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Benji checks the clock and glances toward the stage left door. The next award presenters haven’t shown up backstage yet, but there’s a career highlights video before the next voiceover segment. They still have time. They’re probably making their way back from the audience.
Someone enters through the upstage door: Theo McDermott, in black and wearing an all-access lanyard, not one of Benji’s hockey players. McDermott’s been in and out of the wings all night, mainly as one of Benji’s runners. It’s hard to tell in the blue lights backstage, but Benji thinks he looks pale. He makes a beeline for Benji, which is never a good sign.
“So,” McDermott says nervously, “I think I just saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.”
Benji’s imagination plays through a series of increasingly alarming scenarios. Fistfights. Cocaine. Indecent exposure. Honestly, with hockey players, it could be anything.
“Tell me it didn’t involve minors,” Benji says first, because McDermott is here partly to wrangle the attending juniors, and that’s all they need.
“No. God, no. Shit.” McDermott laughs a little, high and shaky. He’s sweating, but he’s also wearing a wool suit, so that might be unrelated. Benji could have told him he’d regret that sartorial choice once he started running around backstage. There’s a lot of ground to cover in a theatre this size.
“Spit it out,” Benji says, and checks the clock again. The highlights video is queued up to go. The next presenters have five minutes before Benji sends someone to find them. Possibly McDermott, if Benji doesn’t need him to go clean up whatever mess he’d stumbled into instead.
“Big names. Two really big names. They were…” McDermott lowers his voice. “I’m pretty sure they were kissing.”
Benji’s blood goes cold. “You didn’t see shit.”
“I saw them come out of the bathroom together. I don’t know if they were actually doing anything, but…fuck. Can you imagine? That shit would go viral on Twitter.”
“Listen to me,” Benji says, voice hard. “It’s none of our fucking business. We’re here to run an awards show. We keep our heads down, we respect the players and their privacy. We don’t out anyone. Which is why you didn’t see shit.”
McDermott doesn’t get belligerent, which is a blessing, but the message doesn’t seem to be fully sinking in yet. “They’re gonna get caught. The way they were looking at each other, fuck…”
“Not our problem,” Benji starts - although if it’s happening this close to the stage, it kind of is - and then shuts up as the door opens and Benji’s missing presenters walk in. Benji straightens to attention, praying that McDermott doesn’t wander off and run his mouth to someone else while Benji is distracted.
“Sorry we’re late,” Hollander says, voice hushed even though no one will hear them over the highlights video playing onstage.
“We are not late,” Rozanov argues behind him. “We have seventeen more years of bad goalies not stopping shots in this video.”
Benji tries not to smile too obviously. “I haven’t even sent out a search party.”
“See? Plenty of time.” Rozanov leans around Hollander, trying to see the video screen onstage. Benji points him toward the nearest monitor instead, where it’s easier to watch the montage of goals and victory laps. Rozanov says something in Hollander’s ear, too low to catch. It’s hard to tell, but Benji thinks Hollander gets him with an elbow.
Benji becomes aware that McDermott is still there, practically vibrating out of his skin. He’s probably still imagining his chance at Twitter fame. Benji shoots him a warning look.
“It’s them,” McDermott says out of the corner of his mouth. He probably thinks he’s being subtle.
Benji starts to give him shit for not reading the run sheet - McDermott should know who the next presenters are - and then stops.
The way they were looking at each other, McDermott had said. Kissing.
“Motts,” Benji says slowly, voice low. “Are you saying that’s who you saw? Shane fucking Hollander and Ilya fucking Rozanov?”
McDermott’s eyes widen meaningfully, like he’s relieved that Benji gets it now.
Big fucking names indeed.
Benji has to take a minute. Or rather, take ten seconds, because they’re on a schedule here.
Hollander and Rozanov, thankfully, are still distracted by the video. Rozanov points out something in one of the plays with a snort. Hollander leans into him a little, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
McDermott makes a sound like someone stepping on a squeaky toy.
“Motts,” Benji hisses. “Hollander and Rozanov are married.”
McDermott gestures a bit wildly and whispers back. “You think that’s ever stopped anyone on the DL? Like no one’s ever cheated? Maybe they have beards.”
Benji wonders uncharitably how many concussions McDermott has had on the ice.
“They’re married to each other.”
McDermott’s mouth falls open. Benji checks the clock again and gives Hollander and Rozanov their two-minute warning.
Hollander, who has a reputation for being one of the most professional and easy-to-manage players in the league at these events, steps into place beside Benji for his entrance. Rozanov, whose reputation is mostly as a shit-stirrer who likes to see what he can get away with, is towed along behind him due to his fingers being tangled with Hollander’s.
Benji hopes McDermott doesn’t have a stroke backstage. The paramedics are stationed all the way out in the lobby.
Hollander looks over his shoulder and frowns. He looks down at their joined hands. “Where’s your ring?”
“Hm?” Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “Something wrong?”
“Your wedding ring, asshole,” Hollander says.
Rozanov shrugs. “Must have forgotten. No one will notice.”
“We’re about to walk onstage in front of a bank of photographers and video cameras, and only one of us is wearing a ring,” Hollander says tightly. “Trust me, they’re going to notice.”
“You only notice because you like to use me as a fidget toy,” Rozanov says.
“Fuck,” Hollander says. “Did you leave it in the bathroom?”
Rozanov lights up like he’s just remembered something. Benji draws in a breath to tell McDermott to sprint like his life depends on it to the men’s room and back in the next thirty seconds, but then Rozanov pats his breast pocket and grins.
“It is here. I carry it like I carry you, close to my heart,” Rozanov says, drawing out the ring. It would be romantic as fuck if it hadn’t been giving Hollander a heart attack.
McDermott’s phone starts to creep up in Benji’s peripheral vision. “Do not tweet that,” Benji mutters, before it can rise any higher.
Rozanov slides the wedding band onto his finger and raises his hand with a showy little flourish.
Hollander’s eyes go soft, his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “What were you going to do if I didn’t notice?”
“You always notice,” Rozanov says easily, taking Hollander’s hand again. “When it is about me.”
Hollander shakes his head and fusses with Rozanov’s tuxedo jacket as the video fades out and the audience applauds. He looks more relaxed now, less keyed up than when they’d arrived backstage. Benji gives them the ten-second warning.
“Oh, Hollander,” Rozanov adds casually. “I changed the speech. I think it’s better now.”
Hollander’s smile vanishes. “What?”
“Very small change. Good for banter.”
“Ilya.”
“We will improvise.”
“...three…two…one…” Benji counts down.
“Jesus Christ,” Hollander says, and strides out onstage with new fire in his step. Rozanov winks at Benji as he follows.
Benji sags against the black curtain, which isn’t nearly sturdy enough for it, then retreats into the wing. McDermott is still there, looking like he’s just been checked into the boards and never saw it coming.
“Married,” McDermott says, dumbstruck.
“How did you not know that?” Benji demands. “You work in hockey. They were the biggest fucking story of the past year.”
“I cover the juniors,” McDermott defends. “I don’t have time to follow everything. Anyway, you’re wrong. The biggest story last year was Hollander joining the fucking Ottawa Centaurs.”
Benji stares at him.
McDermott’s eyes go wide.
“Wait,” he says. “Shit. Hang on.”
Benji valiantly fights an eyeroll at how long it’s taken for McDermott to catch up, but at least the lightbulb seems to have turned on.
“Do you think that’s how they got together? When Hollander joined the Centaurs?” McDermott asks, hushed and excited.
“Jesus Christ,” Benji says.
The End