Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, background scott/kip

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, Relationship Reveal, Fluff and Humor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Overheard Phone Call, Scott Hunter is Tired, Hollanov are happy, Mild Off-Screen Homophobia, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander's Socks, yep they get their own tag

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-13 Words: 2,960 Chapters: 1/1

Six Pairs Cushioned Sport Socks for Men

Summary

“Hunter,” he said, all self-satisfied smirking before he’d so much as said hello, sliding his phone onto the table between them. “You are not in bed yet? Is very late.”

“Rozanov,” he said, lips pressed in a resigned half-smile. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

“No,” Rozanov shrugged, pouting so minutely Scott thought the expression might actually have been sincere, not meant for him to see. “My plus-one could not make it.”

Ah. Now that, he could commiserate with. Though he seriously doubted that Rozanov was missing whatever poor woman he had attempted to sweet-talk into a slinky dress and onto his arm for the red carpet as much as Scott missed Kip. “That sucks. Mine neither.”

 

Or: Scott Hunter has an enlightening conversation with Ilya Rozanov after his speech at the MLH awards.

Notes

An expansion on Ilya saying he spoke to Scott Hunter after his MLH awards speech, and a made-up overheard phone call several months later. A few book details might have snuck in, but this is definitely closer to show Scott than book Scott, and Scott Hunter Night doesn’t happen here lol.

Scott was wondering how much longer he had to stay before he could go upstairs and call Kip without looking ungrateful. They’d agreed that the MLH awards would probably be a bit much for Kip’s first real event with him – assuming the night the Admirals had won the cup didn’t count. They’d ease him in with some smaller stuff first. Not that he couldn’t handle it of course; Scott just didn’t want him to have to. There was also some kind of fundraiser at a gallery that Kip had promised to help a friend with months ago, and Scott wasn’t about to ask him to cancel on his behalf. Still, though. He missed him. Wanted Kip’s hand tucked into his back pocket while he reminded Scott it was okay to take a step back when he needed to, that it was okay to laugh at himself sometimes. There’d be other nights.

He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t his night any more than anyone else’s; obviously other players had won awards too. But Scott would be lying if he claimed not to notice more people had sought him out to say hello than usual at this kind of thing. It had been a long evening, but he figured that most people who wanted to do so had already cornered him to congratulate him on the award or his speech or Kip or all of the above. It was nearing midnight, and he thought he was probably safe to start trying to head up to his room. He threw back the last of his now unpleasantly warm beer. Before he could take a step out of the quiet corner he’d been half-hiding in, he noticed somebody walking towards him with obvious purpose.

Rozanov. Perfect.

Honestly, Scott was surprised the Boston captain hadn’t already come over to roast him about the award or the speech or Kip or all of the above. It hadn’t taken up a huge amount of space in his thoughts over the course of the evening, but enough so that whenever he’d seen Rozanov out of the corner of his eye, he’d found himself mentally bracing for the moment it would happen.

“Hunter,” he said, all self-satisfied smirking before he’d so much as said hello, sliding his phone onto the table between them. “You are not in bed yet? Is very late.”

“Rozanov,” he said, lips pressed in a resigned half-smile. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

“No,” Rozanov shrugged, pouting so minutely Scott thought the expression might actually have been sincere, not meant for him to see. “My plus-one could not make it.”

Ah. Now that, he could commiserate with. Though he seriously doubted that Rozanov was missing whatever poor woman he had attempted to sweet-talk into a slinky dress and onto his arm for the red carpet as much as Scott missed Kip. “That sucks. Mine neither.”

Rozanov sniffed, carefully settling himself into curated lazy lines again, no hint of the genuine upset that Scott had glimpsed a second ago.

“Your boyfriend is very cute,” Rozanov said, throwing Scott entirely off track. “He is an artist, yes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Scott said, surprised into speaking plainly by the fact that he’d apparently cared enough to know that. “He has a thing at a gallery tonight. It’s partly why he’s not here.”

Rozanov continued to show interest in Kip, and not in the lurid, mocking way some other players and the media had, but seemingly sincerely, which was unexpected but kind of… nice, of him? He then proceeded to call Scott washed up and pat his shoulder and tell him Kip could do better, which was totally expected and considerably less nice. But Rozanov’s endless list of ways to inform him he was over-the-hill was pretty much background noise to Scott by this point.

“Can I buy you a drink before you go to bed?” Rozanov said after a tirade of false concern over the state of Scott’s knees. “It can be non-alcoholic if you want, so it won’t mix badly with your old man bedtime pills.”

“Why?” Scott was too tired to be polite about it. And he knew enough about Rozanov to know he appreciated straightforwardness anyway, so.

“To say thank you for your very lovely and inspirational speech.”

Scott shook his head, perplexed, and mentally waved goodbye to the notion of speaking to Kip for any longer than five minutes by the time he got back to his room before he’d be falling asleep. “It’s an open bar, but sure.” He and Rozanov didn’t usually speak like this. Rozanov’s chirps were one-note, brief and to the point any time they played, just as habitual as the headshake and the “fuck off, Rozanov” Scott would toss back at him. This might have been the longest conversation they’d ever had. And he was curious as to why Rozanov was obviously prolonging it.

Rozanov nodded, and prowled off to the bar.

He was still there, sprawled over the counter and leering at the woman getting their drinks, when the phone he’d left on the tabletop buzzed. Scott’s eye reflexively dropped to the lit-up screen, reading the message previews before he could even think what he was doing.

No I’m going to shower now you weirdo…
You could be hours longer yet I know y…
I’m not just going to sit here all sweaty…
It’s a relief not to have that sling anym…
Did you speak to him yet? About us an…
And yes nothing but socks I know, I’ll h…
I’m sorry I couldn’t come with you
❤️

They were all from one contact. Jane.

Well, that answered the question of Rozanov’s unavailable plus-one, at least. And raised a few others – nothing but socks – Jesus Christ, Rozanov. There were only so many ways that scrap of a sentence could be taken. Good for Jane, he guessed, if that’s what she was into.

Rozanov came back with a beer and a violently orange cocktail, complete with a fruit garnish and a tiny umbrella. Scott sighed. Just when he’d been starting to think that maybe Rozanov wasn’t going to be a dick about him being gay, he had to go and do something so childish. And yeah sure a cocktail didn’t have to mean anything, people could drink whatever the hell they wanted, but it was the sort of dumb, bigoted stunt one or two acquaintances had tried to pull since he’d come out, playing for laughs, and he was fucking tired of it. God, his head ached. Before he could curse him out though, Rozanov slid the beer towards Scott, and took a sip of the cocktail. Scott blinked at him.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow “What?”

“Didn’t have you down as a cocktail man.”

He shrugged. “I like them, sometimes.”

“Alright then.”

“I’ll tell you a secret though, Scott Hunter,” he said, taking the umbrella out to roll it between his fingers. “I choose this one because it has ginger in it. I don’t like ginger very much. But the smell reminds me of somebody special.”

Scott wasn’t sure what pushed him to say it. Perhaps because Rozanov had already steered the conversation into like twenty different directions he hadn’t expected. Might as well embrace it. “Someone like Jane?”

Rozanov looked taken aback for all of two and a half seconds. Scott should have felt more smug about having him on the backfoot, but… weirdly, he didn’t.

“You uh, got a text when you were at the bar. I saw the name.” He very much hoped it wouldn’t occur to Rozanov that he would have seen the message previews too.

“Yes,” Rozanov said slowly. “Jane.”

“I didn’t know you had someone…” Someone, what? Someone you care about enough to miss? Someone you miss enough to buy a drink you don’t even like just because the smell reminds you of them? “Someone serious.”

Rozanov didn’t answer the implied question directly, but confirmed it all the same. “Jane wanted to come tonight. To hear your speech.”

“Really?” Scott couldn’t stop the scepticism from showing in his voice. It had been important to him, and people had been largely supportive, and he hoped it was a turning point for the sport. Or one of, anyway. But for most of the attendees, it was just another speech at just another MLH awards ceremony. And he doubted Rozanov’s girlfriend, no matter how serious, would care all that much.

“Yes,” he said. “There are a lot of people who your speech will be very important to, I think.”

“Yeah. I hope so.”

“Children,” Rozanov continued, “people in other sports, not just hockey. People who cannot tell anyone. Or people who feel like they are alone.”

In the moment when Scott had pulled Kip onto the ice after winning the cup, none of those things had been his first thought. It had been Kip, and himself, that he’d thought of. But all the other things were causes he held very dear to his heart, and had done for a long time now. It was gratifying to have it recognised. “Yeah.”

Rozanov clicked his tongue impatiently. “And people who are standing right in front of you holding disgusting ginger cocktail.”

He couldn’t mean… It seemed pretty clear cut, but Scott wasn’t firing on all cylinders and he didn’t want to presume. “What are you trying to say here, Rozanov?”

“I am trying to say thank you, Scott Hunter. For the speech. For kissing your cute artist boyfriend on live television. For being brave. It helped me to be brave,” he set down the umbrella, started to fidget with the orange slice instead, and unflinchingly met Scott’s eye. “And it will make it easier for some of us, later on. To not have to be first.”

“Uh. You’re welcome?” Because what the hell else was he meant to say in the face of that? He’d need three to five business days to process it, at least.

Rozanov nodded, and Scott could practically see the shift in him now he’d said his piece. “You should probably go to bed now. Very long day for very old man.”

“Right.” Scott generously chose to ignore that he was back to being a dick in favour of something more interesting. “So, Jane…”

“I am bisexual. You do not know the word? Maybe it is too new for you.”

“You don’t have to tell me – ”

“I like both,” he chewed on the orange slice. “But I will answer the question that you actually want to ask. Jane is a man. Very beautiful, very talented, best man with very pretty dick.”

“Jesus fucking Christ Rozanov.”

“Wait no I take it back, stop thinking about my Jane’s dick.”

“Wow okay, I definitely wasn’t.” He glanced around them to check no one was listening in, but also half-hoping some well-wisher would suddenly appear to rescue him. No such luck.

“Good, keep it that way,” he frowned. “Is mine.”

Scott felt like Rozanov had left him about five steps behind at this point. “I genuinely don’t know what to do with like 90% of that, Rozanov. But thank you for telling me. For trusting me, with that.”

“Sure.” Rozanov just took another imperious sniff of his drink that he apparently didn’t even like, but ordered anyway because it reminded him of his boyfriend. Christ. Scott needed to go to bed.

“I mean it. Listen, do you want to uh, take my number?”

“What for? My grandfather was awful, am glad he’s dead. I don’t need another one.”

“Come on, just in case,” Scott held out his hand for Rozanov’s phone. “I hope you don’t need it. But if you ever want to talk or… I don’t know, help me out here Rozanov.”

Rozanov curled his lip, but handed over his phone all the same. He had the air of a kid caught using their phone in class and being made to hand it over to their teacher. Scott kept that image to himself; Rozanov didn’t need more ammunition. He entered his number into Rozanov’s phone, knowing full well he would be changing the contact name to something horribly offensive the second Scott gave it back. He was about to hand it over to him when it rang with an incoming call. Jane.

Rozanov whipped it out of his hand before he could blink. “Hello? Nothing but socks, yes? White ones.” He winked at Scott before stalking off through the thinning crowd towards the elevators, leaving the half-drunk cocktail and a shredded paper umbrella behind. Asshole.

*

It was relatively early in the season when the Admirals played their first away game against the Metros. They lost, and it wasn’t surprising; Scott hadn’t liked their chances in the lead up. And, as with most games against Montreal, it was down to Hollander. Their captain had been in fighting spirit all season so far – in his moderate, straight-laced sort of way – clearly pumped to be back on the ice again after his injury last season. And after beating the Admirals in a close 7-6 on the Metros’ home turf, he looked to be on better form than ever. But Scott was glad to be facing him again. Firstly because he knew it would be a good game; New York were playing well coming off their Stanley win, teeth bared and ready to take on Shane Hollander and his team on top form. But also because Scott was aware of how different it could have been if things had been worse with Hollander’s injury. Scott had been on the ice a long time, had seen hits that looked less serious have much more dire consequences. He’d made a professional but heartfelt post on social media when it had happened at the end of last season, and Hollander had sent him a stilted but seemingly sincere congratulatory email after he’d come out, but they hadn’t seen each other in person until that afternoon’s game.

Showered and post-game press taken care of, Scott made good on his intention to offer his congratulations on Hollander’s recovery in person and without teammates or cameras in their faces. On the ice, there’d not been time for him to say anything more than “good to have you back, Hollander,” to which he’d received the expected thanks and earnest, tight smile. He’d looked distracted for a second, considering, like he was about to say something else, but then the puck dropped and that was that.

Scott had been told Hollander had already gone out into the parking lot to meet his ride. Sure enough, there he was tucked away around the side of the arena, bizarrely enough in the smoking area. One hand thumbed the tab on a ginger ale can, the other held his phone against his ear.

“It’s the post-game traffic baby. I was expecting you to be a little late, don’t worry.”

Baby? He hadn’t known Hollander was seeing anyone.

“And you could have just sent a message, you didn’t have to call.” He was smiling into the speaker, clearly pleased to be on said call all the same.

“Oh, you’re bored? Should have thought of that before you offered to be my ride, I could have driven myself.” His smile sharpened, a coy little thing that Scott had never seen on Hollander’s face before. “I’ll have to make it up to you later.”

Oh damn, maybe he shouldn’t be listening to this…

“What am I wearing? Like eight layers asshole, it’s cold in this parking lot.”

Asshole? Not very romantic. And definitely not very Hollander.

“Of course I’m wearing socks, idiot.”

There was something about that mostly banal string of words that just… tickled something in Scott’s memory. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it though, so pushed it aside as nothing in the face of all the other details of Hollander’s odd conversation with his apparently secret girlfriend?

“Don’t you dare jerk off in that car.”

Good grief.

“If you crash my car because your hand’s in your pants Ilya, I’m not coming to visit you in the hospital.”

What.

“If you can contain yourself for like another ten minutes I can do it for you.”

Seriously. What.

“Okay. Fucking… hang up and concentrate on driving. See you in a few.” He said something in Russian then, stilted and stiff, but unmistakable. “Shut up. I love you.”

Scott scraped together enough good sense to duck back inside the building, shooting a smile at the person on reception when they frowned at his sudden reappearance. Screw it, he’d offer Hollander his sincere congratulations next time, when all of his available headspace wasn’t being taken up with… whatever it was that he’d just been an unwilling participant of.

Ilya.

He stared unseeing at the carpet, mentally thumbing through years’ worth of seemingly unrelated interactions.

Where’s your boy Rozanov?
Room 1221…
You’re starting to sound like him.
Jane wanted to come tonight. To hear your speech.
I choose this one because it has ginger in it.
Nothing but socks?
Of course I’m wearing socks, idiot.

“Well, shit.”

*

It wasn’t until a few days later, when Scott was holed up in his hotel room waiting for Kip to call, half-watching the Boston/Toronto post-game with Rozanov half-dressed and grinning at his phone before stepping up to the mic, that he pulled up Rozanov’s number, untouched since they’d swapped contacts at the MLH awards.

I don’t know if I’ve got this right, but if I have… dammit, Rozanov. You were right. Jane is pretty great.
Don’t know how they ended up with your sorry ass.
Congratulations.

Then he opened up Amazon, wondering if it would be too weird to send a multipack of white sport socks and a pallet of ginger ale to Rozanov’s PO box.