Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady & Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow, Shane Hollander, Other Character Tags to Be Added

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Anxiety Attacks, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Scott Hunter Loves Kip Grady, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Social Media, Angst, Secret Relationship, POV Kip Grady, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Hockey Injuries, Hockey Fights

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-12 Updated: 2026-01-26 Words: 11,522 Chapters: 3/4

Interference

Summary

Ilya Rozanov. One of the star players of the NHL, nearly a decade into his career. Center for the Boston Bears, a brutal, fast player known for womanizers tendencies and his bragging habits.

Kip had learned a lot about hockey in the last three years, unable to swipe past anything to do with Scott’s career. Ilya Rozanov was a difficult player to mistake and it was his distinctive build that stood beside him now, glaring down at the buildings as if they’d personally offended him.

“...Hi.” Kip had to give himself credit. Even with the hesitation, the greeting was clear and strong, pushed past the tightness of his shirt on his shoulders, his collar resting against his throat.

“Hello,” said Rozanov, shifting to cross his arms and lean them against the railing. His suit was near to the navy blue Kip was wearing– a popular color, and he was doubly glad Scott had insisted on it. “Is nice out here. Cold.”

 

Three times that Ilya supported Scott's relationship and one time he defended his own.

Notes

First toe in the pond of Heated Rivalry. Have not yet read the books and definitely don't play hockey, so I apologize for all inaccuracies <3

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

The award ceremony was held in a beautiful building, all roman detailing with high arches and huge windows. The carpet in the ballroom was a deep, plush red and felt soft even through Kip’s shining dress shoes. They pinched his feet at the toes, stupidly expensive and still not comfortable.

Scott had insisted, beaming at him over a clothing rack at their third boutique of the day as he talked about a future filled with quiet evenings and family events and maybe even holiday events at Scott’s apartment with their friends–

Kip had folded like a wet towel. He’d be wearing these shoes until they fell apart, mark his words, and the same went for the remarkably comfortable, tailored suit he was wearing. Scott had insisted they suited him and then had insisted on paying. The deep navy jacket matched no less than six other attendees he had seen so far, barely an hour into the post-ceremony party, and he had to admit it helped, the blending in. His own dress attire, geared towards interviews and the rare funeral, would have stuck out in this room of elite athletes and their plus ones.

Still, even with this chameleon outfit Kip had put together, the room was getting to him, the heat of constant eyes on them making his ears burn. He and Scott had shaken hands with what felt like half the room, making a slow circle through the hall. Kip had done his best to ignore the sharp, sickly feeling twisting in his stomach, to keep his hands relaxed and away from his too-tight collar.

Keeping up appearances, Scott had explained last night in their hotel room. They had flown out of JFK Airport together and were quartered in the nicest hotel Kip had ever set foot in, on the twelve floor. Scott had been sitting on the edge of their oversized bed, holding Kip’s waist firmly as he stood between the other man’s legs. They can’t think I’m backing down now. People will be looking for that.

His boyfriend hadn’t needed to clarify what people he meant – players, coaches, anyone bored and disrespectful enough to feed a line to tabloid news. Anyone who thought they were entitled to fan the flames the media had surrounded them with. 

The intensity would die down eventually, Kip knew. Other NHL players weren’t immune to scrutiny and sooner or later, another scandal would make headlines. Still. The constant glances in his direction, hitting and skittering away, were making his neck itch.

Kit had stationed himself near the balcony doors after he and Scott had finished their first round of small talk, begging off with a touch on Scott’s forearm and a nod towards the table he was now sitting at, the press of the crowd suddenly too much. Scott had dropped him off with a quick kiss on the cheek and a beeline towards the bar, to grab them each a drink. A champagne flute of bubbly rosé had been delivered with another kiss, before Scott returned to the fold. His boyfriend was now leaning against the bar, chatting with a group of fellow players.

They looked friendly enough, shoulders jostling against Scott’s, stepping over the invisible line most of the others had stayed outside of the entire night. A hulking player Kip vaguely recognized from the Bears said something that made Scott laugh, and Kip tried to swallow at the sight, to squeeze his nausea back down a tight throat.

No one had approached Kip in the last few minutes, but the crowd was growing, players and coaches and upper management stepping through the main doors. Some stayed on the first floor, seated at tables and mingling near looming windows, while others descended the short set of steps to the dance floor and bar. Voices echoed off the high ceiling and paneled walls, the clink of glasses and scuff of shoes blurring together.

His shirt’s collar kept brushing the front of his throat, the tie too tight, and when Kip rolled his shoulders to force them to loosen, his jacket tugged on the motion. The chair beneath him was too warm, which didn’t make any fucking sense because it was made of wood and this room wasn’t even that heated–

He had to get out of here. 

Kip stood a little too quickly, pins and needles prickling down his arms as the chair slid back on the carpet, stopping just before it hit the bank of windows behind him. Luckily, his boyfriend was facing him across the room, leaning one elbow on the bar as he waited to be served, and Scott’s eye caught on Kip as he stood.

Across the room, over the heads of the attendees that crowded the ballroom floor and bar, Scott mouthed, are you ok? 

Thankfully, Kip was a certified expert in lip reading from years of going out with Elena and that Scott would never sport a long, scraggly beard. Thank the hockey gods, or whatever Scott called them, that choices like that were prohibited. He nodded and flashed a thumbs up, then pointed over his shoulder with the same hand. Scott sent back another thumbs up and cast one last glance towards him before turning back to the bar just as the bartender reached him.

Kip turned away quickly, ducking towards the large, glass double doors that led to the patio. They swung open easily, a gust of cold air breaking over his face as he pushed his way out. It was instantly cooling against the sweat on his cheeks, the door swinging shut behind him and abruptly cutting the sound of chatter off behind him. The relief that flooded him was instantaneous.

Out here, the music and conversations were muffled, the lights from the ballroom casting bright patches on the ground behind Kip. It was dim, with a few clusters of metal chairs and tables populating the space, large planters of greenery and grass placed between each. The night sky loomed cloudless overhead, the stars clear and crisp despite the city spread below them. The only other people were a pair cast in shadow on the far right of the patio, the glow of their cigarette ends giving them away.

The patio area was impressively large, serving as the rooftop to lower floors of the building. Kip’s dress shoes clicked on the stones beneath them as he crossed quickly to the railing, feeling the tension that had been coiling in his shoulders slowly release as he leaned against it, the cold metal biting through his suit sleeves. He could feel his pulse in his fucking throat.

He paid the other people no mind as he willed his heartbeat to slow, hands clasped tightly together, fingertips digging into the back of his hands and knuckles white. Shit. He didn’t usually get overwhelmed like this, not at noisy events, he couldn’t with the side gigs he worked with Shawn and their weekend excursions to their converted sports bar. 

It wasn’t the event. It was the eyes that tracked Scott and him across the room, the slight hesitation every time a player went to shake Kip’s hand, as if they’d catch it. A room full of media trained professionals would never say anything outright, but–

They didn’t have to.

Kip had felt Scott winding up tighter beside him with every introduction, whether or not the other player hit all the respectful points, his responses slowly losing their padded niceties as his shoulders crept towards his ears. It was the scrutiny and the bizarre distance that trailed each interaction that Scott was worried about, and Kip couldn’t help but share his anxiety. 

The cool night air filled his lungs in long, slow sips. There was nothing he could do to make their attendance tonight go smoother, it was a hurdle they had to get over together. The first of many events together. A few minutes out here and then he would go back inside. Just – he didn’t think he could handle another hulking athlete that could barely meet his eyes.

A blast of noise behind him knocked Kip from his trailing thoughts, chatter and the thrum of music bursting into the bubble of the patio before it just as quickly popped, the click of the door closing muffling the noise again.

Footsteps clicked across the stone behind Kip and he forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, forced himself to keep leaning against the railing in what he hoped looked casual enough to be dismissed.

The steps slowed as a person stepped up to Kip’s left, their hands braced on the railing as they stared down at the ground below them, barely a foot between the two of them. Kip let himself glance over and couldn’t help but recognize him in his sharp silhouette, curls gelled back from his face.

Ilya Rozanov. One of the star players of the NHL, nearly a decade into his career. Center for the Boston Bears, a brutal, fast player known for womanizers tendencies and his bragging habits.

Kip had learned a lot about hockey in the last three years, unable to swipe past anything to do with Scott’s career. Ilya Rozanov was a difficult player to mistake and it was his distinctive build that stood beside him now, glaring down at the buildings as if they’d personally offended him.

“...Hi.” Kip had to give himself credit. Even with the hesitation, the greeting was clear and strong, pushed past the tightness of his shirt on his shoulders, his collar resting against his throat.

“Hello,” said Rozanov, shifting to cross his arms and lean them against the railing. His suit was near to the navy blue Kip was wearing– a popular color, and he was doubly glad Scott had insisted on it. “Is nice out here. Cold.”

He found himself nodding to the observation, still staring at the player’s profile. The silence between them stretched, broken by the subtle sound of the heater above him and the quiet traffic below. The other man had to be out here for a reason.

There was no love lost between the Russian and his boyfriend, Kip knew. But that irritation didn’t bleed into the game and never interfered with anything on ice. There was mutual respect, he’d heard it in Scott’s tone the few times he spoke about the Bear’s star center, but it was another question altogether if that respect held after their…announcement. 

Kip hoped the other player appreciated directness.

“What do you want, Rozanov?” It came out harsher than he meant it, apprehension twisting into aggression, and he immediately tried to soften the bite. The man beside him, staring down at the distant city below, likely didn’t need irritation at an event like this. “I didn’t think you were someone who liked small talk.”

The other man laughed once, quietly, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at Kip, hip braced against the railing. The dim lighting of the heater cast a soft glow on sharp points of his face. His expression dropped to a strange mix that Kip couldn’t read, lowered brows and lips pressed together.

Fuck. All these athletes were so unfairly gorgeous.

“I don’t mind small talk. Is not so bad with the right people.” Rozanov spoke in a soft, low tone, gaze burning into Kip’s. He paused, then dropped his eyes to the ground between them. His shoulders, broad and solid, seemed to curl in. “I wanted to congratulate you. On you and Scott’s relationship being…open, now.”

Despite himself and the optimism Kip couldn’t ever seem to shake, he found himself taken aback by the Russian player’s words. Low and flat as they were, they rung with sincerity. 

“Thank you,” he said, letting himself turn fully towards the other man, leaving an arm braced against the railing. He tried to keep the apprehension bubbling in his throat out of his voice. The cold breeze cut through the heat against Kip’s back, ruffling his hair, while Rozanov nodded back. “I appreciate it– so does Scott.”

“It is sad, yes? That I congratulate you on just living.” The remark was mild, the other man’s face giving nothing away as Kip stared back at him. On the railing, Rozanov’s hand was clenched tight.

Suddenly, Kip hated that he had to look up to meet Rozanov’s gazes. Hated that he’d spent the entire night doing it. His skin was still crawling after an hour of practiced niceties, of smiling while Scott deflected increasingly personal questions posed under the thin guise of genuine care. 

And here was another one, maybe more sincere than most but still pushing it.

“It’s incredibly sad. It’s awful.” The words came out sharp and Kip forced himself to stand straighter, arms crossed over his chest. His chest burned, defensiveness flaring up faster than he could put it out.

“Yes, yes, I agree,” said the other man quickly, both hands lifting slightly in that universal placating gesture and Kip forced himself take a deep breath. Rozanov had come out here to congratulate him and make some clumsy observation on being gay is so hard, and Kip had no right to be curt with him. Especially not here, not so close to the party still carrying on behind them. He must make some expression of regret because Rozanov continued, “It is…difficult, your position. It is stressful tonight. That is okay.”

There’s something in that statement that Kip felt like he missed, weight behind the words that he didn’t know the source of. Something unrecognizable flashed in Rozanov’s gaze, there and gone.

“Thank you,” Kip repeated, gentler than before, because he wasn’t sure if he had anything else to say. This was a player who wasn't friends with his boyfriend, who’s known specifically for his unfriendliness outside of his team, making sympathetic comments on a poorly heated rooftop patio. He forced himself to exhale, to turn back to the railing and lean his arms against it and stare at the stars above him, to not meet the gaze now drilling into the side of his head. “That’s very true.”

A pause, dragging, then the rustle of clothing as, in Kip’s peripheral vision, the other man shifted to stare up at the stars with him. Another rustle and Kip glanced over as Rozanov shook a cigarette into his hand, putting it to his lips and quickly pulling a lighter from his suit jacket’s pocket.

Before he could catch himself, childhood habits bubbling up, Kip blurted out, “Those are so bad for you.”

Rozanov looked at him with raised brows, glancing over his cupped hand, curled protectively over the flickering flame. The lighter clicked once, twice, before he inhaled and the end of the cigarette glowed a cherry red. The other man was grinning as he pulled the cigarette away, Kip realized. Rozanov was thoughtful enough to exhale away from them, the night breeze carrying the smoke away from Kip.

“You remind me of someone,” said Rozanov, holding his cigarette in his left hand, over the railing. He was still smiling, staring out at the night’s scene with unfocused eyes, before he shook his head and blinked hard, as if breaking away from something. “You and Hunter are…very brave. It was important, what you did.”

Kip stayed silent. Maybe it was his single flute of champagne or the overall stress of the night, but Kip felt like he’d taken a step down the stairs and missed the next one. He was hovering in uncertainty, missing some key point between the lines of Rozanov’s words. 

The other man pulled again from his cigarette, then slowly exhaled as Kip stood there, feeling like he was supposed to wait for something. Why, he had no idea. The buzz of the ballroom hadn’t quite settled yet, still burning between his ears, and the cool air of the patio hadn’t yet dissipated it. 

“Anyways–” Rozanov gestured, right hand sliding sharply away from him on the railing, as if pushing his earlier words away. “Have a good night. It can be loud here. This is good place to catch your breath.”

Abruptly, the other man turned away from him, striding towards the doors as Kip turned to watch him leave. The cigarette, barely smoked, was put out in an ashtray beside the windows and the Russian player slipped inside before Kip could even call out a goodbye. He stared after Rozanov’s retreating back until he blended into the shifting crowd, then turned back to his view of the city. 

It was kind, he decided, if awkward, of the other player to come speak to him. To congratulate the boyfriend of the first openly out player in the league. He would stay out here for a few more minutes before rejoining Scott for their next round of introductions. The city’s lights blurred as he stared out at them. Kip swallowed against a tight throat, pressed the knuckles of his right hand to his eyes, and breathed.

Chapter End Notes

Serious, SERIOUS props to my best friend and beta reader (and editor and brainstormer and receiver of all my terrible ideas when we're drunk at 3am) for not only editing this once, but THREE TIMES in the span of two days. This wouldn't exist without you, gunpowder_and_pearls, so thanks for all of you enthusiastic tolerance

Gifted to my best friend, bazinagbithc, who harassed me (along with gpap) until I binge watched Heated Rivalry. We are now all in "beautiful, loving, queer men" psychosis together and I couldn't be happier

Please let me know what you think!! 1.5 more chapters are already written, and I'm hoping to be updating on a weekly basis. Please leave a comment or a kudos, I'd love yall's opinions!! :D

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Scott is ambushed for an invasive "interview."

Chapter Notes

Hope y'all enjoy!!

It had been a brutal game, a fight from the second his skates touched the ice. Every possession was hard won and over too soon. Scott was tired down to his aching fucking bones and ready to fly home, lay down on top of Kip, and never get up ever again. 

It was preseason, warming up on the Bears’ rink, but that didn’t make it any less intense. The fans were an unending sea of black and gold, screaming and cheering every second of the game, until Scott was sure the ice would crack from the shear force of it. The Admirals had scratched out a 2-3 loss in the final minute of the game, after sixty fucking minutes of sharp checks and sharper chirping – the Bears never made anything easy, not even losing.

 Scott wasn’t sure he’d even come down from the adrenaline of it all yet, his thoughts jumbled like they always were after a tough game, when his brain was still crowded from flying on the ice and they weren’t given room to settle. His hair still wet from the showers and plastered to his forehead, and he was so fucking exhausted.

He just wanted to go home and have a quiet goddamn evening with his boyfriend.

The team had been fine since he’d come out so publicly– he tried not to think about how much of that tolerance was reliant on public scrutiny. No one said shit to him, no unnecessary hits during practice, no missed passes. A few of the guys had even expressed their support - clumsily, slowly, like the single-focus, hockey-minded men they were - and had asked when they’d next see Kip, if he was attending their games this season.

Management pulled him into their office, talking about we just don’t want any extra distractions on the ice. Is this going to be an issue?

The NHL was never going to be an ally. Scott had known that from the second he realized what the curling, unfamiliar want inside of him was and had done his best to stomp it out. Policy within the league was to trade, not punish, players that caused scandals of any kind. The league closed ranks around its own – and only those that fit its image. Its administration would do nothing to protect Scott and he was so damn lucky that most of the Admirals had decided not to care.

Sure, he could choose to think about the weird, muddled silence that hung around some of the guys now, or the way veterans he’d played with for most of his career avoided changing near him, but– it was a far fucking cry from slurs spat in the locker room. 

Unlike his teammates, the league saw it as a problem to be addressed.

As if Scott hadn’t dragged them to the goddamn Cup last season. As if he wasn’t the best captain the Admirals had housed in over a decade, as if he hadn’t been breathing hockey like oxygen from his entire life.

Scott had made it clear that, under no uncertain terms, he would continue to be the dedicated player that he had been for them for so long. 

Coach Murdock hadn’t changed a damn thing. Just clapped Scott on the shoulder in the locker room, after family members had been carefully escorted off of the ice and the players shuffled to the locker room to peel off their sweat-soaked uniforms. Murdock went into his usual post-game spiel, softened and shortened by their incredible win and the end of their season, and looked Scott in the eye just as much as he usually did. 

Murdock, for being the old school, tough-as-nails coach that he was, didn’t waste fucking time. If he decided that Scott’s relationship had shit all to do with how he played, how he scored, then that was that.

The biggest change, Scott had decided, was the media attention he suddenly received. Reporters clamored for his attention on the way into and out of games, when they before had only wanted some bland statement about “playing hard and leaving everything on the ice.” 

Scott hadn’t minded being a “boring” captain, with minimal fighting and chirping on ice, never causing a scene in public, his short outings with his teammates limited to a couple beers and an uber home. Never deviating from his repetitive script when speaking about hockey. It kept scrutiny off of him, with the curtains carefully drawn over the rest of his life. Once people realized he wouldn’t give them engaging soundbites, they hounded after him less.

Now, still early in the season, his and Kip’s relationship was the first fucking question out of everyone’s mouth. 

It was exhausting.

Case in point: Scott was hiding just inside the locker room, having taken his time rinsing off and scrubbing down, soft sweats and hoodie replacing his uniform. His duffle bag’s strap dug into the palm of his hand as he clung to it, trying to muster the energy to walk out the door. Most of his teammates had already found their way to the team’s bus, which wouldn’t leave for another ten minutes. 

This game hadn’t been important enough to constitute a real post-game interview, in the room with the dinky little stage and the rows of folding chairs, arranged for the amassed sports news outlets. Today, it wouldn’t be real game analysis the media was looking for. They wanted vague estimates of the Admirals future, of Scott’s future, and they’d do their best to scrape whatever words they wanted right out of him.

There really wasn’t anything he could do to avoid it. There were reporters hoping to get an audio clip out of him between him and the bus, and he had to be on the bus to leave.

He felt like a child, standing in front of the locker room’s door and staring at the worn wood like the dark grains of it could save him. His chest was tight and his shoulders ached as he rolled them back, trying to force it all to loosen.

It didn’t work.

He couldn’t miss the goddamn bus. Shit.

Scott took a bracing breath, shifted his bag on his shoulder one last time, and pushed the door to the locker room open. He tried not to feel like he was walking to his own execution as the door swung closed behind him.

It took a barely minute of quick, aching walking to reach the last bend in the hallway and the only place management would allow reporters to camp out when post game interviews weren’t being conducted. The facility’s air conditioning was crisp on his face as he tried to contort the adrenaline in his veins into a useful shape, forcing his jaw to unclench as he rounded the corner.

Immediately, the clamour of shouted questions flooded the hallway, voices overlapping and ricocheting off of the concrete walls, and Scott did his best to sift through them to find one worth answering. 

“Hunter, how are you feeling about that play in the second period–”

“What’s the team’s future plans to shore up defense on the–”

“The penalty call in the first period looked rough, what do you–”

“Scott Hunter, what’s this season going to look like for the Admirals?”

His first mistake was letting his steps slow down. Bodies closed in on him, sudden and pressing. The crowd of reporters was ringed tight around him, stepping backwards as he shuffled through them, microphones held high while cameras flashed behind them. The last question was from a reporter he recognized, a women in a deep purple pantsuit, dark hair tied back. 

He deliberately leaned towards her microphone when he answered. “The Admirals are going to keep pushing hard, on and off the ice. We intend to take the Cup home again if we can.”

A second microphone was pushed towards Scott’s face before he could move on. It was all so loud, echoing and ballooning through the hallway. Over the heads of the reporters and at the end of the hall, the bright light of the parking lot waited – so fucking far away. Scott forced in another bracing breath, scrubbing his free hand through his hair. The strands were wet and they pulled at his fingers, clinging.

He couldn’t make himself move, knees locked and feet as heavy as lead, stuck to the concrete as the clamor pressed in, microphones and greedy eyes pushing for the next headlining clip. He hated it, the noise and the scrutiny and the way they were all staring like he’d fall to pieces if they just looked hard enough –

“There’s talk about issues in team dynamics, certain players having issues off the ice. How do you see that interfering with the season?” asked a man, microphone held at the perfect crisp soundbite distance from Scott’s mouth.

Fuck off asshole, I’ll show you interference –

He knew what specific, recent incident the reporter was talking about. The burst of clarity settled something in his head, burning through the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Scott willed his feet to unroot from the ground, pulling with heavy legs connected to leaden feet, continuing the dragging walk down the hallway with small steps. The throng of microphones and cameras moved with him.

Wagner and Jallo had gotten in a very dramatic, very drunk argument at a dive bar back home, right before the season began, that had ended in a shouting match on the sidewalk. The two players had been corralled home, drowned in electrolytes and put to bed, and remembered the night in flashes of irritation. As their captain, Scott had checked in with each player personally – there was no animosity simmering between them. The pair had been partners during team lifts since the incident, as if to prove they had no issue with each other.

Tabloid media loved to blow things out of proportion.

“The team is cohesive and working well together,” said Scott, sticking to the easy, media trained responses that had been drilled into his thick skull since his rookie season. He pulled his bag a little higher on his shoulder, edging in another step towards the exit. Maybe if he put his head down and sprinted through the whole crowd of them, they wouldn’t see which way he went and he could escape. “We’re looking forward to a strong season.”

His last few words came out with an accidental hesitation, his whirling thoughts bleeding into his tone. There were plenty of issues that could impact their fucking season, he had barely played three games as the first out player in the entire NHL, and had been checked into boards harder than ever before during all of them.

As if scenting blood in the water, other reporters dove for the easy bait.

“Hunter, what about the–”

“How has your personal life interfered with–”

“Some people are saying that your announcement has affected your leadership. How are you seeing that play out?” asked a man in a beige suit, blue shirt and white tie. He held his recorder over the heads of his colleagues, angled towards Scott’s face.

The comment drew Scott up short despite every fucking effort to keep moving, feet stuttering and sticking to the concrete below them, the fluorescent lights burning on his face. There it was.

The crowd of reporters pressed impossibly closer, a tight half circle between him and the exit, shoulders jostling and microphones pushed forwards. The twist in his stomach was sharp and nauseating– he’d been waiting for such a direct question, for the shit that was on everyone’s mind. He’d escaped it until now, hustled past reporters or in the thick of his teammates as they pushed past–

All strategic, all timed to be as frantic as possible to avoid this. That burning question, the one that rang in Scott’s mind every time he stepped into the locker room and half the guys looked at the fucking ground.

It was just him in this long, stretching hallway. 

His teeth creaked as he clenched them, the strap of his bag digging into his palm and short nails cutting into the heel of his hand. Hours of media training were escaping him now, as he fought to keep his face in some neutral expression, biting the inside of his cheeks until iron flooded his mouth.

It was fucking disrespectful. His entire career, swept away at the wave of a hand, as if years of dedication melted in the fucking breeze the second he became controversial, the second he talked about anything other than hockey pucks and gleaming ice–

As if loving Kip made Scott incompetent. Useless. Washed out and overplayed. 

He managed to bite out, past the tightness in his throat, “My personal life has absolutely nothing to do with the game. The Admirals are feeling strong and playing hard. We’re expecting a–”

“Hunter, how has hiding your choices interfered with team trust?” The same reporter as the last question, now planted solidly in front of Scott, having shouldered his way through his peers to thrust his mic towards Scott. The worst part of it, Scott decided, wasn’t the questions, wasn’t being trapped here in this hallway while he was bombarded with stupid, invasive questions. It was the expressions on all of their faces. 

Impassive, professional. As if every word wasn’t a nail in Scott’s fucking coffin, digging into his sides, cutting at his hands.

“The– the team is focused on the game,” said Scott. His voice sounded like it was underwater, muffled and blurring together, burning in his chest. The clicking of the cameras was sharp in his ears, echoing off the high, concrete ceiling. The heavy weight of his duffle bag on his shoulder was his only lifeline as he tried to keep himself together. He still couldn’t force his feet to move.

Fuck. Where were his teammates, he knew Breezy and Gillis were back in the showers, they had to be fucking done by now, and even if Gillis had been acting fucking weird since last season, the rookie was Scott’s roommate on the road and listened to his words like they were made of gold–

Some of the guys had adopted this new, bizarre habit. A few he’d long considered friends and a couple of new guys, once the rookies got over their wide-eyed stuttering every time Scott spoke to them, would deliberately interfere. They’d take questions meant for him as if the reporter wasn’t looking over their shoulder, as if the journalist hadn’t clearly called for Scott’s attention.

They muffled the noise, without discussing it with Scott or Murdock - he’d fucking asked his coach, the first time a rookie had interrupted a reporter to tell her about his plans the night before, when she’d clearly been digging for the date Scott and Kip had been photographed at - and he wasn’t sure why some of them were even doing it.

Another reporter was saying something, her blonde hair pulled into an impressively tight bun, lipstick matching her blazer as she leaned in impossibly closer–

“Oh, woah, what is this?” The loud voice cut through the clamor like a knife, loud and harsh. Distracting. Scott felt a gust of movement at his back as the reporters who’d shifted behind him stepped aside and a broad body brushed against his back, someone else’s shirt sleeve catching on Scott’s hoodie as they leaned closer. Russian accented words, loud in his ear, “I thought it was the winners who got so many questions.”

The cameras clicked louder, faster, as Rozanov laughed and knocked his shoulders against Scott’s. The younger player was nearly as tall as him, and seemed to make himself bigger as he pushed up to Scott’s left side, smiling wide and sharp. Rozanov’s hair was wet too, fresh from the showers, and he was barely dressed in a tank top, sweats, and socked feet in slides. Usually, the russian player left the locker room put together and cooled off, answering media’s questions with easy charm.

Here, Rozanov leaned too close to the crowd of microphones, still grinning like a fucking maniac. A maniac who’d just won a preseason game with his equally rowdy team and was probably still riding the high of it.

“The game was good practice for how to beat them during season, yes. The Bears are ready to win again.” Rozanov winked at the nearest camera, a hand grabbing the back of Scott’s hoodie and jostling him lightly. He made himself smile, pulse pounding in his throat, in his ears, as he swallowed tightly. 

Fucking Rozanov. As he didn’t deal with the arrogant asshole enough already.

He couldn’t think of the last time the two of them had touched besides post-game handshakes and slamming each other into the boards. Twice, maybe, had Scott shaken the Russian’s hand at a league event.

“The Bears are always a good team to play,” Scott heard himself say over the muffled roaring in his ears, rehearsed responses finally slotting into place. Beside him, Rozanov barked out a short, delighted laugh, the hypocritical fucker. The NHL’s star had just as many canned responses as Scott did. “We’ll get them next time. Still shaking the off-season rust.”

A stunted, short response, but– good enough. Hopefully.

The reporters burst into the next round of clamoring questions, words blurring together, this time pointing half their attention towards the russian player at Scott’s left. Rozanov was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands on his hips, as he grinned wide at the amassed reporters. It was sharp energy that didn’t fit the game they’d just played, that didn’t match the scene in front of Scott.

Soaking up the attention, maybe. But the Bears’ locker room was on the other side of the fucking arena, they had a separate goddamn parking lot for the players and staff, so somehow Rozanov had come over here for– for what? To get the last word with the Admirals? To - God forbid - talk to Scott, captain to captain?

What the hell Rozanov would even have to say to him, Scott didn’t know. Nothing explained this bizarre behavior, as the other player wedged himself between the reporters and Scott, arms spread wide as he gestured, a fucking performance–

“Yes, yes, the Admirals put up good fight, but it wasn’t enough,” Rozanov was saying, when another body bumped against Scott’s back. He turned instinctively, ready to politely brush off an overeager reporter who’d crept up behind, and found his eyes skipping upwards. Number seven, Cliff Marleau, hulking and broad in his post game clothes, a Boston Bears jacket half zipped over a white undershirt. 

The other player met his eyes and wordlessly took his upper arm in one hand, before stepping in front of him and pushing through the crowd of microphones, the sea of cameras. Scott let himself be pulled, instinctively pushing his duffle bag to press against his back as he followed in the larger player’s wake. The reporters parted in short, shuffling steps, not given much choice as Marleau forged ahead with long strides. Scott was out of the crowd before he realized what was happening, Marleau ferrying him towards the exit, left hand wrapped tight around his right elbow like a lifeline. 

Behind him, Scott heard Rozanov laugh loudly, saying something in that arrogant, self-confident tone he wielded so easily. It rang off the high ceiling, cutting through the clicking over cameras and clamor of voices.

The exit sign was flickering green over their heads when Marleau pulled them up short, releasing Scott’s arm and stepping back, broad frame blocking Scott’s view of the crowd the other man’s teammate was holding court with. 

It was fucking impressive, the fluidity between the two players– Rozanov acting as an incredibly successful distraction while his wing played bodyguard. Marleau was a big guy, fast and strong on the ice - everyone remembered that check Hollander had taken last season - and the look on his face was nothing but professional, distant respect. A far fucking cry from the aggressive scowl the man had worn the entire game, barely half an hour prior.

“Good game, Hunter,” said Marleau, low and even. It cut through the muffled roaring in Scott’s ears, calm. Scott watched, almost distant, as the other man clapped a hand on his shoulder, shook him once. The warmth of his hand bled through Scott’s hoodie. “Lookin’ forward to the next one.”

Before he could respond, Marleau had turned and was walking back to the reporters, calling out a response to something Rozanov had just said. Scott took that as his cue to leave and quickly pushed the door open beside him, ducking into the evening’s fading sunlight.

-----

Later, after the team had eaten a raucous dinner together at the hotel, after Murdock had given them a half hearted reminder that curfew was at ten pm, Scott finally laid down in his hotel room and called Kip. He let his boyfriend’s voice wash over him as Kip told him about his day, the annoying customer who’d come back the third day in a row, the dinner he’d cooked and wished he could share with Scott. The promise of leftovers for tomorrow’s dinner. 

The stress of the media ambush slowly dissipated, the last vestiges sliding down the hotel tub’s drain during Scott’s unnecessary second shower, as Kip rambled about his grad school plans over the sound of the spray while the heat sank into Scott’s worn muscles. 

He couldn’t puzzle out why Rozanov had done that– Scott’s teammates had joined him in the bus barely a minute after he’d clambered on, so they hadn’t been far behind. The Russian player had put himself in a position of scrutiny and for what?

It was kind, he had to admit begrudgingly, what the other captain had done. He wasn’t sure what would have slipped out from behind his teeth if the two Bears players hadn’t taken the heat for him. Their motivation didn’t really matter – it was kind.

Scott was just glad he got to wish Kip a long, sweet goodnight over the phone. He was grateful for the balm of his boyfriend’s voice, as he laid on his back on the hotel’s silky sheets, phone propped up on his chest.

It was a good end to a disappointing, tiring day. Maybe that was why Scott didn’t think twice when he opened twitter for the first time in a week – his agent, Todd, had agreed that his social media presence should be maintained. They didn’t want it looking like he was running scared after last season. Still, Scott’s posting had definitely reduced and he tried not to scroll past the first few replies to his posts about game days.

There were too many notifications waiting for him; it hadn’t been a big game, it wasn’t even the regular season yet. The attention was disproportionate. 

He’d been tagged in a ridiculous amount of posts in the last few hours, all tagged with the same: #HunterRozanov. 

Clips of the post-game ambush had been published. 

Great. Because he needed more opportunities to be associated with that shithead. (It felt dishonest, at least right now, to refer to Rozanov as an asshole. Even in the privacy of his own head.)

The tweets were a surprising mix of people defending him and people demanding he respond with transparency to the reporter’s questions, while others demanded that the league address the issue somehow. The issue being Scott’s existence as an out player. There was also a bizarre obsession with Rozanov “sticking up” for him. It was making his head pound, the endless scroll of tweets, of people pulling apart one minute of video to analyze whatever the hell they wanted to see in it.

He didn’t even have the energy to waste on analyzing Rozanov’s decision. Maybe, in some twisted way, Rozanov was happy to take an extra helping of attention, even if the side effect was helping Scott out of there. 

Rozanov and Marleau, two of the most aggressive players on the Bears, mean playing and meaner chirping– helping Scott avoid invasive questions about his gay love life. 

The day had been long enough, Scott decided. With his phone screen off, the hotel room was bathed in shadows, his floor up high enough that streetlights couldn’t peek through the thin curtains to his left. Tomorrow, he’d fly home and Kip would be waiting for him at their apartment. 

That was the best thing he’d had in a long time.

Chapter End Notes

Big thanks to gunpowder_and_pearls for editing this during downtime at work (their job allows for that), that made publishing at the one week mark doable :)

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!! I do ask to not comment solely emojis, please, even just the word "kudos" is better :) I want to know your thoughts!!

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Ilya is slips his (admittedly loose) leash with the media.

The lights overhead were bright, the crowd already loud, roaring their excitement. Ilya tried to block them out as he warmed up. They were ten games into the regular season and were in New York for the first time since the preseason. The Admirals had a four game win streak, the Bears had five. It was going to be a tight season.

That morning, Shane had called him before he left for his own practice in Montreal. His boyfriend’s voice had still been rough with sleep, sweet and low as Ilya ate his breakfast. Montreal was having a good season too. Ilya was counting down the days until the Bears would be playing them, counting down the days until he could meet Shane on the ice, wake up to Shane in the morning. 

This game was a stepping stone. It wouldn’t affect their placement in the playoffs if they lost, but– Ilya really fucking hated losing. And, if he won this one, he had a good excuse to call Shane later that night for a reward.

Ilya didn’t need an excuse to call Shane or to harass him with texts until he picked up his phone, but he laughed so prettily while Ilya crowed his success over the line, giving his boyfriend the play-by-play of his highlights even when he knew the other man had watched every second.

Hunter seemed to be managing his team well. They still listened to the old man and were the same as ever on the ice. Robotic in their efficiency. Still beatable. 

The media storm had calmed down, a little, around the other captain. That was good, because for all his media training, Hunter never seemed to be able to hold a poker face. He was…overly expressive, for a man of their career. It didn’t help, Ilya was sure, that he was being badgered over the most personal and public event in his adult life. 

The aforementioned player was standing at the red line and speaking with one of his alternate captains while the rest of their team stretched and slowly warmed up. Ilya skated in Hunter’s direction before he let himself think too much about it, the scuffs and raised voices of the Bears filling the ice behind him as his team filed on. The noise of the crowd swelled with them and Ilya let a smirk settle on his face as he closed in on Hunter.

It was easier, this way, to come off as…sure of himself. 

The Admirals’ players saw him coming and Ilya watched Scott dismiss his teammate with a nod towards their half of the rink and a wave. This was repetitive, for the other man, captains deliberately coming up to him before the game to shake his hand or say some paltry words. Hunter was a veteran in the league, he’d been impressive for a long time– though Ilya hated to admit it. It was no wonder that other players felt the need to make their acceptance of him so visible.

At the preseason game on home ice, Ilya had not done this. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to approach the Scott-Hunter-sized elephant that lingered on the ice, and so he had done nothing. Two weeks after Kip Grady had kissed Scott Hunter on live television, a journalist had questioned what Ilya thought of those gestures of respect – she’d cornered him before a game in Los Angeles of all fucking places. 

She had avoided asking his opinion of the situation directly, so he had avoided answering.

The decision had sat badly, in his chest. He was missing the words to describe it in the clumsy English language. It poked at his ribcage, scraped at his sternum. 

The morning after he’d been interviewed, Ilya called Shane. His practical, problem-oriented boyfriend. Shane had, of course, already seen the interview and had guessed what Ilya was calling about– they had decided, after other captains continued with the courtesy, it wouldn't be strange for Ilya to do the same 

It would be a show of respect, reminding the audience and the league that despite the constant chirping on and off the ice, Ilya respected his senior in the league. It was safe, acceptable in the eyes of the media and most of the fans.

When Ilya slid to a stop barely two feet from the other captain, Hunter stared at him with wary eyes, mouth torn between a scowl and a frown. It was an interesting expression on the other captain and Ilya tamped down an automatic chirp about it.

He was looking at Ilya like he was going to bite him – Ilya couldn’t blame the bigger man. Hockey players were all the same, Ilya included. Simple emotions, simple needs. That was why they played hockey. The cold air on the ice, the puck in the goal, and instinctive aggression at anyone in a different uniform.

Hunter was handling his instincts well, Ilya thought. Tamping them down behind the bizarre veneer of the man he was, all professional speeches and placid smiles.

“...Rozanov,” said Hunter, his stick held idly at his side, his padded shoulders a broad, tight line. Ilya wrapped both of his hands around his own stick and planted it on the ice between his feet, raising his eyebrows at the American. Hunter stared at him for a second, before he shook his head, like a dog shaking wet fur, and sighed. “What’d you want?”

Ilya shrugged, hands flexing on his stick. “I wanted to say good game. I hope you will not be too sad when we win.”

The other man scoffed, rolling his eyes as he tilted his head back to glare at the ceiling, sighing. He wore the I’m so tired of this shit expression very well. Ilya inspired that feeling in many people, mostly on purpose. This was on purpose, but– it wasn’t what he needed to say.

“Don’t act like this is a fucking shoo-in, Rozanov.” 

Ilya bit back a quick, well, it is. Their teams were well matched, both of them knew it, and he didn’t need to be stirring unnecessary shit, not tonight. Hunter was a…a good player and a great man, apparently, even if Ilya found him boring. Not boring like his Shane, of course – Shane who loved morning runs, who insisted on watching the same twenty six movies - Ilya had counted - on repeat, and scowled when Ilya tried to lay in his bed in the same jeans he’d sat at the airport in. Who cut his eyes at Ilya when he flirted during their games, even as he blushed a soft pink.

Scott Hunter was boring like paint drying on a wall. Predictable and unchanging.

That was the issue with Admirals: they did not change their plays, they didn’t experiment. The Bears were coordinated, yes, and skilled - Ilya had to share the responsibility of winning with someone - but they also threw things on the ice just to see if they’d stick. It was the chaos that Ilya loved with his team, the excitement of cobbling a play together and running it out the gate, with ten seconds of planning before they were back on the ice.

The Admirals were not like that. They were a battering ram. They took their reliable, overplayed strategies and crushed other teams into the ground. It was frustrating - and boring, so fucking boring - playing them. You knew what was coming and it was close to impossible to stop it. 

So, for as predictable as Hunter was– his overwhelming influence within the league, the iron grip he lead his loyal team with, and the NHL’s numbers all spoke for themselves.

The Admirals were a formidable opponent and Ilya fucking hated playing them. Hated the begrudging respect that burned in his throat like bile when a red uniform smashed through the Bears’ defense for the third fucking time in a row. 

The chirping was automatic. It was well polished, perfected after a decade of playing at the same, competitive level as Hunter. Ilya was good at it, always had been. The coaches and the commentators knew it, the other players in the league certainly knew it. It was an important practice, riling the other team up until they couldn’t see straight, until they got sloppy and lost the puck. 

It wasn’t productive here.

Hunter was on edge and Ilya could not blame him. He and his boyfriend - Ilya still thought a man as ancient and predictable as Scott Hunter did not deserve a man as beautiful as Kip, even if Kip was not as beautiful as his Shane - had been photographed the night before, leaving what had looked to be an intimate, personal dinner. 

They’d had their arms looped around each other in the first photo, heads leaning inwards, shoulders touching. In the second photo published, Hunter had clearly spotted the camera and glared into its lens, his boyfriend tucked at his side and blocked from view as the pair turned away. 

The couple had looked happy, in the first. Relaxed.

Ilya had tried to ignore the aching in his chest when he finally swiped away from the photos.

“I wanted to say,” Ilya began, searching for the words, throat tight. It wouldn’t be the first time the English language failed him when he needed it most. Above and beside them, the crowd’s noise was a dull roar. “That I am glad for what you did. On ice, last season.” He wanted to add, I was watching from home, but that felt too personal. Too big of a window into him. 

Hunter regarded him with a strange look, surprised with hard edges, that wariness slowly fading. He nodded his thanks slowly, his shoulders still pulled tense. “I appreciate it. That’s kind of you to say.”

It went unspoken: the unkindness from other players, from other captains. Where Ilya stood, clumsily trying to thank Hunter for the risk he took without actually saying that, others had skated past, had spat on the ice. Others begrudgingly shook hands with Hunter after the game and avoided eye contact at the puck drop. 

The NHL did not care what their players thought, so long as they did not hurt the reputation and image of the league with their beliefs. So long as fucking management could maintain their flimsy image of acceptance and open-mindedness. The league did not support their players, not the ones who challenged them to maintain that image. A challenge was a risk, and that came with repercussions. 

When that thought floated to that surface, Ilya told himself the pit in his stomach was from hunger, from fatigue. Anything but fear.

This, Ilya knew, was why Hunter was so fucking uptight. He had no incidents, no scandals. He didn’t fight, had barely three fights in his entire career – if Ilya counted the gloves dropped with Shane. He probably meditated before games like a fucking freak, to keep all his crazy contained.

Hunter had protected himself perfectly while living under a microscope and that was what saved his career when he came out.

Ilya protected himself too, in other ways: attending lavish parties and leaving with a new woman on his arm every time, joking with reporters about how his night had been. He had the privilege to be abrasive, both because he was so fucking good at his job and because he would never be suspected as anything other than what he presented.

That was what Ilya tried to remember as he pulled off his right glove, tucking it under his other arm as he extended his hand in a very deliberate, very clear handshake. Hunter seemed to have expected that, his own glove already discarded, and shook it firmly, twice. With any luck, someone in the crowd had gotten a good photo and Ilya’s cooperation would be plastered over the internet before the game was over. 

He refused to appear complicit in any bias towards the only out player in the league. He could not stand to be the person that that lie made him.

After he’d interrupted that so-called interview after the pre-season game, there’d been speculation of the cause of his values online, but– internet theories were worth very little, generally.

And– in their last game in Toronto, two days prior, Dallas fucking Kent had tried to get comfortable. He’d made some worthless, self-important comment to Cliff before they were even on the ice, crossing paths in the hallways when Cliff was on his way to meet with the trainers about his aching, old man knees.

Kent jabbed at the interview he and Ilya had interrupted weeks ago, trying to cajole Cliff into spitting on Hunter’s career with him – as if he held a fucking candle to the Admirals’ captain. Cliff had mentioned this to Ilya while they warmed up, all rolling eyes and exaggerated, annoyed sighs. Ilya later checked the American into the boards so hard he was sure they’d crack.

He’d been awarded a two minute penalty and sat through it proudly.

He hated Kent. And, if motherfuckers like him were trying to determine the Bears’ opinion on it all– well, technically, Ilya served as a representative of the team and its image. He would not waste time misrepresenting his own opinions for the sake of avoiding controversy. 

He had made a career out of being abrasive.

The handshake was broken after barely two seconds, Ilya dropping Hunter’s hand first. They exchanged a short, tight nod, before Ilya turned to skate away. 

He had a game to win.

-----

The media circus was a familiar enemy. It wasn’t as bad as it was those first harrowing seasons, when he was first playing with the Bears. The reporters spoke so fast, throwing complex words he’d barely heard before, and he’d have to stumble his way through a coherent response each time. It had been easier, the few he’d done with Shane, so early in their careers. Even before they were anything, the other man was a steady rock in the rushing waves. 

Now, it was easier. Familiar. As captain of the Bears, Ilya would usually give some bullshit, post-game address, where they asked him what his team would change for future games while he tried not to say score more fucking goals. 

He said that anyway, most of the time. It was more efficient, it was the short answer for the story these snakes were trying to build.

Sometimes Cliff was up there with him, sometimes St-Simon or Carmicheal, sometimes no one at all. It depended on how they’d lost or won the game. 

This time, it was Ilya alone. They’d won by a hail mary goal in the final period, slipped under the goalie at the last second, but it was a clean game, for once. Boring. No gloves thrown, not too many penalties. A close matched game without too many screw ups meant that Ilya was responsible for closing remarks, to wave his way through an easy interview. He had spoken about how both teams were competitive, how it was a good game with good guys, and the Bears looked forward to the rest of their successful season. 

It was easy to toss a cocky comment in between basic game analysis, to grin wide at the reporters and their shiny cameras while they leaned in for his next word. 

Ilya was well practiced with interviews, had been since he and Shane were the rising stars in the junior leagues, the two of them thrown together for media sensationalism at every moment possible. He was used to microphones being shoved into his face, when his heart was still on the ice and his sweat had barely cooled.

A well oiled machine, these media scrums. It was barely a blip in his day.

He was halfway done already. Megan, the Boston Bear’s public relations manager, stood at the back of the room and was nodding along to his comments. The reporters were seated close to the short stage and podium, most with recorders held over their notepads.

Jesus Christ, he was grateful for Megan. 

She was no-nonsense, with her tight bun and perfect, coordinated outfits every game day. She had zero tolerance for bullshit and ran the media room with an iron fist, a dictatorship. Reporters who crossed lines were removed and barred, no follow up questions or apologetic emails.

If these were snakes, then she was a fucking hawk, watching from the back of the room as she waited for them to slip.

That was how Ilya knew they were a good pool of professional people. Some had played in college or another level between amateur and professional, some just knew what the hell they were talking about. That was why, when a man in a well-pressed suit and coiffed haircut stood and asked–

“Mr. Rozanov, there have been some developments with your fellow players. Specifically, Scott Hunter of the Admirals. How did you see that reflected on the ice today?” Ilya had not been expecting that line of questioning.

He hadn’t been asked directly about Hunter’s situation since the season began. It helped that the Bears hadn’t played the Admirals since the preseason and Ilya was known to scoff at the older player every chance he got. Maybe that was why this reporter was taking the chance, deviating from the ‘strictly-hockey’ script to ask such a brave question.

Ilya was sure it had been on all of their minds this entire time. Tabloid journalists and sports reporters weren’t that different, once you got past the thick layers of camera makeup and perfectly pressed blazers. It was whatever sold, whatever got the most clicks and shares online, that they dug for.

It made his skin crawl, knowing how profitable the details of his personal life were.

“Ah, you mean last year’s Cup winner?” asked Ilya, innocently. His hands were curled loosely on the table in front of him, resting on the black tablecloth. Stupid fucking question, from a stupid fucking reptile. His shirt clung to his back, to his shoulders, to his burning chest. He hadn’t dried off properly after the showers– Shane had warned him he’d regret bringing that shitty fucking towel. “He played like player that he is. Experienced, good. Not as fast as me, maybe won’t be winner this year.”

The smirk he sent to the cameras in front of him, looming over the heads of the reporters, was practiced. Rude, cocksure. On cue, light laughter fluttered through the room.

In vain, Ilya prayed the questioning would end there. He kept his shoulders and arms deliberately loose, his face relaxed, the picture of ease he’d perfected over the last decade. If this reporter had any sense, he’d take the deflection–

“Mr. Rozanov, allow me to specify,” tried the reporter, again. He hadn’t sat down when Ilya finished speaking like they usually did. Ilya decided he did not like this man. “Mr. Hunter is openly in a homosexual relationship. How did this change the on-ice environment?”

What.

What a fucking waste of a journalist.

Murmurs rippled through the small crowd in front of him, reporters torn between their professional obligations and the potential words pooling in the back of Ilya’s throat. If he spat vitriol, if he fanned the flames that some fans had sparked– it could force the league to react, one way or another. 

This was what sold.

Some of the reporters had settled on eager and attentive, turning their gazes from the man standing tall to Ilya, seated on the stage. Others looked suitably disgusted with the questioning. Ilya tried to remember their faces for the next interview.

“Hunter’s playing hasn’t changed since he kissed his boyfriend last year, no.” Ilya tried for a neutral, diplomatic expression and could tell he hadn’t managed it. In the back corner, Megan was already signalling to the other side of the room– to cut the interview short, to remove the reporter, Ilya didn’t care. “Also, he is on the Admirals. The Bears do not worry about other team’s communication. Ours was strong throughout the game. Hunter did not interfere with that.”

It was a half-hearted attempt at redirecting. Ilya was not in the business of lying to himself. At least, this way, when he watched the interview back in management’s office, it would look like he had tried.

What was the words– plausible deniability.

The reporter, still standing, gave a patronizing smile. Around him, his colleagues were shifting in their seats. Some were visibly shaking their heads, scowling at the man’s back. Ilya smiled back, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it.

Get on the ice and say that to me again, you brave little man. Posturing over your loud words like the useless fucking peacock that you are–

“Some sources are saying it’s a distraction.” The asshole wasn’t letting up. He spoke in that weird, measured way all American reporters spoke, clear diction and flat vowels. “You don’t have a problem with a…a deviant competing at a professional level?”

Selfishly, Ilya suddenly was very glad he was alone on this stage. 

Another player might have already swung to the no comment lines and they would have been hustled out of the room. This man did not deserve a deflection like that.

His chair screeched unpleasantly on the metal of the platform when he stood, too fast. His knee slammed into the underside of the table, sharp pain shooting down his shin, and Ilya turned his wince into a harsh bark of laughter as he leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. The reporter had the audacity to stare back at him, eye brows raised expectantly and familiar anger was burning hot in Ilya’s throat–

“Your sources are wrong. Let me make this incredibly fucking clear to every single one of you, to everyone home who is watching from couch. Who we love is not a distraction. It has never been one.” He pulled in a harsh breath, chest heaving. “You trying to– to twist it into bad thing is wasteful. Waste of time, will not work.” 

His accent was bleeding in thick and heavy, and Ilya didn’t care to force it back. There were always comments online when he didn’t correct it, but he didn’t give a fuck about assholes sneering through their stupid little twitter accounts. 

“Mr. Rozanov–”

“No–” barked Ilya, teeth bared at the cameras, at the man still fucking standing. He hated him, hated his ugly hair and ugly suit and his ugly fucking face as he stood there, prying at Hunter’s life with a pair of greedy hands. As if he was entitled. The room, silent, was broken only by Ilya’s voice. “You do not get to speak anymore. The questions you asked are disrespectful and stupid. You forget that we are professionals, that we are best of best.”

The words burned on their way out, scraping the back of his throat and the roof of his mouth. He was shouting, Ilya realized distantly, then decided he didn’t care. The room was big enough, if someone had a problem they could cover their fucking ears.

At the back of the room, over the heads of the reporters and behind the lights spearing into Ilya’s eyes, Megan was gesturing more frantically. They could cut his mic, they could pull him from the stage–

“We play hockey.” The words were sharp, curt. Ilya’s ribs ached as he sucked in a breath, fingertips white from how hard he pressed his hands to the table. “That is all. We go to rink, someone wins, and we go home. You do not get to ask about more than that. You do not get to know.”

Megan was hurrying up the side of the room now, a security guard following in her footsteps, and his time was up. Ilya leaned into the mic and grinned, too sharp and too wide, the edges cutting into his cheeks. He’d seen the expression in the mirror sometimes and knew it was not a kind one. Not a professional one. 

“Thank you for your time,” he said, the mic squealing with feedback. “I appreciate the thoughtful questions and look forward to rest of season.”

Megan darted up beside him on the platform, heels clicking, and leaned into the microphone with a measured no further questions. Ilya allowed her to ferry him off with a light tough on his left arm, to their right and off the platform. The security guard was cutting through the rows of reporters towards their moronic colleague and they were stepping down the three steps to the floor, pushing out of the suffocating room of clicking cameras–

The door to the chilled hallway swung open quickly as Ilya pushed forward into the tunnel, Megan following tight on his heels. The voices rising inside the press room were cut off as it snapped closed, and the hall was silent besides the roaring in Ilya’s ears, besides the heaving of his chest as he whirled around to face the public relations manager close behind him.

She was saying something, her dark hair pinned back and expression drawn, but he couldn’t hear her, chest burning and tight. The few people around them were clustered against the walls, other managers and assistants, and none were looking in their direction, staring at the floor, at the ceiling. 

He knew what he looked like, huge and angry, too close to the woman in front of him, and he quickly stepped back. 

“I’m sorry–” Ilya forced the apology through his tight throat and past aching teeth. The words were rough, scratching on their way out. He nodded at her, glanced up at and then over her shoulder. “I should not have shouted. I am going home now.”

Ilya turned from her and strode down the hallway in long, quick strides, as fast as he could make his tired legs move. The media room was close to the locker room, thank fucking God, barely a minute walk in empty, chilled halls–

His pulse was in his fucking throat and he knew he wasn’t breathing right, too shallow, and was lucky enough that he met no one else on his way. He didn’t want to know what expression he was making right now.

The locker room was nearly empty, a few stragglers still packing their bags, and Ilya ignored the wide eyes that stuck to him as he slammed the door open. 

His bag, already neatly packed and zipped closed, was waiting for him in his cubby, and he snatched it up without even a look in Cliff’s direction. His friend watched him with a concerned expression and wide eyes and he’d regret it later, but he couldn’t handle another word right now.

Ilya’s jaw ached from how hard it was clenched.

The walk outside was a blur of gray walls and bright lights. Ilya wasn’t stopped by anyone, heart pounding as he stalked through the halls, and he wasn’t sure why he felt like he should be. His phone, silenced in his pocket, was a heavy weight. He didn’t want to look, to see a chiding text from Shane over his outburst, or Hunter’s reaction when Ilya clearly crossed the unspoken line of distant respect.

He walked a clear two blocks down the sidewalk, hood up and pulled forward, grateful for the nondescript black bag he’d chosen to bring. The Bears’ symbol was small, subtle, and he did not want to be recognized right now.

He ordered an uber on the corner of a quiet block, businesses long since closed, and tried to tell himself he wasn’t running away.

It did not work.

Chapter End Notes

My chapters usually get two rounds of editing, but I got impatient and wanted to publish tonight so: if you see any terrible spelling/grammar, please let me know! And if you read anything grossly out of character, please pretend you didnt (joking)

This was really fun to write!! Took a bit to adjust to writing Ilya even decently, so I hope I did him justice. I much more identify with Shane and his approach at life/other things, so this was a challenge. I hope yall enjoyed!!

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!! I do ask to not comment solely emojis, please, even just the word "kudos" is better :) I want to know your thoughts!!