Chapter Text
Scott really hates awards season and the always nauseating after-parties. It's nothing more than him being a good captain and sportsman when he even shows up, supportive whenever a teammember or a friend gets nominated. It's also him dodging well-wishers who claim every year without fail how proud his parents would be.
He knows that. Of course he does.
He doesn't need to be reminded.
After the house lights flicker, indicating a commercial break, Scott leaves his seat. If he ever brought a date to these events, he'd feel bad about taking every chance to escape. He knows there's a bathroom backstage from when he's presented awards and knows that's it the most isolated one.
With the starstruck look on the woman in the hallway, it's easy enough to give her a smile and ask if he can cut through to backstage.
He lies, saying he wants to personally congratulate whoever just won whichever award.
Without much fanfare, Scott marches forward, fully intent on maybe just staying in the bathroom the rest of the evening.
But then he hears voices.
"-- do you want from me?!"
A pause.
"I want you to suck my dick."
Scott has to reach out for the wall to steady himself.
He knows that voice. A very Russian voice that belonged to someone Scott couldn't really stand. But who was that other?
"Fuck you! You suck my dick."
Oh.
Oh.
Now this was interesting.
Of course, everyone in the league had heard the rumors that Shane Hollander was gay but to have them confirmed? With Rozanov?
Well, he always did find them suspicious, ever since Ilya barked out a hotel room number at the kid. Which happened to be right next to Scott's own room.
The moment he left the arena, he had texted Eric to go out for drinks and had stayed the hell away until at least midnight.
Scott couldn't make too terribly out what the conversation was, only heard Hollander’s raised voice and then...?
Tears?
Yes, Shane Hollander was definitely distraught and Scott couldn't really understand why that bothered him so much.
Another part of him was bothered that these two idiots were having this out in a bathroom, in Vegas, during one of the biggest nights in the hockey world. It was a miracle only Scott was hearing this.
"Leave, Rozanov. You can't ghost me for six fucking months and then expect me to put out. It's-- it's shit! You're treating me like shit!"
Scott should leave. Hollander’s voice broke on the last sentence and he should leave. Leave, go back to his seat, pretend he never heard a goddamn thing. Because whatever is happening on the other side of that bathroom door sounds private in a way that makes his stomach twist.
"Hollander. I will text hotel room if you want. Make choice. Up to you."
Scott is very cognizant of the fact that someone is about to walk out of said bathroom, and he has to duck behind a column to avoid Ilya Rozanov smacking into him when he walks out of the bathroom.
And the asshole has a small grin on his face.
It's barely there, but Scott sees it and an anger slowly burns up in his chest.
Because he can hear Shane Hollander trying to catch his breath in the bathroom and Ilya is walking out looking like the cat who caught the canary.
It's the first time off the ice that Scott genuinely wants to punch him like the rest of the league does.
A few steps away, Ilya stops to pull out his phone and taps at the screen. Probably texting that hotel number to Shane, as if firmly believing that after making the kid cry, he would still come crawling.
Scott is very much considering beating the shit out of him.
Because who capable of emotion could make hockey’s golden boy Shane Hollander cry? Least of all in a goddamn public restroom. Maybe that's the part bothering Scott most. Because he has spent years watching reporters prod at Hollander like they were trying to manufacture a crack in glass.
Questions about losses, about fights, about teammates, about rumors. Every single time, Hollander smiled politely and gave them nothing ugly to hold onto. Scott once watched a commentator openly
question whether Shane was "soft" for avoiding fights and the kid had still answered with, "Everybody contributes something different to a team." No bitterness. No ego. Nothing.
So hearing him cry? Hearing him beg someone not to treat him like shit? He hates it.
Rozanov barely rounds the corner out of the hallway when Scott hears a yell and something crashing inside the bathroom, something definitely breaking.
Scott is pushing the door open before he's even thinking better of it. He barely registers that he's doing it before he's in the bathroom with a very angry and distraught Shane Hollander, staring down at the remnants of a broken pair of glasses.
For half a second, he thinks he might've made a horrible mistake. Shane looks like a man seconds from punching a hole in the wall or collapsing outright.
His chest heaves with sharp breaths. His eyes are still red. One sleeve of his expensive suit is damp where he'd obviously scrubbed at his face under the faucet.
Then Shane notices Scott and every ounce of emotion vanishes so fast it's honestly frightening.
"You okay?" Scott hears himself ask before he can stop it. His eyes go down to where Shane's glasses (when did the kid wear glasses?) lie in pieces, a startling contrast to the white clinical tiles of the bathroom floor.
Shane blinks once, clearly startled by the question.
Then, unbelievably, he gives Scott Hollander Media Smile Number Three. Slightly self-deprecating. Good for post-loss interviews. "Yeah. Sorry if I worried you."
Scott nearly develops an eye twitch.
"I just dropped it," he says too quickly, face too fixed, too polished. "Shouldn't have been too clumsy."
"Hollander, I don't think--"
"Yeah," he interrupts, smoothing out his suit. "We shouldn't miss the show. They'll probably pan to our empty seats with our luck."
Scott has to take a very calming breath. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.
"Shane. Don't go to that hotel."
And just like that, for the first time, Scott sees Shane Hollander panic. It's only for a second but it's still there, plain for anyone to see.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He looks wrecked. And apparently despite all common sense, Scott Hunter now feels protective over Shane fucking Hollander.
Jesus Christ.
"Hollander."
Shane immediately straightens again like he's bracing for impact. Scott sighs heavily through his nose. "You crushed your glasses because a guy texted you a hotel room number after making you cry in a public bathroom."
Shane goes still.
"I am begging you to have a single ounce of self-respect tonight."
The kid rears back like Scott just punched him.
"What the fuck are you talking about Hunter?"
Scott gestures vaguely toward the floor, nearly slipping on a shard of glass in the process.
"I'm talking about this."
Shane's expression shutters again. "I dropped them."
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"The PR thing!" Scott throws his hands up. "The robot media-trained thing where you pretend you're totally fine."
For the first time all night, Shane looks caught off guard enough to forget the mask completely. He actually blinks at Scott.
Then, against all odds, offense creeps into his expression. "I just don't like what you're implying."
Scott stares at him flatly.
"Will it help or hurt you that I've been...aware of this?" At Shane's scared look, he put his hand up. "I didn't tell a soul, Hollander. I wouldn't pull that shit on you."
He blinks, mouth falling open. "How long?"
Scott raises an eyebrow. "Ever since Rozanov invited you to the hotel room next to mine."
".... does anyone else...?"
Scott shakes his head. "No. Had anyone but me figured it out, they'd have leaked it by now."
He watches as Shane takes a shaky breath, nodding a few times.
"He wasn't—" Shane stops abruptly.
Scott waits.
Shane looks away first. "He wasn't trying to upset me."
"Are you hearing yourself right now?"
"He wasn't." Shane rubs a hand over his face hard enough to redden the skin. "You don't understand how bad we are at this."
"At communication?"
"At..." Shane laughs weakly. "Everything, apparently."
"He treated you like shit today."
Shane looks up at him so quickly, Scott hears his teeth clatter together.
"He ghosted you for six months."
Shane visibly winces. This is probably hurting him. Scott presses on anyway.
"Then cornered you in a bathroom, made you cry, and invited you to a hotel room like this is a fucking booty call."
The panic flashes across Shane's face again. Immediate. Instinctive.
"It's not like that."
Scott doesn't even deign that with a response.
"You really think I don't have self-respect?"
And there it is. The actual question underneath all of this. Scott studies him for a long second before answering.
"I think you're used to this. And you don't know how to be treated better."
Scott thought Shane would deflate, shrink back some. He doesn't expect the anger, the way Shane crowds into him. "Who's going to treat me better, Scott? Hmm? Who could I possibly run to that wouldn't out me? Wouldn't derail my career?"
Me.
The thought hits like impact. Clean and immediate and completely inappropriate.
Because Shane is too close now and fuck, this is dangerous. Dangerous how close Shane is to him. How pretty the man looks, freckles and doe eyes staring up at him with uncharacteristic anger.
Scott realizes, distantly, that he’s staring. Shane notices. Of course he does.
“What?” Shane snaps, but it comes out thinner than he probably intends.
"Any man would kill to treat you right, Hollander." His voice is too low, too serious.
Shane goes still.
"And if you gave me a chance? I'd make you forget that asshole."
For a night at least.
"Don't-" Shane sputters, looking offended and so fucking kissable it aches. How long has it been since Scott has had someone in his bed? Writhing on top of him or moaning underneath him? "Don't fucking joke about this!"
He cocks his head, studying the younger man. "Kid, if you don't realize how many men would kill to take you home, I can't help you. Clueless isn't my type."
And God, does he want to help.
"Yeah? What is your type, Scott? What kind of girl do you usually take home after these events?"
"Hollander, I'm gay."
The word cracks like a bullet through the air. Shatters next to the remnants of Shane's glasses on the tiles. Distantly, Scott hears applause, remembering all at once where they are and what he's saying.
He doesn't take it back though. He just raises an eyebrow as if saying, do you still think I'm lying?
For how careful Scott is, or was before tonight, he's surprised that he just came out so easily. For the first time, actually. Maybe Scott hasn't even said the words "I'm gay" before.
But he's not taking them back now. Not when Shane Hollander is biting his lip and looking up at him.
“Scott,” he says quietly, “you barely even like me.”
Scott smiles at that.
“Hollander,” he murmurs,“that ship sailed the moment I almost committed assault in the hallway because you were crying.”
That gets a look of wonder, almost confusion.
"How, then?"
How would you make me forget him?
Scott should stop. But he also knows in that moment he's deciding not to. Because Rozanov is too much of an idiot to see what he's got, and Scott? Scott isn't about to make Shane believe he's disposable.
Instead, he lifts a hand, slowly and deliberately brushes his thumb lightly along Shane's cheek.
By some miracle, Shane doesn't pull away. He just looks at Scott like he's forgotten what it's like to be sought after.
"Scott.." he starts, but it falls apart halfway through.
"I'd fuck you so well, you wouldn't remember your own name, much less his."
The whimper that escapes Shane is fucking electrifying. His hand goes down from his face to his neck, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch. Then goes down to palm at his waist. Fuck he looks good in a suit.
"I'd focus everything on making you feel good, on making you come in my bed. It'd be a fucking honor to take care of you tonight, Hollander."
But there's still doubt in Shane’s eyes.
"Don't get me wrong kid, I haven't really thought about this before tonight. But now that I'm here? Shit. I want to show you what it's like to be fucking revered."
He can feel the shiver that racks through Shane's body.
"You keep being toyed with, don't you Hollander? Pulled around like it's nothing. I'm not going to do that to you. Nothing about this is a game to me. You come home with me and wanna call the shots? That's fine. I just want to show you what you're missing out on."
No embellishment. No joke. No performance. Just truth. Scott leans in, just enough that their lips are almost touching. He presses his erection into Shane's thigh, hissing some at the contact.
"Still think this is a joke?"
And Scott sees it happen in real time, the way Shane's composure doesn't just crack, it gives. The way his body reacts before his mind catches up. The way his breath stutters, caught between instinct and disbelief.
Shane shakes his head once. Barely.
And that's all Scott needs to surge forward.
The space between them disappears in an instant, pulling him in with a control that is shockingly precise for how fast it's all unraveling. He groans at the way that Shane is kissing him, almost too much and too messy.
Fuck, what had Rozanov's absence done to the man?
"Easy," Scott says when they break apart, gripping Hollanders waist so tightly it forces him to gasp, giving Scott a chance to control their pace. "I'm not going anywhere Hollander."
Shane blinks at him like the words don’t quite compute. Like no one has said anything that straightforward to him in a long time. And maybe that's what Shane needs. Honesty from his partner, direction even.
"I'm not doing anything to you in this bathroom, Hollander. Do you want to leave now, or do you want to go back to the ceremony? There's no wrong answer here."
It doesn't even take a second for Shane to ask, "Hotel?'
Scott just grins and tugs the man in.