Chapter Text
Carter Hale’s office had a strange but fun tradition. It was meant to encourage bonding (ha!), friendly competition and, above all, theatrics. A moment for some drama in a job that could become quite monotonous at times. Whenever a reporter had a particularly good story – what one might call breaking news – the reporter would be placed in a conference room, a bell would be rung, and everyone in the office at that time would be required to congregate before them as they announced the headline of their article. The announcement would coincide with the press of a button, the satisfying click of a Post that would be displayed for all to see on a large projector behind them.
Carter had been around for some pretty good ones, hopeful that he would one day be up there at the head of the room, making his own debut of sorts. And he, for the first time in his career here, was going to do just that in a moment. His finger hovered over his keyboard, ready to post. Like Carter’s finger, Connie, his Editor-in-Chief, hovered over him while everyone else stood around the large conference room.
For months, Carter watched with morbid fascination as Montreal did their best to blackball Shane Hollander after he left the Voyageurs, but it had become clearer by the day that the man was bigger than the program. It was alarming, considering Shane himself had done nothing much to fight the onslaught outside of simply existing in the moment. Ilya Rozanov was a different story, however. At any given time, you could find him on social media defending his husband from fans, Montreal and the NHL alike. His (very loud, very public) actions, combined with Hollander’s continued silence, somehow had the effect of protecting their brand value even as half the NHL screamed for their heads. Shane was getting paid to show up by the same people who claimed they didn’t want to see him – very Rozanov of him.
In turn, others had begun to view Rozanov in a different light. Rozanov had always been a divisive player. You either loved or hated him. Him being with Shane had people asking “What am I missing?”. They begun to question what they knew of both men and how those contrasting personalities, those brands, could possibly work together. Even Carter had taken a step back to reevaluate how Ilya moved in Shane’s orbit. He’d taken some serious time to really study the people they were in each other’s presence as opposed to the players they were (thank you, fan-made SEXUAL TENSION BETWEEN HOLLANOV video compilations everybody thought was delusional back in the day). Within the right context, Carter could see a love story for the ages. It was frankly a little nauseating to witness. God, Carter was so single.
The NHL and Montreal did not make it easy for Shane in particular. His image as the good boy of the organization did not align with the gay of it all and certainly not the Rozanov of it all. Where Ilya could practically get away with anything because that was his brand, the same could not be said about Shane.
The fans felt betrayed and Montreal fueled the hatred, putting out statements and social media posts that leaned on the side of homophobia with the right amount of plausible deniability. Carter watched for months as they alluded not only to not knowing about Shane’s sexuality – a blatant misrepresentation because Carter knew for a fact that Shane came out to his team the year prior. It’s why he’d started paying extra attention to Montreal in the first place. He knew there would be a fallout and with him being recently outed as dating Ilya Rozanov of all people, Carter knew Montreal’s leadership and players were at their breaking point. He just wasn’t sure when that break would be. Shane was on top of the world as an individual player. He was practically the face of the NHL. He was surrounded by high profile friends. But the NHL was not known to be friends with any letter of the alphabet besides the performative rainbow flag here and there whenever they felt generous. And even that performative bit was a controversial subject.
Rozanov, at least, had the benefit of being with a team that seemed to be more understanding and inclusive. Carter was half in love with the Ottawa Centaurs’ social media manager, Harris. The man was sunshine and literal rainbows in Centaurs locker rooms. The entirety of the Centaurs structure – and Harris’ very loud presence within that structure – screamed safety. That was rare. Something Shane wouldn’t find with the Voyageurs. There was no doubt about it: Hollander had a target on his back and Carter wanted to be there when Montreal finally pulled the trigger. If only Connie would get off his case for just a bit longer.
Carter’s editor-in-chief had been beyond done with his obsession with Hollander and the Voyageurs. “I like the guy a lot; I even like his fuckass team when I’m drunk and high. They sell me my papers. But I’m not running The Hollander here, Carter. I need you at other games, in other cities. And I need you on real-life stories. You can’t keep trailing Montreal hoping for a scoop no one else smells,” she said.
“You are never drunk or high.” Carter ignored everything else.
“Exactly. I don’t like Montreal enough to dedicate so much of my paper to what they are doing.”
“I’m interested in Hollander.”
“And yet you’ve given me nothing so far. That is my problem, Carter. There’s clearly no story; he’s clean outside of that mind-boggling relationship and that’s played out. I’m not peddling traffic to it; they don’t need that negativity, to be honest.”
This is what Carter loved about Connie. She was not the type to milk a story to death for the sake of publicity. She was relentless, hungry for news like any shark in the business, but if she thought a reporter was going too far, she put a stop to it. Sometimes Carter wondered what she had on the owners of this publication to be able to get away with half the things she refused to print or publish online. Integrity was no longer a sort-after quality in this business. In many places, she would be considered a liability.
“You know that’s not my angle. There’s something else there, with the team. A shady trade at most. Give me a little more time to work it out. Make me a beat – I’m practically one anyway.” Connie had looked at him like he was insane. Carter was a well-respected reporter. He covered everything from general news to sports. He was by no means a household name in the industry and often went unnoticed, but his work was solid and showed great potential. He was doing exceptionally well right now, and he would soon be on his way to greatness. However, his work had not yet earned him the right to ask to become a beat reporter.
“I gave you months to play around. Your articles are fantastic, top tier analyses and all that jazz. But I need more to justify still following one team around. You hyper focusing on one gay, admittedly hot, hockey player doesn’t bring me stories. I need stories, Carter. Hollander won’t fill up my whole paper!”
“I have it, Connie. I just need a little bit of faith on your end. Just a bit longer. And if I get nothing, I will do whatever you want me to. I will report on cats stuck in trees, my grandmother’s tooth ache, who stubbed their toe at Walmart, whatever! Just a bit more time.”
“One extra month. Two tops. That’s all you get to give me the scoop of the century.”
“I love you!”
“The Global Post, Carter. My paper is called The Global Post,” Connie had hollered as she walked away.
“By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me to name it The Hollander. Mark my words!” Carter knew Montreal’s history and he knew something was up. He heard these men talk when they forgot they were being heard. There was no way Hollander went unpunished. A trade at most, a stripping of his captaincy circa 1993 Los Angeles Kings’ Dust Brown. Something shitty like that. But boy, what he walked into was one hell of a head scratcher even for him.
And Carter was about to share it with the world months after it all went down.
There was a bit of confusion in the conference room, people taking note that some faces were not meant to be here. The office was huge and constantly busy. Many of the people gathered here were meant to be out doing God knows what Connie wanted but they were here, for this moment.
“This better be worth it, Carter. I was packing for my trip tomorrow. Rose Landry is having a bash I can’t miss. Rumor has it she’s got a new movie coming up and I want it straight from her mouth,” Willard said, a smirk on his face. He was in entertainment and broke Hollander’s relationship with Rose Landry. The relationship didn’t last long but the scoop really boosted Will’s career.
“Oh, it’s worth it alright,” Connie said, practically vibrating out of her skin. Carter could see the dollar signs in her eyes. “This is the kind of stuff I like to see. Everyone take note and maybe next time this will be you. Carter.” The smile on her face could light up all of Canada with enough to spare for their neighbors.
“I call this one Vitriol from Montreal, Commands from the King: How Shane Hollander Told Montreal to Bow Down or Lay Down! (with exclusive video),” Carter said as he hit post. The article went live, an accompanying video with it. Connie clicked on the video for everyone to see.
The video was steady, the picture clear as day. Shane Hollander surrounded by his team, management and the Montreal support team nobody really paid attention to because their work was meant to be invisible.
“Can’t believe I tripped.” Shane Hollander sighed, disappointment and resignation in his voice.
“Did you?” asked Jean-Jacques Boiziau. Montreal fans called him J.J.
Carter had watched the video countless times over the last few months, and it affected him no less. He knew that Hollander and Boiziau were close and remained friends after this confrontation, but it was a brutal thing to say to someone you called a friend.
Carter watched his colleagues’ faces as Berkes called Hollander a faggot traitor, the mic picking up everything. The shock, the horror, the involuntary intake of breath. Watched as Drapeau supported what Berkes said, questioning Hollander’s integrity, casually endorsing the bigotry.
“Woah, what the actual fuck?” Will said, his face contorted. The video continued, taking Carter back to that moment.
“...I am so sick of pretending like you can even compare to that man. I gave up years of publicly loving him for this pathetic moment?” Hollander looked genuinely puzzled. As if it hit him in that moment how insignificant his career with the Montreal Voyageurs was. That puzzled looked gave way to the sort of detached fury you only see in movies. Carter watched as Hollander straightened his shoulders, his voice eerily deadly. Chills ran down Carter’s spine. What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“He was already mine before we ever got drafted. Ilya was mine when he lifted that Cup while you all sat on Jackie’s couch telling me how I should feel about him. I was his when I won you your first cup in over a decade and a half,” Hollander said. His eyes landed squarely on a bunch of men in suits and coach Theriault. The man was an asshole, Carter hated dealing with him. He was foul in a way that gave other men permission to be the worst version of themselves.
“I was his when I put two more Cup rings on your fingers back-to-back so no, Drapeau, Ilya is not some new boyfriend I suddenly need to throw games for. He has been my world since before this team even drafted me, so I’ll be damned if I walk out this door with you belittling what we have. He fucking moved to Ottawa in his prime for me and I what? Delayed coming out with him for this fucking team? I hurt him to preserve a fucking cancer on our relationship.”
Article after article questioned why the Ilya Rozanov, one of the best players in the league, right up there with the Shane Hollander and Scott Hunter, decided to move from the Boston Bears to the fucking Ottawa Centaurs of all places. The team was a mess. Them winning was a surprise not only to the fans but the players themselves. And Ilya Rozanov had moved there without a second thought for no fathomable reason. Carter had written a few articles about it as well. It had been so mind boggling at the time.
Then the outing heard and seen around the world happened. In the now infamous video, Rozanov was practically eating Hollander’s face behind Hayden Pike, who was going on and on for some fan, and everything suddenly made sense. Carter had to give it to Rozanov, that kind of devotion at the height of your career was kind of hot. Carter was not gay, but he loved love and the story that came with this one was good.
Carter took a settling breath and looked at Connie, her eyes shining back at him with pride and something softer. Something he only saw when she thought he wasn’t looking. God, he had to quit soon. She would never give him a chance while he worked there. Maybe something at The National. Carter smiled back, knowing he was letting a little too much show. Creating a moment where the noise disappeared and it was only them suspended in this moment in time. A place where Shane Hollander faintly declared dominion over people’s spouses, their homes, and the tokens of glory they filled those homes with from the ice he ruled over. He loved it here, he loved her.
“And I hope you’ve enjoyed that glory.”
Carter always found Hollander’s voice to be interesting. It often conveyed no emotion, very robotic. Getting a read on him was difficult unless you knew what to look for. The Hollander the world got was often perfunctory: voice detached and straight forward. As if he was making observations and he happened to be part of whatever took place. That voice was gone and in its place was a hot-cold timbre he would never forget. Carter felt like he was watching a God play with his meal. As if Hollander alone knew what was coming and he found it amusing and insulting that anyone else would dare assume they had power over him.
“You two might want to start looking into an early trade. Because for as long as I play this sport, Montreal is never winning a Championship again,” Hollander said with cold certainty.
“Wherever I end up, I will make it my personal mission to stand between you all and that Cup. Every year from today, when each loss – because you will be doing a lot of losing from now on –drains the life out of you I want you to remember that it’s a faggot sucking you dry.” The chill that ran down Carter’s spine was involuntary. He had spent the past few months trailing Hollander. He’d seen his leadership style, his dedication and precision. He worked like no one in the league, but he had always commanded respect in a quiet and gentle way that often met you where you were. This was not quiet; this was far from gentle and it sure as hell did not require anyone’s comfort.
The man picked up his belongings and made for the door but turned at the last minute, voice comically back to normal.
“And by the way, if we were going to be throwing games for each other, Ilya would have had to throw this one for me because Ottawa will not make it past Scott Hunter and the Admirals again. But we don’t do that because we’ve always respected the integrity of this sport and each other. If you weren’t too busy being homophobic fucks, you would see you that.” Carter almost shouted “Exactly!” but caught himself at the last moment.
Hollander sighed in that way that drains the self-esteem out of the person hearing it.
“As your Captain, I’m disappointed because I thought I taught you better than that. As a gay man, you exceeded all my expectations.” Carter felt sucker punched and he wasn’t even part of this shitty crew. He was operating on autopilot, his reporter brain just a few seconds behind. He panned the camera from Hollander’s proud, retreating back to the shocked faces of his teammates. He probably had the same expression on his face, but above that was an ugly, twisting thing winding all the way from his gut. The feeling threatened to choke him. God, this team was the worst. It took a while but someone finally broke, cursing and throwing a tantrum they didn’t dare throw with Hollander in the room. Carter, not too interested, slipped out and switched his camera off.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Surely they aren’t that stupid,” Will said when the video looped back and Connie muted it.
“That’s what I said.” Carter snorted. He’d actually said that to Shane of all people.
Once he’d left the room full of stunned Voyageurs, adrenaline had him jogging through the hallways, fearful of being caught. The only reason he had been in that room was because he’d ended up helping someone with a few boxes and... lingered. Turns out kindness (and lingering) paid and it paid big. Once in the garage, he stopped and took a deep, settling breath.
He found Hollander leaned against his car, breathing slowly, deliberately.
“Hey, you okay, man?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just need a minute,” Hollander said. So, Carter waited. He watched Hollander collect himself. If Carter hadn’t seen what he’d seen, Hollander’s demeanor wouldn’t raise an eyebrow with him. He looked like a guy just leaning on his car but the struggle to breathe was evident. He straightened a little as he finally got himself together.
“Sorry about that.”
“After that shit-show? You deserve a rage room.”
“You saw that, huh? Sorry about that. And this.”
“That’s a little too much apologizing for someone who did nothing wrong. Or are you such an apologist because you have to carry the weight of a brainless franchise on your shoulders?”
Hollander snorted. “I just shit-talked my boyfriend’s team and then proceeded to have a panic attack in front of a near-stranger.”
“Near-stranger?” Carter asked.
“I see you around. You don’t ask stupid questions during interviews.”
“That’s how you tell us apart?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Carter chuckled at the apology. He extended his hand. “Carter Hale.”
“Nice to meet you. Officially. Shane Hollander. I like your articles. I just never put those and the face together.” The handshake was firm and Carter would have been over the moon at finally personally meeting Shane fucking Hollander, but the circumstances marred the experience.
“Thanks. I like how you play; I don’t like your team, though.”
“I don’t like my team either right now.” Even now, he used a qualifier. As if he had it in him to forgive what just happened back there with a bit of time. And looking at Hollander, Carter was beginning to think that he just might.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But hypothetically...if what was said ended up being publicized, would that be something you’d be upset about?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t think I would care. I spent so long being worried about this. What just happened. But right now, I couldn’t care less.”
“What could possibly be more important than that showdown?” Carter snorted and then mumbled a quick “Sorry.” Maybe it wasn’t the right time to joke around.
“It’s okay, my...” The pause was charged, Hollander swallowed thickly. He hesitated, as if waiting to be stopped. Carter waited patiently and when he realized he could, Hollander continued. “My boyfriend, Ilya, does worse. It drives me crazy but it kind of takes me out of my own head. You should have seen him the times we got outed. He was insufferable. Besides my panic, I’m pretty sure it was the happiest days of his life,” The smile on his lips was a tiny thing but my God, his eyes. The tenderness there threatened to drown him and had Carter drawing a breath, clutching at his own chest as if that would stop the tears rushing to his eyes.
He nodded but let the silence stretch as he digested that nugget of information. It was the kind of thing most people threw out but he had the sneaking suspicion that Hollander was just starting to open up about his relationship. Acknowledging that he had the right to speak about his partner in the same casual way that other straight men did.
He cleared his throat, hoping Hollander wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry you got outed that way,” his voice came out rough, uneven.
“Yeah, me too. But it’s becoming clearer that it was for the better.”
And because Carter was a journalist, an extremely good one, he asked, “Times you got outed? That happened more than once?”
“Yeah, my dad caught us. It was the worst. Ilya was the worst.” The fondness in his voice said whatever had transpired was anything but the worst. “I was literally trying not to die and he just kept eating and volunteering information to them about us. I wanted to die.”
“You say that, but your expression says it was the best day of your life too.”
“It was,” he said. That’s one hell of a statement coming from a 3 times Stanley Cup champion. I am so sick of pretending like you can even compare to that man. Carter cleared his throat again and nodded.
“So, what’s taking up the top spot on your list of worries?”
“I said Ilya’s going to lose. I hate that,” Hollander said miserably.
Carter couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was the funniest thing he’d heard in a while. Hollander looked at him for a second as if assessing him and, finding whatever it was he was looking for, laughed along as well. A genuine, honest-to-God laugh that lit up his face. Damn, Carter thought. The man was gorgeous.
“If it makes you feel better, I agree with your analysis.” Carter bumped his shoulder. It was the first physical contact since this entire exchange began.
“Thanks. Ilya is going to kill me.”
“Does he like being lied to?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t want him to think I don’t believe in him. Because I do.”
“Maybe if the entire team was made up of Rozanovs -”
“Ilya, please.”
Carter looked at Hollander – Shane, he supposed – and nodded.
“Maybe if the entire team was made up of Ilyas, we could talk about believing in him,” Carter said, meeting Shane’s eyes. “But he’s only one man. He can’t teach them conditioning and playoffs endurance overnight. They already had their miracle, getting this far into the playoffs. And if I’ve read him well enough, I know Ilya knows his team’s limits this year.” Carter smiled and Hollander mirrored it.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” The moment hung there and Carter was content to just let it be what it was. Then Shane’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket with a mumbled sorry. Carter gestured for him to take it, wondering how this same man was the same one who just left a room full of bigots stunned.
“Hi, Rose. Yeah, thanks... it sucks...I’m fine. Really.” Carter watched Shane relax, a smile blooming on his face. “Okay, but maybe later? When I get home. I’m with someone right now...” Hollander paused, listening. He eyed Carter, as if looking for permission then said, “Carter Hale... You know him?” Shane eyed him with a little surprised furrow of his brow and a snort. “Cool, I will... I love you too.”
So, Rose Landry and Shane Hollander were still close. He’d seen paparazzi photos, but he never really put stock in celebrity gossip. People created PR relationships and friendships all the time. To see this kind of intimacy between them after their breakup was a pleasant surprise.
“Rose says hi. She likes your articles because, and I quote, he shits on the Voyageurs an adequate amount while highlighting how you’ve been carrying them on your back.”
“Landry? Rose Landry reads my articles?” Carter wheezed.
“Yeah, she makes it her business to know things. It’s kind of frightening what she knows. Very spooky.”
“I made it in life.”
Shane laughed and straightened up. “I should get going...”
Carter took his cue. “Yeah, me too. I... I’m sorry again about all that.”
“Part of the game.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Yes, it shouldn’t be.” Shane climbed into his car. A Jeep.
“Shit car, by the way.”
“Fuck you and Rozanov, this car is sensible.” Carter assumed Ilya had the same opinion.
“Sensible, yes. Still shitty.”
“Goodbye, Carter Hale.”
“Goodbye, Shane Hollander.”
It was a memory Carter treasured maybe a little too much. But he couldn’t help but think that Shane had given him a tremendous amount of trust in that moment. Which is why releasing the video earlier never sat quite right with him. Like the world needed to see Montreal crumble on their own, see the NHL scramble to protect the wrong people. Like Shane, Ilya and the Centaurs needed to rise without the noise of whatever shitstorm this would stir. They already had so much against them. Carter worked in media; he knew how easily that video could have been misconstrued to hurt Shane and Ilya. Some would have been quick to call Shane arrogant for recognizing his own worth within the franchise. They would have gone after him for daring to demand what was owed to him. And the idea of doing it while Japanese (who cared about the White half? That was tainted) in hockey? Demanding, Japanese and gay in hockey? Demanding, Japanese, gay, and gay with Ilya Rozanov in hockey? Absolutely not!
This way, the proof would be in the pudding, wouldn’t it? The Voyageurs rarely knew the right side of a goal post these days. All Shane Hollander did was predict the future of the Voyageurs without him. It would not be a conversation about overestimating his value. It would be validation for leaving and, hopefully, closure for the fans who were too blind to read between the lines when Shane left them.
“Fucking well played, Carter! Well fucking played,” Will said as he slow-clapped. This was followed by thunderous applause as his colleagues gamely joined in. The room was filled with proud and amazed faces. And like finding his true North, Carter found himself facing Connie. That look. He wanted to always keep that look on her face.
“Get ready for a busy week. Hell, get ready for a busy month,” Connie muttered. And, as if that’s all it took for her words to be true, every phone in the building started wailing.
Carter watched as everyone scrambled out to go do their jobs, patting his shoulders as they went. His own cellphone buzzed incessantly in his pocket. Connie squeezed his arm gently before exiting the conference room as well.
Carter fished his phone out, the caller ID read Shane Hollander. He'd gotten his number as they gradually got to know each other.
Before he answered, a note stuck on his laptop caught his attention.
The Hollander doesn’t sound bad at all.
I think I could get used to that.
-Connie
Carter laughed as he accepted Shane Hollander's call.