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Scott was... grossly uncomfortable. Not that he wasn't uncomfortable a lot. It seemed to be his natural state of being now days. They were sitting in an ugly, over-sportsed sports bar after the All Star game, getting kind of hammered. That wasn't the uncomfortable part. He wasn't drunk like everybody else, just warm and fuzzy.
Or he would have been warm and fuzzy, if it hadn't been for two other things: first, Boiziau was trying a little too hard to get Hollander drunk. And being successful. Scott knew Hollander didn't drink during the season, so it was actually kind of nice to see him cut back with the first beer. Then Boiziau switched him to something in a hurricane glass with a crazy straw that Hollander had actually accepted. He seemed more relaxed and more put together than usual.
It looked like he'd buried the hatchet with Rozanov, too. He'd caught them talking a few times over the weekend. It had definitely been a good weekend for Hollander.
Anyway, every time Hollander's drink got even half-empty, Boiziau would quietly trade out the drink, often without Hollander noticing. If Boiziau was doing this to a woman, he'd be up in the guy's shit. But it was Boiziau’s friend. And it was Hollander and... maybe he should say something? But he also didn't feel comfortable stepping in.
The other thing happening that actually made him MORE uncomfortable thank the drink swaps was the guys playing “gay chicken.”
Jesus Christ. He'd asked when they started if they weren't all beyond that and he'd been told by no less than seven people to fuck off. Hollander sighed and rolled his eyes when it started, and he wondered if Hollander was sighing at the game, or sighing at Scott. He couldn't tell.
The two idiots in question had started out making kissy faces at each other, and had moved on to stroking each other's arms and saying suggestive things. Now they'd moved in like they were going to kiss, but were not quite there yet.
That part actually made Scott a little sick. This was bullshit. He should stop it.
He didn't want to draw attention to himself.
He was a coward.
When Wilson dodged away from his compatriot, there were a chorus of hoots and boos. Hollander did not join in. He just took another long sip from his glass.
He didn't know if it was because Hollander was just an upstanding guy, or if was because the kid was so fucking quiet at these things. He'd noticed years ago that Hollander didn't talk much at various events. He'd stand there, nodding his head, but never really contributed much unless he was a little drunk, or very knowledgeable about a topic.
Another guy lined up with Wilson and Scott couldn't stop the audible groan. He was hoping one round would work it out of their systems.
As the guys flirted, Rozanov came up behind him, stood beside Scott and looked down at him with a question on his face. He was already glassy-eyed. Scott couldn't tell if he was just well warmed over from the drink in his hand or maybe a little stoned. Pot was harder to come by in the US, but if anyone could do it, he had no doubt Rozanov could find some in about fifteen minutes.
"Wilson and The Tank are flirting?" Rozanov asked in mild curiosity. "Tank! You can do better!" he shouted.
Scott sighed. "They're playing gay chicken," he explained.
"Sounds stupid," Rozanov groused. "Explain, old man."
Scott rolled his eyes. He was like three years older than Rozanov. "It is stupid. They... act gay and into each other until one of them flinches."
"I was right. Is stupid."
“Yup.” Scott never thought he'd agree with Rozanov on anything.
Wilson flinched when The Tank tried to nibble on his ear, to the usual around of booing and cheers.
Rozanov rolled his eyes. "Wilson, you are very bad at this. Tank, you can do better."
"You think you're so hot, Rozanov? Why don't you take a shot."
Rozanov stepped forward. "Fine. I will beat you at your stupid game. And it is very stupid."
Wilson stepped forward. "Ok, shithead, let's go."
The Tank put a hand on his chest and pushed him out of the way. "I won the last one. It's me and Rozanov."
Rozanov handed Hollander his tumbler of clear alcohol. Hollander took it without thinking and set it down next to his own freshly-replaced drink.
The Tank had his back to Rozanov, laughing with a few of his buddies about how he was going to win. Without warning, Rozanov grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, grabbed The Tank's other shoulder with his spare hand and for a moment, Scott thought he was going to head butt the guy until Rozanov just plowed forward for an open-mouth kiss.
The instant before their mouths met, The Tank yanked away. "Jesus Christ!"
Scott almost spit out his beer. "Rozanov! What the fuck?"
"I am the best at your stupid game. Next person."
Hollander buried his head in his hand then rubbed his eye. There was something besides discomfort there, something Scott was probably too tipsy to identify properly, like amusement, but he let it go. Maybe he thought Rozanov was embarrassing himself.
Scott thought the asshole was making a point about how idiotic this whole thing was.
A few of the guys looked at each other, trying to egg each other on, to no success. Bouchard stood up, locked eyes with Rozanov, who had an angry sort of seriousness in them, and flinched, sitting back down.
Rozanov looked around at all of them. "You are pathetic and weak." Then he pointed to Hollander. "Come on."
"Rozanov..." Scott started.
"No. They are all terrible. I want the best."
Hollander waved a floppy hand at Rozanov. He was plastered. Scott vowed to say something to the guy's friend later. "I don't want to play."
"Are you afraid I am the best at the stupid game?"
Suddenly, Hollander's eyes narrowed. "Ok, asshole."
Annnnnd, there it was. The rivalry. They'd played so well at the game tonight. It had been like magic, really, watching them. Like they had one brain or something. He wondered if it were some turning point in their relationship. But... apparently not.
Rozanov grinned hard and Hollander took the straw out of his drink, held it up to his lips and chugged. The volume of the cheers was deafening.
"Guys, come on..." Scott said, but not loud enough for it to truly cut through the chaos. He was not proud of his half-hearted attempt, but he'd unpack that later.
They locked eyes with a serious sort of mutual glower for a few seconds, and Scott wondered if Hollander was going to take a sloppy swing at him. He'd never pegged Hollander for it, he wasn't normally a fighter. But then again, he'd been shocked when Hollander had gone after him, just for saying he sounded like Rozanov.
Apparently the rivalry really did run that deep.
Hollander seemed like the nice golden boy he was portrayed to be most of the time. Bland as hell, too. But he could be like 90% of the rest of these assholes--homophobes ranging from the unwitting or casual to the raging type. Rozanov could be pushing just the right button to set Hollander off.
And Rozanov? Well he'd give credit to the man's commitment. He'd been fully committed to sticking a tongue down a guy's throat just to make a point about how stupid this game was. He couldn't tell if it was because Rozanov was an asshole or because he was European.
Then both of their eyes started to thaw. Soon, they were both trying to hold back laughter.
Rozanov reached out and took Hollander's hand and squeezed it. Hollander twisted his hand, not to pull it away, but to lace their fingers together. So they were doing this.
The crowd went from loud to hushed whispers as the two grew serious, eyes still locked. The bar's obnoxious soundtrack blared over the sound system. It was playing some power ballad that had been popular in the 1990s, the lyrics suddenly hearable over the now-quiet editorial comments from the crowd.
Boiziau was swapping out Hollander's drink again, a sly smile on his face. Quietly, he took his phone out and started recording.
Hollander ran an arm up Rozanov's bare arm and came to rest on his neck, a strangely intimate touch.
Then Rozanov reciprocated by putting his hand on Hollander's hip. "Dance with me?"
With a quirk of his lip, Hollander started swaying with Rozanov. He said quietly, "you're running this thing, just so you know."
Scott could only hear because he was the closest to them.
"That's because you are a terrible dancer," Rozanov said in an equally hushed tone.
Shit, Rozanov couldn't stop being an asshole even during a game of fake seduction. Well, at least he was on-brand. Of course, the women who went out with him (Scott would never say that he dated--he was seldom seen with a woman more than once) never complained of him being an asshole to them. In fact, he never heard any complaints at all.
A few of the guys snickered at the comment, but Hollander just laughed and responded quietly, "I never said I could dance."
"I will teach you." Rozanov started swaying them a little more, putting them close to actual dancing.
Hollander smirked. "Where did you learn?"
"We have culture in Russia."
"Not what I asked."
"My mama taught me."
Hollander's smile actually turned... kind of fond. "That's... really nice."
...What the fuck was happening?
The song ended and a poppier song came on.
Instead of stopping, Rozanov spun Hollander, who instantly grew dizzy and ended up falling into his dance partner. They both laughed. Rozanov held onto Hollander far longer than was necessary for even a drunk man to right himself.
In fact, they didn't let go of each other.
A few of the guys let out cheers, The Tank insisted that they kiss.
That was when Scott stood up. He had no idea if Hollander was sober enough to consent a kiss, even one that was part of a game. "Ok, that's enough." He came up to the two of them, hoping they'd separate.
They did not. They just kept staring at each other. "Ok. You're both very committed to the bit, and you're both the best at acting gay. You can cut it out--"
Their lips met. Tongue was involved for both parties, and Scott didn't know what the hell to do but stand there awkwardly and watch them both give it their all, much to the hooting and hollering of the men surrounding them.
Boiziau was timing the fucking thing on his watch, commenting into his phone.
The kiss... made Scott even more uncomfortable than he already was with the premise of this game, and then it made him a little sick, and then it made him panic.
His heart started racing and his mouth grew dry. This was… bad. This whole thing was bad.
One hand snapping out. He forced it between the two men, and he pushed Rozanov back. "Ok, ok. This is getting homophobic now. We get it." The whole fucking thing was homophobic. But go ahead and tell all of these assholes that.
Rozanov looked like he could do it all day.
"Like I said--you both win. You're the best. Now I think we need to move onto something else, now that you've obviously kicked everyone else's asses."
Fingers to his lips, Hollander looked around at the crowd that was booing Scott for ruining their fun. Hollander looked like he just realized there was an audience. There was a fear in his eyes. One that Scott knew.
He decided to throw Hollander a bone. The guy was way too fucking drunk for the cheers or the jeers from this. He'd probably sober up in the morning and be disgusted with himself and Rozanov. "Come on, buddy. Time to get you to your room."
When he said that, Rozanov stepped forward to help, but Scott pushed him back again. "I think you've done enough for tonight. I've got him."
"Do you even know his room?" Rozanov asked.
"Do you?"
Rozanov opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
"It's fiiiiiine," Hollander hummed. "I'm in 1308," he mumbled, but it was over Scott's shoulder, to Rozanov. Oh god, this kid was going to have serious fucking regrets in the morning.
Scott began patting Hollander's pockets for a room key. Looking over at Boiziau, still filming, he scowled at the man. "Delete that, you asshole," he said sternly, trying to take back control of the room.
Finding the room key card in Hollander's back pocket, he held it up. "Let's get you some water and get you to bed. Your friend over there," he said, pointing to Boiziau, "is tonight's REAL asshole." He said it loud enough that the asshole in question could hear. The bastard didn’t even the decency to look contrite.
He turned Hollander around to head toward the exit. About half way there, he stopped at the bar to pay his and Hollander's tabs. Hollander had apparently been taken care of by Boiziau, who obviously had planned on getting his captain utterly trashed.
"Hey... where's Ilya," Hollander asked, looking around them as Scott signed the slip and got his card back.
"You two are done for the night," Scott told him. "You both have an incredible amount of fortitude for straight men."
Hollander looked like he wanted to say something, but then stared at the floor instead.
"It's fine. He dared you, you had to do it. And the guys were egging you on. Don't worry about it." Why was he comforting Hollander?
Why was he helping the poor bastard back to his hotel? He couldn't imagine.
When he got out on the hot and humid street, there was already a cab waiting, and Rozanov was standing with it.
He got Hollander to the curb and shook his head. "Oh no, you've done enough for the night. You can go back inside."
"I want to make sure he gets back alright. I did not realize he was..." Rozanov gestured up and down Hollander's rapidly sagging frame. "So..."
"Plastered?"
"Yeah."
"Talk to his boy Boiziau. He's been replacing his drinks before they were empty so he wouldn't notice."
Rozanov's glassy eyes narrowed. "You noticed."
"I am not here to babysit. Now move, so I can get him in there before his legs turn to jelly." He used his free hand to push Rozanov out of the way.
Or, at least he tried to. The wall of solid muscle did not budge. "I will make sure he gets back."
"No, you won't. Look, you started something back there that you two idiots are both probably too inebriated to realize what it was. Save yourself some scrutiny and DON'T go home with him."
This time, when he pushed Rozanov out of the way, the man budged. He stepped back, staggering a little himself. "Take care of him?"
"Get back in there, before they start saying you two left together. Tell them your commitment to the bit is unprecedented or something, and try to kiss some other idiot. Preferably Boiziau. And make sure he deleted that video. Otherwise you two are going to be in trouble. People are going to start asking questions."
That seemed to get Rozanov's attention. "Ok."
But he still stood there, not moving, even as Scott shoved Hollander into the cab. "GO," he said loudly. Fortunately, Rozanov listened that time and headed back into the bar.
As he got in, he sighed. What the fuck was he doing?
Even if he was reading this whole thing wrong, and he hoped he was, these two were going to have a lot of scrutiny on their hands in the morning. Especially if that video didn't get deleted.
Because if Scott thought they had chemistry on the ice...
They had something else entirely in real life.
If a stupid game of gay chicken could be called real life.
But whatever it was... those two had it. He couldn't figure out if they really were into each other, or if it was just the incredible force of their competitive nature. But there'd been some spark of something there. And he hoped to God no one else had seen it.
"Ugh. I drank too much," Hollander moaned, his head flopped back against the headrest as they headed back to the hotel. "J.J. is an asshole."
"Yeah, a lot of people were assholes tonight." He gave a pat to Hollander's leg. "How're you feeling?"
"Like I am on a roller coaster," Hollander muttered, his eyes closing.
Scott didn't know what to do. But he did know, if Hollander passed out, he'd have a devil of a time getting two hundred and some odd pounds of dead weight athlete to his room alone. "Hey, don't close your eyes. We're almost to the hotel." He had no idea if that was true or not. "So why did you take Rozanov up on his dare?"
Hollander opened one eye and looked at him. "And let that asshole win?"
Scott laughed. "Yeah. I figured it was something like that. But there's something else, too. You like him."
Hollander smiled. "Maybe."
That was a yes.
"Is he into you?" It sure as fuck looked like he was.
Hollander hesitated.
"I won't tell anyone anything. And if you don't remember this conversation in the morning, I will never bring it up again," Scott vowed.
Thinking about that promise, Hollander's face contorted, going through several emotions in quick succession. Anxiety, fear, then a softening in his eyes that Scott read as adoration. "Yeah. He is."
"Shit," Scott hissed. How the hell close had they gotten this weekend? Fuck. This was... bad. Seriously bad. If anyone found out about this, beyond making both of their lives a living hell, they would be at the epicenter of the league imploding around them. "Alright. How deep are you in with him?"
Hollander's eyes drifted shut again. Scott nudged the guy. "Not deep enough."
Fuck. Like, how did he convey this? "You two absolutely cannot fuck up like this in public again. You know that, right?"
Waking up a little, instead of coming to his senses, Hollander looked a little dreamy-eyed. "It was nice, you know? Not always sneaking around."
Oh no. The bottom fell out of Scott's stomach. They hadn't developed some sort of mutual crush this weekend... this had been going on for a while. "How long have you two been...?"
"I dunno," Hollander said, waving a floppy hand. "Rookie season? Before?"
Scott nearly choked on his tongue. "Jesus Christ," he sputtered. "And you decided tonight was a good night to...what? Do a trial balloon on going public?" He had to talk to Rozanov. They had to know this would only end in disaster.
Hollander's face screwed up. "No, no, no no. It was just a game. But... a nice game."
It was not a nice fucking game. It was homophobic as fuck and he'd let it go on to protect himself. "That's messed up," was all he could think to say without revealing himself.
Protecting himself had gotten him nowhere except in limbo with Kip. Neither of them were seeing anyone but they weren’t seeing each other. Just the occasional meetups as “friends.” But it’s the only thing he knew to do. Getting caught or coming out was out of the question. And if it was out of the question for him and Kip, it was ten times more our of the question for these two.
"It's all messed up. You don't think I know that? But this weekend, we got to hang out in public. Tonight we got to... actually touch around people."
Oh they did more than touch. There'd been so much heat when they were kissing, if you knew what you were looking for, and weren't expecting two straight guys committing to a bit. "Yeah, well, you almost blew it tonight, Friend. Anyone finds out about this, and you two are seriously fucked. You have to know that."
"Oh yeah. Super fucked," Hollander admitted. "But it was just a game..."
Scott gave into his frustration and shoved Hollander. "Listen to me. You two need to get your shit together before someone finds out."
They pulled up in front of the hotel. Scott didn't wait for whatever stupid shit Hollander was going to say in defense of this fucking Hindenberg of a relationship. He just got out and went around to open Hollander's door. Practically pulling him out, he dragged the bastard to the curb and shut the door, the cab barely waiting until they were clear before taking off again.
"Ok, asshole," Scott said in frustration, Hollander becoming heavier and heavier with each passing step across the lobby. "Alright. Thirteen-oh-eight..." he said, taking out Hollander's key.
By the time they got to 1308, Hollander was dead weight. He got the door open and dragged the fucker inside. Hollander’s friend was a certified cunt and he'd be having words with that piece of shit tomorrow. Tonight he had to talk to Rozanov. "Ok, pal. I guess I'm going to leave you some water and put you on your side and hope for the best?"
He got Hollander's shoes off and got the guy on his side, but couldn't get him under the covers. He was far too passed out for that. So he settled for turning the air conditioner down a little so it wasn't quite so chilly in the room.
Then he turned on a light and looks at Hollander, completely passed out. It was weird to see the man's face completely relaxed. He's never witnessed it. Ever. He'd seen Hollander's face neutral. But he was always holding it that way. Did the man have any chill? Probably not.
Would you have any chill if you were in a secret relationship with your rival?
Watching Hollander breathe shallowly for a few moments, he realized he couldn't just leave him. Even if he was on his side he really could vomit and choke to death. Or shit, stop breathing.
Then he'd be the guy who killed a generational talent.
Oh yeah, and Hollander would be dead.
He decided to take a chance. Poking his head out into the hall, he looked up, and then down. Making sure he had the key, he closed the door behind him and walked to the alcove containing the the ice machine and some vending machines. He waited a good thirty seconds, then poked his head back out.
Sure enough, Rozanov was walking toward 1308.
"Rozanov," Scott hissed down the hallway.
The man's head jerked up and he looked utterly blindsided. "Hunter."
As he approached, Scott's eyes narrowed. "We need to talk. NOW." He pointed to Hollander's door. When he reached Rozanov, he grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the room in question. Opening it, he all but tossed Rozanov inside.
Rozanov stopped at the foot of the bed. "Ok. He is ok. J.J. is an idiot. He does not drink that much for a reason."
Scott imagined there were several. One of them being how hard it was to keep a secret when you were utterly blitzed. Hollander had done a shit job of it tonight, in fact.
"What the hell do you two think you're doing?"
Rozanov turned around. "Was just a game."
"He and I had a LONG talk on the ride over here. Since before your rookie season? Jesus Fucking Christ. What the hell are you thinking?"
Rozanov looked back to the passed out figure on the bed, his cheek twitching. "That he has amazing freckles and a very good mouth."
Fuck. These two were in deep for each other. "Yeah. I don't give a shit about that. You'd better fix this before your careers are tanked."
Glassy eyes met Scott's, his piercing gaze growing serious. "I KNOW this is trouble."
"But you've been doing it for...how many years? You've gotten away with it this long because you weren't being stupid. You were both INCREDIBLY stupid tonight."
His attention moving back to Hollander, Rozanov's lips pressed together in a thin line. "I wanted something. To get me through."
"Through what?"
"All the times of no Shane."
Oh fuck. Rozanov was in love. "You two are fucked, you know that, don't you?"
"It was stupid. Too much pot. Too many drinks. Will NOT happen again."
"Damned right it's not going to happen again," Scott said, his voice turned to steel. "You're going to break it off with him."
"No."
"YES. You have to know this doesn't end in any good sort of way."
Suddenly, Rozanov seemed to shrink in on himself. "I know," he said quietly, sitting on the bed next to Hollander. "It ends a thousand different ways. All of them bad."
"Then why are you doing this to yourselves?"
Rozanov put a hand on the sleeping man's arm and regarded him sadly. "We are no good at staying away. Every time I used to say... this is the last time. It was not the last time. Ever. This weekend. We just said... yes. This is something."
Fuuuuuuck. "It can't be anything."
"Do you think I am stupid?"
"Then you're going to break it off."
"No." But he looked down at Hollander, then wrestled with something. "Maybe."
"It's for the best. There is no way for this to have a happy ending. You said so yourself."
The back of Rozanov's fingers brushed Hollander's cheek. "We were stupid. No more being stupid."
"Rozanov..." Then Scott did something he never pictured himself doing. He put a hand on Rozanov's shoulder. "If you love him, you'll let him go. You know you wouldn't just be taking yourself down. You'd be taking him down too."
Rozanov was silent for a while. "Yeah. Yes. I know," he said softly. He jerked his shoulder away from Scott and dried his eyes. "Fuck you, by the way."
"Blame me all you want, man. You can blame me to Hollander's face if it makes you feel better." He took a step back. "Stay with him tonight. Make sure nothing happens to him. But... break it off."
Rozanov looked up at him with red eyes, but nodded.
Scott headed toward the door. "It's for the best," he said, grabbing the handle. But goddamn it, Rozanov looked so fucking devastated. "If we lived in a different world..."
"I would be braver," Rozanov finished.
Turning the door handle, Scott paused, looking back to Rozanov and Hollander and the devastation he'd wrought. "Yeah. Me too."
THE END