be curious

and then ilya calls, has the "i'm coming to the cottage"

and shane is ??? "what cottage?"

*audible eyeroll* "scott hunter's cottage to third this new boyfriend he apparently has. YOUR cottage, hollander."

"you want to come to my cottage?" *over the moon because oh MAN even better!! ilya wants to see him so much he's ASKING!! what a score!!*

"?? you have taken another hit to the head or what? yes, hollander, can i come to your cottage this summer?"

"yeah. that would be great. oh man, we're going to have so much fun." *literally vibrating in place with joy*

and it is great! but they are also both operating under the idea that the OTHER person was the one bold enough to make this happen, which does make them very lovey dovey even faster than canon because they're both going "YOU were the one bold enough to make this happen," but they're being smushy and gross and cuddly one night after sex, and ilya just *soft smile and brushing a thumb over shane's cheek* "i'm glad you asked me to come"

and shane is still soft and warm and cozy but ?? "what?"

"i'm glad you asked me to come to your cottage."

"??? um?? no i didn't?"

*minor heart attack but also maybe?? this is a joke??* "yes, you did? in the hospital, you asked me to come."

it’s okay, though, truly — brandon doesn’t mind the somewhat slower pace that comes with the new role, doesn’t even mind the glacial pace that comes with the new perspective. right now, he’s an assistant coach for a team that’s decently good, a team that doesn’t really need his feedback but takes it with only a bit of eye rolling, a team that knows not to say vile shit in front of him even if they’re saying it everywhere else.

it’s… enough.

still, he’s got his sights on something better, something stronger, something worth working for, and he’s keen and sharp and strategic, so he watches the cup finals with an eye toward who these two teams are going to throw away when the season is over. which guys are good but not good enough? which guys have everything to give but no space to give it right now?

brandon thinks he’s pretty good at seeing the seams at which teams coming together and fall apart; if he could, he’d take out a needle and sew it all up.

a few months ago, he’d have said that scott hunter was a loose thread in the admirals’ line-up, but he’s glad to be proven wrong. there’s something about the way he plays that brandon has always admired — fierce, angry, focused. as if he’s running from something almost as hard as he’s rushing.

brandon doesn’t understand, but he supposes he doesn’t need to. he adjusts the baby in his arms and lays his head against his wife’s shoulder.

steph’s already got a sleepy toddler curled up on her lap, but she shifts to accommodate his touch anyway, her smile soft and warm. anyone for the dream team? she asks, tilting her head toward the screen.

it’s a game they play sometimes, when they watch hockey and talk about hockey and think about hockey which — well, it tends to be all the time. stephanie is a physical therapist, and though she mostly works with elderly patients, she’s been on and off with brandon since they were practically kids, fumbling around behind the bleachers in her cheerleading uniform, so she knows hockey, knows it like he does, deep in her soul, and she knows that in the back of his mind, he’s always thinking about which two dozen men might be able to build hockey into something that hurts the people who love it just a little less.

brandon stares at the screen, watches the goalie deflect a shot like it’s nothing.

no, he says after a moment. or — well. hunter, of course. but they’ll never let him go.

steph scoffs. that’s why it’s a dream team, babe. you think boston and montreal are getting rid of rozanov and hollander any time soon? though, she adds, your dream team is pretty heavy on centers. maybe you should steal a goalie

he disagrees. rozanov and hollander won’t make it past training camp without killing each other. hunter is our only true hope.

steph laughs at this and it’s his favorite sound, so brandon can’t help but laugh along, which wakes the children who thankfully only grumble and snort themselves back to sleep with a few gentle pats on the back.

really, though. no goalies? steph asks once they’re settled again, her tone kind but just inquisitive enough. it’s not really fair of her, brandon thinks. she knows, obviously, about eric bennett. she’s never cared and at this point, he doesn’t think she ever will. he fucking loves her and she loves him, so they’re good there, good enough that apparently she can chirp him about the one who got away. you do need a goalie. and he’s damn good.

he doesn’t reply anything for a moment. it’s dumb, he thinks, to have that twisting gut feeling over something that happened nearly two decades ago, to feel that pang of hurt again when he’s happier than he’s ever been, to wonder about what might have been if hockey had been kinder when he was young.

it’s just a stupid dream team.

he’s too old, he says eventually with a nonchalant shrug. it’s true — eric is only a few months older than him, and while he may be young for a coach, he’s not exactly in his prime for playing hockey. by the time i get the chance, he’ll retire.

the game ends.

scott hunter kisses a man on the tv.

nothing really changes, but everything shifts.

(he’s good at hockey, he thinks — not first-round draft pick good, of course, but good enough to be noticed by some scouts, good enough to maybe play for some franchise’s farm team — but it’s nice to feel this boy sigh into the kiss and think oh, maybe i can be good at this too)

this isn’t his first time, brandon makes sure to say when he finally manages to tear himself away from the quarterback, one hand braced against a sculpted bicep and the other against a smooth chest. kissing, i mean, he says, cheeks turning hot. or — or other stuff.

it’s true and it’s not, in a way, because brandon has done this before and more — he had a girlfriend freshman year, and his prom date had blushed taking the condoms out of her purse — but never with a guy.

the quarterback shrugs. same, he says, casual, like this is nothing of substance, nothing that matters, even though the ground is going out from beneath brandon’s feet and he can’t help but wonder if the butterflies in his stomach mean he’s gay.

he’s not, he doesn’t think. after the summer is over, he goes back to his billet family and his hockey team and his high school, and the girls there like to flirt and he definitely likes to flirt back, and when a cheerleader takes him behind the bleachers after homecoming, he’s not thinking about if the quarterback from back home is doing the same thing with a girl of his own

(at least, he admits, he’s not thinking about it until later, once he’s spent and sleepy and content)

(he keeps in touch with the cheerleader when she goes to college and he goes to the ahl, exchanging emails and letters and phone calls when they had they had the time, and she tells him about the word bisexual, because that’s what she thinks she is, and he thinks oh because maybe he is, too. it’s not quite earth-shattering, but it makes him feel light and free in a way that he doesn’t feel again until he marries her so many years later)

the second time brandon kisses a boy, he’s twenty-two and drunk again, twenty-two and nervous, twenty-two and love-struck, twenty-two and wondering what it might be like to kiss a boy without alcohol burning through his inhibitions.

eric is sweet to him, shy and quiet and better at hockey than brandon thinks he’ll ever be. it’s silly to think like that, maybe — they’re both playing for detroit, both perceptive and keen, but eric has this ability to basically repel pucks from the net and brandon… well, he’s okay at getting them in. his talents, he thinks secretly, lie in strategy, not execution.

Wiebe and Bennet first (or early) kiss, cannot be in a hotel room. Go Bea Go!

apologies, I’ve developed a very specific Style for this pairing and I’ll be sticking with it and also, I’m sorry, I cheated

the first time they kiss — really, actually kiss, the way it happens in a movie with soft lips and gentle sighs and hips pressed together with no sense of urgency — brandon’s got his back pressed against the ice machine and his shoulder digging into the vending machine and he can barely think over the buzz of the fluorescent lights above them but it doesn’t matter, because eric’s got a hand in his hair and the ice bucket is empty at their feet and god, something finally feels right.

they’d lost the game that afternoon, lost it bad, and the rest of the team had fucked off to a bar to drink away their sorrows, but brandon had brought whiskey and eric had brought that damned, charming smile, so they’re alone in the hotel and drunk at 8pm, and part of him thinks they should worry about getting caught, part of him wonders if getting ice was really a two-person job, but now he’s being kissed by a boy he likes almost in the open, hidden only by half-walls and appliances and luck.

we should head back, he manages to mumble when eric pulls away, the action almost hesitant, almost mournful. our room, he adds, the door still propped open only thirty feet away, the empty room waiting for them with room service and lukewarm jack daniel’s except that’s not where brandon wants to go

brandon wants to take eric to the bar with their teammates, he wants to take eric to dinner over candlelight, he wants to take eric into his bedroom in the apartment he shares with three other players, wants to take eric apart with his hands and his mouth and his tongue so he can extract every last bit of love from the alcohol they pretend they need to do this.

he can only have one of those things.