Rotten Work (Not If It's You)
Request: Yes or No
Summary: Scott Hunter and (Y/N) (L/N) were inseparable since their youth, but when a freak accident changes the trajectory of (Y/N)'s life, Scott's determined to be the the crutch he needs.
Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader
CW/TW: Typical HR warnings, hockey inaccuracies, future mentions/implied alcoholism and depression, codependency to the MAX, a very complicated (Y/N)
Taglist: @addcited2urtouch @ilocuras24 @literallynoclu3 @universallyangelqueen @arth33 @fromzeroo @maialopez23 @chauchirem @haeden03 @colorful48 @lalalaloopsysblog @prisciliamunoz @upandcomingcryptid @argentumetaurum @afroslacks @cassandra-reborn-anew @artis-artie @r2d24 @fandommaniac02 @sealteambravo @blightmaree @noisybiscuitmuffinslime @deadgirldollie @spiderman-iscool @nijiromurakamiwife @moonyswritinq @sevenmillionpsychos @st4pley0ur3y3s @enhastqr @screamforstark @nanaologyy @sstrangerthanparadise @hailingtides @fiercetigerpoison @l3v1us @alyssasblogthings @purplepalaceneckstatesman @pinkyvampires @thinkingaboutnameistodifficult @kheurwen @wq-14 @coca-cola-brainstorm @miya-111 @iwannaseesome @lovingcherrysstuff @nisssssssshhhhhaaaa @darqiezz @dima8124 @sixthcornchip @marvelfangirl04
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2014, Las Vegas, NHL Awards for 2013-2014 Season
The NHL Awards served as one of the few times different players across the league were able to come together for a night without the pressure of rivalries and having to win amongst them.
The event often marked the end of the on-season, a time where players could finally relax and allow themselves to indulge in drinks and meals they would've otherwise avoided in order to remain at their peak physical form for the games.
Scott watched, a little amused smile toying at his lips, as Carter's eyes slid shut with contentment after placing a mini strawberry cheesecake slice on his tongue and biting down on it.
He chewed slowly, truly savoring it as if he hadn't had anything sweet in years, when Scott distinctly remembered him munching on some chocolates he'd bought for the aspiring actress he'd been secretly seeing just a few weeks back.
"Relax, man."
Scott laughed brightly, his brows lifting slightly when Carter shoved another one in his mouth, crumbs of the crust coating his bottom lip in dark specks.
Carter smacked his mouth at him obnoxiously in response. Greg stared at him, his mouth drawn in an unimpressed line, but he followed it up with an affectionate roll of his eyes and a sip of his champagne.
"The food isn't going anywhere, I promise."
"Dude, I'm starving," Carter said, thankfully after his mini mouthful of the creamy vanilla dessert lathered in syrup-covered strawberry cuts, before he washed it all down with half of his champagne. "They barely feed us at these things." He pointed out, swiftly taking a skewer with grilled shrimp from the tray of a passing server, shooting them a quick, gracious smile when they glanced back.
"Uh-huh." Greg licked his lips, shaking his head again. "Your stomach's a bottomless pit, Carter."
Scott snickered into his champagne cup and took a sip, a green apple flavor dancing over his taste buds as he set the glass down on the table. "He's right, Huff. You can't come to these award shows without a full stomach. We've all learned that the hard way." He finished his sentence with a nostalgic, heavy sigh.
He distinctly remembered how light-headed he felt from hunger during his first awards show, and how he'd stuffed his mouth with half of the salami, diced cheese, and crackers on the charcuterie board he'd planted himself beside. It'd been embarrassing, but other rookies had wound up doing the same.
The BleauLive Theater was most commonly used for A-list musicians performing concerts or comedians performing stand-up specials, meaning that, at most, there was really only bottle service provided.
There was some catering, but it focused more on light, on-the-go type of meals: skewers, mini desserts, fruit slices, charcuterie boards. Things you could grab and eat as you walked around.
Half, if not all, of the guys who left early would often stop to grab cheap, filling food on the way back to their hotels, or they'd grab an overly priced meal while exploring Las Vegas's iconic nightlife.
Scott had long grown disinterested in walking around Las Vegas until his legs ached or until whoever he was with wasted half their bank account on girls or casinos. Nowadays, he preferred mingling for an hour or two at the theater and then heading back to his hotel room for a good night's rest.
"Ah, yeah," Greg chuckled agreeably. "Pretty sure our two rookies already left for Raising Cane's, the poor fellas. They're probably stuffing the Caniac Combo and soda down their throats as we speak."
"Ugh," Carter groaned, slipping a shrimp from the skewer. "Don't say that. I could go for a chicken sandwich right about now."
"You should know better, Carter." Scott tsked playfully, giving a playful, disappointed shake of his head. "You can't eat light before coming here."
Carter bit into the shrimp and chewed, humming pleasantly at the taste. "Better to eat light than have to excuse myself to the bathroom every five minutes. This is Coach McCoy's seventh trip to the bathroom."
Carter jerked his head in the direction of the fifty-year-old head coach for Tampa Bay, and Scott snorted, peeking over his shoulder to search for that familiar sunburnt bald head of his.
He swept his eyes through the crowd, sorting through the familiar and unfamiliar faces present, until his gaze locked on one that made his breath hitch.
His body turned completely, blinking a few times to ensure his mind wasn't pulling tricks on him. Jesus. Was it really...
"You alright- Holy shit! (L/N)!"
(Y/N) approached them with his coat thrown over his arm and a glass of champagne in his free hand, which he proceeded to down and then take another one from a passing server.
He licked his lips, setting the new cup on their high-top table and flashing them that familiar, signature grin that could cut through steel.
"What's up, assholes?" He greeted, his voice a hint raspy, undoubtedly from taking a smoke break before gracing them with his presence.
Blindly setting the skewer down and staining the tablecloth in the process with the juices from the shrimp, Carter rounded the table and slung his arms around (Y/N) to pull him in a tight embrace. (Y/N) stumbled back, and Scott's eyes darted downward, watching with a wince as (Y/N) swiftly put his weight onto his right leg.
Scott's hand shot out, hovering over (Y/N)'s back, just in case his body betrayed him and he'd be able to catch them before they toppled down on the floor in front of all their colleagues.
"Oh, shit-"
Carter scrambled back, his hand cupping (Y/N)'s elbow and grimacing apologetically. (Y/N) let out a breathy laugh, his elbow bumping into Scott's arm a tad roughly when his fingers grazed (Y/N)'s back.
Scott decided he was imagining things, that (Y/N) had accidentally used too much force, and dropped his arm back to his side, keeping his eyes on (Y/N)'s legs until he steadied himself again.
Scott noted he kept his weight on that right leg, easing pressure off the other one. He tried not to think about the reason why, for the sake of keeping everything he'd drunk and eaten in his stomach.
"Sorry, man, I totally blanked." Carter apologized hurriedly, his lips in a small, apologetic pout, but (Y/N) waved him off.
"Shit happens, man. It wouldn't be the first time." He replied reassuringly, grabbing his champagne cup and filling his mouth with it.
He smacked his lips when he finished and braced his arms on the table, his eyes flickering between Greg and Carter with a small, growing grin. Scott pursed his lips, waiting a beat, and then made eye contact with Greg.
He wasn't imagining things. (Y/N) (L/N) was in one of his moods, the ones that always ended with Scott trying to puzzle together what'd upset him because passive aggressiveness was (Y/N)'s favorite hobby to indulge in.
"How's the wife, Huff? And that girl, Carter? What was her name? Grace?"
"Gloria!" Carter corrected with a gleeful smile, the skewer forgotten in favor of talking about his girlfriend. "Man, (Y/N), she's the best. She's hilarious and so talented. She's waiting to hear back about this popular doctor show on ABC. I can't tell you much because it might spoil the next season, but she might be playing a new main character on it if they liked her audition."
(Y/N) couldn't have looked more disinterested in Gloria Grey and her acting career with his closed-lipped smile and blank eyes, but they all knew how he operated. He'd look bored by whatever they were telling him, and then surprise them later by remembering exactly what they'd said word-for-word.
Scott stared at him, silently willing him to turn his head and meet his eyes, to finally talk to him. He hadn't seen him up close since... Scott's throat tightened, and his gaze fell onto the tablecloth, watching an orangey spot spread beneath the skewer.
Forget about it.
"Yeah? Good for her." (Y/N) reached over, picking up the skewer and sliding the last shrimp off it to pop it in his mouth. Carter gave a little sigh at his taken food and waved over a server so he could grab another one. "And you, Huff? Wife? Kids?"
"They're great, (L/N). Laura was asking about you the other day, actually." Greg answered, his features tight with mild concern that threatened to grow.
It'd been damn near a year of radio silence from (Y/N) (L/N), a year since Coach Murdock had tightly told them to stop badgering him with questions about their missing captain and assigned Scott as the new replacement, essentially telling them, without actually saying it, that their spitfire of a captain and left winger would no longer be on the team.
Murdock made it clear that (Y/N) was fine, but no longer residing in New York for the foreseeable future. The months of silence that followed had been an anxiety-inducing hell. Nobody knew where he'd gone off to, if he'd changed his number, or fuck, if he was even safe and recovering well.
Scott waited for (Y/N) to finally address him, but he only hummed and nodded, using the sharp end of the skewer as a toothpick before he straightened up, his head on a swivel to survey the room.
"Where's that Hollander kid? I heard he presented an award with Rozanov. I hope he shits a brick when he sees me, fuckin' pain in the ass he was."
"You're not going to ask what I've been up to?" Scott asked, his fingertip rubbing over the base of his champagne glass, his head lifting toward him. He kept his voice light and easy-going, hoping the scratchy feeling in the back of his throat hadn't been noticeable in his tone.
"I'm sure you're doing peachy, Hunter."
(Y/N) finger tapped on the table, his jaw clenching and unclenching before his eyes met Scott's. Scott's head dipped immediately to avoid gazing into their coldness. If he had a tail, it would've tucked between his legs.
"You're always fucking peachy, aren't you?"
"Let's, uh," Carter let out an awkward laugh, his arm wrapping around (Y/N)'s shoulder and rubbing his bicep with his palm. "Let's go meet up with the other guys, yeah? They'll be happy to see you." He told him, guiding (Y/N) away from the table before things could escalate.
Scott stared at the tablecloth, his teeth grinding together at the clawing sensation creeping up his back. "He hates me." He muttered, taking in a breath and holding it until the heaviness in his chest and stinging pressure in his eyes subsided. He shook his head lightly. "He hates me."
Greg sucked his teeth. "(L/N) doesn't hate you, Scott. You know him. He has a bad temper, but he never means what he says at the end of the day. He's probably overwhelmed and taking it out on you, alright?"
"No, no... He was my best friend, and I let him down, Huff. He has every damn right to hate me right now."
Scott doubted (Y/N) would manage to be fully at ease at the NHL Awards after what'd happened, but Greg was right. Scott knew him. Probably knew him better than he knew himself. He'd been around (Y/N) enough to read him like a book, and (Y/N)'s energy had been full of restrained anger.
"It wasn't your fault." Greg reminded him sternly, his brows lifting at him almost scoldingly. "It wasn't Philadelphia's fault, either. Hell, it wasn't Zullo's fault. You never know what's going to happen out on that ice."
"They never do reruns of that game for a reason, Huff. It was- it was-"
Scott clamped his mouth shut and took a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as the memories flooded in unwillingly.
The shouts and insults thrown from both teams, the gloved fists that went flying, the way everyone flew in to get a blind hit in on the opposing team. The grunt from (Y/N) when he fell on the ice from a shove, and then the yelped, pained curse that came afterward when sharp metal tore through fabric and skin.
He'd seen specks and droplets of blood before on the ice from busted lips or loosened teeth. He'd never seen smears of it spread over the ice, seeping through the lines their skates left behind to form morbid, deep crimson designs.
Not until that day.
Injuries in hockey were a common occurrence, to the point that it was usual for most players to leave the ice with bruises from getting body checked. He'd seen plenty of injuries throughout his career: sprained ankles, bruised or fractured bones, concussions, broken teeth, muscle tears. Hockey wasn't a sport for the weak.
But what had happened to (Y/N) had been a rare, freak accident that could've been avoided had Frank Zullo kept his mouth shut and not gone after the Philadelphia team's goalie.
Everyone had been shaken up afterwards, and in a surprising moment of empathy from the league, they were allowed to reschedule the game to give everyone time to process and get their groove back... and to give the arena staff time to clean up the mess.
The Admirals, as expected after witnessing such a gnarly injury from one of their own, lost, leading Philadelphia to continue into the playoffs against the Montreal Metros. NYC had been sympathetic and understanding when they returned home, directing their outrage and disappointment at Philadelphia instead, letting them decompress and assess things without an onslaught of internet hate.
"I know," Greg murmured grimly, his body trembling with a shudder and nose crinkling with a cringe. "It was rough for all of us."
Scott's eyes squeezed shut, exhaling heavily through his nose, because no, nobody on the team understood how he felt.
They'd never understand because most of them were happily straight and never went through the agony of being in love with someone out of reach, of being in love with someone who'd disappeared with the wind.
You don't get it, Greg, you don't.
"Yeah," Scott sighed. "I know."
2013, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Seven Hours Before The Accident
"I told you it was a bad idea to drink at the airport."
"Shut the fuck up, Hunter."
Scott threw his head back with a laugh, his shoulders shaking and eyes crinkling at (Y/N)'s muffled response, the added image of him sprawled out starfish on his bed with his face buried in the mattress only making him double over with more laughter. His laughter devolved into coughing and hacking, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
(Y/N) raised his head and pushed his face into the palms of his hands, his mouth parting to let out a low groan. "If you're going to die, die in the hallway. I do not want to deal with you choking to death while my brain feels like it got put through a damn shredder." He muttered grumpily, tilting his head downward slightly so the heels of his palms were digging into his eyes.
Scott managed to catch his breath and clear his throat, his legs swinging over the side of his bed to approach (Y/N). The mattress creaked beneath his weight as he climbed into the bed and leaned forward to drag his hand back and forth over (Y/N)'s spine, his heart fluttering when (Y/N) slumped over his thigh in response.
"I'm dying," (Y/N) whined, his arms curling around Scott's knee, clinging onto it like a child. His lips jutted out in a pout, his cheek smushing against the rough fabric of Scott's jeans. "Hunterrr, I'm dying. My brain is giving out on me. My body hates me."
"You're fine."
Scott laughed wheezily, bringing his fist to his mouth to cough again. He dug his fingers into (Y/N)'s back and ran them down his spine, his mouth forming an amused grin at the way (Y/N) hummed pleasurably and slightly arched his back like a cat.
"Do you want some Advil and a massage, you big baby?"
(Y/N) grinned, his head lifting off Scott's thigh, magically looking perfectly fine. "Yes."
With a roll of his eyes, Scott slipped out of the bed and approached his luggage, unzipping one of the front pockets to take out his small bottle of Advil. He grabbed a water bottle from his backpack and returned to (Y/N)'s side, waiting for him to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside before offering him two pills and the bottle.
Scott's eyes drifted away from (Y/N)'s face and down to his shoulders, gazing over the newly exposed skin. They lingered on the glimmer of the silver snowflake necklace around (Y/N)'s neck, the one Scott had given him for his nineteenth birthday as a congratulatory gift for his first year as a pro hockey player.
(Y/N) had gone on to become Rookie of the Year and decided then that he'd never go anywhere without his necklace, without his lucky charm.
When Scott's draft season came along, (Y/N) returned the gesture by giving him a gold necklace with a sun pendant at the end. Scott managed to get drafted to the same team as (Y/N) and made him a similar promise of never taking it off when that Rookie of the Year award was given to him, too.
His eyes moved lower, down to (Y/N)'s exposed chest and stomach, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. After knowing (Y/N) (L/N) for nearly eleven years, the sight of his naked body was nothing new.
He'd seen him shirtless, pantless, and otherwise completely nude plenty of times before, but it never ceased to make his neck warm with heat in a way that never happened with the rest of the guys... in a way that never happened with anyone else.
The consequences of having a crush on your childhood best friend and hockey captain... the consequences of constantly being around your first love.
"Ready?" Scott asked in a strained voice, taking a swing of the bottle after (Y/N) swallowed the pills in hopes of easing the tightness in his throat. The water ran down his throat, soothing it lightly, and he used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. "Move." He tapped (Y/N)'s shoulder twice.
(Y/N) flopped onto his stomach and stretched out across the bed, propping his chin over his arms and making his back ripple with the movement.
Scott's jeans strained against his thighs when he kneeled on the bed and straddled (Y/N)'s lower hips, keeping his weight on his knees to avoid settling over (Y/N)'s ass and having his body betray him.
His hands dipped, his fingers digging into (Y/N)'s shoulders first, working on the tension and knots there with practiced experience from all the other times he'd given (Y/N) free massages to cease his whining. (Y/N) hummed pleasantly, his lips forming a grin that'd put the Cheshire Cat to shame, overly pleased with himself and the situation.
The other Admirals liked to tease that he was (Y/N)'s puppy dog, that (Y/N) could tell him to jump and Scott would ask how high because Scott rarely ever questioned him. Scott found it embarrassing... because it was true.
He'd been following (Y/N) around since their youth, ever since Scott billeted with his family at fourteen and was allowed to stay with them until college.
"Enjoying yourself?" Scott asked teasingly, rubbing his thumbs in circular motions over his shoulder blades, his skin warming at the quiet moan he received in response. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. "You're not as tense as last time." He mentioned, clearing his throat after.
"I've got a good massage therapist," (Y/N) muttered, peering over his shoulder at him with half-lidded eyes and an impish grin. "He doesn't charge a dime, that dumb sucker."
Lowering his hands, Scott hooked his fingers in the belt loops of (Y/N)'s jeans and tugged on them suddenly, eliciting a yelp from him when he rocked forward.
(Y/N) swatted at his hands with a groan, his lips twisting into a pout that Scott snickered at. He rolled off him and plopped down on the bed again, his snickering turning into laughter when (Y/N)'s hand slipped beneath his pants.
"You gave me a wedgie, you dick!"
His hips rose off the bed in his attempt to readjust his underwear, before he gave up and rolled over onto his back. Unbuttoning his jeans and tugging them down to his upper thighs, (Y/N) raised his hips again and got his underwear back into place with a little scowl.
Scott's laughter nearly grew stuck in his throat, his eyes focusing on the trail of hair dipping beneath the waistband of his underwear.
Goddamit, think about something other than your best friend. Hockey, puck, helmet, shoulder pads, gloves, elbow pads, breezers, mouth guards, neck guard-
"What're you thinking about so hard, Scotty?" (Y/N) interrupted his mental recitation of hockey equipment, his scowl replaced with a lazy smile. His arm flopped to the side and landed over Scott's lap, his fingers curling to dig lightly into Scott's thigh.
"Uh, the game tonight." Scott gave what he hoped came off as a casual shrug. "Philly always puts up a decent fight. I'm hoping we beat 'em and grab some burgers after."
(Y/N) barked out a laugh. "They haven't won a Cup since the mid-70s, Scott. That's longer than us, remember? They put up a normal fight, not a 'decent' one. They're below-average players with an average coach at best."
He reached down, patting blindly for his shirt until his fingers reached it and he tugged it toward himself.
"We got this. It's going to be an easy win, watch. You should worry about Montreal."
Scott grunted, resisting the urge to sigh. The Montreal Metros were good, always had been, but they'd made their best player, Shane Hollander, team captain, and the energy felt different. It was focused, determined.
"They're going against Boston soon. We'll see who wins that game and find out who's going to kick our ass if we win tonight."
"Since when are you such a fucking pessimist, Hunter?" (Y/N) poked him hard in the side and dragged himself up into a slouch that would've earned him a scolding from his mother about posture if she were around. "You're supposed to be the optimist between the two of us."
"Says the captain of our team." Scott smiled.
Despite his flaws and glaring anger-management issues, (Y/N) (L/N) proved himself a competent captain. Where others went the route of overly optimistic to the point of lying or becoming stricter than the coach, (Y/N) chose tough love.
It was ego-bruising at times, his words harsh enough that some rookies flinched when he spoke to them, but it was necessary to get them to play better. They needed to be reminded they weren't the best of the best until they had proof.
He admired (Y/N) for that, though he'd hardly call him the country's best captain. He had tough enough skin to take the snarky comments muttered behind his back by those he scolded, but he lacked the maturity to walk away from arguments without getting the last word in.
That was where Scott came in, defusing situations as assistant captain and mentioning the upsides of situations to help ease tensions.
"My job is to make sure these knuckleheads make good plays." (Y/N) pointed at himself with his thumb and then thrusted a finger in Scott's direction. "Your job is to keep them from crying themselves to sleep at night when they can't shoot straight."
"That's actually your job. You're supposed to help team morale as captain, which means keeping them from crying themselves to sleep at night." Scott corrected, chuckling softly at the dramatic, over-the-top eyeroll (Y/N) reacted with. "I'm supposed to back up whatever you say and act as captain when you're not there."
"So, we basically have the same responsibilities, smartass."
The bed creaked beneath (Y/N)'s movements when he got onto his knees after adjusting his pants, and Scott's hands raised immediately. Their palms made a loud slap! sound they collided, a soft stinging sensation spreading through Scott's hands briefly.
"What's your point?"
"I don't have a point." Scott laughed, his arms beginning to tremble beneath the weight (Y/N) put into his hands as they began an impromptu wrestling match. (Y/N) spread his knees out a little further for better balance, his fingers lacing with Scott's for a nicer grip. "I'm just saying, you also have to be more optimistic."
"Then, you actually have a point, idiot."
Scott's legs shifted beneath him, and he lunged forward, using (Y/N)'s position to knock him off balance onto his back. Their hands untangled in an effort to catch their bodies, but just as swiftly lifted off the mattress to collide again.
Scott attempted to pin (Y/N)'s hands down on the bed, but (Y/N) put up a good fight, wriggling himself free a few times and attempting to coil his arm around Scott's neck to switch positions.
Eventually, (Y/N) dug his elbow into the bed and wrapped his legs around Scott's waist, and out the door when Scott's focus at winning. With some mild effort, (Y/N) rolled them over and took Scott's wrists into his hands, pinning them down and laughing in smug victory.
His necklace dangled in front of Scott's face, catching and glittering in the sunlight coming in through the window.
"You're insufferable," Scott muttered lamely, his cheeks undoubtedly dusted with pink.
"All I do is win, Scotty boy."
(Y/N) leaned back, his necklace resting over his collarbone, and he sat on Scott's lower stomach and (thankfully) avoided his lap. Scott wished he'd worn some looser pants rather than jeans that made everything feel tighter.
"You should try it sometime." He winked down at him.
"Oh, screw you, (Y/N)!" Scott huffed out a laugh and reached up to lightly shove at his shoulder. "I'm always doing assists for you! You get half of your goals because of me."
(Y/N)'s stomach flexed with his laugh, and he leaned further back, his hands coming to rest over Scott's propped-up knees. Scott tried his best not to think about the position they were in and internally cursed (Y/N) when he rolled his head back, his chest rising and falling with the exhales of energy well-spent. His jeans were still popped open, leaving his underwear visible.
Mercifully, (Y/N) toppled forward over him, a grunt escaping Scott's chest, but he was glad to have the view out of sight. His arms weakly wrapped around (Y/N)'s waist, the heels of his palm dragging up and down his spine, savoring the feel of his bare skin. (Y/N) raised his head and peered down at him, his fingers pinching the sun pendant against the snowflake one.
He liked doing it before games or before anything important, rubbing them together for a few seconds as if sharing luck or skill through their necklaces.
Their little ritual, their own routine that no one else knew about except for them. Warm spread over Scott's chest, his cheeks beginning to hurt from how much he'd smiled and laughed.
(Y/N) released their necklaces, but the dendrites of the snowflake hooked with the sun's rays, keeping them locked together. He hummed quietly. "Guess we're stuck together 'til the bitter end, Scotty." He cooed, his finger running over Scott's brow. Scott almost purred.
"Mhm." Scott smiled bashfully. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
