Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, Multi

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Career Ending Injuries, Alternate Universe - Cyrano de Bergerac Fusion, Love Letters

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-24 Updated: 2026-10-03 Words: 47,450 Chapters: 4/5

Be Satisfied With Flowers

Summary

All the world's a stage and Scott has unwittingly been cast as an ignorant Cyrano. If he knew about it, he'd be pissed as hell. Instead, he inexorably falls in love with a man he can't have while unwittingly helping a man he'll eventually call his best friend woo him.

But one man in his time plays many parts. Who knows how this strange eventful history ends?

Notes

Some themes tempt me back over and over. So here is another Scott POV canon divergence with a career ending injury, some polyamory, and found family.

A note that while Scott does meet Ilya and Shane in their rookie season, this is a slow burn story and nothing happens for some time.

Title and chapter titles are all quotes from Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand.

Also, btw, I like to restate for the record that I'm nonbinary and use they/them pronouns. Thanks <3

Chapter 1: like a creeping vine on a tall tree

2007

The first time was entirely by accident. After the surgery, when everyone still thought it was a temporary setback, Scott had been laid up for weeks. The team has sent specialists in and out of his apartment to help keep him fed, watered, and most importantly, expertly rehabbed. One of his most regular aides was Aline, a solidly built young woman who always wore her hair in complicated braids.

In the dark of a terrible night only two days after surgery, Scott had wept against her shoulder waiting for the pain medication to kick in, apologizing all the while and shriveling with embarrassment.

"Okay, okay," she said gently, patting his back. "You will be okay, Mr. Hunter."

Before she left in the morning, he tried to press cash into her hand and she took it with a faintly bemused smile.

"Thank you. For last night. That was above the call of duty."

She frowned and tucked the money away. Had he offended her? She hesitated and he braced himself.

"What does this mean? Call of duty?"

Oh. Oh, shit.

"Duty is another word for job," he said, trying to think of the best way to explain it without using more phrases she might not know. "I think it's from the army. But it means it's more than you're being paid to do."

"Ah!" Her face cleared. "Don't worry, Mr. Hunter. I like to help."

"You're really good at it."

He didn't think much of it beyond that. Until one afternoon when he'd managed to hobble himself from his bedroom to the couch in the living room by himself and she came to sit down next to him.

"I'm good," he assured her. "Just catching my breath. I bet I can make it to the kitchen next."

"Maybe," she said with a small smile. "Don't make me pick you off the floor."

"That was impressive," he said. Because she had done just that four days earlier even though Scott had a full foot on her. He'd managed to help a little, but still.

"Impressive," she repeated. "This is very good?"

"Yeah, surprised in a good way."

She nodded. "Mr. Hunter, can I ask you for help? Small help. Easy help?"

"Favor?" he guessed.

"Yes! Okay. Can I ask you for a favor?"

"Of course," he said. "What is it?"

"This man who owns where I live, he always sends me letters in English. My reading is okay, but not very good. If I read it to you, will you make sure I understand it?"

"Yeah, of course, but he should be sending them to you in-" he stopped. "Spanish?"

"Portuguese," she corrected with the weariness of someone who had made that correction several times. "He only knows English."

"Okay," Scott said, wanting only a little to melt through the floor. "I can help with that."

The letter was only a notice about the service elevator. As soon as Scott figured that out, he relaxed a little. Aline had most of it, but her landlord's punctuation and grammar left a lot to be desired, so Scott restated a few things for her. She repeated the phrase 'under maintenance' a few times.

"Thank you," she said with evident relief. "My cousin is better with English, but she is also a pain in my ass."

Scott barked a laugh. "Sorry! Sorry, not at you. I wasn't expecting it that's all. I'm happy to help."

They both got more comfortable with it as time went on. When the team doctor determined he no longer needed day to day help, Scott felt an unexpected wave of sadness. Of course Aline was only doing her job. She should go help some other recently hacked up person. Yet, when her last night shift came, Scott blurted out,

"Do you want a job with me? Instead. Shit. I mean I know you're great at what you do. Someone else needs you."

She stared at him. "What job?"

"I used to have a personal assistant," he explained. "He moved a few months before all this and I hadn't had time to hire someone new. It'd be full time, but no weird hours. 9-5, weekdays only. I need someone to manage my calendar, make appointments. It'd be easy to start since I can't really go anywhere. Time for you to get used to it."

"What is the pay?" she asked carefully.

His last P.A. had had a lot of experience and had handled everything Scott threw at him like he was doing Scott a favor. If he hadn't moved on, Scott had almost reached the point of letting him go anyway. Aline was worth more than Peter. She had helped Scott not lose his fucking mind over the past few months, never brought up his crying jag, hadn't leaked any pictures of him recovering to the press, and briskly answered his phone for him when his agent called one time too many.

"Mr. Hunter is in a meeting," she had said without his prompting. Then hung up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hunter, I think he only hears rude."

She had nailed Todd so well that Scott had almost cried laughing which was better than simply sobbing. 

Scott named Peter's salary plus a few thousand.

"I will not have sex with you," she said.

"No, that's okay!" he protested. Then because she still looked so terribly offended, Scott blurted out to another living person for the first time in his life, "Aline, I'm gay."

"Gay," she repeated, dumbfounded. "But you play hockey."

"Maybe not anymore," he said. "I was gay while I was playing though."

"Okay," she said and squared her shoulders. "But if no hockey, do you still need an assistant?"

"I've never lived without hockey. I'll probably need one more while I try to figure myself out. And for company, honestly, so I don't go crazy. Is that too much?"

"No. I understand it. I will do it."

There were two months left in the season. Scott was healed enough to at least go to home games. Despite his insistence on her 9-5 schedule, Aline was at his elbow for each one. Her wardrobe shifted from scrubs to creased slacks, floral blouses, and sometimes even blazers. Her braids stayed elaborate. When she came to games, she would add a red cardigan. After the first few times she simply wouldn't go home and followed him to the arena, he caved and they agreed to adjusted 'game day' schedules. They both came out the negotiation smiling.

It took them both some time to find a good working rhythm, but even in their most awkward moments, Scott was thrilled she was there.

"Mr. Eastman wants to meet with you," Aline announced as the Admirals came off the ice between periods.

"Who?" Scott asked. "Vaughny took that hit hard. Hope he's getting ice."

"I will ask Joanne," she assured him. "Mr. Eastman is the Head of Player Development."

"Oh! Carl," Scott said. "You have to give me first names."

"Yes, Mr. Hunter," she said primly because she knew it made him groan. Mostly she called him Scott these days unless she was needling him. "He says tomorrow. Do you want me to text Dr. Howe to ask about Mr. Vaughn?"

"Please," he said.

Aline had managed to befriend most of the Admirals' staff by sheer stubbornness and charisma which was exceedingly useful. It also led to the next step in Scott's unexpected career journey.

Carl's office was windowless and crowded with motivational posters. It wasn't a place Scott had spent very much time. His encounters with Carl had been while he was still in boarding school, already being quietly scouted. By the time he'd been drafted, he was shoved almost directly on the MSG ice without much pause for being developed.

"Always good to see you!" Carl said.

"Likewise," Scott said, flashing him a professional smile. "Gotta say, I thought I was post-development at this point."

Carl laughed politely. "Sure, sure. I know it's an odd request. I promise I'll explain. Have a seat. Both of you. Nice to see you again, Aline."

"Mr. Eastman," she said in her soft way.

Or a little warmer. Scott glanced at Carl. He was a handsome guy in the way some executives could be. White teeth, a wave in his dark hair and the build of many former players, still hitting the gym, but no longer needing to bulk.

"Please, call me Carl," he said and it sounded a little like an actual plea.

"Carl," she repeated.

"Thank you," Carl said.

"You're welcome," she said and then cast her gaze down to her ever-present, overstuffed planner. The book that contained Scott's professional life at this point.

"Right," Carl said, snapping his attention back to Scott. "So, here's the thing. I've got this kid coming up who has a lot of promise, Matas Domarkas. Solid defenseman and only getting better."

"I've heard the name. He started as a center. Did a year in the German league, right? " Scott said. When Carl raised his eyebrows, Scott shrugged. "I've had a lot of downtime."

"He did. Then he had a growth spurt and filled out. He was all right as a center, but as a d-man? A real brick wall. We're lucky to have him."

"Glad we do then. You know I'm always happy to greet the new guys, but I'm not wearing the C right now."

"All too aware. We miss you on the ice," Carl said as if he was actually a little upset. That was nice. "In the meantime though, I think you can still help us out."

"Want me to show him around the city?" Scott asked.

"That can be part of it. Mostly, we want you to help him with his English."

"Me?" Scott asked bemused. "Why? I'm not a teacher."

"He doesn't need a teacher. He needs his future captain to help with a few things," Carl said. "We were talking over how to give the kid a hand in the break room and Aline mentioned that you had helped her out."

Scott gave her a look and she looked placidly back at him.

"I'm glad I could help, but she really didn't nee much help. You've gotta know that I've had more concussions than As in school."

"That's fine. You speak hockey, he needs that more than anything."

It would've been easy to turn down if it wasn't for one painful fact: Scott was so fucking bored. Without the rhythm of the sport that had been his skeletal structure for his entire life, he found himself devoid of hobbies or direction.

"What's this look like?"

The answer was Domarkas showing up at Scott's apartment on Tuesday afternoon with a notebook and a stoic expression. He was built like a muscular rectangle, down to a very squared off jaw. When he spoke though, it was low and calm like he was used to having excuse his presence in the room.

"Hi," Scott said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Scott, good to meet you."

"Hello. I am Matas Domarkas," he said and shook Scott's hand with no more strength than was required. That already put him up a notch in Scott's book.

"You have a hockey nickname yet?" Scott asked. There was a beat of silence, both of them regarding each other. "Short name. One the other players call you."

"Castle," Domarkas supplied.

"Okay. You want me to call you Castle, Matas, or something else?"

"Castle. Please. You are 'Cap'. Vaughn says this."

"He's captain right now," Scott said, but it was nice to hear it. "Scott or Cap is fine. Do you want something to drink? Water or a soda?"

"Water, thank you."

They stood in the kitchen and Scott took out a legal pad and a pen. He'd done some feverish googling the last few days and despite doing a lot of frantic reading, he still wasn't really sure what to do with the guy.

"So I thought we could start with you telling me what you need help with," Scott said.

Castle sat with his glass of water, staring into it for so long that Scott was concerned he'd offended him gravely.

"It makes me feel bad to say," Castle said at last.

Scott forced himself to stay as calm and unmoving as possible. "Everything between is private. I will never repeat it. My job here is only to help. No judgment."

With a grimace, Castle said, "Clothes. Groceries. I need help buying things."

"Not a problem," Scott said with hopefully no visible relief. "We can find some stores you like and go together."

It was very easy to meet up with Castle once a week and take him out to find things he liked. He picked up on new things fast, so they never went to the same place twice. Once they had the basics down, Castle started bringing him his bills and then a CCM contract.

"I know my agent and lawyer are good," Castle said because he never spoke badly about anyone, "but I like to read them too."

"Smart," Scott said. "I always do that too."

It wasn't hockey, but they did talk hockey a lot. Aline made them reservations when Castle mentioned wanting to practice restaurant etiquette. No matter how much Scott assured him no one was expecting much, he did understand the desire to prepare.

All of it was something to hold onto as the news came down from on high.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Dr. Howe said as the note went into his chart. "You might recover enough to play, but you're more metal than bone now. We could shoot you full of things and keep you moving, but one bad hit and everything could shatter. I'd be in ethical violation if I condoned you playing again."

Scott heard what was under the words. He could ask Dr. Howe to strike it from the record and tell them he was okay to play. If he got lucky, he'd get out there and manage. He'd probably lose the 'C' as he moved from first to second to third line, his abilities deteriorated without hope for a full return. That was presuming he never go the last hit which could leave him with a lifetime of pain.

Scott of six months ago would've said 'fuck it, take it out, doc' and gone back in. The slow transmutation of his recovery had moved the bar a little. Hockey was still his passion. He still long for it, but he had lived without it and not died. The world still spun on.

Five seasons with the Admirals, two as their captain and Scott said goodbye to it on a Tuesday morning in a doctor's office three miles away from the practice rink. He went home and stood in the center of his apartment for full half-hour, trying to figure out what came next. When Aline came in, she chided him to the couch. He got through that afternoon and the next day and the next.

Carter, Huff and Eric showed up on Friday for dinner and promised their lifetime fealty to him like Scott was a king fallen from the throne instead of a guy with a busted knee. When the Admirals were knocked out of the playoffs, the entire team took him out to dinner. Promises were made that Scott didn't bank on anyone keeping. Still, it was nice. The social media team made a few effusive posts that made it seem a little like had died.

His agent took him to lunch to make up for dropping him.

"Sorry, kid," Todd said with some real regret. "If you come up with a new angle, my door is open."

"Yeah, thanks," Scott said and ordered the lobster. Aline got a filet mignon.

"You know you already have a new angle," she said as they stepped out into a startlingly pleasant day for the city in June.

"What's that?" he asked tiredly.

"You did very well with Castle."

"Yeah, because he thought I was going to be his captain."

She snorted, a sound so atypically inelegant of her that it startled him. "You're good at it."

"Good at what? It's not a real job."

Except Carl did call and ask if he wouldn't mind helping out another rookie. This one was from Germany, excellent English, but no 'life skills' as Carl put it.

"I don't work for the Admirals anymore," Scott pointed out to him.

"So we'll make you a contractor."

It sounded ludicrous to Scott, but on his accountant's advice he set up an LLC and came up with an hourly rate. By the summer of 2009, On the Assist put out it's proverbial shingle with Scott as the owner and Aline as his second-in-command (and only other employee). He assumed that he'd take on the new kid, hang out with Castle a few more times if he wanted, and then the idea would die a quiet death.

The new kid did speak excellent English. The problem which quickly became apparent was that he'd been raised in very loving and very protective household. His real world knowledge could fit in thimble. Scott wound up, through trial and error, putting together an actual syllabus to keep straight everything he wanted to cover. Castle even pitched in, cheerfully sharing one of his remaining sessions to go to Six Flags with them so the kid could experience a roller coaster for the first time.

Between that and increasing his work with the charity, Scott figured he'd use some of his free time to figure out his next steps.

"Scott," Aline called from the kitchen. "Do you know anything about baseball?"

"Some," he said, trooping out of his bedroom. "Why?"

"The Mets just emailed us. They have a rookie who isn't settling in well."

"How did they find out about us?" Scott asked bemused. "We don't even have a logo."

"Carl," she said with a small smile. "He name dropped you at a some kind of convention."

"Did he tell them I've had exactly two clients?"

"Yes or no?" she said.

"Fuck it. Why not?"

October 2010

"Good morning," Aline chimed as Scott set a coffee on her desk.

"Morning. Nice flowers."

"Thank you," she said, smiling at the vase on her desk. "I told him he doesn't need to do these things anymore, but I'm glad he doesn't believe me."

"Smart man," Scott said, taking a seat behind his own desk. "Settle on a venue over the weekend?"

"We are in negotiations," she said calmly.

"Flowers are making more sense now."

"We didn't fight," she said with only a small eye roll. "We have an inquiry. From the Montreal Metros."

"The Metros? How do they even know about us?"

"We have a reputation now. I don't know why you won't accept that."

"Because it's based on a ridiculous superstition?"

"It's true," she said with an edge of annoyance.

"I know, I know," he said more to placate her than because he believed it.

The Rookie Whisperer was what they called him now. Sure some of the guys he'd helped went on to have good seasons. Maybe better than they would have without him. Personally, Scott thought it was because when franchises cared enough about a player to hire him, they were probably already on the trajectory to be future greats. Otherwise, why would they bother with the investment?

Still it put enough money in On the Assist's accounts to pay them both and provide health insurance without Scott dipping into his savings or investments.

"They want you to help with Shane Hollander," she said.

"Hollander?" Scott frowned. "He was second draft pick. Speaks both languages fluently as far as I know. Played for Canada in Junior Worlds. If anyone is set up to make a good transition to a pro team, it's him."

"Their GM says the Hollander comes off as 'shy'," Aline said, eyes scanning the email with her lips pressing into a flat line. She clearly did not approve of whatever wording she was seeing. "They need him to smile more."

"They said that?" Scott asked, sitting up straighter.

"That is what they imply," she said. "They are using more careful words, but not by very much."

"Shit," Scott muttered.

"The request is for you to an assessment. Send them the starting package and invoice or pass?"

The starting package was something they only offered to dickheads. Aline had carefully padded it out so the invoice seemed very reasonable despite the very unreasonable number.

"Sure. Include travel."

"Of course," she said, already typing. "You have Brom this morning, lunch with Castle, then a Skype call with Miami this afternoon."

Before he could even get comfortable or check his email, Scott had to get on his feet and headed out. Their office was situated only a few blocks from his new apartment. After two years of working out of the old one, Scott had finally agreed to find a decent spot to work out of that didn't cost them an arm and a leg. Riverdale had provided. After six months of the new space, Scott had conceded that keeping a place in Manhattan no longer made sense. The apartment had become tinged in old memories anyway. It sold for an astronomical price, leaving him with more than enough to pick up a two bedroom with a sliver of a river view and a balcony.

It was a different life. Riverdale wasn't the suburbs by any means, but it was something closer to a quieter life. Not that today would be quiet. Scott ricocheted around with clients, meetings and replying to emails in between when he could manage it. Thank fuck for smartphones. He'd been dubious when Aline talked him into upgrading to one, but now he couldn't imagine his life without it. Probably dangerous.

He arrived back at the office to find Aline exactly where he'd left her.

"Montreal accepted the starter package," she said.

"Fucking idiots. When am I going?"

She slid him a printed boarding pass.

"Don't I have shit to do tomorrow?"

"You do. You have to get on a flight, check into a very nice hotel, shower, change, and meet Shane Hollander at his condo."

"Why his condo?" Scott asked bemused. "Do they not have restaurants?"

"They read the bit about life skills and apparently want to knock it all out of the way as quickly as possible."

"I don't like them," Scott decided.

"Me either," she sighed. "But they are paying us a lot of money."

"Wonder what kind of a wreck I'm going to find."

"I watched a few clips, read a few things," she said and shrugged. "He seems like a polite young man with good media training."

"Can you send them along to me?"

"Already working on it." 

He watched the videos while waiting for his flight. Hollander didn't smile much, but he presented his thoughts in clear way that evaded many more experienced players. No matter how stupid the question, he gave a thoughtful and polite answer.

A sinking feeling that had started with the inquiry lodged itself in Scott's gut. He didn't give it too much credence yet. Maybe Hollander was a secret mess or something. Instead, Scott took a few notes about the things that did trip the rookie up, few and far between, in case that would be helpful.

The hotel was very nice. He texted Aline both that he arrived and that he was very appreciative for her due diligence in securing it. She replied with Hollander's address in case he'd somehow lost it. What an asshole. He adored her.

There was time for a shower, so Scott washed the travel time off him and got dressed. He still had suits for meeting with bigwigs and office casual for days in the office, but he'd never bothered with it when meeting his players. If they were more dressed up than him, he figured that was all to the good. Let them feel a little more put together. Usually though they were also in athleisure and they relaxed a notch when he didn't put on professional airs.

When Hollander opened the door of his very nice condo, he was in a hoodie and basketball shorts. Nailed it.

"Hi, I'm Scott Hunter," he said, holding out his hand.

"Shane Hollander. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter."

Shane's handshake was good. Firm without too much pressure. He stood in the doorway afterwards, hesitating. The room behind him was clean and tidy. The coffee table only had a single book on it and a remote. There was real furniture and even a single framed photo on the wall. No smell of long unwashed dishes wafted out after him. Maybe if Scott pushed inward he'd find heaps of laundry shoved under a bed, but he doubted it. This was the kind of clean that took a service which meant there was no hidden weird mold in the shower or stiff socks shoved in pillow cases. Scott had seen much worse.

"Please call me Scott. What would you like me to call you?"

"Hollander is fine."

Still no movement. How much of Hollander's life was private and how much had been made fit for public consumption already? Scott had never allowed anyone outside of Carter, Huff and Eric in his apartment before his injury.

"Is there a place to get something to drink around here?" he asked, "Not booze. Coffee or something."

"Yeah," Hollander said cautiously.

"Great, get your shoes. My treat."

"I thought they said you needed to look around my place."

"I don't unless you want me to. The team hired me, but I'm working with you, not them," Scott said. "If you don't want me in there, that's fine by me."

Hollander stared over Scott's shoulder intently enough that Scott glanced that way too. Nothing of interest appeared.

"There's a juice bar that I walk to sometimes. That okay?"

"Works for me. I can wait here if you need to get anything."

Hollander pushed into motion, stepping out of view. Scott turned his back on the condo to look out over the street. He'd invaded Hollander's privacy enough already. He heard the door shut and Hollander was beside him.

"Okay, it's this way."

They walked together down the sidewalk, a few cars passing by.

"Nice neighborhood," Scott said. "Do you like it here?"

"I'm not here much," Hollander said. "You know how it is. Was. I- shit. Sorry. I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Scott said. "I've had a few years to get over it."

"Really?" Hollander asked then winced.

"Not really," Scott admitted, keeping his tone light. "I forget all the time, but there's fuck all I can do about it except move forward. Don't worry about it though. If I never wanted to be reminded, I wouldn't work with hockey players."

"I guess that makes sense," Hollander said. He had the small frown that Scott had caught a few times in the interviews. Maybe he had it during face offs too. "You were great. Really great. My mom used to say you'd be real competition when I got here."

"Did she?" Scott asked. "That's good to hear. You're already ahead of me in points for the same time in my rookie season though. I have a feeling you'll be better."

Hollander didn't demure or say anything humble. He only smiled, very faintly. "That's the place."

So there was some arrogance to him under the veneer of politeness. That settled Scott a little. Humble was good for cameras, but it didn't win games. The sinking in his stomach fully settled into a rock of angry certainty.

The juice bar shone brightly in defiance of the cooling tones of autumn settling in outside. Hollander ordered something that game out as green as a new leaf. Scott got something that reminded him of getting something at Orange Julius. Did those still exist? He remembered walking around a mall with his mother, annoyed and tired of errands, until they got to the food court. She'd always let him get whatever he wanted as a reward for the day even if he'd been a brat.

Scott set down the drink. Across from him, Hollander had taken a sip of his then sat back, eyes on his drink, but none of his attention.

"I've got to admit I'm a little at a loss here," Scott said.

Hollander's head snapped up, a flash of panic there and gone. "I'm sorry. What did I do?"

"Nothing. That's why I'm at a loss. You're composed in interviews, fluent in two languages, captained your team to silver in Juniors, and you're clearly capable of living on your own."

"Yeah, of course I am," Hollander said, a hint of defiance creeping in. "I'm a fucking adult."

"It's not a given, regardless of age," Scott said calmly. "Or I wouldn't have a job. I started doing this to help the guys who were new to the country or the language, but it turns out a lot of guys in their early twenties don't actually have a shit ton of life skills."

"And your job is to teach them? I thought Adaptation Coach meant like helping adjust to coaching styles or something until they told me you wanted to see my house."

"I didn't want to see it," Scott said flatly. "I add it to the list of services, but it's up to the player I'm working with if they want me there. Your management pushed it."

"Should you be telling me that?" Hollander asked, even as that tiny frown started to colonize his whole face.

"They don't have any real say in how I run this. I'm a consultant, not an employee. A lot of teams get it wrong when they hire me. They're the ones paying me, but I'm here for the player."

"I didn't ask for you," Hollander said.

"I know. No one does, but usually I find a way to be helpful anyway. So that brings us back to the beginning. I want to help. I've been paid to help, but I'm not sure what you need."

"I don't need anything." Hollander stabbed his straw into his drink a few times. "Can't you tell them that?"

"I can," Scott said. "I'm sure I could write something up that's even halfway convincing. And then they'll try something else."

"Why? I haven't done anything wrong." It was plaintive and a little scared. Shit.

"They did something wrong," Scott said. "I have a feeling I'm here because someone in your management is a racist dick."

The straw stabbed into the smoothie again and Hollander sat back with a soft sigh. "Fuck. Why do you think that?"

"Because they've never called me before. They know you're a big investment, but they also want to undermine you. Make you feel grateful when it should probably be them thanking you. You're going to change their prospects."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Good question," Scott huffed a humorless laugh. "Mostly I'm thinking of calling them and giving them holy hell about it, then paying for the trip home on my own dime."

"Don't," Hollander said quickly. "Please. I like the team. It's good here. I don't want them to trade me because I'm too much trouble or something."

"I think I'd be the trouble in this case, but yeah, okay," Scott said. He took a sip of the too sweet juice and tipped his head back to study the ceiling for a second.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hunter," Hollander said miserably. "I didn't mean to put you in a bad position."

"Scott," he corrected. "The only person who calls me Mr. Hunter is my business partner when she's giving me shit."

"Is she a hockey person too?"

It was such a benign question, but Scott was charmed by it. He'd just given Hollander a pretty heavy thing to chew on and he was still trying to make polite small talk. A little awkwardly maybe, but trying hard.

"She is now, but soccer is still her favorite. It drives her nuts that it's not a big enough sport in the U.S. for us to get clients."

"Soccer," Hollander said with distaste, "drama club on a field."

"Damn, tell me how you really feel," Scott laughed. Okay, so Hollander was funny too. "Can I ask you a few of the things I'd usually ask? You don't have to answer if you don't want. It'll let me tick off a few boxes though."

"Yeah, okay."

"Have you made friends on your team? I know it's early."

"Yeah, I went over to Pike's house the other night," he answered without hesitation. "His wife was really nice."

"He's your liney, right?"

"Yeah, my right wing."

Scott nodded, committed that to memory. He tried not to take visible notes anymore. It made guys nervous you'd show them to someone else.

"Great. I know your career started building the last few years. Did you get to finish school?"

"Dad would've been upset if I didn't," Hollander said with a shrug. "I didn't get amazing grades, but it got done."

"Is there anything you wished you'd learned while you were there?"

"Not really. I like to read, so maybe that would've been nice, but I hated a lot of the assigned stuff. Dad made sure I understood how to budget and manage my money. Mom is my manager, so I don't have to figure out the contract stuff on my own."

"You're close with them? Do you go home to visit often?"

"Not enough time, but I see Mom for work stuff a lot. I'll go home for the holidays and they drive up take me to lunch sometimes. See some home games. They're two hours away."

Support system. Friends. Clean, nice home. A grasp on making small talk and a sense of humor. So his affect was a little flat when he was in conversation and he didn't like making eye contact? Who gave a shit, except fuckheads with more money than sense?

Scott's back twinged. Fucking knee. When it got cold, it screwed up Scott's gait just enough to throw off everything else. With a grimaced, he arched his back a little and turned in his chair until he felt his spine reluctantly fall back into line, a quiet groan of relief breaking through. As he turned back, he caught Hollander's gaze skittering away and a faint flush on his cheeks.

Oh. Shit. Scott asked something else mild, buying himself time to recalculate. As he ignored Hollander's no doubt textbook perfect answer, he realized there wasn't much he could do. Except maybe offer a little support. Which is what he was here to do anyway, conveniently enough.

"Okay, I think I know how we can move forward and satisfy them without doing anything you don't need," Scott decided.

"That's it?" Hollander asked. "That's all you need to know? I thought you'd want to know about like…feelings or something."

"I'm not a therapist," Scott explained. "Not even close to qualified. Usually, I'm helping guys get more fluent or showing them how to use laundry machines or helping them find a financial manager that won't fleece them."

"I can think of a few guys that might've helped if they'd gone pro," Hollander said. That little frown is back. "So what's your idea?"

"They paid out for a starter package. It doesn't include in-person after this first visit, so you don't have to worry about me showing up at your door again. What it does cover is twelve appointments via phone or Skype."

"So…you'll lie about those?" Hollander guessed, already tensing a little at the thought. "What do I say if they ask me?"

"No lying required. They're your appointments. Way I figure it that means you get to choose how to use them. So if you want to call and talk hockey for an hour that's fine by me. I've usually got something interesting to share."

"Is that legal?"

"For me to be a huge gossip?" Scott asked amused. "Yeah. I don't repeat anything my clients tell me, but I hang around in offices a lot. Chat with friends. It adds up. It's nothing that would give you an edge anyway. Unless you think knowing who had to add fake flies to their urinals to get the guys to aim will help you on the ice."

Hollander snorted. "Gross. So. What? I call and we talk and you can count that? Don't you have to tell them what we're doing?"

"I don't have to share specifics. All I have to show them is the call logs so they can see the time was used. No one would trust me to ask me if they thought I was reporting back."

"And they just…let you do that?"

Scott shrugged. "I get good word-of-mouth. And look, if you ever decide you do want my help with something, you say the word. I've helped with a lot of weird shit, so don't worry about it being too off the beaten path."

"Like what?" Hollander asked. "I mean, are you allowed to say?"

"If I keep it vague enough," Scott said. It was a good a window as any. "I had a guy ask me to help him send sexy emails to a girl he'd just met. She only spoke English and his written English wasn't strong."

"You did it?" Hollander asked, eyes wide.

"It was that or he was going to ask his teammates. I didn't want the poor woman to get traumatized by whatever they collectively came up with. I had to do a lot of terrifying research though."

"Why was it terrifying?" Hollander asked, his shoulders drawing in. "I mean. It's just…you know."

Yeah, Scott was reasonably sure he was reading this right. If he wasn't, then so what? Scott didn't give a goddamn if the Metros liked him or not.

"I'm going to tell you something. I would prefer it didn't become widespread knowledge, but it's not a huge secret anymore. Okay?"

"Okay," Hollander said, eyeing him warily.

"I'm gay."

It landed with Hollander in the same way Scott imagined it would have if he'd simply thrown his entire drink in the man's face. He went stiff all over, blinking rapidly, mouth going tight. Scott didn't stop him from reacting.

"Oh," Hollander said quietly. "I- okay."

"If that changes how you want to go forward, that's fine. You can call Aline instead of me," he said. "She's very nice. Not really as up for the hockey talk, but she'll try."

"I- fuck. No, I'm not like a homophobe or something." The words fell over each other in a rush. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting that. From you."

"Hockey," Scott acknowledge. "I know. If I was still playing, I'd probably still be closeted."

"Like hiding? All those years?"

"Yeah. It fucking sucked, to be honest."

Hollander nodded vaguely. "I- thank you. For telling me. That seems like a lot."

"It's not now. It was then. Now pretty much everyone I care about knows."

"No one knew then?" Hollander asked.

"No one," Scott confirmed. "I was careful. Most people don't make that leap anyway."

"Do you tell all your clients?"

"Nah, usually none of their business," Scott said.

"Why did you tell me?" Hollander was still holding himself tight. Like Scott might be trying to shatter him.

"Like I said, it's not a huge secret. You seem like a good guy and I think I pried into your life enough today. Feels like an even exchange."

It'd be nice to really feel that casual about it. If Scott was honest, every time still felt like he was jumping out of airplane, uncertain if he had a parachute until the last second. Each time though, he made the jump a little faster. It was the first time he'd told a client. New kind of terror. Fun.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" The question arrived as if Hollander hadn't meant to ask it. It slipped from him and walked across the table on cat's feet, waiting to be slapped away.

"No, but not for lack of trying," Scott said ruefully. "I've had a few good dates and a lot of shitty ones. I think it's the same no matter what gender you're interested in. It's hard to find someone compatible."

"Yeah, it's rough," Hollander said.

"Anyway, point being, if you do think of something, then I can help or try to figure out who can help. Otherwise, we can talk hockey and spend it down that way."

"Okay. So twelve phone calls," Hollander said as if negotiating a contract. Maybe he was.

"Yep. Yours to use. It can be as spread out over the season. I doubt they'll re-up me. You'll have won them enough games by now that they'll move on to the next thing."

"Deal."

To his surprise, Hollander actually stuck his hand out. Scott reached across the table to shake it.

"Deal."

If Hollander was still willing to touch his hand, then Scott figured that even he'd read everything else wrong, at least Hollander wasn't a vitriolic homophobe. That was nice.

"So do you just fly back to New York now?"

"Tomorrow. They did spring for a hotel room and I intend to use it. I know you're probably sick of them, but they're a little more novel to me these days."

"You don't travel?"

Scott shrugged, picking up his drink to finish it off. "I've been on a lot of solo vacations. They were fun, no complaints, but the next time I go somewhere, I want to take someone special with me. What about you? Going to see the world when you have time off?"

"No," Hollander said and finally picked up his own drink again. "I think I'll go to my parent's cottage."

"Can't blame you. I've heard there's some beautiful spots in this part of the world."

"The best. Have you ever left the city when you came here?"

"Never. What's it like?" 

It turned out Hollander had opinions on lakes and fire pits. Scott listened, not daring to get up to even toss out his cup because Hollander transformed as he spoke. He still wasn't effusive, but he lit up inside. Only Hollander's phone ringing interrupted him.

"Shit, sorry. I've been talking forever," Hollander winced as he silenced it.

"You can take that. I should let you get on with your afternoon. But don't apologize, it was interesting," Scott said. "Maybe you can tell me more when you call."

"Right. Should we schedule that?"

"No need. Call when you want. If I can't pick up, I'll text you back so you'll know when I'll be available. This happens at your convenience, not mine."

The phone was clearly still going off, vibrating now. "I- fuck. Okay. Thanks. Bye."

"Talk to you soon."

Scott waited until he was back in the hotel to call Aline. She picked up right away.

"On the Assist, Aline speaking."

"It's me. Met with Hollander. We should have charged them more."

"He's difficult?" Aline asked with surprise.

"Not even a little."

He gave her the rundown (leaving out his suspicions about Hollander's interests and subsequent impulsive coming out). After she made some annoyed noises, they both agreed to reject any further Metros inquiries.

"For now though, let me know when he calls," Aline sighed. "I'll keep the record. Poor guy. That's a lot of pressure at that age."

It had been. Scott remembered it well and he hadn't had the additional struggle of not looking the part.

"It is. Who knows, maybe I can actually help. Or at least, not make it worse."

"You've never once made it worse," Aline said fiercely. "Not even for Henri, so don't even bring him up. He did that all to himself."

"Yeah, that's fair," Scott relented. "Did I miss anything?"

"Yes, actually. Carl called."

"And he's agreed to the place in Yonkers that's clearly better?"

"He called in a business capacity," she corrected, then paused. "You really think it's better?"

"You know I'm a sucker for a view," Scott said with a grin. "And you want it. I think brides should get what they want."

"He said something like that," Aline admitted. "So yes. Yonkers. But that's not what this is about."

"Okay, what was it about?"

"You know that rookie that they said spoke great English and didn't need any help navigating a new city?"

"Rings a bell," Scott said dryly. "Let me guess. Not so much?"

"Carl says they were 'snowed by his incredible charisma'."

"Fuck," Scott laughed. "They got hoodwinked by a nineteen-year-old. Great. So now he's my problem?"

"I already sent along the usual invoice. I didn't think you'd object."

"Nah, that's fine. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. If they get it back to us, I don't mind meeting with him then. Might as well get him in before the weekend."

"All right, I'll let them know. It is a little funny it working out this way."

"What do you mean?"

"Top two draft picks within twenty-four hours of each other?"

The view from the hotel room was a city glittering with the coming darkness. He thought about Hollander stabbing the straw through viscous green fluid over and over. Uncomfortable, but unwilling to cede his ground, negotiating his way through that conversation with Scott as if it were the disarming of a bomb.

"Too bad I can't just assign them each other," Scott said wryly. "It would probably do more good."

"But earn us less money," Aline said with a laugh.

Scott encountered Ilya Rozanov for the first time in a coffee shop a ten minute drive from the Admirals' practice rink. It wasn't a meeting. Hollander had been a meeting. Rozanov could only be encountered. Though Scott hadn't known that yet, so he'd prepared for a normal event.

Instead, the door to the shop opened, siphoning in crisp autumn air. The table by the windows was colonized by an elderly book club and they looked up as one like a herd of antelope hearing a twig snap. Scott, seated near the wall, turned to follow their gaze. Moving into the space wearing stylish clothes, a smirk and wind-tousled curls was Ilya Rozanov. The man the Admirals had begged, borrowed and ruthlessly bargained their way into drafting to hopefully finally fill the hole that Scott had left behind in the rosters.

Scott would normally stand to greet his clients like this, but Rozanov gave him no time to do so. He took the seat across from Scott, tilted his head to one side to study him then sighed heavily as if in taking in Scott he had already found him wanting.

"Nice to meet you too," Scott said. Arrogance was not new to him. "Scott Hunter. You can call me Scott. What would you like me to call you?"

There was a beat and Scott saw it. Most people would chalk it up to the entire persona. Make someone wait to prove a point. It worked in Rozanov's favor, curation of an image. It also bought him time to translate.

"Rozanov."

"Rozanov," Scott repeated with the same intonation. It wasn't how announcers said it, but that wasn't surprising. "All right. Thanks for meeting me here."

"I am told to meet you. An order."

Scott took a sip of his coffee. "You want something? Coffee? Pastry?"

"I read about you. Ask around. They say you are like sex worker, but no sex. Friend sex worker," Rozanov pronounced everything carefully, his eyes glued to Scott's face to get the reaction he wanted.

"I've heard that one," Scott said with a shrug. "I guess that's one way to look at it."

Instead of his nonchalance annoying Rozanov like it usually did with clients like him, it seemed to please him. A test that Scott had passed?

"I don't need you," Rozanov said crisply.

"Good sentence construction, but you're putting the punch on the wrong word," Scott said. "That matters or your chirp won't have the same weight."

Light eyes bounced back and forth, scanning Scott's face. Taking his measure.

"What do you mean?"

"'I don't need you' says you think what I do is good, but you don't need it. 'I don't need you' sounds kind of whiny. Unconvincing. 'I don't need you' says that you don't need me, but you might want me anyway. Definitely not what you're going for. 'I don't need you' is what you want. That says that it's me that's the problem."

"English is very stupid," Rozanov said.

"No argument here. You want a coffee? There's pastries too."

It turned out that Rozanov did want a pastry and a large hazelnut latte. He took his spoils and glowered at Scott like he might snatch them back.

"Okay, here's the deal. Your team thinks you need some English conversation help. I think what you probably need is time. You're picking things up fast. I saw the press conference from last year, compared it to the one from last week. You're smart and focused. Left alone, you'll get yourself fluent soon enough."

The praise landed with Rozanov and made his eyebrows knit together. He seemed to be waiting for something, but Scott didn't have anything to add.

"Then why are we here?" Rozanov asked.

"Because you don't have to do it on your own. Just because you can doesn't mean you have to."

"So, we will have lessons. Books and writing things?"

"I don't really do formal things," Scott shrugged. "I'm not a teacher. Conversation seems to help more. Or helping with day to day stuff. If you've got bills or letters or emails you want a second set of eyes for. Anything that you've been trying to do that's harder in your second language."

"I have friend who will do this," Rozanov said roughly. "Do your other people not have friends?"

"Sometimes I'm easier than a friend."

"How? I think my friends are better. They know me."

This man was a challenge personified. Pushing and prodding in a way that would've made Scott a ball of anger on the ice. He can see it. Scott the hockey player would have decked him in minutes. It was almost painful how far away he felt from that version of himself sometimes. There was no anger in him right now. If anything, he felt a little sad. Who had taught Rozanov to be so defensive with someone trying to help him?

"Friends need things back. I don't. It's about you."

He figured that would play nicely into Rozanov's ego, but instead it only seemed to shut him down more.

"This is even more like sex worker."

Scott rolled his eyes, "This isn't a face off. You want to chirp and try to piss me off, you can, but you're looking at it wrong. I'm on your team, not playing against you."

"Very nice team mate. I tell you things and then you go tell coaches," Rozanov said and bit into his pastry defiantly. He got sugar on his nose. Scott did not point it out.

"What we talk about is confidential," Scott said. "You don't have to take my word for it. Ask around. I won't give out the names of other people I've worked with, but you can find out quick enough."

The bite of sugary dough was getting mauled, chewed like it had offended Rozanov's entire family.

"How long does this happen?"

"The Admirals have me on retainer. They want you meet with me at least once a month for the rest of the season. If you want to meet here and stare at me in silence for an hour that's fine. Sounds boring as fuck, but we can do that. "

For a moment, Scott worried Rozanov was going to take him up on that. He took another vicious bite and then a long sip of his latte. Scott nursed his coffee, reminding himself that patience generally paid off.

As Rozanov drank his sugary concoction, Scott couldn't help, but layer Hollander in beside him with his differently disgusting drink. Two rookies, both talented beyond measure, both carefully managing themselves in front of a stranger. He made a mental note to ask Carl for tickets to the first Metros and Admirals matchup of the season.

"My contract," Rozanov said with a tick in his jaw. "I have lawyer and agent. It is good contract. But I would like to read it too. It is very…."

"Legalese is it's own language," Scott said, hoping there was no relief seeping through in his voice. "You can bring a copy next time and we can go over it. Tell you what, I can dig out my first year contract too. See how much more you're taking home." "

"You will bring this on rocks?" Rozanov asked, eyes sparkling a little. "From your time?"

"Age jokes," Scott raised his eyebrows, dripping with disdain, "I'm all of seven years older than you. That's the best you can do?"

The set of Scott's jaw told him that Rozanov could and would attempt to do better. Great. Scott better not show this jackass a single weak spot or it'd be all he heard about for the rest of their time together.

On the way out, Rozanov stopped at the counter and put a twenty in the tip jar. He made no remark or show about it. Scott had been the one to place the order and pay so Rozanov hadn't even interacted with the staff.

It was a small thing. It said a lot. Scott felt slightly better about working with him.

"How was the Russian Terror?" Aline asked when Scott walked back into the office.

"Eh, usual amount of cocky bullshit, but I think he came around by the end. Can you print me off a fresh copy of my first year contract?"

"You always get them with the money," she said approvingly.

"Not this time," Scott said. "He suggested it. He hit me with the 'you're basically a whore' line."

Aline nodded, "Very expensive whore."

Scott paused, recalibrated. "You know what, he didn't actually say that. He said 'sex worker'. I kept repeating it because he used it."

"Sounds nicer than whore," Aline said. "Weird rookie."

"Very weird," Scott agreed.

"Speaking of weird rookies, Hollander sent me an email to make an appointment. I thought he had your cell number?"

"He does. It's fine, I'll remind him he can call me directly. When does he want to talk?"

The answer was apparently whenever it was good for Scott as long as that was between seven and nine pm on Thursday or Friday.

"Very flexible," Aline said with a small smile.

"I think he'd like to be," Scott said. "I'm not sure he knows how."

"Oh no," she laughed quietly. "You like this one. A half hour in Montreal and you like him."

"I'm not allowed to like clients? It makes things a lot easier."

Wrong. Factually incorrect. But how could he have known that then?

At eight o'clock on a Friday night when Scott probably should've been attempting to find a hook up or a date, he settled into the armchair in his living room. He had a glass of water because a drink would be unprofessional even though he longed to open a bottle of scotch.

His phone rang at 8:01. Punctual was nice.

"Hi, Hollander," he greeted.

"Hi."

There was a beat of silence, so Scott took his cue. "How was Nevada? They looked like shit from here."

"They're shit," Hollander said and then, more smoothly, "I mean, they're probably fine. Slow start to the season, but I'm sure they can-"

"I called them shit first," Scott reminded him. "Their second line should all be sent down. Or maybe put down."

"Right?" Hollander's voice rose immediately. "What the fuck is that?"

It was easy to talk about how things were going with teams that Scott would never play. The two-sided blade of distance was the ability to be critically attached. Hollander had the immediacy and the kind of sharp eye that sliced weaknesses from strengths in seconds. Between the two of them, it was easy to fill time with it.

Yet, Hollander lapsed into silence towards the end of their appointed hour. Scott gave it to him, letting it play out.

"Can I ask you something?" The question breathed out into Scott. A door opening.

"Always," Scott assured him.

"You won't laugh. I need you not to laugh."

Scott sat up straighter, "I won't."

"Is there a way to make it look like you've been drinking more than you have?"

Closing his eyes, Scott didn't feel like laughing at all.

"Yeah, absolutely. What you want to do is order a vodka soda for the first round where someone hears it. Offer to get the second round, ask the bartender for seltzer or tonic water with a lime. It'll look the same. If everyone's doing beers, order one that comes in a brown bottle. In the dark, it'll be harder to tell how much of it you've had."

"It's not that I don't like to drink. I've been drunk." It was almost a plea.

"Sometimes post-game celebrations aren't the time to get sloshed, but it's hard to tell a bunch of other guys that," Scott said. "Keep an eye out for the guys who avoid going out every night or don't seem to be getting as fucked up as everyone else."

"Hayden doesn't come out at a lot, but he has little kids."

"Sure, bet there's a lot of guys who have them though and still go out," Scott said with unfortunate certainty. "Fake what you have to fake, smile when you have to smile, but find ways to get out of it too."

"They'll talk."

"They always talk," Scott said heavily. "It'll be that you don't drink or what you eat or won't eat, who you sleep with or don't sleep with. It's fucking exhausting."

The silence came in again and then Hollander said like someone twice his age, "It really is."

"So find ways to make it bearable. Find your guys. Pike won't be the only one. You start to build your own smaller crew inside the team. It's normal and it'll help. Can you room with Pike on away games?"

"I already do."

"That's good," Scott said. "Oh, don't try to pour your drinks out in potted plants. You might miss and soak your jeans and have a way worse problem on your hands."

Hollander had a good laugh. "You did that?"

"It might possibly have happened at some point. To someone. Couldn't say who."

"Why were you trying to pretend not to drink? Or- shit. Should I not ask that?"

"You can ask anything. If it's something I'm not ready to share, I'll say so," Scott said. "I didn't like not being in control. It got easier as I got older. In the beginning though, it usually felt like me against the world and I needed to be sharp."

"What changed?"

"I made friends that I actually liked sharing a drink with. I realized I wasn't going to endanger everything because I'd had three beers instead of two. It took time. I still don't love getting shitfaced."

There was a soft beep on the other end of the phone.

"The hour is up," Hollander said.

"You started a timer?" Scott asked, unable to keep the grin out of his voice. "So you could hang up on me on the dot?"

"No! I mean. Yes, but I wouldn't hang up," Hollander said indignantly.

"I know you wouldn't," Scott said. "It's fine. I don't want to keep you if you're done."

"Yeah, I'm good. Uh. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Remember you can just call me or text if you want. No formal scheduling required."

"Okay. Good night."

"Good night."

The line went quiet. A timer. Scott laughed into his whiskey. So much for feeling like he'd made a connection, poor Hollander had been counting the seconds to escape. One down, eleven to go.

Easy.

January 2011

"And there goes your record again, brother," Carter laughed. They toasted each other and threw down matched shots of tequila. "Can't believe they gave you a one-two nut punch."

"Little pricks," Scott said fondly, watching Hollander do his victory lap.

They were piled onto Carter's couch, Eric laying on the floor in deference to his bad back and Huff on Carter's other side.

"Roz is going to sulk," Carter groaned. "He really thought he had that."

"He plays better when he's a little pissed off," Eric said, holding up his glass for another. "Especially with Hollander."

"How is he in the room?" Scott asked with idle curiosity as he filled the glass.

"Obnoxious," said Eric.

"Loud," said Huff.

"Full of himself," said Carter.

"And if anyone was shitty to him, we'd fucking kill them," Eric said practically. "We're all crazy about him."

"He's our obnoxious shithead," Huff agreed.

"He's funny as fuck," Carter sighed. "It's hard to be mad at him."

Unfortunately that aligned with Scott's experience too. Rozanov had come to all their meetings (three of them since the initial one) prepared even though he liked to pretend he wasn't. After his contract, there had been CCM deal from the summer before and something for an energy drink his agent had found for him. At a tense standoff of their last meeting, Rozanov had brought a folder with statements. Something was bothering him about them, but he wasn't sure what. It had taken two hours before they had found discrepancies in some of his accounts. Scott had never claimed to be great at math.

"There's a lot of large sums going out."

"I send money home," Rozanov had spat out. "Is this problem?"

"Not for me," Scott had said. The numbers had been startlingly high, but a lot of guys sent money to their families. "But I think your financial advisor noticed and is using that to hide his own withdrawals."

"Show," Rozanov demanded.

Proof in hand, Rozanov had shut down, staring blankly down at the page.

"I can get Aline to find you someone else. We'll help you move the money from him."

"He is my father's friend back home," Rozanov said as if this fact were a bullet in a gun.

"You can't send money home that this guy is taking from you," Scott pointed out. "Whatever way you want to play it is fine, it's your money."

Rozanov tapped his fingers once against the table, then nodded. "I will take a name."

"All right. Come back to the office with me if you have a few minutes."

It had been the first time Rozanov had met Aline. He was immediately softer with her, almost deferential. When she printed out a list and told him the pros and cons of the three people on it, he had thanked her quietly for her time.

"You're welcome," she said, giving him one of her warmer smiles. "I like your sweater. Where did you get it?"

"Very little place called Macy's," Rozanov said, returning her smile with something more boyish that Scott had been privy to. "You have heard of it?"

"Once or twice," she laughed. "Have you seen the Christmas displays there yet?"

"Ah, no," he said. "I did see the very big tree."

"Scott, let's take him to Macy's. I need to get out of the office."

"That's his call," Scott said, amused.

"I am over time," Rozanov said as if that was something he ever cared about before.

"Don't worry about that," Aline said, already rising to get her bag. "Unless you have something else to do."

Which was how all three of them wound up in front of a display, watching a ladder swing around a library from an imagined bygone era, a huge book wheeling into view and then another of lightly animated figures on a snowy street. The theme was Miracle on 42nd Street. Of the three of them, only Scott had seen the movie and even that only once years ago.

"This is for selling clothes?" Rozanov asked, eyes wide even as his face stayed impassive. Aline was on his arm because he'd extended it to her when she'd complain about the ice.

"A little," Scott said. "I like to think it's also just…because. Sometimes people make beautiful things and only look for excuses why after."

Rozanov shook his head in denial, but he hadn't stopped looking. A few minutes later, Aline bought them all hot chocolates which they drank walking slowly, taking in other lights and the the biting chill.

Hours later, warm again and settled alone in his apartment, Scott would think about those figurines peering through the windows, the way they were mirrors to how they peered in to look at them.

His phone rang right on time.

"Hollander," he said. "Did you leave anyone in Detroit alive?"

"It was a mercy killing," Hollander said with a laugh in his voice. "They've been a mess from the jump."

The figurines, Hollander's jubilant in victory, Rozanov's quiet wonder, all of it jumbled together as Scott watched both of them soar through competitions like no one else was there. Carter, Eric and Huff toasted their rookie exuberantly as he won the other two contests he'd entered. Hollander won his too and there were well-meaning boos even as they admired him.

Scott watched the All Stars game the next day alone. They both played with a joyful intensity that was beautiful to watch. No one seemed to have told them that All Stars was a cakewalk game. They played for blood. For keeps.

"He's challenging," was all Hollander said on the matter a week later on the phone. Only their fifth like Hollander was rationing them.

"And no one else is," Scott stated more than asked.

"Maybe you would've been."

"Generous," Scott laughed quietly. "I'll take it even though I think you're full of shit. Would've been fun though. How was the rest of the week? Boring or good?"

"Good," Hollander said and that, at least, was genuine. "I liked seeing some of the guys that way. Never had enough time to meet people on the other teams. Wally really does have everything memorized."

"Told you," Scott said, setting his feet on his coffeetable. "Did you two nerd out about statistics?"

"It's not nerdy to know things about your own profession."

"Nothing wrong with being a nerd," Scott corrected absently. "You're only the best because of what you know."

"Rozanov doesn't do that. He called us the boring table," Hollander said. There was no anger in it, only a sort of bemusement.

"That's how he moves through it, but I doubt he got to be that good without paying attention," Scott said carefully.

He knew Rozanov did, but it wasn't something they talked about. In fact, Rozanov rarely discussed hockey. As Scott got to know him that seemed to track. The things that were most important to Rozanov were not discussed unless it was a matter of necessity like the bank statements.

Funny how that worked out really. They said Hollander was shut down, a closed book, while Rozanov was the open friendly one. Yet, Scott knew far more about Hollander, who spoke happily about his parents, the cottage he wanted to build, and everything hockey that he adored. Boisterous Rozanov had 'a family' and 'an apartment' with no further details forthcoming. He played the game with fierce skill and knowledge that he shared with seemingly no one. Another time every commenter in the world got it wrong. Maybe it wasn't that surprising.

"Scott?" Hollander's voice rumbled into his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Would it be weird if we were friends? Me and him?"

"Are you kidding?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, no. It's stupid-"

"I think nothing would make more sense," Scott said, before Hollander could tie himself in knots.

"Oh. Really?"

"Really. It'd be kind of fun to fuck with people about," Scott mused. "The two of you already chat sometimes on the ice and it makes fans crazy."

"Fuck, they notice that?"

"They notice everything," Scott reminded him. "And know fuck all about what they're noticing. Might as well up the ante. Hell, it'd be heartwarming P.R., the two rivals, who are also friends."

"Huh. The league would be weird about it. The love us competing."

"So keep competing. You think Rozanov would start being nice to you on the ice because you guys grabbed a beer sometimes?"

"Not a chance in hell."

"There you go then."

"I don't know where I go with that."

"Wherever the fuck you want."

March 2011

"I need your help," Rozanov said.

It was the kind of day only February could deliver. The streets were filled with gray slush and frozen patches. The sky was a slate with no promise of snow or sun. The air was heavy and cold in a way that made breathing uncomfortable. The coffeeshop's heat was on too high, so Scott was sweating into the clothes he'd done to protect himself.

Across from him, Rozanov was in a t-shirt and jeans. His only concession to the weather was the beanie pulled low over his ears and the wool coat that he'd tossed aside the second he'd walked in the door.

"Hello to you too," Scott said and held out his hand expecting another folder. "What do you have for me?"

"No papers," Rozanov scoffed like Scott was being an idiot, instead of following a pattern. "Texting."

"Texting," Scott repeated. "Okay. Texting who?"

Rozanov pressed his lips together like he wanted to keep the words from escaping, but couldn't quite manage it. "I met someone. A woman. Very hot."

Oh, fuck not again. Scott kept his face neutral.

"Okay. You seem to get women just fine without help, what's different about this one?"

"She is not like…." there was a brief grimace, "I don't know. She is shy and she has not done things. I was supposed to see her, then flight is cancelled and she does not respond so fast to my texts now."

With a sigh, Scott resigned himself to the inevitable. "Okay, so you need to put a little work in because you're worried she changed her mind."

"Yes. I know she does want to. She wants to be with me," Rozanov said with maddening certainty. Why couldn't Scott have that kind of confidence? "But she is good at saying no to herself."

Probably because he wasn't 19 and built like a brick shithouse anymore.

"Okay, what do you have so far?"

Rozanov took out his phone and carefully looked over something, then made a few quick taps. He checked agian, then slid the phone over to Scott.

Scott read them with growing horror.

"For every inch of the…" Scott mouthed then groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "Wow. Romantic."

"It is not romance," Rozanov said with a snort. "We are only sex."

"Sex that she apparently doesn't want to have with you because you send her shit like this," Scott pointed out.

"She thinks it is funny."

"Does she? Because there's no response and you sent this three days ago."

"This is why I ask for your help," Rozanov said, more subdue.

"You really like her, huh?"

"No," Rozanov said quickly.

"You want to take some girl's virginity and you don't even like her?" Scott asked incredulously. "Look, I know what the room is like, but that is fucked up, I don't care what the other guys say. And frankly, doesn't seem like your style."

It wasn't often than he wrong-footed Rozanov entirely. His mouth opened and closed like a fish for a few seconds. Then he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "I like her. Very much. But it is impossible to like each other, so we will do this instead."

"Why impossible?"

"I cannot tell you," Rozanov said into his palms. "Please, it just is."

"Okay," Scott said gently because Rozanov wasn't big on please and thank you with Scott usually. "I believe you. I think there's somewhere between 'we can't like each other' and 'only the worst sexy texts imaginable'."

"They are not the worst!" Rozanov protested and at least he was face up again.

"They're pretty bad. Let's workshop this a little. You want to convince her to give you a shot when?"

"We will not see each other for many months. June maybe," Rozanov said.

"Okay, so you have time, that's good. If this is how you've been talking, then we can't change that too much all at once. Still has to sound like you."

"Yes, this," Rozanov said frowning. "You will really help?"

"Yeah, of course," Scott said, already getting out a pen and scribbling some thoughts on a napkin. "You asked. I'm helping."

Instead of a come back, Rozanov only nodded slowly. "Okay. What is the idea?"

"First move is simple. You're going to tell her you're thinking about her. We'll keep it a little sexy because that's the vibe, but send a more every day picture with it."

"She will not care."

"You're trying to get her to care a little," Scott said with some exasperation.

"I do not think she wants to care. It might make her afraid again."

"Okay, but whatever you're doing now isn't working either."

After some workshopping, Rozanov took a picture of the danish he hadn't bitten into yet. "She likes very healthy food, this will annoy her, but she likes this."

Playful teasing seemed in line with whoever would go in for Rozanov in any serious way, so Scott didn't argue him out of it.

The scribble napkin apparently met Rozanov's approval because he diligently copied it out.

I saw this and thought of you: sweet and something I want to eat.

The phone stayed silent as Rozanov did actually eat and Scott hoped whoever this girl was really did want Rozanov back. Though the guys talked about Rozanov warmly and Scott knew he was capable of creating a lot of company in his bed, there was a sticky lonliness about him. Or maybe Scott was projecting.

"We are done," Rozanov said when the last crumb disappered off his plate. "The Admirals do not pay you anymore for me."

"Yep," Scott said. "You're a free man."

The phone, still face up beside Rozanov's plate, lit up. He snatched it off the table, reading once, then twice. There was a very brief smile, quickly wiped away.

"What if I still need help?"

The urge to chirp was strong. It would've likely put a quiet end to thing which should be the sensible choice. On the other hand it wasn't as if Scott hadn't continued on with someone when they finished. He took private clients after contracts came up from time to time. On the other other hand, it felt wrong to charge the guy for what might amount to a few texts or something. Anyway, Rozanov really did need someone in his corner and Scott was, as Aline would later declare with an eyeroll, 'a sucker'.

"Then I guess you'll have to ask for it as a friend."

"You know when a sex worker does not charge, there are new words for this," Rozanov said with a smirk.

"You know I don't actually have to do anything for you if there's no money," Scott pointed out. "Or be nice to you, actually. Shut the fuck up.Wow. That felt startlingly good to say."

Rozanov's laugh spiraled through the coffee shop.

"You are secretly a dick," Rozanov declared as if nothing had ever brought him more joy. "Good. All my friends are like this." 

June 2011

It was happenstance that Scott was awake at five that morning. He usually slept until seven, taking an hour in the gym, a shower and getting breakfast, before walking to the office. Some days though, sleep eluded him. Sometimes it was the body, his back or knee giving him hell. Sometimes it was his mind, running through everything he'd ever said or done that was less than ideal.

Sometimes it was just like sleep had slipped from his grasp. It had been that kind of night. Kind of morning now. The murky early morning light hadn't even infiltrated through his curtains yet.

He'd had a hookup a few nights before. It had started as a date, slid into bed. The guy hadn't called again and maybe that was what had kept Scott awake. His bed was cold. Maybe his whole heart had gone cold like a candle long ago blown out, only the smoke rising from the wick fooling him into thinking it could flare again.

That was when the phone rang. Startled and immediately alarmed, he grabbed for it.

Hollander, it declared like that made any sense. They still had two calls left, but Hollander always messaged first. He liked an appointment, a place to slot Scott away in his schedule. They were usually after dinner like Scott was a sensible dessert.

They did not occur at five am. Especially not when the MLH awards had been last night and Hollander should be enjoying Vegas with a fancy plaque like God and Crowell intended. So it was what? Midnight there? One am?

"Hello?" Scott asked, fully expecting to hear the noise of a party from a butt dial.

"Hi," Hollander said. His voice was cracked and exhausted, the single syllable carrying a lot of weight.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked.

"Nothing. I'm fine," Hollander said.

"Okay," Scott said. His shoulder was cold, so he tugged the blanket further up. "I texted before, but congratulations. You deserve the award."

"Thanks," the word had been drained of meaning, likely through repetition through the long reception. Scott remembered the feeling.

"So. Did you drink? Party? Go back to your room?" Scott prompted.

"I had a drink. A few of the older guys did shots with me."

Was Hollander drunk? He didn't sound it, but Scott had never heard him drunk, so what did he know?

"That's tradition."

"I'm sorry," Hollander said. "I shouldn't have called and woken you."

"I was awake. Couldn't sleep. Tell me why you called though. I'm starting to worry."

"I think I fucked something up with someone I liked tonight. Or they fucked it up. Maybe we both did, I don't know."

"Oh," Scott said and closed his eyes, "you were drinking and you saw them?"

"Yeah," Hollander said. "I think…Lily. Her name is Lily."

Had Scott misjudged things? Or maybe Hollander liked both. That was always possible. Good for him. That would make it way easier.

"What happened with Lily?"

"She seemed upset so I tried to figure out what was wrong, but I just made it worse somehow. I don't know. Then she kissed me, but it felt wrong because we were both pissed off. I don't know. I think I fucked it."

"You won't know unless you talk to her about it. Not right now, maybe. Give her a day or two to cool off."

"She leaves the country soon," Hollander said. "She lives really far away. I don't know if she'll talk to me while she's gone."

"International calls can be expensive," Scott acknowledged. "Maybe get her email address. I think that's better than texting sometimes. Gives you more room to express yourself."

"I'm bad at talking," Hollander muttered.

"Writing is better. You have time," Scott explained. "You can really put a thought together. Hell, write letters if you can get her address. It's romantic."

"We're not romantic," Hollander said.

Was that how the straights did it now? Just fucking? Hell, who was Scott to judge? He had some good back and forth with guys and then they'd disappear out of his bed. Maybe that was the world now, devoid of the romance from the movies his parents had loved. The ones he'd pretended made him gag when he was a kid and now he rewatched, trying to remember what parts they'd both liked. Was he even remembering right? Maybe it had been only his mother that liked them and his father had suffered along. But no, he was almost positive they would hold hands and watch them together with Scott hugging a pillow on the remaining couch cushion.

Almost positive. Maybe.

Enough that what Scott wanted was that faded hope. He wanted to sit on a couch and hold hands while Harry ran through the streets on New Year's Eve to tell Sally he wanted the rest of his life to start right now.

"Okay," Scott said. "Why not?"

"She's not like that. I don't know. Maybe I'm not like that. I just like… you know. She's a good kisser."

Scott shook his head, but kept his voice level, "Okay. Still. Romantic or not, if you're this cut up about a fight, apologizing in a longer form wouldn't kill you."

"It might," Hollander said darkly. "She might kill me."

"Dangerous lover you picked up."

"Ew, gross, don't use that word."

"What do you want to call her then?"

"Lily," Hollander said, probably not aware of the reverence in his voice. "She's just Lily."

"Apologize to Lily then," Scott said. "Or ask her if she even wants one, I don't know. Maybe she owes you one."

"Maybe both," Hollander conceded. "But if I don't, she never will."

"Okay then."

"Scott?"

"Mmhm?"

"Thank you. For picking up."

"Always," Scott said.

"For two more phone calls. Unless this one counts?"

"No, Hollander. Just always," Scott said, his eyelids were getting mysteriously heavy as the adrenaline spike from the phone ringing wore off at last. "You can call me whenever you want."

"I- okay," Hollander said softly. "Really? I can pay."

"I don't need money to listen to you destroy other teams," Scott said with a soft laugh. "I like it. You can tell me about Lily too. Whatever."

They might have said more, but Scott didn't really remember. At some point after that, he fell asleep. With the haze of sleep, the two months between conversations, and all the rest, Scott could almost forgive himself for never putting two and two together when Rozanov asked him upon his return to New York to help with an email to his girl. Almost. Fucking always just almost.

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: re: the balcony

If you could not ask me about home, I would like that. It is not a thing I like to think about until I have to. It is not good to me the way your home is good to you.

I still want you. I still think about you. All summer, every time I go for a run, I think of you running beside me. Maybe I am chasing you. I think you would like that. I am chasing you. October. Tell me yes to October.

Chapter 2: the voice from the shadows

Chapter Summary

November 2012 - August 2014

November 2012

"Do you want to come up?" Scott asked.

Theo smiled at him. It was not a very warm smile. Dinner had been as good. They'd had a lively conversation. They were the same age, both relatively wealthy and independent. Both of them liked sports (baseball for Theo, but these days Scott was conversant in it enough for conversation). By all accounts they were getting along swimmingly. Had Scott missed something? Misread something?

Theo leaned in and kissed him. Right out on the street which still did something to Scott's nerves, but he didn't flinch from it. He'd made that mistake early on and that had been a very unpleasant discussion.

"I think we want different things," Theo said as he drew away. "Sorry, but this isn't going to work out."

"Seriously?" Scott stared at him. "You kissed me and now you're saying that?"

"You're a good kisser. Can you blame me for getting a last one in?" Theo said.

"Yes," Scott said through gritted teeth. "I really can."

He turned his back on him and walked towards the front door of his building. Only to find Rozanov leaning against the wall, watching him with his eyes so wide they might roll out of his skull. Shit.

"What are you doing here?" Scott asked, more roughly than he meant to.

"You said I could come when I got back," Rozanov reminded him. He was tense now. Nervy.

"I thought you were getting in tomorrow morning," Scott said. "I- never mind. Are you coming up or what?"

"Coming up," Rozanov said without any hesitation. "Did you want that man to kiss you?"

"I did," Scott said because what was the point in hiding it. "I could've lived without what he said afterwards. Problem?"

"No."

Huh. That was…nice. He hadn't told Rozanov anything because Scott had given himself an unpleasant crash course on gay rights around the world early into his new career. Nothing about Rozanov had made him think he was particularly hateful, but no need to test things. Hollander had been a calculated risk. Rozanov could've been a gun backfiring in his hand.

Except, apparently not.

"Great," Scott said and banged through the doors and punched the 'up' elevator button with a little too much verve.

"You are very mad for getting a kiss you wanted," Rozanov observed.

"He kissed me then said that he wasn't interested."

"What a fucker," Rozanov said mildly. "First date?"

"Third."

The elevator door opened and they got in. Rozanov leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest and watching Scott like a cat eying up a mouse.

"You are gay or bi?"

Scott blinked. Okay. That was actual awareness beyond 'not going to punch you over being gay'. That was nice.

"Gay."

"You give me a lot of advice on women for someone who is gay."

"Radical idea here, but women? Are people," Scott said dryly. "I know how people want to be treated, generally speaking."

Rozanov smiled. One day, Scott was going to accurately predict the guy's reaction to something and then they might both drop dead.

"They are," Rozanov said. "You are very strange."

"So's your face," Scott grumbled and got out his keys as the door opened again. "How was the roadie?"

"Only good in the middle. I liked playing Toronto."

"You beat them 5-1."

"Yes," Rozanov said with satisfaction. "They are very fun to beat. Very sore losers."

"Yeah, that tracks," Scott said. Barking started up as he put the key in the lock. Then the sounds of hopeful claws against the door. "Down! We're almost there. For the love of fucking god, this dog."

"Do not speak this way about my dog," Rozanov chided.

"He's my dog," Scott said, getting the door open at last.

"Mine. You are only holding him for me."

The dog in question rocketed into the hall, yapping wildly and trying to scale Rozanov like a tree. He was handsome fellow, long thick fur so white it was blinding and a proud snout. With one soft brown eye, he regarded Rozanov with slavering devotion even though Scott was the one that had fed him every day for the last two months.

In fairness, Rozanov was his savior. He was the one that had spotted the stray on the tarmac in Philly, rife with infection and coat shot through with dirt. Through sheer charm of both dog and man, they convinced everyone to let him take it back to New York on the team plane then rushed him to a vet. Rozanov had paid all the bills without hesitation while putting Scott on speaker to make sure he understood the prognosis when the vet laid things out for him.

By the time Scott had seen the dog in person, Rozanov was clearly in love and also heartbroken about not being able to home the poor bastard.

"I am away too much," he'd said mournfully. "But maybe no nice family will want a dog with one eye."

"I'll take him," Scott had said as the beast sniffed his fingers with drugged curiosity. "You can visit as much as you want."

So now Scott had a dog and a custody agreement that meant Rozanov came to his place as soon as he got back from away games and sometimes before home games. Sometimes on days off too if Scott's time matched up. Mostly it meant that whenever Scott was done being paid to help rookies, he had another one underfoot. Even if Rozanov wasn't technically a rookie anymore, he still felt like Scott's in spirit.

Scott made a low whistling sound. The dog hesitated then trotted to Scott's side with a small huff.

"Good boy," Scott praised, then got down his leash. "Want to walk him with me or you want to hang out here?"

"Walk," Rozanov said like it was obvious.

So the three of them went back out into the night.

"I named him," Scott admitted when they got out to the sidewalk.

"Oh, he is not 'dog' forever?"

"Odin," Scott said and the dog looked up, expecting a treat. "No, you don't get one for that anymore, bud."

"What is this?" Rozanov asked. "Like a bad smell."

"That's odor. He's Odin. A Norse god," Scott said, a little self-consciously. "He gave up an eye for wisdom."

"This is a bad trade," Rozanov said. "But a good name."

"Really? Thought you'd hate it. Want a Russian name."

"I do not need to hear more Russian names cut up in American mouths. Odin is good. A god's name for a dog is very funny."

As if he was aware he was being discussed, Odin paused in his ramblings to cock his head to one side to regard both of them.

"I don't know if it's a bad bargain," Scott said, reaching down to rub a hand over Odin's head in reassurance.

Rozanov stood silent at his side, his gaze going past man and dog to some vanishing point in the distance.

"An eye is a big thing to lose."

"Yeah," Scott said, straightening back up with care. His knee ached on days like this, too cold and wet. Maybe it was better that Theo hadn't wanted to come up. Sure. He'd go with that. "But wisdom is a big thing to gain."

A jogger went by them, huffing and puffing. It shook them both out of wherever they'd wandered and they started walking again.

"Will you come to Carter's birthday party?"

"Yeah, of course. You going?"

"I am helping to throw it," Rozanov said with a curl of pride. "They know I am good at parties now and we cannot let Carter make his own."

"Great. Can't wait to get drunk as a skunk."

"What is this one?" Rozanov asked.

"I think it's just because they rhyme. Not sure skunks get particularly drunk."

"I like it," Rozanov decided. "Drunk as a skunk. Yes, we will all do this."

"Hope you're planning on ordering a fleet of cars to get everyone home."

"Yes, of course," Rozanov said as if that were obvious. Maybe it was.

They wound around the block, then back up to Scott's apartment. He made them both hot chocolate which Rozanov took with a wry expression, but no comment. Maybe his hands were cold too.

"So I never asked if you hooked up with your girl," Scott said, taking the armchair while Rozanov spread out on the couch. Odin leaped up to press in alongside him.

"Yes, I did," Rozanov said.

Scott waited, but there was no more forthcoming. Which was definitely weird.

"Was it bad or something?"

"No," Rozanov said. "It was….I don't know. I think maybe she thinks it was more than it was."

"I thought you two were on the same page about things."

"We were. Are. I don't know."

"You could talk to her about it."

Rozanov pressed his lips together and Scott groaned.

"What?" Rozanov frowned harder.

"Please tell me you did not fuck this girl for the first time and then stop talking to her."

"What if I did?" It was a challenge, but a weak one. An ashamed one, hopefully. Fuck.

"I'd say that is a low fucking move," Scott said heavily. "Come on, man. You have to know how shitty that is. You hounded her for months to give it up and I fucking helped you. Don't make me complicit in this."

"Complicit."

"Like I helped you do a crime."

"It is not a crime not to reply to boring texts," Rozanov bit off.

"It is cruel though," Scott said. "You know that it is."

"Maybe I am a cruel person."

It was possible. Certainly Scott had read people wrong before. He wanted to believe that he hadn't befriended that kind of guy though.

"Maybe," he said roughly. "Not any part of you I've seen though. Maybe she got the wrong idea because you were good to her while doing something that can be scary. And maybe you got scared too."

"I am not scared," Rozanov said, the words sharp, but quiet so he didn't stir Odin.

"Then why didn't you just text her back and tell her that you had a nice time, but it's not going to work out?" Scott asked. "Or better, see if you've even got the right hold on the situation?"

Rozanov shook his head and said nothing. For a moment, Scott thought he'd really been wrong. Maybe he really had helped Rozanov sleep with a girl to drop her like a hot potato when he saw the next thing.

Then Rozanov turned his face away entirely. Hiding.

Scott waited.

Rozanov pet Odin slowly, his fingers sinking into thick white fur. The only sound in the room was the tick of the radiator.

"If we have feelings, we are so fucked," Rozanov whispered. "So fucked, Scott, I cannot explain. It is so bad."

"I don't get why, but okay. If that's true, then you remind her of that. Nicely. Tell her you're worried it's gone too far. You don't leave silence. There's too much room in silence."

"Will you help me?" Rozanov asked, his voice a wreck.

"Yeah, of course."

There was a legal pad that Scott kept in his bedside table. He had used it to help Rozanov last year. The emails were drafted between them in Scott's handwriting first, then Rozanov typed them into his phone. The final product was never for Scott's eyes, but that was fine.

He never got to hear the responses either. Did she respond? Sometimes Rozanov seemed to be fishing to things that answered questions when he got Scott's aid, but were those asked out loud or sent later? Or were they things Rozanov just wanted to tell her without provocation? The last seemed the least likely.

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: last month

I won't be boring and say I've been busy (that is what you would say, I think, when you want to make excuses). I was thinking. Too hard.

It was a very good night. You were so good. Too good for me.

It was a lot. Bigger than I thought.

We can't be more. We can't ever be more. But I want what we can have still. Do you? I will text you tomorrow, once I know you've had a chance to read this.

January 2013

The phone rang and Scott was pathetically grateful for it. The gym was still a place of safety. Pushing his body felt good as long as he was smart about what exercises he did. Getting home and showering was good too, but then on his days off there was a long stretch of time. Odin helped. He had his own needs and demands. There were things to do, errands to run. Eventually though, there was only Scott in a quiet apartment, trying to pretend any of his supposed hobbies really interested him.

He checked the caller ID and immediately hit accept.

"Hollander!"

"Hey, sorry to call without texting."

"That's twelve apologies and we're only two weeks into the new year," Scott said.

"It can't be twelve," Hollander grumbled. "We've only talked twice."

"And yet."

"Fuck off."

Scott leaned against the kitchen counter and smiled out at the view. "What's up?"

"Nothing really," Hollander said. "Want to hear something stupid?"

"Always."

"I have nothing to do today," there was a tiny incredulous laugh, "I checked my calendar twice, but there's literally nothing."

"Jesus, call the New York Times," Scott said with a low whistle. "A Hollander with an actual day off?"

"I don't know what to do with it."

The admission was self-deprecating and maybe meant as a joke, but it struck Scott hard.

"I'm in the same boat. Team is away, so there goes my social life and I did everything that needed doing yesterday."

"No Derek?" Hollander asked. He hesitated around the name, but he always tried to be casual about Scott's dating life. The effort counted.

"He went to a work conference," Scott said.

"Oh that's-"

"He went a week and a half ago for a three-day conference. Haven't heard from him since, so either it's a very long three days or I've been ditched. Again."

"Shit," Hollander said. "Sorry, man."

"It's all right. I figured it was a lost cause. As soon as the word 'intense' comes up, the countdown starts," Scott said ruefully.

"You're not intense. You just know what you want."

"That's really nice of you to say, but I think in this case, might be a case of birds of a feather doing some flocking."

"Are you saying I'm intense?" Hollander asked flatly. "Me? Scott. I'm so laid back."

"You know, I was just thinking that guys that don't know what to do with days off are the most relaxed kind."

"Yeah because we relax too much on work days."

They both laughed at that and Scott considered his options. "You want to watch a movie together?"

"Like sync it up or something?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

There was a lot of fun to be had in choosing something to watch. Hollander had an edge on Scott, having the long hours to fill on planes still. Listing movies off to him meant getting to hear a lot of opinions about what he'd seen recently. That Hollander would like action movies was obvious, but he was also very into thrillers and mysteries, comfortable with the horror as long as it wasn't very gory. They were limited to the options that Netflix was streaming in both countries, yet it still took nearly an hour to settle on Fallen which Scott had seen and Hollander hadn't.

Aside from a few clarifying questions, Hollander watched with quiet intensity. Scott almost could have been alone except for the slight rasp of Hollander's breathing and occasional clink of him taking a drink from a glass then setting back down. The small sounds were enough. When 'Time is On Your Side' played over the closing credits, Hollander breathed out, "What the fuck."

"Yeah, it's a real gut punch ending," Scott said.

"That is so fucking creepy," Hollander said. "But really good. I liked it."

"Right? It's got a hypnotic quality to it."

"I thought that plan was so smart too. I would've fucked it."

"Oh, hard same, but then like…you know. If you lived that long and had done something that many times, I guess it's all been tried before," Scott mused.

"So you'd have to come up with something really wild to trap it. Maybe go to the middle of the ocean alone and do it there. Even if it jumps to a fish, it'd be lost out there for a long time."

Scott hummed, "Good plan, but hard to get out into the middle of the ocean on a one-man boat. What if you went way up North?"

They bandied around ideas for another few minutes before they finally said their goodbyes. A good chunk of the afternoon had passed. Scott stayed on his couch for a few minutes longer, not watching anything or even particularly aware where it was. It was just nice to hold on to the company of the call for a little longer. Hollander was good company.

March 2013

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: next meeting

I dream about your cottage now. You described it too much and now I feel I know it. Do you know how you sound when you talk about it? It sounds like a place too calm to be enjoyed. You will need some excitement in it when it's done. Someone to make it loud and joyful as you are inside.

Is it strange to dream of a place that doesn't exist yet? I dream of home often. I wish I did not. I wish my new city were always my home, so I would only walk these streets in my sleep.

What do you dream about? Serious dreams or none at all? Do you dream in statistics and in plays? Or do you see your cottage like me? Maybe we're both there sometimes, walking the shore of your lake.

May 2013

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: words words words

Sometimes I have too many, but usually too few. The time we have together is too small to waste with talking, I think, then I leave and I find I still had much to say. Does this happen to you to? I wonder why you ask me so many questions. Is it to make sure you get them all out of your head? You can ask them here. Maybe with more time, I can answer better. Or not. There are some things that are too much to say in any way that I have.

June 2013

The phone rang at 2am. Hollander.

"Hey," Scott said. Awake, unfortunately. "Who died?"

"No one. Sorry."

"Fifty-eight."

"Fuck off."

"I was awake, don't worry about it. What's up?"

"Can we watch a movie?" Hollander asked. "I hate this city."

"Vegas? You're in Vegas, right?"

"Yeah. I had to do the whole dog and pony show. Lily was here, but we didn't even get a chance to talk. She has a lot of friends and I'm- I don't know what to do with myself. I can't sleep."

"Of course," Scott said thickly. "Something easy though, okay? I can't do tricky plots at this hour."

He didn't need to bother for long. Hollander fell asleep after a half an hour, his breathing rhythmic in Scott's ear until he too dropped off. He woke in the morning to a dead battery. When he plugged his phone back in, it was to a text from Hollander:

Your nose whistles when you sleep. Maybe use a saline spray or something.

What a dick. Scott laughed himself into the start of the day.

July 2013

The dress was perfect, layers on layers of lace. Aline had let her hair down, gently curled and it flowed over her shoulders like a second veil. Her mother kept taking pictures even though there were a fleet of photographers.

"You look gorgeous," Scott told her. His presence in the bridal suite had caused some consternation, but Aline would not allow him to join the crowd.

"I need my rock," she said over and over, stony-faced herself.

So now here he was, misplaced duck among the swans. He'd been to dozens of weddings. Hockey players loved to get married. Sometimes he'd even been a groomsman. But hanging out with a bunch of guys getting tipsy and doing fuck all until a half hour before go time had nothing on the complications of the bridal suite. Scott had done his best to be quietly useful, fetching drinks and tissues in equal measure.

"Thank you, Mr. Hunter," Aline said now, very primly.

"Show him the hem!" One of her friends laughed. "I love that. I'm totally doing it for my wedding. Is that weird if I'm not Brazilian?"

"I think it would be nice," Aline said. She reached down and picked up her hem to show him.

There was a band of blue that ran under it with names sewn in. They were all women's names, except for his own.

"You put my name on your dress?" Scott asked. "Why?"

"It brings single people good luck in romance," she said with a small smile. "I think you need a little."

"That is…really nice and also so mean," he laughed. "Thanks."

She reached forward and took one of his hands in both of hers, giving it a squeeze. "I want you to be this happy too. I would not have this happiness without you."

"You would," Scott said, trying to push through the burr in his voice. "You're incredible. You didn't need me."

"I did," she said. "Truly, I did."

"Not as much as I needed you," he muttered, aware that the women around him were having a very out sized 'awwwww' reactions. He would never ever get used to being the 'gay best friend'. It still felt like a label that should shrivel and fall to the ground whenever it attempted to attach itself to him. "Still do."

"Good thing I am only getting married and not dying. Stop looking so worried," she scolded. "You'll give yourself wrinkles."

The ceremony was long and beautiful. Scott didn't follow most of it. Instead, he watched Aline holding hands with Carl, both of them dewy-eyed. Scott's throat closed up and his eyes burned, but he kept a smile on. He wouldn't look worried or sad on her day, even by accident. Somehow, he wound up next to Aline's mother and she clutched at Scott's arm every time she was emotionally moved. She was moved for most of it.

Maybe it had to do with Scott's wedding present being first class flights for Aline's entire immediate family. He'd wanted to do something bigger, but Rozanov of all people had talked him off the ledge. Rozanov, who was here tonight, along with Castle and a few of their other alums. The ones that Aline had taken shine to, anyway. Mixed with a few of Carl's co-workers, they got a tiny clutch of hockey people in a corner of the reception hall which was apparently rented until 6 AM.

"We don't give up at midnight like Americans," Aline had told him gravely. "Pace yourself."

When he relayed that to Rozanov at the open bar, the smirk had been legendary in scale.

"Do you hear this man?" Rozanov said to Castle. "He thinks we care what Americans do."

"I care a little sometimes," Castle said as the threw back another tequila shot. "But not tonight. Come on, Cap, keep up!"

"Fuck my entire life," Scott mumbled, but he gamely took his shot too.

It was a good thing he'd gotten merry because there was a lot of dancing to be had and he was not allowed to sit it out. Aline pulled him from his chair and he couldn't deny her. Then he was passed around to every woman in her family and half the ones in Carl's. By the time he begged for mercy, he was limping a little, his knee reporting in various complaints, and fell into his chair.

"Old man," Rozanov said, settling in beside him. His curls were plastered down with sweat, his designer suit down a jacket and a tie. The sleeves of shirt had been neatly folded up to his elbows. There was a glass in his hand. "Here."

"Thanks," he said, taking the water and briefly considering it dumping it on his head, before giving in and drinking it. "Having fun?"

"This is the best wedding I have been to," Rozanov said, apparently in earnest. "Everyone is happy, so much dancing, so much drinking. It is like a club, but people of many ages are in it. I like it."

Turning a little, Scott watched the heaving dance floor. Carl was pink in the face with the effort of keeping up with Aline, but the man hadn't given up. He dipped her down low and kissed her as one song crashed to a closed and rose up into the next. A phalanx of children from both sides had formed a spinning circle of overtired chaos. Carl's grandfather was dancing carefully and slowly with Aline's great-aunt.

"Do you ever want to get married?" Scott asked.

"Maybe," Rozanov said. "Someday. Not now. I have too much fun to stop right now."

"I think marriage can be fun. Just because you're not fucking your way coast-to-coast doesn't mean you can't have a good time or go out."

"The marriage you want is like this," Rozanov declared. "Hunter wants to stay home with his dog and read books. Watch movies. Hold hands."

Scott finished off the water, setting down the glass, turning to give Rozanov a hard look. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Rozanov said, his voice almost lost in the music. He wasn't smirking or laughing. If anything, he looked as tired as Scott felt. "I think it is very nice. Also very false. Who really does this?"

Scott gave him a long hard look and Rozanov's eyes dropped to his drink. His shoulders were a little slumped. He'd go back to Russia soon. That never put him in a good mood. Between that and the party atmosphere, Scott could give him a few inches.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Scott told him.

"You are more drunk than I thought."

"No!" Scott protested. "Well…yeah, probably, but listen, Rozanov, just because it hasn't happened to you or me doesn't mean it can't. Do you really think that Aline and Carl aren't going to spend the next fifty years with each other, having a great fucking time?"

The couple was laughing now. Rozanov's eyes tracked over her face and then he shrugged. "I hope this for her."

"Yeah, me too," Scott said with a sigh.

They didn't sit out for long and they didn't say anything else. Scott did catch Rozanov's chair moving a little closer, even as he sat back like he couldn't quite break out of the table's gravitational pull.

Scott stayed until 6 am. He was a mess by the end, the first all-nighter he had pulled in years. Aline laughed at him and kissed his cheek as he handed over the bag she had tucked away in the bridal suite.

"Do not fall apart without me," she warned.

"No promises," he said. "But I'll make sure to clean up the pieces before you get back."

August 2013

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: returned to the same continent

What if we stole a night? I can be there in five hours.

October 2013

The first game of the season wasn't even close. Scott and Aline jumped out of their seats as Rozanov topped off a hat trick with such a gorgeous bit of skating that Scott knew it would make highlight reels.

"Let's fucking go!" He shouted, punching the air.

"He's on fire!" Aline said, clapping her hands together. "Oh! Castle has him…and he's in the air. That can't be a good idea."

"He's made of tough stuff," Scott said with a laugh, giddy on the wave of the adrenaline. "They'll both be fine."

They had gone to games for years now together, taking these same seats. It was strange, but for the first time, Scott felt no impulse to run down to the ice. The makeup of the team had changed, only a few familiar faces still down there from his time. It was Carter's team to captain now, Rozanov chomping at his heels with his fresh 'A'.

Aline tucked hand in the crook of Scott's arm, probably trying to warm up her fingers, but it was nice to have the closeness anyway.

"I think they have a chance this year," she said.

"Yeah, me too. Too early to really start talking about it, but their cohesion is incredible. Carter is a hell of a captain. Better than I was."

"Mr. Hunter, you are very stupid," she said with an eye roll.

"I know," he laughed. "Thanks."

He got several texts inviting both of them out to the bar to celebrate.

"I want to go home, but you should go," Aline said. "You'll have fun."

"Will I?" he asked wryly, but he went because she glared at him.

The Admirals' regular spot was a decent place that was more narrow than it was long, but had a good beer selection. Scott secured himself a stout and then joined several rowdy tables towards the back.

"Sit," Rozanov said as soon as he saw him and practically tripped him into a chair. "Vaughn thinks you have critique for us."

"A game like that?" Scott asked, giving Carter an incredulous look. "What the fuck would I have to say?"

"You just had that storm on your face during third period," Carter said with a shrug.

"Why are you looking at me?" Scott snorted. "It was a beautiful fucking game. I was just lost in thought or something."

"If you have something, tell," Rozanov demanded. "Castle! Tell this man to talk!"

"Hm?" Castle glanced up from the row of shots he was doing with Huff. "Ah! Hello, Cap!"

"Hi, Castle," Scott said warmly. "Hey, maybe next time don't dangle Roz around like a stuffed animal you won at a carnival game, huh? He's expensive."

Castle laughed quietly and nodded, "Yes, Cap. I will remember his expensive bones."

"That save in the late second against Bower? High quality."

"Thank you, I have a very big bruise now," Castle said contentedly.

"That is not what I meant," Carter grumbled while Roz looked outrageously offended. That was until his phone rumbled and his attention went to his phone like an arrow finding it's target. "And you know it."

"If you want me to consult, pay me," Scott said, elbowing Carter. "Don't get so fixed on the bad stuff. It was a very good game."

"Yeah, yeah," Carter said. "I hear you."

Conversation continued apace until Rozanov abruptly took a call and stalked off. When he came back, he was smiling and slammed both hands down on the table to get everyone's attention.

"For fuck's sake," Bennett complained, barely saving his beer from going over. "What is it, kid?"

"I am going to the fucking Olympics!" Rozanov declared. "I will be Russian Captain!"

There was a beat of silence as the soused gathering attempted to absorb that. Then Carter was on his feet, both arms thrown around Rozanov like he was the Cup embodied.

"Drinks for our boy! First round is on me!" Carter declared, giving Rozanov a happy shake. "Fucking beautiful! That's my A!"

The cheers went up around the table and Scott settled in for a long night of drinking. It must be morning in Russia if they let him know. He watched Rozanov celebrate, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. A phone rang, Rozanov's jaw tightened as he pulled it out from his pocket. Without even meaning to do it, Scott reached out and snatched it out of his hand.

"What the fuck?" Rozanov demanded. He didn't snatch it back though or lash out physically. He looked at Scott waiting for a reason.

Trust. Friendship. Scott knew that was between them, but this felt like flower on a plant they'd been cultivating just out of sight of each other.

"Just for tonight, Roz. Tell them your battery died or you had to go give a statement to the press," Scott said, quiet enough that maybe only Carter would hear, but he was focused on Huff. "I'll hold onto it. Give it back to you in the morning. It's a big night. A great game. You're going to be captain of an Olympic team. One night just to enjoy that."

For a moment, Scott was sure Rozanov would snatch the phone back from him. Every line of tension in his body suggested, but instead, the outstretched hand fell to the shot someone had put in front of him and Rozanov threw it back.

"You are inviting yourself over?"

"No, you'll have to come to mine. I can't leave Odin by himself all night. But if you sleep in the guest room, he'll probably sleep with you."

That won the day. Rozanov gave a small nod, then called out for another round, giving Huff's shoulder a hearty shake when he said it was on him. After that, Scott made sure his shots wound up in front of someone else. He rotated it so no one caught on. He had driven in tonight and he intended to drive out, so he was sober as a judge trying to wheedle a very drunk Rozanov into his car.

"We go to club!" Rozanov demanded, not for the first time.

"Nope," Scott said. "It's 2 am and you have practice tomorrow afternoon."

"It is a special day! Let me be special."

"You can be special in my car," Scott said. "I'll let you choose the music."

"Music in the car is not a club."

"Good observation. Car is a car."

The flip off was expected and well-executed. Scott rolled his eyes. "Get in and I will buy whatever horrific grease bomb you want to throw up in my second bathroom later."

"I do not throw up from drinking," Rozanov hissed. "I am made of iron!"

"Great. Prove it."

That went on for about five more minutes before Rozanov mostly fell into the passenger seat and almost lost a fight with the seatbelt. It was a little endearing how annoyed he looked trying to click it into place. Scott let him fight through it, aware that if he intervened it would very likely become a pathetic slap fight.

To his surprise, the ride home was peaceful after that. Having been successfully wrangled, Rozanov settled into a sleepy tipsy state, eyes half-lidded as Scott drove through streets that were still crowded, but no longer gridlocked. When a siren sounded, Rozanov startled upright then scrubbed at his face.

"I want a hamburger," he declared.

"If you're still awake when we park, you can have it."

"This is betrayal," Rozanov announced. "You said before I could have food. Now there are loopholes."

"I'm not shoving food into your limp body," Scott said, taking a turn with the kind of decisiveness one needed in city driving which meant Rozanov gently collided with the passenger door. "That's not a loophole, that's not wanting you to choke on your own vomit."

"I will not throw up."

"Promises, promises."

For better or worse, Rozanov did stay awake. Scott obligingly walked with him to bodega and instead of burgers, they got late night/early morning breakfast sandwiches with some construction workers, a random guy in a suit, and several other drunks. They ate them at the island of Scott's kitchen, Rozanov giving Odin a few small bites of egg when he thought Scott wasn't looking. His funeral, the egg farts would be in his bed not Scott's tonight.

When Rozanov got up, swaying only a little, he flicked his gaze over Scott. It was momentary, yet Scott felt it dragging over him like gloved hand.

"Thank you," Rozanov said. "For the phone. Do not fucking do it again."

"You're welcome and understood."

Rozanov waited, leaning in a little. Scott frowned. Had he missed something? He returned Rozanov's stare with puzzlement. Then Rozanov let out a huff of air. Not a laugh exactly, but not not one either.

"Okay. Good night, Scott."

"Night, Roz."

What the fuck was that about?

As predicted, Odin followed Rozanov into the guest room and Scott heard the tiny jingle of his dog tags as he jumped up onto the bed. Scott threw out the rest of the garbage and went to bed himself. He wasn't used to nights this late anymore and he didn't struggle to fall asleep even without the familiar comforting presence of his dog. Their dog. Roz's borrowed dog. Whatever.

Scott dreamed of nothing. He woke at the same time he did every day because brains were creatures of habit. When reached for the phone his bedside stand, he felt the stack of two. Listening, he caught no sound of Rozanov. Scott threw on clothes and put his head outside his door. The guest room door was still mostly closed, likely cracked open to let Odin leave if he wanted. Through the tiny sliver, Scott saw the mound of the duvet heaped over a body at rest. Good. One of them could sleep.

In case Rozanov woke up while he was in the gym, Scott left his phone on the counter and took his own downstairs with him. The building gym was usually empty at this hour and today was no different. Scott did the stationary bike, careful not to push it to the point of aching. The weights he still did like a coach might catch him slacking. There was nothing wrong with his upper body and he was well aware that sometimes that was the only thing that got him attention from men. Depressing, but at least it gave him an excuse to stay in shape when it would be easier to let it go.

A thought had occurred to him last night as soon as Rozanov had gotten the first phone call. It was a thought that had lingered into the night and woke up with him this morning. He didn't allow himself to check until he finished with his workout. There was no way the news would have hit before nine and even if it did, it would look insane for him text before that even if he knew it would be received by a very awake mind.

Hollander didn't sleep in anymore than Scott did.

As soon as he sat up from the last machine though, he grabbed for the phone and searched so quickly that he made several typos and had to start over again twice. Eventually though, he got there. The headline was very clear.

Scott: Congratulations, Captain Canada!

To his surprise and delight, the phone rang in his hand Hollander across the screen.

"Can you fucking believe it?" Hollander asked breathlessly. "Sorry, I've been talking on the phone all morning, I think I forgot I could just text back."

"Seventy-eight," Scott said with a grin. "I'm happy to hear from you. Your time has to be at a premium right now."

"You know how it is," Hollander said and he sounded a little giddy. "Everyone called at once and then it stopped all at once too. It'll kick back up again for the weekend news cycle, Mom says."

"Yeah, almost certainly," Scott said. "Olympic captain at 21! That's gotta be a record. Guess you're sharing it with Rozanov though. How do you feel?"

"It's a lot of responsibility and I'll do my best to make my country proud."

"Thanks number 24, but how do you actually feel?"

"Like I want to run around in circles until I pass out," Hollander confessed. "Holy shit, Scott! Fuck."

Scott laughed, "Yeah, that's how I felt too and I only made the team. Really proud of you, man. You're going to do so well."

"You think? Could be tough with a whole bunch of new guys, I don't know."

"I know," Scott said firmly. "You're going to walk into that room and bring it together."

"Okay, thanks for the pep talk, Captain," Hollander said with a soft laugh.

"Well…yeah okay. But as your friend, I really do think that. It's not just big words."

"I'm freaking out. A little," Hollander admitted.

"S'okay. It'd be weirder if you weren't. Would it help or hurt to know I'll be there to cheer you on?"

"You're coming?" Hollander choked out. Surprised? Upset? Hard to say.

"Yep. Got my finger in too many pies not to."

"Oh, yeah, that makes sense," Hollander said more evenly. "Clients?"

"Maybe," Scott said with a grin. "One ex-client for sure. Easy one though. You might've heard of him? Canadian terror on ice who apologizes too much?"

"Eat shit," Hollander said. Amused again. Good. "Cool. It'll be nice to have a friendly face in the crowd. A lot of families aren't coming."

"No parents for you?" Scott asked, incredulously. He thought the Hollanders came to everything.

"They wanted to. We talked about it a bunch, but in the end I'll barely be able to see them and Dad would use up most of his vacation time from work to hang around stadiums like we can at home," Shane said. He didn't sound troubled by that assessment and Scott wondered if Hollander had maybe nudged things in that direction on purpose.

"Makes sense," Scott said neutrally. "I'm only coming in for the last few days of the games."

"Maybe we can grab lunch or something? I won't be playing every day even if we make until the end."

"I'd like that," Scott said. "But you don't have to make me any promises. It's a busy time. If there's no good spot in your schedule for it, I get it."

"Okay," Hollander said. "We'll figure it out."

They hung up a few minutes later and Scott went back upstairs with a good feeling about this year. When he opened the door it was to find Rozanov cooking something at his stove while he talked seriously with Odin.

"Why does he not have meat in this house?" Rozanov asked. Odin cocked his head to the side like he was trying to catch the meaning as hard as he could. "Everything is oats and sadness."

"I haven't been grocery shopping yet this week, you twatwaffle," Scott said.

"What the fuck is this?" Rozanov asked eyes wide. "What is 'twatwaffle'?"

"Ask Bennett," Scott said. "He called a goalie from Vancouver that once and it was his only goalie fight."

"I will ask him," Rozanov said with evident delight. "Why are you smiling so much?"

"A man can't wake up happy to be alive?"

"A man can, yes. You? Not so much."

That was probably true and Scott wasn't going to examine it. "I do today. What are you making?"

"Your Chinese food leftovers."

"In a pan? Why?"

"Tastes better than the microwave," Rozanov said with a shrug. "You want?"

Fuck it. Scott wasn't on a performance diet anymore and it was from the good Chinese place. "Yeah, thanks."

It wasn't until after Rozanov left that Scott realized that half the reason he'd been in such a good mood was simply walking into his home and finding someone else in it. The other half was Hollander. His two best former clients.

January 2014

"Scott," Rozanov said with such intensity that Scott almost concussed himself on the coffee table. He'd been under it trying to fish out one of Odin's toys.

Prior to that, they had been watching the All Stars game. Rozanov had arrived with all his luggage hours ago with the intent of sleeping at Scott's place so Scott could drive him to the airport at ludicrous hour of the morning. That he could easily afford a car service was a given. Scott had just offered because…well because. Sometimes you needed to do the right thing, not the most efficient thing.

Aline had called this 'very stupid and very sweet, your favorite coffee order', then told him had to make it back by 10 to meet with a potential new client. So tomorrow would already be a barrel of laughs, without adding head trauma into the mix.

"What?" Scott asked, passing the toy back to Odin, who took it politely from his hand then started to far less gently attempt to murder it.

"You must be careful in Sochi," Rozanov said. There was no teasing about him. He spoke flat and dead. "You understand?"

For a blissful second, Scott thought Rozanov meant crime or something. Then reality sank in, frigid and biting.

"Yeah, Roz," he said. "I know. Trust me, I wasn't planning on looking for a hookup while I was there."

Rozanov's mouth tightened. "It is not-"

"I know," he said again. "I've taken a couple of precautions. I'm not out in anyway that's traveled as far as I know. I'm traveling with a bunch of other people and I'll be mostly staying near the Olympic Village."

"You have friends that aren't hockey and Aline?" Rozanov asked archly.

"Oh like you do?" Scott challenged. "I didn't say friends. I asked around and a former client of mine is going with a whole damn entourage, so I'm entourge-ing. If I'm not with them, I'll be bothering Vaughnie. Don't waste any brain space worrying about me, okay?"

"Okay," Rozanov said. He looked mostly soothed. "You know about the laws."

"I made it a point to look," Scott said. "It didn't make the news here as much as it should."

"And you will be careful."

"I will."

Not enough hours later, they drove through the dawn darkened streets, only a few hours of sleep between that moment and this one.

Rozanov asked him in the gray light, "Why go if you know?"

"Because I'm not letting other people's hangups stop me from living my life," Scott said. "I mean if I really thought I couldn't do it safely, I wouldn't, but I think the risk is low enough to be worth it."

Rozanov nodded once. "I will not be able to… I can't. But it is not because of you. You understand?"

"Yeah, I figured. Don't worry about it. I'll see you when we get back."

Dropping someone off at Departures as the sun woke up was a new on on Scott. It made him feel a little melancholy even as Rozanov gave him a last lazy wave. He waved back and wished he'd taken Odin with him even though the dog wasn't crazy about long car rides. Rozanov would probably have liked to get in a last hug.

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: overseas

Pretend that we are nothing there. I will pretend this too. It isn't real, I promise. Don't let it be real. Just keep us both safe and pretend.

February 2014

"I'm saying that we could probably get better ice cream-"

"Look," Carter said, putting out a hand to stop Scott dead in his tracks. "It's Hollander! Let's go say hi."

The irrepressible energy of Carter Vaughn did not wait for thought or reason sometimes. Scott was inside the little cafe before he'd decided if he wanted to or not. Credit where it was due though, Scott wouldn't have spotted Hollander on his own. He was too thickly swathed in a Canadian wet dream of a fleece and his eyes locked on his phone.

"Hollander!" Carter cried like he was being reunited with a long lost friend.

Hollander jerked up, spotted Carter first and offered a polite smile, then saw Scott behind him. The politeness wore off and to Scott's stunned suprise, he got a wide generous showing of teeth.

"Vaughn," Hollander acknowledged, then far more warmly, "Hi, Scott. I'm sorry I couldn't do lunch yesterday."

"It's only February and we're ticking up into double digits again," Scott tsked.

"Fuuuck all the way off," Hollander said with sparkling eyes.

It was his first time seeing Hollander as more than a figure on the ice in person since that first awkward juice bar meeting. Of course there were unavoidable amounts of ads and bits of interviews that Scott had caught, but it was different to see him in the flesh.

"You two know each other?" Carter asked, bemused. "How?"

For a second Hollander look stricken like Scott might spill everything all at once.

"I sent him a congratulations message when he got Rookie of the Year," Scott said. Which was true, so he didn't feel terrible about it. "Chatted some since then."

"Yeah," Hollander said a little weakly, apparently waiting for an interrogation. He did not know Carter.

"That's so cool!" Carter said, clapping Hollander on the shoulder. "Everyone should have a little Cap in their lives, you know? Did you get anything to eat here? I've been jonesing for some frozen yogurt."

"Just a tea, but that sounds good," Hollander said. He waited for Carter to bound off to order for them. "He still calls you Cap? He's had had the 'C' for years."

"Yeah," Scott said with a shrug. "I stopped arguing with him about it awhile ago. It's really good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," Hollander said.

They didn't get to talk much like they normally would, but it was nice anyway. When Carter suggested ice skating, Scott readily agreed though he didn't know shit about it.

"Is your friend Joe in this round?" Scott asked.

"You remembered that?" Hollander blinked.

"You trained with him, you said. I thought that was smart. Stuck with me."

"I knew a guy in college who swore by figure skater training," Carter said, inverting the spoon over his tongue. "He kind of sucked, but he did have good edges. Figure skaters…some of them have to be gay, right? You could get one right, Cap!"

Scott lifted his eyebrows and gave Carter a look. He caught Hollander going to still beside him. He waited until Carter busted out laughing.

"Your face!" He snorted. "Hollander, this guy. Wait- shit. Hollander knows, right? I didn't just-"

"Maybe check in before the ha-has next time," Scott said with an eye roll. "But yeah he knows."

"Oh fuck good," Carter blew out of a stream of air. "Sorry. Auto pilot. I'm always chirping at Scott because he's tragic about spotting other gay guys. I've got better gaydar than he does."

"You do?" Hollander asked with the kind of icy calm he usually reserved for the worst journalists.

"If mine is at 5% accuracy, his is at 7%, don't get excited about aiming him around," Scott said, making sure his voice was even and low. The cafe was noisy and no one was paying them any particular attention, but Rozanov's warnings still rung in his ears. "Carter clocked one guy for me and now he thinks he's the bestest straight ally every made."

"You had a hot date," Carter pointed out. "Not my fault he fumbled you."

"Other way around," Scott muttered.

"Doubt that," Hollander said, recovering himself. "I think you just have bad taste."

"That's what I've been saying for years!" Carter said, eyes going wide. "Hollander, man, are you on Team Get Scotty a Partner too? Cause it is lonely over here. Huff says he doesn't matchmake, Aline told me to mind my business, and Bennett keeps suggesting dead people."

"Dead people?" Hollander squeaked.

"The only people Eric will 100% believe are gay are guys who have said it in P.R. speeches," Scott explained. "It's nice, actually. He doesn't like to assume, but it does limit the pool. Pair that with the history degree and yeah, mostly dead guys."

"But he knows they're dead? Right?" Hollander asked, eyes getting even wider. "Does he expect you to date dead people?"

"He just likes to add to the conversation, you know?" Carter said with a fond sigh. "Goalies are so fucking weird."

"True," Hollander said, apparently taking some solace in that immutable fact.

The figure skating was nice. Given their late decision to attend, their seats weren't amazing, but they had a good amount of empty space around them.

"I have no idea how to judge if these guys are any good," Carter said. "It all looks impressive as hell to me."

"No one's asking for our ratings," Scott said. "We can just applaud and look it up later."

Hollander was mostly quiet at Scott's other side though he leaned forward intently when his friend got on the ice, watching him with a faint smile.

"I'll have to text him later," Hollander said. "I haven't actually spoken to him in a bit. That wouldn't be weird, right?"

"Nah," Carter said before Scott could. "I bet he'll be happy you came, even if you're not close or anything. It's such an intense thing, doing this shit on your own. I'm glad we're here with teams."

"Bet they basically have a team. Coaches, family and everything," Scott said. "But yeah, why not text? Everyone feels alone sometimes."

Hollander didn't reply. His attention had snagged on something in the rafters. Scott followed his eye line and there was Rozanov, glowering over the entire stadium dressed in all black like he was in mourning.

"Speak of the lonely devil," Carter muttered. "All fucking week before we left he was telling me to fuck off and not bother him here."

"Me too," Scott said. "But more because of…well."

Hollander shook his head. "Same. I think he's just weird about Russia."

"Oh, that's right, you guys are buds too," Carter said distantly, still watching Rozanov with his lips pressed together. "I hate this. He's going to be such an asshole when we get back. Takes like half of preseason to iron him back out from the summer."

"It does?" Hollander asked, a note of strain there.

"I think that's his business," Scott said firmly. "For now, we're doing what he asked, right?"

The other two consented with unhappy faces. What else they do though? A minute later, Rozanov was gone, leaving only the after effects of his miserable presence. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as the next skater started their routine.

"Oh shit," Carter muttered. "Buckle up, Hollander. Cap is planning."

"Shut up," Scott said vaguely.

"He is?"

Carter reached over and poked Scott between the eyebrows, "Planning line."

Scott swatted at him. "You have the manners of a feral four-year-old."

"Thank you," Carter said. "Last time you said toddler."

"What if we did something for him when we got home? Not something like a party, he'd take over instead of relaxing," Scott said. "But between the three of us, we could make things simpler, maybe."

"I could air out his place, stock his fridge," Carter suggested immediately. "He gave me the spare key to check on it when he's away in the summer."

"Doesn't he have a grocery service?" Hollander asked.

"He does, but he never remembers to restart them when he comes home," Scott recalled. "I keep telling him to just set a date, but I think he likes whining about it so I'll feed him."

"Huh," Hollander said. "I didn't know you guys were that close."

"Scott has his dog. It's a whole thing," Carter said with a snort.

"Odin is Rozanov's dog?" Hollander asked, his voice pitching up.

"No," Scott said, then sighed. "Sort of. He rescued him, but couldn't keep him so I did. He's my dog, but like…yeah. Rozanov loves dogs to an insane degree, so it's like the next best thing for him."

Hollander frowned fractionally, then nodded. "Okay. So you'll make him dinner when he gets back. Carter gets his place in order. I wish I could be in New York, but I'm going right back to a roadie."

"Send him a care package," Carter suggested with a grin. "Used to love shit like that when I was at college and I bet Rozy's never gotten one. It'll confuse the hell out of him."

"It would," Hollander said faintly. "I've never sent him anything."

"Keep it small," Scott advised. "Tongue-in-cheek. You're good at that."

"He is?" Carter asked. "Hollander, are you secretly funny?"

"No," Hollander said. "They surgically removed my sense of humor when I went pro."

Carter paused and then he was laughing, eyes bright. "Fucking fantastic! You are coming out with us next time we play Montreal! Can't believe I never thought of it before. Bring whatever Metros can hang without being dicks about it. Give me your number."

Watching Carter do his friendly bullying to put his number in Hollander's phone was almost sweet. It'd be sweeter if wasn't happening over Scott's lap, Hollander's dark hair almost tickling his chin, but whatever. Hollander was pleasantly warm and it was freezing in here. He smelled nice too. Minty.

Plans in place, they all relaxed a little, watching the last round of skating and parted with promises to talk later.

Or Scott thought they had parted. He was heading towards the bus that would take him back to his hotel when he found Hollander at his elbow again.

"Everything okay?" Scott asked.

"What Carter said before," Hollander said, practically in a whisper. "About you finding someone."

"You know the score, I'm terrible at it," Scott said, shoulder hunching in only partially against the cold. "I don't need help, I need a personality transplant."

"That's not true." Hollander elbowed him hard in the side. "Shut up with that. I just- is it because you can't figure out whose…you know or whatever? That never seemed like the problem. You go out on a lot of dates."

"I love Carter, but he's also kind of an idiot sometimes," Scott said. "I don't speculate on people's preferences out loud. I'm actually with Bennett on that one. Unless they tell the world at large or me in specific, then I'm not going to guess at it. That's not bad radar, that's just not being a dick."

"Oh," Hollander said softly. "That makes sense."

Then Scott got it. This had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Hollander. Not for the first time or even the hundredth, Scott wondered about Lily.

"Don't worry about my dating life," Scott said. "I do that enough for both of us, promise."

"I think you deserve to be happy. That's all," Hollander said.

"Thanks, Hollander. I am most days. Are you?"

There under the snow white sky of a country as foreign to both of them as the moon, Hollander stood like a statue. In his fleece, dark fringe over his forehead, he could have been a symbol of the Olympics itself. The pinnacle of athletic achievement, face set in somber contemplation of the win itself.

"Sure," he said. "Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you call me Shane, actually?"

"Of course. You want to get dinner, Shane?"

"I wish I could. We've got practice in an hour. Rain check?"

"Rain check."

March 2014

From: Soft Friends 929 Rue Levy Montreal, Quebec H3C 5K4

To: Ilya Rozanov 435 W 31st St, P2, New York, NY 10001

[Package Contains: Two stuffed animals, both dogs. One is a serious looking German Shepard with tiny maple leaf on a red felt collar. The other is a Husky with a yellow-gold felt collar and a black t-shirt that says 'I ❤️NY' on it. There is no note.]

June 2014

It was getting to be a habit. Maybe Scott should stop sleeping the night of the awards show. His phone rang at 4 am. Odin barked at it. Scott could hardly blame him even as he shushed him and fumbled for the phone.

Shane

"Hey," Scott rasped.

"What if I became a monk?" Shane blurted and he sounded awful. "Want to become a monk with me?"

"We're not religious. I think that's a requirement," Scott said, curling back in under the covers.

The cold covers. There had been Kevin for about six weeks. Scott really thought things were going well, but apparently Kevin didn't want to stay over more often. Apparently Scott was 'smothering his artistic free spirit'. Becoming a monk didn't sound that bad right now.

"Do you think so? No secular monks?" He was attempting to sound upbeat.

"Shane, what happened?" Scott asked. The bed shook as Odin launched himself up onto and made himself comfortable again.

"Sorry. I don't even know why I called."

"Forty-three," Scott said absently.

"Fuck off," Shane's voice cracked a little. "Fuck. Scott. I don't know. I think I made a mistake."

"What kind of mistake? Like I should start booking a flight and taking out cash for bail or-"

"No!"

"Yeah, I figured," Scott said soothingly. "I know. What did you do?"

"I think I might- fuck. I just wanted Lily to kiss me. Isn't that stupid? We had this really wild hook up and it was great. I liked it. But I think I stepped on a sore spot or something. I don't know. I don't know what I did, but she told me to leave and we didn't even kiss or anything. What if she hates me now?"

Three years of Lily at the awards. Was this a thing? Did she live in Vegas? Shane always made it sound like she was out of reach and that he preferred it that way. They crashed together a few times a year, hot and wild, then gone again spinning out from each other.

"I think you could just tell her that you want her to kiss you."

"We don't say things like that."

With a groan, Scott moved deeper under the covers, disappearing under them entirely.

"What we have here," he intoned, "is a failure to communicate."

"What's that from?"

"Cool Hand Luke. We'll watch it together sometime if you want."

"I'd like that," Shane said. "I don't think it's failure if you don't even try though. We don't have time to try."

Scott closed his eyes, embracing the darkness entirely, his focus entirely on Shane's voice. "You felt shitty enough about it to call me. I think it's time to try. Send a text. Just tell her how you feel."

"I don't know how I feel! I never fucking know!" The words broke like waves against a rock. Inevitable and ferocious. "When I'm with him, it's different, but as soon as I walk away it's something else. All the reasons, all the shit we can't- shit. Oh fuck."

Oh, fuck indeed. Scott did not feel vindicated. He just felt sick.

"I can unhear it if you want," Scott said.

"No, you can't," Shane said miserably.

"I can," Scott said. "For you, I can."

There was a long sticky stretch of silence and then Shane breathed out, tears in his voice. "I'm so scared all the time. How did you live like this?"

"I barely did," Scott admitted. "I played hockey. I spent time with my friends. I lied and lied. Then I went home and told myself the silence and loneliness were okay because they were safe."

Shane's breathing went ragged in his ear. Shit, shit, shit.

"Shane, deep slow breaths. You're okay. I promise, you're okay."

"I'm not," Shane gasped. "I'm going to have a fucking heart attack right now."

"I swear you aren't. Breathe in for me, then out real slow. I'll do it with you, okay?"

It took more breaths than Scott liked to remember later, but he got Shane back to not actively hyperventilating at least.

"This sucks," Shane said miserably. "I don't know why you're friends with me. All I do is wake you up in the middle of the night and lay shit on you."

"Factually inaccurate," Scott said. "Come on. We spend a lot more time watching movies and laughing than we do talking heavy stuff, you know that. You're a good friend to me."

"I was lying to you. About Lily. About me."

"Who gets that more than me? I'm not mad. Do you want to tell me about him? Now that I know?"

"I can't. It's not fair to him, you know? But…I don't know. I wish I liked being with him less. It makes it hard to find a woman when I'm comparing them to him."

"Do you want a woman?"

"Yes," Shane said flatly. "Of course."

"There's no 'of course'. I don't," Scott reminded him.

"But you're gay."

"I noticed."

"I'm not gay. It's just him. Mostly."

"Okay," Scott said. "Bi people are a thing. That's fine. But maybe it's only Lily for you anyway?"

"God, I hope not. I think he'd rather be stabbed then- doesn't matter. We can't. You know I can't."

Scott did. He'd been a big deal, but no one was Shane Hollander. The media circus, the public reaction, the league's response, all of it would be disproportional and horrific. Scott had hidden so deep in the closet it was shocking he hadn't met Mr. Tumnus and he'd never been as famous as Shane.

"I know. But you've been seeing him quietly for years with no one noticing. Maybe you could still be a little more. Maybe you have to ask."

"He didn't even kiss me tonight," Shane said bitterly. "What more can we be?"

"Why didn't he? Did you try and he turned you away? Cause then fuck that guy."

"No. Not exactly," Shane muttered. "It's just hookups, you know? I shouldn't put so much weight on it. "

"Hookups should still be satisfying. You should always get kissed if you want to be kissed. Guys who won't kiss are fucking cowards if you ask me."

Then as jolting and terrible as a bolt of lightening, the thought came to Scott: I would kiss you.

Well. Shit. That was a problem.

"They are?" Shane asked weakly.

"Kissing isn't some magical portal into commitment or something. It's just nice. Did he kiss you other times you hooked up?"

"A lot," Shane said. "Like a crazy amount, I think."

"Okay. Then text him and ask what bug was up his ass this time."

"He won't answer me."

"You don't know that. And if he doesn't then that's kind of an answer too."

He listened to Shane breathe. Beside him, Odin heaved out a heavy doggie sigh.

"Will you stay on the phone with me while I do?"

"Yeah, of course," Scott said.

"I don't even know what to say."

"Hey, asshole, why didn't you kiss me?" Scott suggested.

"You know what? That's actually perfect." Ten seconds later, Shane groaned. "I can't believe I just sent that."

"Good for you," Scott said. "Seriously. You're a brave guy."

"I'm really really not. A brave person would tell the truth, wouldn't they?"

"Brave doesn't have to be the sacrifice play. You have years of being incredible ahead of you. I know how much you love the game. Play the game. Maybe though…be a little brave in private. You were tonight."

"Because I told Lily off?"

"Because you called me. You told me."

"I didn't mean to."

"Didn't you?" Scott challenged. "Come on. Years of never slipping up and you did tonight."

"Made a mistake," Shane muttered. "But…a good mistake. I think."

"It's easier when you have someone to talk to. I told Aline first, you know."

"You did?"

"Yep because she thought I was trying to solicit her for sex."

"What!"

So Scott told him the story, softening the edges around it a little. It only occurred to him most of the way through that he'd never really told anyone the whole thing before. Aline had been there. The Admirals had mostly seen it unfold, except for the private parts. As far as Scott knew, Aline had even told Rozanov a slightly sanitized version at some point. At the very least, Rozanov had never asked for more details from Scott.

The sadness around that time was still there, but Scott found himself recounting it without any heaviness. The life he had now might not be one of total contentment, but he enjoyed his work and his friends. He had Aline, Carl, Carter, Bennett, Castle and Huff. There was Rozanov. There was Shane.

Fuck. There was Shane.

Shane who listened and asked follow up question, who remembered things Scott had told him in passing and connected them together. Shane, who could command a team of men older and sometimes larger than him with a short barking sentence, speaking to Scott so softly and sweetly as they shared this new layer of each other.

"Oh," Shane said as Scott's story finished at last. "He texted me back a few minutes ago."

"You should've stopped me."

"No, I wanted to hear the whole story," Shane said.

"What'd he say?"

"He thinks I should've asked for a kiss if I wanted one," Shane said with a curl of annoyance. "But…also that he'll make up for it next time we see each other. Shit. That won't be for months."

"Now you know though," Scott said.

"Now I know," Shane confirmed. "Wow. Okay. I feel a lot better."

"Good."

"I should let you go back to sleep. Sorry about tomorrow."

"Forty-four. And I'm not. Tomorrow will take care of itself if it needs to. I can take a nap. This was more important."

"Was it?"

"You're important to me," Scott said and hoped it didn't sound as raw as it felt. "But you should get some sleep to. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. You're important to me too," Shane said. He said it one blurry breath as if the words might get stuck in his throat otherwise. "Good night, Scott."

"Good night, Shane."

Scott hung up and groaned. He stayed under the covers.

He'd never been in love before. What a miserable way to start off. What a terrible thing.

And how beautiful. He held the feeling tight to him and feel asleep cocooned away from reality.

August 2014

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: returned again

I have a debt to pay. Do not let me collect too much interest. October is too far away. Come to me this time? Find a reason. You have so many. Or I will make one for you.

I always want to kiss you. Too much.

Anyone else would be easier. Simpler. But I do not want simple things. Except that kissing is simple. Come here and let me kiss you.

Please.

Chapter 3: They go down gracefully---a fall that seems like flying!

Chapter Notes

CW: This chapter contains talk about depression (although no one is using that word) and the depiction of a depressive episode.

October 2014

"That was really fun," HotBod816 said, giving Scott a languid last kiss by the door. "Message me if you ever want to do it again."

"Yeah, absolutely," Scott lied.

When he finally got the door shut behind the guy, Odin raised his head off the couch and gave him a judgmental look.

"I know, I know," Scott said. "But what do you want me to do? Never fuck again? Sure, okay, it's not as good when I don't know the guy. Still better than nothing."

Odin rested his chin back on his front paws and sighed heartily. Judgemental fucking dog. Of course he was Rozanov's. Although, Rozanov would probably approve of Scott's new game plan. Dating had lost it's flavor since July. Anytime he considered getting back out there, he thought of Shane and any desire to date died on the vine again.

So it had been back to the clubs and the apps, hooking up to keep the summer interesting. It was a little freeing to return to dancing and pulling someone's attention without any plan to find romance. Certainly, it made things easier. A lot of guys liked Scott's body as long as he didn't draw too much attention to the scars on his leg and made his accommodations seem like whimsical preferences instead of necessities.

Getting laid was easy and he enjoyed it while it was happening. Even for a few hours afterwards. Then it would fade like novocaine and the quietly throbbing ache in his chest would start up again. The want in him had gone from unfocused and wide to narrow as a laser pointer.

As if the very thought had summoned him, Scott's phone rang.

Shane

"Hello, winner," Scott answered, already walking towards the couch to settle in. "Five game streak is just showing off, you know."

"You haven't seen anything yet," Shane said happily. "Winning off Buffalo isn't big news anyway."

"Fair," Scott allowed. "I'm not sure why we have three teams in this state if only one of them is going to be any good."

"You're biased. None of them are any good," Shane chirped.

"Oh, you tell your buddy Rozanov that?"

"Regularly," Shane laughed.

"We won the cup last season," Scott reminded him, already smiling despite himself.

"And what have you done lately? Four losses and two wins in overtime? Sad."

"Mean," Scott grumbled. "We're just off to a slow start."

"Snails are outpacing you," Shane agreed.

"You're such a sweetheart," Scott said. "Canada's darling spitting poison like a viper."

"Do snakes spit poison? I thought they had to bite you."

"There's got to be spitting snakes. That feels like it should be a thing."

They watched a nature documentary together. Unlike the movies that Shane revered with silence, he had no issue talking over lizards. Debate raged about whether it was better to live as a lizard or a mammal if one had to be animal. It went on far longer than it should for two sober people.

"Shit, I've got to go to bed," Shane realized. "You're wrong, I'm right. Good night, Scott."

"You're a dick," Scott laughed. "Good night, Shane."

The documentary faded into credits and Scott turned the television off, plunging himself into darkness. He took Odin out for a last turn around the block, then got into bed. He opened his nightstand and pulled two pads of paper. One had the drafts of Rozanov's emails, but below that was Scott's new indulgence.

If he could write other men's love letters, why couldn't he write his own? It hurt no one, changed nothing, except giving him a place to pour out his feelings and seal them neatly away pen to paper. Even here, in the privacy of his own home, in his own bed, Scott didn't use a name. It was enough that he knew.

When does this phase of things end? When do I stop feeling so excited to see your name on my phone? When does this warm drugged feeling leave my veins? It's like you have a direct line to the simplest most animal parts of me and you wrap yourself around them to make yourself at home.

It should be more painful that you don't know, I think. Isn't that what people write music and poems about? But it doesn't really hurt. Maybe because I know it's impossible and that makes it easier to bear. My love is my own and I can tend it like a garden.

November 2014

"Pistachio latte." Scott set the paper cup on Aline's desk.

"Thank you! Carter texted me this morning," she said, her fingers not leaving the keyboard. "He said to tell you to check your phone once and awhile."

"I was going to text him back when I got settled in," Scott grumbled, worry nibbling at him.

He'd seen a message from Carter on his way back from the gym and just lost track of it with his morning routine taking over. Carter was not the kind of person that double texted. He certainly never reached out to Aline to poke Scott. Getting his phone out, Scott checked it as he booted up his machine.

Carter: Have you heard from Roz?

Scott: He was over last Friday. That's the last time we talked.

Carter: I talked to him on Thursday, haven't seen him since. He didn't turn up for optional practice yesterday. He always comes. I texted. Called. Nothing. Stopped by his apartment building, but he didn't answer the intercom.

Scott: You think he's hurt? Sick?

Carter: He's just been in such a shit mood. We're all a little worried about him. He's not even playing like himself and usually he pushes through everything to play well. Now no one's heard from him for two days. That's not like him.

Scott: Shit. Okay. I can try to call him.

Carter: We've all tried at his point. You're the only one who has a key to his place. Can you please go check on him?

"Roz isn't answering the phone," Scott said. "Carter says no one's talked to him since Monday. Did he text you or anything?"

"No," Aline said, her typing stopped dead. "Two days isn't that long for a grown man to go quiet. But it's him."

"Yeah, Roz isn't the quiet type," Scott chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Just go. I'll take Diaz at ten and the meeting with Josiah at 2."

"You hate Josiah. Anyway, Roz is probably just sleeping off a hangover, I can be back for him. Or I could wait to go over there until after."

Aline gave him a long look. Scott got to his feet without another word and put his coat back on.

"Tell him he's rude for making us worry," she said. "Text me."

"Will do."

The drive was a pain in the ass at 10am on a weekday and Scott kicked himself for not taking the subway the whole way there. The parking garage under Rozanov's building had very limited guest spaces and he barely fit into the last one. As he punched in his access code into the elevator, Scott considered the many ways he could tear Rozanov a new one if the guy was totally fine.

He was definitely fine. Shit happened.

At least his access hadn't been turned off so whatever was going on with him, Rozanov hadn't locked the door behind him. Which was definitely a good sign and not a sign that Rozanov was dead on the floor or something.

When Scott reached the door of Rozanov's apartment, he rang the bell. No one came. He rang it again. Then he knocked. Then he pounded. Roz probably wasn't home. So what if his ridiculous useless Ferrari was sitting in it's usual space? It was useless for a reason. Having a sports car in Manhattan was a particular brand of rich people stupid.

Reluctantly, Scott got out the key that was supposed to be in case something happened to Rozanov's place when he wasn't home. It definitely wasn't to break in because you were maybe having a panic attack over a grown man not answering his phone.

The apartment was dark. A corner unit in an expensive building, it boasted enormous windows that usually drew in so much light that Scott found it as actively obnoxious as its owner. Today they were all shrouded in curtains that Scott hadn't even known existed.

"Rozanov?" he called out. His voice sounded dulled, softened into a quieter register than he'd intended.

Flicking on the light by the door, Scott found the living room much the same as the last time he'd seen it. A few pillows and blankets were askew from their usual positions. Rozanov liked his house tidy and minimal, so it was noticeable. The kitchen was a worse. There was a bag of bread on the counter, half eaten. A takeout container sat next to it, the plastic fork stuck through the top like it had been brutally stabbed there. There was a bottle of liquor too, but as far as Scott could tell only a few shots had been taken out of it.

Dinner from last night? Had Rozanov had a date and simply over slept?

"Roz?" he called again.

No one shouted back, but he did hear a noise. Reluctantly, Scott moved down the hallway. It was dark down this way too. If this was a movie, Scott would be seconds away from getting stabbed or tripping over something horrifying.

Instead, he found Rozanov's bedroom door open and the man himself sitting on the floor in the dark, leaning up against his bed. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. The ashtray at Roz's knee was worryingly full.

"You motherfucker," Scott said. Rozanov stared at him. No. Stared through him. "Hey. Fuck. Are you high or something?"

"No," Rozanov said and lifted the stub of a cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. "Why are you here?"

"Because you scared the shit out of your team and Aline. What's going on with you?"

Rozanov shrugged and lifted his hand to sweep over his eyes. "Nothing."

"Yeah, I can see that. I'm turning on the lights."

Before Rozanov could protest, Scott hit the switch. Under his own stark lights, Rozanov looked terrible. His color was bad, his hair lank and instead of his usual upscale leisurewear, he was in a white undershirt and ancient looking gym shorts.

"Fuck off," Rozanov said tiredly.

"Yeah, no. That's not happening."

Scott sat down beside him. He took the cigarette out of Rozanov's limp fingers and took the last drag himself. It had been well over a decade since he'd smoked, but he didn't embarrass himself coughing. The burn of it felt good, the taste was terrible. He leaned over and stubbed out the butt as he blew the smoke in a line away from Roz's face.

"You don't do that," Rozanov muttered.

"Yeah, and you don't blow off practice. So now we're both doing weird shit."

The silence was heavy. Scott sat in it anyway. Waiting was a skill built on plane rides, in locker rooms, and on the bench, then perfected in doctor's offices and physical therapy sessions. He could wait out one stubborn asshole.

Scott studied the bedroom walls, painted a cold dark blue. What was it like to wake up every morning to that color? Scott's own walls were the same white they'd been when he got the place. Was that better or worse?

"It was optional practice," Rozanov said.

"You always go. Carter called you and you didn't pick up."

"I will be at the game."

"Yeah, okay. Who fucking cares?"

Rozanov jolted a little at the punch Scott gave to the expletive. He finally turned his head to regard him more directly.

"He worries that I won't play. I will. Problem is solved."

Scott met his eyes. Rozanov had nice eyes. Light and bright with good humor most of the time. Today they skittered, almost refusing to meet Scott's at all.

"We're worried because we care about you," Scott said. "Carter, Aline and me. You're our guy, okay?"

"Your guy," Rozanov repeated flatly.

"Yes. And right now, you're not yourself."

"This is who I am," Rozanov said. His eyelids closed, shuttering him away. "Always. Do you understand?"

"I understand that it feels that way, sure," Scott said. "Come on. Up on your feet. Where's your away bag?"

"You will take me to hospital?" Rozanov asked. There was fear there, even behind the defeated expression.

"Should I?" Scott asked.

"I am not sick," Rozanov said. "Very healthy all the time. No hospital."

"I don't think it'd be that kind of visit," he said it softly. "Or that kind of hospital. If you need it there are private places with a million NDAs-"

"No," Rozanov cut him off. "I do not need that."

"Okay," Scott said, "then for now, I'm thinking you shower, then we we head to my house so you can hang out with your dog. Let me feed you something that has more calories than Marlboros."

"These are Parliaments."

"Fuck, no wonder it stinks like a college bar on Long Island in here."

"Why were you in a college bar in Long Island?"

"If you get up, you might actually find out."

It was startlingly hard to coax the usually impeccably groomed Rozanov into the shower. Scott wound up planting himself on the other side of the bathroom, telling him the story of visiting Bennett at his place in Long Island with a few other teammates. Bennett didn't drink so when there was a general demand to go out, he just picked the first place that sounded decent. Instead, they'd run into a riot of college kids. Scott had only been twenty-two himself and found himself trying to gently fend off a few sorority girls in a way that didn't set off the radars of his teammates.

Rozanov didn't laugh or chirp at him, but he did wash his hair and eventually emerge from the shower. Without further prompting he brushed his teeth. Shaving seemed off the menu and Scott left that alone. He went to scout out Rozanov's away bag while the man dressed. Like Scott had once upon a time, Rozanov kept his neatly packed bag by the front door, already ready for the next away game. Scott used to toss his laundry into the hamper and put in fresh clothes, then set it out again by the door. A marker of a life lived in transit.

The contents of Rozanov's bag were familiar. Maybe Scott shouldn't be poking in it, but he couldn't imagine Rozanov packing for himself right now. He only checked for the basics and found a hefty bag of hygiene supplies, several casual outfits, and a bottle of lube tucked in beside some condoms in an outer pocket. Nothing startling and nothing essential missing. That Rozanov liked to have sex on the road was about as surprising as the sky being blue.

As Scott tucked the supplies back in, his fingers snagged on a piece of paper, accidently drawing it out. It was a small white sheet with a hotel chain's logo stamped on top. Scott had seen Rozanov's handwriting a few times, sometimes scrawled beside his own on the notepad when a sentence was found particularly wanting. It was memorable because Rozanov wrote in truly beautiful tilted script like he'd been taught to write in English by the ghost of Jane Austen or something.

This was not that at all. This was blocky and crisp with the pen pressed to hard into the paper, almost ripping through.

IOU: Two blowjobs and a back massage. Asshole.

Scott slid the note back into the suitcase bewildered. Who wrote IOUs for sex? Which one of Rozanov's hookups was seeing him enough times to get that comfortable? He'd never mentioned the same name more than twice, except for Sveltana. Scott had met her last year and liked her a lot, but it was clear from how she talked about Rozanov that she saw him as a sort of fuckable family member in a non-gross way.

Then again, maybe that was the exact kind of person who wrote IOU blowjob notes. A mystery for another day, Scott had bigger things to tangle with. Rozanov had bundled himself into a hoodie and sweatpants, hood up over his still damp hair. The drive to Riverdale was quiet, the music trickling through too low for lyrics to be made out. Rozanov rested his head against the window and said nothing. Scott only knew he was awake by the occasional shift of his hand or hitch in his breath.

It was only when they got to the apartment and Odin ran barking for Rozanov's attention that he showed real signs of life. He squatted down to let Odin lick his face and sunk his hands into dense white fur.

Scott left them to it, dropping Rozanov's bag in the guest room, before getting into the kitchen. He went for easy to eat and easy to make, boiling pasta and chopping garlic. There was some spinach left, so he tossed that into a pan to saute in butter and some of the garlic. It took all of fifteen minutes to make. When Scott looked up from his work, he found Rozanov laying on the floor, Odin half on top of him. Neither of them were asleep. Rozanov's hand stroked idly over Odin's back and the dog watched Rozanov's face with laser focus.

"Who wants lunch?" Scott asked and Odin was sitting at Scott's feet in seconds, looking up with all the hope in the world.

"You stole my dog," Rozanov complained and for the first time all day sounded a little like himself.

"Your dog is a beggar. He already had breakfast and he doesn't get anything else until five," Scott said. Odin put a paw on Scott's foot and whined once. "No."

"You will give him nothing?" Rozanov asked, watching Scott with eyes that had woken up a little.

"If you reward begging, they keep begging," Scott intoned. "I took a whole class the summer you installed him here."

"You took a class in dogs?" Rozanov asked. "Why?"

"You're supposed to train them. Odin didn't need much really, but it helped with him jumping on people. I made garlic butter noodles with spinach. Probably not nutritionist approved, but it's the neighborhood."

The change of subject seemed to throw Rozanov for a moment. All the shine of his sudden animation wore off for Scott immediately. It was an act, Rozanov could fake being normal. Of course he could. Tiny moments from the past four years starting smacking together like they were magnetized to make a terrible conclusive lump: long afternoon naps Rozanov had taken on Scott's couch, stoppage in communication that started and ended abruptly with no discerbale cause, the flat affect that sometimes emerged when Rozanov thought no one was looking at him, and most of all, the deep well of sadness that Scott had been vaguely aware of since Aline's wedding.

Scott said nothing. He set down bowls and ate his portion, watching as Rozanov managed to down most of his own.

"Did I ever tell you how Aline and I became friends?" Scott asked after the bowls were slotted in the dishwasher and Rozanov had migrated to the couch, taking over most of it.

"She was your aide, she said, after your surgery. I asked her."

How had the conversation gone? Scott doubted she'd said much beside that. He trusted her not to give away his private moments.

"That's right," Scott said. "About a week in, when I started to taper off the painkillers, I fell apart on her. Absolute fucking shambles. I hadn't cried in I don't know how long. Probably since my parents died, honestly. It was like fourteen years of tears came out all at once."

Rozanov watched him warily, but said nothing, so Scott went on.

"I knew she was being paid to make sure I didn't fall on the floor or pass out in my own vomit or something. She didn't have to care. She didn't have to be kind, you know? No one ever has to be kind. But sometimes you get lucky and find people who are and maybe it's okay to ask them for help. Because I've got to tell you, the fourteen years or whatever before that where I sucked it up and did it on my own were their own kind of hell."

Odin, who had been asleep at Scott's feet, lifted his head. Apologetically, Scott reached down to pet him a little. He hadn't intended to get quite so heated.

"What help should I ask for?" Rozanov's tone was flat and dead. "You already keep my dog and write my feelings for me. You think I let anyone else do this?"

"You hang out with me when you could be at clubs. You listen to me bitch about bad dates. You make me laugh when I don't think anything can. Not to mention, I actually love having a dog and wouldn't have done it without you. It's not a one way street, Roz. We're friends. I like helping you. And if it's not me, there's Carter. There's Aline. There's Hollander too, right? Seems to me like he'd listen to you."

The sound Rozanov made was something between a laugh and a grunt of pain.

"He does not need this kind of shit. No one does."

"You know no one includes you, right? You shouldn't have to feel this shitty all the time."

"This is not all the time," Rozanov said quickly. "Just a bad day. I will be better tomorrow."

"That's not what you said before. How many days are there that are sort of bad? Bad around the edges? Bad minutes? Hours? Nights?"

Silence. Scott nodded and went on petting Odin slowly until the dog huffed a sigh and seemed to fall back asleep.

"What does it matter?"

The question posed into the dense silence of Scott's living room hung there like a rancid fart. What does it matter. What does it matter. What does it matter?

"Because I care about you, you stupid fuck," Scott said. "You're one of my best friends. We're getting you help."

"No hospital," Rozanov said, eyes wide. "You said."

"Yeah, I did and I won't. But there's other options. We don't have to go straight to Defcon 1. There's therapy. Medication. Meditation. I don't know what else. Aline and I literally look into this shit for a living, we can get you phone numbers and email addresses by tomorrow night. Hell, I know your writing style enough by now, if you want I'll email them for you."

"You want to live my life for me too?" Rozanov challenged, a little fight flaring there.

"Not particularly. Right now, it looks like a bad deal."

"I am the best hockey player in the league!"

"Been there, done that. Admittedly did not get the trophy, so good on you there, but I've made my peace with it," Scott said. "You're a good friend. You seem to make Jane pretty happy. I don't know shit about your family, but I know you try as hard as you can with them too. And you still seem sad. So no. I won't want to live your life. I just want to help you make it something you want to live in."

"This is a long speech," Rozanov said.

"If you chirp at me right now, I will smack you in the face with a pillow."

"This is your best threat?"

"A fist fight doesn't seem like the right direction to take the night," Scott said dryly. "The first rule of Mental Health Club is we don't knock each other's teeth out over it."

"I don't like this club," Rozanov groused.

"Yeah, same, but it's better to be in it than out of it."

It took a little more wrangling, but eventually Rozanov agreed to let Scott reach out to people for him. The whole conversation depleted his remaining reserves of energy, so Scott tossed a blanket over Rozanov and put on the movie that Shane had recommended that Scott hadn't gotten around to watching yet. He wasn't surprised when Rozanov lapsed back into sleep.

The nap was long and Scott woke him up to eat dinner, then they attempted the movie again. This time Rozanov made it through it. They took Odin out together, Rozanov a quiet ghost of usual self, but there and responsive. At Scott's prodding, he texted Carter which seemed to cause a brief flurry of messages.

"You want to send something to Jane too? I know she might not know anything is up, but it could make you feel better."

The refusal was on Rozanov's lips, halfway uttered before he seemed to think better of it.

"Nothing about how I am. About this. Something else."

"Whatever you want, Roz."

Rozanov's lips pressed together. "Ilya. If you care so much."

"Ilya," Scott said carefully. "You got it."

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: hello from ny

It has rained here every day for a week. I like the rain usually. The pattern it makes on the windows, the sound of it. But day after day is too much. Nothing can get dry. I feel damp even when I'm dry. Do you have weather like this? You like the outdoors more than me. Maybe you love the rain no matter how long it goes on.

Watching it from the coach in your cottage while we ate popcorn is a very good memory. You are very bad at catching it in your mouth. Water hitting more water should not be so beautiful, but I liked it when you were under my arm and we were quiet together. Maybe all things are better like this.

January 2015

"You sound like shit," Shane said, his voice like the touch of a cool hand against Scott's heated forehead.

"I feel like shit," he groaned. "I'm so sorry. I was looking forward to going this year too."

"Don't worry about it," Shane said. "I think All Stars might happen again next year."

"I don't care about All Stars, I wanted to see you," Scott said miserably. The fever was making him a little too honest. "Seems like every time you're here for a game, it doesn't work out."

"Sorry," Shane said and he sounded genuinely upset about it which made Scott feel worse. "I wanted to see you too. Maybe we'll figure something out for this summer."

"Yeah," Scott said. The summer was months away, but he wasn't going to guilt Shane over having a demanding schedule. Scott remembered it well. "I'd like that. I'll still watch. You going to break your own accuracy record again?"

"You mean your record?"

"Fuck you," Scott laughed. "That hasn't been mine in six years, you show off. But if you can't beat your own numbers anymore, maybe you're the one showing your age."

"I will," Shane said. "This year. It'll be more interesting than the game. I can't believe we're doing the same tired shit again."

"Everyone likes to see you two duke it out. Be less interesting."

"I'm trying my best, but you know Roz. He doesn't know how to be boring. You want anything from Ohio?"

"I have no idea what there is in Ohio to want."

"Yeah, me neither. If I figure it out, I'll let you know."

So Scott watched All Stars all by his contagious self, instead of maybe getting to have dinner with Shane the night after the game. It had been a nebulous plan to being with, but losing even the hope of it hurt. Worse, he couldn't exactly tell Shane the full magnitude of how upset he was to miss it, so instead he'd sounded whiny and sick.

It was still nice to watch Shane beat his own accuracy score again. He and Ilya wrangled over the speed challenge, fractions of a second apart. Winning clearly made Shane giddy and Ilya's face was a stoic mask of annoyance when the camera pushed on him. Yet, when it started to skirt away, Scott caught the flicker of a smile and a wink.

Ilya's team won the actual game, but it was clear from the jump that Shane's team was mostly hungover and uninterested in rallying.

Scott: First time I've seen a goalie nod off in the crease.

Shane: One of the sponsors is a whiskey company and they gave out free samples all through dinner last night.

Scott: Any good?

Shane: I don't drink the night before games. Even meaningless ones.

Scott: I notice it's meaningless now that you've lost.

Shane: Stop noticing things.

Snorting, Scott switched conversations.

Scott: How does it feel to steal candy from a baby?

Ilya: Very good. I love candy. I think Hollander will have a hit list for all the people that failed him.

Scott: He should. That was a one-man effort.

Ilya: If he could win alone, he would.

Which was true. Scott could well imagine Shane shrugging off his whole team and getting on the ice to do it himself if it would get him a win. Wouldn't that be a sight?

May 2015

Between away games, rigorous practices, the thousand and one appointments to keep body and mind glued together, Ilya had very few free hours in the day. His free nights in the city were often booked with parties and the obligations of a public life. A busy bee barely ever stopping to do something as pedestrian as rest.

So Scott thought he could be forgiven for not realizing that Ilya had mostly moved in with him until the beginning of February. It had happened slowly. After that first bad stretch in fall, Scott had given Ilya a key with the understanding that he could come over whenever he needed to and if Scott had a hookup, they'd be in the bedroom with the door closed anyway. The guest room became Ilya's room by default. No one else used it. So what if he was there a little more regularly now?

But by March when Scott was standing in the grocery store, buying the seedy dark bread that Ilya favored along with his own lighter loaf, he had to concede that maybe he had a roommate.

"What are you doing with your apartment?" Scott asked as Ilya assembled sandwiches for them at a heinous hour after a rough game.

"It is an apartment, what should I be doing with it?" Ilya asked right back.

"Do you sleep in it anymore?"

"After clubs, sometimes," Ilya said with a shrug. "Or if I am close by."

Casual, if you didn't factor in the darting glances like Ilya was making sure Scott wasn't about to explode.

"Okay," Scott said. "I'm going to put the grocery list on the fridge door, add things to it if you want. Hundred bucks a month in the kitty or all you're getting is margarine and white bread."

"Why are we putting money inside a cat?" Ilya asked.

"Kitty in this sense is- oh fuck you," Scott said as Ilya started laughing. It was a giddy, happy kind of laugh, so Scott let him have it.

The money was about the principle of the matter rather than a need, but Ilya delivered it every month without fail, in increasingly obnoxious ways. There had been the obvious: a hundred dollars in pennies. That one had backfired as Scott insisted on paying for things with them whenever Ilya was with him which drove Ilya to the bring of reason. Then there was the money order which Scott had to figure out how to cash. Then it was in rubles which required a trip to a currency exchange (in theory, Scott had simply hung onto them and planted them back in Ilya's bag when he returned to Russia).

Scott's personal favorite was the gift card to Dave and Busters since he simply invited Carter, Bennett and Ilya out with him and they made a night of it. Maybe that had been the point in the first place since Ilya radiated smug pleasure the whole time. Scott beat him at the zombie shooting game though, so it was worth it.

"So…he's just living with you?" Shane asked a little strangled. "He has a place."

"Yeah, I know that," Scott said. "I've been there. It's nice. Empty, but nice."

"You're further away from the Garden."

"Closer to the practice facility though," Scott said. He sat down on the edge of his bed, watching the sunrise. They'd both been up too early with their own discrete private anxieties. It was a good time to talk with no other expectations weighing on them. "It's like having a part-time roommate. He's away more than he's here."

"You don't need a roommate," Shane said. "Do you?"

"Not financially," Scott said with a huff of laughter. "Don't worry, I haven't squandered my investments yet. It's just nice to have some company. Ilya doesn't actually take up that much space."

"Ilya?" Shane asked and he sounded…something. Off.

"Weird to call a guy who haunts my guest room by his last name."

The thing was that Scott didn't actually talk about Ilya to Shane much. Just like he rarely talked about Shane to Ilya. Sure he'd talk about their games or acknowledge their friendship, but Ilya was far too perceptive for Scott to risk saying anything personal about Shane. If Ilya guessed at Scott's feelings, he might have to move to Alaska. Maybe the moon. It would be a nonstop chirp fest for the rest of Scott's natural life. The moon probably wasn't far enough, actually.

For the other half, Scott now knew a lot of personal things about Ilya that he was certain Ilya wanted to be kept private. Certainly Ilya would prefer if even Scott didn't know them in the first place.

So it was possible that while Ilya had basically been living with Scott since January, this was the first time Scott had mentioned it. He hadn't even said it outright, just complained about Odin abandoning him for his preferred bedmate.

"What about him?" Shane asked with too much pressure. "Does he need company?"

Shit. How did Scott answer that without compromising anyone's privacy?

"Sometimes," Scott settled on vague honesty. "Listen, his private life is complicated and I don't even know much about it. I'm not going to blab about what I do get. What I know is that it's better for him to come home to a dog and a friend than a big empty space. You know?"

There was a long deep pause before Shane sighed. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense. He really doesn't like to talk about real stuff, does he?"

"He does not," Scott confirmed. "I think there's a world of hurt in there. I'm not sure I'd want to talk about it either, if it was me."

"You talk about your shit all time in public to raise money," Shane countered.

"Well, yeah," Scott conceded, watching the clouds tinge pink. "The old stuff, for sure. The thing about being an orphan as long as I've been is that you make it into a story. For them. For me, a little too. It's not me talking about the things that hurt, it's me reciting the narrative."

"Really?" The question was soft. Not disbelieving entirely, but leaving room for Scott to backtrack.

"Mostly," he said. "I've lived longer without them than I had them at this point. It's like…you ever had an injury that didn't heal right?"

"Yeah, some of the toes on my left foot. It doesn't hurt, they just look weird. Bent."

"It's like that," Scott said, tracing a fingertip across the soft fabric of his duvet cover. It wasn't the warm body of a lover, but it was something soft and easy on him. "I'm healed, but I feel strange sometimes. Anyway. We weren't talking about me."

"You're right though. You shouldn't tell me Roz's business. I'm happy you two have each other," Shane said, a little stiffly.

"He's a good friend," Scott said. "I'm glad to have him around. Like I'm glad I have you."

"I like having you too."

What does it mean for you to have me? A beautiful impossible thought. Does any person have another? Can we? Is that what mutual romantic love is? Possession that's agreed on? Ownership is harsh and ugly. I don't want to own you.

Or maybe I want to have a piece of you. The part that's just for me. The voice in the dark. I would like to keep that. Trap it somehow so I could have it always like the sounds of the sea in a shell. A phone that always had your voice on it would be more precious than diamonds.

June 2015

"No award show for you this year?" Scott asked as Ilya packed in a hurricane around him.

"Hollander can have it," Ilya said as if Shane's win of MVP was something being donated to him instead of a guarantee from his insane performance all season. "I have to go back to Russia."

"Okay," Scott said, dodging out of the way as a pair of sweatpants were snatched from behind him. "You want me to send you weekly Odin updates again?"

Ilya paused then nodded once. "Yes."

That was that. Bags packed, passport in hand and Ilya disappeared into the back of a town car before Scott could wrap his head around the early departure.

A week later, Shane called him at the comparatively conservative hour midnight after the awards.

"Congratulations," Scott said.

"Thanks," Shane said.

"You sound really excited."

"I am! It's been great, I'm just so tired. The cup celebration was amazing, but it's a relentless party, you know? I slept on the plane and it was the long uninterrupted stretch of lseep I had all week. Anyway, Lily couldn't make it this year, so it's kind of quiet."

"Oh? I thought he lived there or something, the way you two made it a regular thing."

"No, it's a whole thing," Shane said vaguely. "I think I might fall asleep on you, but can we watch a move anyway? My head is buzzing."

"You got it."

Were things winding down with the mysterious Lily? Shane still mentioned him at about the same rate he used to (almost never and then in a torrent). It was only wishful thinking, Scott decided. One missed event and Shane didn't sound upset about it. Something planned and known then.

They watched a comedy that neither of them found particularly funny. Scott listened to Shane's breathing go even and deep. He stayed on, figuring he'd hang up when the movie ended if Shane didn't respond, but before they got to the denouement, Shane whispered,

"Lily is coming to my cottage this summer."

"Holy shit," Scott said, going rigid. "That's new."

"It is and isn't. He's been before. But only for one or two days, you know? We make the most of it, don't talk about it much after. We talked last week after I won though and it was different. Really different."

"Good different?" Scott asked even though he could already hear the answer.

"Yeah. We're going to try two weeks in early August. I'm freaked out about it, but I'm excited too."

"What's scaring you?"

"What if we're both wrong about what this is? What if we're making a mistake? What if I feel more than he does and I say that and then it's over?"

Sometimes, Scott wished he had any sense of self-preservation. Or maybe even loved Shane a little less. If he loved him less, he could be selfish in this moment. Instead, he was overwhelmed by tenderness and hope that Shane might finally have his hands wrapped around something that he'd probably wanted quietly for years without admitting it even to himself.

"I think it's time to try," Scott said. "Give each other that chance."

"What if he doesn't care about me as much as I care about him?" Shane asked plaintively.

"You'll survive it," Scott said, staring up at the ceiling. "It'll be hard, but you'll live and you'll know for sure. But, Shane, I think anyone who spends years with you like he has must care about you very much."

"We mostly fucked," Shane said.

"Okay. Could either of you found other easier people to have sex with? Why stick with each other this long?"

"I guess," Shane said reluctantly. "And there are the emails. I never know what to think about those."

"What emails?" Scott asked, lost in the ache in his own heart. The longing that would definitely now never be answered.

Not the he'd ever harbored real hope. What did he have to offer Shane? The man who loved hockey with a beautiful purity would never have any interest in the man who had limped away from it.

"He writes me sometimes. Just when I'm ready to call it, usually. When I think there's no way he gives a shit about me outside of a hotel room. There's these emails. They're so beautiful. So kind. When he comes to the cottage, he talks more like the emails than he does in hotel rooms and I love that."

In his rush to go, Ilya had left a hoodie behind. It lay over the other arm of the couch as a deflated ghost of its owner.

That sudden unexpected rush. A haste that was almost indecent as it was bizarre. Ilya was never in a hurry to get to Russia.

It wasn't that Scott hadn't wondered about Ilya over the years. The way his eyes dragged over men sometimes without comment, the easy way he'd accepted Scott's sexuality and talked easily about his dates, the way he went on about how forbidden Jane was to him with an intensity that Scott could never square, and a thousand other small signs.

Okay. Scott hadn't wondered. He'd connected the dots, but he'd refused to see the picture unless Ilya drew it for him. But he also knew Ilya was serious about women, not the way someone who didn't like them might be. So there had always been a chance that Jane actually was a woman with some kind of political complication or something.

And if Scott didn't look at it, he didn't have to wonder what kind of man Ilya might be attracted to. The Lily and Jane of it all would go forever unresolved, a magic eye picture that Scott refused to focus on. He could stand in the river of denial until it reached his mouth and drowned him.

Anything rather than admit to himself what he'd started to suspect long ago:

The object of Scott's affection was receiving his letters in a bottle. They washed up on Shane's shore in another man's handwriting. By terrible luck and divine comedy, Scott had wooed Shane Hollander through Ilya Rozanov's email address.

"I'm glad he found a way to talk to you," Scott choked out. "You're going to have a great time, I'm sure."

"I wish I was sure," Shane huffed a laugh out. "Sorry. Fuck. It's so late. I'm going to pass out. Talk soon?"

"Yeah, of course," Scott said. "Good night, Shane."

"Good night, Scott."

The phone went dead in his hand.

"Fuck."

Every time I help him write one of those emails, I try to imagine some faceless woman that he loved, but that's not how inspiration works. I pictured you instead. I always imagined you reading them in the locker room even though that's absurd. I could see you so clearly sitting at the bench, half-kitted out and checking your phone one last time before going out on the ice. Something to give you heart and warmth before you crush lesser men.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Let the love I put to his words be true. I want to imagine you happy. You deserve to be happy.

He deserves to be happy. Do you know how profoundly sad he is under the production he puts on? I hope he shows you. I hope he lets you hug him the way I always want to, but know he won't accept.

I hope your two weeks in the dream of a house you built on a lake I've never seen is as perfect a time as any two people can have.

I want those things for you. I dream those things for you.

And they kill me a little too.

August 2015

"Welcome back."

Ilya slung his bag in the direction of his room and then flung himself beside Scott on the couch, his socked feet smacking Scott in the thigh.

"I will never be the same again."

"Russia was that good?" Scott asked. Playing dumb was harder now that Scott wasn't lying to himself too. It hurt a little more too.

"I did not end my summer in Russia. I spent two weeks with my Jane," Ilya said dreamily. "She loves me."

A gunshot would've been quieter.

"And you love her back?" Scott asked, hoping he didn't sound choked.

"Yes. So much," Ilya said, then narrowed his eyes at Scott. Had he been found out? From one line? "You will not say 'I told you so'. I know you think you are very smart and helped me write soft letters and tried to put the word in my mouth, but I do not want to hear it."

Scott mimed zipping his lips, heart beating too hard and fast. "Happy for you. You sorted out all the things that would make it bad?"

"No," Ilya snorted. "This is very bad for both of us. Awful. But I am happy to have it anyway. She is very brave my Jane. She invites me there and treats me very well, asks me for my honesty. How can I say no? We talk for many hours. Fucked for me. It was perfect."

How had Scott so perfectly architected this terrible moment? Was he a masochist? He liked to think he treated himself well most of the time.

"Perfect is pretty damn great."

"It is. Of course, world is a fucking mess and they will hate us."

"Am I allowed to ask about that now?" Scott hazarded. It would be weird if he didn't ask that, right? Surely?

"You know why," Ilya said with far too much certainty.

"Excuse me?"

Shit. Shit shit shit shit-

"You must know. Guessed. You are not stupid and you know not every man only likes one kind of person."

Oh. Right.

"I never wanted to put the words in your mouth. Seemed wrong," Scott settled on. "You don't have to tell me now either."

"Jane is a man," Ilya said like he was admitting to a fatal disease. "If that comes out, it will go very badly. For him. For me. I'm bisexual."

"Thank you for telling me," Scott said. Well. That was one less thing that had to stay in neat boxes. The scores were even across the board now. Shane and Ilya still Jane and Lily, but at least their genders properly sorted.

"You knew," Ilya said dismissively.

"I didn't," Scott said. "I had thoughts, but that's not the same."

"Thoughts," Ilya snorted, then he froze. "Wait."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "What?"

"Is that why you did not kiss me that night?"

The sharp left turn of that slammed Scott into a blue screen. He stared at Ilya bewildered. "What night?"

"When I saw you with your date that first time and you told me you were gay. I thought you knew I liked men too. I thought we would kiss and we did not."

Scott tried to recall the moment, but couldn't even picture it. "I really wasn't going to to kiss you. I never- sorry. What?"

"You are attracted to me," Ilya said like that was a fact.

"You're an objectively good looking man," Scott said, scrambling. "But I've never really- I mean-"

"It is fine. You were never strange about it. I am very handsome, people look sometimes."

"You're very full of shit is what you are," Scott said on autopilot.

Was he attracted to Ilya? He was very handsome. Hot, even. Okay, yes, every once and a while Scott had entertained a fantasy for fun.

"I thought maybe…" Ilya trailed off, watching him.

"Maybe what?" Scott asked, "Maybe I was just waiting for the right moment or something? Come on. You live here. If I was going to hit on you, it would have happened."

"I do not live here," Ilya said automatically.

Scott lifted his eyebrows. "Okay. Sure. You sometimes stay here a lot of nights in a row and add to my grocery list. You're a long term house guest. Anyway, why are you worrying about if I wanted to kiss you or not? You're off the market, I assume."

"Yes," Ilya said, "we agreed to this. Boyfriends. I met Jane's parents. They were very kind to me. They did not have to be, so that was…yes. Good."

The Hollanders seemed like good people. Of course they'd be good to Ilya, who might come off one way in public, but was happy to shift gears in private. Mostly. Okay, he could still kind of be an asshole, but a kind one.

"You really went from zero to sixty after idling in the 'no standing' lane for five years, huh?"

"Six," Ilya corrected absently.

It took everything in Scott not to blurt out 'before your rookie season?' like a maniac.

"Do I get to meet him at some point?"

To his surprise, Ilya actually considered that. More than considered. There was a whole series of expressions. As if Ilya was weighing how funny it would be versus how potentially disastrous.

"Not yet," was the final decision. "Maybe someday soon, but not yet."

Not yet. Why couldn't Scott still believe in a loving god? It would be convenient to pray and think it would be heard right about now.

"I look forward to that," he lied, "For now, you want to do Italian or Thai for dinner? I didn't go out yet."

September 2015

The way Aline burst into the office was instantly concerning. She never burst into anything. Whenever possible, Aline moved with a crisp, yet genteel, precision. Dramatics, she had once told him, were his area and as business partners it was better that they stick to what they both knew best.

Today, there were dramatics. She was smiling and there were flyaway hairs coming out of her braids. Her cardigan flapped open around her like dove gray wings. Her trajectory was aimed at him and he was holding out his arms before his brain had registered that he was about to be embraced.

The hug was strong and firm.

"Everything okay?" Scott asked.

She pulled away, her eyes shining even as she nodded enthusiastically. "The most okay! Scott if I tell you something, do you promise that you will lie if you are ever asked and say I told you after I tell Carl tonight? That he was the first to know?"

"Are you asking me to be dishonest?" He asked in mock shock, his hand going to his chest. "To tell a lie?"

"Shut up," she said, her joy undimmed. "Promise me."

"I solemnly promise."

"Good because I must tell you right now because I have to tell someone. If I tell one sister, than the whole family knows before I can tell Carl."

Scott was beginning to see the shape of this secret, but he wanted to hear it directly.

"I'm so much better at keeping secrets than Luíza."

"That is not much of an accomplishment," she said. She sat down in her chair and wheeled it close to him. "Ready?"

"Ready," he confirmed.

"I'm pregnant."

"Congratulations!" He said. "I know we just hugged, but this feels like a hug again situation."

They did hug again. They might have even jumped up and down. 

"Everyone says not to tell anyone until twelve weeks," she said a little breathlessly when they were both sitting again. "So it will only be you and Carl for awhile. I decided that if something went wrong, I would want you to know anyway."

"You know that you can take whatever you need timewise, right?" Scott checked. "I know we don't really have policies, but we can write up an agreement or something. Unless you don't want to keep working after? I hope you will, but I get it. It's your choice and maybe-"

"I want to keep working," she said firmly. "I'll take some time off after. A few months, maybe. I also thought maybe the baby's godfather won't mind having them around some days if I want."

"Aline," Scott said, voice strained. "I'm not even religious."

"You know enough. Anyway, they will have enough aunts and uncles. They'll need someone else with a different title."

"I can do that," Scott said. "I don't know anything about babies though."

"How different can they be from rookies?"

Of course Scott kept her secret. When she was over the first scary hurdle, she told Ilya herself. The pure delight in Ilya's face made the wait worth it.

Scott: I can finally tell you! Aline is pregnant!

Shane: Tell her congratulations for me! If that's not weird. I haven't actually talked to her in four years. I feel like I know her well through you.

Scott: She'll appreciate it.

Shane: When is she due?

Scott: April. I'm going to be a godfather. You'll have to give me some pointers.

Shane: Mostly me and Arthur talk about Duplo. He's a very serious architect.

Scott: I'll take whatever I can get. Good luck with San Fran tonight. Do you think Franks is injured?

Shane: He's got something chronic up with his left shoulder. They should pull him until it's corrected, but he's their best center.

Scott: Guess you won't need luck.

Shane: Happy to have it anyway.

The season was off to a beautiful start. Both New York and Montreal were playing like teams that could see it to the end. Aline was barely starting to show and her glee was undimmed by the difficulties of her first trimester.

Scott's heart beat on. He still thrilled when his caller ID showed him Shane's face. He probably always would. That was fine. It was a known pain by now. At least he wasn't lonely.

Then he came home on the first truly cold day of the year, the kind that could steal under any jacket and wrap ice around your bones. Odin greeted him at the door and Scott fussed over him as he always did. Ilya's coat was on it's hook and Scott hung his beside it.

"Did you preheat the oven?" He called out. "I can put in the chicken if you did. Or did you eat at the rink?"

No answer. The shower wasn't on and Scott didn't hear the TV. The door to Ilya's room was open which was unusual in and of itself. No Ilya in it. Maybe Ilya had stepped out for a minute, forgoing his jacket.

Scott headed to his own bedroom, intent on changing before he started getting to concerned.

There was Ilya. Sitting on the end of Scott's bed with the pad of paper from Scott's end table drawer.

"What the fuck?" Scott demanded. "Why are you in here?"

"I wanted to write my Jane something and I thought maybe I could get an idea without asking you," Ilya said. His voice was flat. Dead.

Scott's eyes fell to the pad. It had been flipped towards the back. The words on it were messy, but Scott knew them anyway. He'd only written them in June. For anyone else, they would have been simply a sad confession. For Ilya, they would tell all.  That was not the email pad.

Ilya looked up. Their eyes caught. Any righteous fury that Scott had been about to build up sapped away from him.

Without another word, Ilya dropped the pad on the bed and scooped up the one they'd used for the emails. Scott hadn't even seen it tucked behind him. Ilya made for the door, clearly spoiling for a fight.

With a defeated, shaky exhalation, Scott stood to one side. Ilya walked out into the living room and out of Scott's life for the next eight months.

Chapter 4: And what is a kiss, specifically?

Chapter Notes

December 2015

There were still traces of Ilya in Scott's life. Tiny roots that hadn't been plucked clean. Maybe some larger ones too, if Scott was willing to read generously into the evidence. It was possible, for instance, that Ilya was still coming to the apartment when he was certain Scott wouldn't be there. Scott would get in and find that Odin's leash was hung on the right hook instead of the left where Scott usually put it or the sink would still be splattered with water even though he'd last turned it on hours ago or, most damning, that someone had eaten the rye bread that Scott never touched, yet still faithfully bought every week. The door to the guest room stayed firmly shut and Scott couldn't bring himself to look inside. It was still Ilya's space in his mind and Ilya valued his privacy.

Privacy. Secrecy. The watchwords of Scott's life in the league. He thought he had escaped them to live his life more fully after the injury like some terrible monkey's paw deal, but here he was, still standing in the ruins that he'd made with secrets. That they'd all made, if he was truly honest with himself about it. The barriers of Jane and Lily, understandable, but un-scalable had contributed widely to this mess.

For all the traces of where Ilya was, there were far more gaping holes where he wasn't. Whenever Carter invited Scott out after a game though, Ilya wasn't there. When Aline mentioned meeting him for lunch, it was always when Scott had been away. No one had pieced together yet that it was intentional. Scott wasn't sure what he'd say when they did.

Then there was Shane.

For all of November, Scott had waited for Shane to say something, to imply that Ilya had told him. But Shane went on as if everything was normal on the handful of phone calls they managed to squeeze in. Scott tried to open the topic. He had no desire to wait around for the axe to fall. Yet every time he made the attempt, Shane suddenly had somewhere to be or was exhausted or had another call coming in. Even mentioning Ilya's name in other contexts seemed to bring it about the swift shutdown.

It was as frustrating as it was relieving. Scott lived like a man with a warrant out for his arrest, not sure if he wanted to be caught and have the waiting end or to keep enjoying the last dregs of his freedom a little longer.

The call came the day after the first Montreal vs New York game since the incident. Of course it did. Ilya wouldn't want to be confined to text for that conversation. Had he only implied something to Shane before that? Enough for him to cut things down? Or had Shane suspected and also wanted that last inch of something normal?

Scott would analyze it endlessly after and come to no conclusions.

"So Ilya told me," Shane said instead of hello.

"Told you what, exactly?" Scott asked. It was the cold light of day too. Scott was fully dressed, an afternoon of errands before him. The work of a weekend to prepare for the week. He stood with his keys in his hand by the front door.

"How long did you know it was me that he was writing?"

"Only a few months," Scott said. "June, I think, for certain."

"And you didn't stop."

"I was only trying to help," Scott said. "I wanted you to be happy."

"I knew those emails didn't sound like him. Not really. Not even when he's at his best," Shane said and it was so hard to read him without seeing his face. Shane was great at that flat even tone intended for strangers that wanted pieces of him they hadn't earned. "I should've known someone was helping him."

"My words, his feelings," Scott said tightly.

"Was it?" Shane asked.

"Always his, Shane. He's loved you for longer than he's known. Possibly the whole time. I can't be sure. All I did was help him say it in the only way he'd allow himself."

There was a long silence and Scott realized he had no idea if Ilya had told Shane the rest. If he had mentioned the second pad of paper with Scott's bleeding heart leaking messily through blue lines.

"It didn't sound like you either. I went back last night and re-read them. All of them. It's not how you talk to me."

"Why would it be?" Scott collapsed forward, his forehead resting against the door. "We're friends."

"Are we?" Shane asked.

That hurt more than Scott was prepared for. It was a physical ache in his chest, and a fist around his throat.

"Maybe it doesn't mean much to you, but I don't exactly spend hours on the phone sharing the things we shared with many other people in my life," Scott said, too tightly, "you want to doubt me, that's fine, I get it, but it was real for me."

"Okay," Shane said, his breathing a little labored, "but why didn't you say anything once you knew?"

"Few reasons. About him. About me," Scott grimaced, "Some with good intent. Some selfish."

"What are the selfish ones?"

Ilya hadn't told Shane about the second notepad, Scott was sure now. That meant that Scott didn't have to take his bleeding heart of his chest and show it to Shane. A mercy. One that might last or one that might fail, hard to say. Did he accept the tentative offering of the angry spirit that haunted his home or did he finish this off in one blow?

Scott ran his thumb over a chip in the door.

"Did you hang up?" Shane asked, warily.

"I'm here," Scott said, "I'm always here. I want to always be here for you, okay? You've been so freaked out about 'Lily' almost the whole time I've known you. I thought if I told you what I knew, maybe you'd stop talking to me. Egg on my fucking face because now Ilya isn't talking to me instead."

"He's not?

Of course. Fucking double-edged sword gifted from the king of hidden motives. Goddammit, Ilya.

"Not currently."

"He didn't say he was angry with you. He was really….I don't know. Sad," Shane said, "or numb or something. I've only seen him like that before for a few minutes, usually he rallies. This time he wasn't okay the whole time he was here."

It wasn't any of Scott's business right now if Ilya was keeping up with his therapist or taking his medication. If Ilya wanted Scott's help, he wouldn't have disappeared on him like a magic trick. It would be nice if Scott's affection for the fucking dipshit would dissipate with equal rapidity, but instead he ached for Ilya too, who knew no better way to deal with his shit than to absent himself from it.

"He gets like that," Scott said, picking his words with care even around the apple that had lodged in his throat, "It's why he started staying at my place. We were all a little worried. He knows what he has to do to stay on an even keel now."

"That's why?" Shane asked with a slight break in his voice. Then he laughed without humor. "Shit. And I was so worried that maybe you and him…."

It was beyond endurance. Shane had been jealous? Not over Scott, of course, never Scott. Jealous that Scott had Ilya's attention, Ilya's interest. What a tangled useless web.

"No. He's one of my best friends. Was. I don't know."

"I don't understand why he's angry with you. He said it was why he decided to tell me, but not what it was."

They'd made it back there. Scott inhaled sharply, wondering if he could pull Shane's trick of pretending he needed to be somewhere else. It might work. It might also be the last time they ever spoke. Scott had no idea if there was a timer over this conversation and what would happen if it hit zero without him giving Shane the answers he wanted.

"He poked his nose where it didn't belong and he didn't like what he found," Scott settled on, "It wasn't fun to see, I'm sure, but it wasn't his to look at. If you want to know more, ask him."

"He's not the best at answering questions," Shane said wryly, "I'm surprised he told me about you helping him in the first place. He gave me the whole notepad. I don't think he wanted to, but he seemed to think he had to."

For a brief, horrifying moment, Scott scrambled to recall everything he'd written in Ilya's notepad. Had he let anything private out? Made a tiny note to himself? He was almost positive he hadn't because he usually turned it over to Ilya after they'd drafted something to let him type it up.

"Guess it's a lot to get through," Scott said neutrally.

"There's a lot of crossing out. He really made you walk back some stuff. Probably for the best, I don't think I was ready to hear it then," Shane said with a sigh. "I don't know what to do with all this."

"That makes two of us," Scott said.

"He really violated your privacy?"

Scott finally pushed himself off the door and started to pace. "A little. He said he just wanted the notepad you had. I had another one and he accidentally picked it up, I think. But then he kept reading, so it stops being an accident, doesn't it?"

"You don't sound angry with him."

"I want my friend back more than I want to be pissed off," Scott admitted, "and I know I fucked up too."

"And you won't tell me how?"

Scott stopped in front of the windows. It was a nice view. Shane had never seen it. Shane had never been anywhere in Scott's personal life. They saw each other in public. Their entire friendship existed on the phone, a thick tether of pure conversation over the years. Maybe that was all it ever would have been, even if nothing had ever come out. Ilya and Shane, star-crossed lovers of epic proportions, had always been careening towards collision and Scott had only ever been a, at best, a helpful bystander. 

"No," Scott decided, surveying the ruins of secrecy and finding them livable. Still preferable to the alternative, "I won't."

"Why not?" Shane asked, clearly aggrieved.

"Because he took it from me whether he meant to or not. It was my secret to have. It wasn't hurting anyone. I get to keep it now if I want. If he tells you, I'll deal with it, but don't ask me to give it to you because your boyfriend is a thief."

"I thought you weren't angry with him."

"I'm not," Scott said, "but I can forgive and still not forget."

"I think I'm angry," Shane said like the feeling was as distant as the moon.

"With me?"

"Yeah."

Scott sighed, "Yeah."

"Are you sorry?'

It'd be best to lie and say he was. Maybe Shane would take him at his word and accept it and they could limp forward with something remaining of their friendship.

"I wanted you to be happy," he said again instead, "and I wanted him to be okay. I didn't know that I was getting to both things with one action. I wasn't trying to deceive 'Lily' or 'Jane'. I was trying to give him the voice to tell her what he wanted. Him. You, in the end."

"You were doing things behind my back. You knew more about the situation than I knew and that feels…fucked up."

"Yeah, it probably was."

Shane sighed. "I loved those emails and now I'm not sure I can ever look at them the same way again. It feels like something died."

Scott's eyes started to burn, "Yeah, I get it. But it didn't, okay? Hell, ask him to write you something on his own now. By the end, he was mostly…fuck it. Just ask. I think you'll be surprised. He does better if you give him some time to think."

"Even when he's upset like this?"

"Even then," Scott said and then he pushed on for Shane's sake, "we wrote some of those when he was in the worst way. You're always the light he sees in the dark."

"Jesus Christ, you can't shut it off can you?" Shane scoffed, "You're still doing it now, being sweet and shit for him. It's like you're in love with him."

"What?" Scott sputtered.

"Never mind. I'm just- okay. I think I have to think about things."

"Okay. I- yeah. I'm here. Whenever."

"I know, Scott," Shane said tiredly. "I'll reach out when I'm ready."

The phone went dead.

Odin slept on in his bed, fully unaware of the detonation that had occurred. Scott still had his keys in his other hand, biting into his palm. Slowly, he tucked his phone back in his pocket and turned back to the front door. No matter what the tattered remains of his heart were doing, there was still dry cleaning to pick up, groceries to shop for, and a 'Happy Retirement' card for his first head coach to send.

It was only when he was standing at the counter of the bakery, ordering rye bread that he wouldn't eat, that Shane's accusation returned to him. Scott accepted the loaf and paid. He walked home. It took a few minutes to put everything away and then he had to go out again for Odin's sake.

He could almost hear Ilya's footfall beside him as they traveled the same route they usually did.

Scott's love for Shane was a well-worn thing now. He kept it tucked safely out of sight and poured over it. It was familiar and warm, even when it was painful.

What he felt for Ilya was surely different. Scott cared about him, wanted him around even when Ilya was miserable, and thought about him when he wasn't there. They were in sync with each other much of the time, even though they were such different men. Sharing a home with him had been nice. Waking up in a place Ilya lived had been…

"God fucking dammit."

Odin paused in sniffing an alternate sides parking sign to give him an alarmed look.

"Sorry," Scott said to him, "don't mind me. I'm having a slight mental breakdown over my own stupidity."

"Heard," a young woman with a violently dyed mohawk said as she passed by, "it's that kind of fucking year, right? At least it's almost over."

"True," Scott huffed something that might've been a laugh in another life.

She was gone as quickly as she appeared. City living could be awful, but some days, Scott appreciated the way you could be lonely and still have all the company in the world.

January 2016

To: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

From: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

Subject: when my best is still terrible

It's freezing here. I'm standing outside to write this anyway. The cold gives me clarity. I can see your lips forming the word 'cl-ar-ity' and the chirp about my English on them. You are so sweet when you try to be mean to me. Maybe sweeter than when you are trying to be nice.

I thought about you asking for this email a few times. I'm nervous about writing it, but I'm glad that you asked me to if that makes sense.

I don't know how long I've loved you. There is no one moment where desire turned suddenly into love. I fell in love with you in a hundred little moments. One time, I wrote to you about the rain in your cottage. I crossed out a lot. You can see that now. What I crossed out was how when you put your arm around me, told me to shut up and just enjoy it, it was one of the most peaceful moments of my life. I had spent that summer coming apart at the seams back home. Everyone was picking at the threads of me, leaving not much behind. You have never taken parts of me away for yourself, you only put things in, then sew me back together. You have made me more than I have ever been.

I don't know how this will read to you. Will I sound like both of us? Only like me? He has added into me too. I don't know how to remove it, but I have not even spoken to him in months. I hope you believe me when I say these words are mine alone.

My words have always been turned to you. Cruel, kind, and now ridiculously in love, they are all yours.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

February 2016

"It says we can use an Allen key. They provided one," Scott said, holding it out to Carl in illustration.

"You want me to trust my firstborn's life to an Allen key?" Carl asked him with narrowed eyes, brandishing the power drill at him.

"I want you to admit that that is the first time you've taken that thing out of the box," Scott said dryly.

"It's a new drill, of course it's the first time," Carl said impatiently.

"So you've used one before."

"I'm a thirty-eight year old man."

"Congratulations," Scott said, raising his eyebrows, "I'm only thirty-two, so maybe I'm missing something critical that happens when you turn thirty-five. Do they give out mandated drill lessons?"

"It's not hard to use."

"So use it," Scott challenged.

Carl stared at him. Hard. With no change in expression or tempo in his breathing, Scott stared back.

"Shit," Carl said and set down the drill, "Please don't tell her that I'm freaked out by power tools."

"I'd be ratting on myself too. The Allen key is our friend, man, let's just get this done."

Not for the first time, Scott was glad he'd gotten ahead of any potential baby showers and bought them the crib in a fit of sorrow-induced shopping. He'd paid the extra fees to have it come mostly assembled and finished off by the delivery guys. The changing table felt somewhat lower stakes though Scott still wished he'd thought to do the entire set Aline had admired online, even if she might have literally killed him.

"I'm scared out of my mind," Carl said, casually as they turned over the completed table. It seemed sturdy and Carl was leaning his whole weight on it to check.

"Seems scary," Scott said.

"Everyone has advice. For her. For me. It's endless. I thought it was a lot when we got married, but this is a whole other level."

"I don't have any," Scott offered.

"Which is why you're here," Carl said.

"I thought it was because your brother went to Miami."

"That too."

Thanks to not even having the excuse of a partial roommate to go home to, Scott's availability to be helpful had skyrocketed. He'd painted the walls of Carl and Aline's former guest room a blue-gray, loaded a low bookcase with picture books and acted like a delivery service when Carl was out of town for the week for a work convention. Aline hadn't asked for any of it and likely needed him for none of it, but she allowed it.

Probably because a few weeks ago over lunch, she'd asked very quietly, "What happened with Ilya?"

"I fucked it all up," Scott had said before he could make it into a palatable story, "and I can't even tell you how."

"Why not?" she'd asked.

He gave her a pleading look and whatever she read in it had ended questions. She'd put her hand over his and gave it a quick squeeze.

"I'm glad he's still spending time with you," Scott had said, "I hope he talks to you."

"He talks a lot. He doesn't say much."

"That's our boy."

"Whatever it is, did you say sorry? A sorry can go a very long way."

Are you sorry? Shane asked.

Scott had said something that satisfied her in the moment and they moved on to other things. It was funny, in that way that being shown your position in the universe always was, to realize how little Ilya and Shane loomed in Aline's life. She liked Ilya a great deal and was happy to bully him into lunch. They were friends, certainly, but she had many friends. Scott didn't think Ilya would have come out to her and even asking around the question would tip him into dangerous territory. As to Shane, Aline likely remembered him as a brief client and a name on Scott's lips very occasionally.

The glacier of Scott's meltdown was a tiny bobbing ice cube to her eyes. She knew he was upset to a certain extent and had delicately asked around the topic a few more times, but Scott had evened out externally as quickly as he could. He was grateful for what little succor she could provide with the knowledge she had.

"Stay for dinner," she said, more command than offer when she got home to find the nursery circling around to complete.

"I can help."

"You helped enough," she said and pointed him into a chair.

He ate dinner with them. Carl and Aline were as good a couple as one could ask for to third wheel. They were sweet with each other, but rarely over demonstrative nor did they bicker or expect him to arbitrate disagreements. Their conversation geared to the practical and that meant going over what still needed to be done.  The baby was a significant bump at this point, stretching Aline's cable knit sweater to it's limits. Scott's exposure to pregnant women was limited, but aside from a few stray complaints about swollen feet, Aline continued to charge through life with her usual verve, braids, and determination.

Secretly, Scott thought she looked very cute with the bump, but figured if he said that she might try to murder him with her eyes.

"I was thinking by August, the baby would be big enough for an hour's car ride," Carl said, "Maybe we could rent that place near Jones again. Spend a little time on the beach."

"Do babies like beaches?" Scott asked.

"I think we like them and it's good for a baby if the parents are happy," Aline said.

"Exactly," Carl grinned at her. "What about you, Scott? Any summer plans yet?"

"You know me. I like it here in the heat."

"You're a crazy person," Carl told him with no fade to his smile, "but I guess someone has to make sure the Bronx stays put."

"That's me. A borough-wide paperweight."

"You should go somewhere," Aline said with a shake of her head, "Every summer you say 'not this year'. Carter said you used to travel all the time."

Scott grimaced, "Yeah, well. I wasn't traveling to see the sights back then. It was the only way I could be myself without getting caught out by a fan."

It wasn't a truth that paired well with the truly excellent dinner she'd prepared, but he was far past that point now.

"That's one kind of sight," Carl mused, then laughed when Aline swatted playfully at him, "I didn't do it! Why am I in trouble?"

"There's no reason you couldn't go see them now," Aline said "maybe you'll meet your perfect man in Tuscany."

"When the baby won't let her sleep she stays up late watching whatever romance is on HBO," Carl confided.

"You watch them with me," Aline said tartly, "and you were the one that insisted we finish that one when we fell asleep on the couch."

"That's true," Carl conceded, "I love Sandra Oh."

Scott left after dinner, pleading his dog's bladder. It wasn't even a lie, Odin was ready to bang down the door when he got back.

The walks they took might've been a little too long, but they were good for thinking and good for Odin. Tonight, Scott had a letter to draft and he always liked to do that on his feet first.

March 2016

It took time to get it right. Scott figured it had gone on this long that a few more weeks were mostly academic. He rewrote it several times. At one point it was several pages long, at another barely a few lines. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, so much as he wasn't sure how much was ready to be heard.

In the end, he left it somewhere in the middle. The papers were folded and propped up against the half-eaten loaf of rye bread. If that was too subtle, Scott wrote For Ilya on the blank side of the paper facing out. Then he left for the work trip he'd marked on his calendar as clearly as he could. It had been awhile since a team had paid for him to come out and usually he said no, but it seemed like a good idea to give the note some time in case his bread-nibbling spirit needed to be coaxed out. Odin was with Aline, so it was possible that the note would go unread, but only if the spirit knew that.

The flight out to Ohio was short. The hotel was fine. The young baseball player with light hair and dark eyes, sitting across from him in a bad impression of an Italian restaurant wasn't like either of the two absent squatters of Scott's heart. He reminded Scott of them both anyway.

He hoped somewhere across the country, one of them was letting himself in to the apartment and heading for their late afternoon snack to find the note:

This one is meant for you to read. See how that works? It's got your name on it and everything. Maybe that's the wrong way to start this, but I wanted to get my own anger out of the way. I was pissed. That was rude of you.

Chirping aside, you're not a very rude person. It's been bothering me a lot the past few months. You've always respected my space before. You've always understood where the lines were. What changed? Why then? Did you go looking? Did you suspect?

You read the whole thing, so you know I didn't know it was him until this past summer. You know that even once I did, I never stood in your way. I kept helping.

The two of you were meant to be. Even before I knew that, I was never going to try anything with him. It was something for me to keep for myself. A private feeling. It had no place out the world. I'm not even sure it can survive exposure to the elements. I didn't keep it from you because I don't trust you. I hid it so no one could tell me how foolish it was to want what was impossible to have. 

I love you too. You're one of the best friends that I've ever had and I miss you all the time. You're a good man, who works very hard against a lot of forces to stay good. I think a lot of lesser men would have crumbled in your position. I know they would. I've watched it happen too many times. The strength it takes to accept help is enormous. You're brave. You're smart. You're funny. I think, when you let yourself be, you can be incredibly kind.

I'm not trying to butter you up, it's just nice to say sincere things to you without watching you find a way to laugh them off. Best of luck getting in a joke with a piece of paper, fucko. You could've had a conversation with me and blown me off plenty, instead you have to deal with raw honest affection. Sad for you.

He asked me if I wanted to apologize to him and I said no. I'm not sorry for a single day that I loved him. I'm not sorry that I wrote that down in private. I'm not sorry that I helped you put your heart on display for him. How can I be sorry when I know you'll be happy together? How can I apologize for something that only a monster would regret doing?

I'm sorry though if I made you think for even a moment that I was doing it for any other reason besides my love for you and a desire to see you happy. 

Eat the bread. Take Odin for a walk. Your key will always work in the door and your code with security.

Yours, for better or worse,

Scott

As soon as Scott got home, he went to the counter. The note was gone, along with three slices of bread. The prayer and offering had been accepted. Now Scott would have to wait to see if the spirit was appeased.

April 2016

They were in the middle of a phone call the Red Sox when Aline took a very small, pointed sip of air. It was nothing violent or even particularly notable, but Scott had entered an alert state the past few weeks that he called 'rightfully vigilant' and Aline called 'annoyingly paranoid'.

"So, we're thinking if you would come on sight and maybe talk with both of them, get a feel for the situation and we could make a plan from there rather than committed to a full contract-"

"Our hourly consulting fee is listed at the bottom of our list of packages," Scott cut him off, "if you want me to travel to you, the travel fee will also apply."

"I'm not sure we could call it consulting."

"Joel, here's the deal, I'd love to come and help your boys out. They sound like solid kids who need a hand. I know what you paid for their contracts and I'm less than half of a percent of that. You can make that investment or not. You want time to think about it?"

Aline's eyes narrowed. Scott had been made. Too bad.

"I'll bring your suggestion back up the ladder," Joel said, typing rapidly off screen the way the execs did to tell you how busy they were and relatively unimportant you were. "Thanks for your time, Scott."

"Our pleasure," Scott said and signed off the call.

"What are you doing?" Aline asked him with the aggression she usually used on people who tried to rip off one of their younger clients.

"We're in a rush," Scott said.

"We don't have another appointment today! This was the last one I set up for you while I could still be here."

"I know and I appreciate that you wanted to work until the end of the road, but I think we've arrived."

"It's barely started," she said, confirming his suspicions, "I probably have hours and hours left. I watched my sisters do this before me. There's no rush to the hospital."

"I see you, I hear you, but maybe you could also call your OB and just…check?"

"You're worse than Carl," she deemed, "but I will so you don't have a stroke."

"Thank you, that would be very bad timing."

She made the call in the hallway as Scott got busy closing everything down for the day. Even if it she had hours and hours, she should spend them at home and not stressing over the last few emails and her out of office message. When she stepped back into the room, it was with a storm cloud over her face.

"Would you drive me to the hospital? It's not a rush, but it was recommended that I should get under way."

Usually, Scott walked to work. He had driven every day for the last three weeks just in case.

"Of course," he said, "I closed everything up. You want your coat?"

He held it out for her and she slipped into it. They walked very calmly to the car. Aline called her mother and spoke to her in rapid Portuguese. Scott had picked up a few phrases over the years and could hold very basic conversations, but there was no way in hell he could follow that. For the best because he was using all his concentration to drive very normally and calmly to the hospital. Everything here was fine.

"Oh," Aline gasped as she hung up, "that's unpleasant."

"Anything I can do?"

"Get us there," she said sharply.

"Working on it," he promised.

The hospital wasn't far, but naturally parking was a nightmare and she refused to go in without him.

"Once I get in there, I'm not leaving until there's a baby," she said, "I want some fresh air."

If it hadn't been for stopping halfway to the door for her to ride out a contraction, it could have been anytime they had walked together on a chilly day. Aline tended to take his arm when she was cold anyway, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow to warm her fingers. For a last minute, things were as they had been. He said a quiet goodbye to that phase of their lives.

They got over the threshold and to reception without further incident.

"And your husband can come with you," the nurse said as she guided Aline to a room.

"This is my friend. My husband will be here in ten minutes. But I would like my friend to come for now."

So Scott sat by her bed and held her hand.

"I'm sorry it worked out this way," Aline said, even as she clung to him. "The plan was to call you once it was all over."

"Are you kidding?" Scott gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "You scrapped me off the floor in worse shape than this a lot time ago. I'll never be able to level the playing field, but this feels like a good attempt."

"Oh, shut up," she snorted, "there's no playing field. There's no debts."

"Okay," he said, "then how about I'm really glad I got to be here for a bit, so when I tell my godkid in twenty years about the day they were born it's with first hand knowledge?"

"Better. We can work on the language for the press release."

They both laughed and that's how Carl found them. Scott slipped away as her husband took her place. He meant to go home, but he found himself in the waiting room unable to make himself leave. There was nothing he could do from there that he couldn't do from home and it meant paying the dog walker for an emergency visit, but was the money for anyway?

Carl found him there a few minutes before midnight. His hair had gotten greasy and he was stripped down to an undershirt that probably wasn't mean to see the light of day, but he was smiling like he'd won the lottery.

"Francisco Bernard. Seven pounds, six ounces. He's beautiful and she's amazing."

"Holy shit!"

He went home not long after, but swung by the next afternoon with Aline's favorite sandwich. The one she had been bemoaning not being able to eat for months with the strong prohibition against deli meats. There was one for Carl too, but Scott hadn't bothered with one for himself.

His hands were going to be busy.

Francisco might only be seven pound, but he might've been the heaviest thing Scott had ever held. He held him until Carl's family started to arrive. Aline's mother and younger sister were on their way, flight tracking closer by the minute. Grandparents rightfully wanted access and Scott gave way.

He got to take a photo with him though, only his arm in the photo, the baby rightfully cenetered. With some of his remaining brain cells, he texted out the picture to Aline's carefully approved list of people that were fitting Scott notify. One of them had been Ilya. She'd said it without inflection and he hadn't argued.

Scott: Aline gave birth to a boy last night. She's good, baby is good. Francisco. [Photo of a newborn swaddled in a white blanket with a pale green stripe].

It felt incomplete. Would Aline mind one elicit notification? She probably wouldn't care and definitely didn't want to be bothered for clearance right now. After a moment's consideration, Scott sent it to Shane too. Only then did he feel like he'd finished. Leaving his phone in the kitchen, Scott went into the bedroom with Odin on his heels to take a very deep hard nap.

May 2016

"Let's fucking go!" Scott screamed, on his feet as the Admirals slammed through Pittsburgh and Ilya finally shook off their defense to score a goal so beautiful it should hang in a museum.

Castle immediately slammed into Ilya, got him around the waist and full on Dirty Dancing'd him off the the ice. Fucking morons. Heart surging in his chest, Scott texted strings of admiration to Carter to pass on to the boys and fell back into his seat.

They'd be up against Montreal next, battling it out for the spot in the finals. The series would be bloody, ruthless and very expensive. Scott secured his tickets to the home games while the bulk of the crowd headed out and the players left the ice. No matter what was going on with him and them, there was no way Scott missed that matchup. It would be damn good hockey.

"Mr. Hunter?" A thin voice asked.

It took Scott a second to locate a beanpole of a young woman with wide eyes and a high ponytail. She had on an Admirals jersey that swam loose around her body bundled under a thick coat. She could've been on of a thousand fans there tonight, no more distinguishable to his eye than a grain of sand on a beach. 

"That's me," Scott said with a smile. "And you are?" 

"Abigail," she said, returning his smile tentatively. Scott spotted a woman several rows down watching the interaction closely. Her mother maybe. "We met a really long time ago. At St. Jude's?"

The memory struck him like lightening,"Abby Marsh! You told me that Bradley was your favorite player."

"I- yeah," she laughed nervously, shifting her weight, "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for. He's great and I appreciated the honesty. You've got to be what…nineteen now? You were pretty proud of turning ten."

"Yeah," she said, "I can't believe you remember."

"Some things stick with you."

That whole day was lodged inside Scott like a thorn. Sick kids, most of whom didn't give a fuck about hockey all tolerating the invasion of giant loud men, who made clumsy attempts at being cheerful. A P.R. stunt that at least left money behind and made some of the guys puff out their chests about what philanthropists they were.

Abby had been very memorable, thin and translucent as a piece of paper and tethered to an oxygen tank, yet razor sharp as she eviscerated his latest game. She only accepted Scott sitting next to her when he explained to her that Bradley was not among the chosen few to show up. By the end of the visit, he had shucked off the jersey they'd shoved at him when he'd arrived so the kids could identify him. 'You don't need to wear it in public', he'd teased her, 'so no one will associate you with my sloppy edges.'  'I won't,' she'd said solemnly, clutching the red spill of fabric to her chest. 

"I don't want to bother you," she said now, "but if you have a minute, can I tell you something?"

"I've got plenty of minutes," Scott said, sitting back down and gesturing to the seat next to him. "Does the lady watching us want to come sit here too?"

"No," Abby said as she took the seat beside him, "I'm an adult, I don't need my mom to hover over me. Ignore her."

"Okay," Scott said. He remembered how old nineteen could feel. It seemed like her mother was willing to wait it out. "I'm all ears."

"I used to play basketball."

"Yeah, I remember. Small forward?"

She nodded, unsmiling, "Yeah, wow, can't believe you remember that too. When I was sick, my coach and my parents used to talk about this one day when I was better and how I'd be able to play again. It's all I wanted, to be able run again."

"I get that," Scott said when she stalled out.

"Yeah…I. Okay. So I didn't, is the thing. I mean, I got better, obviously" she gestured at herself, indicating that she sat there alive which had not been a given at the time, "but not all the way. I'm good with it now, but when you're a kid, it's hard to understand."

"That must've sucked."

"It did," she said, squaring her shoulders, "I couldn't even watch basketball. I didn't go to my friends' games or anything. It really upset me. My parents didn't push, but it was a whole thing and I got depressed, I guess. Then my mom got this nutty idea and she got tickets to an Admirals game."

"Very nuts," Scott said wryly, "who would want that?"

"Right? You guys were pretty mediocre that year," she said with a hint of amusment, "I was twelve and hockey wasn't my favorite. But we went and we watched most of the game and then my mom found you in the audience. You were sitting right here then too."

"Lucky seat," he explained. He tried to remember the 2009 season. What had he looked like? How had he been doing? Has she seen him with that rictus grin he'd often slapped on in the early days?

"Makes sense. Mom said you were there for most home games, even though you couldn't play anymore. She said you'd started this business to help younger players so you could stay close to the sport. If that boy can find a way to get through it, I know that you can." 

"Did that help?"

"Therapy and time helped, but yeah, it didn't hurt. I volunteer coach for the peewee basketball team now," she said with a half-smile, "We come to a lot of games. I promise it's not a stalker thing, but I always look for you and I'm always happy when you're here."

"You'll have to come say hi then. I'll be happy when you're here too," he said, letting her hear the feeling there. "Tell me about your team."

"Really?" She checked.

"Really."

So instead of meeting up at the bar with the guys and potentially scaring away Ilya from his own well-deserved celebration, Scott sat in the stands for an extra half-hour and learned about the trials and tribulation of middle school basketball, college freshman dorm life, and why he had to give matcha another chance.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Abby's mother finally approached them though she seem relaxed now, "but I have an early morning meeting."

"Sorry, Mom," Abby said and got to her feet. "Thanks for listening. Sorry, I talked your ear off."

"No sorry required. I meant it, come say hi again. I want to know if Samantha and Bethany ever make peace."

"Maybe I will," she said, "Bye, Mr. Hunter."

"Goodbye, Abby. Mrs. Marsh."

They turned to head up the steps, Abby shrugged off her coat and folded it over her arm. The back of the jersey had an enormous 21 printed on it in red. It must've been through the wash many times, half the letters of his name peeled off. He hadn't seen one of his jerseys in the wild in years. They disappeared out of sight and Scott turned his gaze to the empty ice. 

He should definitely leave, before security made their way to him and asked some embarrassing questions. Forcing himself to his feet, his knee informed him of the many ways it was pissed off by his decision to linger. As he limped towards the exit, Scott couldn't bring himself to regret it.

To: ferrarilover@yahoo.com

From: lanaudiere24@gmail.com

Subject: re:see you soon

I don't know how to do this. I think you made better use of your contract with him then I did. We just talked. And talked and fucking talked. Even now, I think he's the person I've spoken to the most in my entire life. He didn't teach me how to do this like he taught you.

I've never even thought about replying before. I liked how it worked. You emailing me was like a third person telling me it was okay to text you. I guess it was. I don't even know if you look for replies on this email address or if you'll only find this in like two months when you decide to use it again.

I want to say that I love you here too. It makes me sad to think of all the ways you said it here and there was no reply. That's stupid, I know. It's not like an email can feel lonely and I told you other ways. The best ways I knew how. 

I love you. I miss you. I can't wait to face off with you again. Everything is better when you're there, even when you're being a dick.

I've been thinking about all of it. I think I'm done thinking. I don't know that I've ever done well sitting around letting something stew. I want to go and do something about it. If you're in, I'm in.

June 2016

"That should be illegal," Scott deemed, "It's too cute. I'm going to die."

"Isn't it?" Aline laughed, "And it's perfect. Red for a newborn."

"Is two months still considered new?"

"New enough," she said.

Francisco was wearing the tiniest Admirals' jersey Scott had ever seen. It didn't surprise Scott in the least that it bore an '81' with 'Rozanov' arching proudly above it.

"He must've been thrilled to give that to you," Scott said.

"I'm not convinced he didn't have it custom made," Carl agreed, "I reminded him I work for the Admirals and he said 'yes, but you don't have an number'. Had me there. Who knows? Maybe some of his talent will rub off on the baby."

"Right now, I would appreciate if he developed a talent for sleep," Aline said, rocking Francisco in her arms and heading for the living room, "Come on or we'll miss the opening commentary."

They watched the first matchup of the series very quietly, cheering silently so as not to wake the baby. It was an intensely close match, the kind of game players had when they knew they were too close to the end to leave anything off the ice. Even on Metro home territory, the Admirals turned in an outstanding performance. It wasn't their fault that Shane had galvanized his team into something close to magic.  

"He looks like a superhero," Aline complained. 

She handed Francisco over to Scott as she got up to stretch. The baby stirred and Scott held his breath, but Francisco apparently decided he was acceptable as a substitute mattress and went on snoozing. 

"He might as well be one," Scott agreed. 

On screen, they shot back to a hallway for interviews. With the TV muted, Scott could pretend to be very interested in the miniature jersey and miss if Ilya or Shane or both were flashed up on the screen, both giving their own version of neutral answers. For quieter games, they always put on Carter, who would deliver his wide happy smile and charm even adversarial journalists into asking milder questions. For this kind of match though, they wanted Ilya with his fast sharp remarks and smirking winks.  

Scott had gotten very good at clicking away from the interviews at home. If he was watching somewhere else, no one thought much of him taking that moment to use the bathroom or get a new drink.  

He used to delight in seeing Shane's face, even with his calm Captain's mask on. It used to make him laugh to watch Ilya preen and posture. These days, he could barely handle hearing their voices from another room as if they were calling for him even as their silence went on and on. 

"We've got the in laws here tomorrow," Aline warned him, "you're free to come over, but..." 

"I'll pass," he agreed. 

Carl's parents were decent people, but they seemed confused by the concept of a gay person in a way that often had them stopping and starting conversations to explain things to Scott like he had crash landed on Planet Hetero yesterday or worse, asking him things about gay culture as if he knew anything about it. His understanding of queer culture began and ended with the clubs and apps he found his hookups in. He definitely didn't know about 'lesbian icons'.   

So he settled in for the second game held in Montreal on his own. He watched his team play their hearts out and lose in overtime. They had time to make up ground, but Scott had a sinking feeling it'd be the Metros sliding into the finals. 

At one point, Shane sank a goal and flew by the sin bin where Ilya was cooling his heels. Ilya gave him a cheeky little wave and blew a kiss at him. It was insanely daring and yet utterly risk-free. Everyone knew what Rozanov was like. Shane didn't visibly respond, moving past without acknowledgement. Or at least, not something that Scott could spot.  It certainly seemed to please Ilya who leaned back and ignored his teammate jabbing him with an elbow. 

The game ended and Scott plunged the room into darkness, turning the TV off with extreme prejudice. The next two games would be at home. Maybe the Admirals would battle them back, but if Scott had to guess, the Metros would be headed into the finals. If they wound up squaring up with Vegas, they'd win there too. Shane would love that. Two Cups in a row would solidify his reputation and defy anyone who had ever disparaged his career.

The home games were brutal. The Admirals won the first, lost the second, sending them on a plane right back to Montreal. No one was partying at night, everyone on playoff lockdown, so the best Scott could do was send messages to the people that might still want them with encouragement. Carter replied with a slew of indecipherable emojis, Huff with a single thumbs up, Bennett with Shakespeare quote and Castle with a phone call.

"I want to sleep for a week, Cap," Castle complained.

"You could be sleeping right now," Scott pointed out with a grin, "but I bet you're on your way to see about your knee."

"It's stiff!" Castle protested.

"I'll bet," Scott laughed, "and I bet it's got nothing to do with that fact that Layla is working overtime during playoffs."

"She's the best P.T. we have," Castle said.

"That's great. You know it's also okay if you like her, right?"

"Cap, no, it is not like this. She is very nice to me because it is her job, okay?"

"Okay," Scott said gently, "but is she 'call me any time' nice to everyone else?"

"I don't know," Castle muttered.

"Is she 'by the way here's my cell number in case something comes up when I'm off shift' nice to everyone else?"

"She's very kind! She might!"

"She might," Scott conceded.

"Could you maybe ask around?"

"I think I can do that," Scott said.

"Not loud, Cap. Can you do it very quietly?"

"The quietest."

It would have to wait though. For now there was another game in Montreal and the Admirals took it with extreme vengeance. Bennett had dug in and kept the Metros scoreless, allowing Ilya, Huff and Carter to work some of their own miracles. 4-0 and it was whipping back to New York for the last game.

Scott took his lucky seat, leaned forward to plant his elbows on his knees, then barely blinked from start to finish. The viciousness of the game didn't surprise him. It barely interested in him. What he watched most was Shane and Ilya. The two of them flew around each other, orbiting at slingshot speeds. They were blades, sharpening against each other until the edges sang against the ice. It was beautiful and brutal and heartbreaking. What could they do on the same line? It was entirely possible it would change how the game was played forever.

The Admirals lost by a single goal. Not even Shane's or his line. Some plucky rookie buried deep in the Metro ranks got to have his day of glory. Scott filed out with the rest of the disgruntled home team crowd and was spat back out onto the street. 

Carter: Going to lick our wounds at the club. Coming?

Scott: You did great work out there. Not tonight, thanks. Tell the guys dinner on me next Friday. Whoever you want in on that.

Carter: Sounds good! Not a steakhouse. Can't eat another steak.

Scott: How about Thai? It'll give Bennett choices.

Carter: Perfect! See you then!

The summer meant a lot of players would scatter, but Scott's work would pick up where his social life's absence left off. Without Aline for at least another few months, Scott would be doing both their jobs in the busy season. It would keep him occupied at least.

He walked Odin, and while they patrolled the dark streets, he replayed the game in his mind's eye the way he would've years ago. This time though, it was purely for his own pleasure, to re-admire the sheer skill and grit of it all. It still held the thrill for him that it had while he watched them.

Time was meant to heal all wounds, but no one said anything about it fixing things that you didn't consider an affliction. Being in love hurt sometimes, but Scott wasn't bleeding out. It warmed him. His admiration was well-placed, his love affixed to the extremely lovable. If his life was to be this, then he could enjoy it, he resolved. The city, his dog, his friends, his work, and his love, were enough.

Bed called when they got back in. Scott changed and got under the covers while Odin curled up by his feet. They both fell asleep without much further fuss.

Until some ungodly hour when Odin sprung up barking and charged from the room. Scott groaned and buried his face in his pillow. It had been while since Odin had taken a wee hours umbrage with someone in the hallway or a bird landing on the railing. Scott lay in bed, counting the barks. If they reached twenty, then he'd get up and call him back. It was good to let him go for a second, get out his protective energy. After ten authoritative barks, Odin boofed more quietly and then there was silence.

Dimly, as he fell back to sleep, Scott thought he heard a voice. A man's voice. It sounded nice. Calm and amused. It'd be something to have a voice like that in the night again. Someone resting beside him, saying something sweet or funny before they fell back asleep. 

He woke hours later, feeling better rested than he had in some time. The light slanting in was still the gray of early morning and his bedside clock informed him that habit beat out a later bedtime. Wide awake, he got up and shuffled into his en suite for the necessary. The knee was bad today, too long unmoving in his seat last night followed by too long a walk. The gym would be a no go and he'd have to take Odin on an much shortened morning walk.

At least there was nothing else on the schedule. It could be a couch day without impacting anything else. He threw on sweatpants, already determined to do the laziest shuffle around the block. Emerging into his living room, he scanned for his surprisingly quiet dog.

"Good morning."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Scott yelped. He clutched at his chest, going from drowsy to full alert.

Standing in front of the coffee maker as if he'd never left was Ilya. He had on his favorite black Adidas pants and one of his many interchangeable black tank tops. It could have been any morning a year ago. Had Scott time traveled? Had he lost his fucking mind? Both seemed equally plausible. Certainly more plausible than Ilya washing back up on his shore after eight months of silence.

"You are very jumpy," Ilya observed.

"You are an asshole!" Scott bit back, "Fuck, I almost had a fucking heart attack."

"Mmm, no. Your cardiologist calls you a good boy, I think."

Odin was posted up at Ilya's side, leaning against his legs and panting happily. At 'good boy', Odin whined a little expectantly. With a sigh, Ilya reached for the cookie jar that Scott used for treats, scooped one out and let Odin nimbly take it from his fingers.

"What is happening?" Scott asked.

"I am making coffee. There are bagels. You want?"

"Weirdly not hungry after almost passing out," Scott said, his heart rate coming down slowly, "Did you think I wasn't here or something?"

"No, I knew," Ilya said.

He hadn't actually met Scott's eyes yet. For all the posturing of calm, Ilya was holding himself in tightly. Arms were folded over his chest and his eyes darted everywhere, except Scott. The coffee pot gurgled behind him.

"So what then?" Scott asked.

"So. I am-" Ilya waved one hand around as if he could pluck the words from the air, "I wanted to talk."

"We have these great inventions called phones," Scott said, "Could've sent a text. Called. You know, let me know you were alive beyond the obvious."

He wanted to be angry, but now that the first fear reaction was leaving, all that was in it's place was profound relief. Ilya was beat to shit, of course. He had a black eye and the other one was a little bloodshot. The beard was darker than his hair, aging him a little. The dawn light painted him in fatigue. Everything about his stance said 'ask me about my many contusions', but that was expected after a deep playoff run.

He was still ludicrously handsome. It was unfair that he could stand there, slouched, battered and repentant without losing an inch of magnetic charisma.

"I was very angry," Ilya said.

"Yeah, you made that clear."

"And then I was very sad."

Scott sat with that for a second. "Regular sad or the really bad kind?"

"Mm, both," Ilya admitted. "The really bad kind is better now. But even once it went away, I was still regular sad. Which is crazy. I have my Shane, I have a good team, a chance at the cup, and I am still sad."

"Yeah, well. Life is like that," Scott said inanely.

With a grunt of annoyance, Ilya dragged himself a little more upright. He finally looked at Scott, locking eyes with him. The intensity of his stare had never been easy to avoid and now it was downright impossible.

"I miss you too," Ilya said.

"Okay," Scott breathed out. "Okay. That's…okay."

"I broke you," Ilya grimaced.

"A little. I don't know what to think. I kind of figured you'd eventually get bored of haunting this place, take Odin and go."

Dimly, Scott registered an absence of sound. There had been water running somewhere close by and now there wasn't.

"You think I came back only for the dog?" Ilya frowned, even as he reached down to pet Odin like dog might understand the slight.

"I didn't think it was for the sheets on the guest room bed. They're nice. Not that nice."

"I could not stop. This is…I think, maybe, you are home," Ilya said with a catch in his voice, "Very fucking annoying thing to do to me, Hunter. Make me your friend, make sure I have a place to be when I feel like shit, take care of my dog and then work very hard so I do not screw things up with my boyfriend. I tried to leave. Each time I say it is the last time I would come here. Then this note."

To Scott's shock, Ilya pulled the pages of Scott's note out of his pocket. They had been folded many times, the edges soft and the curl of a stain on the outside by Ilya's name.

"Yeah, I was maybe…I don't know. I meant it," Scott settled on because he had. Whatever Ilya had made of it, Scott had meant it.

"This is not fair," Ilya determined.

"Which part?' Scott barked a humorless laugh.

"That you will tell me and you will not tell him."

Scott went very still. "I think I was pretty clear why."

"And I think that you are very brave until you are a coward," Ilya said simply.

"You motherfu-"

The door to the guest bathroom opened, steam pouring out. Stepping into the hallway in very short shorts, a t-shirt that clung damply to him and a towel still around his shoulders was Shane.

Absence had rendered Shane only more beautiful. His hair was a little longer, his jawline a little sharper, and even with the ragged ends of the post-season on them, he was harder all over. Stronger. Scott had no doubt that Shane could go rep for rep with Ilya in the gym. They were like two titans humbling themselves to fit in Scott's mundane space.

"Hi, Scott," Shane said with a small smile.

Scott silently walked around the couch and sat down on it. He knew when he'd pushed his knee too far and right now it felt like he'd pushed his everything too far. At least with Ilya, he had existed in this space before. Shane was unreal. Scott hadn't even been in his physical presence for two and a half years. Hadn't heard his voice in months.

"Hi," he said, small and broken.

"Sorry to barge in on you, but I don't have a lot of time right now. Honestly, this was the only time Ilya and I were both going to be close to you before August and we didn't want to wait that long."

Scott nodded slowly like that made sense, trying not to stare.

"I broke him," Ilya informed Shane, "Coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks," Shane said, "I don't think you broke him. He just needs a minute. We sprung this on him."

A minute later, Scott's usual mug was set down in front of him with coffee the right shade of caramel. Shane sat down on the other end of the couch. Ilya took the armchair. They were definitely both waiting for him.

"I don't know why you're here," Scott said.

"We thought it was time we talked. The three of us," Shane said, his hands locked around the mug Scott usually gave to Carter. It had a silhouette of pizza rat on it. A tiny bit of whimsy that usually made Scott smile. Right now it felt like it was mocking his tenuous grip on reality. "About things."

"Do I get to consent to this conversation?" Scott asked.

"No," Ilya said, "you had many years of chances and you took none of them. So now it happens to you."

"That seems wrong," Scott hazarded, appealing to Shane.

Shane shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, "I don't like how the last few months went."

"Of the three of us, I think I had the least say in that," Scott pointed out.

"I wasn't blaming you," Shane said, "neither is Ilya."

Scott glanced to Ilya, but he seemed to accept Shane speaking for him.

"Great, glad we have that straightened out," Scott said.

"I wasn't sure what it meant that you helped with all the letters. I had to really sit with it for a bit. Then Ilya wrote me a few without you helping like you said he should. They were really good," Shane said with clear warmth. Ilya didn't preen. He was sitting with all the quiet tension of a cat watching a mouse. Hard to say which of them was which. "But they were different. It was like I could hear him better in them. I don't really know how to explain it."

"Makes sense," Scott said.

God, what was he even saying? He was mostly trying not to devour Shane with his eyes or get down on his knees and beg Ilya not to leave again.

"I told Ilya that it was too bad I couldn't have both. Just his words and just yours. So I could really get my head around it, you know? I mean I know we talked all the time, but you don't write how you talk. Or maybe it's just how you write with Ilya. Then Ilya said that you did write me something on your own, but he won't say anything else. That I had to ask you," Shane said it with polite confusion as if it wasn't shattering Scott on an atomic level to know what was coming next, "so now I'm asking."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Scott asked Ilya, "You want me to apologize? I will. For whatever you want me to atone for. I'll do it."

Ilya rolled his eyes. "Have a little trust in me. Show him."

"Easy for you to say," Scott spat, "you already have what you want. I was just going to live in a world where at least I wasn't laughed at to my face about it."

"Scott," Shane said with wide eyes, "it can't be that bad."

"He does not do things like that. You know this," Ilya said with a ferocity that took Scott aback, "And I like to poke and make jokes, but you said you think I'm kind. Did you mean that? Or do you think I'm terrible and you lied?"

Scott closed his eyes. He didn't really think Ilya or Shane were cruel men. Anyway, hadn't the worst already happened? He'd lost them both. It didn't feel brave to get to his feet and walk towards his bedroom. It felt like being resigned to an execution.

With leaden hands, he opened his bedside table drawer and pulled out the notepad. The first page met him with it's hopeful lightness.

We talked about the weather today. That should be boring, something you save for the people you know the least about. It wasn't like that at all. We talked about the weather that made us happy. You, the sun warming your favorite lake, and me, the first snow of the year, before it turns to dirty slush. It was a small conversation, we were both in a rush, but we both made time to get those two postcard pictures out of our heads and mailed to each other.

I think I could set myself a challenge to only speak about boring things with you and still be fascinated by you for the rest of my life.

The very first page and already it was clear what Scott was turning over to Shane. Scott could slam it back in the drawer, throw them both out and keep his secret for the rest of his days. Maybe decades in the future he would run into Shane, in those twilight moments Scott could offer one of these pages to him with a wry little, 'this is something I felt once'. And then just die, immediately thereafter.

Or he could not be a ridiculous melodramatic douchebag and get it over with right now, then continue living his life like a productive member of society and not a character from an old novel with consumption. At least it would be over. Whatever this terrible liminal state was, it would end.

Scott walked back out before he could stop himself. He held the note pad out to Shane.

"I never expected anything. It was an honor to be your friend," he said, then he turned on his heels and picked up his keys.

"Where are you going?" Ilya demanded, "I already walked Odin."

"I'm not sitting here watching while he reads it."

"So he will go read in my room. He will need his glasses anyway and they are in his bag," Ilya said, "Sit. I got you breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Scott said stiffly.

Shane stood and walked into Ilya's room without another word, already squinting a little at the pages. 

"The bagels are fresh," Ilya cajoled.

"I'm not fucking hungry," Scott repeated.

With a sigh, Ilya went to the kitchen and produced a paper bag that Scott had missed earlier in his surprise. There were warm bagels and two containers of cream cheese. One plain and one full of veggies that Scott liked. Ilya silently cut an everything bagel in half, smeared it with the veggie cream cheese and set it in front of Scott on the kitchen island. Then he set about making his own.

"Eat," he said.

A petulant angry part of Scott wanted to throw it in his face. Instead, he picked up one half and took a small bite as a peace offering then set it back down.

"I'm sorry you lost last night. It was a beautiful game," Scott said, mostly to his plate.

"It was," Ilya said, leaning on the island beside him. "You want to talk about hockey?"

"I swear to fuck if you don't distract me, I will find a way to set you and me on fire with my mind," Scott informed him.

"A few months on your own and you go feral?"

"I've been spending a lot of time with a baby and I think he's a good role model. Scream uncontrollably when you're uncomfortable and the situation will definitely change."

"He is a very good baby," Ilya said, "Did you like his jersey?"

Talking about Francisco was better than several alternatives. After a few minutes, Scott even ate a few more bites of his bagel. Ilya stopped prodding him in favor of cleaning up the kitchen. Scott watched him, storing the vision of him at the sink away for some later domestic dream.

"Did you treat the bruising yet?" Scott asked him.

Ilya shook his head, so Scott busted out the ice packs. They settled on the couch like old times, Ilya pressing ice packs to the worst of the damage and Scott pretending to be engrossed with his phone. He wasn't fooling himself or Ilya, but he had to make the attempt. How long could it take Shane to read everything? It was two years worth of writing, but Scott hadn't been using it very regularly. Most of the passages were only a paragraph or two long. Not to mention they likely got pretty repetitive after awhile. Scott hadn't been writing them with the thought someone might look back on them.

Odin assessed the situation, hooked his chin over Scott's knee and gave him a pleading look.

"Fine, but only because you're being emotionally manipulative to me in a vulnerable moment."

The dog did a neat hop to sit beside him on the couch, tail thwacking against Ilya's thigh as he settled his head under Scott's hand for a deep petting session.

"It is not manipulation," Ilya said,"he loves you."

"I know. In his doggy way," Scott said, still running through impossible math. He asked the question that had been gnawing at him, "Have you two been happy together? "

"Yes, very," Ilya said and Scott found he could breath a little easier, "It is complicated, of course. Scary, sometimes. Also, sometimes he wakes me up in the middle of the night to tell me things."

"He does that to you too?" Scott asked, then winced. "I mean, obviously for me on the phone. I never-"

"Yes, I know," Ilya waved that away, "but you understand? How he likes to drop explosions on you at 3 AM?"

"Mostly because you're a dick on award nights apparently, but yeah. He does like a late night revelation."

"He called you after that?" Ilya asked and Scott couldn't read his tone.

"I don't know which 'that' you mean. He pretty much always calls me on award night."

Ilya shook his head with a soft laugh. "He does not sleep very well when he is upset."

"Or when he's been 'fine' too many days in a row."

"You notice this?"

"It got obvious pretty fast. A Shane Hollander 'fine' is another man's 'this is the worst day of my life'."

If that got them off to the races comparing Observations of Shane Hollander in the Wild, then so be it. It was nice to talk about Shane with someone else, who knew him well. None of it was mean, only the quiet bemusement over the quirks of another person that they both loved.

The door to Ilya's room opened again. Shane stepped out, empty-handed. Silence filled the room.  Perched on Shane's nose was a pair of glasses that wouldn't look out of place on a man twice his age. They lent him a gravitas that Scott hadn't been prepared for. Shane kept walking until he stood right in front of Scott. It was only that close that Scott could see that Shane's eyes had gone a little red.

"Did you mean all of it?" Shane asked.

"Yes," Scott said. His heart was in a vise. His stomach was knotted around the five bites of bagel he'd managed.

"Fuck,' Shane said with a lot of feeling, "it's a lot. The whole time?" 

"Since June 2014," Scott said, staring up at him. 

Could he say anything else that would make a difference? 

He never got a chance to know. Instead, Shane leaned down, cupped Scott's jaw and in front of Odin, Ilya, and the open window, kissed him with all the passion of lovers, long parted, reunited at last. 

Chapter End Notes

“And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb ‘to love.’ A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee’s brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover’s lip: 'Forever.”

― Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac