The MVP Incident

Scandal on the Roof: Rozanov & Hunter Confrontation at MVP Gala?

Anonymous Reporter

Last night, the annual MVP Gala ended not just with trophies and champagne, but apparently with what some witnesses are calling a “heated rooftop altercation” between MLH star Ilya Rozanov and recently-out forward Scott Hunter.

heated rooftop altercation

According to an unnamed rookie attendee who claims to have overheard part of the exchange, a confrontation that took place on a balcony overlooking the city skyline. The source says Rozanov (Russian captain of the Boston Raiders) and Hunter, who was reportedly glowing from both his on-ice success and his recent coming out, engaged in what sounded like a tense verbal back-and-forth. The climax allegedly involved an emotionally charged, single-word exclamation: “Fuck you,” directed at Rozanov by Hunter.

"Fuck you" says recently come-out MVP player Scott Hunter to Boston captain Ilya Rozanov

Fans theorise: LGBTQ+ propaganda in the MLH?

While the exact content of the conversation is unclear, speculation among insiders suggests the argument may have revolved around Hunter’s MVP award. Some fans theorize that Hunter’s career mid-season slump had left him in doubt about his performance, and that the award was granted not purely on merit but in recognition of his coming out – a move that some commentators claim reflects “gay propaganda” influence on league decisions. Could Rozanov, an MVP winner himself, have taken issue with the selection? Sources say he was “direct” in his opinions, though whether he actually challenged Hunter’s skill or simply joked with his trademark bluntness remains unconfirmed.

Russian star or misunderstood?

refuse to bow to the rainbow agenda?

Observers also tried to contextualize the situation culturally. Russia’s ongoing anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and general societal attitudes are well-documented, and it’s unclear whether Rozanov shares those values. Some fans have even voiced support for players who “refuse to bow to the rainbow agenda,” highlighting the ongoing tension between personal belief, league culture, and public perception. Others caution that Rozanov’s stern demeanor has long been misunderstood in the past and may not indicate disapproval of Hunter’s identity at all. 

Neither Rozanov nor Hunter has publicly commented on the alleged incident, leaving fans to parse between rumor, observation, and social media speculation. While details remain vague, the incident sure does add an unexpected layer of drama to the post-season celebrations.

In the aftermath of the fall on the ice – which was as much Shane’s fault for looking elsewhere as Marleau’s (not that he’d ever admit it) – Shane gets stuck off-ice for months, which frustrates him to no end. Not either in a grand, cinematic way, no. In a low-grade, ever-present way, like the tick of a clock that beats just too loudly or the feeling of the tags on your shirt rubbing off on your skin.

He’s forced to stay at his parents’, which is both a blessing and a curse. Shane’s almost forgotten what it’s like, and on some deep, uncomfortable level he has to admit that he doesn’t hate his mother fussing over him. He hates that part of himself a little – the one that softens when she brings him tea without asking, or reminds him to take his pain meds like he might forget.

For years he’s held everything together himself – tracking his teammates’ habits and performance. Always keeping tabs on who’s nursing an injury they won’t admit, who’s distracted, who just had a kid or is going through a breakup and pretending it doesn’t matter. Keeping the team’s schedule straight in his head, and still showing up to sponsorships and interviews and league events besides, all while training, eating right, and planning his own meals. Letting go, even a little, feels… nice.

Not that he’s very good at it.

He still sticks to his diet – now with the doctor’s recommendations taken into account, for an accelerated healing process – but his dad can’t cook it, and he’s still banned from the kitchen at home anyway, so everything gets made and delivered daily.

He’s banned from exercise too, save for a handful of PT-approved movements that barely feel like they count. After he tweaks his shoulder trying to do one-handed yoga and gets thoroughly chewed out by a nurse – who tells him that unless he wants to give up hockey entirely he’s going to follow orders – Shane resigns himself to doing nothing with his seemingly endless free time.

He starts reading again. He’s getting close to beating his dad’s Rubik’s cube record. Still, the restlessness creeps in.

Right now he’s stretched out on the sofa in his parents’ living room, melting into the cushions, staring dumbly at the glow of the TV. He’s allowed to look at screens again, though his mom still shoots him disapproving looks whenever he picks up his phone, muttering something about it being too close to his face. Shane usually rolls his eyes, but he still tries to limit his phone time—hence the sofa and TV in the living room.

The channel is replaying highlights from the Boston–Florida game, cutting between clips and commentary about the Raiders’ effortless win (duh). Shane half-watches, half-doesn’t, actively resisting the urge to check his phone.

Still no reply from Ilya.

It’s nothing unusual. Ilya is often busy after games – celebrating with teammates, satiating gossip-hungry tabloids and making sure he’s caught (on camera) talking to multiple beautiful women. It annoys Shane endlessly, but he understands the need to keep up appearances. Even if he aches each time a new supermodel appears on his arm, in his car or on his Instagram story.

The TV cuts, and suddenly Ilya’s face fills the screen.

Shane perks up.

He’s in civil clothes now – a white shirt and a Saint Laurent leather jacket that probably costs more than his dad’s monthly salary – a recent sponsorship. One that looks unfairly sexy on him, Shane thinks. He’s at least had time for a change and shower, though Shane had assumed he’d be halfway to the airport by now. His forehead is still shiny with sweat and harsh arena lighting, and Shane has the deeply unhelpful thought that he wants to lick it.

Then a reporter shoves a microphone into Ilya’s face, and the moment evaporates.

“There’s been a recent article about the MVP Gala—”

“—about an alleged confrontation with Scott Hunter—”

“—what exactly was said on the rooftop—”

Shane vaguely remembers seeing something on reddit the other day, but his head hurt and he never read it.

Ilya is not looking at any of the reporters but over them, already eyeing the exit to the arena, wishing to leave already. Through the masses of reporters that swarm him, he seems to realise though that he’s not being let go of without a word.

When he finally speaks, it’s straight into the camera.

“No comment.”

Shane laughs out loud.

“So you’re not denying it happened?”

“Is it true Hunter told you ‘fuck you’?”

“Was this about the MVP awards?”

The questions stack on top of eachother, making it hard to sparse the sentences in the crossfire. Ilya exhales through his nose, a small, controlled thing, and then—like he’s settled into it—he bites out:

“I’m not discussing private conversations.”

As expected, this pours gasoline on it.

“But this is public now, Ilya—”

Shane winces at the first name. Like they know him.

“—fans are interpreting this as—”

“—homophobia—”

Huh?

“—especially given Hunter just came out—”

Oh..

For a flicker of a second, Ilya’s expression tightens. Vulnerability, if you want to read it that way. Shane knows better. That look is irritation – at the question, at the entire situation.

“I have nothing against Scott Hunter.” Ilya says, flat.

The reporters light up.

“That is not what people are asking.”

“Do you agree with queer players in the MLH?”

Rozanov’s face is hilariously blank as he says, “The MLH is for everyone.”

“Do you personally support that? Or is that just league language?”

“I respect all players.”

A young blond reporter leans in too far, emboldened, trying to sound witty.

“You’re from Russia – people are connecting this to Russian attitudes toward LGBTQ+—”

Others latch on immediately.

“—do you agree with those views?”

“—do you understand why people are concerned?”

“I play in America now, yes?” he says calmly. “I am in MLH. I follow MLH rules.” he says, unsatifslying.

“That is not an answer.”

Rozanov shrugs. “Well, that’s the answer you’re getting.” he bites, sarcastic, though a mic pressed in close to his face picks it up. Shane can already feel Ilya’s complaints about the PR lecture he’ll receive for it.

“So to be clear — nothing you said to Scott Hunter was motivated by homophobia?”

“No.”

“Then why won’t you explain what the argument was about?”

“If it was harmless, why not clarify?”

Then, finally.

“Do you regret anything you said?”

“I regret that people are distracted from hockey.”

The press fires up again.

“Scott Hunter says ‘no comment.’ Do you think that’s the right approach?”

“Would you apologize if he felt hurt?”

“Do you understand why fans are angry?”

“Alright, last one.” the PR finally cuts in.

“Ilya – final chance – do you want to say anything about queer players in the MLH?”

The hallway stills – not quiet, exactly, but expectant. Like they’re waiting for a misstep.

Rozanov looks straight into the lens. He says, simple:

“They should play good hockey.”

A shrug.

“Same as everyone else.”

He steps back.

“Thanks guys. That’s it.” his manager cuts in, finally covering Ilya with his body and guiding him out of the limelight.

The questions keep coming anyway, but Ilya is leaving the hallway and eventually the camera cuts away.

Shane’s phone pings with a message from Lily.

Shane snorts into his own lap. Trust Ilya to be immediately concerned with his own ego.

Shane slaps the phone down on his lap on instinct. Even though he's alone in the room, he feels his face heat up sligtly. He picks it back up.

Shane buries his face in his hands.

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. He can picture the grin without trying.

There’s a pause. Long enough to feel intentional.

Shane glances up at the TV, but they’ve cut to ads. He doesn’t care about Canadian whiskey, but he watches condensation bead and slide down the bottle anyway, tracing it with his eyes while he waits for his phone to buzz.

Shane smiles before he can stop himself.

Shane snorts softly. Tries to collect his thoughts. People think you’re— he writes. Deletes. Tries again.

Shane sits up straighter on the sofa. The conversation has shifted; there’s weight in it now, a charge that he doesn’t yet know where it will lead. He rereads the messages once, then types.

There’s a long pause, the three dots from “Lily” dancing on the screen as Ilya types and retypes his own reply.

He finally ends up saying.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

Pause.

Despite knowing Ilya for almost a decade, Shane still knows very little about his family. Since his father died, that part of Ilya’s life has gone even quieter. Shane knows there’s tension with his brother – but only that it exists, not what shape it takes.

Shane chooses to ignore that.

Shane looks it up.

He stares at the word longer than he needs to. He still doesn't really understands what this means—for Ilya. His own response is to – with a tight chest – console, to say I’m sorry, or that’s fucked, or you don’t deserve that—but none of it feels like the right thing to say.

He ends up replying.

Shane's thumb hovers over the screen. He wants to say something, but he doesn't know what.

Shane wants to snark that it’s only because people don’t know that, but decides to hold it back.

Shane doesn’t know if that’s the correct thing to say. He wants to tell Ilya that he should be happy the fans are so protective of Hunter, that this might mean that maybe one day they will stand up for them too. But he also knows that it’s not really that – it’s just what the media does; blow everything out of proportion, create gossip and sensation out of nothing because it is always the scandals that sell best.

The conversation eerily reminds Shane of that one late night in the hotel room in Florida after the All-Stars game.

“What would happen to you?”

“I don’t want to find out.”

He remembers the helplessness he felt holding him. The realisation that some things are just so much bigger than him, and it doesn’t matter how many cottages he buys, how many cups he wins and how much he appears on TV, there will always be things he can never change. He’s going to be the only asian player in the MLH for a long time, and Ilya may not ever be fully accepted in his own country despite all that he’s done for its name.

Shane stops to consider his words for a second.

A thought occurs to him, and he decides to ask.

Shane hasn’t been on ice in ages, and he misses it desperately. What he doesn’t miss is press conferences, interviews, public speaking. But his mother reminds him how important it is to stay visible, and she books him for this appearance anyway.

“We can’t let them forget about you, sweetie” Yuna had said, “You have to show them that you’re recovering and will be back next season better than before.”

His cast came off three days ago, but his arm is still in a sling. He’s been advised not to attempt anything requiring strength with it. It rests on the table now, his fingers drumming mindlessly against the surface.

They’ve already asked about the rehab. His shoulder. He’s said his piece. “Everything is going well. The doctors say I’m on the track for a full recovery and will be as good as new by the time the season comes around. I will be allowed to start training soon.”

They ask him about hockey too. The Admirals’ defensive structure. What he thinks of Colorado this season. He keeps it objective – which he knows the press finds boring – but he’s observant and he knows that if he plays his cards right, people will be talking about commentary later, praising his smart reads.

He gets lost in analysing the playstyle of Florida’s new rookie, so when the next question comes, it catches him off guard.

“Shane, have you seen Ilya Rozanov’s comments about the Gala?”

Shane halts in his movements for a second, before his fingers continue their drumming on the table. Tap-tap-tap.

“No, I haven’t actually.” he says with a polite and apologetic smile. “I don’t really follow social media stuff, and I’ve been focused on recovery. So I can’t really comment on something I haven’t seen.”

Another reporter jumps in.

“Do you feel his answers were supportive enough?”

Shane exhales softly through his nose. He hates when people ask him questions he’s already answered, but he remains composed. He asks to clarify.

“As I have said, I am not up to date with any interviews or comments he may have made. Could you please explain the context?”

The reporter smiles – the sort of pitying smile to a child when they haven’t quite understood the implication. Shane hates it. Hates that no matter how much he tries, how many scripts he practices beforehand, they still treat him like a kid. A prodigy, sure – they praise his skill endlessly – but whenever they steer him outside his core interest (hockey, training, nutrition …real estate) he is exposed, and they circle like vultures.

“Ilya Rozanov has recently faced criticism pertaining to the tabloid article ‘scandal on the roof’ – alleged homophobic comments he made against Admirals captain Scott Hunter. When he was given an opportunity to explain himself, he said, I quote ‘I have nothing against Scott Hunter’. When asked about his opinion on queer players in the MLH, he answered ‘They should play good hockey. Same as everyone else.’”

The reporter tries to look Shane in the eyes, but he’s looking off to the side.

“Many people have criticised his approach, calling his words ‘too vague’ and ‘forced’. Fans are saying his response sounded ‘league coded’, ‘not honest’ and some are suggesting he only said those things under pressure from the MLH and may not personally agree with them.”

She leans forward slightly. “What is your opinion on the matter, Shane?”

He bristles at the use of his first name. He’s never liked strangers calling him Shane, like they’re his friend. But he’s grown used to it.

“I don’t know him well enough to speak for him.” he says, measured.

A beat.

“But I can tell you this.”

The room stills.

“What Scott Hunter did at the Stanley Cup was very brave. I’ve already commented on it on my official Twitter account after the game, but kissing his partner Kip Gravy on ice was a powerful statement – one I think all of us can admire.”

His voice remains steady.

“I don’t often speak about topics like this because they’re not directly related to me. But I want to say clearly: I respect every queer person currently playing in the MLH, whether they’ve come out or not. LGBTQ+ individuals have a place in hockey. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.”

He pauses – not long enough to seem uncertain, just long enough to shift tone.

“And I also understand, to some extent, what it feels like to stand out in this league. Hockey has traditionally been a very white sport. Being the first half-Asian player in the MLH, I’ve experienced moments where I’ve felt different – where I’ve been reminded that I don’t quite fit the mold people expect.”

His posture remains perfect. His expression calm.

“So I’m glad to see hockey becoming more diverse. In every way. The league is stronger when more people feel welcome in it.”

He looks directly into the camera.

“And to every queer hockey fan – gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender – You’re welcome here. If anyone says otherwise, ignore them. We want you to be here. You matter.”

He adjusts his expression into something warm, something open.

“Wow,” the reporter says, smiling. “That was powerful. I’m sure everyone in the audience watching would agree.”

The interview clips are everywhere by the time Shane gets home.

He steps inside quietly, toeing off his shoes by the door and lining them up automatically against the wall. He greets his parents from the hallway, says he’ll be in the kitchen in five minutes, then slips upstairs.

He fishes a small bottle of hand sanitiser from his pocket and rubs it into his palms before changing. He shrugs out of the stiff, ironed white shirt, brushes his hair until the plastic texture from the hairspray is gone. Changes into soft, knee-length sweatpants and an old Metros shirt he cut the sleeves off two summers ago, back when his shoulders outgrew them. Fresh socks. Slippers.

Only then does he head downstairs.

His father stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, chopping green onions with steady precision. Something sizzles in the pan – soy sauce, garlic, sesame oil blooming in the heat. The smell fills the kitchen.

Strong scents tend to give him headaches. He asks his dad to switch on the extractor hood and waits until most of the smell dissipates before stepping closer.

His own meal containers are stacked neatly in the fridge, tonight’s portion closest to the door. He’ll heat it once his father has finished cooking. He prefers it that way.

“You did very well today,” Yuna says without looking up from her phone. She still manages to sound fond.

Shane hums noncommittally, glancing around for something to do. His father nudges a small basket toward him with his hip. “Can you check the spice rack? I’m going to the store tomorrow. Need to know what we’re low on.”

Shane sets the crate on the counter and opens the cupboard one-handed, carefully lining up the jars so the labels face forward. He checks the back of the cabinet for spares.

He lists them out automatically, neat and precise.

“I mean it,” his mother continues from the sofa. “You did amazing. Very clean. Very clear. Excellent wording.” A small pause. “I’m glad we practiced for that scenario. I knew it would come up eventually after Hunter came out.”

He fights the urge to smile.

“They loved you,” Yuna adds. “People are calling it a masterclass. One person said—” she squints at her screen, “‘this is what support sounds like when you actually mean it.’”

“That’s… nice,” Shane says, because he doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to react.

“It’s more than nice.” She finally looks up at him, her expression soft, proud. “You made a difference today. I’m seeing so many comments from people saying they needed to hear that. That it helped them feel accepted.”

Shane looks up from counting how many bags of basil he found in the back.

She gestures lightly with her phone. “You have more influence than you realise. When you say something, people listen. And I’m glad – genuinely glad – that you used it like that.”

Her voice stays even, but deliberate now.

“Hockey is changing. Slowly. It’s becoming more diverse. More open. And that matters.” She pauses. “I don’t have patience for homophobia, Shane. Or any of that nonsense. Love is love. No one in this house would ever think differently. It shouldn’t be controversial for someone to exist openly.”

She watches him for half a second longer than necessary. Shane looks away, acting like refilling a half-empty jar of marjoram needs all his attention.

“I’m proud that you’re part of making this league safer. For everyone. For queer players. For queer kids watching at home.” A small shrug. “It’s important.”

Shane throws the paper packaging away. Screws the lid on by pinning it between the counter and his hip without looking up. Yuna continues watching him for a second, searching his face with a hopeful look, but eventually looks back down on her phone. Shane glances at her, then, and moves to sweep off from the counter the pieces that didn’t make it into the container.

“They’re also comparing you a lot to Rozanov,” she says a moment later, casual but watchful. “Which,” she adds, a hint of smugness creeping in, “you are clearly handling better.”

Shane hums again. Rinses and dries his good hand from the leaflets stuck on it.

“Yes,” Yuna continues. “Apparently he can’t say the word ‘gay’ without tripping over himself. Keeps trying to avoid it.” She clicks her tongue. “Very strange.”

His dad snorts softly at the stove.

Yuna scrolls again, frowning slightly. “The thing is, people keep bringing up some argument at the MVP Gala, and I’m trying to understand what actually happened, but no one seems to agree. Everyone’s very angry, but every article just quotes another article. There’s nothing concrete.”

She looks genuinely puzzled now.

“I thought we were… disliking him less,” she says slowly. “After he visited you in the hospital. That seemed like a kind thing to do.” She tilts her head. “But if he’s homophobic, then—well. I don’t think I can like him very much at all.”

Shane’s stomach twists, small and tight. He knows, cognitively, that his mother would have no problem with him being gay. But he knows she doesn’t like Rozanov, and even if he knows that Ilya is nothing like he’s represented in the media, he worries if his parents will ever understand that.

Yuna sighs and turns her phone face-down on the table, looking toward the two of them in the kitchen. “I don’t know what to think. Everyone online is acting like it’s a huge scandal, but no one can tell me what was actually said.” A beat. “Aren’t you friends with Scott Hunter?”

Shane isn’t facing her, he’s placing refilled jars of spices from where he took them in the cabinet.

“We… know each other,” he says. “Sort of.”

“Well,” Yuna says gently, “couldn’t you ask him? Just so we understand.” She smiles – soft, but pointed. “I don’t like not knowing. And I don’t like the idea of someone hurting people I care about.”

The words land heavier than she intends.

Shane nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “I can ask.”

His dad, meanwhile, takes the pan off the heat. “That can wait.” He mutters. “Yuna, honey, could you please set the table for us? I need to clean up the kitchen so Shane can make his own stuff.” He says, and starts collecting all the used utensils in the sink.

“Yeah, yeah I’m on it.” Yuna mutters, and puts her phone away after she’s finished scrolling.

Later – Shane is in his room, freshly showered and painfully bored.

His hair is still damp at the nape of his neck. He decided to skip the sling and used a triangular scarf to keep his wrist in place, even though he’s itching to use his hand.

His favourite book on hockey lies on the nightstand, bookmark carefully slipped inside and glasses resting on top.

He has tried to read. He couldn’t focus.

Ilya still hasn’t answered.

He’d texted him the second he stepped out of the studio that morning.

Nothing.

Shane drops his phone onto his chest and stares at the ceiling.

He doesn’t actually think Ilya said anything homophobic. Not really. Ilya can be blunt, insensitive and an asshole – but he’s not cruel like that. Not without reason.

Still – sometimes he gets like this. Closed off. Difficult. Like extracting information from him is some kind of competitive sport and Shane keeps losing.

It could also just be practice.

“Yet he still finds time to sext me before games,” Shane mutters to the empty room.

His phone remains stubbornly silent.

He rolls onto his side, opens his messages again, scrolls.

Scott Hunter (Admirals Captain)

He hesitates. Then makes a choice.

End Notes

I hope you enjoyed! In classic Ao3 style, cue me begging for Kudos and Comments – it feeds my cold dead soul. Did you like the fic?

ps: I made this into a series. If/When I complete the next fic I have in mind, I'll put it there, so if you're interested, you might consider subscribing to that!