looking deeply confused by the combination. J.J. and Shane were obviously friends and it was pretty well known throughout the League that Shane and Carter were friends, given the fact that they mentioned each other in interviews on a regular basis and could usually be spotted together at events like this or All Star weekend. But Zane Boodram from Ottawa and Victor St-Simon from Boston were an odd addition to a trio of players from Montréal and New York. And it was even stranger for five veteran players, including two Captains and two Alternates, to invite a random rookie from Brooklyn into the fold.

 

And then Shane had the pleasure of watching people realize that the six of them were literally the only non-white players in the entire fucking room.

 

He felt a strange delight at how uncomfortable several of the higher-ups looked as that thought sunk in.

 

Just as J.J. started herding them toward the door again, Shane caught Rozanov’s eye. He was at the opposite exit, like he’d been heading toward the elevators before getting distracted by J.J.’s antics. He stared at Shane, raising an eyebrow and nodding toward his exit, like he could somehow drag Shane along without a word, and Shane decided to listen to his head rather than his heart.

 

He just shrugged, as if saying what can you do?, and then slung an arm around Bood’s waist and followed J.J. out onto the balcony.

 

“You mentioned a little crisis, a little boredom,” Bood said once they’d tucked themselves into the corner of the balcony, hidden from spying eyes and curious ears but in prime position to see if anyone else stepped outside, “what’s the crisis?”

 

“Not sure,” J.J. answered, “but there always seems to be one, right?”

 

“I think the crisis is that the League has clearly lost their damn minds if they thought putting you and Roz on stage was a good plan,” Victor decided, nodding toward Shane who was very happily sandwiched between Carter and J.J., leaning back against the wall.

 

“I don’t hate Roz,” Shane, for some reason beyond his understanding, felt the need to say, “we’re just,” he cut himself off with a huff, realizing he couldn’t actually explain what the problem was without admitting several things about himself he did not want to admit or outing a man with a Russian passport which seemed, to Shane, to be about 7,000x more morally reprehensible than just normally outing someone. “We just don’t really talk. Like, at all. Makes it weird to do a bit with him, especially considering the fact that I hate public speaking in general.”

 

“He’s hard to talk to,” Victor shrugged, “he only talks to Marly and his friend Svetlana and this girl from Montréal, I think her name’s Jane. My wife keeps trying to get him to hand her number over to add to the WAG chat but he refuses.”

 

“That’s funny,” J.J. said, an amused little smile on his face that told Shane he hadn’t even sort of drawn conclusions (thank Christ), “Hollzy here has a Boston girl, what’re the odds.”

 

“My Boston girl and I haven’t talked in eight months,” Shane said, shooting J.J. a bit of a death glare, “there is no Boston girl.”

 

Bood narrowed his eyes and then, for some unknown (and likely alcohol-addled) reason, decided to boop Shane’s nose. He was lucky Shane liked him, otherwise he might’ve been tempted to bite his finger off. “I feel like the crisis has to do with Boston Girl,” Bood decided.

 

Four other sets of eyes snapped toward him as Bood kept staring at him like he could see into Shane’s soul and Shane found himself admitting, “yes, fine, the crisis has to do with Boston Girl.”

 

“What’s going on?” Quinn asked and Shane had to commend the kid for his bravery. Though calling him kid was probably a stretch seeing as he was maybe 14 months younger than Shane. Sometimes Shane forgot just how young he’d been when he was added to the roster. It was rare, to be given an opportunity at that age. It was rarer yet for someone Shane’s age to be given the C, yet here he was, at the top of his game, still feeling like he’d somehow failed.

 

“We’ve been on and off for a couple of years, hooking up and not really talking about it, y’know? But we were finally in the same place for long enough to actually sleep together a few months ago and then I got completely ghosted. Like not a single word. And then, tonight, out of fucking nowhere, she texts me a room number and nothing else, like nothing happened.”

 

Shane could almost see the gears turning in J.J.’s head, but he knew he’d never actually land on the conclusion that Lily was Rozanov. It was just so far out of left field, so beyond the realm of possibility, that he knew J.J. could make dozens of utterly wild guesses and still never land on the right one.

 

The issue, though, was that the gears seemed to be turning in Carter’s head, too, and if anyone out there could make a wild guess and land on reality, it was him.

 

“That’s fucked,” Bood said, his nose scrunched in distaste, “you gotta move on, Hollzy. That’s not the type of girl you should waste your time on.”

 

“Crisis averted, I say,” Carter declared, a slightly wild glint in his eye that told Shane he’d been at least partially found out, “Shane won’t give this girl the time of day and we, as a society, commence Operation: Get Shane Hollander Laid by Literally Anyone Else.”

 

“I think maybe I’ll just not sleep with anyone for a while,” Shane said, unable to stop the grin from tugging at his lips in the face of Carter’s apparent stalwart determination to get him laid, even if he was having a minor panic attack over the fact that Carter’s smile was a little too knowing.

 

“To each their own,” Carter agreed easily, slinging his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Now. Quinny, my boy, how was your first season? Any notes? Concerns? Questions? Commentary? We are at your disposal, young friend.”

 

“Yeah, actually,” Quinn said, looking only a little bewildered by the insanity that was Carter Vaughan, “are we all stuck in some sort of fucked time loop where we never moved past the 1950s?”

 

“Yes,” Shane responded as he pulled out his phone, “give me your number and I’ll add you to our chat, I think we’re the only people who remember Obama being elected. Twice.”

 

* * *

 

“Since the fuck when is Victor friends with Boiziau?” Cliff asked, sidling up next to Ilya who was frozen by the exit, not at all sure how to proceed as the door closed behind Hollander.

 

“They have a, uh, group chat,” Ilya responded, blinking a couple of times. He’d seen the same chat name pop up on Hollander and Victor’s phones on different occasions, a chat very aptly named ‘Diversity Hires’, but somehow hadn’t quite realized that meant they were friends. He’d sort of thought it was just an outlet for all of them to complain about their deeply racist colleagues and bosses. Maybe he should’ve thought about it a little harder.

 

“Vic is in a group chat with Boiziau and Hollander?” Cliff said, his brows pinched in confusion. “And was that Vaughan?? And Boodram? What the fuck?”

 

“Think, Marly.”

 

Cliff paused, cocking his head, and then his eyes lit up before a grimace tugged at his lips, “seriously?”

 

“Seriously.”

 

“That’s it? There were, what, six of them?”

 

“I do not think we will solve race war tonight,” Ilya said, officially over this evening. He had an early flight back to Boston to pack before getting on another flight to Moscow and he’d just wanted a moment where he didn’t have to think about his shitty life or his objectively shitty behavior and now he was thinking about the implications of Shane Hollander, the League’s token Asian, getting caught in a relationship with his rival, of being tagged as different in yet another way.

 

Ilya had obviously considered the consequences of being caught, but he hadn’t really let himself think about them. Maybe he was going about this all wrong, maybe he could use the hours upon miserable hours of his summer break to find a better way to approach this. A way that didn’t make his heart hurt, that didn’t hurt Hollander so much he couldn’t stop himself from tearing up even when he clearly wanted to be strong, a way that wouldn’t put himself in harm’s way or force Hollander to be something other yet again.

 

He was also realizing that he knew nothing about Shane Hollander.

 

Hollander who often seemed to shy away from physical touch with his teammates but who’d happily let Boiziau drag him around, who’d let Boodram sling an arm around him and had wrapped an arm around his waist in return. Hollander who Ilya was convinced was boring but who’d befriended Carter Vaughan, the life of every party he’d ever attended, to the point that he mentioned Hollander in interviews once a week. Hollander who he’d been certain only ever spoke to Hayden Pike but who’d just walked out of the room with five other players, none of whom had acted like it was anything out of the ordinary. He was starting to wonder if he hadn’t even known who Hollander’s closest friend was.

 

Everything he knew about Hollander was related to hockey and sex.

 

He still didn’t know if he could have a relationship with Hollander, but he wanted something. Something that existed beyond hotel doors, something that didn’t feel like they were tearing themselves apart for a few stolen moments of something that felt a little like joy. And for that to happen, he needed a plan.

 

What harm could a couple more months of silence do?

Chapter 3: set up

August 2014

Apparently, a decent amount of harm.

 

Ilya sat on the front step of his father’s home staring at a picture that Vaughan had just posted on Twitter. He’d escaped to the relative quiet of their residential street after sunset and had pulled out his phone in what he was quickly realizing was a horrifically unsuccessful attempt to find a moment of peace.

 

You couldn’t even see their faces, but somehow Ilya just knew. He’d seen posts about Hollander and Hunter all summer, innocent stuff about hockey’s golden boys being friendly off the ice. He’d been trying to convince himself that he was reading too far into it.

 

But now, looking at a seemingly innocuous picture of two people on a beach, silhouetted by the sunset, he knew.

 

He’d waited too long.

 

* * *

 

July 2014

Shane wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here.

 

He normally spent his minimal free time at his parents’ cottage outside Ottawa. This year, though, his own cottage was finally built. He could’ve stayed there, enjoying the quiet, getting ready for this next season, and generally making good choices. Instead, he was in New York City.

 

Like many possibly destructive decisions, it’d started with a text from Carter.

 

---

 

Vaughny

how’s ur summer?

Boring?

Relaxing?

I don’t know.

My cottage is finished and I went out for a week but had to come back to MTL for meetings.

Now I’m trying to decide when to drive back up.

come to nyc instead.

??

that wasn’t a confusing sentence, holly.

come to nyc.

Why?

because i’m bored.

please

i have a spare room

bring your gear, we’ll get ice time in the suburbs.

benny’ll join us

huff has a house on atlantic beach

we can swim in the ocean

have a campfire or something

i don’t know, have some fun!

we deserve fun, don’t u think?

We definitely deserve fun. I don’t think that’s a question.

How long should I plan to come for?

ask for a trade. stay forever.

Yeah, maybe not that.

Seriously, though, I’ll book a flight, you know I will.

I’m bored out of my mind and Hayden has twins that just started walking and J.J.’s idea of fun is trying to drag me to clubs so I’ll come to NY.

I just need to know when I should book the return flight for.

when does ur preseason start?

just stay here the whole time.

 

---

 

So, Shane had checked the calendar, scheduled a flight out for the following afternoon and a return flight for a week before training camp and then had packed his bags.

 

The decision hadn’t backfired for five full days.

 

For five full days it was just Shane and Carter fucking around NYC, spending a long weekend invading Greg Huff’s space on Long Island, and making vague plans for finding ice time when August finally rolled around.

Then, on the fifth day, Carter had invited Scott.

 

He had no way of knowing what he was doing by inviting Scott, but Shane was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Carter had a bit of an inkling.

 

Shane stumbled out of Carter’s guest room - far later than he’d normally wake up but giving himself grace seeing as it was summer - bleary-eyed and shirtless, only to find Scott fucking Hunter sitting at the counter drinking coffee and looking unfairly gorgeous in the morning light.

 

“Morning, Rook,” Scott greeted, an easy grin on his face that made Shane’s brain go just a little haywire.

 

“Morning,” Shane mumbled, his eyes darting around the room in search of Carter who was conspicuously absent.

 

“He went for a run,” Scott said. “Sit, you want coffee?”

 

Shane sat down, not really knowing what else to do with himself, and just nodded.

 

Scott’s smile widened - and now Shane’s brain was going haywire and his heart was beating too fast - as he stood up and poured Shane a cup of coffee.

 

It was all going very normally.

 

And then Scott walked back over to the counter, set the mug in front of Shane and settled a big, warm hand on Shane’s bare shoulder, his thumb rubbing an almost unconscious path along Shane’s skin, and Shane forgot everything he’d ever learned about being a rational human being.

 

He breathed out an involuntary hum and listed sideways, curling into Scott without a second thought.

 

Scott tensed for barely a second before letting out a breath of laughter that sounded so stupidly fond it made Shane feel a little crazy. He stepped further into Shane’s space, his other hand coming up to rest on the side of Shane’s head as his fingers threaded through his hair like it was something he did every morning, like there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

 

“I missed you, too,” Scott teased softly.

 

Shane really didn’t have it in him to tease back so he simply knocked his head against Scott’s sternum with a huff.

 

“Hey now,” Scott said, holding onto Shane a little tighter, “no violence. Too early for that.”

 

“It’s past nine,” Shane responded.

 

“Oh, and that’s the proper time for violence?”

 

“No,” Shane muttered, finally waking up enough to properly lift his arms and wrap them around Scott’s waist. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what’d possessed him to pretend like this was normal, but it felt too good to pull away. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had just held him like this. It was probably in the Olympic Village with J.J., but there was something fundamentally different about being held by Scott.

 

“What are you doing in New York?” Scott asked.

 

“I was bored in Montréal, Carter was bored in New York, now we’re less bored in New York together.”

 

“Ah, well, of course.”

 

“I really don’t see you complaining about my being here.”

 

“No, I’m mostly just complaining that you came to visit Carter.”

 

“Well,” Shane said, tilting his head up enough to meet Scott’s gaze. Those pretty hazel eyes locked onto his and Shane felt a little lightheaded. This was quickly becoming a medical emergency. “You didn’t ask.”

 

“I was getting to it,” Scott responded, running his thumb along Shane’s cheek, “well, I was actually planning to ask if I could visit Montréal, but since you’re already here…” he trailed off with a little shrug, the action belaying just how nervous he was and that realization made something settle in Shane’s chest.

 

They’d been talking almost non-stop since Sochi.

 

About hockey, sure, but also about everything else.

 

Shane’s little crush on the pretty older player had very quickly developed into something real. He liked Scott. A lot. He liked him as a person, not just as a potential hook up, and he felt like the feeling was actually returned. He hadn’t been sure, it was always harder for Shane to tell what people meant over text, but looking at Scott now, looking at the way his cheeks had gone rosy, remembering how his eyes had trailed Shane’s bare torso as he stepped into the room, Shane was entirely certain.

 

“Maybe next break you can come to Canada,” Shane offered.

 

“Christmas?” Scott said, his brow pinched a little as he mentally ran through their schedules.

 

Shane shrugged, like a single goddamn thing about that statement was in any way normal or casual, “yeah.”

 

“Yeah,” Scott echoed, looking back down at Shane, a tentative, hopeful little smile tugging at his lips, “that might be fun.”

 

Shane grinned and then turned toward his coffee, only deeply hating that moving toward caffeine meant moving away from Scott. But then Scott leaned down and pressed a kiss into his hair before settling at the seat next to him, pulling the stool close enough that their thighs were pressed together, and Shane felt like maybe Scott had read his mind.

 

* * *

 

When Carter had texted him that morning and invited him over, Scott had assumed they’d be spending the day together. He wasn’t sure what they’d be doing, but he’d been pretty sure that Carter would be, you know, involved. And then he’d walked into the apartment and Carter had poured him a cup of coffee before saying, “Holly’s asleep,” and running out the door before Scott could stop him.

 

It was, quite honestly, the most Carter Vaughan way to orchestrate a set up that Scott could possibly imagine.

 

It’d also been a reminder that Carter was far more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for.

 

Scott had considered leaving, had considered just texting Shane now that he knew for certain he was in town beyond a couple of texts about being with Carter or a post on Huff’s Instagram of several people, one of whom looked vaguely like a shadowed outline of Shane, kicking a soccer ball around on the sand, but then Shane had walked into the room, shirtless and sleepy, and every one of Scott’s functional brain cells had fled the premises.

 

Shane always seemed to walk the line between adorable and sexy like a goddamn tightrope and that morning was no different.

 

He’d packed on a decent bit of muscle in the off-season, aided by the extra time he’d had with Montréal being eliminated early in the playoffs, and Scott wanted nothing more than to suck bruises into every single one of his perfectly defined abs. But, at the same time, he was overwhelmed by the desire to put Shane in one of his sweatshirts that’d be at least a size too big and just snuggle him until Shane forced him to let go. His hair had been sticking up in all directions and his big brown eyes had been drowsy with lingering sleep and those perfect pink lips had been turned down into a confused little frown at the realization that Carter was missing from his own apartment and the combination had left Scott completely and utterly defenseless.

 

He’d been flirting like an idiot over texts for months with very little reciprocation. He’d nearly given up, but he was glad he hadn’t seeing as he was now realizing that Shane had needed physical confirmation that Scott was into him in order to reciprocate. The moment Scott’s hand landed on his shoulder it was like every wall Shane had ever even attempted to build had crashed down. He’d curled toward Scott like it was the most natural thing in the world, like soft, sleep warm hugs were how they started every day, and Scott got caught up in the fantasy of it; in the idea that maybe, if he played his cards right, this was how he could start all of his days. Or, at least, as many days as possible when they were living in two different countries.

 

“So,” Scott said once Shane had finally taken a sip of his coffee, the air between them felt a little charged, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt warm. Good. Like possibility. “What’s on the schedule today?”

 

“Carter mentioned something about terrorizing Wagner.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Scott asked with a laugh. It was impossible not to give into the urge to get his hands on Shane again when he got that cute little grin in response. Scott ran his fingers through Shane’s hair before letting his hand settle on the back of Shane’s neck, his thumb pressed against the soft skin behind his ear. “What’s Carter’s goal? Prove to every Admiral that you have a personality by the time preseason starts?”

 

“Maybe after that he can start convincing the Voyageurs,” Shane grumbled, seemingly without realizing he was speaking out loud. It wasn’t the first time Scott had wondered about the environment in Montréal, but it was the first time Shane had ever said anything negative out loud. “I mean,” he continued, clearing his throat slightly, his eyes locked onto where his hands were wrapped around his mug. Scott could feel Shane’s muscles tense beneath his hand and felt an overwhelming urge to make it better, but he didn’t know how. “They know I have a personality, in the locker room at least, I think they just think I’m boring because I don’t want to go to clubs and bars and parties. No one’s making me do that here, it’s easier to be myself.”

 

“I don’t think you’re boring.”

 

Shane’s nose scrunched a little with some hidden emotion but then it cleared and he smiled and Scott brushed it off.

 

“Thanks, Scotty.”

 

Scotty.

 

His teammates called him Scotty all the time, but it’d never before sounded so sweet. From their lips it was simply a locker room nickname, but from Shane’s it felt almost like a blessing.

 

“Hey, I brought my sneakers, why don’t we go for a run?”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Shane agreed, giving Scott a soft smile. “Let me go get dressed.”

 

He took another sip of coffee and then stood up, pausing for a second before leaning over and pressing a kiss to Scott’s cheek, “thanks,” he whispered and then he disappeared down the hall, leaving Scott wondering if he should be concerned by how fast his heart was beating from such a chaste brush of Shane’s lips against his skin.

 

* * *

 

“So?” Carter asked, flinging himself down onto the bed next to Shane after they’d made it back from dinner at Cale and Kara Wagner’s house that night.

 

“So what?” Shane said, peeking out from where he’d thrown his arm across his face to meet Carter’s eye.

 

“So Scott!”

 

“What about Scott?”

 

“Shaaaneee,” Carter whined, writhing around like a misbehaving puppy for added effect.

 

“I don’t know,” Shane sighed, tucking his face back into the crook of his elbow and throwing his other arm over his head to fully hide. “Carter, I have to tell you something.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I know you do but I still want to say it.”

 

“You’re my best friend, Shane,” Carter said, his voice almost painfully earnest. “I love you no matter what.”

 

“I’m gay,” Shane whispered, the truth of it choking him up, even after months of knowing.

 

“And Lily’s not really named Lily is he?”

 

“No,” he admitted quietly, barely even a breath. “He’s not.”

 

“And you’re just never going to talk about what Lily’s really named, are you?”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Okay,” Carter agreed easily, gently. “That’s fine, Shane. But I hope you know you deserve better than being strung along and then ghosted. You’re the best person I know.”

 

“I can’t be out and I can’t ask anyone else to hide, it’s not fair.”

 

“But what if they’re already hiding?”

 

Shane blew out a harsh breath and nodded slightly, “you’re right.”

 

“Do you like Scott? Like really like him? Not just because he’s another hockey player, not just because he’s someone with his own reason to hide?”

 

“Yes,” Shane replied, the answer immediate and true, “he’s great, Carter. He’s so kind and smart and he makes me feel safe and it doesn’t hurt that he’s stupidly hot. There’s a poster of him on the wall of my childhood bedroom and I grew up a Centaurs fan.”

 

“How’d you explain that one to the President of the Voyageurs Fan Club?”

 

“I told her I liked his media presence,” Shane admitted, willing himself not to blush too hard.

 

“And she actually bought it, didn’t she?” Carter said, his voice a little breathy as he tried to hold back his laughter.

 

Shane let out a groan that might’ve been an agreement and Carter cracked up, his laughter ringing through the room like sun breaking through fog and Shane absolutely couldn’t help but laugh in return.

 

* * *

 

August 2014

It was early August by the time Scott plucked up the courage to ask, “Shane, what are we doing?”

 

Shane looked over from the place that’d become his spot on Scott’s couch and smiled a little, “what do you want to be doing?”

 

And wasn’t that the question.

 

“I like you,” he started, needing to get it out there even though he was well aware Shane knew.

 

“I’d certainly hope so, Scotty, otherwise the dozens of hours we’ve spent together over the last month would be incredibly awkward in hindsight.”

 

“No, Shane, I like you,” Scott insisted before huffing out a laugh and scrubbing a hand down his face. Scott and Carter had basically entered a joint custody agreement over Shane for the past month; he’d been at Scott’s at least two nights a week and Scott had found himself invited over to Carter’s more regularly than he ever was when Shane wasn’t in town. He’d celebrated his 29^th birthday by dragging Shane to his favorite spots in the city and it’d honestly been the best birthday he’d had since his parents died. He’d spent more time with Shane than he had with any of his teammates but they’d found themselves stuck in some sort of strange liminal space where Scott put his head in Shane’s lap when they ended up sprawled on the couch watching movies and dropped the occasional kiss onto the crown of Shane’s head in passing but neither of them were actually doing anything about the obvious feelings. Scott was starting to feel a little like he’d accidentally tripped through a portal and found himself back in middle school. “God that sounds juvenile. I don’t know what I’m doing. I normally just pick up men in bars in random countries and never speak to them ever again. Shane, I genuinely like you. As a person. As someone I’m interested in romantically, I want to be with you I just don’t know how.”

 

“Like I’d know any better,” Shane said, his voice gentle as he turned fully toward Scott. He was in one of Scott’s sweatshirts, an old one from his first season with an Under Armour brand deal. It was well loved and well-worn and he decided he never wanted to see Shane in Reebok ever again. “We obviously can’t be out but that doesn’t mean we can’t be together if we want to be.”

 

Scott barely understood the concept of doing something just because he wanted to anymore. Everything was about hockey; everything had been about hockey for so long. The only times he’d done something for himself since joining the League he’d been hidden away, lying about his name and leaving before sunrise.

 

But here Shane was, offering him another option.

 

“Together?”

 

“Yeah, Scott,” Shane confirmed, big brown eyes trained on Scott’s face with a quiet intensity that threatened to steal the breath from Scott’s lungs, “together.”

 

“Can I please kiss you now?”

 

Shane barked out a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the force of his smile as he nodded once and then rested his head against the back of the couch, looking up at Scott with something like adoration, “please.”

 

Scott blew out a harsh breath, feeling a little like oxygen had stopped flowing to his brain, and then forced himself to calm down.

 

Everything was fine.

 

Everything was normal.

 

Just an average Thursday morning with Shane Hollander on his couch, asking to be kissed.

 

An absolutely normal, average, regular thing that happened all the time.

 

Oh, who the hell was he kidding. He was losing his goddamn mind.

 

“You alright?” Shane asked, his tone almost teasing as he smiled a little wider, those damn eyes sparkling with mirth. Scott was fairly certain he was suffering some sort of cardiac event.

 

“Fine,” Scott lied.

 

“Scott,” Shane laughed, holding out his hand, “come here.”

 

Scott reached out and tangled his fingers with Shane’s, silently delighting in the way their hands seemed to fit together perfectly, and let gravity take over as Shane tugged him forward until Scott’s head was resting on the cushions next to his.

 

“Kiss me,” Shane whispered, the words barely even a breath as he kept his gaze locked on Scott’s.

 

Scott nodded slightly, his nose brushing against Shane’s with the movement, and then closed the final centimeter of distance.

 

Shane breathed out a quiet sigh, the warm air fluttering across Scott’s lips, and then one of his hands was cupping Scott’s jaw while the other tangled in the front of his t-shirt and Scott damn near blacked out as Shane’s lips parted under his, soft and pliant, like there was no place he’d rather be, nothing he’d rather do.

 

It was ridiculous, honestly, the headrush Scott was experiencing from a single kiss.

 

But there was just something about Shane; something about knowing that he’d get to keep this, even after the sun rose on a new morning, Shane would still be here, next to him, in this with him. He wasn’t going to run and there was no reason for Scott to run. They shared the risks; they both knew they’d have to hide. He wouldn’t have to explain his fears; he wouldn’t have to justify them. He could simply appreciate what they had – appreciate getting to be together – without having to worry as much, without having to make it something more.

 

* * *

 

September 2014

Shane was a little shocked to realize that it was so damn easy to fall.

 

He felt safe, he felt like he was actually appreciated, like one wrong move wouldn’t send Scott running. They still had to hide, but it felt a little easier. People weren’t shocked that Shane and Scott were friends, no one questioned them spending time together, and Shane had let himself settle into the easy peace of summer, of nights spent in Scott’s bed instead of on his couch

 

But, soon enough, August died and September dawned and his days in New York were coming to a close and the reality of the situation started to come crashing down around his ears.

 

They weren’t in the same division, they’d only play each other a couple of times a year, it’d be months before he saw Scott again and Shane sort of felt like he was losing his mind.

 

“We can talk all the time,” Scott said, his voice gentle as he brushed Shane’s hair off his forehead and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I’m not going to ignore you just because we’re not in the same city.”

 

And, well, maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was why Shane felt like he was jumping off a cliff instead of simply thinking about having to pack for his flight home.

 

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

 

“You don’t bother me, Shane. I love talking to you, I want to talk to you literally all the time. In fact, I think I’ll cry if you start ignoring my calls or if you stop sending me rambling texts about whatever book you’ve just finished. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

 

Shane blinked hard, trying to stop himself from breaking down.

 

There were so few people who’d just listen to him talk. His parents tried but they’d been putting up with his rambling his whole life and even they had a limit. J.J. could only hang on for a while before he started to zone out, Hayden for even less time.

 

Carter was really the only one who’d actively listen to every word Shane had to say before launching into a rant of his own. It was like they were equally matched, word for word, even if they were rarely speaking of the same subject.

 

But Scott seemed to genuinely enjoy listening to him, seemed to hear every word even if he didn’t respond in kind. That’s not to say that Scott never rambled; if he got on a tangent you’d be hard pressed to get a word in edgewise, but it was, Shane had realized, nearly impossible to reach the level of mindless yapping that Shane and Carter achieved on a near daily basis.

 

But, still, Scott listened.

 

He listened and he asked questions and he never, not once, called Shane boring.

 

“Shane, babe,” Scott said, his voice so stupidly sweet Shane wanted to scream a little as Scott ran his thumbs across his cheeks, “I love the sound of your voice, okay? We’ll talk and we’ll see each other for games and make time during breaks and then next summer you can come back here or I can come to Montréal or we can go somewhere else.”

 

Shane nodded in agreement, sniffling slightly though he felt a smile tug at his lips at the thought of Scott visiting him in Montréal. He smiled a little wider at the idea of them going somewhere together.

 

There were so many places they could explore, so many new things they could see, and no one would think it was strange for two friends to see each other over breaks, for two fellow captains to train together in the offseason.

 

His brain raced over ideas, over places he’d like to see and things he’d like to experience but never, not once, did the thought of inviting Scott to his cottage even begin to cross his mind.