Chapter Text
2009
“...Yeah, this was hard loss. We were really hungry for the Cup this year. But, uh, I think it’s clear what we’re going to be working on for next season and we’re going to come back in the fall ready to go all the way.”
It’s pretty low energy in the press room after the Admirals are knocked out of the playoffs at home against Boston. Amid the rustle of notepads and the click of phone cameras and tablet keyboards Scott is doing the hard work of being captain, keeping it together for the guys at the table with him with an icepack strapped to his ribs (again) when all he wants is to go home and get blindingly drunk.
This is the job, and Scott, after three years of it, knows what he’s doing. He bats around a few more questions about some of the turnovers in the third period before a journalist in the front row takes things in a different direction.
“Looking at the draft, there is a lot of chatter about an up-and-coming player out of Ottawa: Shane Hollander.”
A phone camera flash goes off, and Scott has to blink the spots from his vision for a second. “Uh, yeah, I’ve heard about him. He’s playing some good hockey.”
“Hollander would be the first Omega ever to participate in the MLH draft, and if he goes as high as expected, the first openly Omega player to see significant ice time in the history of men’s hockey.”
“Sounds pretty historic,” Scott agrees, to some friendly chuckles from the scrum.
“Do you think an Omega can mesh with a team in a predominantly Alpha sport?”
“I don’t see why not.” His ribs throb, but he keeps his face open. Neutral.
“Would you have an Omega in the Admirals locker room? Do you think the team that drafts Hollander can handle the inevitable disruptions?”
“I leave those decisions to the guys in charge. As far as I can tell, the kid’s fast, he’s got good hands, and he’s got his eye on the net. Sounds like a good draft pick to me.”
Scott glances at the publicity manager in the corner and Marcelle nods back. He’s done with this topic. The next reporter called on asks about rebuilding their defensive line after Svenson’s retirement, and Scott settles back into the regular post-game analysis with the ease of long practice.
After the scrum Scott leaves his teammates to duck into the infirmary. There were no major injuries and all the other guys are patched up, so the room is empty except for the middle-aged nurse practitioner who's been with Scott since he came up from the juniors.
Scott drops into a chair by her station, blowing out a long breath. “Hey, Shelly.”
“How are the ribs?”
He rolls his shoulder with a wince. “I’ll live.”
“Saw you on the monitor, talking about the Hollander kid,” Shelly says pointedly, sliding a carbon paper form across her desk. “That was generous of you.”
“More diverse players make for better hockey,” Scott manages to say with minimal irony. He adds his initials beside her signature, and she releases his pills from the safe under her station.
“Well, I’ve seen the proof of concept.”
Scott cracks a bottle of water and pops the lid on today’s labeled blister pack.
Heat suppressant.
Scent neutralizer.
Birth control.
They wash down easy, like they always have.
“I’ll send you home with the off-season kit after the team all-hands tomorrow. You know the drill.”
“Yeah.” Scott adjusted his ice pack again. Heat was going to be murder with a cracked rib. “Thanks, doc.”
“Take it easy, Cap.”
2014
“Scott, what do you say to the report that a fellow captain is taking the coming season off for parental leave?”
It’s well into May and they’re only in the second round of the playoffs because of the Olympics. The Admirals are up 3-2 against Toronto and flying for the next set of away games in three hours. Scott leans into the microphone, elbows heavy on the table after a bloody third period that had their goalie on a stretcher.
“I’d have to say I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Shane Hollander. The Metros captain has just released a statement confirming his pregnancy, and that he’ll be sitting the bench next season with the blessings of team management.”
A kind of hush falls over the room. More than one mouth hangs open, including his own. Scott glances at the team publicist in the doorway, who throws her hands up, just as surprised as everyone else.
“Wow. Uh, if that’s true then congrats to him I guess,” Scott manages after several beats of awkward silence. “I’m sure that’s great news for his family.”
“Do you think a player can really take a year off and expect to stay a competitor in the League?”
Scott tries to shake the exhaustion out of his brain so he doesn’t say anything too stupid. “It’s a lot of time off the ice, but that’s between him and his coaches, and from the sound of it he has support in Montreal.”
The Metros had been a surprise early knockout. It’s clear a narrative is building as to why. Scott breathes, and tries to focus through the clench of nausea in his gut.
“He’s only been captain for two years,” The reporter continues, “Shouldn’t his responsibilities to his team come before—”
“What is it you want me to say?” The room falls silent again, and Scott realizes he’d been too loud. Too sharp. That his fingertips were white and bloodless gripping the edge of the conference table. He sits back, and takes a long drag from his water bottle.
“I wish him the best.” He says at last, voice flat and disaffected. “When Hollander is back on the ice the Admirals defense will be ready for him. Next question, please.”
Everybody and nobody wants to talk about it in the locker room.
“Saw you growl a little for Hollander out there, Cap. That’s cool of you.”
Scott finally peels out of his padded undershirt, the sweat cold and sticky now against his skin. “I’m just trying to keep it about the hockey.”
“True that.” Vaughan shakes a can of deodorant before spraying it heavily under his arms. “Crazy though. When do you think he’ll be back?”
Scott scrubs a hand over his face. Admits: “I don’t think he will be.”
He grabs his towel and heads for the showers.
Very few people say it in front of a microphone, but the consensus in private is with Scott, from players to management to the gossip at the bodega:
The Omega Experiment is over. They just aren’t built for the intensity of the sport. The personal sacrifices.
Except.
Hollander is back on the ice in eleven months. They play Montreal away and between periods Scott watches the jumbotron zoom in on an older couple in Metros colors helping a tiny bundled up infant in earphones wave at the camera.
“Hollander’s kid is pretty cute,” Vaughan says next to Scott on the bench, looking up at the screen.
“Yeah,” Scott agrees, throat strangely tight. “I guess so.”
The Metros take the win, 3-2. Hollander scores twice.
2016
The win against the Centaurs is expected, but still feels good on home ice. Scott assisted a few first-time goals for the new rooks, and the energy is buzzy as they clear the tunnel and can celebrate without looking like bad sports after winning 7-2.
Phone screens light up across the room as the guys check their messages, and it takes Scott too long to realize that a strange, numb silence has taken over the post-game chatter.
He pulls off his jersey and feels eyes on him.
“Cap?”
It’s Breezy, one of the rookies. Beside him, Farmer is staring at something on his screen with a slack jaw.
“Have you seen this?”
A phone gets shoved under his nose. His own is off, somewhere in the bottom of his gym bag. A sharp headline burns against the webpage of NYT Online:
Major data breach at Mt. Sinai Hospital reveals irregularities in the records of several prominent NYC athletes
Still half in his pads, breathing hard, Scott doesn’t really understand what he’s seeing. He scrolls to the next headline.
Mt. Sinai Data Breach: Islanders’ John Tavares, Admiral’s Scott Hunter among athletes under scrutiny after anonymous leak
The words begin to slide out of focus as Scott breaks out in a fresh, cold sweat. All of his medications were handled through Shelly. Since he was nineteen, they had their system and it worked. They documented everything, and everything was airtight.
Except the heat in 2002. The bad one.
The one when they were still figuring out his doses in a panic after his late presentation. The one where he’d screamed and bled, enough that Shelly had taken him to Mt. Sinai at three AM with cash and about a hundred NDAs in a binder under her arm.
He feels like he’s bleeding again now, like it's all draining out of him and all that’s left is dread.
“Are you alright, man? What’s this about?”
“I-I don’t know.” He blinks, hard. “I need to, uh, talk to the media team, I think.”
He shoves past his teammates, unable to stomach the doubt in their eyes. The hallway is quiet for a moment, until Scott lurches around the corner looking for Dan or Marcelle and realizes his mistake.
The hall around the press room is packed, all the visiting Ottawa press and their regulars waiting to file in. Dan spots him and goes milk white, holding up his clipboard like he can block Scott from view.
“Hunter, wait—”
But it’s too late. What feels like a million flashbulbs go off. The sound hits him in a wall as every one of the vultures leaps for the chance at the first soundbite.
What do you have to say about the allegations? Is it true that you’re on hormones? Why are your medical records sealed? Why is this leak the first fans are hearing about your treatment regimens?
One voice jumps from the crowd, the words too pointed. Too clear in their assumptions.
Too damning.
“Scott, what are you taking?”
“Taking? What are you—”
“Do you feel pressure to keep up with younger players? Is that why you’ve turned to drugs?”
A fine ringing takes up in Scott’s ears. An assistant manager is pushing on his chest, trying to get him back in the locker room, but Scott surges forward until he has the reporter’s shirtfront in his fist.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
It takes Dan and two assistant coaches to pull Scott off the guy. There are a lot of pictures. There’s video. It circulates for weeks, his red, blurry face and hoarse voice, his grip white knuckled as he shoves a terrified SI journalist into cinderblock. The image goes great with the new headline that emerges:
The New York Admiral’s Scott Hunter primary name attached to potential MLH doping scandal
K: I’ve just seen the news
K: Honey are you ok?
K: Call me please I just need to know that you’re alright
K:...
K: Scott?