Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, Reaction, Bisexuality, Bisexual Male Character, Gay Male Character, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Loves Kip Grady, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of My Moon

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-02 Words: 1,043 Chapters: 1/1

My Moon

Summary

Scott knows things will change when he kisses Kip on the ice.

What he doesn't expect is Ilya Rozanov, cigarette in hand, admitting that they might have something in common.

OR: The conversation with Ilya Rozanov after Scott wins MVP.

Notes

Absolutely obsessed with Heated Rivalry and more than willing to make more fics in this universe. A fic with Scott finding out the beau is Shane, perhaps? A fic with Hayden's reaction to it all? Idk. Queer joy is so rare in media. It's lovely to see one such show/book reach such notoriety.

As an extra note, I have only read Heated Rivalry, not TLG, although I know a fair few plot points.

A/N: Was informed this fic was similar to milominderbinder's nobody knows (and nobody gives a damn, either way), so I've added that as an inspiration, and heartily direct you their way.

• Inspired by nobody knows (and nobody gives a damn, either way). by milominderbinder

Scott Hunter made his speech proudly, stiff-spined, beneath the glare of hundreds of eyes and a dozen different cameras.

The crowd cheered him on as he spoke, cooed when he admitted his love, laughed at his little jokes. But Scott knew. He knew.

Already, he felt it. Cutting looks. Titters made behind hands. He’d known the consequences when he’d dragged Kip onto the ice. He’d opened them both up to this: hatefulness, ridicule, cruelty.

But also—

Honesty. A love that wasn’t hidden. A love that could endure. It was worth it. Scott told himself it had to be worth it.

He wrapped up his speech and made for the wings. This is for you, Kip.

The stage lights bathed him in a golden glow, like the aureate gleam of a new dawn.

 

---

 

The circus show after was the worst of it. Sponsors and players and agents and managers all assuring him of his bravery, his importance, his specialness.

Some were genuine, their smiles kind, their happiness honest. Some shook his hand with gritted teeth—the sorts of people who thought people like him shouldn’t get to play Major League Hockey, let alone win MVP.

His value had gone down in their eyes, their most valuable player devalued by his proclivities.

Scott told himself it didn’t matter. For every naysayer, there were two supporters. And there was Kip, Kip, my Kip. Where before there had been shame, there was now a person to call home, and no world to hide it from.

Still, Scott found himself breaking away after only an hour of hand-shaking and schmoozing and poorly-concealed side eyes.

He made his way up to the nearest free space he could think of—the quiet rooftop bar—and found himself momentarily bent double, gasping. He told himself to think of Kip in his kitchen, at his blender, making him a Blue Moon Over Brooklyn, and that unwavering certainty in his chest that this is it. This is it for me.

He heard the footsteps first. Then he felt the shadow fall over him.

He turned—and blinked.

Honey-blond hair. Sharp-featured face. Distinctly amused eyes.

Ilya Rozanov.

“What the fuck do you want?” Stupid, Scott thought as the words left him. Stupid to bait him here, now, alone.

Rozanov approached the balustrade and pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his jacket pocket. He lit the cigarette. Took a long drag. “To talk.”

“To talk,” Scott echoed dumbly. He felt himself going taut, like a trap about to spring. This was Rozanov, who chirped like it was his mother tongue. Rozanov, who famously fucked a new woman every other week. Rozanov, who was Russian and sharp-edged and mean—

“Hunter, you are having panic attack.” There was something far too amused in Rozanov’s tone. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“You could,” Hunter choked.

“I do not fight the elderly.”

“You fucking—”

“I think you are very brave,” Rozanov cut him off, and there was enough sincerity in it that Scott found his mouth clamping shut. “What you did on ice. Very brave.” He shot a grin at Scott. Sharp. Cocksure. “Changed a lot, I think.”

Scott felt off-footed. Uncertain. He’d expected innumerable uncomfortable confrontations when he’d outed himself on the ice, resigned himself to it, but he hadn’t quite prepared himself for Ilya fucking Rozanov. Or, at least, not this Ilya Rozanov. He’d expected jibes, hatefulness, slurs. He hadn’t expected this—this bizarre softness.

It made Scott wonder if he even knew Rozanov at all.

Scott's phone buzzed in his pocket; a text from Kip. The knowledge centred him, steadied him. “Changed what?” he asked.

Rozanov was staring at him with his usual unnerving intensity, unblinking. “There is a man,” he said. “I have loved him for a while. Fucked him for much longer. We cannot admit any of this, you see, for obvious reasons. But you give us hope. Remind us we are not alone.”

Scott felt everything within him sink like a stone. A joke. It must be a joke. Ilya Rozanov, fucking a man, loving a man. He was the hockey manwhore poster boy. He was Russian. He was—

Still staring at Scott with uncharacteristic solemnity.

“You—”

“Yes.”

“Who—?”

“None of your fucking business.”

And that was what sold it for Scott, convinced him this was no cruel joke, no farce. The abject protectiveness in Rozanov’s gaze.

“You,” he breathed. “You?”

Rozanov straightened a little. He looked more sure of himself now, more reminiscent of the man on the ice. “Me,” he said.

“I…” Scott trailed off. Words had evaded him. He felt stranded in his own skin, adrift.

“Was important, what you did. For me, and for my—for mine.”

Scott stared back. It was one thing to do what he did. His balls-to-the-wall, objectively insane, irrevocable declaration of love. It was quite another to have Ilya Rozanov tell him it meant something.

“I’m glad,” Scott choked out. “And I’m happy for you.” He couldn’t help but add: “Even if you are an asshole.”

“And you are geriatric. I read that word in New Yorker. It means very old. Outdated—”

“I know what it means, fucker.”

Rozanov laughed. Perhaps Scott had been a little softened toward him, or perhaps it wasn’t quite as rage-inducing as usual. “You still have jokes? At your old age?”

“I have many,” Scott said. “Tonight is the greatest joke of all. I’m openly gay. Everyone wants to either shake my hand or drop kick me off a balcony. Ilya Rozanov is gay.”

“Bisexual,” the Russian corrected.

Scott exhaled a long breath. “Well, good for you. Good for you.”

“And good for you, too,” said Rozanov. “Like I said, you did brave thing. Important thing.”

Scott refused to let it show how much Rozanov’s words mattered. How much it mattered that what he had done had made a difference, even for one person—even if that one person was the worst person he’d ever met.

“I will pay you back,” Rozanov continued. “Next time there is event and you bring boyfriend, I will be there. Maybe I will even bring my own man, da?”

Scott quirked a brow. “What if they think you’re gay, too?”

“They won’t.” Rozanov winked. “They will just think I’m European.”