Chapter Text
June 2009
Scott Hunter woke up on the morning of the day before the 2009 NHL draft with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He tried to dismiss it with the discipline of a lifetime. He got up, methodically made a nutritious breakfast, went for a run, showered and shaved and dressed in his best suit whilst attempting to ignore the funk he was in.
He ought to be excited. Draft day was always an adrenalin-fuelled highlight in the hockey year. He'd been made captain of the Admirals last September and it had been a good year for him. Being asked by the management to be on the selection team for the draft was a big vote of confidence in his abilities not just as a player but as a leader. He should be flattered.
He'd spent the previous evening watching test tapes of the most promising prospective rookies and there was some real star power there - the Admirals may not have first pick but there was certainly plenty of talent to choose from.
The standouts were universally acknowledged to be the young Russian Ilya Rozanov, and the teenaged Canadian Shane Hollander, so Scott had started with them, reading the files management had emailed over with their stats and profiles. The two pixelated passport-sized headshots of the young men included in the packs didn't do much to illustrate these, although even out of focus Rozanov appeared to be unreasonably good looking. Scott sighed at this. As an elite athlete, he spent most of his days surrounded by young men in peak physical condition, often in a state of undress. As a closeted gay man, he spent much of that time studiously ignoring the fact. If the new generation were going to start turning up looking like GQ models that was not going to make his life any easier.
The Minnesota winger Vincent Lemaire at least wasn't giving him any trouble in that regard, with his square blunt face the colour of ham, so Scott had started with his test tape. Lemaire had enormous power on the puck, and was huge for his age, practically as broad as he was tall and thick-muscled - it would be a brave center who would go up against him without a qualm. Scott personally disliked his style of hockey, that relied on brute force and intimidation rather than skill to make his way across the ice; but he couldn't deny that he had benefited in the past from having a Ryan Price or Carter Vaughn at his elbow as he made for the goal, making defensemen think twice before tackling him. Lemaire would be a good pick for a team with a fast but slighter center who needed protecting.
He cued up Rozanov next, and was soon sitting forward on his couch with his elbows on his knees as he watched clip after clip of the Russian center destroying unwary defense lines with a lethal combination of explosive power, unerringly good instincts for what his opponent would do next, and absolutely filthy play: checking players just hard enough to be unnecessary but not (usually) hard enough to get himself thrown into the sin bin; chirping constantly at opposition players until they lost their cool and either made mistakes or tried to lay him out (resulting in a power play for Rozanov’s side which he never failed to make the most of). Rozanov was barely harnessed chaos combined with raw talent and it made absolute magic on the ice. And he did indeed look like a GQ model while he did it.
Rozanov was draft gold, one to watch. But so had Scott been, in his day, and he recognised the traits of someone with something to prove - the boldness bordering on recklessness, the absolute determination to score at any cost. In Scott's case, it had been underscored by his anxiety that so much had been poured into him to get him onto the ice - his parents’ legacy, his scholarship, his foster placements, his training grants, his school - and he had to prove that investment worthwhile. He wondered what demons were driving Rozanov, and if they had the potential to undermine his performance in the longer term.
Eventually he turned his attention to Hollander. The info pack had been very impressive. The kid had been playing hockey essentially since he could stand up straight, and his trajectory through the youth game to leading his country's international prospect team earlier this year was a textbook masterclass in quiet, consistent achievement. Scott was interested to see what that translated to on the ice.
As the highlight reel began, Scott sat back against the cushions of his couch, picking out Hollander's jersey amidst a rapidly churning mob of players around center ice. It was the kind of messy moment where it was almost impossible for anyone to gain the upper hand, which almost always ended with a foul and a restart or a wild smack of the puck out of the melee in the blind hope one of your wingers could pick it up before the other team's did.
But then, suddenly, somehow, Hollander emerged from the scrum with the puck, streaming across the ice so quickly it was several seconds before the rest of the pack even noticed that the puck was no longer there. When they did, they surged after Hollander, the opposition defense spraying ice with their skates in a frantic effort to stop him. But it was hopeless. Hollander slipped around other players as if it was a choreographed dance, and the moment he had a clear shot on goal he slammed the puck into it - not with the explosive power of a Scott or a Rozanov, but with a speed of judgment and a clinical precision that made it look easy, inevitable. Scott's mouth dropped open. This kid was good.
The next highlight started and Scott leaned forward to watch more closely. Nothing Hollander did was showy and yet Scott's eye would find him immediately without even clocking his jersey. He was an absolutely fascinating mix of precision and poetry on the ice. He moved with a liquid grace, filling gaps you didn't notice had been there until Hollander quietly appeared in them at just the right moment. He wasn't a glory hog - he used his line, passed before he was forced to and made sure he was always where he should be to be useful - but it was clear in every play his team were fighting just to keep up with him, that even when he wasn't captaining he was quietly directing every play, showing the way, as if he had a script for the game he was following that no-one else had access to. It was absolutely beautiful to watch. But he wasn't delicate. He could take a check and keep skating, he had a surprising amount of power at his disposal when passing or shooting for goal. He was a paradox, and Scott had a surprisingly sharp desire to meet him on the ice, watch him up close.
Scott still didn't really know what Hollander looked like under that helmet. The picture attached to his file was years old, a skinny teen with the staring black eyes of a prey animal. When he scored or won, Hollander never joined in with the celebrating, throwing off his helmet and colliding with his teammates. Instead he kept on skating, round the fringes of the group, close enough to seem part of it but not so close he could be touched.
Eventually he had run out of Hollander footage, so had reluctantly turned his attention to the other five or six videos management had sent of the leaders of the pack for drafting. There were some fine strong players, many interesting styles of play, but as Scott had brushed his teeth and slipped into bed around midnight, it was Hollander who kept coming back to him - that smooth, flowing grace lethally combined with absolute precision.
He knew that New York probably didn't really have a shot at Hollander, or Rozanov - they were the number one and two picks almost certainly, although who would take first was anybody's guess. The Admirals were further down the draft running order than usual this year, in part because of the number of points Scott had managed to pull for them this year - no good deed goes unpunished. As Scott closed his eyes, he wondered which team would snag Hollander - whoever they were, he had a feeling they were going to be the ones to beat next season.
And then he'd woken up blue and anxious. He looked at himself now in the hall mirror, suited and booted and in every way the proper picture of a young hockey captain. He shouldn't be nervous. Okay, he was never as comfortable with the other side of his job as he was on the ice - meeting and greeting, events and press. But he had mastered it. He knew who to be. So why was he feeling so out of sorts?
As he sat in the cab on the way to the airport, he realised it was the draft itself - all these young guys just starting out in their careers, tipped for greatness. That had been Scott seven years ago, and while his career had been strong - third pick at his draft, an impressive roster of goals and assists, several awards including one MVP - he still hadn't led his team to a Stanley cup win. He still hadn't lived up to that early promise. He still hadn't paid his dues. And his time was running out to do so. So much had been invested in his success. How would he live with himself if he eventually retired without making a real return on that investment?
He spent the flight to Vegas sleeping, hoping that more rest would settle this unfruitful turn of thought before he had to meet up with the rest of the draft team for dinner at the hotel. It had worked, sort of. He was able to make polite conversation and offer pertinent remarks on the potential recruits. When dinner was over he made his excuses and went back to his hotel room, where he found himself rewatching the Hollander footage on his phone. The elegance and intelligence of his plays was strangely soothing. As he drifted off to sleep, he found himself wondering what Hollander would be like in person.
The next day was absolute organized chaos. Deals were done, disappointment and elation buzzed in the air, potential rookies and their proud parents milled around the barn-like hotel events room. Scott found himself accosted every thirty seconds by some starry-eyed young man or other keen to shake his hand, and he was reminded once again that in this specific world, he was actually famous - a celebrity. Some of these kids would have his poster on their wall. It was bizarre and slightly unsettling. But he played his part, assumed a big brotherly air of kindness, shook hands with dads and charmed moms and wished the young potentials the best of luck. He said “see you on the ice” so often that the phrase lost all meaning.
He saw but did not speak to Rozanov. The young man wasn't what he would have expected from watching his play reel. He trailed grimly in the wake of (Scott assumed) his father, a balding, cold-eyed man who rebuked Rozanov sharply in Russian every time the younger man opened his mouth. Whatever crazed confidence infused Rozanov's playing on the ice, it was obvious the presence of his father quelled it utterly.
It wasn't until the draft was done that Scott finally caught sight of Hollander. He was being hauled up onto a platform with the top three picks for press. Rozanov was there, something of his swagger restored by being first pick for Boston. To his left was a huge, grinning American called Sullivan who had been drafted by Phoenix as the third pick. And to his right stood Hollander, the second pick for the Montreal Metros, a legacy Canadian team that had had a terrible half-decade in the wilderness. A star center like Hollander was exactly what they needed to turn their fortunes around. It was a good match for both sides; but Hollander looked pissed as hell, especially when Rozanov jostled his shoulder playfully as they held up their new team jerseys for the camera. However, when the photographer prompted them all to look happy, he pulled a perfect smile out of the bag - humble, grateful and delighted. He was obviously media-trained.
Scott smiled despite himself. Hollander's reputation was the golden boy of Canadian hockey - shy, polite, dedicated. But Scott had caught the flash of steely ambition there before it disappeared under the media polish. Hollander wasn't interested in coming second at anything.
Scott found himself angling closer to Hollander after the press run, casually approaching him where he stood beside his parents receiving congratulations from the great and good of hockey management. A Metros suit was just saying “we're so thrilled that Shane is Asian - well Asian-Canadian. Really thrilled. We've historically broken barriers, and now we're doing it again, so, no problem there.”
Scott watched Hollander's face as this clanger was dropped. His impassive expression barely changed, but Scott could see the slight tightening of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes. Hollander hated this comment. Scott saw his mother, an elegant Japanese woman, sweep in, redirecting the suit’s line of conversation without seeming to, subtly putting her body between the man and her discomfited son.
Scott liked her for that. As she steered the Metros manager away to a small table and her husband followed, Shane was left standing alone. For a split second he looked so relieved Scott almost changed his mind about approaching him, almost decided to let him have his moment of peace in the maelstrom. But then he saw Rozanov approaching with devilment in his blue eyes, and hastily he interposed himself between the two young men. Hollander clearly had enough to contend with today without being needled by the boy who'd beaten him to first, the boy who the press were already setting up as his rival on the ice, a job that had been made much easier by them being drafted to Boston and Montreal respectively, two old guard teams that had cordially despised each other since more or less the inception of the NHL.
“Congrats, Rook,” Scott began, pulling alongside Hollander instead of getting in his face. The younger man glanced sideways at him and his eyes widened.
“Uh, thanks, Mr Hunter. It's an honour.”
Scott laughed self-deprecatingly and held out his hand. “Scott, please. You can't be calling me ‘Mr Hunter’ when we're checking the shit out of each other against the boards in a couple of months.”
Shane let out a little laugh that seemed to take him by surprise, and shook Scott's hand. His hands were large but delicate, Scott noticed, long tapered fingers and a firm grip. He felt a smile creep across his face as he met Hollander's eyes and properly looked at him.
The young man in front of him looked nothing like the grainy boyish photograph he'd seen on his profile pack. He had filled out and grown taller, though he still only just cleared Scott's shoulder. His eyes were almond-shaped, burnt-caramel coloured, and the laugh Scott had shocked out of him was still in them. His dark short hair lay soft and feathery across his forehead, and a spatter of striking freckles crossed his face from cheekbone to cheekbone. Scott also couldn't help noticing that he had an incredibly beautiful mouth - soft and pink, the full lower lip giving him a serious expression even when he smiled.
Scott suddenly realised he was still holding Hollander's hand and let it go abruptly. He resumed his previous position at Hollander's shoulder and surveyed the room.
“Hell of a day, right?” he said casually. Hollander gave a sharp nod, his eyes darting around the room.
“It's… a lot,” he said. “Up until now I only thought about the draft order, about what team I would get. I didn't think about…” he waved a hand helplessly at the seething sea of managers, promoters, brand reps, and press, “all of this.”
Scott clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Part of the gig, I'm afraid. But yeah it kind of sucks. Looks like your mom has got you covered for at least some of the sponsorship crap.” He indicated across the room where Mrs Hollander was deep in conversation with a CCM rep, pointing back at Shane. Shane blushed.
“Yeah, she's my manager. For now at least. She can be a lot too sometimes.” Scott chuckled.
“I can tell. But it's good to have her looking out for you. Better inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in, as my dad used to say.”
Hollander huffed out another surprised laugh, and Scott felt the corners of his mouth pulling against a stupidly pleased smile.
“Sorry; that is your mom after all, maybe less of the pissing talk. My dad was military, and then a sports coach, what can I say.”
Shane nodded.
“I know. I read a profile on you in THN, about your parents and…” Shane trailed off awkwardly. “I'm sorry.”
He didn't expand on that, and Scott was grateful for that.
“Thanks kid. That's the worst thing about the press stuff. They always want to talk about the one thing I don't want to talk about. I bet you know how that feels.”
Shane looked at him sharply, surprised at being understood.
“I really do.”
Scott smiled at him reassuringly.
“You get used to it. There's no getting away from it, so all you can do is get through it. You may even be able to turn it to your advantage some day, depending on how you feel about it. I'm sure you've already heard the words ‘role model’ enough to make you sick, but… it's not a bad thing to be able to do some good. I bust out my sob story at fundraisers every now and then, and it raises a lot of money for scholarships for talented kids who wouldn't be able to pursue hockey seriously otherwise. Not that you need to be thinking about any of that just now; rookie year it's all about keeping your head up and making your mark…” Scott paused. “God I'm rambling. You're dangerously easy to talk to, kid.”
Shane shook his head.
“You're not at all. I really appreciate-”
“All that advice you didn't ask for?” Scott interjected. He realised he was actively trying to make Hollander laugh again. It worked, and Scott felt a warmth spread through his chest at that soft chuckle.
Uh oh.
Scott didn't do crushes. At all. Especially not on other players. He had made his decision about his sexuality long ago, when his career started getting serious; he had accepted that being gay and being a pro hockey player at the same time was impossible, and so he had squashed that part of him down to the smallest place he could manage. Of course he had eyes, and a dick, so of course he sometimes noticed good looking guys, sometimes thought about them when he was alone. And yes he was human, so occasionally (very occasionally) he picked up, usually abroad in countries that had no ice hockey culture, so he stood at least a good chance of whoever he found to scratch the itch having no fucking idea who he was. But here, in North America, never. Ever. He never even let himself look too long. It wasn't worth the risk.
But suddenly he realised, in this room packed with senior people he should be schmoozing and potentially lucrative sponsors he should be chasing, as one of the decision-makers on what would be the most important day of these young players’ lives, the only place he wanted to be was exactly where he was - standing by Hollander's side talking to him like they were friends, like they were alone, listening to his quiet voice and sudden laugh, and stealing glances at his adorable freckles.
Shit.
“Anyway, I should probably go mingle - you're hot property today and I'm keeping you all to myself,” he said, trying to sound relaxed and avuncular. He wasn't sure how well it came off, especially when he caught a look of disappointment fleet across Hollander's face, like he would have preferred that Scott stayed, and he felt a stab of irrational guilt. But it was only there for a moment before it was replaced with a look of schooled politeness.
“Sure. It was really nice to meet you, Mr Hunter.”
Scott gave him a reproving look, and Shane gave a small self-conscious smile.
“I mean, Scott.”
Scott. He realised he liked how his first name sounded in Hollander's mouth altogether too much. He shoved the thought away.
“It was nice to meet you too, Rook. Have a great summer, and I'll see you on the ice.” There. Friendly, but casual. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.
Scott walked away, worked the room. But his eyes kept finding Hollander, always a little on the periphery, no matter how many people actively sought him out to congratulate him on his pick. He looked at him so often that eventually he realised he wasn't the only one doing so - after a while it seemed that every time he looked at Shane, Ilya Rozanov was already eyeballing him from some vantage point. The Russian's expression was inscrutable, but Scott could tell that for all his cockiness in the wake of his draft success, Rozanov was smart enough to know a true competitor when he saw one. It made Scott slightly nervous on Hollander’s behalf.
Which is ridiculous, he reminded himself, because Hollander is a grown man and a hockey player and you don't know him from Adam.
The next time he cased the room, he saw that Hollander and his parents had gone - probably exhausted by the day. Scott suddenly realised how tired he was as well, his eyes glazing over as he made correct noises of agreement with his Admirals team colleagues about the coup they had made securing a promising defense rookie called Magyi. He excused himself as quickly as he could and took the elevator to his hotel room, collapsing on his bed with a heavy sigh.
Scott ran a quick body check, noting his tight shoulders and lower back, the beginnings of a headache starting to thump in his temples. It was ridiculous. He could play three periods of brutal hockey, stretch his body to the limit and still be hungry for more. But a few hours of standing around in a suit making nice with people he didn't know could absolutely wring him out.
What he needed was to relax.
Without thinking too hard about it, Scott slipped a hand into his dress pants and palmed his soft dick. He let his mind wander as he mechanically got himself hard, and if a pair of golden-brown eyes and a short, breathy laugh crossed that mind more than a few times as he gave himself pragmatic relief, well the less he thought about that the better.