Chapter Text
Scott is 22 years old when he hears the name “Shane Hollander” for the first time. The kid—all of 13 years old, still at least five years away from the draft—is drawing a ton of attention as a prospect. Some people are already calling him the “future of Canadian hockey.” His playstyle is being compared to Canadian legends like Wyatt Walnut, Mark Better, and Simon Cross.
It’s a lot of pressure for a kid. There’s always so much pressure in hockey. It has to be even worse in Canada, where hockey dominates the sports landscape.
Hockey is maybe the fourth-most popular team sport in New York, on a good day. But the city expects all of their teams to win, all of the time—and the New York Admirals are no exception. So Scott is under too much pressure himself to pay Hollander much mind, beyond general feelings of sympathy for a kid staring down the barrel of a professional hockey career.
Scott just doesn’t have time or energy to focus on anything but his own hockey. Playoffs are fast approaching, and he has games to play, practices to attend, tape to watch.
There are six weeks left in the 2004-05 regular season, and team morale is pretty high. The Admirals are on a four-game win streak, and only four points back from first place in their division. And Scott doesn’t want to jinx it, but he feels like he’s finally living up to his potential. He’s playing first-line center for the second year in a row, and he’s currently leading the scoring race for the entire League. It’s his best individual year to date—by far.
It’s only Scott’s third year in the League, but he just signed his first big contract extension out of his ELC, and he knows the New York sports media is watching him carefully. They don’t let him forget it. And to live up to his contract extension—to all the zeroes the Admirals will be giving him—Scott needs his team to make the playoffs. He needs them to win the cup.
This is their year.
So Shane Hollander—and whatever threat he may or may not pose to Scott five or six or seven years down the road—will have to wait.
*
Scott continues to play the best hockey of his career, and Benny is playing on his head, and the team is just clicking. They win ten games in a row before a tough overtime loss to Tampa, and then they right the ship and win the next five.
The Admirals finish the regular season first in their division, second in the Eastern Conference. Scott scores the most goals in the League. He’s a finalist for regular season MVP. He’s nominated for the sportsmanship award too, because he’s polite to the media and he’s nice to the fans and he mostly keeps his gloves on, even when opposing players are jackasses.
The team enters the playoffs strong. They win the first round in five games, but the injuries start stacking up. Scott’s ribs are killing him, and he feels like he’s one big bruise.
They face Boston in the second round. The series ends up going to seven games.
Then the Admirals lose game seven—at home.
That night, Scott tosses and turns in bed, but he just can’t stop replaying every missed opportunity and unlucky bounce over and over and over again. The Admirals could have won that game. The Admirals should have won that game, if only Scott had…
If he sleeps at all, his dreams are just a slideshow of what could have happened, if only Scott was better.
The next morning, Scott forgoes icing his bruised shoulder. Instead, he puts his iPod on shuffle and runs until his body hurts so much that he stops thinking about anything else. It’s one way to push back his disappointment at not ending this season with the cup.
But, of course, New York sports media won’t let Scott forget it. Not for a single second. It doesn’t matter that the Admirals just had one of their best seasons in years. That Scott had the best season of his career.
Any season that doesn’t end in a cup is a failure.
Scott is a failure.
He runs a lot, in the days and weeks after the Admirals are eliminated from the playoffs. He runs, and he watches Boston lose the Eastern Conference finals to Philadelphia, and he runs some more, wondering if the Admirals would have fared any better.
The morning before game six of the cup finals, Scott wakes up before the sun. He runs until the sun is high in the sky, and he is dripping sweat. It’s so humid that every breath he takes feels like inhaling soup. He runs back to his apartment, and takes a shower so cold that he’s still shivering as he dries off.
That night, Scott watches from Benny’s couch as Chicago wins it all. As Commissioner Crowell hands the cup to David Roy. As Roy lifts it up to take his victory lap. As Roy passes the cup to his alternate captain for his own victory lap.
“That’ll be us next year,” Benny says, Holly nodding in support from her place on his lap. They all raise their drinks in a toast.
“Hell yeah!” Clay Marleau shouts with his typical rookie enthusiasm, before throwing his drink back; the rest of them follow.
*
The next morning, Scott goes on another run. He can’t help but slow down as he passes a newsstand—David Roy’s grinning face stares back at him from the front cover of this morning’s paper, forever immortalized lifting the cup.
Roy is 26 years old, and this cup is his first. Scott is a better two-way center than Roy, who just lost playoff MVP to his own goalie and hasn’t ever been nominated for regular season MVP. But now, Roy has a cup, and Scott doesn’t.
He remembers Benny’s prediction—next year will be the Admirals’ year.
A few days later, Scott flies out to Las Vegas for the MLH Awards. He steps on stage twice—once to accept the award for most goals in the regular season, and once to accept the sportsmanship award. He claps politely as Simon Cross of Pittsburgh is named regular season MVP for the third time in his career.
The cameras watch Scott’s every move, ready to jump on any misstep and make it into a story. More than anything, Scott wants to be alone. But people are expecting to see him at the afterparty.
So he goes, and he circulates, and he grabs a new flute of champagne every time the one he’s holding becomes empty.
“Congrats,” Scott tells Cross. He’s just one of many vying for a moment of Cross’s time—they are surrounded by Cross’s admirers.
“Congrats,” Cross says back with a smile. “Oh, and I heard it’s your birthday today. Happy birthday, man!”
“Happy birthday!” the crowd around them echoes.
Scott pastes on a smile that he hopes doesn’t look like a grimace. It’s Scott’s twenty-third birthday. It’s also the eleventh anniversary of his parents’ deaths—but no one ever acknowledges that.
There’s nothing happy about his birthday. There’s never anything happy about his birthday. But nobody wants to hear that, so Scott just mutters “thanks” and keeps moving.
Benny is in the middle of the room, one arm around Holly, the other holding the trophy for best goaltender. The happy couple is surrounded by their own gaggle of admirers. And Scott has already told Benny “congratulations.” He drains his champagne, snags another flute, and hugs a wall, ready for the night to end.
*
With the MLH Awards over, Scott’s time is his own—at least for a little while. He rents a little cabin on a lake upstate and spends the summer alone. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The running trails are nice.
Then, in August, the Admirals name Scott captain, and he has to return to the city.
The media attention gets worse. The Admirals had a real shot last year, and everyone hopes this year will be their year. Especially management. They trade for Greg Huff, and put him on Scott’s left wing. They sign Michel Tremblay in free agency, because they need depth at center. They make move after move, anything for a cup.
The season starts, and it’s shaky. Scott and Huff are still working on their connection. Tremblay gets hurt in November. They move their third-line center to the second-line, and call up a kid from the farm team. He does okay.
It’s all okay. Not great.
The media whip themselves into a frenzy.
And Scott is the captain. The leader. The face of the franchise. He’s expected to grin and bear it as the talking heads and pundits rip him to shreds.
It’s a relief when Scott is named to Team USA’s roster for the 2006 Olympics. He was too young, too green, to play four years ago, when the team won silver. And they have high hopes for gold in Turin.
Scott has high hopes.
And then—they lose in the quarter-finals. To Finland—who goes on to win gold. So Scott flies home an Olympian, but not a medalist.
Scott has something to prove after returning from Turin empty-handed. He plays lights out the rest of the season. The Admirals claw their way to second in the division. They win the first round in six. They win the second round in five.
And then—they lose to Carolina in the Eastern Conference Finals. In overtime of game seven.
Scott doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night, replaying the game over and over and over—first in his mind, and then on his tv. In the days after their loss, Scott’s iPod sees a lot of shuffling; he runs so much that he needs to buy new sneakers. But Scott can never run fast enough, far enough, long enough to outrun his own thoughts.
Carolina goes on to win it all. Scott watches from Benny’s couch as Commissioner Crowell hands Michael Smith the cup. As someone who isn’t Scott lifts the cup. As Smith takes his victory lap.
“Next year is our year,” Benny tells the team, as Smith passes the cup to his alternate captain for the next victory lap.
“Next year,” Scott agrees, because he is captain and he has to say something. He watches as the cup gets handed off, again and again and again. And then he watches as Carolina’s family and friends flood onto the ice.
Scott can’t help but wonder how that feels—not only to win the cup, but to celebrate that win with loved ones. (Even if the Admirals win the cup next year, Scott still won’t know.)
But… next year. Scott has to look to next year.
*
Scott is nominated for regular season MVP. Again. He loses. Again. Even though he had a good enough season that a lot of commentators will probably take his loss as a snub.
Scott attends the afterparty, and drinks a lot of champagne, and doles out “congratulations” like candy. He hates every second.
But at least the MLH Awards aren’t on Scott’s fucking birthday this year.
Two days later, Scott turns 24. His parents have been dead for twelve years—Scott has now grieved them for as long as he had them. He keeps that thought inside, because it’s the kind of depressing shit that he knows nobody wants to hear.
That morning, Benny calls him to wish him a happy birthday and ask about his plans. Scott tells him he’s going to dinner with one of his old foster families.
He doesn’t. He hasn’t spoken to any of his foster families in years. Not since Gary asked for money the night Scott was drafted second overall.
He doesn’t have a single person in his life who is there for anything but the hockey or the money. So Scott spends his birthday alone.
He can’t face spending the entire summer alone. Not again. But he doesn’t really want to stay in the city. Or anywhere he might be recognized.
He flies to Buenos Aires. He spends most of the summer fucking perfect strangers who have no idea who Scott is—and more importantly, they don’t care.
It’s his best idea in a long time.
*
Scott returns to the city to lead captain’s skates, and he runs into their new rookie at the practice rink. Going into this first meeting, Scott knows that Carter Vaughn is the Admirals’ most recent first-round draft pick, that he played on the Boston College team that won the Frozen Four championship last year, and that he needs to work on his backchecking. Scott now knows that Vaughn is from North Dakota, that he has two loving parents who are very supportive, that he is the youngest sibling of four, that his older brothers also played ice hockey but didn’t get drafted, that his older sister just came out to him as a lesbian over the summer, and many, many more things.
Carter Vaughn is a chatterbox, and he might have been a golden retriever in a past life. He’s a good kid, and a great hockey player, and he shouldn’t have too much trouble finding a place on the team.
After the first day of training camp, Coach Murdock pulls Scott aside and asks him to spend some extra time practicing with Vaughn and Huff. The three of them are going to be the first line, and Coach wants them to gel before the season starts. (He doesn’t say that it took too long for Scott to gel with Huff last year, but Scott hears it anyway.)
The New York media asks if Carter Vaughn is going to be enough to elevate their team to the cup this year. Somehow, Vaughn acts as if he doesn’t hear the noise at all.
Their extra practice pays off. Scott and Vaughn play well together from the jump, and they’re both clicking with Huff.
They have this.
*
The Admirals finish first in the Eastern Conference; they miss the President’s Trophy by two points. Vaughn has more than lived up to expectations for his rookie season—he finishes near the top of the League in assists. Mostly to Scott, who leads the League in goals and finishes third in points.
The Admirals win the first round of the playoffs. Then the second. Then the Eastern Conference finals.
Confetti rains down over MSG. Staff is passing out hats and t-shirts, and friends and family are being led onto the ice.
“You’re a beautician, captain!” Vaughn yells, pulling Scott into a quick hug before going to find his family.
“Bro!!!” Boston Marly screams, as he and Scott’s Marly collide into a hug. Their parents are a few steps behind, beaming with pride. Benny and Holly are kissing. So are Huff and his wife. And Tremblay and his fiancee. Vaughn’s mother is crying, beaming with pride as she kisses his cheek. Vaughny’s father pulls them both into a hug, and then his siblings join the embrace.
Scott stands alone.
*
And then—they lose to Anaheim in the finals. Five games.
“Next year,” Scott tells the team in the locker room after the game.
“Next year,” the team echoes. Vaughny wears a determined frown. His rookie just learned how hard it is to lose; he doesn’t know yet just how hard it is to win.
That night, Scott tries to sleep. He fails. He thinks about going for a run. He decides running at three in the morning is probably a bad idea. He reviews game tape instead. But it wasn’t a particularly close series—there’s no one thing that Scott can blame for their loss.
No, instead there are a lot of little things that the team will need to improve if they want to lift the cup next year.
Three days after the team flies home defeated and empty-handed, Scott turns 25 years old. His parents have been dead for 13 years. He’s now mourned them for longer than he ever had them.
And, as always, he mourns alone. Most of the team has already scattered for the summer, and Benny doesn’t push for details when Scott says he has other plans.
That those plans are nothing more than Scott alone in his apartment is nobody’s business but his own.
A few days after that, Scott flies to Las Vegas, where he wins regular season MVP. He smiles and gives a nice little speech thanking his teammates and his coaches and management. It’s the biggest individual honor of Scott’s career.
It does nothing to calm the churning in his gut.
He flies back to the city long enough to drop the trophy at his apartment and pack up a suitcase, and then he heads to Mykonos for most of the summer.
No amount of fucking fills the void inside him, but Scott sure tries.
*
During training camp, Theo Lebrunette—one of their analysts, who happens to be from Ontario and never lets anyone forget it—plays some highlights for the team. But the highlights aren’t from any of the Admirals’ games last year. They aren’t from any League game.
They’re from the Canadian junior league. And they all seem to focus on one player.
“Fuck,” Scott hears Marly mutter as the camera follows #24 cutting through the opposing team like a hot knife through butter.
“Shane Hollander,” Lebrunette announces proudly, as if he knows the kid personally. “16 years old. From Ottawa, Ontario.”
There’s talk about Hollander being added to Team Canada’s roster for the 2007 International Prospect Cup. There’s talk about adjusting the draft rules so he can be selected this spring, even though he’ll only be 17 years old next September.
Neither happens. But there’s lots of talk.
There’s always lots of talk.
Scott does his best to silence the noise. He keeps running. He runs faster and faster and faster, but his ghosts keep pace.
*
The Admirals win 55 games during the 2007–08 regular season. It’s enough for the President’s Trophy. The team enters the playoffs with high hopes.
But the curse holds: they don’t win the cup. Benny gets hurt, and Pittsburgh knocks them out in the second round.
“Good series,” Simon Cross tells him in the handshake line. The lines on his handsome face are deeper when he smiles.
“Good luck,” Scott says back, the words ash in his mouth.
“Next year,” the team says, in the locker room after the game. “Next year.”
A few weeks later, Scott watches from Benny’s couch as Pittsburgh wins it all.
“With this win, the fourth of his career, Cross has cemented his place on the Mount Rushmore of hockey,” one of the announcers says as Commissioner Crowell hands the cup to Cross. Cross lifts it, taking his victory lap.
Four cups.
Scott would do anything for one.
“That’s my Captain Canada—the modern GOAT,” Marly cheers. The rest of the Canadians on the team cheer. Everyone else boos, but it’s teasing. Lighthearted.
No one disagrees.
Scott turns 26 years old the day of the MLH Awards. He wins regular season MVP—for the second year in a row. Everyone he sees tells him “congratulations” and “happy birthday.” Scott wants to scream. But somehow, he keeps smiling. He smiles and smiles and smiles, until his cheeks hurt from it.
A few days later, Scott flies to Ibiza. He stays a month, trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol and sex. His sorrows refuse to stay drowned.
But Scott is trying. It seems like he’s always trying. Trying, but not succeeding. Not winning. Not when it matters.
*
Cross retires over the summer, with nothing left to prove. The media sings his praises—Canada’s golden boy, who lived up to every expectation placed on his shoulders.
Must be nice.
The New York media is still talking about the Admirals’ second-round playoffs exit when the new season starts.
“Hunter can’t handle the pressure,” they say.
“Hunter’s a bust!” they cry.
“Hunter chokes in the playoffs!” they scream.
Scott does his best to tune it out—to focus on the season ahead of him.
*
Lebrunette crows with pride when Shane Hollander is selected for Team Canada’s Prospect Cup roster for Saskatchewan. At only 17 years old. Hollander is even named captain, though most of his teammates are two or three years older than him.
An Ottawa news station interviews Hollander following his captaincy announcement. Lebrunette plays a clip of it for the team, beaming the entire time.
Interviewer: “Who is your favorite current player in the MLH?”
Hollander: [smiling] There are so many great players in the MLH. I don’t think I can just pick one.
Interviewer: Your mom told me that you’d say that.
[A pause. Hollander lets out a little sigh.]
Hollander: Scott Hunter is really talented. He’s an elite playmaker, stays cool under pressure. The best backhand in the League. And he’s a great role model—an example of a guy who can play aggressively but who doesn’t drop his gloves frequently… Sorry, I don’t mean to ramble.
Interviewer: That’s perfect. So, fair to say that Scott Hunter is an inspiration?
[Hollander blushes.]
Interviewer: Your mom sent me a picture.
[A photograph of a younger Shane Hollander pops up on the screen. He’s maybe around nine or ten, in full hockey gear. Next to him, arm around his shoulders, is Scott. He’s wearing jeans and his Admirals jersey, but the shoulder is bare—no C, no A. He’s nothing but a kid himself, maybe nineteen or twenty.]
*
Scott has zero recollection of ever meeting Shane Hollander, but apparently his rookie season he visited a hockey camp that Hollander attended. Hollander told the interviewer that Scott signed a jersey for him.
Vaughny and Marly think it’s hilarious.
“Inspiration!” Marly yells when Scott scores a hat trick against Houston.
“Role model,” Vaughny teases with a smile when Scott doesn’t drop his gloves despite a particularly nasty chirp.
Benny shakes his head and says it must be cool that the “future of Canadian hockey” looks up to Scott. Scott doesn’t say that it just makes him feel old.
And Lebrunette just won’t let the Admirals’ Hollander-mania die down. He keeps showing them highlights of the Prospect Cup games. Hollander is the undisputed best player in every game.
Until the finals.
When Russia’s Ilya Rozanov matches him stride for stride, shot for shot. And Team Canada, so reliant on their captain, can’t get anything right when he’s off the ice.
Russia wins. Canada loses.
Hollander loses. As the final buzzer sounds, the kid bends over, the very picture of defeat.
Scott has never sympathized with anyone more.
*
The Admirals lose to New Jersey in game seven of the 2009 Eastern Conference Finals.
A young boy in an Admirals jersey—a C on his chest—is crying.
At what point does Scott stop being a role model? Stop being an inspiration? How can anyone look up to him, despite loss after loss after loss? The questions follow him as Scott runs around the city. He can’t outrun them.
He also can’t outrun the memories of his every mistake—every time he needed to be a little faster, a little smarter, a little better.
New Jersey goes on to win the cup.
*
The Admirals have the 23rd overall pick in the 2009 draft. The New York media screams about trading up for the first or second overall pick.
For Hollander or Rozanov.
One talking head proposes trading Scott for the first overall pick so they can select Shane Hollander.
“Ridiculous!” Huff shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it. The guy was talking out of his ass,” Benny tells him.
“You aren’t going anywhere!” Vaughny says, pulling Scott into a quick sideways hug.
Boston holds onto the first overall pick, and Scott watches from Huff’s couch as Boston picks Rozanov. The camera cuts to a closeup of Hollander’s face. The kid does an okay job of not seeming devastated. But he’ll have to work on faking neutrality, if not positivity, if he doesn’t want the media tearing him apart.
Montreal picks Hollander second, and he plasters on a smile as he walks up to the stage. Scott can’t imagine playing hockey in Montreal. New York is bad enough, and the city barely cares about hockey. But Montreal? Hockey is their religion.
Will Hollander be their Jesus or their Judas?
“Think they’ll live up to the hype?” Benny asks him.
“We’ll see,” Scott replies.
There’s a lot of hype to live up to. And it’s never easy.
*
Scott isn’t nominated for an award, so he skips Vegas and spends his 27th birthday in Berlin, getting railed.
It’s the best birthday he’s had since he turned 11.
*
Despite the media circus surrounding their drafting, Rozanov and Hollander don’t start in the League right away. Rozanov returns to Russia to play a year in their national league. Montreal sends Hollander to their farm team for another year of development.
Lebrunette brags after Hollander leads Canada to gold in the Prospect Cup—avenging last year’s loss against Russia. It’s barely a blip on Scott’s radar, because the Vancouver Olympics are fast approaching, and Scott is named captain for Team USA.
“Captain America,” the media calls him—and Scott hears the poison under the pride.
Benny is their goalie. Vaughny is his right wing. They have a real chance at gold, though anything can happen in a one-and-done tournament.
Scott is surprised when Rozanov is selected to Team Russia’s roster. He’s less surprised when there’s barely even talk about adding Hollander to Team Canada, even though he just led the junior team to gold and he’s lighting up the minor league. Canada’s roster is just too stacked with League talent—even with Cross’s retirement a couple years ago.
They lose to Canada in the finals.
They return to New York as Olympic medalists. As silver medalists. Scott tells himself it’s better than nothing, as the Admirals host a ceremony for the returning Olympians their first game back. He stands next to Benny and Vaughny, their silver medals around their necks. He doesn’t bear the weight of this loss alone, even as Captain. Benny played well; Canada’s goalie played better. Vaughny missed a shot in the second period that he makes nine times out of ten.
The United States hasn’t won gold in men’s ice hockey in almost thirty years, when a team of college students no one had ever expected to win upset the reigning Russian champions. They made a movie about it.
Scott wonders if they’ll ever make a movie about him. If he’ll ever accomplish anything worth making a movie about.
The three of them clap as the crowd cheers for Marly, who won a gold medal for Canada. Marly didn’t see much ice time in Vancouver. He was a third- or fourth-line d-man for Team Canada. Not like his twin brother, who played second-line right wing and put up decent numbers doing it. But still, Marly has gold, and Scott—who led the Vancouver Olympics in goals—has silver.
Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
He would say “next year,” but Scott will have to wait four for another chance at Olympic gold.
*
That June, Hollander leads his team to the minor league championship. Lebrunette crows about how Hollander scored a truly obscene 54 points in only 16 playoff games, breaking the longstanding minor league records for most goals, most assists, and most points in a single playoff season.
Marly shows him a short clip:
“Is Scott Hunter still your favorite current MLH player?” a reporter asks Hollander before sticking a microphone in his face. Hollander just nods in response. He’s dripping with sweat and panting—he obviously just came off the ice.
“With Montreal missing the playoffs this year, are you rooting for Hunter to finally win his first cup?” the reporter persists.
“Yeah, of course,” Hollander says, as he starts to catch his breath. “Admirals are looking strong.”
“This is our year!” Marly tells Scott, nudging him. Scott agrees. He’s on a postseason tear of his own.
And then—the Admirals lose to Chicago in the finals. They take it to six games before the confetti falls for the other team.
Scott turns 28 on what would have been game seven. Then he flies out to Vegas to accept the trophy for regular season MVP—his third. The next morning, Scott flies straight to Greece.
Benny is nice enough to bring the trophy back to the city for him.
*
Scott has hope for the 2010-11 season. The Admirals made the cup finals last year. Scott is coming off another MVP season. Benny is one of the top goalies in the League. Vaughny is maybe the best right winger in the League right now. Definitely top three.
Huff is a solid left winger, and Tremblay is finally healthy and providing a strong anchor for the second line. Scott is happy with their roster, with the players they’ve developed and the ones they’ve traded for and their free agent signings. This is the Admirals’ year.
It has to be.
Scott is 28 years old. His trophy shelf features an Olympic silver medal and three trophies for regular season MVP, and a host of other individual awards. He’s one of the highest paid players in the League, and most years he leads in endorsements. The media won’t stop calling him Captain America.
By most metrics, Scott has been wildly successful.
But he’s never won a cup. He needs to win a fucking cup.
And no one will let him forget it.
Until the 2010-11 season starts, and Shane Hollander scores a fucking dick trick in his first game. Montreal still loses—5 to 4 in overtime, Toronto slipping a goal in while Hollander is off the ice.
Scott has his own four-point game in the Admirals’ home opener—two goals and two assists. But even in New York, the hot lights of the media’s attention are drawn to Hollander.
Not just on the ice. Hollander’s CCM ad with Rozanov is in every arena, the two of them facing off with determined scowls. And his Reebok ad has started popping up on billboards around the country.
And the hype just keeps growing, because Hollander’s first game isn’t a fluke. One month in, and Scott is playing maybe the best season of his career. And Hollander—a fucking rookie—is keeping pace with him. They’re neck-and-neck for goals, and Hollander is barely behind Scott in assists—and that’s mostly because Hollander doesn’t have a player like Vaughny on his wing. Or anywhere else on Montreal’s roster.
Hollander is the offensive powerhouse of the Metros—what seems like their entire offense, most nights. J.J. Dagenais is the only other player on the team worth watching, and he’s a great defenseman, but Hollander needs a winger worth half a damn, and Scott isn’t sure Hayden fucking Pike is going to cut it.
Meanwhile, Ilya Rozanov isn’t too far behind Scott and Hollander in the scoring race, drawing his own share of media attention to Boston. Especially with Boston Marly on his wing, setting him up for the kind of one-timers that make the highlight reels.
For the first time in years, Scott feels like he has a little space to breathe.
*
The Admirals play in Boston in October. Rozanov is all cocky smiles and deadly speed and wicked moves. And chirps—so many fucking chirps. The rookie is going to get himself in trouble, if he isn’t careful. If he mouths off like this to guys with a little less patience than Scott.
“Did you know that Walnut was 27 when he won his last cup?” Rozanov asks him during a commercial break.
“Yes, I did know that,” Scott answers, curious despite himself at where this is going.
“He played another 11 years in the League, but no more cups,” Rozanov says, a smirk pulling at his lips. Scott understands now what Rozanov is insinuating; he pushes down the urge to drop his gloves and skates over to the faceoff dot instead.
Rozanov follows him.
“Just think this is interesting fact for you, now that you are 28,” Rozanov tells him, because apparently the kid doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone.
The puck drops.
Scott wins the draw.
The Admirals win the game.
*
Then the Admirals host the Metros in MSG in November. And Scott shares ice with Shane Hollander for the first time. Sees Shane Hollander in person for the first time. His big brown eyes, his plush lips, the perfect symmetry of his face.
Fuck.
The wave of lust that immediately hits Scott is a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His cock twitches, starts to harden in his cup, like he’s a fucking teenager again.
The shame hits him next, hot and caustic. He can barely swallow around it.
Because Hollander is a kid. Really talented, and far too hot, but still just 19 years old. A rookie—one who looked up to him as a fucking child. What the fuck is Scott doing, looking at him with anything but the respect owed a formidable, if green, opponent? Like Rozanov, before the kid opened his mouth and made Scott want to drop his gloves.
But Hollander isn’t Rozanov, and Scott has no desire to drop his gloves.
It’s a problem.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter,” Hollander says to him during their first face off. For a moment, Scott wonders if Hollander is pulling a Rozanov and chirping about his age. But no—Hollander is clearly earnest, staring at him with those fucking devastating eyes…
“You too, rook,” Scott manages in response.
The puck drops.
Hollander wins the draw.
The Admirals win the game.
*
Scott doesn’t see Hollander in person again until January, when they both head down to Nashville for All-Star Weekend. This year’s format is Europe versus the Americas—an all-too-transparent attempt to capitalize on the rivalry narrative building between Hollander and Rozanov.
Scott is named captain. They send him a list of his teammates and their phone numbers. He’s played with a lot of the guys before, but there are a few newbies.
He types Hollander’s number into his phone carefully, saving it to his contacts. The “Shane Hollander (Montreal)” contact card stares up at him.
Scott texts the entire group to organize the team dinner at some cowboy bar downtown. Hollander texts the entire group that he’ll be there. Scott does not text Hollander individually.
Later, when Scott gets to the restaurant, Hollander is already there, sitting at their table between Vaughny and J.J. Dagenais. Scott sits on Vaughny’s other side. He barely gets out a “hello” before the rest of their teammates start arriving in twos and threes.
“Ginger ale,” Hollander tells their waitress with a polite smile. After she leaves, Vaughny offers to order something stronger on Hollander’s behalf.
“No thanks. I don’t really drink during the season,” Hollander tells Vaughny with an awkward shrug. Dagenais reaches up to ruffle Hollander’s hair, a big grin on his face. Hollander accepts the touch with a long-suffering expression.
“Very disciplined, rook,” Scott cuts in, and the conversation moves on. The team gets a little rowdier with every round of drinks, but the conversation stays light and keeps flowing. Everyone seems to be having a good time—including Hollander, who is pretty quiet but chimes in occasionally with a dry little remark that gets the guys laughing.
Vaughny and Dagenais in particular seem to find him hilarious.
And then Dagenais teases Hollander about his Scott Hunter poster.
“You a fan, rook?” Scott asks with a smirk—though of course he already knows the answer. A pretty flush spreads over Hollander’s cheeks in response. It highlights his freckles.
“Um, yes, Mr. Hunter,” he admits, clearly bashful. “I study your tape all the time. You’re an awesome player to watch.”
He’s so fucking genuine, is the thing. A good kid. Awkward, but sweet. And hot. So fucking hot. Too fucking hot.
“Thanks, rook. Happy to sign whatever you want,” Scott teases, keeping his tone light. Not at all suggestive. Hollander just flushes and ducks his head.
Fuck. Scott shouldn’t find him hot. Hollander is nine years younger than him—he’s still a fucking teenager. Scott shouldn’t find him hot.
But—god help him—he does.
*
Hollander is already on the ice by the time Scott gets to the rink the next day. They run some drills together, passing the puck back and forth, and there’s some real chemistry there.
Montreal is lucky to have Hollander. He’s going to be a generational player.
Scott tries not to imagine what he looks like naked. (He tries.)
“Thanks for being cool about it,” Hollander tells him, later, while they’re catching their breath near the bench.
“Cool about what?” Scott asks. Hollander sighs and stares down at his skates.
“About me, like, looking up to you and stuff,” Hollander tells him. He’s so fucking cute when he’s embarrassed; Scott wants to bite him. Just a little nibble. “Not everyone has been as cool about it. So, thanks.”
“Rook, you paid me a compliment. If anything, I should be thanking you,” Scott says, and he can’t resist scruffing Hollander, just a little. Hollander doesn’t try to get away, the way Scott’s rookies typically do. He doesn’t bat Scott away, even playfully, the way Vaughny or Marly would. He just… relaxes into Scott’s hold.
Scott tries not to imagine Hollander relaxing into his touch in other contexts.
“Matthews…” Hollander trails off, cutting off whatever he was about to say.
Matthews is Hollander’s captain on the Metros. He’s near the tail-end of his career, but he was considered one of the best centers in the League in his heyday. Never anywhere near Cross’s level. Or even Scott’s. But he was fast, and physical—and more than a little handsome.
Scott probably would have had Matthews’s poster on his bedroom wall, but after his parents’ accident he never had a bedroom where he was allowed to hang posters.
Unfortunately for Matthews, he was drafted in 1994—the year after Montreal won their last cup. And he has never been able to take his team all the way. Scott feels a little sorry for Matthews. Scott is also a lot terrified about becoming the next Matthews. Good, but forgettable.
Matthews has a reputation as a bit of an asshole. But maybe he’s more than a bit of an asshole, if he hasn’t been “cool” about Hollander looking up to him. Scott tries to imagine how he would have reacted, if Hollander had been drafted to the Admirals instead. And then Scott immediately stops trying to imagine it, because he doesn’t want to get hard.
Hollander is dangerous.
But Hollander almost certainly isn’t dangerous to Matthews the same way that he’s dangerous to Scott, and so Scott no longer feels sorry for Matthews.
Scott resolves to be “cool” about Hollander, going forward.
*
Rozanov breaks Scott’s record in the accuracy shooting competition—a record he has held for five years. The rookie smirks as he skates back to Team Europe’s bench.
And then Hollander jumps the boards, and squares up to the net. His expression settles into a determined glare, and—he breaks Rozanov’s new record by nearly a second.
“Let’s go!” Hollander cheers, determination giving way to a cute little smile as his new record is announced to the crowd.
“Fuck,” Vaughny curses from the other side of the bench.
Yeah, that’s about right. Scott takes a deep breath, because Hollander is so fucking confident in that moment—and for good reason. He’s almost a different person, on the ice.
It threatens Scott’s equilibrium.
Scott can’t help but notice as Rozanov scoots over to the end of Team Europe’s bench—the side closest to theirs—and calls to Hollander. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying over the roar of the crowd.
Not until Rozanov skates by with a murmured “one two two one.”
… what?
Because that number wouldn’t mean anything to most people, but Scott slept in room 1223 last night, and he knows that Rozanov is right next door—in room 1221.
Are Rozanov and Hollander secretly friends? Or is something else going on? Drinking? Drugs?
… Sex?
Scott swallows down the hope that there may be other gay players in the League. The hope that one of them is this player.
Because if it is, Rozanov is really fucking bold—giving Hollander his room number right there on the ice, in front of Scott and the rest of the Team Americas bench and thousands of watching fans.
Scott gives Hollander his own room number. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t an invitation. He isn’t hoping that Hollander knocks on his door tonight.
No. It’s a warning—just in case Hollander is planning on getting into any trouble.
*
After the game, most of the team heads to the locker room, but Scott and Hollander are pulled aside for media obligations. Scott smiles and listens and gives his practiced answers, and eventually they let him go.
Hollander is still being interviewed—in French, of course, the language practically dripping off his tongue—when Scott escapes to the locker room.
All of the guys have already showered by the time he walks in, and are in various stages of redressing. The vibe is off, but Scott can’t quite put his finger on it. Some of the guys look almost… shaken?
Scott raises an eyebrow at Benny, who just shrugs. Vaughny is joking around with Dagenais, both of them still in their towels. Nobody else is saying anything about the shellshocked look in Roy’s eyes—or about the fact that the guy is sporting a semi.
Scott tries to shrug it off and heads to the showers. He needs to be dry and dressed before Hollander gets back.
*
That night, Scott hears a knock. At first, he thinks it might be on his door.
It isn’t.
It’s the door next to his—Rozanov’s room. 1221.
And… yep, that’s definitely Shane Hollander’s voice. Scott would recognize it anywhere, after all the videos that Lebrunette has shown him over the years.
And yes, Hollander is definitely planning on getting into trouble tonight. Or, more accurately, Trouble is planning on getting into Hollander.
Fuck.
The walls are too fucking thin. And Rozanov and Hollander are too loud. Rozanov says something about letting Scott watch, and suddenly Scott’s dick is so hard it hurts.
He managed to avoid seeing Hollander naked this weekend, but he has an imagination. Hollander is gorgeous, and Scott can’t deny that Rozanov is hot—even if his face is more suited to punching than kissing.
Wet smacking sounds and low moans carry through the thin wall between their rooms, and Scott closes his eyes and wraps his hand around his cock.
“Roz, I’m gonna…” Hollander groans, and Scott fucks into his own hand and tries not to imagine what might have happened if Hollander had knocked on his door instead.
He tries.
Scott is always fucking trying.
*
The Admirals and Metros play twice more that season. The Admirals win the second game, and the Metros win the third. And Hollander continues to be lethal—on the ice, and to Scott’s sanity.
Scott spends even more time running, that spring. But he can’t run fast enough, or far enough, to forget the sound of Shane Hollander moaning Ilya Rozanov’s name as he comes. And when he tries, Hollander’s face pops up—on a billboard, on the side of a bus stop, in the pages of magazines.
And then GQ puts Hollander on its May cover, in nothing but a tight tank top and short-shorts. The newsstand around the corner from Scott’s apartment features that cover prominently—Scott almost runs into a street sign, the first time he sees it.
Scott wants to lick him. He wants to get on his knees and pull those shorts down Hollander’s thick thighs and paw at his fat ass and… He buys the magazine.
“This one is flying off the shelves,” the cashier tells Scott. Her expression is knowing.
Scott signs up for a GQ subscription moving forward—Shane Hollander, delivered directly to his apartment. Because someone at GQ must be obsessed with Hollander. Even when he isn’t on the cover, his ads are prominently featured inside its pages.
(Scott has a problem.)
*
The next time Scott sees Shane Hollander in person is at the MLH Awards in Vegas. Scott is nominated for regular season MVP again—and he’s expected to win. He led the League in goals and points, and the Admirals won the President’s Trophy. Again.
The Admirals didn’t win the cup, but that doesn’t matter for regular season MVP.
And the next-best player is a rookie whose team didn’t even make the playoffs, despite him nearly single-handedly dragging them back into relevance. Montreal was in the mix for a playoff spot until the very last game of the season—but they missed a wildcard spot on tiebreakers, and so Hollander isn’t even nominated as a regular season MVP finalist.
It’s a bit of a snub, but any controversy is tempered by the expectation that Hollander will win Rookie of the Year instead. And he does.
Also as expected, Scott wins regular season MVP. It’s his fourth. He’s now tied for the third-most regular season MVPs in League history.
“Such an accomplishment!” everyone says with a smile.
“Zero cups,” no one says out loud.
Scott needs a drink. He bumps into Hollander at the bar, and can’t resist teasing him and calling Rozanov his boy. Hollander stammers and denies that Rozanov is anything to him at all. Scott wants to believe that Nashville was a one-time thing, but he isn’t so sure.
He doesn’t ask. He can’t ask.
Instead, he invites Hollander to do shots. And Scott shouldn’t find it cute, the way Hollander so clearly has no idea what he’s doing. But he’s trying so hard.
Scott wants to show him. How to take a shot, and more. So much more.
He tries not to think of the way Hollander sounded through thin hotel walls when Rozanov touched him. He tries not to think of how Hollander might sound without any walls between them.
Without anything between them.
He tries.
But when Hollander slips away from the afterparty, Scott can’t help but follow him. Right up to the roof.
When Scott sees that Hollander isn’t alone, he hangs back. When he recognizes that the second figure on the roof is Rozanov, he doesn’t leave.
He watches.
Watches them talk. Watches them yell. Watches them kiss.
And then—Hollander pushes Rozanov away. And Scott?
Scott hopes.