Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Grindr, Vacation, post-Vegas, summer of 2014, getting drunk as bros, Pining, oh my god the pining, Yearning, so much yearning

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-20 Words: 3,861 Chapters: 1/1

Italian Holiday

Summary

Ilya is on vacation in Italy. He just wants a quick fuck.

Or: Scott & Ilya accidentally match on grindr while vacationing (separately) in Italy and get really drunk about it.

Notes

Thank you to darnacles for the beta read you're a delight :D
It seems that the Ilya & Scott Bromance is now my brand, I just love these two being reluctant friends.

Ilya’s phone buzzed with a familiar sound.

Pulling it out he looked at the three notifications of matches. The first had sent a dick pick straight away—nope, too needy. The second had immediately pasted a long an impassioned message in Italian that included a link to… was that a protein shake? Ilya really hoped it was a protein shake else he was being offered something either illegal or very much discouraged in professional sports.

The final notification was much more what Ilya was looking for.

Hunty: Hey, what you into?

Finally a normal fucking message.

Ilya was aware that he was in somewhat a hell of his own making. Pre-season started next week, and his team thought he was still in Moscow, but his head was so fucking full of Shane Fucking Hollander that he just needed to get out… something.

And Moscow was never going to be the best place for cruising. He’d gotten somewhat spoiled in Boston, able to wander across the city and open up the app whenever he fancied, getting an anonymous fuck from a guy that barely knew hockey existed as a sport, and then going home. Women were easier—he’d save those encounters for away games mostly, or nights when he was out with his team. Places where he didn’t know how to be quiet, where he knew he was watched leaving the club.

He did it to keep himself safe. To keep Hollander—

Fuck. No. The point of this was to forget about the night they’d spent together in Vegas, to forget how his hands had looked on his own skin, how hungry his eyes had been—

Nope, he was doing it again.

Focus.

Ilya pulled up the reasonable guy’s profile. Fucking stunning abs in that profile pic—Ilya couldn’t even be mad there was no face given his own picture was almost identical. The profile was actually filled all the way in which was very unusual. Twenty six, six-foot-one (then again, everyone put that. Except Ilya. He was six-foot exactly according to his own profile. And he’d stand by that.) and on the heavier side, but then again so was Ilya. Muscle weighed a lot. Single, Vers (apparently), clean cut, discreet, and less than one kilometre away.

This wasn’t an especially densely populated part of the Italian coast. Fuck, this guy was probably staying here.

Hopefully not for long, else Ilya was going to have to cut his own vacations short. Even as captain, turning up three days early for the beginning of the pre-season camp was weird.

Hollander probably did it.

No. Fuck. Lock in. Hot man with great abs and a deep desire to get fucked by Ilya Rozanov. Not that he knew that just yet, but there was time.

RussianC: I only top. And we meet in my hotel room.

Hunty: Ok, sure. Where are you staying?

RussianC: Splendido Mare. Room 39

Hunty: Now? Or after dark.

Hunty: I’d rather after dark.

RussianC: Why, are you cinderella that is pumpkin during daylight

Hunty: Fuck off, when I said discreet I meant discreet.

Hunty: That means cover of darkness and no breakfasts

RussianC: Fine. I will wait. You have name that I give to desk so you can come up alone, or do I come down and pick you up like schoolboy?

Hunty: I’m also staying there, I can get to your room with my key.

RussianC: Oh, so you are not a local boy

Hunty: don’t think anyone round here is local this time of year.

RussianC: I had local boy last night.

Hunty: so you’re bringing the condoms

Ilya laughed to himself. Maybe this would be fun. The guy had chirps.

RussianC: I am told I am very conscientious lover. That means I bring condoms. And Lube. Everything you could want.

Hunty: Good to know

Hunty: See you in a few hours.

Ilya put his phone down and went back to his drink. A little more buzz before he went upstairs wouldn’t hurt.

Ilya was laying on his bed, scrolling the offerings. It was gone ten at night, and twilight was fading outside. Hunty, whoever the fuck he was, should be here soon, and Ilya was bored. Fuck, this place was too rural for a gay bar or somewhere to go dance properly, but Sasha said he’d been here before and had good luck so he’d run with it.

There was a knock at the door, and Ilya leapt up from the bed. He checked himself to make sure his air of artful dishevelment was still present, then he walked through the suite to let tonight’s entertainment in.

The

Fuck

“Scott Hunter?”

“Ilya Rozanov? Fuck. This is some cosmic karmic fucking joke, Jesus Christ why? Why are you here?”

“I think that maybe it is obvious why I am here, Mr Hunty. Not very inventive name.”

“Oh god. Oh fuck. Let me in, Jesus, I don’t want to be in the hall.”

Scott Hunter—well dressed, hair moussed, and beard closely trimmed—pushed past Ilya into the suite and collapsed onto a chair.

“You, uh. Want drink? I have coke, and very tiny bottles of things.”

“No. Fuck. Who knows you’re here? The fuck do you want?”

“I think it is obvious that I want a fuck, but I do not think that I want a fuck with you, Scott Hunter. Don’t worry.”

“None taken, Rozanov. God, Fuck. Imagine the league finding out. Two captains fucking each other on their holiday. Ha. Fucking hell.”

Ilya finally shut the door behind him.

He very pointedly did not think about Shane Hollander.

“So, uh. Come here often?” Ilya said, sauntering forward and sitting on the couch.

“Rozanov, I am not in the mood.” Hunter’s hands were still over his face, and for a moment Ilya was reminded of Hollander. This time, it didn’t hurt.

“Hey, look. It’s okay. What, you think I tell everyone that you are gay? Oh sure, mister Man in Crease, it all started when I decided I wanted to fuck a guy in Italy. Wait, where did all these KGB Agents come from? Okay, goodbye forever.”

Hunter let out a pained laugh through his heavy breathing.

“Oh god, this is totally fucked. Of all the fucking assholes on the whole continent, how the fuck did we end up here?”

“For same reason: To fuck men. I did not realise being old made you so slow, I thought this was obvious.”

“Fuck you Rozanov, you were clearly ready to fuck me, anyway. I’m not too old for you.”

“That was before I knew you were hockey player. Nice normal boys with lots of abs last longer when they are older.” Ilya said, smirking.

“Ew. No. That was way more than I ever wanted to know about your sex life.”

“Wow, you are homophobic.”

“CHRIST! PLEASE! Can you be serious for TWO MINUTES?!”

Ilya’s mouth snapped shut. Oh, Scott was really fucked about this.

“Sorry. Fuck. I just… it’s insane, right?” Ilya said, leaning forward on his own knees, looking more intently at Hunter’s face.

“You have no i— fuck you probably do, actually. Ha, at least if we’d fucked we’d be taking the same risks. We’d both actually know what the fallout could look like. At least fucking another player means they know.”

“Eh, maybe not. Unless he is on your team it would be very hard. Only four games per season. Maybe All-Stars if he’s good. Playoff series is too busy, too much travel.”

“Jeez, Roz. You sound like you’ve been thinking about it. What, you got a crush on someone? I think Malkin is too old for you.”

“Shut up Hunter, was… example.”

“Sure. Whatever. Also I’d never fuck you.”

“I said in my message I only top so that was always true.”

Hunter actually laughed that time. Ilya hadn’t realised how tightly he’d coiled himself until he heard the laugh and he felt himself relax, muscles across his back and shoulders finally letting gravity take hold of him, so he fell back against the couch to actually relax.

“I have vodka. You want?”

“Sure. Christ, yeah. Can’t possibly make it worse anyway.”

Ilya reached over to the minibar and pulled out the larger bottle that he’d stashed in there. This wasn’t the bottle he’d brought back from home—that was still in his large suitcase next to the bed—but Europe had more access to decent vodka than America, so he’d splashed out at a supermarket on the drive from the airport.

Ilya poured them both drinks in silence. Ilya took a series of deep breaths then knocked his shot back, refilling it straight away before putting the bottle back in the fridge. Hunter was just staring at his own.

“To get the buzz you need to actually drink it. I didn’t think I’d be teaching you how to drink, but then maybe nice vodka is confusing.”

“Fuck off,” said Hunter, but this time it was said with much more levity. Ilya grinned back at him and downed his second shot, watching Scott do the same.

“Fucking hell, Rozanov. That was way too smooth.”

“And people say that getting good vodka isn’t worth it. Pah! It should not make you want to die when you drink it sober, it should make you want to live!”

“You’re still a rook in my head, Rozanov, you’re barely old enough to drink.”

“Worst part of getting drafted in America is stupid drinking law. Our coaches were giving us the drinks in juniors. Then I am full adult with million dollar contract and I can’t even get a stupid weak beer with my team after we win. Stupid country.”

“I swear to god I saw a guy last summer wearing a t-shirt that said ‘be gay do crimes’ and I was so tempted to get it.” Hunter held his glass out to Ilya, who pulled out the vodka and poured Hunter another finger. “you should definitely have got it.”

“I do not do crimes. Or be gay. They will take my visa. But at least when we play Canadian teams there are places to drink. Unfortunately it means we are playing Toronto or Montreal, but still. There is beer and cider and sometimes stronger things that don’t make my eyes water.”

“Fuckin eh,” said Hunter, raising his glass even as Ilya laughed at his terrible Canadian accent. Hunter downed the drink, and held his glass out again. Ilya topped them both up.

This time he didn’t return the bottle to the fridge. Apparently it was going to be this kind of night.

The two of them talked more about inconsequential things. They toasted Boston’s Stanley Cup win, and then commiserated on the Admirals not even making it to the playoffs. Ilya complained that Hunter was too slow, and Hunter complained that Rozanov was too aggressive. Hunter was clearly feeling the effects of the vodka much faster than Ilya.

Once Hunter started to slow, apparently realising that he was much drunker than he intended, his face turned serious.

“You’re… you’re a fucking menace, you know? But like… you’re alright. Eric thinks you’re a demon sent to torment him or some fuckery, but you’re not… you’re just a guy. Haha. A gay. A gay guy. Just like me.”

“I’m not like you. I’m better. More cups. More goals.”

“Fuck off, you know what I mean.” Hunter leaned toward him, whispering as though telling him a secret. “You’re fucking gay. That’s more like me than anyone else in the whole league. The whole world. Just us. We’re just the two of us. On our own. We gotta be, like, gay best friends. I never had a gay best friend. Wait, am I Vaughney’s gay best friend? Does that mean I gotta be, like, fashionable or some shit? Do I need to know things about drag?”

“Hunter, we are not only gay men in the whole world.”

“No, we are only gay hockey men in the whole world.” Hunter grinned, tapping his head like he was imparting great wisdom. “That means we have… a pact. Special club. We should have a handshake. No straight people allowed. I will only have gay friends now, ha! Take that you fucking… NHL fuckers. You gotta find me a whooooole team of gay people.”

“Hunter, I think you are drunk. Too drunk to be making career decisions.”

“No, no. Look. I’m right. We can have... me and you. Crosby and Malkin—last year’s rook leg-legitimately asked me if they were gay.” Hunter was struggling to get the words out but Ilya was too entertained to stop him. “Eric can come because he’s cool. We need a good defender. Do you think we could turn a defender gay? I think you could show Price a good time.”

“I would be squashed like a bug.”

“Noooo no no no, you top him. Or I could. Or he could top me. God I wanna get fucked so bad, why did it have to be you?”

“I don’t think we need to turn people. There will be other gay hockey players I’m sure. Also, if you turn all the good players gay we will be killed by horde of angry puck bunnies.” Ilya pointed out. Hunter just sighed.

“Maybe there will be a new army of male puck bunnies. That’s probably a thing, right?” Scott—he couldn’t be Hunter when he was this drunk and pathetic—sighed.

“I mean, I think so. I have not had complaints, but I do not fuck hockey fans. Seems like bad idea for staying quiet.”

“Fuck. Yeh. I mean, you’re always seen out I assumed you were—”

“Oh yes, I have fucked lots of men and women in America. And Canada. And even some in Russia when I… before.”

“Shit man you’re living life on the edge. Hooking up in Russia.”

“Only when I was young. No other choice.”

“How the fuck do you get more dick than me when I live in like… the second most liberal place in America? I should move to California, join that gay beer league team they got.”

“Hunter, no. You are slow and old, but you are still better than beer league.”

“Aww, Rozanov. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Eh, well. I still won’t fuck you.”

“Okay then, who would you fuck? In the NHL? Come on. Uh… Carter Vaughan?”

“No,” Ilya tried not to grimace.

“No, no. The game is smash or pass. You gotta say smash or pass. Ok now you ask me.”

“Okay. Carter Vaughan.” Ilya said with a smirk

“That’s cheating, you gotta pick someone new. My turn. Adam Hyman.”

“Edmonton Defence guy? Pass.”

“I dunno. Did you see him at the Olympics?”

“Is my Smash or Pass, Scott Hunter, and I say Pass. Now you. Cliff Marlow.”

“Smash. God he’s so tall. And he does peewee coaching when he goes home, did you see that?”

“Yes, he talks about it.” Ilya couldn’t help but smile, fond. This was not a version of Scott Hunter he had ever expected to see.

“Ugh, tall men good with kids. Shame he is also very cute with his girlfriend.”

“Fiancée. They are doing wedding before all-star this year.”

“Oh shit. Congrats to him I guess. Fuck, everyone I know is so painfully straight. Okay, I joked earlier but Evgeni Malkin?”

“Pass. He’s good at hockey, but I think maybe he took too many pucks to the face as a child.”

“Wait, you seriously rate ‘good at hockey’ over how a guy looks?” Scott was looking at him like a revelation.

“I mean, I wouldn’t throw him out of bed…”

“Oh my god Roz. You’d just lie back and think of Russia, eh?”

“Well, of Boston now. But good hockey deserves good fuck. Other reason I won’t fuck you.”

“Screw you Rozanov, I’m a fucking catch. If you ignore, ya know,” Scott gestured at himself, “the fucking Narnia.”

“Narnia?”

“You know, magical land found in the back of a closet.”

“Ah yes. I know men who were also in Narnia.” Ilya frowned. “Am I in Narnia?”

“Nah, man. You chirp like you’re flirting. Fuck, are you flirting?”

“Maybe,” Ilya grinned at Scott as he knocked back another shot. Fuck, maybe he was drunk too.

“I’m gonna figure out your type in the NHL if it kills me. Hayden Pike.” Scott shot at him, no warning.

“Fuck no, Pass. Has too many children. I would be worried I get him pregnant and he bothers me for child support. And he is not good enough at hockey. Fifteenth best player on the Voyageurs.”

Scott practically fell out of his chair he was laughing so hard by the time Ilya was done talking. Ilya groaned dramatically, but he was smiling. Fuck if he didn’t like making people laugh.

“Okay. Okay. Fine. Shane Hollander, then. God, that would be so fucking funny, the two of you would probably kill each other.”

“Smash,” Ilya said, not thinking it through.

“Wait, fuck. Really?”

“I… I uh...” Ilya felt suddenly exposed.

“I mean, I guess if hockey skill really is your turn on. What, you gonna compete for who gets to come first?”

Ilya felt like he’s been teleported back to the night in Vegas just before he left. To the sight of Hollander on the bed, the way his eyes lit up as he described winning the cup. His hips stuttering when Ilya described the ecstasy at holding it above his head. Angry promises bitten out between thrusts that said Shane was going to make him wait twice as long when it was his turn, that his prize for winning the cup next year would be watching Ilya writhe and stutter under Shane’s mouth and hands until they were both screaming.

Fuck, he was getting a little hard thinking about it even with the amount of vodka he’d drunk. Then again, if he ever drank so much he couldn’t get hard he was hanging up his skates because he was clearly washed up.

“Shit, man. This got you actually riled up. You don’t, like, have a crush on him or something?” Ilya had almost forgotten Scott was in the room.

“No. He’s just… good hockey player. You’re right. I like talent.”

“Roz, buddy, you’re blushing.”

“I do not blush.”

“Uh… yeah you do. I’m looking at it right now. Shit man you have a crush on Shane fucking Hollander.”

“No I do not. He is boring hockey robot with weak backhand and terrible friends, playing for terrible team that Boston hates.”

“Yeah, the Montreal-Boston rivalry was legendary even before you guys got involved. You two as the most insanely talented rooks in the same year was a golden fucking opportunity for the league. They must have thought they struck gold when you two got drafted the way you did.”

“Yes. So we cannot. And he’s not… he doesn’t want me. Perfect golden Canadian hockey boy who says all the right things on camera and never has pictures of drinking shots of naked girls in clubs and—”

“Okay okay, Christ Roz. You’re really worked up about this? Is that… is that why you’re here? I mean, it’s not like I advertise my summer getaways given the givens, but I thought you only did, like, Russia in the off season.”

Ilya drank some more vodka—straight out of the bottle this time. His heart was beating fast.

Because now he was thinking about how he’d left it in Vegas. Thoughts of returning to Russia turning him cold like they always did. The familiar sensation of the cigarette between his lips while Shane had picked himself up to leave. For the first time, he’d really questioned going back to Russia. The weight of obligation to go home for the first time clashing against the opportunity for something else. He wasn’t even sure what that something else might look like, just that he wanted it with a ferocity that almost hurt.

“I have been league player for four years now. Four summers I go home and I see my family. This year will be fifth time I start the season and listen to Marley tell me about his hockey camp where he has good time, and St-Simon tells me about his wife and their holiday. I am tired. Maybe I want to tell them about my crazy sex vacation.” Ilya carefully didn’t say anything about Hollander. Carefully didn’t say anything about his family.

“Yeah, I get that. Every other member of the team gets to brag about the beautiful women they see, that they date, that they fucking marry. Meanwhile I tell them about my chaste getaway to France or Greece or wherever.”

“Your getaway that was not… chaste?” Ilya asked.

“Free from sex. Obviously not a word that you would need.”

“Ah. No. I do not think my team would believe I had chaste vacation.” Ilya poured Scott another drink. He was starting to sober up. That wouldn’t do at all.

Scott knocked it back, then looked at Ilya through narrowed eyes.

“Wait, you avoided the question. The fuck is going on between you and Hollander?”

“Is nothing. It cannot be anything. We are not talking about this. Drink your drink and shut up.”

Ilya imagined for a moment that it had been Hollander that opened the door. He’d have known any part of him that was in a picture, every inch of his skin burned like a brand into Ilya’s brain like it lived there, so it would have been a surprise. It would have been like fate—the inexorable gravity that stretched between them as soon as they were in each others orbit finally working in Ilya’s favour. There was no way to escape him, no way to block him out of his head. Even now, more drunk than he’d been since the night he won the cup, further from Hollander than even Moscow was, it was like he was right there in the room with how Ilya ached to touch him.

Scott didn’t get to see that. Ilya wanted to be greedy, possessive. Wanted to keep the thought of Shane Hollander out of Scott Hunter’s head because he belonged to Ilya.

Hollander should be here. Or fuck, Ilya should be where he was.

Ilya tipped out another shot of vodka. This time something did burn.

When Scott and Ilya woke up the next morning, both nursing headaches and collapsed together on the king-sized bed, they vowed never to speak of what had occurred between them.

Scott had to admit that there were parts of the night that were hazy. Had he really suggested out loud that Crosby and Malkin were gay? Fuck, he hoped Roz didn’t remember that part.

However, when the first Montreal/Boston matchup was televised the following November, Scott found he couldn’t look away from the way Ilya stared at Shane during the whole match. Something was knocking at the back of his mind, like a half-remembered dream.

Indeed, he found himself staring more intently at everything where the two talents—Rozanov and Hollander—were forced to be in proximity.

And, privately, Scott started to wonder.