Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-26 Words: 2,709 Chapters: 1/1

You don't fuck with tradition.

Summary

“I told Kyle not to text you.”

Ilya goes to the Kingfisher when Ottawa plays New York near the end of The Long Game. He doesn't tell anyone. Scott finds him anyway.

Notes

This isn't canon-compliant, because it's clear in The Long Game that Scott hasn't talked to Ilya after the outing before he shows up at his house. But I couldn't let Ilya play the Admirals in New York and not go to the Kingfisher so now this completely unnecessary fic exists!

It's early evening when Scott Hunter walks through the door of the Kingfisher, which means the bar's pretty much dead inside.  The corporate gays have wrapped up their post-work happy hour and headed home while the party gays won't be arriving for the next several hours yet.  Kyle's behind the bar, mixing up what looks like a fresh set of gin and tonics for a trio of sports jacket-wearing stragglers camped out at a high top.  He raises a hand in greeting as Scott enters.  Then he shoots a meaningful glance towards the Kingfisher's one other current occupant: a solitary figure hunched at the end of the bar, looking like he's trying anything to appear smaller than his 6’3” frame will allow.

Scott returns Kyle's greeting then pauses in the bar’s entranceway, taking a moment to shuck off his jacket and collect his thoughts.  He's not entirely sure what he's doing here.  He just knows that there's been an itch under his skin all day, which had only worsened every time he checked his phone and failed to find the text demanding his presence at the Kingfisher that Scott’s come to expect whenever Ottawa’s in town.  He'd been on his fifth jittery lap of the apartment when Kip finally handed him his jacket and boots and shoved him out the door with an exasperated, “Just go see if he's there.”  So now Scott's here, doing what probably qualifies as lowkey stalking and regretting declining Eric's offer to come along.

Ilya Rozanov doesn't look up as Scott slides onto the barstool beside him.  He just takes a long, final swig of his beer and lets the hand holding his now-empty glass drop back to the bar with a heavier-than-necessary thud.  “I told Kyle not to text you,” he says.

“He didn't,” Scott replies, because it's true.

“Can confirm,” Kyle chips in as he ambles over to their end of the bar.  He slides a pint of Scott's usual in front of him and then swaps out Rozanov's empty glass for a full one before vanishing through the door to the stockroom.  Rozanov grabs his beer and immediately takes a long pull.  Scott takes a much smaller sip of his and is almost disappointed when this doesn't provoke a comment about waning alcohol tolerance in the elderly.

“Honestly, I wasn't even sure you'd be here,” he tells Rozanov.  

For a moment, Rozanov doesn't reply, and Scott takes the opportunity to study the man next to him.  Rozanov's curled inwards, neck bent and shoulders hunched.  He's staring downwards, eyes locked on where his two massive hands have his pint glass in a white-knuckle grip.  Scott can hardly reconcile this Ilya Rozanov sitting beside him with the cocky, chirpy man he's faced off against on the ice for a decade now.  This Ilya Rozanov looks almost fragile.

“I wasn't sure I'd be here either,” Rozanov finally replies.  Then he glances over Scott and with a wry half-smile adds, “But as the Canadians say, ‘You don't fuck with tradition.’”

Scott chuckles despite himself.  “Do Canadians say that?” he asks.  It’s certainly news to him.

The smile drops from Rozanov's face.  “Shane does,” he says, and the simple statement hangs in the air like lead.

“I'm really fucking sorry,” Scott says, because there's nothing else he can think of to say.  What happened to Rozanov and Hollander had been Scott's literal nightmare from adolescence up until just a few short years ago.  That loss of privacy, of control, of autonomy was a violation on the deepest level.  Even now, just imagining something like that having happened to him and Kip makes Scott's stomach roil and his palms prickle with sweat despite the cold beer he's cradling.  Scott’s dealt with plenty of bullshit and bigotry since he came out, but at least that coming out was something he got to choose.  Rozanov and Hollander didn't even get that.  It makes Scott want to punch something.  It also kind of makes him want to cry.  Neither of those seem like particularly helpful options here, so instead he asks, “How has it been?  How have you been?”  

It sounds inadequate even to him.

Rozanov takes another swig of his beer before responding.  “Me?  Am okay.  Team has been good, actually.  Coach is very good.  Even management is good.”  

“But?” Scott prompts. 

Rozanov takes a long inhale, then exhales slowly.  His grip on his beer glass tightens even further.  “Montreal is not so good.”

Scott nods.  “I saw some of what the fans were saying online.  About Shane tripping.”  Which is admittedly a magnificent underselling of the bullshit discourse he hasn't been able to keep off even his extremely limited social media feed.

Rozanov’s features immediately turn thunderous.  “Not just fans saying it.  Players.  Coaches.  All of them.”  His voice is as thick as his accent, as though he is physically choking on his rage.

“Seriously?  After everything?” Scott says.  It makes no sense at all.  The Voyageurs may have historically been a good team, but they'd missed the playoffs for multiple years prior to drafting Hollander.  It was how they'd ended up with the number two pick that year in the first place.  Scott knows better than anybody that hockey is a team sport, and he would never credit Hollander with single-handedly leading the team out of that slump and to three Stanley Cup wins, but anyone with one eye and half a brain could see he sure had had a lot to do with it.

“Yes.  Ten years.  Three cups,” Rozanov says, echoing Scott's thoughts out loud.  “But now none of that matters, because of me.”  

“Fuck that,” Scott says, because once again he has no better ideas.

“Yes, fuck that,” Rozanov agrees and drinks his beer. 

For a while, they drink in silence.  Scott wouldn't exactly call it comfortable, but it's also not uncomfortable either, so Scott’s content to sip his beer and wait for Rozanov to be ready to talk again.  The other man is clearly ruminating on something, chewing at his lip and twisting his beer glass on the bar in front of him like it's the physical manifestation of some thought he's turning over in his head.  

It’s not until after their glasses have been drained and swiftly replaced with new ones by Kyle that Rozanov finally speaks.  When he does, he picks up right where he left off.  

“Which makes it worst part that even knowing this, knowing how shit it has been for Shane, I am still so fucking relieved.  I wanted this.”  He pauses and scrubs at his face with his hands.  The frustration rolling off him is nearly tangible.  “Not this this obviously, but I wanted so much to be done with hiding.  I wanted to be out, to be free.  Now I finally am, and I am so fucking glad,” he finishes sounding anything but.

Scott swallows hard, because he gets it.  Watching Kip get caught up in the backlash of Scott's coming out had been far and away the worst part about it.  Scott can shake off people calling him a faggot, but hearing Kip get called a gold digger still breaks Scott's heart every time.   At the same time, Scott also understands the relief Rozanov’s describing.  He hadn't even realized how heavy the burden of his secret had become until suddenly it was gone.  The moment when he’d kissed Kip on the ice, Scott felt like a weight he’d forgotten he was carrying had dropped from his shoulders.  Scott wouldn't take it back even if it meant protecting Kip from every last cruel comment or mean tweet the internet had to offer.

“I think that makes me terrible boyfriend,” Rozanov adds miserably.

“No,” says Scott with conviction.  “You're allowed to feel conflicted.  It always sucks seeing someone you love–”  Scott’s proud when his tongue doesn't trip over the word, because the idea that Rozanov loves Hollander is one Scott's still getting used to.  “–get hurt, but that's always going to be the price of coming out when there's still bigotry in the world.  But that doesn't negate the joy.  I was choking to death in the closet by the time I finally came out.  It sounds like you were too.  Of course, you're going to be relieved when you can finally breathe.”

Rozanov doesn't reply, but Scott watches some of the tension in his shoulders uncoil.  “Is that why you were always hanging around here?” Scott asks, suddenly curious.

Rozanov gives him a sidelong look.  “You really did not guess?”

Scott shakes his head, and Rozanov swivels on his barstool so he's fully facing Scott.  His mouth is open, and he looks flabbergasted.  “But I made it so obvious!” he groans, managing to sound genuinely offended, like he can imagine nothing more insulting than being mistaken for heterosexual. 

Scott laughs.  “I mean, I'd heard the rumors about Shane out of Montreal.  And…”  Scott thinks back.  “He sent me an email.  Back when I first came out.  Nothing specific, but I could maybe read something between the lines.”

“Yes, he mentioned.”

“But I never could quite figure out what was up with you.  In retrospect, I probably should have, especially after that night you brought Barrett.  And it certainly explains why you went to fucking Ottawa of all places.  You just had such a reputation…”  He trails off as the small smile that's been playing at the corner of Rozanov's mouth morphs into a full-blown smirk.

“Promise I will not tell Bennett you forgot bisexuals exist.”

“Thank you,” Scott says with a chuckle, because he deserved that one.  “So, no, I didn't guess, but I might have been about twenty percent less surprised than everyone else in the NHL.  Or,” Scott pauses and cocks his head, considering.  “I suppose everyone else in the NHL not named Hayden Pike, huh?”

Rozanov snorts.  “Yes, and he is as bad at keeping secrets as he is at hockey,” he grumbles, though Scott can't detect any real malice in the words.

“I guess I would expect a guy whose job it is to track a three-inch puck on a two hundred-foot rink to have slightly better situational awareness,” Scott replies.

Rozanov snickers.  “Right?  He is very slow in more ways than one.”

Now it's Scott's turn to laugh.  He probably should feel bad, because he actually quite likes Pike, but he also suspects that deep down, so does Rozanov.  

They finish the remainder of their beers in silence, and this time, it’s comfortable, companionable even.  When their glasses are empty once again, Scott checks the time on his phone and sighs.  “I should probably head out.  Game tomorrow afternoon, after all,” he says, nudging Rozanov meaningfully.  He's not sure how many beers Rozanov put away prior to Scott's arrival, but he's guessing it wasn't just the one.  “Plus I told Kip I'd be home in time to watch a movie before bed.”

The smirk is back, and Rozanov nods with overly affected seriousness.  “Yes, and I have read about how senior citizens prefer to go to sleep much earlier.”

“Oh, fuck off, Rozanov,” Scott says without heat.  He slides off his barstool with a wave to Kyle.  No need to settle a tab when you own the bar.  He gestures toward Rozanov as well, just to make sure Kyle knows his drinks are comped.  Kyle responds with a dismissive wave that makes it clear he was planning on doing that anyway.  For a moment, Scott thinks Rozanov might stay for another round, but then he's standing up as well and gathering up his jacket from beneath the bar.  Scott resists the urge to ask if this makes him an old man now too.  

“My hotel is this way,” Rozanov says as they step out in the night air, already angling to the left, opposite the direction of Scott and Kip's apartment.  Scott opens his mouth to say goodbye, when Rozanov suddenly pauses mid-stride and whips back around to face Scott.  

“I never thanked you for what you did,” Rozanov says, and it comes out in a bit of a rush.  Scott doesn’t reply, because unless it's for the drinks just now, he's not entirely sure what Rozanov's talking about.   “Coming out, I mean.”  

Oh, Scott thinks as a little bloom of warmth takes root in his chest.

“I was ready to end it with Shane.  Well, try to at least.  Am not sure it would have worked.  But then–”  He pauses and shrugs, and Scott's shocked to see the tips of his ears have gone pink.  “But then you kissed Kip, and suddenly, for first time things seemed possible.  Not easy maybe, but also not impossible either.”

He shrugs again, and Scott has to struggle to swallow around the lump that's suddenly lodged in his throat.  He will not cry in front of Ilya fucking Rozanov, not even this bizarrely vulnerable version of him. 

Then Rozanov says, “It gave me, gave us hope.”  And, oh fuck, Scott really is going to cry.  Because isn’t this exactly why he did it?  Well, he did for himself and Kip mainly, of course, but this had been part of his motivation as well.  The idea that maybe if he could be the one to come out first, to take that first terrifying step, then maybe he could help other players.  Other players who were just as scared as he'd been.  Other players who felt just as alone as he’d felt.  And now that's not just some abstract idea anymore.  Now Rozanov is standing in front of him telling him that Scott did exactly that for him, and for Hollander.  

Scott knows he needs to reply, but he also knows that the instant he tries to talk, the tears will start.  So he settles for doing the second most embarrassing thing he can think of instead.  He grabs Rozanov by his jacket, hauls him close, and hugs him.  He's only mostly surprised when Rozanov hugs him back. 

“We will still kick your ass tomorrow,” says Rozanov as he pulls away, and there's a damp shimmer in his eyes that mirrors Scott's own.  “I will score many goals.  Your new goalie is not as good as Bennett.”

Scott laughs, because he can't argue with that.  Eric is one of a kind.  “No, but you guys still lack–”

Rozanov cuts in with a nod.  “Depth at center, I know.  I tell Shane this.”

He says it so casually that it takes Scott a second to clock the potential significance behind Rozanov's statement.  Because Hollander is a free agent after this season, and if Montreal is really giving him as much crap as Rozanov says they are… 

“Wait.  Really?”

“Yes, maybe.  Hopefully,” Rozanov says with a barely suppressed grin.

“Damn,” says Scott.  Then he actually considers the prospect.  “Fuck,” he amends, because Rozanov and Hollander, two of the best centers to ever play the game, on the same team wouldn't just be dominant; it would be fucking unstoppable.  Scott briefly considers retiring now so he never has to face the monster that’s about to be created.  

“This is league is about to homophobia itself into an Ottawa dynasty, isn't it?”

“Yes, and we will pretend that was always the plan,” Rozanov replies, grinning fully now.  “What is the expression?  Four-dimensional chess?  That is what we did.  Do not tell anyone otherwise.”  

Scott laughs.  “I think the chess is only three-dimensional, but you have my word.”  He pauses then adds, “You have to promise me something too though.”

“And what is that?”

“The next time you’re here–” He gestures towards the Kingfisher. “–you'll text me.”  He tries to remember what Rozanov had said to him earlier.  “We can't fuck with tradition, right?”

“Okay,” Rozanov agrees.  Then with a shit-eating grin, he adds, “I know how important tradition is to elderly.”  As if Rozanov hadn't been the one to bring it up in the first place.  

Scott rolls his eyes as he bites back a smile.  “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he says as he turns and starts down the sidewalk in the direction of his apartment.  

“Good night, Hunter!” Rozanov calls from behind him.  “Do not be late for nursing home curfew!”

Scott smiles and flips him off.  Rozanov laughs.