Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Coming Out, supportive team, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Queerplatonic Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Words: 5,383 Chapters: 1/1

The Comedic? Intervention of Larry, Curly, and Mo

Summary

Rozanov has four guests over the night New York plays San Francisco for the Cup. Only one of them knows the true significance of what’s happening on screen, until they all do.

Notes

At this point, three months into my hyperfixation, I’ve read 183 pages into sort by kudos, and I still haven’t seen a single fic mention that the night Ilya’s brain crashes and reboots into queer joy, there are literally three random dudes on his living room couch with him, plus Svetlana. I’ve been a slut for outsider pov for twenty years, and who better than three bros with no lines witnessing one of the most important events in the timeline?

Also, shout out to my long distance American girlfriend for doing a grocery run to inform me about juice. Ever since trashfire’s tarrif bullshit started my local stores stock almost exclusively Canadian products, and I had a mini meltdown when I realised SunRype is not something other places has.

The attendance to Roz’s Stanley Cup party is a little lower than Daniil might have calculated. It’s not a surprise that the guys with wives and girlfriends are in what Daniil calls post-season grovelling mode. It’s different for each guy, some of them taking their girl on fancy beach vacations, some getting papped while handing over fancy jewelry at expensive restaurants, some just painting the porch or changing their portion of diapers. All the shit they can’t always do from October to May, being done posthaste to prove it’s the job making difficulties, not the man. He just thought it’d be a few more than his line. Hell, Roz doesn’t even have any girls over, just Sveta. Yeah they’ll probably fuck tonight, but they could fuck any night. Surely there’s some hot Instagram woman who wants to help Roz lick his playoff elimination wounds. Ride him reverse cowgirl, to not aggravate his bruised ribs, really take care of him. And her friends too. Daniil would not turn down a Insta model’s best friend right now, just like he’s sure Curly wouldn’t. Mo’s thing with Becca is more complicated but honestly he could probably benefit from dropping her and just hooking up with a social media girl.

If Daniil was a true patriot he wouldn’t be here right now either. Some of the Russians in the league go home mere days after their last game of the season. It’s not like there’s not a few things to look forward to. The pelmeni at Ana’s is better than any he’s tried in America, and he makes it a point to google Russian restaurants at every away game. Some come close, but nothing is quite ninety year old Ana and half her many grandchildren doing the exact same thing every day for decades. Daniil’s offered to pay double, or even triple but much like the dated decor and nearly dusty bowl of candy at the til, she refuses to deliver and Daniil’s sure she’s written that clause into her will. He’ll just have to go in person, once his plane lands, like always.

Women, too, he’s looking forward to. He’s good, Boston Raiders good, but he’s no Ovechkin or Fedorov. He doesn’t bring honour to his country simply by existing. Still, he’s in the MLH and has a million stories and a decent face. He can pick up, will be picking up, all summer.

What he doesn’t want is to go back to Novosibirsk and see any family member more than once. Most, preferably not at all. He cut them off years ago, had to, but that doesn’t mean they don’t still text. Alcoholics, every last one of them. And the only reason it’s just that is that coke or meth or gambling would simply be a waste of alcohol money, money he’s refused to supply since his rookie year.

It’s not like he’s immune to it. As he explained in a fury when getting drunk for team camaraderie got shoved into his face, a few years ago, it’s genetic. It’d be easy for him to become a waste of space, but he doesn’t want to be, so don’t tell him not doing a shot is bad for team morale. It was embarrassing, in the minutes after Daniil stopped seeing red, breathing heavy, but Cap’s never let anyone be a dick about it since. Only he can be a dick about it, and only in that rather than offer the large bottles of Daniil’s favourite flavour of Juicy Juice -kiwi strawberry- on hang nights, he packs his fridge full of kids juice boxes because he thinks it’s funnier.

It becomes increasingly clear as the game goes on that the Admirals have this one. Good hockey, but annoying, because they’re clearly in for another season of Rozy bitching about dinosaur men winning too much and it not being good for their fragile fossil bones. Halfway through the last period he’s pulling himself out of Sveta’s loose cuddle on the right side of the U shaped sectional to pace, typing rapidly as he does. Daniil doesn’t know which Raider is unfortunate enough to be the first victim of this rant, but he knows they’ll all be familiar with it before preseason starts. Roz gets bored in Moscow, nights out clubbing and hooking up so common to him that they become background noise, days spent training and avoiding what is the team’s worst kept secret, that Roz has a shitty family. He texts a lot in the summer.

Unlike Daniil, who plans on taking at least June for himself, Roz is getting ready to go. Like in the morning, quite probably. There’s a duffle bag on one of the decorative side tables, and Sveta giving orders about what trinkets to take back to his niece. She’s a year older every time Rozy sees her, because as far as Daniil knows none of the Rozanovs have ever once come to visit him. Even Sjöberg’s parents came out from Gothenburg once. This summer she’s old enough for hair ornaments and Barbies, at least according to what Daniil sees them packing.

Fifteen seconds remaining, the commenter lets them know, as if they can’t read. Mo’s chugging his drink like the opened bottle of vodka on the coffee table will explode if they don’t empty it tonight. Annoying, but on the range of drunk people Daniil has to put up with in the cultures he lives in, he’s had far worse. Mo’s never pissed himself, at least. Roz is still standing, straight scowling at his phone. Curly, to his left, Daniil sitting closer to him than Roz’s girl on his right out of respect, is despondent too. Losing sucks, and their last game was so close. Only Sveta is lounging, her head lightly braced on the fist upraised from her arm propped on the back of the couch, calm in a way her best friend isn’t. She knows as well as they do how grumpy Rozanov is going to be tonight. At least last year it went to the Metros. The second year in a row, a fucking travesty to their rivalry, but in Roz’s eyes a competitor worth winning, worthy of less seething annoyance. But Montreal was fucked the minute Hollander ate shit, and injuries let New York sneak past them. Roz is gonna be pouty until they all take off and Sveta fucks him better, Daniil knows it.

It’s funny, how he’s still hanging with Sveta so much when he clearly wants Jane. Their texts have grown exponentially this last month, Roz almost never seen without his phone in hand. No one’s successfully stolen his phone to read aloud what is always making him lowkey smitten, but that stupid Montreal Jane smirk is undeniable from the first time Marly or another vet points it out. Which is the point of Sveta, Daniil guesses. At least she’ll go home with him. Jane hasn’t been seen once, not in the fuckin’ years they’ve been hooking up, despite the thousands of texts. Not a chance she’ll ever be photographed in an airport on the way to her man.

Marleau passes it to Hassan, then Hassan to Connors, running out the clock as the Admirals fans scream a countdown of ten to one. Daniil takes a deep sip of the juicebox, halving it in one glug, the tart sweetness hitting his tongue. Sometimes fate is shit, denying you the things you’ve worked so hard for, but at least things like strawberry kiwi exist, so he doesn’t have to bear the sickly sweetness of Coke, or the gross ginger ale that’s been in the back of Roz’s fridge, undrunk but for some reason perpetually purchased for years now. Life could be worse.

*

Brett can never say what he’s thinking, for risk of getting razzed to hell and back by Larry and Curly. Svetlana would probably be chill, she’s Roz’s girl but she’s also a girl, and girls are more openhearted, generally speaking. But Larry and Curly would side eye him, and as irritated as Roz is right now he’d definitely rake Brett over the coals for wanting to give Hunter a hug.

It’s just brutal, though. Sure he gets the first lap around the rink, but as he passes it to Vaughn, the friends and family flood the ice for the photo safe celebration before the night really starts, and Hunter’s got no one. Everyone knows his tragic backstory, he’s been in the league long enough that it’s nothing new, but apparently there’s no girlfriend either. Fresh Cup winner or not, it’s hard to not feel sorry for Scott Hunter. Empathic is maybe the word, cause Brett gets it, in a way. His parents will never be coming on the ice either. If it wasn’t for Becca, he might have been alone too, in 2014. Except no, because he probably would ask a friend or two, should it come to it, not just stand lonely. Does Hunter not even have any best friends?

Svetlana says something to Roz in Russian, and his reply has her putting down her drink and getting off the couch to leave the room. Larry’s sucking another juice dry, his seventh or eighth of the night, and he’ll get up soon too, to get another one. Unless Roz gets too cranky about older than the brontosaurus Hunter getting the win after knocking them out, and then they’ll all bail early to let Svetlana fuck it out of his system. She’s a great friend like that. Hard to see why they’re not fully dating, except they both like fucking other people too much to tie each other down.

Meanwhile, on screen, Hunter is looking out into the crowd for an increasingly questionable amount of time. The announcers are chalking it up to him being grateful to the fans, but Brett isn’t so sure. A lot of people have panic attacks in different ways, hyperventilation vs crying vs disassociating. He’s been winning for his parents since he was twelve, and this is the biggest win he can ever have. Who wouldn’t be panicking? It just sucks, because Hunter’s the Captain, and there’s no one to watch out for him. Brett has heard I love you from his own captain more than he’d ever heard it at home, Mom and Dad uninterested in such coddling. He knows it’s stupid to internalize it so much, but sometimes it feels like Roz means it. There’s a vibe he gives off, sometimes, under the cockiness, that says he knows how important it is to offer compliments. The I love yous, the spontaneous dogpiling, the jokes, it all feels good in a way Brett didn’t think he could get from his career. He’s so glad he signed with the Raiders. But even if the Admirals have the same warm vibe, no one’s offering that to Scott right now, as he stares off into space, cameras thankfully not quite zooming in enough to catch the dead-eyed look on his face.

It does, however, catch the head jerk. And then moments later Hunter’s making a much bigger gesture, waving someone in the crowd down. The announcers are questioning if it’s a fan, but as the camera starts to track the progression, Brett doubts it. There’s no way this is some random fan. Not to be cynical, but if Hunter was going to do that, it’d be a kid, or a minority, or a disabled person. Someone it’d look good to bring on the ice. Shit, the guy isn’t even in Admirals merch, just a kind of dorky jean jacket. He has to be someone, a friend with self esteem low enough to not originally be ready to walk onto the ice.

It’s intriguing, an anomaly in the typical Cup celebration. Brett’s not the only one that can’t look away, Larry and Curly are both watching the screen with interest, and Roz sits down for the first time in fifteen minutes. Becca would adore this. When the Raiders won, getting to walk onto the ice was cool enough, but he can hear her voice now, saying that that’s nothing, it’s something everyone gets. What Hunter is doing is Cinderella treatment. Sometimes he thinks she likes it too much that he’s famous. She’s not a gold digger. While she’s not a millionaire, she’s got a job comfortable enough to get her bills paid and rack up meticulously posted vacations. No, what she likes is everyone knowing she’s a WAG, and posting pictures and videos and attending enough events to keep that fact in people’s mind’s eye. Every time you try to keep me a secret you’re disrespecting me, and what we have. It wasn’t Brett’s intent, but he knows telling her the Cup party was going to be a small, chill, no videos hangout pissed her off. He wasn’t surprised when she cancelled at last minute. But it’s fine, because he’ll make it up to her with his Forge reservations tomorrow. She’ll be able to get a makeup tutorial and a plate shot posted, if not more, and she’ll be in a much better mood.

Maybe this is some kind of Make A Wish thing. He’s not sure if that’s just minors, or anyone tragically sick in a high profile way. Touching the Cup is a lot to ask, even by someone terminal, but Scott Hunter could be a bleeding heart. No one can beat Roz, but Brett’s never heard any scuttlebutt about an ugly locker room, not like how everyone knows Toronto and Vegas are goddamn nightmares. Given the options of going to Toronto or being demoted to the Raiders farm team, he thinks he knows his answer.

If there’s an option for it, a couch with the surface area provided and an amount of guests low enough to not need to divide the cushions evenly, Brett always picks the protruding part of a sectional. Why sit with bent knees when you could stretch out? For some reason only he and his linies showed up to Roz’s party, and while it sets a different tone for the night than everyone piling in it is very comfortable to fully recline, scooted down just enough to see everyone’s face at a diagonal instead of just side profiles and some being blocked entirely. Body language sometimes has more to say than spoken words, especially with his international teammates, and he hates the idea of not understanding them. It’s not a real friendship if you don’t try to understand people. His vantage point slouch is why Brett sees the widening eyes and the gasping breath rippling throughout Roz’s entire body as the man hops the boards and Hunter takes his hand. Larry is frowning and Curly is taking a swig of his beer, both of them processing in their own ways, but this is hitting Roz differently.

Brett likes the way Hunter holds the man’s hand, guiding him onto the ice. Not everyone is a MLH skater, a savant on the ice. Hell, depending on the size of the city you grew up in, some might not even have a public rink. They’re moving quickly on the slippery surface, but the man looks protected. Safe. Which is insane, if this is what Brett thinks it is.

It is. It fucking is, Scott Hunter is spitting on every single homophobic chirp and girlfriend assumption by cradling this man’s jawline in his hand and kissing him. It’s insane, it’s something that could never happen, but it is. Larry’s wide eyed, and Curly’s frozen with his empty bottle to his lips, and something is happening to Roz as Scott Hunter makes out with his boyfriend in front of his team, God, and who knows how many cell phone cameras.

“You don’t see that every day,” Chris Lavalle comments as thousands of Admirals fans scream in the background. Admirals fans? Surely everyone in the arena is screaming, regardless of team affiliation. Everyone across the states, across Canada, anywhere ESPN is doling this out.

“Pretty big night for hockey,” Peter Whymer tosses back.

And it is, oh, it is. It’s like being almost hit by a Mack truck. Stepping off the curb and nearly getting obliterated, horn blaring so loud it feels like it’ll never stop shaking your eardrums, but then it’s fine. The truck keeps going. This is crushingly monumental, but it’s also fine. Life will keep going.

Except maybe it won’t. Not as they know it, at least. Because Roz isn’t even looking at the tv anymore, the obvious spectacle there are going to be a million social media posts by morning about. This is going to break Twitter, Brett already knows. And he’s not calling out to Svetlana, who knows where in this fuckin’ house, about the crazy shit she has no idea she just missed. He’s not even turning to them, ready to plaster over the shock they’re all feeling with his typical type of room-settling cocky joke. Instead Roz is standing, phone clutched in his hand. And then he’s rushing out of the room, without a fucking word.

Suddenly Brett is so grateful Becca isn’t here. He already knows she’d be filming Ilya walking out of the room, setting it to the Pink Panther theme or something else with the right amount of tongue in cheek witty humour, caption something with the wide eyes emoji or magnifying glass emoji, asking what’s that all about. It’s obvious, or at least Brett thinks it is, with Roz’s soft but guarded heart, with the kind of man he’s always been, stuck in the life he is, but Becca would still pretend to need investigation. She wouldn’t even consider not posting it, not with the engagement numbers Ilya Rozanov’s reaction to Scott Hunter would get. With the feeling comes the hit of the realization that if he’s thankful his girlfriend isn’t around in serious moments, maybe they shouldn’t be dating. Hunter’s choice is going to have a million ripple effects, one for each person who finds themselves suddenly represented, another for each jerkoff who doesn’t want them to be represented, but one the old man might not have expected is people having to break up with their significant others. Brett never wants to kiss Becca on the ice like this, and there’s only one thing he can do about that.

*

Five words and Zach doesn’t know what to do with himself. He could excuse Roz running out of the room to call his agent. Everyone in the whole fucking league is going to be asked about this. Most will be able to offer whatever media friendly soundbite they come up with, but the Russians, like Larionov and Rozanov, and a scattered few dozen guys across the East and West? They have the propaganda law. They’ll get in deep, possibly felonious shit if they say anything publically positive, and Rozy is a Captain known for happily sharing loud opinions. He will be asked. He’d be asked about it had any player done it, but Scott Hunter? The guy he publicly rags on twice a week? It’s not even a question. The quicker the strategy devised, the better, so he doesn’t get cancelled. Silly, considering guys like Kent exist, but what does Zach know about culture.

But then he says it. Only just in the hallway, out of sight but in full fucking earshot of everyone. “I’m coming to the cottage.”

That’s not what you say to an agent. It’s either some wild code, or it’s to be taken at face value. And if Zach does, if the person on the other side of the phone does, why would Rozy have declared it now, of all times?

“I will. I am.”

“I’m at a Cup party. I can’t stay-“ there’s just enough time for the unheard reply, and then “goodnight” in a tone so saccharine, so longing, that Zach isn’t sure he can ever watch a romance movie with a girlfriend again without scoffing at the obvious inauthentic scenes.

Props to Rozy, he comes back into the media room casually. His phone is an outlined square in his left pocket, like it’s not a lifeline to the person he wants most. His fist is shoved into his right pocket, only the slightest bit defensive, nothing most would clock. He even has another juice for Larry, because of course Cap’s noticed the latest finished carton. For as brash as he pretends to be, bombastic and mostly careless, he’s always noticing the details.

It has to be him. Zach doesn’t trust Mo or Larry to not fuck this up. And they can’t just say nothing. Rozy has to know that they know. He has to know he was overheard, that it’s not safe for him to react the way he does to this thing that they’re all going to be questioned about if he doesn’t want to get caught. And if Moales doesn’t get a chance to speak now, he’s going to explode at some point in the next twenty four hours, and Zach isn’t certain Roz can take being ambushed like that. At least if it’s now, he can steer it, keep things as calm as they can be.

“So what’s his name?” Zach forces himself to nut up and ask, as Rozy sits on the end of the open side of the sectional.

“What?” Rozy asks, voice suddenly frosty. He’d picked up the remote, surely to subtly change it from Lavalle and Whymer’s once in a lifetime commentary to one of the music channels, but his arm is frozen outstretched now. It’s entirely too much of a deer in headlights reaction, one that does even more to convince Zach they need to work this out. If he doesn’t want to immediately follow in Hunter’s footsteps, he needs to be better.

“The man who’s cottage you’re going to,” Zach answers. He’s like eighty five percent sure Rozy isn’t going to start swinging. Hopefully if he does, Mo and Larry will jump in before it gets too far. He’d rather not spend his entire summer laid up from (not so) friendly fire.

“I’m not- Shut your stupid face, Curly,” Rozy snaps. “I’m not going to a man’s cottage.”

“Unconvincing. But it’s okay,” Mo rushes to add. “We don’t care.”

No, Zach doesn’t care. Mo doesn’t care. Larry isn’t saying shit. Media trained to shut the fuck up about things liberal and conservative countries differ on. Just another thing to work through, now; making sure Larry keeps his trap shut. The Raiders locker room is no haven for snowflakes, but it’s never been overly gross either. The boys have the whole summer to get over their initial reactions and become indifferent before preseason starts, unless Larry stirs them up, making things more personal. Zach’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.

While Zach is more focused on conflict suppression, Rozy has never been the guy to do anything quietly. Mo’s not a threat, no one would have ever considered that a possibility, and whatever Roz sees in Zach’s eyes must be enough, because after a solid moment of standing on his feet glaring, he turns to the last person in the room.

“You think you can get me deported? Maybe. Maybe yes. But you’re coming with me. I’ve got friends on teams you have no idea about. One wrong check, and there goes knee. There goes shoulder. There goes neck. There goes work visa.”

Zach forgets sometimes, that Rozanov is a scary motherfucker. The man comes off as all talk so often that it’s easy to not catalogue all the times he’s put his money where his mouth is. He projects self-centred, but is nicer than a lot of Captains are, in a way that really helps the rooks, and Zach’s too kind centre. Ultimately Rozy is personable enough that Zach can buy him having that kind of influence. Not that he’d be enjoying it. A pyrrhic victory, reveling in someone’s paralyzed body while stuck in prison.

Larry throws his juice box. It hits Rozy in the middle of the chest then falls to the ground, immediately beginning to spill. Not that Roz cares. Potentially warped hardwood isn’t a concern for a millionaire whose career, nay, entire fucking life, is hanging in the balance.

“Fuck you. Idiot. You should know better.”

Mo winces. Zach would fingercomb his mane as an equal stress response, except this year when it was time for the playoff beard to come off he temporarily lost his mind and cut off feet of his curls too. He already regrets it, and that’s nothing compared to just how much shit Zinniea is going to give him, their next family dinner.

“Know better?” It comes out granite hard, and the baritone and accent do it no favours. Roz is about ten seconds away from snapping Larry’s fuckin’ neck himself, never mind waiting for the cover of a hockey accident.

“Yeah, dickhead,” Larry replies nastily. But that’s where the mood shifts, because although he stays cranky, it’s not for the reasons they’ve all assumed. “You agree with Putin, hey? Sveta does?” He makes the face that means if he was on the ice he’d be spitting. “Should know fucking better than think all Russians think the same.”

“So just to clarify,” Mo asks anxiously, “you’re pro Roz and his cottage boyfriend?”

“Yes!” Larry shouts, throwing his arms into the air. “Why is only the Russian being asked this? Am not James Bond villain, goddamn.”

“It’s not gonna be just you we’re checking out. It’ll be the whole team. But I think it’ll be okay. Safe.”

“It’ll be no one,” Roz snaps. “You will not, fucking, fucking vibe check the locker room, Moales. Suspicious. Unnecessary. I cannot come out. He doesn’t want to come out. Hunter will be only queer in league.”

There is a fucking lot to parse there. It sounds like Rozanov would come out if he could without danger. Mo’s right, the Raiders would probably be cool enough to give him that in the locker room at least. But his partner’s even more closeted than a public facing Russian, so that must be intense. Except Zach might get why, because the awkward phrasing of the only out man in the league only serves to make Zach think the partner is here too. Of course, Mo ignores all of this to deal with what’s on his mind. The priorities of their centre sometimes, honestly. Zach loves the guy, but for real.

“You know queer is like, derogatory, right? A slur.” Mo tosses in a homonym just in case Rozy doesn’t get it at first. English is his second language after all.

Rozy scoffs. “From you all, from MLH, yes. From me is umbrella term. Don’t know if he’s gay. Maybe he also likes pussy, or fucks non-binaries. Queer is all things. Only others make it hate.”

Well fuck, not only is he bi with a boyfriend, he’s woke. Zach can think of a few people that won’t go over well with.

“Does Svetlana know,” Mo asks, looking both ways like the woman might burst in with a laser gun at any moment.

Zach is a little surprised Rozy is willing to answer, but only a little. He’s sure the fuck never shied away from mentioning normal conquests in the locker room and beyond. Shit. Heterosexual, not normal. Something Zach’ll have to work on, apparently. But given that this audience of three knows just how far his range of people outside of Svetlana extends, they’re now safe to be spoken to. Rozy sits on the edge of the sectional and offers, “she knows I am bisexual. She does not know of Jane.”

He’s not going to repeat the eyebrow raised ‘unconvincing’, but Zach doubts that entirely. Svetlana spends so much time with Rozy, nearly as much as the team, and they all know of Jane. His stupid texting face is a hard thing to ignore. She might not know his boyfriend, but it’s almost one hundred percent that she knows of him.

Now reclined once again -Zach’s seen Mo laying down in a million disgusting situations, including on airport floors and patchily grassed boulevards, him flopping back down the second Rozy isn’t in danger doesn’t surprise him- Mo wiggles with his whole body like a kindergartener with something to say at Circle Time. “Do you want us to take off so you can have love is love victory Skype sex?”

Zach can see that. He’s not gonna beg to bounce, not in this context. He doesn’t need Rozy thinking they can’t stand to be around him. But Rozy has limited time, and probably a lot to talk about. Logistics, at the very least, if not feelings about the double sided coin of the game maybe being more tolerant tomorrow, but everyone being under more scrutiny. Rozy still has to go to Moscow for summer training, and Zach’s pretty sure the boyfriend won’t be going along. Nobody wants to be lynched, after all.

“Mo, you are embarrassment to society. Like little pet goat. So excitable.” Zach can’t help but notice Rozy’s smile at the edge of his eyes though. After so many years of hiding it probably feels good to have someone who cares in a positive, downright fucking nurturing when it comes to Mo, way. Hunter is probably going to find out pretty fucking quick who cares about him on the Admirals, and who was cordial purely because he was the uncomplicated Captain.

Before Mo can attempt to force an answer out of Rozy with a follow up kind but pushy inquiry, Svetlana’s entering the room once again. Her wise dark eyes glance from the tv where Whymer and Lavalle are still scrambling to come up with sound bites they must know will be jotted in the history books, to the socks Rozy’s toed off to toss into the puddle of juice, to all of them, obviously unsettled. In a good way, mostly, but still noticeable. “What’s going on here?”

“Hunter brought boyfriend on the ice,” Larry tells her bluntly before Mo can wrap up the news in streamers and confetti and horns.

It’s almost seamless, but Zach can see Svetlana’s protective shield going up as the shock hits. She’s quick. Makes sense, there’s probably been times she’s had to cover for Rozy during their teenage years in Moscow too. “Good for him, da? But why do we care? The game is over, I thought you’d have poker set up by now.”

“They know,” Rozy tells her.

Svetlana frowns. She takes a closer look at Roz, just for a moment but unmissable, before twisting to look directly at them. Keeping eye contact with three spread out men should be impossible, and yet Zach’s sure his lineies feel the force of her gaze the way he does. He’s expecting a ferocious response. He’s not expecting, “arsenic has no flavour.”

“Okay, why is that just as believable as ‘I’ll get your enemies to break your spine’?” Mo asks.

Larry smiles. “Because Russian women are best.”

“Ilyusha?”

Roz shakes his head. “No. It is fine.”

“We love Roz! No way we won’t love his boyfriend, when we finally get to meet him.”

Zach can’t see that happening any time soon. Not if the man has no interest in coming out. But as is often the case, Mo’s soft heart is enough to disarm the prickliest of people. He really doesn’t understand how the rest of the Moales’ aren’t affected, stone to the end, when everyone else around the man is. Their fucking loss. Svetlana smiles at his words, hackles lowered enough to toss herself onto the couch beside Rozy, head immediately tucked into his shoulder.

“Is he cute? Hunter’s boyfriend?”

“Well you never know, because of plastic surgery, but he looks like he’s not eight million years old, so that is good,” Rozy jokes. Yeah, Zach called it on the instant Hunter chirps, certain to last the entire summer.

“Check Twitter, get own opinion. Sure there are gifs already, definitely,” Larry tells her.

And yeah, he’s not wrong. This is going to be all anyone talks about for a while. Zach can only hope the cottage doesn’t have wifi, and Rozy misses out on the worst of it. He deserves a nice summer, with his man.