Chapter Text
Shane's in a great fucking mood.
They just beat the Admirals 5 to 1 on home ice, thanks in no small part to a beaut of a hat trick from Shane himself. The Metros were on fire and were all too happy to take advantage of the Admirals' weakened state—and what the fuck's going on with Scott Hunter lately anyways? The man has obviously been going through a slump, everyone knew, but he'd had a great few games back in New York finally, so Shane was hoping his poor performance in Boston the night before had just been a fluke and that he'd show up to Montreal ready to put up a fight. But no, Hunter played like he hadn't stepped foot on the ice in years, and his team floundered without solid leadership. They made it way too easy for Shane and the Metros to find cracks in their line, wiggling their way into their heads and net alike.
So maybe Shane's just flying a bit too high from the win and that's why he decides to be a little shit to Hunter. Or maybe there's a tiny, teasing voice in the back of his head cycling through chirps on repeat in a familiar Russian accent, daring Shane to try one out.
Scanning the ice, Shane spots Hunter's hunched form, bent at the waist to catch his breath. He smirks to himself and skates over to him, coming to a neat stop in his periphery.
"Hope next time we play you decide to show up," he chirps, all too pleased with himself.
Hunter turns and looks at Shane like he'd trying to figure out how to even respond. He just settles with a gruff, "Cheap," and spits in Shane's direction before dropping his head again.
"True," he counters, spitting right back on the ice between them.
Hunter glances at Shane with a weary look in his eyes. He looks at him like Shane's been under his skin all night; like he's utterly and completely fed up with him even though Shane barely said anything to him the whole game. Then he's looking back down at the ice and Shane swears he hears a scoff, even over the roar of the crowd still around them. His voice is tight as he says, "You're starting to sound like him."
Shane's world freezes for what feels a lot longer than it probably is. Surely he misheard. Hunter didn't seriously just insinuate—
"I'm sorry, what?" Shane asks in complete disbelief.
Sure, his chirp did first fly through his head in heavily accented English, but he knows he hadn't let Rozanov's accent actually slip off his own tongue when he tossed it at Hunter. How could—how did Hunter even—he didn't know, right? He couldn't possibly know, could he? Shane's too busy trying not to let his anxiety reach his face that he doesn't even register Hunter standing straight up again until he hears his follow up.
"You fucking heard me, Hollander."
Hunter's voice is thick with disdain, almost smug, and his eyes are burning; not with rage exactly, but some sort of bone-deep irritation that Shane can't make sense of. His chirp was tame as hell, all things considered, and he'd always gotten along with Hunter perfectly fine. Why the hell would Scott Hunter throw a fucking bomb like that back at Shane after what he thought was just a bit of playful ribbing?
If he knows about Shane's whole thing with Rozanov, bringing it up on the ice, even as vague as he's being, is practically a threat. It's like he's telling Shane, 'I know your secret and if you don't back off, so will everyone else'. But Hunter wouldn't actually do that, would he?
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Shane knows it isn't smart to ask for clarity when the answer could very well be the beginning of his downfall, but he has to hear it. Does Scott Hunter know about them? Or is Shane just too wrapped up in his own head about whatever the fuck he and Rozanov had going on to realize Hunter wasn't even talking about that?
Hunter skates closer and gets in his face. With a shitty Russian accent, he spits, "1221," and Shane's heart drops to his ass.
That was Rozanov's room number at the All-Star game their rookie year. He'd skated by Shane and dropped the number in a hush, but Scott Hunter had apparently heard anyways; that had to be why he made a comment about rooming next to Rozanov. Shit. That was nearly three fucking years ago. Did Hunter know about them back then? Has Scott Hunter known for three fucking years? Shane feels like he could be sick.
Hunter leans even closer and whispers in his normal voice, "You can thank your boyfriend for reminding me about that last night—"
Shane's fist makes contact with Scott's cheek before he realizes he's even thrown his gloves to the ice. He's never thrown gloves. Sure, he's gotten caught up in things and pulled into some minor fights and shit during games, pulled teammates out of scrums, maybe wanted to fight some assholes over the years, but he's never fully, actually fought someone on the ice. He's certainly never been the aggressor before. But that taunt has him absolutely seething.
Fuck Scott Hunter. Fuck him for waiting three god damned years to use Rozanov against Shane like that. Fuck him for not knowing how to take a fucking chirp and blowing this whole thing out of the water. And fuck him for still being so unfairly fucking hot, all those sharp edges and that rugged handsomeness front and god damned center as he makes Shane see red.
"You fucking asshole, I swear to god—"
Shane sees Hunter's gloves hit the ice as he rights himself, but he's already got another hit ready to meet him.
"What the fuck is your issue, Hollander?" He lunges and Shane narrowly misses a fist flying by his ear, ducking and landing a harsh jab in Hunter's gut, just shy of his padding.
"My issue?" Shane screams, stumbling on his skates a little as Scott's fist connects with his side. "Fuck, man, what's your fucking issue?"
He feels his anger starting to blur his vision, sending him into a single-minded, burning rage, everything around him fading into the background. He feels hands trying to pull him off of Hunter and recognizes the black and white stripes of the referees and the familiar blue of his teammates out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't even know what he's yelling anymore, or what Hunter's screaming back at him; he's calling him a pussy and telling him to go home, but then he's saying something about Hunter being 45 years old for some fucking reason, and…what? He's not even 45 and Shane absolutely knows that. He's just too blindingly pissed off at Hunter to even think up clever insults to hurl at the other man.
Shane skips press duty.
Instead, he stays sat in his stall, half changed out, with his head in his hands. He stays there, almost completely unmoving, just trying to keep himself from diving head first into a panic attack the size of ohgodScottHunterknowsRozanovandIarehookingup.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of it after god only knows how long. Shane jolts, picking his head up and looking around the locker room to find it nearly empty, save for Hayden standing in front of him with a concerned look on his face.
"Look man, I don't know what happened out there, but I just want you to know…" Shane feels his eyes prickling with unshed tears as his best friend steps closer and places both hands firmly on his shoulders. "All you gotta do is say the word. I've got this sketchy uncle in New York, y'know? If we ask nice enough, I'm sure he can find a way to, uh, disappear Hunter."
Shane barks out a laugh, a big percentage of his tension and anxiety slipping away already.
"Thanks man." Shane pats Hayden's arms as he stands up. "We're good though. I don't know what that was either, honestly. Probably just the adrenaline of the game and shit, and…we both said some stupid shit. I'm sure it's fine though. It'll blow over.
Hayden holds his hands up in surrender and takes a slow step back. "Alright, heard. Just saying though…"
Shane snorts. "Fine. If I ever want to take a hit out on Scott Hunter, I'll call your sketchy uncle."
"That's all I'm asking, man."
Shane rolls his eyes fondly and works on getting the last of his gear sloughed off so he can go scorch out the rest of his anxiety under the spray of the shower. He reassures Hayden one last time that he's fine and will be okay left on his own for the night, but sighs and shakes his head at himself as he grabs a towel.
'I need to talk to him about this, don't I?'