Work Text:
“And in less than one minute, ladies and gentlemen, the New York Admirals will have done what they set out to do, finally bringing the cup back to New York!”
“I have to say, I’m surprised,” said Dallas Kent. “I didn’t think these fuckers had it in them, especially after Zullo got cut.”
Dallas was sprawled out on the couch in the games room at his mansion. His legs were spread wide, forcing the two women he had under each arm to squeeze into what area was left.
He looked expectantly to his right.
“No, me neither,” Troy Barrett hastened to say. “Hunter’s been playing like shit for almost the whole year.”
Troy could admit he’d never expected Scott Hunter to have such a turnaround in his playing. Back in January, when the Toronto Guardians last faced the Admirals, Dallas had taunted Hunter about how he couldn’t score on or off the ice, and Troy had laughed.
Six months later, the Guardians had been knocked out of the playoffs in the second round, losing to fucking New Jersey of all teams, and Scott Hunter was leading the Admirals to a Stanley Cup win.
The roar on the TV got louder, as did the roars of dissent around the room. A few other Guardians players had shown up to watch the final at Dallas’ mansion, along with the swarm of young women that seemed to permanently live there.
“Fifteen seconds remaining, the puck is in the Admirals’ end. Marlow holds it behind the net. Ten seconds remaining as Marlow passes it to Hassen, Hassen to Connors, they’re running out the clock. The New York crowd is on its feet! They can’t believe it!”
Troy couldn’t believe it either. Why the fuck did half the Admirals and the Bears share the same last names? It was weird.
New York Connors did a few crosscuts around centre ice with the puck, which was more celebratory than anything, before the buzzer sounded.
Sparse claps came from around the room, but most of the cheers that erupted were from the TV. The New York crowd was elated, as were the Admirals, who begun tossing their helmets and gloves aside to celebrate.
“That’ll be us next year, right guys?” said Dallas.
“Yeah!” chorused the room.
“You know,” Dallas continued, “last time Toronto took home the cup, I scored a goal in the last two minutes of the game with an assist from—” Dallas sloshed his beer on the girl in his right arm as he gestured at Troy— “this guy right here!”
“Woo!” A few of his teammates whistled and hollered. Troy grinned at the praise and puffed out his chest. One good thing with being best friends with the team’s star centre was all the attention it got you. Troy was a great player in his own right, but it was thanks to Dallas that half the hockey world practically worshipped them.
As Dallas continued making plans for next season, Troy turned back to the TV. His interest in the game had fizzled when it became clear the Admirals were going to win, but it was nice to sit back and imagine the Guardians in their place.
Carter Vaughn was beaming, cup hoisted high, brown eyes alight with joy.
He looks good, Troy thought. I wonder what he…
What? Get it together, Troy. He cut off that thought before it could go any further.
I mean, I wonder what I will look like next year with the cup in my hands. That’s what I was thinking.
The families of the players were coming onto the ice now. The Admirals rushed to hug their kids and sweep their WAGs up in jubilant kisses.
Troy tried to picture himself there on the ice. He’d be skating with the cup above his head, like Vaughn, and then he’d see the love of his life standing there, waiting to share the best moment of Troy’s life. And the cup would be passed aside, to another teammate, and Troy would skate over. They would only have eyes for each other. Arms would wrap around his neck, fingers would thread into his hair, the scent of apples would fill the air, he’d feel the scratch of a beard as their lips met…
“What is Hunter doing?”
Troy startled out of his fantasy.
Fuck. He shook his head, as if trying to physically rid himself of those thoughts. I’m not…
Nope, don’t go there. Don’t even say the words.
Troy blinked and looked back up to the TV. Someone from the stands was making their way down to the rink.
“Is it a fan?” asked the announcer.
“No shot Hunter has actual fans,” joked Dallas. No one laughed.
In fact, everyone seemed just as dumbfounded as Troy felt in that moment. He sat up straighter, eyes rapt on the scene playing out in front of him.
Scott Hunter pulled the fan onto ice. They only had eyes for each other.
Troy’s heartbeat pounded in his head. Hunter’s not…
Hunter was.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Was Troy then, too?
Troy could only sit there, motionless, as he watched Scott Hunter kiss a man on live TV.
The air left his lungs. His face burned, and it felt like his mask was melting off. Without it, everyone would know the horrible, awful truth about Troy Barrett. Everyone including Dallas Kent.
Troy stole a glance at his best friend. Dallas’ mouth was twisted into an expression of utter disgust, eyebrows heavy with contempt.
Various boos and jeers came from around the room, creating an incongruent cacophony with the woos and cheers in New York.
Dallas hurled a few slurs at Hunter, then complained that he was ruining hockey. “I bet he’ll be kicked out of the league. And by some chance, if he isn’t, we’re going to give him hell next season, right?”
He looked expectantly to his right.
“Right,” said Troy. “What a pathetic fucking queer.”
It didn’t really feel like he was talking about Hunter.