Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Kyle Swift, Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-07 Words: 1,736 Chapters: 1/1

Kyle is not an idiot.

Summary

At the Kingfisher, Kyle has a chance to talk to Ilya alone, and since Kyle is not an idiot, he has a question:

“Why don't you tell them you're bi?”

The night is clear and mild as Kyle steps out of the front door of the Kingfisher.  His break has just started, and while he does have some class work he still needs to finish, he figures he could also use a few minutes of breathing air that doesn't smell like a nauseating combination of beer, fried food, and the pineapple margarita mix his barback had spilled everywhere earlier in the evening.  He's halfway through grabbing his phone from his pocket with the intention of calling Eric for one last goodnight before his boyfriend heads to bed, when he's brought up short by the sight of Ilya Rozanov leaning against the bar’s outside wall with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Not that Kyle is completely shocked to see Ilya; he'd just seen him earlier tonight.  Ottawa's in town, which naturally means Ilya had stopped by the Kingfisher to enjoy a few beers and the opportunity to simultaneously both annoy Scott and tease Eric.  Except the three of them had left nearly an hour ago now.  Kyle knows Eric is already home – he’d texted that he’d made it back safely – and Scott's not anywhere in sight either.  Kyle has no idea what to make of the fact that Ilya is still here, alone, smoking outside of Kyle's bar.

At first, Ilya doesn't notice him.  Kyle watches as he takes another drag of his cigarette then lets his head fall back to rest against the bar's brick facade as he stares up at the starless Manhattan sky.  There's an odd pensiveness in his expression, half-illuminated by neon and streetlights.

“I thought I heard someone say you'd quit,” Kyle says in lieu of a greeting.

Ilya starts, just slightly, and shoots Kyle a guilty look, though Kyle's not sure if it's because he's been caught smoking or loitering or both.  It only lasts a second though before his mouth curves into a conspiratorial half-smile.  “Mostly,” he says.

“Same,” Kyle replies, returning his smile.  “Now share.”  

Ilya's expression morphs into one of confusion.  “You do not smoke.”

“No,” Kyle agrees, “but I used to vape.  Now hand one over.”  He makes a grabbing motion with his right hand, until finally Ilya passes him a cigarette and his lighter.  “Call it the fine for loitering outside my bar.”  Ilya once again looks sheepish at that.

Kyle lights the cigarette and hands Ilya back his lighter, and for a while, they just smoke together in silence.  The taste of the cigarette is foul as far as Kyle's concerned, but he can't deny that the hit of nicotine feels good.  This was probably a bad idea; it had taken him months to kick the cravings the first time.

“Can I ask you something?” Kyle blurts out, breaking the comfortable silence between them.  Ilya makes a vague, assenting noise in reply.  For a moment, Kyle hesitates.  To be honest, he doesn't actually know Ilya all that well, and what he wants to ask would probably be inappropriate even if he did, but the question has been nagging at Kyle for months now, pretty much ever since Ilya first started coming to the Kingfisher, and tonight his curiosity is winning out over caution.  “Why don't you tell them you're bi?”

A short, sharp inhale is the only indication that Ilya's surprised by the question.  Otherwise he simply lifts his cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag before exhaling with a noncommittal hum.

“You are, though, right?” Kyle prompts.  He's watched Ilya at the Kingfisher enough times to surmise pretty unequivocally that he's into men.  Combining that with Eric and Scott's descriptions of his reputation back in Boston has made the conclusion fairly obvious to Kyle.

For a long moment, Ilya continues to say nothing.  He drops his finished cigarette onto the sidewalk and stamps it out before fishing a fresh one from the carton.  It's only once it's lit and he's taken a drag that he finally replies.

“And what makes you say this?”

Kyle snorts.  “How about because I'm not an idiot?”  Then he gestures over his shoulder towards the entrance to the Kingfisher and adds, “Or maybe it's because you spend all your time in New York at a fucking gay bar.”  

Ilya gives him a sidelong look.  “I cannot just be good ally?” 

Kyle shrugs.  “Sure, but good allies generally aren't checking out other guys’ asses and flirting with the bartenders while they're here.”

There's another long silence before Ilya says, “Ah.”

Kyle takes it for the confirmation it is.  “Honestly, I don't understand how the others haven't noticed.”  And they haven't, Kyle knows.  He's tried multiple times to – delicately, discreetly – suss out if any of the others suspect, only to come away every time with the conclusion that all three of them seem to be convinced that Ilya is nothing less than one hundred percent heterosexual.  Which is fucking baffling as far as Kyle's concerned.  “It's not like you're particularly subtle about it.”

Now it's Ilya's turn to snort.  “Yes, I had thought so as well.”

Now that's interesting.  Kyle had assumed Ilya's simply been doing a poor job of hiding it, but that makes it sound more like he hasn't even been trying.  Which actually does make a lot more sense now that Kyle’s thinking about it.  Ilya literally spends his life surrounded by hot, often naked, and generally homophobic men.  Kyle doubts he would have survived long as a professional ice hockey player, and a Russian one at that, if he were genuinely bad at hiding his queerness.  That, of course, just begs Kyle's original question.

“So why not say something?”

Once again, Ilya is quiet.  The expression on his face is both contemplative and conflicted, like he's weighing something heavy.  “Is complicated,” he says eventually.  His voice is low and guarded, but also just a tiny bit wistful.  “I am seeing someone, and it must remain secret.”

“Another player?” Kyle guesses and then immediately regrets it, because Ilya tenses beside him, every muscle in his body going rigid.  His whole being radiates alarm.  

“Hey, hey, don't worry,” Kyle says hurriedly, holding up his hands in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.  “I couldn't guess even if I wanted to.  I can still count the number of professional hockey players I can name on both hands.”  It's not an exaggeration.  He's been making an effort for Eric, but the learning curve is steep.

Ilya lets out a sharp bark of laughter, and the tension in his body eases, though it doesn't quite dissipate entirely.  Kyle takes a moment to study him, considering.  “But you think Eric or Scott would,” he concludes.

Ilya nods.  “Yes.  So is easier to say nothing.”  He sags back against the wall, tension now drained completely, and there's a certain dejectedness in his tone that's mirrored in the slump of his shoulders.

Something clicks in Kyle's brain.  “But you want to though.  Oh my god, that's what this is about, isn't it?  Coming here?” he says, gesturing once more toward the Kingfisher.  It seems so obvious now that Kyle can't believe he didn't put it together sooner.

A small, almost shy, smile steals over Ilya's face.  “Yes, is nice to feel like there is this group, no…” He trails off, clearly searching for a word.  “This community that I can belong to.  Maybe.  One day.”  The smile fades as he gives a sad little shrug.

“No, fuck that,” Kyle says with such force that Ilya startles beside him.  He's shaking his head almost violently.  “You belong now,” he barrels on, which earns him a skeptical huff from Ilya.  He knows he's coming off way too intense here, but he doesn't care.  For some reason, in this moment, making sure Ilya understands this feels like the most important thing in the world.  “I mean it, Ilya.  Even if no one knows but you and me and your mystery man, you belong here.  Here at the Kingfisher and here in our community.  You hear me?  You fucking belong.”  

Now Ilya’s just staring at him, eyes wide and shining in the glow of the streetlights.  Several times, he opens his mouth as if he might say something, only to close it again without a sound.  When he finally does speak, he sounds choked, voice and accent both thicker than Kyle's ever heard them.

“Thank you,” Ilya tells him simply, and suddenly, he's not the only one with a lump in his throat.  Not trusting himself to speak, Kyle just shuffles closer to Ilya, pressing their shoulders together in silent support.  After a second, he feels Ilya press ever so slightly back.

Kyle’s not sure how long they stand there pressed gently together, finishing their cigarettes, their comfortable silence broken only by the ambient shouts and sirens of the Manhattan night.  Too soon however Kyle's cigarette is down to the filter.  He knows his break is almost certainly over already, and he figures Ilya probably does actually need to get some sleep tonight before his game tomorrow.  Dropping his cigarette butt to the ground, he stamps it out, then elbows Ilya lightly in the side.

“We should probably both get going,” he says.  Ilya nods, but makes no move to vacate his spot against the wall.  Kyle nudges him again, a little harder this time.  “And for real though, if I have to listen to Eric wonder what your deal is one more time, I might lose my fucking mind so if you could maybe get around to saying something sooner rather than later that would be great.”

He's aiming for levity and can tell he's hit the mark when Ilya huffs out a half-laugh.  “I will try,” he promises Kyle.

“Good,” Kyle replies, grinning.  “My mental health appreciates it.”  Then with one final, friendly nudge, he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way back to the entrance to the Kingfisher.  He's already pulled the door open and is halfway across the threshold when he hears his name.

“Kyle?”

“Yeah?”  He waits, one foot inside the Kingfisher, one on the sidewalk, as Ilya appears to collect his thoughts.

“I just–” Ilya starts, pauses, and then tries again.  “Thank you.  Again.”

Kyle smiles.  “Any time,” he says.  Then he points up at the sign glowing above him announcing the name of the bar in rainbow letters.  “Seriously, Ilya, you're welcome here any time.”