Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady, Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett

Additional Tags:

The mortifying ordeal of having to set a precedent, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Hopeful Ending, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-20 Words: 9,213 Chapters: 1/1

User Discretion is Advised

Summary

His throat felt thick and Scott coughed to hide the hitch in his breathing. "I’m not ashamed of who I am. I love Kip. I've won a Stanley Cup and made history as the first out MLH player. I think we could win the cup again this year, or at least make it through a couple rounds of the playoffs because our team is incredible. So fucking what I’m inconvenienced by showering last? It’s worth it."

--

Being first means being palatable. Scott can be palatable.

Notes

CW: Period typical homophobia. Dallas Kent and accompanying slurs advisory.

AU where Boston is actually in the same division as New York so the All Stars Game works out.

When he first came out after the Cup win, there were meetings. Meeting with his management, with team management, with the coaches only, with the league commissioner. The closer to Scott’s level, the kinder the response. Even the Admirals management was mostly accepting, which was more than Scott had really hoped for. He was glad he played for a team in New York and not one in the South. Dealing with the league had been markedly less pleasant. They only had one meeting, with a mostly neutral outcome, but it was more than enough to receive polite, stern emails reminding Scott of what he had agreed to in that meeting. That he would continue to practice discretion for all league events, ensuring that those who didn't agree with his life style choice were not required to engage with it.

Scott didn't know if that was grounds for a discrimination lawsuit, but he knew what the term discretion implied. He stayed on the ice a few minutes longer than nearly everyone else, ostensibly cleaning up cones and practicing his shots with Benny. Benny wouldn't care about showering with him, Scott knew, so it was better to wait, better to inconvenience himself to smooth the transition for the rest of the team. No one had done anything but be supportive when they won the cup or even at the various off-season events Kip attended.

But there was a difference. Scott wasn't naive. If there was potential to ease the transition, it was his job as Captain to take it. He could arrive early and be on the ice before the rest of the team showed up, already leaving the locker room before the first man showed up and stripped. He could stay late, entering the shower after everyone else was finished. While the rest of them talked about dates ending well, Scott refrained from mentioning Kip in contexts that were too gay, like the drag show Kip’s friend from undergrad was in. Scott was permitted to talk about the domesticity and peace he had found, and nothing more revealing than that would escape his mouth. He was grateful that he could even have this much, that he could finally have family in the family box, that Kip could come on double dates with Eric and Holly. It was enough. It was more than he’d ever even dreamed of before and it would have to be enough now.

Carter kept asking questions about Kip whenever a lull there was a lull. What’s his major in? Do you think he'd be interested in going with Gloria and I to the Met and give us a personal tour? What’s his family like? What're your plans for his birthday? When’s your anniversary? Does your man like Italian food because I made reservations for me and Gloria but her shoot got delayed and I don't have anyone else to go with?

Scott could see what Carter was doing, trying to make Scott more comfortable talking about his partner the way the others talked about their partners. Trying to make the others more comfortable with him talking about his partner. Them being okay with him in any context besides the shower didn't matter. Scott could handle this indignity so everyone else would be comfortable.

For weeks during pre-season training, after the cup win, Benny entertained staying late. Huff helped gather cones like he was an assistant. Carter challenged Scott to races like they were still on the correct side of thirty to entertain that. Scott let his cooldown on the treadmill last an extra ten minutes.

“Are you going to do this all season?” Benny asked, huffing as he unpinned the net.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Scott deflected. Guilt crept in that Benny was still in his gear fifteen minutes longer than he really had to be. Scott reminded himself that Benny didn't have to stay and was choosing this.

“Sure you don't. Fuck, man, I don't think anyone cares.”

“You don't know that.” Scott argued. For over a decade, the Admirals were the only family he had. He wasn't going to push them. It was enough that they included him and Kip in the outside-work activities. Scott didn't need everything to stay the same exactly the same. Doing this routine had maintained enough cohesion they’d won the Cup. This routine fulfilled the discretion requirement of the league.

“So you do know what I'm talking about?”

“Drop it.” Scott looked at the clock, and decided he had hung back long enough.

“Did someone say something to you? Are you going to hang out on the ice with Kent when we’re in Toronto? Or help clean up the opposing team’s rinks?” He removed his mask, “You can't do this forever.”

Scott looked at the clock and left.

§

“I don't know what to do about the locker room.”

Kip looked at him across the dinner table, lowering the fork in his hand. “Did something happen?”

“No. I've been so… proactive. Nothing has happened. I get there early, and I've been taking extra time with Benny or helping clear the ice after.” He already regretted mentioning it. He loved Kip. Kip wouldn't get it.

“So no one said anything? Have your pre-season scrimmages been going okay?”

“No. Yes. I don't know. Benny is annoyed I've been waiting until the rest of the guys are done.” Scott explained lamely. “I just… They were good last season. We won the Cup. I don't want to push too far and ruin everything.”

Kip regarded him sadly, and Scott wished he had just kept silent. He wasn't ashamed of Kip. He wasn’t. He just knew this was a major adjustment and they had already been so accommodating. “Is it so unlikely that they are all okay with you?”

Scott ate a forkful of rice. “Kind of. Not unlikely that they are still friends. Not that unlikely that they'd want to know you or know us. But that’s different.”

“How? You spent 13 years showering with them before. So what, they know you're gay now? It wasn't a problem for over a decade.”

“They didn't know before!”

“Are you planning on staring at their dicks now that you're publicly willing to admit you like men?”

Scott glared. “You know that I wouldn't. I only stare at your dick.” Kip gave him a small smile.

“Okay. So. I don't think you should worry about it.”

Scott knew it was irrational. But this had won them the Cup. This made accepting him easier. This made everyone happier. Scott rubbed his face harshly. He was getting upset over nothing, over a situation he had directly caused.

§

Coach Murdock shouted that practice was over, and Scott started his routine of meandering around the ice before unpinning the goal. Scott’s internal clock had perfected the 15 minute wait.

Three minutes passed, and Scott pulled the first pin. He focused on the goal, ignoring the other players around him. He was annoyed. Couldn't they just leave and shower and then let him do the same? He had plans this evening.

Ten minutes and he dragged the goal to the gate. No one else had left the ice. A couple were leaning against the boards near the benches. Others were leisurely skating and chatting.

Another ten minutes and Scott called it. The reservations for George’s birthday dinner weren't until seven, but it was already half past three, and he didn't want to risk being late and implying that his time was more valuable than his partner’s father.

He left the rink and didn't look at anyone while he shucked his gear and clothes. The room wasn't as bad as the showers, because there was always a cubby he could look into without appearing as anything but anti-social.

He ignored the commotion as everyone else followed him out, eyes unseeing as he entered the showers. Scott was quick, scrubbing himself roughly. The shampoo provided was scentless and caused his scalp to flare up, but he didn't have time to wash his hair again later because Kip was busy on campus until at least five thirty and one of them had to go pick up the gift that was finally ready at the bookstore on 42nd that closed at at six. He planned the timeline to get back to the city. He drove himself today, knowing the potential risk of running out of time.

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of hot water over his sore back. Scott sighed and shut the water off. He grabbed a towel, drying off the worst of his hair and body before wrapping it around his waist. Stepping into the main room, the tightness in his chest eased. The shower was newer territory, but no one had a problem with him getting dressed in the locker room.

“What're your plans for the rest of the day, Cap?” Stefanson asked.

Scott paused rifling through his bag and turned towards the defenseman, “Ah. Kip’s dad’s birthday is today, so I got us a reservation at this nice place near his apartment.”

“Oh! Is that why you wanted me to ask Julie for a recommendation for a Brooklyn restaurant?” Arvonen chimed in.

“Yeah. I went with the French place. I’ll let you know how it goes?” Scott was mostly dressed. He had cleared it with Murdock to leave immediately after practice today and instead come in early tomorrow to discuss how the team was functioning and any suggested line changes. Shoving the last of his dirtied clothing into his duffel, Scott hefted the bag over his shoulder.

 

§

Huff tried convincing him after the preseason away game against Detroit. “It’s weird, man, that you just sit all gross on the bench staring at the ceiling.”

Scott was so tired of justifying himself. He couldn't give anyone a reason to distrust him or give fuel for a complaint. The team’s cohesion on the ice continued from the Cup win into the next season, proving it wasn't just a fluke. He wasn't the reason the team would crumble. He couldn't be. If the Admirals fell apart after his coming out, it was all the league would need to effectively force gay men to stay in the closet.

“I don't want to talk about this.” And if he did want to talk about this, it was certainly not in a locker room in Detroit surrounded by the teammates who he was trying to accommodate. This wasn't a hardship, but saying anything would make it seem like it was, and if Scott had to hear a single comment, even in jest, about appreciating the view, he would throw up. Or cry. His teammate would probably lose at least one tooth and Scott would be suspended for at least a few games, if not fired entirely.

Kip was welcomed with open arms in every aspect befitting the serious significant other of a hockey player. They attended parties. He had been added to a group chat that Scott spent most of his career never caring about. They went out to restaurants. Kip held his hand in public. He could talk about the funny story that happened to Kip on campus yesterday with his own friends instead of locking up all his words inside.

Everything that mattered was better. Being disappointed it wasn't perfect seemed childish.

§

Scott knew the only locker room he had control over was the Admirals’ locker room. Before the Cup win, he had nightmares about the potential ramifications to his career if he was ever discovered. After the warm reaction of his own teammates and the polite avoidance or awkward overt acceptance of others at the MLH awards, he almost believed that he had blown the potential blowback out of proportion. It was 2017. If he was anyone but a professional athlete, no one would have cared.

He knew this, and yet it didn't fully register until the first game against Dallas, the sixth game in the season, that some teams didn't believe in nonacknowledgement. The chirps were no different than what Scott had experienced before, nothing offensive besides the accusations that he couldn't skate. It was embarrassing that Carter had to be the one to point it out.

“Scotty, they have it out for you.”

“What?” The Asteroids had always been a physical team. It was unusual that it was every play, maybe, but sometimes that was how a game went and there wasn't much to do about it except outlast them. He scanned the ice as the second line managed to land the puck in the net. Carter was interrupted by the cheers from the bench. They headed onto the ice for the shift change.

Between periods, in the hall to the locker room, Carter tried again. “I think our defensemen need to focus on you, even when you don't necessarily have the puck.”

Scott stopped walking and looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Vanhousen’s been focusing on you the entire game. Apeldorn isn't any better. Have they, y'know, said anything to you?” Carter continued walking. Scott followed.

“No. No one here has said a thing.” Scott reassured him. “The Asteroids have always been a physical team.”

“Yeah, towards all of us. But they're not physical to all of us. They're physical to you.” Carter spoke slowly.

Immediately, Scott felt stupid. If Carter had been pushed around as often as he had been so far, Scott would have been pushing for a new strategy, and not waiting for the inevitable injury. At least twice tonight, he thought Vanhousen would get a penalty for roughing, but it never happened. Scott had promised himself at the beginning of the season to not be difficult and make it look like he was demanding special treatment, but now it just made him willfully ignorant.

“Ah. Fuck.” Scott tried to think of a way to phrase this for the rest of the team for the mid-game pep-talk. It was lucky that they were already winning, and if their focus towards Scott never let up, the Asteroid would continue to flounder whenever the puck was in their possession.

The Admirals won 3-1. Scott didn't call Kip, texting him that it would be an early night due to an early flight in the morning. Now that they were properly together, he hoped Kip didn't feel obligated to watch every game and even if he did watch, that he wouldn't have noticed anything amiss.

§

The fight against Toronto wasn't Scott’s finest moment, but by all accounts Barrett and Kent were assholes, and even though Scott had started it, only Kent ended with a major penalty. Scott, Carter, and Barrett were relegated to minor penalties. The 2-1 win was only possible due to the power play after the fight, and Scott couldn't regret his actions. At least this time he had seen it coming from the first chirp.

Scott wanted to wipe this game off his mind. He didn't think he had ever heard so many vitriolic slurs directed at him in his life.

§

“Okay, who said something to you?” Carter demanded. He was sprawled out on the double bed, head angled to look towards Scott, absentmindedly flexing his bruised hands.

Scott glanced at him and briefly paused the channel surfing, confused. Carter had literally punched a man four hours ago over what he said. “I'm pretty sure everyone heard Kent say that the only reason a faggot like me was still in the MLH was due to getting on my knees for the entire team.” He continued scrolling through the guide on the hotel TV. God, Tuesday night television sucked.

“Fuck him. I should have knocked out his fucking teeth. I’m making no promises next game. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Who on our team said something to you? I've asked around and been obvious. Benny was subtle. Huff recruited Andersson to eavesdrop because no one watches their mouths around rookies. Jalo talked to the Europeans. None of us can figure out who said something to you.”

Scott was even more confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’ve withdrawn, man! The rest of us are happy to get off the ice after a win, get the nastiness that is Toronto out of our system, maybe go out and have a drink. You just sit in their locker room, dried blood on your face, just waiting, waiting, waiting until everyone else is cleaned off. So who the fuck on our team said something to you about being gay? Was it management? Fuck them. Who cares what they think? None of us have any problems with it. You shouldn't have to just sit there, alone.” Carter finished determinedly.

“No one had to tell me anything. I knew life would change. I'm happy to do it.” Scott reassured him, like a liar. “It’s really fine. The team is still working well together.”

“So you're doing this all on your own? When I was a rookie, Peters told me I would have to speak proper English like I didn't grow up in Hicksville, Minnesota and go to college for a year. You would never tolerate me being treated the way you are treating yourself.”

Scott felt like he was back at the dinner table with Kip, trying to explain why he was at a loss to someone who couldn't comprehend the type of people Scott spent nearly every day with for the last decade. He abandoned the TV, dropped the remote and rubbed his face.

“Two weeks ago, we had everyone stay on the ice until you caved and showered and talked with us after practice again. Like normal. Everyone agreed to participate except Tomasz, but his kid was sick and he said he would otherwise. I thought that would fix the issue, but you're back to square one!”

“You’re conspiring against me?” Scott felt stupid for not realizing then what was going on.

“Not against you, man, for you.”

“I didn't ask you to do that. I don't want you to do that.” Scott emphasized.

Carter groaned, annoyed. “You would never need to ask me to.”

§

Two nights later, after a rough loss against Winnipeg, Scott stared at the ceiling in the dark. Carter was restless in his bed.

“Before Kip, the people on this team were my only friends or family for over a decade. I was willing to do anything to keep that. Even now, my side is still just hockey. I'm still willing to do just about anything to keep them.” Scott said plainly. “Everyone who matters has been great about it, him, me. The team, team management, your families. Even most of the other teams we play haven't mentioned it or said something nice at the awards this summer or during a game. The reaction I've received is better than anything I ever really hoped for.”

“So what’s the problem?” Scott wanted to scream at how Carter wasn't getting it. He could understand Eric or Huff having difficulty relating, but not Carter.

“I've spent almost two decades thinking of how if I was ever honest about myself, I would be alone and worthless. After my parents, I was at a Catholic boarding school for hockey, during the tail end of the AIDS crisis. I worried that maybe I didn't know this team well enough, and if I came out I’d be accused of sexual harassment, when I’d never, ever consider doing that. I can't take back those years of being careful. I can keep being cautious, and never give anyone a reason to distrust me.” His throat felt thick and Scott coughed to hide the hitch in his breathing. “I’m not ashamed of who I am. I love Kip. I've won a Stanley Cup and made history as the first out MLH player. I think we could win the cup again this year, or at least make it through a couple rounds of the playoffs because our team is incredible. So fucking what I’m inconvenienced by showering last? It’s worth it.”

“You thought someone would accuse you of–” Carter sounded upset. Scott cut him off.

“When I was twenty-five, one of the veteran defenseman told me that his brother was a queer, and how disappointed he was that he’d lost the most reliable babysitter he’d ever had, because now his brother couldn't be trusted around his son.” Scott elaborated, “That summer was the first time I had gone to Ibiza and kissed a man, and then I had to agree that men like me were predators so he wouldn't get suspicious. So yeah, I worried. In August the league told me it was up to my discretion how I acted, and I’m doing that.

“Now Kip is part of the group chat with Holly and Allie, we go on actual dates, I can talk about him and bring him to events without pretending I'm actually with his friend who for some stupid reason got a plus one. Who gives a shit about a delayed shower when I can have that?”

Carter didn't say anything for a few minutes. Scott let the confession rest and wiped away the tears that escaped and trailed down his face at the admission and stared resolutely at the ceiling. “Okay. I didn't realize… Have I said things that made you feel like you couldn't tell me?”

Scott finally turned over to look at Carter, who looked worse than Scott felt. “I'm sure you've said things. I know you don't mean them like that. I don't think you've ever said anything terrible. I’ve said those things too, you know. And you've been vocal about Gloria’s brother, and at the Olympics, and you always insisted on the Pride jerseys. I knew you were fine with it.”

“I’m sorry. That you lived like that. That I made it harder, sometimes.”

“It’s fine.” Scott dismissed Carter’s self recrimination. “I was your captain most of the time we’ve been on a team together, and I could've said something about the language and didn’t.”

“I'm sorry I've been pushing you so much this season about the locker room, too.”

“You're trying to help. I can recognize that much even if it's not what I want.”

“Okay. I’ll tell the others to stop pressuring you. Have you considered talking to someone about it?”

Scott scoffed. “About what? Being gay? I've told the whole damn world about it.”

“Not about being gay. About being gay in MLH. This shit is heavy. I don't think you should be keeping it inside.”

“Isn't that what we just did? I don't need to tell some stranger.”

“Whatever, man. You know we, the whole team, love you, right?”

“I know. I love you all too.”

§

The second time Scott ran out of time to properly shower after an away game because of a media scrum, he decided it was worse for morale to be next to his grimey ass on the bus for an hour than to just suck it up and shower and potentially upset his teammates.

The first time Scott was able to explain away. The media room in Vancouver was closer to the home locker room, instead of between them like normal. The game in Seattle required a tight turnaround so they had half as much time as usual to get packed up and refreshed. Scott barely rinsed himself off before hearing the call from Murdock to get a move on and nearly put his suit pants on backwards in his haste.

The second was more pathetic and it was after a brutal loss to Denver, and the rest of the team took full advantage of the hot showers to mope. This time Scott barely got the under the spray, and from the look on Jalo’s face on the bus, it was far from enough.

Scott stopped trying to time it correctly. Circumstances mitigated that he wasn't able to use discretion. He kept the rationale at the forefront of his mind every time, dreading the commissioner stopping by the Admirals’ facility on a slow day to inform Scott that multiple people had reported him for things that would be impossible to defend.

§

Scott never dreaded the All Stars game in the way he did this year. Kip joined him in Miami, enjoying the last weekend before the semester started. All Stars meant that the second-tier players with chips on their shoulders weren't around, and that included the worst offenders from Dallas. The Guardians sent their usual dynamic duo, and Scott was grateful for the allotment that put them in the Atlantic division, away from him. Hollander could deal with their vulgarity. Hollander had to be used to it since some of the Metros weren't any better, chirping slurs whenever Scott skated by and where their captain couldn't hear. They never got physical about it, and compared to the full body bruise from the Dallas Asteroids, Scott considered it a good enough compromise.

Rozanov was elected the captain of their division’s team. After the awards the previous summer, he knew Rozanov wouldn't be difficult about Scott’s everything. The Latvian player in their division could be a problem. There was at least one other Russian player on their team. The Manitoban also hadn't said anything so far during the regular season, and the absence of good was the potential for something bad.

Rozanov said nothing the first day, when it was the social aspect, and that was all good enough for Scott. He could stand to not be called old every waking moment of the weekend.

They had practice the morning before the skills competition and a shorter one before the actual scrimmages. Kip stayed at the hotel, appreciating the warm sunshine before heading back to the snowy northeast.

Scott arrived early with Carter, determined to be the first one in the room and dressed before anyone could say anything. So far the league had been mostly willing to let the Admirals handle everything internally, but Scott could imagine the pressure if something happened between members of different teams. Scott didn't delude himself into thinking he would be the more sympathetic side.

He glanced at the door at every new entry before refocusing on Carter. Aronov looked at Scot and moved to his own stall. McMurray didn't even acknowledge him. They chose stalls far enough away that it was a little ridiculous. Scott didn't dwell on it. He consciously unclenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders.

Rozanov strode in and dropped his things without regard for the cacophony it created in the cubby next to Scott. Carter looked at Rozanov and back at Scott. He didn't know how to tell Carter that Rozanov wouldn't be difficult without telling him how he knew, so it was on the Russian to prove himself better than the rest of his countrymen.

Rozanov gave a short speech about team cohesion before all of them headed to the ice. Scott's passes connected, and his pucks sank into the net and that's all he ever really wanted anyway. Practice wound down and Scott started his usual routine of killing fifteen minutes before returning to shower. The Atlantic division was scheduled after them, and who knew how Hollander wanted to run things this year. If he wanted all twenty cones or if he preferred things like paint. The goals had to stay up, so eventually he just took off his helmet and talked to Carter about when Gloria’s plane landed and if they'd want to get dinner.

“Hunter, you are old and slow, but not this old and slow. Get off the ice and let’s go back to hotel.” Rozanov interrupted.

Scott looked at the clock, “Fuck off.”

“Does your Kip like you stinky like dog?” Rozanov wrinkled his nose in disgust, “Already I question his taste, but now?”

Scott pushed past the instinctive anger that rose at the mention of Kip. They were harmless chirps that really were only derogatory to Scott, and they were more tame than previous years. “Don't think any of our partners like us fresh from practice, Rozanov.”

“Speak for yourself.” Rozanov leered. Scott seethed that he couldn't say something about Hollander having bad taste the way Rozanov could about Kip. Not that Hollander would necessarily deserve it, but God there had to be better men in Canada than this asshole. He didn't have to settle for some guy from his rookie year for hook ups.

“Fucking gross, man.” Carter was obsessed with smelling nice and had a cologne collection that impressed Scott. Scott snorted.

The silence lasted for all of thirty seconds before Rozanov spoke again. “Okay, so what is problem? You stink. Shoo.” He gestured towards the tunnel to the locker rooms.

Two minutes thirty more and he gave the rest of them an adequate head start and then it wasn't his fault if they were in the showers with him. They couldn't whine to the rest of the league about Scott demanding to be around them when they were naked.

“Two more minutes.” Scott told him. “Don't let me keep you.”

Rozanov shucked his glove and lifted a hand to Scott’s forehead. Scott jerked back, but not soon enough. “Are you sick and confused? Two minutes what?”

Carter glanced at Scott before speaking, fucking traitor, “He waits fifteen minutes after practice so everyone else can clean up without him around.”

“Your team makes you do this? You win cup for dogshit team and they sit you in time out after every practice? Fuck.” Rozanov looked unhappy.

“I seem to remember my dogshit team beating Boston handily. What does that make you guys?” Scott sniped.

“Makes us injured and feeling generous to bad team to let them make history, like giving dog steak before putting to sleep. Fucking terrible team that treats you like this?”

“My team doesn't treat me like anything. No one is forcing me.” Scott gritted out. Fuck Carter and if weren't for the fact Kip liked Gloria, they absolutely would not be eating dinner together.

“So you are sad, little man by choice? Eugh. You are so old you need little blue pill, but let untalented stupid hockey players bully you? Stupid. Your two minutes are up. You will not be doing this tomorrow. Is bad for morale.” Rozanov announced. Carter was smiling. Scott felt murderous as he followed both of them back because he did want to shower. The fuck did Rozanov know about morale?

“Go fuck yourself.” Scott retorted, struggling for a better come back. He hated that Rozanov ushered him towards the lockers.

§

Scott always thought the worst part about Rozanov being a cocky asshole was that he had the skills to back up his behavior. Listening to Rozanov crow after winning against the Atlantic division didn't bother him as much as he thought it would, and Rozanov’s good mood was infectious. That good mood continued when the Pacific division lost two hours later, and Team Rozanov was the overall winner. The shorter halves and low stakes of an All Stars game reminded Scott of why he loved hockey in the first place.

He didn't argue at Rozanov’s pointed looks. He had plausible deniability since this wasn't his room. Scott was tired. Already the sweat from the first game dried while the Western conference did their game, and he wasn't upset at not having to wait for the fresh sweat to cool again.

Kip had looked so happy in the stands, cheering loudly with Gloria. Scott couldn't hold back an answering grin every time he spotted him. They still had one more night and then an early flight back tomorrow for a series of home games.

Carter and Scott were the first ones in the shower after the win, ready for the reservations they had at a Cuban restaurant Gloria was familiar with. There was plenty of time, but both of them wanted to go back to the hotel and change out of the post game suit into something that fit the Miami vibe better.

“She wants me to learn Spanish, and I've got a one hundred day streak with the owl, but I don't really think I’m making progress.” Carter somehow sounded both gung ho and disappointed.

“Have you considered going to actual classes? Or a tutor?” Kip might know someone who specialized in learning languages later in life, or another college student who needed a part time gig.

“With what time, man? We do five minutes of basic Spanish conversation every time we call each other, and I am way better now than three months ago, but she cried laughing when I said I was thirty two years old last week, so the bar started in hell.” Carter grumbled and Scott decided he was mostly disappointed.

A loud annoyed groan came from the doorway. Aronov spoke over his shoulder in Russian, voice sharp. Scott didn't look, electing to scrub himself faster. He didn't know what was said, but if it had been positive about Scott he would've been shocked.

Rozanov barked something back, tone allowing no room for argument.

Aronov switched to English, “You want him to stare, da? Fucking Western degenerates.”

Scott would've found it impressive any hockey player knew the word degenerate if it wasn't being used against him. He wasn't as thoroughly washed as he would have preferred, but Scott could think of nowhere he wanted to be less than this room at this moment. Maybe the Atlantic division’s locker room was the only worse place in the building. Any tension that had left at the warm shower spray returned in full force. He stood there, the politely threatening instructions from the league stopping him from throwing a punch.

“Go fuck yourself, asshole.” Scott felt like he was on autopilot. He wished he was clothed.

“Watch your fucking mouth, Aronov.” Carter leapt to Scott’s defense, drowning out his own retort.

“You think he wants to look at ugly hockey players with broken noses when he has a pretty boy in stands? Don't flatter yourself.” Rozanov spoke without skipping a beat. Scott’s stomach turned. Kip wasn't that much younger than him. They'd been together for years. He wasn't some pervert targeting boys.

“You're fine with this?” Aronov said something else in Russian and Scott took that as his cue to walk out of the room. Scott nearly barreled into McMurray in his haste. The apology died on his lips at the way McMurray recoiled from him.

He dried himself off unseeingly and nearly ripped a button off his dress shirt when he struggled to put it on over his damp skin. He was stupid for considering following Rozanov’s lead, stupid for thinking it would go any way but this, and pathetic at the way the conversation continued without him. What kind of man hardly defended himself or his partner at those kinds of accusations? How could he look Carter in the eye when he allowed them to trade barbs about Kip’s existence around like Scott was embarrassed by him? How could he look at Kip and say he loved him when Scott would rather run away than defend him?

The adrenaline from winning was gone, and all that remained was bone deep tiredness and roiling nausea. He sat to put on socks so he could finally, finally, leave the room. Fuck him for letting his guard down. Fuck Rozanov for pretending like everything would be fine and making his own jabs about Scott and luring Scott into this false sense of security.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and Scott didn't think before roughly shaking them off, arm flying up and making contact with whoever had touched him.

“Ow! What the fuck, Scott!” Carter yelped, rubbing his arm where Scott had struck him.

Scott forced words to escape his lips, “Sorry. Didn't realize it was you. You alright?”

“Yeah, man. All’s good. Give me five minutes and we can get out of here.” Five minutes was more than Scott really wanted to wait, but he was filled with unease at going anywhere in the rink without someone else. At least Aronov and McMurray kept it to words. Barrett might shove him into a wall.

Scott inhaled deeply, clenching and unclenching his fists. He shook his shoulders, trying to stop the jitters running through him. If he didn't get it together, Kip would immediately realize something was wrong and then Scott would ruin his night too.

“C’mon.” Carter pushed on Scott’s shoulder again, and he was out the door, bags in hand, before he could blink. The air outside the rink was suffocatingly humid. “I called us a car already. Should be a silver SUV.”

“Thanks, man.” Scott stopped pacing and pushed his shoulders back. He rubbed his eyes for a moment before putting his hands in his pockets. “Sorry you, um, had to deal with that.”

“Stop. Fuck him. Fuck every one of those guys and fuck Rozanov for not telling him to shut up before he said something. Bastard probably knew Aronov was going to say something and wanted you to hear it.” Carter became more heated as he talked.

“Don't make me defend Rozanov. He wouldn't do that.” Scott tried to sound light hearted, despite the exhaustion weighing at him. “He was nice at the awards and the Raiders haven't called me a cocksucker once this season, and they did it a lot last year. I think they still call you homophobic slurs, but not me. If anything, I should have known what I was doing and been more careful.”

A silver SUV pulled up, and Carter confirmed the license plate. They put their gear in the back before sliding inside.

“I just want everyone to treat you like they did last year. Nothing has changed, not really. Why has everyone been such a fucking dick about it?”

“I don't want to talk about it anymore. I have another year before I need to worry about this again. Maybe I’ll take a fine and decline next year. Easy fix. Kip and I can go somewhere else. Jalo would like the opportunity to be our representative, I'm sure.”

Scott took a deep breath to reset himself.

“What's the Cuban equivalent of a margarita, anyway?”

§

Scott could hear Kip thinking back at the hotel. He was done drinking for the evening, but the live pianist and singer were enchanting and Kip was sipping something fruity with a cocktail umbrella in it, leaning into Scott, who had an arm wrapped around him. He twisted his head to kiss Kip’s temple.

“Thank you for coming with me this week.”

“Of course I want to be here.” Kip assured him.

“Still. You don't really know anyone here, and you were brave and came anyway. It means a lot to me.” This time last year, Scott had been fiercely missing Kip and was determined to end the season and tell the team, damn the consequences. Even now, part of him knew he was using Kip to prove a point after the tense afternoon.

“Oh no, I get to spend the week on vacation, hanging out with an acclaimed actress and surrounded by half naked professional athletes. My life is so difficult.” Kip teased him.

“Mmm. And you have a winner on your arm.” Scott resolved before dinner to keep Kip’s memory of this week a fun one, unmarred by the argument in the locker room.

“And I have a winner on my arm. A hot, sexy winner.”

“Hunter! And Hunter’s much hotter half.”

“Rozanov.” Scott steeled himself. Fucking Russians determined to ruin his day. At least Kip was usually afforded the same protection from chirps that the other guys’ families had. Kip glanced at him for a moment before sticking out his hand. Rozanov looked all too happy to shake it.

“Kip Grady.” Kip introduced himself, like he wasn't the most notorious significant other in MLH. He was so effortlessly charming and beautiful and Scott wanted to hide him away so none of the cruel comments he faced on ice ever graced Kip’s ears.

“It is good to meet the person who put life and Cup into Hunter’s wizened hands.” Rozanov smiled. Kip grinned back at him, and Scott wanted the conversation over. He didn't need Kip to be reminded of the ways that Scott was a lackluster partner. That he was a professional athlete, but one firmly in the second half of his career. That he was good at his job, but hardly best in the league. That he was a coward, like his love was still some shameful secret. That he was six years older than Kip, body broken from his line of work. That he was stupid, on top of everything else that made him a partner to be tolerated instead of wanted.

“What do you want, Rozanov?” Scott cut off any potential opportunity for chit chat. He wanted to go back to the room and hide the rest of the evening. In private where he could prove his devotion.

Rozanov glanced at Kip again. “Just wanted to say games would not have been won without you. You are good player, minus slow speed, of course. Good stick handling, yes?”

“Thanks.” Scott responded warily. A worse trick was coming.

“Is it really called stick handling?” Kip was incredulous, speaking at the same time as Scott. “That's really gay.”

Rozanov laughed. Scott wished Rozanov was uglier, because then people would want to talk to him less. “Yes, is actual name. You don't know hockey vocabulary?”

“Not all of us want someone obsessed with hockey.” Scott was inordinately pleased with himself. Finally, finally, after all weekend taking pokes and prods, he could say something about Hollander that wasn't obvious. Other players liked when their wives were obsessed with the sport. It was appropriately vague.

Rozanov sobered immediately, glancing around briefly before settling back into his conversation. “Well, the best player in the league deserves someone obsessed with hockey.”

“You are not the best player in the league.” Scott argued. More entertaining to watch, sure. But Hollander was so far above in raw skill and consistency.

“Is that what I said?” Rozanov grinned again, his momentary somber mood vanished. And ugh, Scott wanted to roll his eyes. Paying Hollander a compliment through word trickery was sweet and sad.

The performers stopped. Scott glanced at his watch to see it was nearly ten. “Did you want something else? We have an early flight tomorrow.” Their flight wasn't until 1pm, because Scott knew he wouldn't want to be up and at em before 9. Kip didn't contradict him and Scott was grateful.

Rozanov hummed. “You are up late past old man bedtime. Have a good night.” He walked off, towards the bar. Tension he didn't realize he was carrying melted out of him.

Kip set his glass on one of the nearby empty tables, and dragged Scott to the elevator.

“That was nice of him to come over and talk to us.”

“You actually aren’t allowed to find him charming. He's an annoying asshole and I know he's going to bring up ‘stick handling' next time we face each other.” Scott admonished half heartedly. It wouldn't even be homophobic, which was worse. It would be an inside joke.

“Was he good to you this week? He was captain of your team.”

Of course he was good to Scott this week. His stilted half confession from the summer made Scott want to fight the entire league just in case there were any other players who had to keep their secrets close to their chest. It wasn't like Scott didn't already know after their rookie season, and the kiss last year at All Stars, but the confirmation that he wasn't alone in the league did reduce his anxiety.

“Yeah. He was good.” Scott reassured Kip. “I had a good week. I love you.”

Kip grabbed Scott’s hand as they stepped in the elevator.

§

“Scott, this is Roger Crowell. How are you doing?”

Scott wished he had dodged this call. “I’m doing well, sir.”

“I wanted to check in with you regarding our discussion last summer. It's over halfway through the season, and I have hardly heard anything. I'm assuming this means you're using discretion?”

“Yes. Of course, sir.” Scott stared at the wall and tried not to feel angry. Someone at All Stars had contacted the commissioner, because why else would he call. It had been five months of nothing, but now a week after the only incident of the season? He made a note to find a discrimination lawyer in New York. He probably should have done that in June of last year, but after the warm welcome from the Admirals it hadn't seemed like such a necessity.

“I'm glad to hear. Our number one concern in the league is making sure our players are comfortable at work. Oh, sure, some players have their rivalries and others might have personal grievances, but we want everyone to feel safe coming to work.” Crowell continued. If he hadn't known better, Scott might have thought this was the result of someone trying to defend him. He did know better though, and knew it was the result of more malicious accusations.

“I know, sir.” This conversation needed to end.

“As long as that's cleared away, Scott. Until next time. Have a good day.”

Crowell hung up before Scott had a chance, and Scott stared at his black phone screen. He took a deep breath and set a reminder to look at lawyers next time he was back home.

§

Scott roomed with Eric on the first road trip after All Stars. They had won against San Francisco but lost to Los Angeles. It was barely a loss, which was worse than being out matched, because each individual failure could have been the thing that tipped the scale to loser.

If Eric pushed back, Scott would blame the heavy topic on the loss. Scott needed another perspective and Carter was too positive. He didn't want to have the conversation in the light and worry about his facial expressions.

“Do you think the team is actually, completely okay with me being gay?” Scott winced at the clumsiness of his question.

“Yeah. I've been telling you this for months.” The reply was instantaneous.

“Did Carter tell you about All Stars?” Scott didn't want to say the story. Vaughan would have the appropriate anger at the insult to his friend. Scott worried he would sound more heartbroken than anything. In his worst nightmares, it was an Admiral saying something cruel, that Scott was a pervert. An Admiral who knew him, who celebrated Christmas with him, who came to his apartment and ate dinner with him. An Admiral who had met Kip and was kind to him, who knew Scott and still didn't trust him.

“He told me one of the guys on your team was out of line.”

“Aronov called me a degenerate. And probably something worse, but it was in Russian. Rozanov seemed pretty pissed about it. McMurray acted like loving men was contagious” Scott was grateful he didn't know slurs in any other language besides French.

Eric hummed. “That's still pretty bad.”

“I don't. I don't think I can handle it if someone on this team says something. At least Aronov waited until after we won our games before saying anything.” he confessed. “I think I used up all I had after winning the cup, and I don't have anything left in me. Everything else is great besides this last thing.”

“It's not just one thing.” Eric argued. “Sure, it's being physically vulnerable. But when you came out last year, you had stranger’s opinions to worry about. You even said that after you told Carter, Huff, and I, everything else didn't seem so bad once we knew. It hurts to trust people you're close to, because they can hurt you back.”

“I thought earlier this season I would be angry. If someone said something. But now I think–” Scott cut himself off. “I worry I might not be angry enough. Crowell told me that I had to ‘use discretion’. I've been doing that. It makes me feel disconnected from the team. It makes me feel like a coward.”

“I haven't noticed anything on the ice. I don't think you're as disconnected as you think. If it weren't for the fact that the three of us do your little fifteen minute ritual, I don’t think the others would have noticed.” Eric offered.

“I do appreciate the three of you.” Scott wanted to make sure Eric knew.

“I know, buddy.”

§

The road trip finished with two more losses, and Scott knew he was to blame. He was distracted. They had a free day in New York before practices resumed, then a week of home games.

Scott was relieved to fall asleep with Kip. He didn't know how he had spent so many years falling asleep alone. Kip fit perfectly in his arms and the sounds of his breathing were better than any white noise machine.

He called a lawyer and set up a meeting with her for the next lull in his schedule.

§

An important part of being a professional athlete was being honest with yourself about the status of your body. Scott knew that he had a predilection to a mid season slump. Rozanov told him every fucking time they played their third game of the season against each other. The host of Man in the Crease mentioned it every fucking year when it happened. The year they won the Stanley cup was the only year the mid season slump was more like a mid season blip. Scott would get it together before playoffs, but first he had to drag himself out of whatever mental prison he had created.

Knowing this about himself did not make the mental prison easier to escape. Now that he was older, Scott needed more rest days that didn't exist, and he wondered if the slump was his body trying to compensate. The theory almost had merit, except Scott had been continuing his slump tradition for almost a decade, and at twenty three he had been in his prime.

At least this year, Scott was pretty sure the cause of his distraction was his conundrum of the locker room. On one hand, everyone on his team liked Kip. All colorful language about sissies in the locker room had died the moment Scott came out as gay, so it boded well for general acceptance. Scott did shower with the rest of the team during away games. Their away game win percentage was nine points higher than the home games, which was absurd.

Mid February, Scott always had to change his routine to try and counteract whatever was dragging him down. It was as good a reason as any to stop loitering on the ice and following the rest of the group back to the lockers. It was an excuse if anyone asked.

He brought his medicated shampoo to prevent scalp irritation into the shower and waited the full five minutes so the medication could take full effect.

§

Changing his routine equalized the win-lose ratio, and a weekend getaway with Kip tipped it in the Admiral’s favor.

Kip didn't have the time to attend every home game, but Scott always kept two tickets in reserve for him and a guest. Every time Scott saw him in the crowd, his heart lifted. Greg wolf whistled at him and Jalo joined in on the teasing with a smile. Carter received just as much teasing whenever Gloria managed to come, and it made Scott excited all over again that he was being treated like one of the guys.

He was able to ignore the cryptic call from the commissioner when everyone he talked to nearly every day was supportive.

§

The Admirals were knocked out of the playoffs in the sixth game of the second round by the Metros. Making it that far seemed like a good enough run, considering Hollander’s injury was the only reason the Admirals won the previous year. The team earned enough of a bonus for the eleven playoff games to make the extra exhaustion worthwhile. Scott thought the Metros were likely to win the cup, and the idea of losing to the actual cup winner hurt less.

The semester was over and Kip was ready to spend the rest of the summer with Scott. Scott needed a few weeks to rest and heal before he whisked Kip away to Europe to show off the actual art that Kip wrote his dissertation about. The lawyer bolstered Scott’s concerns about the commissioner. For any additional calls, Scott was to record them and forward them to her to build a case if needed. He knew he was the only out MLH player, but Scott had no doubt that if any others came after him, Crowell would be quick to keep them quiet and ashamed.

He didn't mind the idea that the retainer he paid would go to defend someone besides himself. Hollander probably already had someone on hand for the whole Asian thing and if Yuna Hollander knew about his whole Rozanov thing, she would have to have someone in mind for the aftermath of the inevitable coming out. Maybe he should try contacting her, letting her know his own experiences. Except if she didn't know about the Rozanov thing, he would be the one making everything worse and not the league.

He dismissed the idea. If they needed help while playing, he would offer it. Until then, it was the least he could do to compile evidence of the league's frosty reaction towards gay men. Kip would be proud of his preparedness.

Scott checked the itinerary for their trip to Italy in July. The MLH awards would be the last event of the season. A three week July vacation was enough time to properly tour five cities and ten different art museums. They would return early enough for Kip to prepare for the upcoming semester and Scott could try his hand at bird watching in Central Park again. Carter was always MIA for the entire month of July, even before Gloria, and Eric always spent the off season focused on his kids.

Scott was giddy. This time a year ago, he had told five people. Now the whole world knew. The only secrets Scott had to keep were mundane embarrassing ones, like that he thought the rainbow bagels were kind of fun. Now he could plan an extravagant vacation with his boyfriend. Now he could spend the energy he used to allot to hiding on proactive changes.

He looked through MLH headlines, trying to figure out how next season was going to shape up.

Scott’s eyes widened at the most recent headline. Rozanov? In Ottawa? Those two really were in love. Scott’s heart warmed at the idea. The Metropolitan conference suddenly became a lot less competitive overnight.

Scott grabbed his phone, opening the group chat he shared with the rest of the team. No one had mentioned what would inarguably be the biggest news of the summer. He wondered what the others would think the cause for the trade was. He pasted the link to the article from ESPN and hit send.