Work Text:
Eric McNally woke up in the arms of his partner of 15 years. It was the ungodly hour of 4:30 am. This was the price he was willing to pay for a chance to be on the MLH panel for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final tonight. He was filling in for former San Fransico Mission goalie, Tommy Fedora, who unfortunately fell yesterday morning and broke both of his elbows. Obviously, it was unfortunate for Tommy, but it was Eric’s big break.
So Eric woke up, slipped out of his partner's arms, brushed his teeth, and grabbed the bag he packed last night when he got the call that he would have to be in New York at 9:30 am the following day.
The Uber to Union Station was quick; he probably could have gotten it all the way to the airport, but he loved taking the UP train. That’s where he found himself looking up all the player profiles of the top lines for San Fransico and New York.
Of course, he already knew the basics. He was a Canadian correspondent for the MLH network; it was his job to know a little bit of everything. For all play-off series featuring a Canadian team, Eric would have been a part of the MLH broadcast. Especially for those involving teams in the eastern corridor, Montreal, Ottawa, and his beloved Leafs. Except he wouldn’t have been on the panel, he’d be down at ice level getting interviews from players and coaches.
He loved that, of course. He loved talking with people in the thick of the game. The back-to-back Metros wins had been particularly fun the last two years. Eric loved talking to the Metros Captain, Hollander; he was such a quirky guy. Loved hockey more than anyone Eric knew, including himself.
But he was ready to move up the ladder; he was ready to be part of the team sitting behind the desk, doing the in-depth analysis. He had that a long time ago on his show Face Off, a small-time production centred on the Leafs. Shows like that had been replaced by podcasts these days, and Eric had been lucky to get a job with the MLH network when they acquired Canadian broadcasting rights 11 years ago.
11 years, he had been chasing players, coaches, and, in a few instances, mascots, for quotes and sound bites to feed to the people behind the desk. And tonight he was going to be behind the desk as New York tried to win their first cup since the early ‘90’s. This was San Francisco’s first shot at a cup since the heartbreaking game six loss to Boston’s Ilya Rozanov in 2014. Rozanov really dominated that series and those playoffs in general. He really deserved the Conn Smythe that year, carrying the team all the way to the promised lands.
His money was on New York tonight. Hunter just had something special in his skates when he played in New York. Maybe it was sleeping in his own bed, maybe he just knew the bounces off the board in the Admiral’s arena like no one else— he had been playing there for more than a decade.
Eric was pulled out of his thoughts when the UP train stopped at Toronto Pearson. He gathered his carry-on and made his way to the American departures terminal.
5:34 am
The airport was just waking up from it’s low energy state overnight. He stopped for breakfast after security. Usually, he would cringe at the airport tax, Sam would call it. The markup in price due to the fact that it’s in the airport. Sam also hated movie theatre tax, water front tax, and tourist tax. It was really fun to go on vacation together. Not that they ever really did. Unfortunately, Sam seemed to have infected Eric's mind.
But today the airport tax didn’t matter, because today Eric’s travel was completely comp’d. Hello, 7-dollar coffee and 13-dollar muffin breakfast sandwich thing(?). Whatever.
Eric took the receipt and his 26-dollar ($20 plus real, actual government tax plus tip) and found a table. He snapped a picture of his outrageous breakfast and made sure the receipt was visible, and sent it to Sam. He was smiling, and his hand instinctively went to the simple ring on a gold chain around his neck. Sam wouldn’t be up yet; it was 5:52 am. Shit boarding started in 15 minutes.
Eric scarfed down his breakfast and ran off with his coffee to catch the flight.
New York was beautiful in the spring. But Eric saw virtually none of it. He was in the production room reserved for the MLH broadcast team in Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Admirals. The production team had insisted on briefing him on each team’s run to the Finals and then each game in the series so far. Like he hadn’t watched every game of the playoffs this year. Like he hadn’t watched every game of the Stanley Cup Finals live. Like this wasn’t his regular routine every postseason, from before he turned pro, and certainly after his retirement. The 7 seasons he played for the Leafs he didn’t watch anything but the finals, unless the Leafs were playing. And then he obvious watched it with his own eyes at ice level.
Eric loved hockey, ok?
So, suffice it to say, Eric was at the end of his rope with the briefing team. He was eternally happy when a PA from the makeup department was sent to fetch him.
Eric had come a long way with makeup. He got away with a simple powder to make him look less shiny on Face Off. But that was all he would allow.
Thanks to Scot, he had to face his toxic masculinity issues head-on. When Scot had come to live with him and Sam (after Sam’s dick bag brother all but abandoned him, too), Eric wasn’t ok with how feminine Scot acted. It took him a long time and a lot of patience (on Scot’s part) to be completely comfortable with makeup.
But that was a long time ago, Scot has left their home and now lives in Vancouver. He does drag on the side while he goes to UBC, and Eric could not be prouder. Scot actually put Eric in drag for Scot’s 19th birthday. Some kids want to get drunk for their 19th, but not Scot. He wanted to put on a drag show for their closet friends and family, featuring them singing Christmas carols. Classic Scot.
So when Eric sat in the makeup artist chair, he was an old pro. Pretty soon after, he was doing sound check. And soon after that was the puck drop.
Eric was right.
The Admerials were playing lights out tonight. They were up 2-1 after the first, and 3-1 after the second. Scott Hunter was playing incredibly, a goal and two assists, but his leadership was palpable on the ice— even when he wasn’t. It was the best hockey Hunter had played in his career, Eric had said as much after the first intermission. Live to everyone who was watching the game tonight.
Eric was doing the best broadcasting of his career, if he didn’t say so himself. They’d have to keep him up in the big leagues after this.
Don Citron was talking to him halfway through the third. He and Eric overlapped for a year or two at the start of Eric’s career in the big times. He was an ok guy, he kept calling Eric McNally. It was fine. That’s what hockey people called him; he just didn’t like the way it sounded in his mouth.
“You used to be a brusier, eh, McNally?”
“Game is different than it used to be, eh, McNally?”
“No more fights in the MLH, eh, McNally?”
“Scott Hunter seems like a bit of a sissy, eh, McNally?”
Eric ignored him the best he could, but they were sitting next to each other during the broadcast. A small price to pay for a shot at the big leagues (of broadcasting, of course).
The clock was winding down. New York was going to be the new Stanley Cup Champions, and Hunter was probably going to get the Conn Smythe. Then Eric would be back on air to deliver the final remarks of the season. He would forever be part of the 2017 Stanley Cup Finals Game 7 broadcast.
Admirals win.
The cup is on the ice. Eric had gotten close once, so close that he could taste it; he still dreamed about that series nearly 20 years ago. His heart goes out to San Fransico, they’ve come close twice, but they are going home empty-handed.
Eric looks at the screen. Hunter is skating with the cup; he hands it off to his assistant captain, then looks around the rink. As far as Eric knows, he has no family. It's tragic, really. To lose both parents so young.
But Hunter is looking at someone, someone in the stands. He gestures for them to come to the ice. It looks like security stops them, but Hunter is at the boards insisting. And then he’s on the ice, a guy in a fleece jean jacket.
Hunter kisses him.
Hunter kisses him.
Hunter kisses him.
Erics going to be sick, he’s going to cry. He’s going to pass out. All the blood rushes to his ears, or away. Whatever. He barely notices what’s going on around him because Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admerials, freshly minted Stanly cup champion, just became the first out professional hockey player. Eric simply cannot believe it.
He’s pulled from his thoughts by a voice cutting through the static, “I said it earlier, didn’t I, McNally? I said Scott Hunter is a sissy, and he’s gone and proved me right.”
Eric was speechless; his world was tilting on its axis, and he had to listen to Don-fucking-Citron talk down about a guy who had done the bravest thing he had ever seen a hockey player do. the bravest thing he had ever seen anyone do.
“And we’re live in five, four, three, two, one.”
“Wow, well, wasn’t that a special moment!” one of the other announcers said. Eric’s ears were ringing; he didn’t hear anything that was said until Don Citron was called on for a comment. Fuck.
“I can’t believe what I just witnessed on the ice,” Citron said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty incredible, a special moment for hockey for sure.”
“No, no, I can’t believe I saw that. What has the game become that a captain felt it appropriate to do that on the ice? I get that gay people have to exist or whatever,” The way Citron said gay felt like a slur. “There are children present for crying out loud. They shouldn’t be exposed to that.”
The rest of the panel was silent. Eric didn’t want to know whether it was in horror or in agreement. Eric always said he couldn’t be first; there was no universe where he could be first.
But maybe he could be second.
He reached up, pulled the simple gold chain out from under his collar, and unhooked the clasp. He slid the simple gold band off the chain and onto his finger, a practiced motion he performed every day he got home from work. He and Sam weren’t married legally, and that was his fault. But they were married in everything but the eyes of the law, in the province of Ontario.
Citron was still talking by the time Eric got his armour on, “—you know what I mean, McNally. There weren’t any gay players when we were in the league. Just good old fashion men.”
“I’m gay,” Eric said.
“What?”
“I said, I’m gay. And I was gay when I played, and I was even gay before that, too.”
“What the fuck, McNally? No, you fuckin’ wern’t! You were a fighter, you aren’t gay!”
“I was gay when I fought all those people, too. I promise,” Eric holds up his left hand with his newly ringed finger, not legally married but married enough to fuck with this asshole. He knows Sam won’t mind.
Don Citron stared at him, looking between his finger and his face before lunging. Eric instinctively moves backwards, knocking over the chair he was sitting on. Citron lunges again, but Eric is ready this time. He hits him square in the jaw with his left and and suckers him with his right. Eric didn’t start a lot of fights (ok, definitely less than half, probably), but he sure did finish a lot of fights. And he finished this one, moments before the stage security tackled them both to the ground.
Ouch.
Eric is not young anymore, and getting tackled to the ground is definitely not good for his back. Or his shoulder, probably. He’s definitely going to need to go to the hospital.
***
Eric texted Sam that he was fine, but he didn’t call until after 4 am, when he got to his hotel.
“Eric, are you all right?” Sam sounded panicked; he probably was panicking.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t break anything, didn’t bust anything, just bruises and swelling.”
“Honey, I can’t believe you. You came out and punched a guy on live TV.”
“Yeah, crazy night. Listen, I’m beat. I just needed to hear your voice before I went to sleep.”
“Yes, of course, it’s just… the clips are everywhere. Scott, whatever his name is, with two t’s, and you punching that guy. It's everywhere.”
“I know, I hope it doesn’t blow back on you. I’m sorry.”
“Eric Alexander McNally, don’t you ever apologize to me for coming out. I do not care, I love you. Can we get married for real now?”
Eric smiles, fuck he loves Sam, his sleep-addled brain lets him know that he can just tell Sam that. “I love you, Sam. Yes, we can get married for real now, but you gotta handle the paperwork. You're better at that stuff.”
“Sleep. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
***
Despite being awake for 24 hours straight, participating in his first nationally broadcasted MLH panel, coming out, and then having a nationally televised fight, Eric only manages to sleep until 11 am. It’s a good thing, actually, because he woke up to a few texts from an unknown number.
Unknown Number:
Hi, this is Scott Hunter,
my agent got me your number I hope thats ok.
Listen I saw what you did last night
Can we meet for breakfast or something?
The messages were sent less than 20 minutes ago. Eric quickly responded. By 1 pm, he was in an elevator heading to Scott Hunter, Stanley Cup Champions' penthouse. Crazy fucking day.
Scott Hunter doesn’t look like someone who just made the biggest sports news story, maybe ever. He just looks like some guy, a tall, dark and handsome guy. But just a guy. A hockey player.
Eric is rendered speechless when he enters the condo and sees the god damn Cup sitting on a chair at the kitchen table. Eric had seen the Cup before, the real one, not the display one at the Hockey Hall of Fame, but not this close up. He could reach out and touch it if he wanted. He wouldn’t, of course, he was a profession hockey player. He knew that honour was reserved only for those players lucky enough to win.
“Do you want some eggs and bacon?” Hunter asked, pulling Eric’s attention away from the Cup.
“Uh, yeah sure,”
And that’s how Eric McNally ended up having breakfast with the first openly gay hockey player, and the actual Stanley Cup. Crazy fucking day. It was made even crazier when Hunter said, “Thank you for what you did last night.”
“Thank me? Thank you! I couldn’t have been first. I just hope I didn’t like steal your thunder or anything.”
Hunter chuckled, “No, actually, I think it will be a lot easier if there are two of us.”
Eric understood; he couldn’t have been first. He just… he had come a long way in his life, he was more open than he ever thought possible in his personal life. He couldn’t count the number of people who knew he was gay on one hand anymore, even before last night. But to publicly say he was gay, to wear his gold band outside of the comfort and safety of his own home. That was a level of out he never even dreamed of.
But it was easier because he was second.
His phone started ringing, it was singing Wuthering Heights at him. Scot. He gave Hunter an apologetic smile and answered.
“Hey, kiddo,”
“Pop what hell! You got into a fight on TV last night?”
“Scoty, Scoty, I’m ok. The other guy started it.”
“What did Dad say?”
“He was mostly concerned about the other thing that happened.”
“You’re out. Like out out.”
“Yeah, Scot, I am.” Eric could feel tears welling in his eyes. He almost forgot where he was until he looked up and saw Hunter and the Stanley fucking Cup.
“Listen, Scot, I’m kinda busy right now, can you call your dad and freak out with him, and then let me know what you two come up with?”
“On it pop, I love you.”
“Love you too. By Scoty” He hangs up the phone and turns back to Hunter. “Sorry, that was my kid, he’s an artist type in Vancouver, he does drag sometimes.” Eric doesn’t know why he’s sharing so much. Maybe it’s because he can.
“Scott?” Hunter asks.
“Scot, one t” Eric replies. “Listen, you gotta know, I’m a sports reporter, right. If you want, and only if you want, I can do a sit-down interview with you about everything.” Eric gestures broadly at Hunter.
“I uh, hadn't thought about it.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to start thinking about it. People are gonna want a piece of you bad. We can tell your story, and mine a little maybe, the way we want it told.”
“I think you should do it,” a third man said as he entered the kitchen area. Eric was pretty sure it was the guy from last night, because he was shirtless and in Scott Hunter's kitchen. “You’re the guy who punched Don Citron last night, right?” the man said.
Eric healed up his bursued knuckles, “He threw the first swing,” he added.
“Whatever, thanks. It was really confusing when people started talking about the second gay hockey player, almost immediately." The guy turned to Hunter, “I think you should do it, and soon. Elana said we should get out in front of this, and what better way to do that and interview between the two of you.”
“Plus, it’d go a long way in helping me keep my job, Hunter.” Eric chirped in.
“Sure, what the hell. And you can call me Scott.”
“No can do, too confusing, I already have my own Scot at home.”